Giving It Up: Pushing the Boundaries, Book 1

by Audra North

  “You cold?” He leaned toward her.

  God, no. Hot. Too hot.

  She shook her head.

  He stretched his long legs in front of him and made a funny sound, somewhere between a laugh and a cough. “You’re a nice girl, Beatrice. I’m sorry for getting you mixed up in this. I didn’t mean for you to hear something so inappropriate last night.”

  Frustration bubbled up then, anger rising along with it. He was speaking to her the way her father spoke to her—as though she couldn’t and shouldn’t try to understand anything that might not be roses and rainbows. Even though she’d never been that naïve.

  But she willed herself to be calm. Composed.

  In control.

  “You didn’t get me mixed up in it. I did. I got myself involved because I wanted to be. I want—I want to do this thing.”

  This thing? She nearly laughed at herself. That only made her sound more naïve to her ears. But it was better than what she was going to say at first. I want you. I’ve wanted you since the first day I met you and you scowled at me.

  But he didn’t seem to want to hire her. “A good girl like you? I don’t think you know what you’re saying.”

  I’m not a good girl, is what she wanted to say, but that wouldn’t come out right. She frowned. “I’m not a child, you know.” And then, before he could respond, she cleared her throat and said, slowly, haltingly, “Besides, you know, Queen Dommes doesn’t actually…” She trailed off, not sure whether he would be offended.

  “I know,” he sighed. “That’s not why I called them.”

  “So…um.” God. She could feel her cheeks getting hot, but— How else does one ask a question like this? “Are you saying you don’t care about sex?”

  He barked out a laugh, making her jump. “I care. Fucking God, I—” He ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it like when she had seen him yesterday night. “Of course I care. But I’m not a dirty cop and I don’t do illegal things like support prostitution. It would be wrong to even kiss you if there’s money involved.” He shrugged, like it was no big deal he’d stopped her heart with those words. Kiss you.

  Thank God he wasn’t looking at her right then, because she could feel how slack and open her mouth was, thinking about letting his tongue inside to play with hers—

  “Besides, the idea of paying for something like that doesn’t exactly do anything for me, either, you know. I’m not that low.”

  The way he said it, so bitterly, made her lean forward and grab his hand. “I never said you were.”

  He stared down at their joined hands for a moment, his fingers unnaturally still. Then slowly, gently, he pulled his away and huffed. “Oh, come on. You don’t have to say it. Even if I’d never met you before, it’s obvious just from looking at us that we couldn’t be more different.”

  She wasn’t sure what to say to that. If he thought he was low and they were so different, did that mean he thought she was somehow above him? How ironic, given how low most of her family thought she’d sunk, and even more so because the last thing she wanted to be was on a pedestal. That place was for people who were pure of heart and innocent of mind. Refined.

  It was the only word people used to describe her, it seemed. Oh that Beatrice, so refined. All it meant was they didn’t know her at all. She didn’t think she was so opaque, although, admittedly, she’d never felt the need to tell other people much.

  Warren, though…she wanted him to know about her. How rigidly suffocating her childhood had been, how strict the division between girls and boys, from the earliest days of her life. Girls were quiet. Girls were sweet. Innocent.

  Refined.

  She wanted him to know, or at least have an idea, why she was doing this. It didn’t feel right to make him think it was some kind of lark for her, a game a corrupted good girl was playing for the hell of it.

  She also didn’t want him to think she would do this with anybody else.

  But that wasn’t something she could tell him.

  Besides, he probably didn’t care.

  She took a deep breath. “Well, I need money. And you need someone to do—something with you. To you. I don’t really know. But it sounds like this might actually be a good opportunity for both of us.”

  He scowled. “It’s one thing to hire a professional service, Beatrice. Hiring you is a different story.”

  She looked down at her hands. Of course. Because she had no skill at being dominating and confident, like how every woman in the Queen Dommes ads looked. She might be able to pull it off in a sentence or two, here and there. But she wasn’t smoldering and sexy and able to bring a man to his knees with role-play alone. She couldn’t even get Warren to look at her half the time!

  But she needed money for Nana, and besides…she wanted him. He’d barely talked to her before this happened. Most likely this was her only chance to have him, even if it was only a fantasy.

  “Why not?” she whispered.

  He sighed and leaned his head back against the bench. “Like I said, you’re a nice girl—”

  Nice. She hated that word almost as much as “refined”.

  “—but I can’t afford to get involved. I thought it would get easier as Nate got older, but it didn’t. He needs me more than ever now. He needs a man. He comes to me way more than Kelly, looking for guidance and advice. And when I’m not working or with Nate, I’m paying bills or cutting the lawn or—” He stopped abruptly, as though he’d revealed too much without realizing. For a moment, he looked as though he wasn’t going to say any more, but then he sighed, his shoulders slumping, and said, “Even if I hadn’t sworn off girlfriends a long time ago, how am I supposed to fit dating in there?”

  He’d sworn off girlfriends? Why? And how long was “a long time”? But then the rest of what he’d said sank in, and she gave a small shake of her head. “You call this dating? You said you kissing me would be wrong.”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “Exactly, Beatrice. That’s the point.”

  She wrinkled her nose in confusion. “But I don’t expect that from you. I wouldn’t ask—”

  “Do you even know what you’re agreeing to?” His voice was rough now.

  An idea, anyway. She was a journalist, after all. Even if she told her stories in pictures, rather than words, she knew how to research her subjects before she went on assignment, knew how to be still and wait for the moment to come, and when to let her shutter fly.

  She’d spent her life observing others, most often through a lens.

  So yes, she had an idea.

  She managed a jerky nod. “I did a photo shoot at Queen Dommes. And I looked some things up online this morning, before I came here. There’s, well, I have a lot to learn still, but maybe you can tell me what you were thinking—”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything.”

  “But you must have had some expectations.”

  He slumped lower on the bench and looked up at the sky. “Frankly, I really don’t know. I don’t even know why I called them. All I could think was that I wanted something for myself for once.” His mouth twisted sardonically. “I sound like a woman.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” she snorted, but immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. Her mother would have punished her for an entire week for speaking that way. Mother would have agreed with Warren, in fact. Women in Beatrice’s old life were supposed to be needy and deferential to men.

  But ever since she’d walked out of the house where she’d grown up, carrying only a suitcase and two hundred dollars in her purse, it had grown harder to keep up that façade at all times, no matter how ingrained. Especially around Warren. Something about him managed to push every button she had.

  To her surprise, he actually laughed. “I suppose I deserved that.”

  She nodded, then said, “I’ll do it for five hundred dollars.”

  He stiff
ened. “I’m not trying to bargain you down, Beatrice. Fuck, if you really need money that badly, I’ll lend you the five hundred bucks.”

  Beatrice closed her eyes in dismay. No.

  “I earn my money,” was all she could say, swallowing the sudden desire to scream, wondering how she could possibly end this so that she could walk away with at least some of her dignity still intact.

  But the brush of a hand, large, warm and callused, over her arm, had her opening her eyes and staring into his. His dark blue gaze was boring into hers, as though trying to divine some secret simply by looking at her. It felt like an eternity passed as he looked at her, first shaking his head, and then cocking it to one side, that usual scowl of his softening a bit.

  And then, finally, he pitched his voice low and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Not at all.

  She nodded.

  He let out a long breath, his hand squeezing on her arm. “I get off early on Wednesdays. We could meet then, every week for five weeks. I’ll give you one hundred dollars an hour.”

  Her eyes went wide. She hadn’t expected him to agree to it just like that. God, she hoped it hadn’t been out of pity. She couldn’t bear having a man like him feel sorry for her.

  But it didn’t really matter. It couldn’t. She had two more weddings lined up this month, and with Warren’s money, she’d finally have enough for the last payment of Nana’s bill. And after that, maybe she’d have time to start thinking about her own exhibit.

  She took a deep breath. Here goes. “Okay. We can schedule an hour each time, but wait to give me the money until it’s all done. I don’t want to be paid by the hour. It’s too—” She closed her eyes briefly, resisting the urge to tell him to forget the whole deal.

  His hand slid up her arm. Was it the reflection of the sun, or was the heat back in his eyes? She certainly felt overly warm now.

  “I understand. And that’s fine.” His leg pressed harder against hers. “But one more thing.”

  “Yes?” Please don’t say the word kiss again or I might spontaneously combust.

  “We have to do it at your place.”

  “My place? W-why?” She was suddenly alarmed at the thought of his tall, broad body crammed into her small studio apartment, tanned skin sprawled all over her linens. Having him in her space would make it so very personal. It would be a challenge, to say the least, to keep a professional distance if she could smell him in her sheets even when he wasn’t there.

  “I don’t have my own.”

  That made her blink in surprise. She’d never even considered he might not live alone. He certainly acted like a loner. But she didn’t press him for details on who he lived with, or where, or why. Now that it was finally within reach, she found she wanted this too much. Wanted him, no questions asked.

  Naïve.

  Maybe that meant she was a product of her sheltered upbringing after all, despite how hard she’d fought to break away.

  “We can start this Wednesday, if you want. Seven o’clock okay?”

  Wednesday. Less than four days from now. That didn’t give her much time to learn about being a Domme, but it was enough to get started. She wanted to do this right.

  For him, and for herself.

  She nodded.

  “It’s a deal, then,” he told her, and then they were shaking hands, and it was done.

  Chapter Three

  Beatrice pressed the buzzer for Suite 300 and waited in the archway of the beautiful old brownstone.

  A husky, feminine voice came over the intercom. “May I help you?”

  The words echoed around the archway, making Beatrice cringe and lean forward, putting her mouth close to the intercom as though to whisper a secret.

  “Uh, yes, hi. I-I’m Beatrice Lawrence. I’m supposed to be meeting—um, Mistress Michelle.” She said that last part even more quietly, not wanting to attract attention from anyone who might be walking by on the street.

  “Enter,” the voice commanded, and then came the rattling sound of the door being unlocked remotely.

  Beatrice rushed forward to pull it open, stepping inside the hushed entryway. The interior had been remodeled at some point, clean lines and white walls replacing the ornate woodwork and dark paneling she had seen in some of the restored buildings in this area. A short hallway in front of her ended in a frosted glass door etched with the name Harrington and Associates, while a narrow staircase on the right led upstairs to the other businesses housed in this building.

  She had been here once before, to do the photo shoot with Mistress Michelle. But this time, she’d come without her camera, and now she regretted that decision. She felt much more vulnerable not having the protection of a lens between herself and the world, and it took a brief mental pep talk before she could manage to put one foot in front of the other and continue onward.

  She ascended the stairs to the third floor and turned to the right, heading toward the ebony lacquered door with no lettering, only a painted image of a large gold crown, crossed through with a whip.

  Queen Dommes.

  There was another button on this door, this one a pleasant chiming bell below a video camera. She pressed it and immediately the door swung open to reveal Mistress Michelle herself, looking lovely in a white pantsuit and a large, gold collar necklace, her honey blonde hair swept up in a French twist. If Beatrice hadn’t seen her only weeks before, dressed in a black leather catsuit and six-inch stilettos, she’d never guess this lady-who-lunched was one of the highest paid Dommes in the country.

  “Miss Lawrence. A pleasure to see you again. Please, come in.” Mistress Michelle smiled and gestured for Beatrice to enter the suite.

  “Good morning, Mistress Michelle,” Beatrice replied, walking forward. The door swung shut behind her, a heavy, thudding sound.

  Too late to back out now.

  “Please, call me Michelle. I’m not ‘Mistress’ unless I’m doing a scene.” Her easygoing friendliness was such a contrast to the cool, leather-clad Dominatrix version of Michelle that Beatrice had photographed last time. But the confidence was still there, the same intelligence and self-assurance behind those bright green eyes.

  They were standing in a small waiting area, modern sofas along two walls with a Kubrick-esque table between them. To one side, behind a large, wraparound desk, a gorgeous African American woman sat, looking down at something behind the blind of the desk. Beatrice could see two leather straps of a halter top crossing the woman’s shoulders.

  Beatrice nodded to Michelle. “Of course. And please, call me Beatrice.”

  “Would you care for some refreshment? We have a selection of beverages in the kitchen.”

  God, this was all so well mannered and orderly. Beatrice found herself slipping into the skin of her youth, when Sundays meant a full docket of social activities at church and Beatrice would have to spend the entire day smiling and being demure and generally frustrated with the repressive politeness while simultaneously too afraid to be anything but achingly polite. Not that any of those people from her youth were bad. In fact, they were all unfailingly nice.

  “No, thank you,” she answered, barely checking herself in time before she made some inane comment about the weather, or chattered on about how much the men enjoyed playing golf. There should be a button that allowed one to erase certain things from one’s mind.

  If Michelle noticed how she had faltered then, it didn’t register in the other woman’s expression. Instead, Michelle merely inclined her head in acknowledgment and gestured toward a door along the long corridor that led off the waiting area. “Why don’t we talk in my office? We take privacy very seriously here, so anything we speak about in the public areas will still be kept confidential, but it will be more comfortable in there.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer before she turned and walked down the hallway, and Beatrice followe
d, noticing how straight and tall the other woman walked, how she kept her head up and her shoulders squared, every inch of her commanding and powerful in the most feminine way. It was nothing like the shrinking, acquiescing version of femininity Beatrice had been taught was the only version.

  She found herself consciously preferring Michelle’s interpretation, and wishing she could have that same confidence.

  She felt like she was perpetually faking it.

  You’re here, aren’t you?

  Sure, but she’d been embarrassed to be. Still kind of was.

  The office was large and carpeted in a plush purple, and Beatrice was surprised to find it resembled a cozy sitting room rather than an executive’s office, as she’d expected. There was a glass and metal desk along the side wall, but most of the room was taken up by a group of designer chairs clustered around a large, white table.

  Michelle directed her there, and after they were settled into their seats, Beatrice entwined her fingers in her lap and tried to hide her nervousness. “Thank you so much for agreeing to speak with me. I apologize for intruding on your time—”

  Michelle put up a hand, stopping her from saying anything more. “There is no need for that. I’m not doing this out of charity; I’m doing this out of respect. Your photos for the feature on Queen Dommes were brilliant. You don’t need to apologize to me for something I’m happy to do.”

  Beatrice blushed. That was hardly what she had been taught growing up. The way she’d been instructed, women were supposed to be grateful for every last crumb thrown their way, not to act like they were entitled to, well, anything.

  “Oh, well. Uh. Thank you.”

  She cringed at the clumsiness of her words, but Michelle simply nodded and gave Beatrice an encouraging look, as though she expected something more. But the silence dragged a bit too long. She probably wants to know why you’re here! Say something!

  “What would you like to know?” Michelle’s voice was quiet, but it sounded like a cannon shot in the hushed space.