Chapter One
I’m sulking with my head in Rey’s lap after a dinner of the finest sushi and sake San Diego has to offer.
“Why can’t you like women?”
“Same reason you can’t. I could give you a good hiding just the same.”
A split-second of indecision later, I roll my eyes, wrench my mouth sideways, and sigh. “Don’t bother.”
“But you’re so pretty when you pout, kitten.” Rey runs his hands through my hair, kneading talented fingers into my scalp.
“I know.” I shrug, purring under his attentions. “But what the hell good does that do me with you?”
“None. Absolutely none. But don’t you fear. I’ll find you what you crave yet, Scout’s honor.”
“Were you really a Boy Scout, Rey?” He’s not exactly outdoorsy, although very handy with knots.
He scoffs, as I expected. “Have you seen those uniforms? Even six-year-old me was screaming, ‘Oh, hell, no.’”
I laugh, imagining raven-haired mini-Rey spouting obscenities as his long-suffering mother tried to make him into a joiner: A neckerchief? What the fuck are you thinking?
Rey shakes his head. “But back to you. You’re not giving me much time.”
“It’s what I’ve got. I’m not thrilled about it either, but it’s now or not for two months. I don’t expect miracles. He doesn’t need to be perfect. Just…serviceable.”
It’s not like I’m looking for Prince Charming. I don’t have the time, never mind the inclination, to be searching for The One. I just need Rey to find me someone who can dull the sharp edges, slake my thirst to be dominated. At least until the next time.
Rey’s handsome copper face settles into pensiveness. It’s when he looks like this I call him Professor Walter. Oh, my beloved Reyes. You would’ve made a wonderful professor. But what fun would that be? He’s far more suited to his current profession. And I suppose he is a professor of sorts—just not the kind who’ll ever get tenure anywhere except in the hearts and minds of his students. Or, as he’d say, clients.
He tries to keep it professional, but for Rey, everything is deeply personal. I’ve never known someone with such a strong calling. Helping people navigate the wide world of kink is his vocation, and his talent for absolute discretion means he’s sought after by some incredibly rich, powerful, private people who want to learn without having to venture into the community to do it. They pay handsomely for his specific services.
I met Rey my freshman year at Princeton, when he was the chipper RA welcoming me to my dorm. He’s been more or less mentor, more or less friend ever since. That was ten years ago, and I still remember every single word of our first encounter.
When he’d introduced himself, the too-firm grip of his hand had caught my attention in a way that made my lips part. I’d stuttered when I told him my name.
“I-India Burke. You can call me Indie. Everybody does.”
He’d raised a wicked eyebrow, smirked, and hadn’t let go of my hand. “That’s not a very good reason to be called something, now is it? Because you’ve always been?”
“I ’spose not,” I’d granted, flushing.
“That stops here, little one. So which is it—India or Indie?”
“India,” I’d said with certainty and a smile.
His confidence was infectious, and I’d melted at his response: “Well done, little one. Welcome to Princeton, India Burke. The world is now your oyster.”
There had been no surprise, only comfort, when he called me “little one”—a total lack of the embarrassment or intimidation I’d always felt around really good-looking men. That’s what he was: a man, not a boy. With the way he talked, the way he carried himself, I barely believed he was twenty-two and not thirty-two. He was so sure, so certain. I could feel the poise leaking into my hand from his. Yes, that was my introduction to my beloved Rey, who has made all the difference.
I don’t like to think about where I would’ve ended up without him. He showed me a world I might never had known existed and taught me how to move in it safely and with grace. He keeps me tethered to it with the thinnest of strings, letting me dip a toe in without drowning. I soothe myself by thinking I’ll never have to do without. His thighs are lean and muscular under my head as he continues to work his hands over my skull. I sigh with pleasure, about to fall asleep.
“Vasili?”
I wrinkle my nose and open my eyes. “You know I don’t like him. I can take a beating as well as anyone—”
“Better, for such a pretty little thing.”
I tip my chin in thanks before going on. “But he hit me in the face, and you know how I feel about that.”
“I do. I forgot—the fucker. I’m sorry. I won’t ask you about him again.”
“I forgive you. I know it’s hard to keep track. Sometimes I forget.” It’s quite the long and growing list.
“What about Ethan? You liked him, right?”
“I did, but he’s got a girl now and I don’t want to share.”
“Luke?”
“Meh.”
“I think Strider would like to see you again.”
“Find me someone who hasn’t named himself after a Lord of the Rings character and we’ll talk.”
Rey snickers. He knows I find it hard to take that guy seriously, which ruins the effect. He might as well have called himself Frodo.
“Takeo?”
“Too fussy. He spends too much time tying me up and not enough time getting me off.”
“You’re awfully demanding for a submissive, did you know that?” he teases, tugging on my hair.
“Only for you,” I promise, batting my eyelashes.
“I know. You’re a good little pet otherwise. I rarely hear complaints.”
I allow myself to preen under his praise. Damn straight he doesn’t hear many complaints. However picky I may be now, I never let my displeasure show when I’m with them. I took that backhand from Vasili like a champ. I only sniffed, letting a single tear roll theatrically down my cheek even as I inwardly seethed that I had to work on Monday and fuck if I was going to answer questions about a black eye.
I probably should’ve safed out after that, but I was deep in the scene and hadn’t wanted to stop. It had been far too long since my last play date, and I was desperate. Besides, the damage was already done. What would a safeword have accomplished except to interrupt the flow? If he’d done it again, I would’ve called it. Probably. Rey had chastised me afterward for letting it go and made me put it in all my contracts since.
“Let me make some calls, and I’ll get back to you. Do you care where?”
“Anywhere but here.” I close my eyes under his cossetting.
Rey stays as late as he can, catching the last shuttle back to San Francisco despite my invitation to stay the night. I don’t have a spare bedroom, but it’s not unusual for him to sleep in my bed. He’s even got drawers—plural—one in the closet and one in the bathroom.
“I’ve got an early meeting with a prospect, but I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got something.”
I wrap my arms tight around him one last time. “I need this.”
“I know, little one. I won’t let you down.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head and hugs me back.
I let him go reluctantly, but I’ll see him soon. Probably next week, to debrief about my weekend with DTBD—Dom to Be Determined. This has the same potential it always has: to be a fucking disastrous nightmare or ridiculously hot. It’s usually somewhere in the middle. Although with the state I’m in? It would have to be pretty bad for me to score it worse than tepid. The internal spring that coils tight when I’m stressed or uneasy is wound to the breaking point. I need some relief.
I wave my last goodbye as Rey turns the corner and go get ready for bed. I’ve got an early morning myself, so I only bother with the barest of bedtime routines before I slide between my cool sheets and fall into a restless sleep.
* * *
The next morning, Adam kicks my ass.
I bitch as he urges me into another lunge. “Jesus, Adam, I haven’t even had my fucking coffee.”
“And now you’re not going to need it, are you, princess?”
I give him my best withering glare, the one that makes my assistant quake and my underlings scatter. Adam doesn’t blink.
“Come on, you cream puff. Let’s get on with it. I haven’t got all day,” he barks. Bark is accurate. I’m sure lots of girls would fawn over Adam—even in San Diego, he sticks out as a consummate beach body—but to me, he’s a friendly mutt. Maybe a golden retriever. Adorable, loyal, and nice to have around, but thoroughly unremarkable.
I roll my eyes and do his bidding for the next half hour before grabbing my bag to head to work. I’ve made it a habit not to shower at the gym. It might be more convenient, certainly less nasty than plopping myself onto a towel and driving in dripping with sweat, but my club doesn’t have private showers and I don’t feel like having people stare at me. Not that they would most of the time. I have a nice body, I work hard to keep it that way between my crazy work hours and piles of takeout, but it’s nothing extraordinary in this SoCal hell hole. But on occasion, I would get some strange and possibly horrified looks. Do I feel like telling Susie Treadmill that, yes, those are stripes from a cane across my ass? No, I don’t. So it’s a towel slung over my leather upholstery and a sticky drive to my office where my private bathroom is waiting for me.
* * *
When I arrive at quarter to eight, Lucy is already at her desk. “Good morning, Ms. Burke.”
It would be rude to respond to her chirping with, “Fuck off, Lucy,” right? I wouldn’t win Miss Congeniality on my best days, but for the past two weeks, I’ve been in an especially foul mood. It’s been well over a month since my last hook-up, and I’m edgy as fuck. I settle for, “Coffee?”
“Of course, Ms. Burke. And Mr. Valentine asked for you to come to his office as soon as you got in.” She takes in my current state, her brown eyes disapproving as always when I come straight from the gym. “But…”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
“Yes, Ms. Burke.”
Her chipper efficiency makes me ill. Even her reddish hair is bobbing cheerfully. If only she were half as good as she sounds. As she looks. She could play a secretary on Mad Men. Maybe she should.
I shower and dress, slipping into a grey sleeveless dress and my signature black Louboutins, praying Lucy will have my coffee ready when I walk out my door. But, as always…
“Lucy! Coffee?” I cannot face Jack without it, not when I’m walking into this blind. There are a dozen things he could want to talk to me about, but I’m betting on the LAHA project.
I’m a consultant to public sector agencies. All that waste and bureaucracy people complain about in government? They hire me to clean it up. I get paid to tell people what they’re doing wrong and how to fix it—professional bitch, a job built for me. I’ve dealt with some high-profile projects, ranging from restructuring the Santa Monica mayor’s office to administering the public process of a proposed freeway, but LAHA… This is huge.
LAHA is how we refer to the Los Angeles Housing Authority. It’s currently in receivership, which is what happens when an agency is so broken they’re not allowed to fix themselves and HUD hires a babysitter. In this case, my firm: Jack Valentine Associates. It’s a huge coup for us—me especially since Jack’s made me his number two on this. It’s an enormous undertaking by definition, and while I understood the basic premise of public housing coming into this, the industry is a morass of regulations and the nitpickiest requirements I’ve ever seen.
I think we’re out of our depth, but there’s no way in hell Jack would ever admit defeat. Instead, he’s been riding everyone twice as hard to make this work. That’s meant ninety-hour weeks and piles of takeout. Not to mention an extra and extremely unpleasant new duty for me.
Jack hates press. Abhors how he looks in newspaper photos, detests how he comes across in sound bites, and loathes how red his face gets when someone asks him a hard question he doesn’t immediately have an answer to. So now this falls on my shoulders. I’d come as close to begging as I ever have with him to please, please not make me do this. I’m no more thrilled about the idea of being in the public eye than he is, but he was insistent, so here I am—the new public face of JVA.
But I don’t think we’re talking about press conferences today. No, today we’re talking about the report due to HUD on Thursday—or so he bellows at me as soon as I set foot in his office. This is one of the things Jack likes about me: my ability to be yelled at without blinking. It’s how he communicates. If you listen hard enough between all the curses, he’s telling you what he wants and how he wants it done. But if you’re too busy bursting into tears, you’re not going to catch that, are you?
I take a seat and scribble notes while he—salt-and-pepper hair already in disarray, blue eyes blazing—rages at top volume. He’s taken his suit coat off, his tie’s been flung over a standing lamp, and he’s pacing while he shouts. It’s a good thing Lucy got her shit together so I at least have a cup of coffee to down amidst his emphatic cursing. He’s very creative with his insults. They can be almost Shakespearean.
“Shit-eating maggots have more sense than these people do. They wouldn’t know which end was up if they were part of the human centipede.”
I see we’re going more contemporary today. And so it goes. On. And on. And on.
* * *
Three hours later, I collapse at my desk. At least when I check my personal cell, there’s a text from Rey:
Call me.
This is promising. I take a well-deserved minute to do just that, resting my feet on my desk.
“Aloha, kitten.”
“Hawaii?”
“If you don’t mind the flight.”
“I don’t.”
“Good. I’ll have Matthew make the arrangements.”
“You’re the best. Give Matty a kiss for me.”
“Will do. We’ll talk later.”
I press the end call button on my phone and tuck it back into my purse. That’s one thing I don’t have to worry about anymore. Seventy-two hours of debauchery and my clock will be reset. I’ll be good to go for another month or so. I take a deep breath and close my eyes before I press the intercom button.
“Lucy.”
“More coffee, Ms. Burke?”
“Please.”
It’s going to be a long day.
* * *
Twelve hours later, I’m on my way home and Jack’s got a draft of the report on his desk. He’ll hate it, but it’s better to give him a product that needs a lot of work than to give him nothing at all. He’s not difficult to manage once you understand him, but I think most of my predecessors—my many, many predecessors—were scared off before they had the chance.
Not me. I’ve got my sights set on running the place one day. Of course, I’ll have to change the name. Jack Valentine Associates has a nice ring to it, but I think Burke Consulting Group sounds better. I’ll get rid of the heavy wood and leather bank décor and go more airy and modern. But I’ve got a few years to plan my interior decorating. Jack’s still got two kids in college from his second marriage. Or are they from his third? I can never keep track, although I know he’s on wife number four. Candi—with an i that I bet the vacuous woman dots with a fucking heart. Thinking about her bottle-blonde head and unsubtle boob job make me cringe. There you have reasons number seventy-eight and seventy-nine why I’ll never get married: becoming that or being left for that.
At any rate, I think I’ve got, at most, seven years before I’m in Jack’s corner office. Which is reason number three: it’s hard to sit behind that luxuriously big desk if you’ve got a husband and kids on the other end of your phone. I know people do it and do it well, but it can’t be easy and it’s not worth the bother to me. I didn’t bust my ass at Princeton and Columbia to change diapers, oh no.
I spend the rest of my drive mentally redecorating Jack’s office and selecting the color scheme for my business cards. By the time I’ve parked my car in the garage, stumbled into and out of the elevator, and made it down the endless hallway to my apartment, it’s eleven thirty, and I debate whether or not to call Rey. After a minute of half-hearted agonizing while I kick off my shoes and hang my bag by the door, I dial. If he’s busy, he’ll let it go to voicemail, but it’s rare he doesn’t take my calls. Sometimes if he’s in the middle of a training, but often even then.
“Kitten, I’m glad you called. I’ve been waiting on you.”
“I hope not. I should’ve texted to say I’d be late. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ve been looking forward to talking, that’s all. I think you’re going to be very pleased.”
“Hawaii’s a good start. What else have you got for me?”
“Y’ever play with a Cris Ardmore?”
I pause for a second. “No. Would I know him by any other name?”
“Nope.” I hear his smirk all the way from the Castro, and I know why. He knows it annoys me when people play with ridiculous fake names (e.g., Strider the Hobbit), which is pretty hypocritical but can’t be helped. I have huge respect for anyone who plays with their real names. “He goes by Cris. No h.”
My nose wrinkles.
“No h, huh?” The respect-o-meter has gone down. That’s almost as bad as Candi with an i. Why no h? I shouldn’t be too harsh. His parents could be dingbats, and I shouldn’t fault the guy for that. God knows I’d get scrapped from just about anything if having sane parents were a requirement.
“Give the guy a break, India.”
“You know me too well. Tell me more about this Cris Ardmore.”
“He’s on the big island, been active in the scene for a long time there and on the West Coast. I asked around—no one’s got a bad thing to say about the guy. Safe player, knows the rules, keeps his subs happy.”
“Why haven’t I run into him before?”
Rey pauses, and I wonder if his hesitation is from reluctance or because he’s so damned delighted with himself he wants to make a royal pronouncement.
“He’s monogamous with his subs, and he just ended a five-year contract.”
Holy. Shit.
“I get to be the rebound fuck?” I squeal with delight.
“Yes, you do.”
“You’re the best! How did you pull this off?”
“I know a guy.”
“You know all the guys.” I hold my phone to my ear with my shoulder as I pour the last of a bottle of Malbec into a glass. “But seriously, you’re amazing. What do you want? I’ll do anything.”
He laughs. “Why don’t you wait until you get back to sell your soul to the devil?”
“You’re hardly the devil. I’m about to sing you the fucking Hallelujah chorus.”
“And you’d sound like an angel, but we don’t have time. Matthew is putting together a dossier for you. In the meantime, anything specific you want to know about the illustrious Mr. Ardmore?”
“How old is he?”
“Thirty-nine.”
Well within my range.
“Do I get a picture?”
“You do.”
“Is his contract weird?”
“I don’t have it yet. He has to write one.”
That’s not unusual. Most of the guys Rey finds for me don’t keep contracts like this on hand.
“Was he surprised to get your call?”
“They always are.”
I snort. I know.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Reyes Llewellyn Walter. I could kiss you on the mouth.”
“Monday night. We’ll see if you still want to kiss me or if we’ve moved on to the punching phase. For now, go change into that sexy lingerie I know you wear when I’m not there and get some beauty sleep. Don’t want to be all puffy for—”
“Cris Ardmore,” I breathe, my mouth caressing his name. The more I say it, the more I like it. I don’t even notice the missing h much anymore. Yes, Mr. Cris Ardmore sounds promising.
* * *
A good thing, too, because the rest of my week is a fucking misery. The report gets done well and on time, but not for the lack of everyone and their mother trying to fuck me over. Tuesday went a lot like this:
“Janis, I don’t care who you have to screw to get those numbers. Hell, I don’t care who I have to screw to get those numbers, but I need them by close of business, or we’ll all be fucked and not in a nice way.
“Look, this is my job on the line, but it’s your life. If this doesn’t work out, they know it’s not our fault and you’re going to flat-out lose the units. They’re going to take your funding away, Janis. Every penny. Is that how you want to go down in history?
“Every single motherfucking last housing authority is watching you and I would suggest not making any more of a hash out of this than you already have. Get me the goddamn vacancy numbers by the end of the day, or I’ll make the call to Cooper myself.”
I slam the receiver down and am surprised by a slow clap coming from my door.
“Well done, Ms. Burke. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“You know I do, Jack. I just like to save it for special occasions, not wank off every day like you.”
Thankfully, he laughs like I thought he would. I’ve caught him in a good mood. His hair’s only slightly disheveled, and his tie’s still on.
“What’s up?” I ask, not bothering to take my feet off my desk.
Jack launches into concerns about some of the other projects we’re working on. I take notes on things I need to take care of and issue assurances on what I’ve already dealt with. It’s not the longest laundry list he’s ever had for me, and everything should be taken care of by the time I leave.
He says on his way out, “You sure are earning that three-day weekend you talked me into.”
“I always do.”
“Yes, you do.”
Though I technically only get two weeks of vacation per year, I’ve talked Jack into giving me three for all intents and purposes. He doesn’t seem to care as long as it doesn’t interfere with my projects. Not to mention he can see the difference when I get back. I’m more focused, more patient, work longer hours, and don’t flinch no matter how harsh he is. All in all, well worth it for him.
I check my personal cell when he’s gone, and there’s another text from Rey:
LMK when you’re home. I’ve got a messenger in a holding pattern.
Fun. This must be the dossier on Cris Ardmore. That will make for some interesting reading while I lounge in the tub with a glass of Pinot tonight. But first…
“Lucy!”
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
This budget for the City of La Jolla is a certified disaster, and it needs to be dealt with before I can go home. I don’t bother to start looking at the spreadsheets until Lucy delivers what may as well be manna from heaven. She might be incapable of anticipating my needs, but the woman makes a damn good cup of coffee. I take a sip and dive in, emerging seven hours later with my rank gym bag and my ubiquitous roller bag stuffed with my laptop, notes for tomorrow, and a draft of the LAHA report Jack will scream at me for the second he gets me on the phone.
I text Rey as soon as I get home, and ten minutes later, there’s a hipster with gauged ears and too many tats at my door. I guess Rey really did have him in a holding pattern. I give him a bottle of water and a nice tip before I send him on his way, and then slip into my waiting tub and get some more info on Mr. Ardmore.
| Name: | Ardmore, Crispin Michael |
| Aliases: | Crispin Ardmore, Cris Ardmore, ____________ |
| DoB: | 10/25/____ |
| Sex: | M |
| SSN: | ____________ |
| License #: | ____________ |
| Marital Status: | Single |
| Address: | ____________ |
| Occupation: | ____________ |
| Employer: | ____________ |
| Education, High School: | ____________ |
| Education, Undergraduate: | ____________ |
| Education, Graduate: | ____________ |
| Education, Professional: | None |
| Criminal Record: | None |
| Bank Accounts: | ____________ |
| ____________ | |
| ____________ | |
| ____________ | |
| ____________ | |
| Credit Scores: | ____________ |
| Current Partner(s): | None |
| Past Partner(s): | ____________ |
| ____________ | |
| ____________ | |
| ____________ | |
| ____________ | |
| ____________ | |
| HIV Status: | Negative |
| STI Status: | Negative |
A lot of it is redacted. Despite requiring the information, I don’t want to see it. I do like proof that it’s been collected, and I want Rey to have it as an insurance policy in case anything goes awry—or, really, to ensure nothing goes aslant in the first place. I rarely get refused, despite the invasive nature of the prerequisites I insist on, but maybe it’s too strange an opportunity to pass up.
Imagine: You get a call out of the blue from a well-respected trainer you’ve almost certainly heard of, and if you haven’t, someone you know has. He offers you a weekend of no-strings-attached play with a trained submissive provided you pass the screening process. She’ll come to you, and should you choose to spend the weekend with her somewhere other than your home, all expenses will be taken care of. If it sounds pretty alluring, it’s meant to.
I’ve never bothered to ask the men who say yes why they agree, and by definition, I don’t have the opportunity to ask the ones who say no. There’s no contact with refusals, and they don’t get a second chance.
Everything here is in order, as I expected. Rey doesn’t waste my time. And there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for the lack of h in Cris. Crispin. I like it. A lot. Not Christopher, not Christian—Crispin. I wonder giddily if he can recite the St. Crispin’s Day speech from Henry V. I’d best get this out of my system before embarrassing myself by asking when we meet.
I’m also pleased by the undergraduate and graduate degrees. Not that I haven’t played with some very fine men with a high school diploma or less—and a PhD by no means guarantees a guy knows his way around a woman’s body—but Rey knows I’m slutty for postgraduate degrees. He must’ve been clapping his hands like a little girl at recess when he put this together. Or really, when he read it over after Matty put it together. I tease myself by flipping through a few more mostly-blacked-out pages consisting of some references Mr. Ardmore provided, along with a couple Rey sought out before he even talked to the guy.
I hold my breath before flipping to the last page where his picture awaits. When I get photos—and I don’t always since I don’t require it—they’re usually full-body shots—although, mercifully, clothed. Believe it or not, Rey has to specify this. Dude, we’ll get there. If it’s not a head-to-toe, it’s what looks like a professional headshot. But this… It’s a candid of a man. Laughing.
What? Usually they do their best to look intimidating, intense. You know, dominating. But not this guy. You can’t even see his whole face because he’s turned to the side, and he’s laughing. The corner of my mouth tugs up involuntarily.
What’s your game, Cris Ardmore?
He’s got a mop of curly dark hair, what some might call bushy eyebrows but I don’t mind, and a layer of what I’m hoping is perma-stubble. His teeth are white, straight and sharp against his tanned skin, and he’s got what I think are light blue eyes. Or maybe grey. The picture isn’t taken from close enough to say for sure.
I don’t know if he’d be considered conventionally attractive—there’s something off there—but I won’t kick him out of bed. If I have the chance. Sleeping arrangements can be sticky with what I do. I won’t fret about that now.
I grab my phone from where it’s resting next to my empty wine glass and text Rey, despite it being almost one in the morning:
Me likey.
My phone pings a minute later:
Thought you would. Now go the fuck to sleep.
I laugh, text back a kiss, and do as I’m told. I have an early morning tomorrow and don’t even have Adam’s puppy-dog face to look forward to.
Despite being wrecked and having had one—okay, three—glasses of wine, I have trouble falling asleep. I find myself wondering if I’ll get to see Cris Ardmore laugh. I think I’d like to.