Page 13 of Taken Enemy
Now she’s staring at me, confusion digging lines between her eyebrows. Her lips are barely parted. Her eyes are dilated, even more than the shadows beneath the streetlight can account for. Her face is flushed, her right cheek more than her left.
It doesn’t take a genius to recognize a true submissive.
She’s fierce, and she’s wild, and she thinks no man can tameher—I can see all that from her clothes, her makeup, and the frank audacity that left me mopping my face dry in a room full of gangsters.
I’m the Dom she needs.
Most women won’t get into a car with a man they met less than half an hour ago. But most women don’t throw champagne into strangers’ faces. They don’t plead with their abusive mothers in public courtyards until that stranger interrupts. They don’t react to a slap from that stranger like he just delivered two dozen long-stem roses.
Kate waits for me to open the BMW’s door. After she climbs in, she folds her hands in her lap, pressing her skirt against her legs. The motion is small, barely worth noting, but I picture her thighs flexing, and my fingers grow tight on the door.
Her tiny nod, gesturing for me to close her in, should give me pause. She’s a princess, born and raised in the Irish mob. I don’t know a lot about Barry Lynch, but he’s a mob boss and I just slapped his daughter. If she wants, Kate Lynch can make my life very, very uncomfortable.
Which, of course, she’s already done, because my tuxedo trousers currently feel like they’re three sizes too small. I suck a deep breath between my teeth as I cross behind the car, only exhaling when I trigger the ignition.
This close to midnight, Boston’s streets are easy to drive. I make my way to the Langham, the luxury hotel where I always stay when business brings me to the high-tech corridor on Route 128.
Kate and I are supposed to use this time to talk. We should laugh about the wedding, compliment the catered food, mention friends we have in common. We should make it perfectly clear that neither of us does this sort of thing on a regular basis—hooking up with a stranger.
But Kate is looking out her window like she’s never seen a city before. Her breath is coming faster now. Her fingers brushher cheek like she’s trying to read a secret message printed in Braille.
And I’m doing my best to not take too much for granted. We’re going to a hotel suite, not my fully equipped Georgetown home. The headboard won’t offer a lot of options. There won’t be a footboard. I don’t travel with floggers or canes, with crops or paddles.
A valet is waiting when I pull up to the front door. He helps Kate out before he takes my key. “Welcome back, Mr. Wolf,” he says, professionally avoiding direct eye contact.
My room key frees the elevator to take us to the top floor. I take advantage of the polished metal doors to study Kate. Her arms are crossed over her chest as she refuses to meet my gaze. Her face is pale now, cream dusted with cinnamon freckles, except for the berry wash my palm left behind. Bruises darken her throat; her mother had a brutal grip.
The suite door closes behind us with a decisive click.
I cross to the counter of the kitchenette. Housekeeping has set out the Riedel glasses I prefer, along with an unopened bottle of WhistlePig rye.
Kate’s relief at the whiskey would be amusing, if it didn’t bear such an impact on the rest of our night.
“You have a choice,” I say. My words sound loud because I haven’t said a thing since I ordered her into the car. I’m actually speaking more quietly than usual.
Kate’s eyes narrow as if she suspects a trap. That’s how I prefer my subs—smart.
“Option A,” I say. “I’ll pour you a drink. We can sit by the window. Talk, if you want, or just take in the view. When your glass is empty, I’ll call a car to take you anywhere you want to go in the city.”
She doesn’t like that. Eying me levelly, she asks, “And Option B?”
“You accept this is the last decision you’ll make till dawn. Nodrink for you. I give you a safeword. You do what I say after that, to the letter. I punish you when you fail.”
“If,” she says. “IfI fail.”
“You will be punished.”
I watch her swallow. She licks her lips. Kate Lynch is not a woman accustomed to following rules.
“I’ll take that drink,” she finally says. I hold my face still, refusing to show my disappointment. But she goes on: “And then you can give me my safeword.”
She gets a single shake of my head. “No. My subs must be sober. You have to be able to consent to everything we do.”
Another noisy swallow. Kate Lynch is also not a woman accustomed to losing negotiations.
“Yoursubs,” she finally says, emphasizing the plural. “So you do this often.”
She doesn’t need to know about the women I hire back in Georgetown, once a month like clockwork, like a barber or a gardener or the person who dusts the frames of the paintings I collect. “I’m doing this tonight,” I say. “If you’re willing.”
