The Dom Project (4 page)

So figure it out.

He opened the search engine. Typed “L.A.” Paused. Added “domme.” Thought back on their conversation today and smiled. Typed in “oargasm.”

Hit search.

No meaningful results, only a string of semiliterate porn sites. Not the oargasms he was looking for.

Maybe she didn’t have a blog. Or she hadn’t posted about oargasm guy.

Or...

John’s heart sped up in his chest, his cock swelling in his jeans. He selected
domme
and hit the delete button. Filled in the new term, this one charged with a meaning that by its very nature made his stomach twist and his mouth go dry. He couldn’t help his physical reaction, that was just the way he was wired. It had nothing to do with Robin, absolutely nothing, and he reminded himself of that several more times as his finger hovered over the button.

L.A.
+
oargasm
+
submissive
. He hit search.

First result:
ThePickySubmissive.blogplace.com
. He clicked through. Scrolled down the page, skimming through the most recent posts.

Oh, it was Robin, all right. No identifying information, but he didn’t need it; the writing style had her name all over it.

Now that he’d found her, what to
do
with that information? He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Hadn’t really thought about what he was doing at all.

He shut his laptop, picked it up off Andy’s back and set it to the side. He shook his head to help shift gears, then cleared his sticky throat and said, “Very good, boy. You can kneel up again now.”

Andy slowly raised himself, rolling his shoulders as he stared up at John adoringly with his blue, blue eyes.

John took him by his drool-wet chin. “I have to say, you make an excellent table. The real question is, how good of a cocksucker are you?

* * *

When Robin stood in line to get her hand stamped at the club entrance, which was lined with heart-shaped mirrors, she couldn’t help flashing a sultry smile at her own reflection. Most of the other women—and a few men—were engaged in the same kind of surreptitious last-minute primp-and-pout, so she didn’t feel too shallow about it.

Fashion-wise, she was happy. The Louboutins, dark red fishnets to match, burgundy miniskirt, a dove-gray satin corset top. She’d thought putting her hair in a tight bun would go along with the streamlined, sophisticated look, but it did make her face seem awfully severe.

After the doorman stamped her hand, she swiftly pulled out the hairband and shook her hair loose.

She joined the swarm of clubgoers that circled the flashing lights. Before completing one circuit of the dance floor, the pounding music drove them apart, sorting them into more complex patterns.

“A margarita, please. And has the show started yet?” she asked a bartender, who pointed her toward an archway away from the dance floor.

This was it. And just as she approached the showroom, a moment of panic hit her. The whole point of putting her hair up was to draw attention to her choker necklace, a simple ribbon-and-crystal-beads affair that she
hoped
would signal “I’m interested, but not committed.”

Well, margaritas were a good remedy for overthinking. She took a deep swallow and stepped inside.

Oh
. Those
shoes
—the domme on stage, a woman in all black, wore thigh-high leather Jimmy Choos. There were plenty of others in thigh-high boots at the club, but none with that supple expensive look, that tantalizing gold heel glinting in the lighting.

Robin coveted them, but not the woman wearing them. She’d play with a domme, all right—or had in the past, at least. She’d once had a very nice evening where a woman had her sucking a whip handle and then... well, she remembered the session fondly, even if she had no plans to ever relive the experience.

That sort of thing—being with a woman—wasn’t for keeps. Not for her. The satisfaction she got out of it was a strange thing, fulfilling her urge to submit and perform and be cherished, but not that baser, more urgent sexual need: to be held down and fucked by a
man
. Not just fucked, though—now there was the problem. She wanted to be claimed. Her choice, his claim. Her dom, and she would be his—well, she hadn’t gotten to that part, yet. She needed more time. Submissive, yes, always submissive. But how they would fit
together
, that was a different question entirely.

Speaking of which, a buff shirtless man kneeled before the domme, his back streaked with candle wax. The domme prodded him with her shoe, laced her gloved fingers through his long hair. Robin felt a flutter, watching that. That easy, assured sense of control, no need to grandstand or make threats. His equally easy submission. How gratifying that had to be, to just...know.

She moved on, circling the room, aware of the stares she was getting. Other subs. Dominants of both genders and even a couple of intriguing androgynes. And then, finally...
yes
. A dark-eyed gaze. Razor-sharp cheekbones. A crisp buttoned shirt with expensive, no-doubt-carefully selected cuff links. And he’d seen Robin too. Was already walking toward her with a bottle of imported beer in hand.

He touched her before he spoke, a little sweep of his hand to knock a stray curl of her hair behind her shoulder, brushing his knuckles across the bare skin of her collarbone.

“This is my favorite night of the week,” he told her, leaning in so he didn’t have to raise his voice. The music still nearly drowned him out, but all it did was make her want to strain to hear. “Do you know why?”

She shook her head slightly.

He gestured to her drink. “Because I love the look of a woman with lips dyed by strawberry juice.”

A
woman
, he’d called her. Not a whore, or a slave, or a girl. Point one.

She smiled, slowly toying the straw of her drink up to her lower lip. Locked eyes with him as she took a sip. “It’s a good look, eh? Well, I like your cuff links. My name’s Robin.”

His name was David, and she had a feeling he could make this her favorite night of the week too. They fell into easy conversation about the show, eventually moving into a side room with a smaller bar, where he bought her another strawberry margarita. All the couches were taken, so they leaned against the wall, close enough that she could smell his aftershave. Nice, not too overpowering—another point.

After a while, he threaded his hand in her hair, curling it around his fist, and she was pleased enough with how things were going that she let him. He didn’t yank on it, only gave the lightest of tugs to tilt her chin up. “I can’t insult this club too much,” he said, “Since I met you here, but it does get a little bit boring, don’t you think? All the rules, just so they can keep their liquor license. I have my car with me, though. I could take you to another place I know. A private kind of party. I could show you things...”

That last line was a bit much, but then, maybe David was nervous. It wasn’t fair to think he’d know her tastes perfectly after such a short time. Still, best to nip this in the bud just in case. She set down her glass and, since he’d left her enough slack on her hair, turned to face him. “Why don’t we stay here, David? I’m only meeting people. Maybe if I like you enough after tonight, next week I’ll let you pick the venue?” And because she did like David, enough that she didn’t want to shut him down cold, she added, “I’m sure if we stayed here I could find a couple of things to show
you
.”

He let go of her hair and grabbed her wrist. She hadn’t expected that, and she didn’t like it. His grip was hard, close to bruising. He cocked his head to one side, furrowing his eyebrows in an expression of intense concentration. “No,” he said. “You’re ready to leave with me tonight. Do you know how I can tell?”

Because you’re a cocky asshole who thinks he’s a mind reader
,
just like every two-bit dom who has the hots for me?
At least this guy had revealed his hand before he’d gotten either of their pants off.

He didn’t even wait for her to answer. “Heart rate. Pressure points. Changes in magnetic fields. I’m especially attuned to them.”

Oh shit.
This is a new one.
He literally thinks
—

“There’s a remote island off the coast of China where I studied the science, although many say it’s really more of an art. You, Robin, are at your peak.”

Every point she’d given him disappeared. Oh, she was going to
blast
him tonight on her blog. But first, get the hell away.

She wove a little on her legs, clutching at her forehead with her free hand. “Oh, I—” she murmured, then listed sharply to the left, “stumbled” and stabbed the toe of his leather loafer with her heel at the same time as she twisted her wrist to break his grip.

“
Ohmygodmytoe
,” he sobbed. “You bitch! You stupid bitch!”

All his cool crumbled in an instant, and Robin slipped away from him and wove through the crowd unscathed, passing a converging pair of bouncers as she went. David howled obscenities for the entire time it took them to drag him out of the club, and then the heavy metal back door to the alley slammed behind him, the club did a collective shrug and it was business as usual.

Another margarita was definitely in order. She’d intended to only have two tonight, but her hands were trembling with adrenaline and she needed the downer.

When she made her way back into the main bar area, there was someone new on the stage. A muscular shirtless man in glossy leather pants. He had a leather armband high on his left arm, and on his right—no, that was his
skin
, a tattooed riot of colors that started at his wrist, writhed their way up his arm and curled over his right pectoral muscle. She edged closer, margarita forgotten. Warm-toned skin that reflected the pink neon lights. Black hair as glossy as the leather tightly wrapping his powerful thighs.

There were two submissives kneeling at his feet, prostrate. One for each boot, Robin noted in a haze. Some process in her brain didn’t seem to be connecting patterns properly. She’d always thought John’s tattoo was traditionally inspired but still unique, but here was the model, the original twining, tendriled chrysanthemum...

She finally managed to focus on his face.

It was John.

He smiled down on her, as magnanimous as a benevolent king or emperor with his worshippers at his feet. She was too damn shocked to do anything but smile right back.

Chapter Three

Hello
,
beautiful
.

Yes, John was going straight to hell. He didn’t even believe in hell, Christian
or
Buddhist, but he was going there.

The margarita special he’d read about on
The Picky Submissive
had led him to Miss Kitty’s, although he supposed it was possible there were other bars in L.A. with margarita specials tonight. But apparently his hunch had been correct, because there Robin was, looking absolutely stunning in a tight top that cradled her small, high breasts.

Not that John had any damn idea what the hell he was looking for from her.

Search up her blog: impulse. Come to the club: impulse. Getting up on stage: yep, impulse.

The exhibition organizer was a friend of his. John had a standing invitation to show up and do anything visually appealing on stage. This was his domain. He wasn’t following her or stalking her or anything like that. He had a right to be here. As much of a right as her. More of a right than her, he was a damn regular. It was
her
who was intruding on
his
space.

Cindy, the one on his right, laid her cloth aside—she must have finished buffing his boot. She sat up, hands on her thighs and eyes respectfully downcast. Her mistress came on stage to claim her, clip a leash on to her collar and lead her away.

Someone else would come to replace her, now, someone who would rub his thighs or run their tongue over the freshly buffed toes of his boots. Someone like—

Robin?

She sauntered up onto the stage, approaching him like a goddess with the neon light making a halo out of her golden hair. And he’d thought she’d swayed when she walked before... Now she was really putting a wiggle into her step, accentuating every movement and undulating like seaweed.

Even if he hadn’t known her so deeply, he could read bodies better than most, and hers was—oh God, she was about to kneel.

“May I, sir?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.

If you do this
,
Robin
,
there’s no turning back
, he thought, and then some other cynical, more self-aware part of him added,
You too
,
Johnny boy.
But there was no warning himself off this. No amount of sobering thoughts or hysterical
I’m going to hell
flagellation could drown out the roar of need-driven impulse that had brought him here in the first place. They’d both made their choices, and there was no backing out now. It was a strangely mournful moment, but it passed quickly, swept away by the rush of desire.

“Only if you’re not just asking that to fuck with me.” He said it firmly, but a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” she murmured, her voice so low it almost melted into the faraway music, “I’m serious. I promise.” She placed one hand across the center of her chest, a little too high to be cupping her breast—and then she moved it lower. “Cross my heart.”

John felt his pulse throb in his throat.

Were they still teasing each other? Was that was this was, one-upmanship, trying to knock each other off balance?

Robin’s hands slid up from his knee to his thigh, caressing it and using it to steady herself as she kneeled. She moved so fluidly that the motion reminded him of a heavy flower weighing down a stalk, a controlled collapse according to the rhythm of nature, inevitable and beautiful.

At some point, the other sub had faded away into the crowd, leaving him and Robin alone. Nobody seemed willing to interrupt whatever was happening between them now.