Giving It Up: Pushing the Boundaries, Book 1 (4 page)

Despite the clinical description, it still felt so awkward to hear those words spoken aloud. Beatrice felt her blush climb all the way to the roots of her hair.

Michelle leaned forward. “I must be frank, Beatrice. If you are here to get advice on how to become a Domme for someone in particular, then I would strongly caution you against sex, at least at the start. You have the potential to become a great Domme, but you have to earn your role. That takes a level of engagement that should not be weakened with sex.”

Her? A great Domme? For a moment, Beatrice was stunned. She wasn’t there to learn how to be a Dominatrix. She was there to get advice for a short-term…
thing
. Right?

But she had to admit the idea was appealing.
A level of engagement.
She wondered what it would be like to take so much control, to put herself into a situation where
she
was the one who called the shots.

She shook herself. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t even engage in her own life without some level of trepidation. She was only there today, in fact, because of Warren, and what he’d set in motion.

And they’d been talking about sex. Michelle had told her not to have sex with Warren, but Beatrice already knew that wouldn’t be happening, anyway. He was paying her for this, after all, and he’d said he wouldn’t do anything illegal.

Besides, he doesn’t want that from me.

She tried not to feel the irrational disappointment that accompanied the thought. “But what if a man wants more? What if he attempts sex, or uses force?”

Not that she was worried about him doing so. If anything, she
wanted
to open herself to him, to take him into her body, and the rules they had established frustrated her desire for him. But she was genuinely curious now about how Michelle and the other women who worked for Queen Dommes protected themselves from clients who tried to take too much.

Michelle frowned. “It does happen, sometimes. That’s why we never meet clients outside of this office. You can see that we have gone to some lengths to ensure our safety. Having to be buzzed in through two doors, the video cameras. Every room has a panic button, and every Domme is required to wear a personal alarm at all times. But we rarely have a need to use any of that technology. As I said before, our culture forbids men to be weak. What is forbidden often makes it so much sweeter, heightens the enjoyment. The vast majority of the time, our clients don’t
need
sex from us because we have already given them that which they are usually denied. The chance to hand over power to someone else for a time. The permission to be submissive. A trusted environment where they can give up control.”

“Give it up.” Beatrice recited the words written on the ads.

“Exactly.” Michelle gave her an approving look. “And we accomplish that through simple confidence. We issue commands as though it is a foregone conclusion they will be followed. We never say ‘I want’. I
want
you to bend over. I
want
you to take off your shirt. That sort of thing.”

Michelle waved her hand in the air as if to imply
that sort of
commonplace
thing
, but Beatrice’s heart was pumping in her ears at the mere suggestion. Probably because she was imagining Warren bending over, Warren taking off his shirt.

“Saying you
want
something leaves the door open for it to be denied. You must not allow that to happen. Eliminate the want in your life and you will never want for anything. It is, ‘Bend over.’ It is, ‘Take off your shirt.’ You do not even need to add a qualifier like ‘now’ or ‘immediately’ and certainly not ‘please.’ You have to own the role. You have to live the role. And you will be obeyed.”

Oh God, this is a lot to take in. To be so bold…
could she do it? Owning something like this…living this life…that sounded intimidating.

It was one thing to live life through the lens of a camera. It was another thing to jump naked into a mud pit and wrestle it into submission.

“But if you have any concerns about your own situation, then part of being confident is being able to say no, and to do it effectively,” Michelle added. “Before it begins at all, even.”

Beatrice shook her head. “No. I’m not worried about being in danger.” She paused, wondering if she should say anything more. But thoughts of Warren’s face, scowling in disapproval, spurred her to speak. “I’m worried about failing,” she admitted.

“You might.” Michelle nodded, not bothering to pretend. “Sometimes our clients refuse to pay if they are not satisfied. But that is something you must accept will happen from time to time.” She shrugged as if it meant nothing. “Like I said, becoming a great Domme is hard work, and you must accept both your shortcomings and your strengths. Own both of them. Own your
life
.” She moved her finger in the air in a circular motion. “It’s a constant learning process.”

That sounded like it would take a long time. But this was her only chance. She had five weeks with a man she never would have had the courage to approach otherwise. She shook her head. “It’s not the money that—I mean, I do need the money. I guess that’s why I’m doing this. Or, at least, why
he
thinks I’m doing this.” She didn’t miss how she had again emphasized
he
—Warren—and Michelle certainly didn’t, either.

Michelle studied her for a moment, as if debating what to say next. Would she warn Beatrice off of this?
God.
What if she did? Beatrice wasn’t sure she could give up the chance with him. The way he had looked at her when they’d met at the batting cages—so much heat. So much promise…

Please don’t make me give this up.

Michelle must have somehow divined those thoughts, because instead of cautioning Beatrice again, she rose and walked over to a stack of books on a nearby stool. Her long fingers stroked down the spines, then stopped halfway down to pull a thin volume out.

She handed it to Beatrice. “You might find this book useful.”

Beatrice looked down at the cover, an unadorned, glossy black with gold lettering, like the door to Queen Dommes’s office.
Dominacracy, by M.M.

“Oh,” she breathed, battling between gratitude and embarrassment. “Uh, thank you.”

“Do you have any other questions?”

About a billion of them.

But she wouldn’t even know where to begin. “No,” she said, but Michelle’s command echoed in her mind.
Never lie
. “I mean, I’m a little overwhelmed right now.”

Michelle looked at her with an assessing eye. “What is it that
you
want, Beatrice?”

For a second, Beatrice faltered. Did Michelle mean,
What do you want out of this arrangement with Warren?
Or did she mean in general? Or did she mean
—

“I want more.” The words sort of fell out by surprise in the middle of Beatrice’s train of thought, and she immediately clapped her hand over her mouth as though she’d yelled something terrible and dirty in the middle of Easter service, or something.

Michelle raised one perfectly sculpted golden brow. “From what? Or whom?”

What do I have to get anything from? I finally have independence, but not much money. I like my job, but I don’t love it. I want a gallery, a museum—heck, a subway station—to exhibit my work, but I don’t have a good enough portfolio. I want Warren. But…

A few seconds ticked by before Beatrice could answer.

“From myself.” She said it quietly, looking down at the table in front of her. “I guess.”

Michelle drew in an audible breath, making Beatrice look up again. “If you want more from yourself, then there’s at least one place where you could start going after it. Our receptionist, Frances, is going back to school soon and we’re looking for someone who could fill in for her from time to time. Are you interested?”

Oh goodness.
That was unexpected. Beatrice had assumed Michelle had been speaking in general terms about her becoming a Domme. She hadn’t expected to be asked whether she’d be interested in
working
there.

Are you interested?

What did being a receptionist for Queen Dommes entail, anyway?

Again, Michelle seemed to read Beatrice’s mind, because she laughed. “As the receptionist, you would not work with clients in private sessions. In fact, you wouldn’t be allowed to perform any services until you had gone through training.” She sobered then, and looked down at Beatrice with a direct, piercing stare. “But you mentioned needing money. And I need a receptionist with great presence. It would be to everyone’s benefit.”

No one had ever told Beatrice that she had great presence. Even so, at Michelle’s words, she found herself sitting a little straighter. “I might—I mean, yes, I’d be interested.”

Engagement. Own your life.

That’s what it felt like, anyway.

“Good. I’ll be in touch.” Michelle held out her hand, and Beatrice stood then too, and shook it.

“You’ve been incredibly helpful today, and I very much appreciate it.”

“It was my pleasure. And if you ever find yourself considering a career change, I really do think you would make a wildly successful Domme. Even without much training.”

“Oh. Um, thanks?”

Michelle grinned. “You’re welcome. And good luck.”

* * * * *

“We’ve got a potential hostage situation down on Claremont. All SWAT units gear up and be ready!” The deputy chief’s voice crackled over the receiver in Warren’s squad car, and he radioed in to let dispatch know he was on his way.

“You’re lead on this one, Davis,” came the reply, and for a second, he was dumbfounded, wondering what they hell they were thinking, putting him in charge of this thing. Sure, Ben was usually the one who ran point on hostage situations and he was on his honeymoon, but why not Donahue? Why not Brewer?

Why are you being a shit-for-brains?

He never questioned decisions like this. He took on the responsibility as a matter of course, like he did in every other area of his life. So why was he balking today?

It’s only temporary. Wasn’t that why you called Queen Dommes? To relieve a little of this stress? Give it a few sessions with Beatrice and you’ll be good as new.

Thoughts of Beatrice flashed through his mind. Her face in the sunlight, the way she looked when they’d met at the batting cages…her hand in his…touching him…

He couldn’t wait until tomorrow night. He just had to get through today, and then it would be a matter of hours before he could…well, he wasn’t quite sure what would happen, but it would involve being alone with Beatrice. Even if it meant an hour of simply sitting next to her in silence, it would be enough.

Of course, there was always the chance that he was wrong and Beatrice wasn’t anything like he thought she was. But he’d known her for a year and he’d observed her every time they were in a room together, since the first time they’d met, and there was something about her that made him feel less tense simply being near her. He was pretty sure that despite her inexperience, she’d still be able to deliver at least a little of what he needed.

If she also happened to follow through with some of the things he’d seen in those Queen Dommes ads around the city—well, bonus. He rushed into the locker room to suit up right as the deputy chief walked in.

“Listen up, gentlemen! We’ve got a first-class asshole over on Claremont. Kidnapped his thirteen-year-old son from the mother’s house and is holding him hostage with a grenade.”

Fuck.
Thirteen years old. Nate was thirteen. Warren couldn’t imagine his nephew going through something like that, and because of his own father.

Of course, the closest thing Nate had to a dad was Warren, which made it even worse. And now he had to lead this mission?

His lungs felt tight and his hand clenched on the door of his locker.
Fuck fuck fuck.

At least he understood now why he’d been chosen. He knew how to deal with explosives. They’d have to put in protection around the block, and going in there with a bunch of firepower would only put them all at risk…

He was already formulating a plan. Stepping into the role. Taking control.

But damn if he didn’t feel exhausted by it even before it had begun.

“You’re taking your orders from Davis today.” The deputy chief clapped him on the back. “Now get suited up and head out.”

The deputy chief turned to Warren and added in a low voice, “Avoid casualties at all costs, Davis, and minimize the property destruction. You’re in charge of this shit. Keep it under control.”

With that, the other man walked out, leaving Warren to dress.
Keep it under control.

Of course he’d keep it under control. It was the story of his whole fucking life. Always in charge. Always in control.

It was a burden he’d been carrying alone for far too long.

Tomorrow couldn’t come too soon.

Chapter Four

Wednesday morning was finally here, after what had seemed like a slow crawl through time. The standoff between that scumbag who’d kidnapped his own kid and half of the substantial Greenbriar police force had lasted several hours. The entire time Warren had kept coming back to thoughts of Beatrice to keep him calm and focused.

He’d seen her appear on the scene about half an hour after they’d set up the protective perimeter. She’d been snapping photos on behalf of the city newspaper, but he hadn’t had a chance to talk to her. They’d kept the press way back, beyond the area they’d cordoned off after evacuating the other residents in the apartment complex where the perp lived. She’d been too far away for him to even catch her eye, but he’d felt her looking at him.

He’d thought of her when they’d finally gotten the guy to release his kid, and the boy had come stumbling out, putting on a brave face until he’d reached his mother’s arms. The entire crowd had erupted in emotion along with the mother and son.

But Warren had to stay in control.

He’d thought of her when another hour of passing notes back and forth to the man still holed up the apartment had gone by, and he wanted to snap and tell everyone to fucking storm the building and bring the guy down.

But Warren had to stay in control.

And he’d thought of her when it had finally ended with the sound of a gunshot from inside the apartment, when the notes stopped completely, and when camera surveillance revealed the kidnapper had taken his own life. He’d wanted to go home and not bother directing the crew that needed to come in and clean up afterward.

But control…

He’d gone to bed thinking of her, of the way she’d given him a mere taste of the mastery he craved, and still it almost hurt how much he wanted her…

While she wanted his money.

He hated to admit that. But he wasn’t a fool, and there was no use pretending she was doing this for any other reason. After all, what else would a woman like her see in a guy like him?

He hadn’t even been able to hang on to Jen, who had grown up in a neighborhood like his with a cop for a father, like Warren’s dad had been before him. They’d dated for six years and he’d thought he was going to marry her. They’d had an
understanding
. He’d lavished attention and care on her, like guys were supposed to do for women, and in return she’d let him be in charge. Deferred to him and his decisions.

But when push came to shove and life started demanding more from him, she’d left. Six years down the drain because he could no longer give her the attention she’d come to expect.

She’d never even considered that he might want to be taken care of too. It was a burden that should have been shared, but somehow things had gotten out of balance. Had been from the get-go.

A woman like Beatrice, who was so unobtrusive and reserved? She wouldn’t last in his life. Maybe she was doing this for the money, but he couldn’t pay her to like him. To stand by him. To love him.

Best to keep it all business lest his fantasies get the better of him.

“Unf!” The air whooshed out of him as he was knocked back by two hundred pounds of muscle, and he barely managed to roll away before Brewer’s elbow landed where Warren’s head had just been.

“Why is your head stuck up your ass today?” Brewer was already grabbing for Warren’s neck, trying to go for a headlock. Today, most of the SWAT team was at the training warehouse on the south side of town. They were on the mats, practicing their grappling technique. Donahue was wrestling barely five feet away with another officer.

“Why are you such a weak sonofabitch?” Warren growled back, evading the headlock and trying to pin Brewer’s legs.

“Whatever.” Brewer snorted, then shouted, nearly deafening Warren in the process. “Hey, Donahue, I didn’t get a chance to ask you yesterday…you end up hooking up with that CNN correspondent at the wedding?”

“Of course.” Donahue’s voice floated over to them, sounding as shit-eating smooth as usual, despite the fact that he had to be working really hard to keep Heatherton pinned. Meanwhile, Warren was sweating and grunting against Brewer, each flipping the other one over in turns like giant pancakes.

Pancakes. Fuck. He could go for some pancakes right now. He was so goddamn hungry. He’d skipped breakfast because Kelly had missed the bus to the diner, so he’d had to take the extra time to drive her over.

“And?” Brewer grunted at Warren’s elbow nudging him hard in the ribs. Good. Asshole was way too loud.

“And what do you think?” Donahue’s partner tapped out, and Donahue immediately jumped up, offering a hand down to his opponent to help him up. “You saw her at the wedding. Nina’s got some hot friends. Even better that so few of them live around here. We had a great time, and then she was gone by seven o’clock on Sunday morning to catch her flight back to Zimbabwe or wherever.”

Christ.
Another one-night stand. Donahue had probably slept with more women than Warren had even
seen
. The guy had a new girl so frequently they seemed more like accessories than actual people, easily in and out of fashion and so easily exchanged for something else.

More often than not, when Donahue talked about having a “relationship” he meant something that lasted more than twenty-four hours.

Warren should have been disgusted. And yet, a small part of him had to admit he was jealous of Donahue’s carefree existence. A private apartment, no one constantly demanding his time—hell, even that one
hour
of time that Warren would be spending with Beatrice tonight meant he’d had to squeeze the week’s grocery shopping in yesterday between work, helping Nate with school stuff and assisting Dad with his physical therapy exercises.

Those thoughts had distracted him enough that Brewer finally managed to get him in a headlock and push him against the mat. “Ouch, fuck, Brewer! This is
practice
, man.”

Brewer laughed. “Practice for the real thing. Donahue’s reporter lady could probably take it better than you.”

Warren struggled, trying to flip Brewer off his back, but he couldn’t get a good enough grip on the mat. Brewer leaned in and spoke quietly, just loud enough for only Warren to hear. “Be glad Donahue didn’t take Beatrice home that night, instead.”

Donahue? With Beatrice? Had the asshole tried something? Was he
going
to try something?
No way.
No. Fucking. Way.

“What?” Warren roared, powering up with so much force that Brewer slammed back against the mat. “No one is taking her home, do you understand? No one! And I told you not to talk that way about her!”

Brewer put his hands up reflexively, a gesture of supplication. “Whoa whoa whoa. Easy, Davis. After the way you reacted at the wedding, I figured I’d have a little fun. I was yanking your chain.” His voice was soft. Calming.

Warren blinked, the red haze of rage dissipating enough for him to realize the room had gone unnaturally quiet. Donahue’s hand was fisted in Warren’s sweaty shirt, pulling him back even as his fists were poised to strike.

Holy shit.
He was coming apart.

He’d never been like this with Jen, or any of the women he’d dated before her. He wasn’t the possessive kind, and despite his tough profession, he wasn’t a man who was prone to violence. He scowled a lot, sure, but never flew into such a frenzy of anger that he didn’t even realize when he was about to strike a friend for implying what could have easily happened. After all, women loved Donahue’s surfer-boy good looks. Beatrice could have been drawn to them enough to go home with him after the wedding.

The very thought of it renewed Warren’s urge to punch something.

Donahue yanked Warren upright, leading him off the mat to one of the benches that ringed the practice area. Brewer stood and followed, and within seconds the activity in the room had returned to normal.

They stood in a tight circle, the three men, and Donahue matched Warren’s scowl. “What the hell was that about? You still tense after yesterday? You did a good job, no one was hurt except the perp. It’s all good. So what’s wrong?”

“Yeah, I know. It’s all good. And nothing is wrong.” Warren’s jaw felt tight. He didn’t like lying, but he didn’t like baring his soul to anyone, either.

Brewer smirked. “Beatrice isn’t
nothing
, Warren. Don’t talk that way about her,” he taunted.

Fuck Brewer.

Donahue snorted. “And people call me immature. So, you and Beatrice are a thing?”

“No.” Warren barely moved his lips, not trusting himself not to say too much.

Brewer heaved a dramatic sigh. “Look. It’s pretty clear you want there to be a thing. So why don’t you ask her out?”

At that, both guys looked at Warren with earnest curiosity, like he was a guest on fucking
Oprah
. Best cut that short, before they got out some couches and flowers to replace these hard wooden benches and the stench of sweat.

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t have time.” He said it tersely, with enough finality that they should have shrugged and walked away, returned to their exercises as usual. But for some reason, this time Brewer shook his head and hummed in disapproval.

“That’s bullshit, man. You can make enough time for one date. You haven’t been out with a girl in
years
.”

I don’t have time to take on one more person’s life. I can’t shoulder one more fucking responsibility all by myself.

Anger clamped around Warren’s chest, and he tried to fight it off. Why was this happening to him? Sure, he’d been a little less patient in general, lately, but he figured it was because Kelly was back in school, Dad was getting more forgetful and Nate’s grades were slipping. The whole family was going through some temporary stress. That was all.

Then how come you thought about calling Queen Dommes? How come you took Beatrice up on her offer?

Warren jerked his head from side to side, making his neck bones pop. Okay, so maybe the stress had been building up for a while. He was starting to get tired of managing so much. But that didn’t mean he could walk away from it all, abandon his family to play around with women like Donahue did. Nate’s dad had already left Kelly before the kid was even born. Warren had a responsibility to show his nephew how a man
should
behave. Family first. Responsibility first. Even if it came at the expense of a few feminine smiles, a slow kiss, a soft, welcoming body—

“Don’t tell me this is because of Jen.” Donahue rolled his eyes. “Just because she got freaked out at the idea of having to deal with real life doesn’t mean you can’t find a woman who accepts you for who you are and all the shit you’ve got going on. Someone who’s a real partner will help make things better for you, instead of adding to your responsibilities.”

Aaaaand…cue the music, because this was now officially a ladies’ talk show. Warren gave Donahue a black look. “You’re one to give advice about finding the right woman.”

Donahue grinned, that smug look of his chafing at Warren’s senses. “I find one every week, don’t I?”

“I don’t have time,” Warren repeated. He had to bite back the desire to blurt out that he didn’t need advice, that he had already made the only arrangement that did make sense for his life. That, in fact, it was starting tonight during the tiny window of time he’d granted himself.

Brewer shrugged. “The right woman would make some for you. You know, give you what you didn’t have.”

That wasn’t the problem, though. The problem was he needed something taken away. He had too much. Warren blinked. Of course…Beatrice had shown up at their meeting on Sunday, having already made an effort for him, to understand what he wanted. She’d given him her time, even if it was aimed toward securing money in exchange.

If there was going to be a right woman, it would definitely be her.

But what did it matter? It’s not like they were actually dating. This was a transaction, pure and simple.

There was nothing to talk about. There was nothing wrong. Everything was right.

At least, it would be.

He scowled. “Enough. Back on the mats.”