After about fifteen minutes of this sensual torture, he stopped, tucked the flogger handle into his back pocket, and slid an arm around her waist. He pulled up her dress again, this time in front, and slipped his hand between her thighs. She was slick with desire, allowing his fingers to slide easily through her folds even with her ankle restraints linked and her thighs pressed together. He had no trouble locating her clit, which was standing up in front, as though begging for his touch.
His lovely submissive let him know he’d hit the spot by releasing a low throaty moan. He was happy to give her more, playing there for several moments while she leaned into him. Fingers wet with her juices, he delved deeper and felt the warm, grip of her pussy when he slid two fingers up inside her. The chains overhead clanked as she arched her hips forward seeking his intimate touch.
A low moan rose from her throat as her head rolled to the side falling heavy against her raised arms. Her muscles rippled around his fingers signaling her impending climax.
“Not yet, baby.”
“Please, Master, it’s been so long.”
“Soon, Esme. When I say.”
She whimpered when he withdrew his hand, but nodded, fucking gorgeous in her submission. He ached to have her, his dick wedged so hard against his fly he expected the buttons to pop off at any moment. He tormented himself as much as he did his submissive, but she had to learn to trust him, as much as obey.
Circling her once again, he resumed with the flogger, applying the suede tails both in the front and in back. With the next stroke on her belly, the stubborn dress finally moved, slipping down her breast but the miracle fabric stopped at the edge of her areola.
A murmur of disappointment rippled through the crowd. He didn’t blame them. He laid the threads lightly across her mound and she arched sharply forward, hips thrusting, but the damn dress didn’t budge, clinging with a will of its own.
Angling his flogger upward, with a circular sweep he teased her breasts with just the ends. No way would it come out the victor with that maneuver.
He was wrong.
Enough was enough.
Keiran reversed his motion and brought the lash down with a slow drag down her chest. The eighteen-inch threads trailing over her quivering breast finally prevailed, exposing a tempting pink tip and ripe milky mound.
“Master Finn,” she cried.
Having teased her sufficiently, he stepped forward, and he gave her, the onlookers, and himself most of all, what everyone wanted. His hand curved beneath her breast and lifted while his head bent and sucked the sweet berry into his mouth. Her impassioned cries filled the air as the flogger hit the floor.
Now free to use both hands to give her the release she needed, and had earned, his fingers plunged back inside her weeping center and while his thumb worked her clit. Faster than he could count to three, she flew apart for him, crying out her release as her body shivered beneath his hands.
Fucking beautiful.
***.
Functioning at the most basic of levels, Esme was aware of her surroundings, though just barely. After he uncuffed her and removed the blindfold, he wrapped her in a soft lightweight blanket. Then, she sat when he told her to, waited without a word while he moved around the station and set things to rights, packing his bag, and slinging it over his shoulder. When he picked her up and cradled her in his arms, she lacked the capacity, and the energy, to hold on until he told her to.
“Hang onto my neck, lass. We’ll go to a quiet place while you recover.”
This surprised her. “We’re done?”
“For tonight, yes.”
Drowsy, her body drained and listless, she forced her head to roll on his shoulder until she could see his face. “What about you, Master?”
“I’ll wait until five hundred others aren’t gaping at us.”
“Five hundred!” she gasped, alarm sparking a tinge of energy. “That’s the entire membership.”
“Well, perhaps not so many, but a third of that at least. I’d rather the first time I’m inside you, while your sweet cunt grips me tight, and you call my name in that sexy as fuck throaty voice, be for my eyes only.” She’d rather have it that way too, although he could have had her tonight, with all those people watching and she wouldn’t have complained.
“The second time,” he murmured, “I’m reserving the bench right up front.”
The thought of her strapped face down on a spanking bench with Finn taking her from behind where everyone coming in the main doors could see sent a new wave of desire surging through her. Her face must have given away her thoughts because his arms tightened around her and he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Keep that thought until Saturday, lass. I’ll even let you choose the theme.”
Saturday was four days away. She tried to hide her disappointment as she considered which of the dozen rooms upstairs would be the best for their first time. Immediately, she had her answer. “I hear the Sultan’s Chamber is incredible.”
“It is, and that’s why there is a waiting list through Christmas. As an owner, I could pull rank and bump someone, but that doesn’t make for happy customers. What’s your second choice?”
Last week, she’d seen a couple, both with very satisfied smiles on their faces descending the stairs in back, the girl with several bits of straw stuck in her hair. Ever since, she’d been dying to take a peek inside the newest theme room upstairs. “I’m a city girl and I’ve always wondered what it would be like to…”
“Say no more. I’ll reserve the hayloft for eight o’clock. Meet me in the lounge first and we’ll go up together. I’d rather you not be wandering the playroom unattended.” After her run-in with Carlos, she had no problem with that. Finn’s arms flexed, hugging her close. “Pack a bag, darlin’. We’re staying until the sun is high in the sky Sunday morning.”
“You mean for us to sleep in the loft?”
He chuckled. “That might be fun, but it could get itchy. I thought my apartment upstairs might be more comfortable because while I might not be able to finagle the Sultan’s Chamber on short notice,” meeting her gaze, his teasing wink sent a rush of warmth surging through her veins, especially when he added, “my bed is just as soft with identical satin sheets.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, sounding a lot like him as she burrowed deeper in his embrace. “I can hardly wait.”
Chapter 12
Dreamy-eyed and counting the hours until they met again, Esme was amazed she got anything accomplished at work the next day. It wasn’t easy when her mind kept replaying the scene, and Finn’s utter mastery of her body. And another steamy, long goodnight in the parking lot, this time with him plastering her body against the car while kissing her senseless before tucking her into her car. She’d been so flustered, he’d had to help her buckle in, and hadn’t closed the door until she had recovered enough to drive.
She laughed to herself because even now, hours later, she still hadn’t recovered.
If he’d asked, she’d have been perfectly happy spending the night in his apartment, but he hadn’t. They both had to work the next day, and he seemed determined to take things slow. Proving he had self-control and priorities other than instant gratification made him even more appealing, and she added these traits to a growing list of things she liked about her deliciously dominant Master Finn.
With little choice except to wait until Saturday, she tried to focus on organizing her case notes and preparing for the deposition scheduled for Friday morning. Although it was only Wednesday, it had been a hell of a week with Mr. Reinhart as erratic as what was shaping up to be his norm. If this kept up she’d be looking for another job; the stress wasn’t worth it.
As she reviewed the few notes he’d given her, about half a page of scribbles which weren’t all that helpful, she noticed the corner of a post-it note—the fluorescent green Gerald always used—sticking out from the middle of the dog-eared legal pad. It blended in with the yellow paper, so she must have missed it the first round.
She
flipped to it, then stared in confusion at her boss’ barely legible scrawl. He’d scribbled two large dollar amounts, $30,000 and $50,000, listed next to two names she didn’t recognize, and next to each one, a twenty-one-digit alphanumeric reference number.
They could be clients, she didn’t work on every case, and they’d had an influx of new ones lately. Bradley handled at least half, and Mr. Reinhart had taken on a few he handled exclusively. If they were payments, they should have gone to Jasmine, their legal secretary/receptionist/billing clerk rolled into one, not scribbled on a sticky note.
She thought to chalk it up to strange behavior to go along with everything else, but something about this didn’t sit right and added to her suspicion that something was going on with her boss. His odd business hours, including working evenings which he’d never done before, and the mystery surrounding his secret clients, another new twist, gave Esme the uncomfortable feeling he was doing something underhanded. And now she discovered what looked to be account numbers for either payments or deposits.
They weren’t the eight-digit client account numbers used at the office or the nine-digit ABA routing numbers used for US banks. Curious, Esme opened a Google browser and typed one in. A listing popped up for an IBAN Validator. Having no idea what that was, she took the next step, transferred the number into the search box and hit submit. Immediately, it brought up information on an international bank, with a physical address in Switzerland.
A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Having foreign accounts wasn’t illegal, but their primary use, like hiding assets from the IRS, led to hefty fines and serious jail time. Why was Gerald funneling money into a Swiss bank? Had he set it up for these two mysterious clients? Or were these sums payment for his services? Again, not illegal, but her boss wasn’t an international lawyer. He was a criminal attorney licensed to practice in the U.S., specifically in California. If the source of the payment was for legitimate business, why would it originate overseas?
And, if above board and lawful, it was unlikely he’d have scribbled the information on a sticky note and tucked it inside a legal pad. Further, he would have made Jasmine handle it rather than troubling himself.
She had way more questions than answers, but bottom line, the whole thing stunk to high heaven.
A knock interrupted thoughts of tax evasion, the Feds raiding their offices and shutting them down, and worse, what kind of shady clients had Gerald, and by extension, everyone in the practice, mixed up with.
“Miss Spade?”
When she glanced up, her lips parted in surprise at the sight of a courier standing in her office door holding a huge vase of exquisite blush roses.
Coming to her feet, she smoothed the creases of her linen skirt with her suddenly damp palms. “I’m Esme Spade,” she breathed.
“Then these are for you.”
Brimming with curiosity she took a step forward. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten flowers. Abruptly, she stopped. The man would expect a tip, but when she bent to get her purse out of her bottom desk drawer, he set the vase on her desk.
“The gratuity was already taken care of, miss,” the grinning young man explained, “quite generously, too. Enjoy them.”
When he left, he had to turn sideways to squeeze by Jasmine who peered into her office from the hall. The woman, who readily admitted to a bad case of nosiness, must have followed on the courier’s heels to get there so fast.
“Who are they from?” she asked eagerly.
“No clue,” she replied as she put her nose to a half-open bloom and inhaled. This wasn’t exactly true. She had a suspicion but was afraid to hope and be disappointed.
“There’s a card. Read it and find out!” she demanded.
She pulled the small envelope from the cardholder. The handwritten note inside was in a bold masculine script.
I couldn’t resist. The color reminded me of your sexy dress, and the way your beautiful skin blushes pink all over.
Heat swept through her like a flash fire. Why she didn’t spontaneously combust on the spot, she couldn’t say. Aside from being devastatingly handsome, commanding in his dominance, and the best kisser ever—sorry Andrew, but it was true—Finn was also a romantic, though naughty for sending such a racy note to her at work.
What if someone else had opened the card?
To hide her flushed cheeks and giddy grin, she bent to smell another barely open bud, which meant she would enjoy these beauties for days.
“Well?” Jasmine asked impatiently.
Esme remained silent. Telling her anything was like taking out a billboard on Wilshire Boulevard.
“There’s more on the back,” she informed her huffily.
The warm feeling intensified when she turned the card over and read the rest, in much smaller print.
I’ve seen you in leather and lace. You looked lovely in both, but for a hayloft? Perhaps braids, a suede vest, and a short denim skirt might be better, and as last night, nothing underneath.
I may be delayed, but I will be there and come find you in the lounge. ~K
“What’s going on?”
Esme looked up, her good mood evaporating with Gerald’s sudden appearance. She had seen no one practically all day. Now, when she wanted a moment alone, suddenly, it was Grand Central Station.
He sounded surly, and looked more stressed than usual, which was saying something. His tie was askew, he hadn’t shaved, and even though they kept the office cool, which prompted her to wear long sleeves in the summer, he was sweating.
“Esme has an admirer. He’s a secret one, evidently, since she won’t tell me who he is.” Jasmine wasn’t very observant and hadn’t keyed in on their boss’ bad mood or she wouldn’t have gone on chattering needlessly disclosing things she shouldn’t to someone who obviously didn’t care.
“Do I pay you to gossip, Miss Myers?” he snapped. “The answer to that is no. I’m paying you to type, specifically the contracts due on my desk by the end of the day. Are they finished?”
Jasmine’s head jerked at his angry tone. Surprised and visibly hurt by the sharp and surprising criticism. Gerald Reinhart could be impatient but was usually civil, and rarely outright rude. There was an hour before they closed; technically she hadn’t missed her deadline, yet. Jas could be nosy, and a gossip, but she always got her work done. Esme sympathized with her at the unwarranted censure because when he’d left at midday, he told them he didn’t intend to return. Popping in and demanding work done earlier than expected wasn’t fair.
“I’ll have them ready in about thirty minutes, sir.”
“Get to it then, I’m not paying overtime for gossip.”
She glanced at Jasmine, head down, cheeks red with embarrassment, as she hurried out the door. Her boss’ foul mood left Esme with a dilemma. Did she mention the account numbers she’d found? Or let it slide out of self-preservation because he looked as irritable as he sounded. What’s more, if her suspicions were correct, it was probably safer for her if he didn’t know. But where did that leave her? Did she go to the police when she had no real proof? Ask Brad, and put them both in danger? Or do nothing, burying her head in the sand and possibly risk becoming an accessory to a crime?
She liked none of her options.
“Since you’re mooning over roses,” he snapped, “I suppose the briefs I need for Thursday aren’t ready yet either.”
“If you mean for the Morales case, it’s on your desk. The Westbrook file,” she turned and picked up the file she’d been reviewing before this latest series of interruptions, “I have it right here.”
She handed it to him which took the wind out of his grouchy sails. Looking to do some ass chewing since the moment he arrived, he’d have to move on to an employee who wasn’t doing their job.
On Thursday, while she was preparing documents for yet another pro bono intent to distribute case, the phone rang. She tuned it out because the receptionist usually answered within three or four rings. When it kept going, sh
e reached for it.
“Reinhart and Shoemaker, how may I help you?”
“You can break up a hellacious week by having lunch with me.”
“Mast… uh, Finn? This is a surprise.”
“Were you expecting another man to invite you to lunch, one I’m unaware of, perhaps?”
“No. Never. Well, sometimes Pax will call if he’s working in the area, but he’s still out of town.”
“Darlin’, I was teasing. Sort of.”
The rather brusque way he tacked on the sort of made a ribbon of happiness uncurl inside her.
“So, lunch? Are you free?”
“Yes, but my car is in the shop being serviced today.”
“No problem, I’ll pick you up at eleven-thirty. We’ll go to Guerrilla Tacos on 7th street. I’m hooked on the place. Basically, if it can be put in a tortilla, they do. See you soon, a stór.”
After the disconnect, she stared at the phone. Ah-store. The way he rolled his r gave the foreign word a soft, sensual quality. A tingle shot down her spine and sent a pleasant warmth rippling across her belly and spreading lower until it set up a little vibration between her thighs. He’d said it Tuesday, only she’d been too spaced out to remember her name, let alone ask what it meant. That he’d gotten her to that state twice now, was shocking.
The number of times Andrew put her into subspace in their entire five-year relationship, she could count on one hand. Her husband was an excellent lover, but in terms of dominance, Finn had him beat hands down. From the start, he seemed to know what she needed, how hard he could push her, and the skill with which he controlled her body, drove it to the brink and kept it there until he was ready to send her hurtling over the edge, was breathtaking.
And they’d only begun to explore, which scared her as much as it excited her. If his expertise went beyond what she’d experienced when they got to the main event, he would surpass her husband in that arena as well.
Dare to Love Again Page 15