The attendant returned with a hot bowl of soapy water. Megan took the cloth from the bowl, wrung it out and washed the oil from his body.
Chapter Three
Gregori wanted the floor to open and for Trey Lancaster to fall through on his ass. He wanted to slam his fist into the pretty-boy's dazed face and beat him to a bloody pulp. He wanted his Mistress to take him in hand and punish him for his presumption.
His body was strung tighter than he'd ever experienced before. Every flick of her wrist, every crack of her flogger was like a caress across his cock. At one point he'd bitten the inside of his cheek so hard he was bleeding.
Mistress Megan was gasoline to a fire, specifically the fire in his pants. He rolled his eyes at the poor metaphor, but he was no poet. He was simply a man who'd found the woman he wanted to belong to, and was suffering her absence. He gritted his teeth and kept his gaze upon her as she cleaned and petted her sub for the evening. She always brought her partners down gently, respectfully. Then she would collect her playthings and retreat to either the public changing rooms or, now, her private room. Within the quarter hour, she'd be at the first-floor bar, serenely sipping a glass of wine.
She'd be dressed completely differently, her Mistress persona long gone and replaced by a "normal" looking woman. Though to Gregori, even in a pair of artfully faded jeans and a plain t-shirt, Megan was exceptional. He brushed his hands down his thighs; what he itched to touch was the valley between her breasts. He absently pushed his tongue against the roof of his mouth—what he wanted was to taste her. His fantasies always started with his mouth on her, worshipping her body from head to toe. She smelled like honeysuckle and he'd bet his paycheck she tasted sweeter than honey fresh from the comb.
Gregori was losing control of his wayward body, a first for him. He'd been trained to go without pleasure, without release, and in the past it was never a problem. The denial only made the ultimate pleasure more intense.
Wanting, but never having Megan's touch, her taste, wasn't a denial he could enjoy. Perhaps it was because of his unacceptable possessiveness; perhaps it was the probability that his thirst for her would never be satisfied. Whatever the reason, his craving for her had long passed anticipation and was well into the territory of sheer torment. Standing in the dark watching Megan stroke a soapy cloth over Trey's red-striped legs, Gregori wanted to launch himself at her and beg to be taken.
He groaned as he rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. Watching her with her hands all over another man took him forcefully back in time, to his school days in Soviet Russia. He remembered going hungry, wanting but never having. He remembered the day United Nations relief supplies had been delivered to his school.
He'd stood, hypnotized, staring in mute wonder at the crates of fruit and vegetables. Wanting, but forbidden to touch. Once the photo op had ended and the world press had gone, he and his classmates had been sent on their way, each clutching a single apple or orange like a precious treasure. They'd never seen the rest of the supplies again; the school officials had taken them, glutted themselves with pleasure.
That was what watching Megan touch another man was like: like having everything in the world he wanted or needed right in front of him, but not being able to reach out and take it. He released a rough sigh. The night was still young, and his cold shower was still hours away. Time to pull himself together.
"Enjoy the show, sugar?" Her sultry voice rode him hard. He didn't move though, and managed to keep himself from falling to her feet.
"Entertaining as always, Mistress." He kept his reply short, professional, though he didn't feel professional in the least.
"Hmmm," her southern drawl, always languorous, was lazy with satisfaction. "Well, good night, then." She smiled and wiggled her perfectly manicured fingernails in a haphazard gesture of goodbye.
He waited until he was sure she was out of earshot to mutter, "Not particularly, Mistress."
* * * *
June
Megan sat at the bar and shot irritated glances at the table, her table, where John and Susan Scott had cornered some poor sap and were attempting to lure him into a menage. From what Megan understood, the couple, who'd earned the nicknames of BDSM Barbie and Ken at the club, were a great time, but didn't know when to say goodbye. Currently, she thought sourly, they couldn't seem to say goodbye to her favorite table, darn it.
She sighed into her glass of wine. It had been an irritating day all around. She'd taken the early shift at the hospital in order to free up her evening for Kendra's wedding rehearsal and dinner. That meant she'd had the pleasure of all the waking winos, and the joy of cleaning up from the midnight shift's traumas. Megan knew she should be grateful to even have a job, but it was hard not to resent the fact that hospital staffing across the state was at an all-time low. She gave an un-ladylike snort as she thought of the recent rash of parties and financial shenanigans at Detroit's Manoogian Mansion. The former Mayor would have done better to fund the city's hospitals and schools.
At any rate, Kennie's rehearsal had been lovely. She and Sinclair still positively radiated love and lust at each other, even after two years of living in sin. It had taken the poor man the entire time to convince Kendra to marry him. While her friend had whole-heartedly surrendered to her Dom lover literally overnight, she'd insisted on taking marriage slowly.
Megan loved her friend, and was over the moon for her, thrilled with her happiness. But something about watching Kendra and Sin together, the tenderness and affection underscored by subtle reminders that Kendra was Sin's … possession … rubbed gratingly against nerves that were far too sensitive.
Megan didn't participate in the lifestyle for sexual satisfaction. So why did the intimate bliss of a couple who did disturb her so?
She'd retreated to the club hoping to enjoy a glass or two of wine and perhaps let go of a bit of her frustration. If she'd been hoping for a glimpse of a certain gray-eyed security specialist, she wasn't admitting that even to herself.
But, instead of releasing her tension with the snap of leather on pale, silky flesh, she found herself staring morosely into her glass, uninterested in any of the available free agents trolling the room.
She'd almost decided to call it a night when she caught sight of Gregori, winding his way toward the bar from the private rooms. A petite, flame-haired Domme walked with him, and Megan felt her eyes narrow as the woman paused by the stairs to allow Gregori to bend and kiss her knuckles before gliding toward the exit.
Okay, she'd known Gregori was a submissive, but he rarely played at Velvet Ice. In fact, when she considered it, she hadn't seen him here except for when he was on duty since she'd gained her probationary membership. She finished her drink and gestured for another, all the while reminding herself that it shouldn't matter who he played with or how often. He was not the sub for her, and it was none of her darned business what he did during his free time.
She didn't know whether to be amused or even more irritated by the startled look on his face when he spotted her from across the room. The man looked positively guilty for a blink of time, and for that same heartbeat Megan felt like he should feel guilty. Then the moment passed, and he tipped his head in acknowledgement before heading toward the bar.
He looked delicious. He looked debauched. He was wearing jeans, not designer, faded from actual wear, rather than some stylist's vision. His shirt was linen, pale gray worn wrinkled and open over his bare chest. Faint, red stripes decorated his chest and ribs, artfully placed and beautifully framed by his open shirt.
He sat next to her without waiting for an invitation, and she had to throttle down the urge to scold him. Harshly. His voice, when he ordered vodka, was rough, a little strained, and his accent was more evident than usual.
He smelled fresh, minty, and she knew his Mistress had bathed him, or allowed him to bathe himself, when their session had ended. His wide lips were redder than usual, faintly swollen, and dammit, there was a bite-mark on his collarbone. Not a hickey.
No, actual inflamed teeth marks.
Megan glanced toward the bartender, busy at the other end of the bar, and wished he'd hurry up with her drink so she could just leave.
*
What the hell was she doing here?
Megan was not supposed to be at the club. Gregori had verified that tonight was Kendra and Sinclair's wedding rehearsal and, as one of the bridesmaids, Megan should be safely tucked away with her friends.
Instead, she was sitting at the bar next to him, saying nothing, drinking her wine, and somehow managing to heap enough guilt on his head to crush him.
It was stupid, really. She had no claim on him, had clearly shown she didn't want a claim on him, yet Gregori found himself planning his visits to the club around her schedule. He knew she wouldn't play with him—not that playing was what he wanted to do with her—but he couldn't bring himself to be with anyone else in her presence.
She seemed agitated tonight, not her usual cool and confident self. She fiddled with her wine and gazed pensively around the room, not settling her attention on anyone or anything for more than a moment.
She didn't speak when he sat down, didn't even look at him directly, but he felt her attention like a physical touch. He sipped his vodka and let the silence spin out until it became painful, until the tension between them was almost visible.
Finally, she idly murmured, "You're wasted on her."
Gregori's eyebrow rose in surprise. She'd carefully avoided this sort of personal comment for the last two years. He certainly hadn't expected her to change the dynamic between them now. Reining in his curiosity—and hope—he kept his tone bland when he replied.
"Do you think so?"
She shot a pointed glance at his erection, which had risen once again to painful proportions at the sight of her. "Clearly."
"Oh," he demurred, "Mistress S took care of that well enough. It isn't her fault he wants something more."
Finally she looked at him directly. "Like I said, sugar, you're wasted on a Mistress who can't give you everything you need."
Gregori met her eyes, an act that felt unacceptably bold for a submissive, and all the more titillating for it. He wanted to drown in the pools of her Caribbean blue eyes, to get lost and lose his breath and breathe only her. That, he knew, was the difference between simply playing and having a true Mistress. A true Mistress wasn't as necessary to her sub as breath; she was his breath. "Perhaps you could do better?"
"Oh, Gregori, sugar, I'm not the Mistress for you." He loved the way she said his name; not with its Russian pronunciation of Greg-or-ee, but not with the more American Gregory, either. No, that luscious southern accent made it a fusion, as unique as Megan herself. What he didn't love was the look in those bottomless blue eyes, as if longing, regret and denial had so intermixed they couldn't be separated ever again.
"I disagree," he argued, filled with a strange desperation. What was it about this woman that compelled him so? Yes, she was beautiful, witty and smart. But there were other women who frequented the club who fit that description. Hell, Mistress S, whom he'd hoped would relieve some of the unbearable tension building in him, fit that description to a tee.
No, with Megan there was something more. Something indefinable that commanded him on every level.
"Everything I've observed," he continued, "argues most convincingly that you would be a most effective Mistress."
"Sugar, I don't mix my activities at Velvet Ice with my sex life." Her gaze was level, implacable. "Not ever."
Gregori blinked in surprise. He'd seen her get her subs off. Not every time, but often. Then he thought for a long moment. He'd been so eaten up with jealousy he'd never consciously processed it, but he'd never once seen her take satisfaction from her subs. At least not sexually.
"Now that," he murmured, "is the true waste."
She shrugged. Her shoulders, bared by the halter style of her lavender dress, gleamed like pearl in the pulsing multi-colored light filtering from the dance floor.
"That's not what it's about for me, sugar. And," she cast another glance at his cock, which was diligently trying to burrow its way past the buttons of his fly and get to her, "I suspect that's exactly what it's about for you."
*
Gregori was silent for a long time. He didn't have to speak, his eyes asked for him. Finally he tilted his head and gave voice to his confusion.
"Why?"
She didn't imagine it would make sense to him. Not only was he, by nature, a submissive; but he was also a formidable, imposing male. She was quite certain he'd never felt powerless and controlled, completely denied any say in his own destiny, and she was equally certain he'd never understand her motivations. But for some reason she felt compelled to try.
"Domination and submission," she began slowly, "is a power exchange. For me, the satisfaction comes from exercising that power over my partner."
He was shaking his head in disagreement before she even finished.
"Domination and submission," he argued, "is an exchange of trust." He leaned forward, resting one forearm on the bar as he angled his body into hers. "This is where the power comes from." His voice was low and intense, his accent more pronounced as his emotions surged. "The only power my Domme has is that which I grant her through my trust." His mercurial gray eyes burned into hers. "It should be a sharing of souls," he finished. "How then could it not involve a sharing of bodies as well?"
Megan nodded, filled with an odd mix of regret and longing. What he was describing sounded lovely but was not, she was certain, for her. It was one thing to control her submissives, to dole out their pleasure and pain at her own whim. It was another thing entirely to be responsible for their trust, their souls. That sort of exchange would require an offering of trust on her part, as well, and that would necessitate handing over the true source of power to her sub, which was unacceptable. "And that is why I'm not the Domme for you, Gregori. What you need in a Mistress is not something I'm providing."
His eyes probed hers, hot and gray and, she was certain, stripping away her evasions to see straight into her soul. When he spoke at last his voice was soft and musing.
"I think, Megan that we could provide each other with something we both need." He tossed down the shot of vodka the bartender had dropped off without her being aware, and she was briefly unnerved that she'd been so caught up in their conversation that she'd missed the interruption.
Standing, he offered her a brief, courtly bow. "Until next time," he murmured, and backed respectfully away. The contrast was disorienting; one minute he'd been meeting her eyes, intense and commanding, the next he was the consummate submissive, deferential and respectful.
Megan didn't bother to finish her drink. She was tired, frustrated, and had a busy weekend ahead of her. Kendra was marrying Sin tomorrow, and Megan had a feeling she'd need plenty of sleep in order to have her wits about her in the face of their happily ever after.
Chapter Four
The dress wasn't really that bad. The strapless, heart-shaped bodice definitely made the most of Megan's generous curves, while it emphasized Celia's more modest endowments. It was just the color: Pepto-Bismol pink. Megan could not believe Kendra had picked such an intolerable color. Her friend insisted the nauseating pink satin was the perfect foil for both Megan's blonde hair and Celia's dark looks, and had even pointed out that at least fifty percent of Megan's wardrobe consisted of various shades of the color. No matter how Celia argued and Megan attempted to explain, their little Professor was determined. Pepto-pink she wanted and, dammit, Pepto-pink she would have.
Megan just prayed her boobs would stay inside the darn thing. She glanced down thoughtfully. Maybe she needed to get some of that wardrobe tape to help in that area.
"Okay, that's just completely unfair," Celia grumbled from the other side of the room. "Not even a Wonder Bra can compete with what God gave you." The dark-haired pixie was busily trying to create the illusion of cleavage by fiddling with the underwire of her strapless bra.
> "Darlin', I'd gladly share, if only to guarantee I won't have a wardrobe malfunction before the night is through," Megan laughed back at her. "I was just getting ready to look for the duct tape!" Celia's musical laughter rang out just as Kendra bustled in from the adjoining bedroom where her mother had been helping her into her gown.
Megan and Celia both paused, gaping at their friend. Her burnished mahogany hair was caught in a low ponytail behind one ear, and cascaded to cover one breast in a froth of ringlets. A strapless ivory satin gown hugged her curves, belling out just enough at the bottom to give her an elegant silhouette. Around her neck she wore a choker of lustrous pearls and crystals clustered in the shape of flowers. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, but Megan knew it was far more than a decoration. Kendra was wearing Sin's collar proudly, for the entire world to see.
"Oh, Kennie," Celia gasped, running to embrace their friend. Megan wanted to join them, but her feet felt frozen to the floor. Kendra looked so radiant, so joyfully in love, and it set off a hollow yearning in Megan's own heart. Gregori's words echoed in her mind. Domination should be a sharing of souls. How then could it not involve a sharing of bodies as well?
That wasn't what she wanted, Megan told herself. But, if it wasn't what she wanted, then why did she feel so empty?
Pulling herself together, Megan waved her hands briskly in front of her eyes to fend of sentimental tears, and hurried to embrace her two best friends.
* * * *
The wedding went off without a hitch. Sin and Kendra faced each other in front of the crystal blue fountain at the Meadowbrook Music Festival and pledged themselves to each other forever with vows both personal and profound. After the ceremony each guest was given a golden coin and invited to make a wish for the couple before tossing it into the fountain. Megan didn't think there was a dry eye left in the audience by the time they were through. She certainly had to take a make-up break to repair her melting eyeliner before the seemingly endless round of pictures.
Velvet Submission Page 3