Seduced by Fire (24 page)

Here is an excerpt from
The Dominant
.

Available now from New American Library

in e-book and trade paperback.

T
he phone on my desk gave a low double beep.

I glanced at my watch. Four thirty. My administrative assistant had explicit instructions not to interrupt me unless one of two people called. It was too early for Yang Cai to call from China, so that left only one other person.

I hit the speaker-phone button. “Yes, Sara?”

“Mr. Godwin on line one, sir.”

Excellent.

“Did I receive a package from him today?” I asked.

Papers rustled in the background. “Yes, sir. Should I bring it in now?”

“I’ll get it later.” I disconnected and switched to the headset. “Godwin, I expected you to call earlier. Six days earlier.” I’d been waiting for the package just as long.

“I’m sorry, Mr. West. You had a late application I wanted to include with this batch.”

Very well. It wasn’t like the women knew I had a deadline. That was something I would discuss with Godwin later.

“How many this time?” I asked.

“Four.” He sounded relieved I’d moved on from his lateness. “Three experienced and one without any experience or references.”

I leaned back in my chair and stretched my legs. We really shouldn’t be having this conversation. Godwin knew my preferences by now. “You know my feelings on inexperienced submissives.”

“I know, sir,” he said, and I pictured him wiping the sweat from his brow. “But this one is different—she asked for you.”

I stretched one leg and then the other. I needed a nice, long jog, but it would have to wait until later that evening. “They all ask for me.” I wasn’t being vain, just honest.

“Yes, sir, but this one wants to service only you. She’s not interested in anyone else.”

I sat up in the chair. “Really?”

“Her application specifically states she will sub for you and no one else.”

I had rules about prior experience and references because, to be frank, I didn’t have time to train a submissive. I preferred someone with experience, someone who would learn my ways quickly. Someone I could teach quickly. I always included a lengthy checklist in the application to ensure applicants knew exactly what they were getting themselves into.

“I assume she filled out the checklist properly? Didn’t indicate she would do anything and everything?” That had happened once. Godwin knew better now.

“Yes, sir.”

“I suppose I could take a look at it.”

“Last one in the pile, sir.”

The one he’d held the package up for, then. “Thank you, Godwin.” I hung up the phone and stepped outside my office. Sara handed me the package.

“Why don’t you go home, Sara?” I tucked the envelope under my arm. “It should be quiet the rest of the evening.”

She thanked me as I walked back into my office.

I got a bottle of water, set it on my desk, and opened the package.

I flipped my way through the first three applications. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary. I could set up a test weekend with any of the three women and probably wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between them.

I rubbed the back of my neck and sighed. Maybe I had been doing this too long. Maybe I should try again to settle down and be “normal.” With someone who wasn’t Melanie this time. The problem was, I needed my dom lifestyle. I just wanted something special to go along with it.

I took a long sip of water and looked at my watch. Five o’clock. It was highly doubtful I’d find my something special in the last application. Since the woman had no experience, it really wasn’t even worth my time to review her paperwork. Without looking at it, I took the application and put it on top of my
To Shred
pile. The three remaining I placed side by side on top of my desk and read over the cover pages again.

Nothing. There was basically nothing differentiating the three women. I should just close my eyes and randomly pick one.
The one in the middle would work.

But even as I looked over her information, my gaze drifted to the shred pile. The discarded application represented a woman who wanted to be
my
submissive. She’d taken the time to fill out my detailed paperwork and Godwin had held up sending everything because of Miss I-have-no-experience-and-want-only-Nathaniel-West. The least I could do was respect that woman enough to read her information.

I picked up the discarded application and read the name.

Abigail King.

The papers slipped from my hand and fluttered to the ground.

•   •   •

I
was a complete success in the eyes of the world.

I owned and ran my own international securities corporation. I employed hundreds of people. I lived in a mansion that had graced the pages of
Architectural Digest
. I had a terrific family. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I was content with my life. But there was that one percent . . .

That one percent that told me I was an utter and complete failure.

That I was surrounded by hundreds of people, but known by very few.

That my lifestyle was not acceptable.

That I would never find someone I could love and who would love me in return.

I never regretted my decision to live the lifestyle of a dominant. I normally felt very fulfilled, and if there were times I did not, they were very few and far between.

I felt incomplete only when I made my way to the public library and caught a glimpse of Abby. Of course, until her application crossed my desk, I had no way of knowing if she even knew I existed. Until then, Abby had symbolized for me the missing one percent. Our worlds were so far apart, they could not and would not collide.

But if Abby was a submissive and wanted to be
my
submissive . . .

I allowed my mind to wander down pathways I’d closed off for years. Opened the gates of my imagination and let the images overtake me.

Abby naked and bound to my bed.

Abby on her knees before me.

Abby begging for my whip.

Oh, yes.

I picked her application up off the ground and started reading.

Name, address, phone number, and occupation, I skimmed over. I turned the page to her medical history—normal liver function tests and blood cell counts, HIV and hepatitis negative, negative urine drug screen. The only medication she took was the birth control pills I required.

I went to the next page, her completed checklist. Godwin had not lied when he said Abby had no experience. She had marked off only seven items on the list: vaginal sex, masturbation, blindfolds, spanking, swallowing semen, hand jobs, and sexual deprivation. In the comment field beside sexual deprivation, she had written, “Ha-ha. Not sure our definitions are the same.” I smiled. She had a sense of humor.

Several items were marked “No, hard limit.” I respected that—I had my own hard limits. Looking over the list, I discovered that several of them lined up with hers. Several of them did not. There was nothing wrong with that—limits changed; checklists changed. If we were together for the long term—

What was I thinking? Was I actually thinking about calling Abby in for a test?

Yes, damn it, I was.

But I knew,
I knew,
that if the application were from anyone other than Abby, I wouldn’t even give it a second glance. I would shred it and forget it existed. I didn’t train submissives.

But it was from Abby, and I didn’t want to shred it. I wanted to pore over her application until I had it memorized. I wanted to make a list of what she had marked as “willing to try” and show her the pleasure of doing those things. I wanted to study her body until its contours were permanently etched in my mind. Until my hands knew and recognized her every response. I wanted to watch her give in to her true submissive nature.

I wanted to be her dom.

Could I do that? Could I put aside my thoughts of Abby, the fantasy I would never have, and instead have Abby, the submissive?

Yes. Yes, I could.

Because I was Nathaniel West and Nathaniel West didn’t fail.

And if Abby King no longer existed. Or if she was replaced by Abigail King . . .

I picked up the phone and dialed Godwin.

“Yes, sir, Mr. West,” he said. “Have you decided?”

“Send Abigail King my personal checklist. If she’s still interested after reviewing it, have her call Sara for an appointment next week.”

Here is an excerpt from
The Training
.

Available now from New American Library

in e-book and trade paperback.

T
he drive back to Nathaniel’s house took longer than it should have. Or maybe it just felt like it took longer. Maybe it was nerves.

I tipped my head in thought.

Maybe not nerves exactly. Maybe anticipation.

Anticipation that after weeks of talking, weeks of waiting, and weeks of planning, we were finally here.

Finally back.

I lifted my hand and touched the collar—Nathaniel’s collar. My fingertips danced over the familiar lines and traced along the diamonds. I moved my head from side to side, reacquainting myself with the collar’s feel.

There were no words to describe how I felt wearing Nathaniel’s collar again. The closest I could come was to compare it to a puzzle. A puzzle with the last piece finally in place. Yes, for the last few weeks, Nathaniel and I had been living as lovers, but we both felt incomplete. His recollaring of me—his reclaiming of me—had been what was missing. It sounded odd even to me, but I finally felt like I was his again.

The hired car eventually reached Nathaniel’s house and pulled into his long drive. Lights flickered from the windows. He had set the timer, anticipating my arrival in the dark. Such a small gesture, but a touching one. One that showed, like much he did, how he kept me firmly at the forefront of his mind.

I jingled my keys as I walked up the drive to his front door. My keys. To his house. He’d given me a set of keys a week ago. I didn’t live with him, but I spent a fair amount of time at his house. He said it only made sense for me to be able to let myself in or to lock up when I left.

Apollo, Nathaniel’s golden retriever, rushed me when I opened the door. I rubbed his head and let him outside for a few minutes. I didn’t keep him out for too long—I wasn’t sure if Nathaniel would arrive home early, but if he did, I wanted to be in place. I wanted this weekend to be perfect.

“Stay,” I told Apollo after stopping in the kitchen to refill his water bowl. Apollo obeyed all of Nathaniel’s orders, but thankfully, he listened to me this time. Normally, he would follow me up the stairs, and tonight that would be odd.

I quickly left the kitchen and made my way upstairs to my old room. The room that would be mine on weekends.

I undressed, placing my clothes in a neat pile on the edge of the twin bed. On this, Nathaniel and I had been in agreement. I would share his bed Sunday through Thursday nights, anytime I stayed over, but on Friday and Saturday nights, I would sleep in the room he reserved for his submissives.

Now that we had a more traditional relationship during the week, we both wanted to make sure we remained in the proper mind-set on weekends. That mind-set would be easier to maintain for both of us if we slept separately. For both of us, yes, but perhaps more so for Nathaniel. He rarely shared a bed with his submissives, and having a romantic relationship with one was completely new to him.

I stepped naked into the playroom. Nathaniel had led me around the room last weekend—explaining, discussing, and showing me things I’d never seen and several items I’d never heard of.

At its core, it was an unassuming room—hardwood floors, deep, dark brown paint, handsome cherry armoires, even a long table carved of rich wood. However, the chains and shackles, the padded leather bench and table, and the wooden whipping bench gave away the room’s purpose.

A lone pillow waited for me below the hanging chains. I dropped to my knees on it, situating myself into the position Nathaniel explained I was to be in whenever I waited for him in the playroom—butt resting on my heels, back straight, right hand on top of my left in my lap, fingers not intertwined, and head down.

I got into position and waited.

Time inched forward.

I finally heard him enter through the front door.

“Apollo,” he called, and while I knew he spoke Apollo’s name so he could take him outside again, another reason was to alert me who it was that had entered the house. To give me time to prepare myself. Perhaps for him to listen for footsteps from overhead. Footsteps that would tell him I wasn’t prepared for his arrival. I felt proud he would hear nothing.

I closed my eyes. It wouldn’t be long now. I imagined what Nathaniel was doing—taking Apollo outside, feeding him maybe. Would he undress downstairs? In his bedroom? Or would he enter the playroom wearing his suit and tie?

Doesn’t matter,
I told myself.
Whatever Nathaniel has planned will be perfect.

I strained my ears—he was walking up the stairs now. Alone. No dog followed.

Somehow, the atmosphere of the room changed when he walked in. The air became charged, and the space between us nearly hummed. In that moment, I understood—I was his, yes. I had been correct with that assumption. But even more so, even more important, perhaps, he was mine.

My heart raced.

“Very nice, Abigail,” he said, and walked to stand in front of me. His feet were bare. I noted he had changed out of his suit and into a pair of black jeans.

I closed my eyes again. Cleared my mind. Focused inwardly. Forced myself to remain still under his scrutiny.

He walked to the table, and I heard a drawer open. For a minute, I tried to remember everything in the drawers, but I stopped myself and once again forced my mind to quiet itself.

He came back to stand at my side. Something firm and leather trailed down my spine.

Riding crop.

“Perfect posture,” he said as the crop ran up my spine. “I expect you to be in this position whenever I tell you to enter this room.”

I felt relieved he was satisfied with my posture. I wanted so much to please him tonight. To show him I was ready for this. That we were ready. He had been so worried.

Of course, not a bit of worry or doubt could be discerned now. Not in his voice. Not in his stance. His demeanor in the playroom was utter and complete control and confidence.

He dragged the riding crop down my stomach and then back up. Teasing.

Damn. I loved the riding crop.

I kept my head down even though I wanted to see his face. To meet his eyes. But I knew the best gift I could give him was my absolute trust and obedience, so I kept my head down with my eyes focused on the floor.

“Stand up.”

I rose slowly to my feet, knowing I stood directly under the chains. Normally, he kept them up for storage, but they were lowered tonight.

“Friday night through Sunday afternoon, your body is mine,” he said. “As we agreed, the kitchen table and library are still yours. There, and only there, are you to speak your mind. Respectfully, of course.”

Both of his hands traced across my shoulders, down my arms. One hand slipped between my breasts and dropped to where I was wet and aching.

“This,” he said, rubbing my outer lips, “is your responsibility. I want you waxed bare as often as possible. If I decide you have neglected this responsibility, you will be punished.”

And again, we had agreed to this.

“In addition, it is your responsibility to ensure your waxer does an acceptable job. I will allow no excuses. Is that understood?”

I didn’t say anything.

“You may answer,” he said. I heard the smile in his voice.

“Yes, Master.”

He slipped a finger between my folds and I felt his breath in my ear. “I like you bare.” His finger swirled around my clit. “Slick and smooth. Nothing between your pussy and whatever I decide to do to it.”

Fuck.

Then he moved behind me and cupped my ass. “Have you been using your plug?”

I waited.

“You may answer.”

“Yes, Master.”

His finger made its way back to the front of me, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning.

“I won’t ask you that again,” he said. “From now on, it is your responsibility to prepare your body to accept my cock in any manner I decide to give it to you.” He ran a finger around the rim of my ear. “If I want to fuck your ear, I expect your ear to be ready.” He hooked his finger in my ear and pulled. I kept my head down. “Do you understand? Answer me.”

“Yes, Master.”

He lifted my arms above my head, buckling first one wrist and then the other to the chains at my side. “Do you remember this?” he asked, his warm breath tickling my hair. “From our first weekend?”

Again, I said nothing.

“Very nice, Abigail,” he said. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding, for the rest of the evening, or until I tell you differently, you may not speak or vocalize in any way. There are two exceptions—the first being the use of your safe words. You are to use them at any point you feel the need. No repercussions or consequences will ever follow the use of your safe words. Second, when I ask if you are okay, I expect an immediate and honest answer.”

He didn’t wait for a response, of course. I wasn’t to give one. Without warning, his hands slipped back down to where I ached for him. Since my head was lowered, I watched one of his fingers slide inside me, and I bit the inside of my cheek again to keep from moaning.

Shit, his hands felt good.

“How wet you are already.” He pushed deeper and twisted his wrist.
Fuck.
“Usually, I would taste you myself, but tonight, I feel like sharing.”

He removed himself, and the emptiness was immediate. Before I could think much about it, I felt his slippery finger at my mouth. “Open, Abigail, and taste how ready you are for me.” He trailed his finger around my open lips before easing it inside my mouth.

I’d tasted myself before, out of curiosity, but never so much at one time and never off of Nathaniel’s finger. It felt so depraved, so feral.

Damn, it turned me on.

“Taste how sweet you are,” he said as I licked myself off his finger.

I treated his finger as if it were his cock—running my tongue along it, sucking gently at first. I wanted him. Wanted him inside me. I sucked harder, imagining his cock in my mouth.

You will not release until I give you permission, and I will be very stingy with my permission.
His words from the office floated through my mind, and I choked back a moan before it left my mouth. It would be a long night.

“I changed my mind,” he said when I finished cleaning his finger. “I want a taste after all.” He crushed his lips to mine and forced my mouth open. His lips were brutal—powerful and demanding in their quest to taste me.

Damn, I’d have a stroke if he kept that up.