Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Alexander paused in the doorway, momentarily silhouetted by the hallway light. A dark figure, menacingly enigmatic.
Then he took another step, into the atmospheric lighting of the lounge, and was just a man once more.
He was holding a small sheaf of papers. Probably her submissive paperwork, a checklist of what she liked and didn’t like. Or more accurately, what she would and wouldn’t allow him to do to her and with her. The ways in which she was willing to be used and abused. And pleasured.
“Remove your cloak,” he said softly.
Alena unfastened the top clasp, watching him watch her.
Alexander took a seat on an ottoman, his elbows on his knees, papers dangling loosely from one hand.
She undid the last button, revealing the lace half-corset and black lace panties with ribbon ties.
“Lovely,” the quiet man said softly.
Alena smiled. “Thank you.”
Being submissive, in the sense of BDSM, was a role she’d once embraced, but one that no longer fit her. She might have given up submitting years ago, but she remembered how this particular game was played.
“Shall we begin?” He held up the papers.
Alena dipped her head in a nod, then looked up at him through her lashes. He was handsome, and when he’d taken her hand she’d felt a tingle of pleasure.
She might be here for a job, but with Alexander as the Dom, she had every intention of enjoying herself.
* * *
Alena, age thirty-one, was an experienced submissive with a preference for physical rather than psychological play, including bondage and impact, and a dislike for high protocol postures and rules.
That information was from her club paperwork.
Alena Moore, American philanthropist and businesswoman, wasn’t married and was the sole heir to a wealthy family in the American south. Last names were rarely used at the club, but a quick search of the Wall Street Journal on his phone for any mention of a woman with the first name of Alena had yielded results. The article had been a profile piece on her philanthropic endeavors, accompanied by a photo of a lovely woman wearing a navy suit, her dark hair in a bun.
It was, if not officially against the rules, rude of him to have gathered more information about her than what was present in her club paperwork.
Alexander didn’t care about being rude. He cared about being in control.
The article, and the paperwork from Lillian, gave him a superficial biography. She was a wealthy, powerful woman, and like many, she sought release through BDSM.
He watched as she undid closures on the cloak. Words and still pictures couldn’t convey how lovely she was. Couldn’t express the sense of poise and almost amused confidence that radiated from her.
He’d been drawn to the mystery she presented. The woman in the red cloak.
According to Lillian, he was the first Dom to request Alena’s paperwork since she joined several months earlier. He doubted that meant he was the first club member to have her as a scene partner. The other tops probably hadn’t bothered with paperwork, relying on verbal discussions for negotiation.
Alexander preferred written communication whenever possible.
Alena pushed the cloak back and off. It pooled around her butt and legs.
She was a study of pale flesh and black lace. A soft-looking corset hugged her breasts and stopped at her natural waist, leaving a band of bare flesh across her lower torso. The panties were also black lace, except for the satin bows at each hip.
“No sex,” he said, holding up her papers.
Her brows rose and he winced internally.
You are an idiot.
The internal voice was familiar, and sounded like his father.
“Not on the first date, suga’,” she said with a smile and a wink.
Unexpectedly, he let out a soft laugh.
“If that’s a deal breaker…” She glanced at his face, her confident expression turning questioning.
“Of course not. BDSM doesn’t have to be sexual.” He set her papers aside. He didn’t need them. He’d glanced over her list twice on the walk back, and knew exactly what he wanted to do to, and with, her.
“I’m glad it’s not a dealbreaker,” she said, some of that confidence returning.
“Why?”
“Fishing for compliments, Alexander?”
“Master Alexander or Sir when we play.”
“Are we playing?” She cocked her head. “We haven’t negotiated.”
“Safeword?” he asked.
“Well then, I guess we are.” She took a breath, and her breasts strained the lacy cups of the corset. He could just barely see hints of the darker flesh of her areolae. “Sherman. My safeword is Sherman.”
“Sherman?” It sounded like a name.
“Sherman, as in ‘like Sherman through Georgia.’”
He grunted in acknowledgement though he’d never heard that phrase before. It must be an American idiom. Part of him wanted to ask her to explain, just to hear her talk.
But another part of him, a much stronger voice, wanted her on her knees, wanted to rip that lace from her body and play with her, use her, until she was sobbing in mingled pain and pleasure.