by Sabrina York
The glare of sunlight distracted her, and she cursed the office designers for the millionth time as she angled the blinds over and over again, forcing her to the window—and her gaze to the pitch—where he, Brody, the young man who had populated her every sleeping, overwrought moment since she’d met him, went through his paces like the well-paid show pony he’d become.
“Hey, Harrison.”
She jumped at the sound of a deep, gravelly voice at her door. She turned and smiled at the man who’d hired her. “Jack, to what do I owe this honor?” She walked around behind her desk, praying the man had not caught her gawking at his high-paid stable of soccer studs. “You slumming in the D for a reason?”
He glared at a paper in his grip then flopped into one of her cushy chairs, heaving a teenager-worthy sigh. “I swear I had no idea these guys would be so….” He waved a hand, apparently unable to find the right word.
“Unbelievably immature? Childish? Needing a round-the-clock guard to stop them from fucking around and causing public relations nightmares?” she asked when he gave her the latest report from the PR office. “Anything requiring my direct attention?”
They had their fair share of issues, from DUIs, a couple of drunk and disorderlies at strip clubs, a domestic dispute that ended up being a not-so-funny practical joke, and a paternity suit. All in a day’s work, really. She had no complaints.
She frowned when her private cell phone buzzed from deep in the recesses of her large leather briefcase. Jack Gordon, the driving force behind the entire project, kept his deep blue eyes glued to the sheaf of papers he still clutched—profit and loss reports—something he obsessed over daily. Shifting in her seat, she reached into her purse and flipped the device over.
A message flashed from Lance, her business partner and security guard for her night job—that of Domme-for-hire. Before she allowed frustration at her overworked schedule to enter her consciousness, Sophie visualized her bank account, slowly, slowly, creeping toward its former robust state, thanks to the man sitting across from her, but also her moonlighting work.
“Hey…you okay?”
She shot him what she hoped passed for a sincere look, shoved the mess of the past six years out of her head, and focused on her boss and his list of legal issues.
Later, they sat together in one of the three satellite brewpubs inside the giant, state-of-the-art stadium. Over beers and burgers, they finished up the lengthy list of various player and some fan-induced bullshit. At one point, Jack leaned back in his chair, stretching long arms over his head.
“You seem out of sorts, oh grossly overpaid attorney lady,” he said, his voice easygoing.
She’d learned early on not to gloss over anything with him. He demanded straight forwardness from everyone around him. As a result, the Black Jack Gentlemen, the expansion team that had been slated for Vegas, resided in the Motor City instead. The club had turned a profit and two winning seasons into the new soccer league’s owners for consideration—a better record than any other expansion team.
“Yeah, sorry.” Between late nights and her growing, utterly unhealthy obsession with the team’s prize new goalkeeper, she was a mess. Something had to give.
Jack stayed silent. She restrained the urge to tell him to mind his own fucking business. No, that bitchy Sophie Harrison, former partner in the Harrison & Winter patent-specialty law firm, had been squashed like a bug under the heel of fate.
Gazing into Jack Gordon’s deep blue eyes, she pondered yet again the odd twist in the road that brought her here working for a man whose best friend had been the one guy she’d fallen for and shoved out of her life so hard, he’d taken her at face value and left. The brief, intense relationship with Evan Adams had scared her, forced do and say things she didn’t mean which had in turn driven him away. Sending her on a downward spiral, rebounding by submitting to a man who had very nearly killed her, or at least almost ruined her.
“You need a break, Soph?” Jack finally asked, filling the awkward silence around them.
“No. That is the very last thing I need.”
They both looked up at a loud clamor of voices, masculine laughter, and catcalls coming down the long, wide hallway toward them. They sat outside on the fake al fresco patio of the brew pub that was, ironically, an extension of Evan Adams’ successful Big House Brewing venture in Ann Arbor. The place opened every day at noon and did a brisk business from downtown Detroit office workers, artists, off-duty athletes, and others who peopled the stagnant but recovering city.
Brody led the group, dressed in suit pants that hugged his ass and a dress shirt that wrapped his torso so perfectly Sophie had to clench her hands into tight fists under the table. They had indeed managed to avoid each other as she predicted that first day, but for the many times he would do this—run into her as she ate or did her own laps around the large stadium pitch, trying to find some alone time with her thoughts.
Brody…His full lips curved up, that crooked smile seeming to mock, but at the same time placating her. He continued to move toward them, hypnotizing her, stopping right at the table where she sat with the man who’d launched the entire, so-far-successful, expensive venture. Then he winked at her—winked!—like a flirtatious school kid.
Her skin flushed hot and she frowned at him. When she met Jack’s gaze again, he had an eyebrow raised. Finally, the players wandered off, still laughing, joking, and talking over each other.
“He has a new girlfriend. Some random, local socialite chick. Hot.”
She glared at her boss. “I don’t know why you think I would care.” Jack shrugged, finished his beer, and stood. She remained in her seat, not really ready to trust her knees to hold her up.
“I don’t know either, my dear. But something made me tell you. Watch yourself.” He grinned then took a call, already on to something else, leaving her alone and filled with lust, fury, and frustration.
Chapter Four
As if detached from his own body, Brody observed the woman’s thin frame coming toward him. Devoid of a stitch of clothing, firm, and tanned, it boasted breasts out of proportion to the narrow hips, but he appreciated the attempt at augmentation. The line of abdominal muscles, just obvious enough to prove that the body’s owner committed a lot of time and energy to making them that way, drew his gaze lower, taking in the protruding hip bones and lower still—to the completely bare pussy.
Biting his tongue to keep from asking why she did that to herself—making her body resemble that of a pre-adolescent girl—he raised his arms and began to touch, cradle, caress, stroke, fondle, tug, flick, and do his duty. While his brain did not engage in the slightest.
The girl’s lips parted, revealing teeth that were honest-to-god blinding white, almost unnaturally so. Their extreme perfection gave him chills. Her small nose slightly upturned in a calculated-to-be-cute way. Noises came from her throat that shocked him, until he realized that he had two fingers buried deep inside her body while his other hand stroked her face, then cupped that obnoxiously full breast and brushed at a nipple.
She smelled of soap and shampoo, tasted of toothpaste, as if she wished to disguise anything resembling a natural or normal human odor or flavor. He covered her mouth with his, teasing with his tongue, continuing the finger work down below.
Her body convulsed slightly and molded against his equally naked form. A cold palm gripped his dick, and his mind clicked in for a brief second at the sensation. The noises continued pouring out of her. He heard his name, the name of the Lord, moans, groans, affirmations, and other words he blocked. At the last moment, he pushed her down, rolled on a rubber and crawled between her legs. The in-and-out motions that followed were boring and mechanical.
The girl beneath him writhed, holding onto his hips with her long, spinning-class-strong legs, her overpowering perfume filling his nose. Hormones rushed into his brain, giving it a long, loving hug. He shuddered, a noise bursting from his lips, as he experienced yet another orgasm, a little death, this after little ef
fort, which he hated. He felt weak for allowing it.
The girl kept her legs fastened tight around his waist, her arms around his neck, and her minty-fresh breath hot in his ear. He wanted to scream with frustration and unhappiness…all the things a man should not feel after coming as hard as he just had.
“Baby,” she cooed, finally releasing him after he waited her out, trying not to leap up and run out of his own condo to escape her.
Brody rolled onto his back and draped an arm across his face, willing her to disappear, to go poof and be gone, leaving behind a vague scent of soap.
She did the opposite, draping her perfect limbs, every inch devoid of hair, over his. She made annoying sounds as she ran her red, manicured fingernails over his slightly sweaty chest. Sleep threatened, as it always did, thanks to the natural post-coital activity occurring in his brain and bloodstream. But he fought it off, slipped out from under the tangle of female limbs, and sat, gripping the edge of his bed, staring at the expensive carpet at his feet.
He hated himself and his well-known need to be around people all the time, to never be left alone. It had led him to that very moment with the daughter of a wealthy plastic surgeon. She’d spotted Brody at some fundraiser the team had been forced to attend, in full monkey-suited glory, in the Detroit Institute of the Arts about a month or so ago. Her skinny, determined beeline for him had been unavoidable. She’d dragged him around for a while, spouting her art consultant knowledge long enough for him to grasp the fact she did nothing more than spend her daddy’s money for a living.
But at that moment, he had been so fucking lonely. He’d caved, taken her up on her unspoken offer, bought her a few drinks at a club, then taken her to his condo and fucked her silly. Now, attached like a goddamned barnacle, she would not release him no matter how rude he tried to be, how asshole-ish his behavior, how many times he ignored her calls and texts, only to have her show up, ripe and ready for his taking at the drop of a hat.
A WAG…or better, a WOG, Wife or Girlfriend of almost-famous athlete Brody Vaughn, the highly touted goalkeeper for the team to watch. Exactly what and where she wanted to be. She…oh, fuck me, what is her name? He winced when she flopped over his shoulders, kissing his neck and muttering about a party at Daddy’s house.
He rose, forcing her to let go of him. Observing her as she stretched like a cat. Those gross tits hardly moved, so stuffed full of silicone or saline, or whatever the hell. She loved putting on a show for him. He got that a lot. And he humored her as she ran her fingers along her side, sending one hand down between her legs to that bare, little-girl-looking pussy. Shivering, he turned away, pulled off the condom, and slammed the bathroom door behind him.
He stared in the large mirror, fury choking him. She moved around, making rustling noises he sincerely hoped were her clothes, covering up the expensively toned and perfect body. Goddamn, son, you are lame—she is prime, and yours for the taking…if only you remembered her name.
He splashed water on his face again and again. His balls tingled. His neck ached. His shoulder sang out with familiar pain. He had soreness in nearly every nook and cranny of his body. But he wanted more. No, he craved more. Something no vanilla-scented, buffed-out, over-tanned sports hag, social-climbing girl would provide.
Gasping, he slid to the floor, gripping his knees, shaking so hard his teeth rattled. Images shot through his brain. He pressed his hands to his head, willing them away. Still they advanced, inexorable, grinning at him and dragging him back into the hell he’d escaped as a boy, after his single mother died of a drug overdose and he’d been forced through the system—which translated to multiple foster homes in ten years, until landing on his own two feet at eighteen with an academic and soccer scholarship to one of the South’s most exclusive colleges. Ten years he’d spent sleeping on couches, in basements and spare rooms, never actually accepted into anything like a normal family, merely a paycheck for whatever adult he’d been assigned to for the time being.
The two things he had going for him, his brain and his soccer skills, kept him alive and sane, focused on his future. The last place he’d lived, while finishing high school in a barely there town in Southeast Kentucky, had something resembling a real soccer coach—a guy who’d played in college and returned home to teach and coach. He had been the reason Brody finally escaped with a full ride to Vanderbilt University.
Those years were ones he refused to visit, even in his loneliest, most fevered moments when his body and brain craved the discipline, the pain, the ropes, the metal, and the leather that freed him, allowed him to be what he was, if for just a fleeting moment. Until he became this…this shameless, sports man-whore, ripe for the picking, who’d been plucked by the nameless girl now banging on the bathroom door.
“Hey, Brody,” she whined, her voice like a chorus of fingernails, scraping slowly down a wall of chalkboards. “What’re you doing in there? I need to go. But I’ll see you tonight? At Daddy’s? At the club? Okay? Baby?” Kelli. With-an-i—yeah. Of course.
“Yeah. Whatever. Bye,” he grunted out. Any sane woman with a sense of pride would tell him to go fuck himself and never show up again. Yeah. Kelli had a different set of priorities. Sighing, he waited for the inevitable.
“Okay, baby. So good to see you again. Love you bunches. Call me!”
Oh, god. He had to get out of this, fast—before the temptation to drive his car into a concrete wall took hold for real.
Chapter Five
Sophie stepped back, observing her work for the night. The familiar handle of the bullwhip lodged tight in her palm. A slight sheen of sweat cooled her as a breeze parted the curtains. Moonlight streaked across the dark hardwood floor, crossing the man’s bare, whip-striped torso. Distracted, she gazed out over the city, its huge, hulking, mostly empty buildings, barren streets, and no-man’s land vibe, ignoring her client who was strapped up against a large X-shaped cross.
The city had once been such a jewel, a thriving hub on the edge of Canada, gleaming and glamorous with its French-inspired architecture and many ethnic groups crowding the streets. When the 1960s roared in, bringing race riots and fury, it left this empty husk in its wake, an echoing reminder of what was, and what never would be again, for reasons bemoaned by plenty, but dealt with by none. Her own life mirrored it, probably why she had such affinity for the place, what kept her there, in a dirt-cheap loft.
Continuing to ignore her sub—her client—she rubbed the end of the whip’s handle along her neck and across the top of her exposed breasts, deep in thought. She’d come from a background of privilege. Had a fully functional and supportive family. Her parents had loved her, their Sophie, the beautiful, desired, only child of a pair of college professors mired somewhat in their own importance. Their one flaw, perhaps, over-involvement in her life from her conception. They were taken from her at once, in an auto accident, while she finished law school in Ann Arbor. She missed them, but in a purely decorative way.
She’d never been close to anyone, not her annoying parents, or her many friends in high school and college. No one had affected her, made an impact on her, as she worked toward her goal—her own law firm, her own money, and living the way she wanted.
Hard, brittle, and bitchy had been the name of her game then. How she had gotten to that point escaped her, but it represented a stage of her life, and she’d done little to dispel the image, the self-created perception of being utterly in control of everyone and everything around her.
Then, just when she believed she had it—the perfect balance of work and play, he had dropped into her life, into her lap, like a Christmas present you didn’t know you wanted and can’t accept.
Her goals had been simple. She’d achieved them, thanks to her own doing. Had even found an outlet for her restlessness—the never-quite-satisfied, high-level lust she sustained nearly around the clock. But Evan Adams upset that apple cart, sending her into a strange free fall of unwanted emotion and bizarre switching activity foreign to her, until the moment sh
e’d laid eyes on him.
Shaking her head, she turned, her body on autopilot, needing to finish this guy off and get some sleep. She sighed, fixed her firm Dominatrix voice in place, and flicked her whip at the man who flinched and moaned around his ball gag as she approached. A tough one, this guy—a very high level CEO at a major medical center—an M.D. who loved nothing more than harsh treatment of his entire body: nipple clamps, cock rings, restraints galore, gags, blindfolds, and even more dangerous play.
She drew the line at asphyxiation bullshit though, unwilling to even contemplate how easy it would be to finish that off. Tonight, he had dropped to his knees in his suit at the sight of her, dressed in thigh-high, stiletto-heeled boots, thong panties, and nothing else. Her high powered client was a breast man—part of their deal that she never covered hers during his sessions. He’d begged for her to help him, fix him, and make him whole.
Thus commenced her three-hundred-dollar-an-hour life as professional Dominatrix for the night. A cash-only business, the side career had helped her rebuild her finances and her psyche—both of which had been decimated by a guy she had come within a month of marrying.
She smiled, noting the good doctor’s erection, so pleasantly heavy, that he’d maintained for nearly four hours. Once she hit the twelve-hundred dollar moment, she let him come, every time, and he never failed to impress her with his restraint, no matter what she did to him.
Tonight, however, she required something more. Something they had agreed upon at their first meeting they would treat on an as needed basis.
Having done her research, she understood she skirted the edges of prostitution but for one small detail. Actual sex, the insertion of a man’s penis into her vagina, remained in most cases forbidden unless she, as the Mistress, the Domme, the One in Charge of it All, demanded it. If it came to that, she would give a simple command, and the deed would be accomplished.