by Liz Meldon
A little shiver ran through me at the thought, just as it always did.
The thrill of molding a new submissive to my every whim—electrifying. And a monumental responsibility. I’d set the tone for all her future encounters. I had to do it right.
Starting now.
With a soft clearing of my throat, I climbed forward and resettled on the long leather bench that ran the length of the limo, then popped open the minibar.
“What would you like to drink, Belle?”
Not would she like a drink. What. You couldn’t mince words as a Dominant, otherwise it was your own damn fault when your submissive inevitably fucked up.
And setting a submissive up for failure was just cruel.
“Water, please,” she said. She paused for a beat, her soft inhale followed by a very quiet, very demure, “Sir.”
I stiffened, a much more potent, much more striking shiver racing through my body.
My cock twitched.
Sir.
I hadn’t heard that word in so long…
Not in the way I wanted to hear it, anyway.
Hand still hovering in front of the minibar, I glanced over my shoulder at her, expression hard—dark, even, if the brighter flush in her cheeks had anything to say about it. She ceased fidgeting with her purse, and my cock pulsed again when she wet her lips and swallowed hard. Hesitantly, she lifted her gaze to mine, and I held it unflinchingly—but not long enough to force her to retreat.
“Water it is.” Breaking our little standoff first, I plucked a cold bottle of Evian and passed it to her. The faint quiver of her hand when she accepted did not go unnoticed.
“Thank you, sir.”
This won’t be the last time I’ll have you saying those words.
If I had it my way, she’d be screaming them next time. I swallowed a groan, discreetly readjusting myself as I closed the minibar’s door. “You’re welcome, Belle.”
At the sound of the trunk finally slamming shut, I tracked my driver’s movements on the other side of the tinted windows, then resettled myself next to Belle. With an arm stretched out along the back of the seat, I fixed my rumpled jacket, the roll along the path of my dress shirt’s buttons. Quiet descended over us, thick with meaning—with implications—even as the driver busied himself up front. I rolled up the partition, noting the way Belle’s eyes followed the rising screen, and then cleared my throat again, louder this time.
She looked from me to her water, then hastily cracked it open and took a sip, as if remembering she ought to drink what I’d given her. Fighting the urge to play with her springy ponytail, I focused on the smell of her perfume, detecting notes of rose, pomegranate, and wisteria. An image came to mind—I’d bought her some perfume, actually, just this past weekend, and spent nearly two fucking hours sniffing my way through the samples. Her scent triggered the memory of a delicate blush-pink bottle with a white and gold bow around its neck.
Basically what I thought Belle would look like as a perfume.
I hadn’t gone with it: I’d erred on the side of caution and chosen something from Gucci, something the sales ladies helping me wouldn’t stop gushing over. Maybe I should have gone with my gut instead.
Just as I was about to ask, about to rumble my inquiry in the shell of her ear, we pulled away from the curb, merging into the midday traffic with some difficulty. I sat back when the limo’s rear wheel hit a pothole, the jostle plunging me back to my mindset from before Belle had appeared. The fear. The crushing, smothering anxiety of being that much closer to the airport—back with a vengeance.
Damn it. Pathetic, really. Absolutely pathetic. My phone dinged from the depths of my jacket. Two hours to go before takeoff. Two hours to navigate Manhattan’s horrific midday traffic. Two hours until I’d be climbing the steep steps of my private jet, Belle’s cute little ass in my face, her skirt flouncing about.
Two hours and fifteen minutes until we were airborne.
I retracted my arm as a surge of lightheadedness and cold sweats plagued me, then pulled out my phone in an effort to look busy. Muscle memory had me in my email browser within seconds, and I scrolled through, pretending to read one of the dozens of emails I downright refused to open. Names of general managers, board members, and even lower-level department heads whizzed by, and I stared at the screen with a furrowed brow like it was all rather important.
Really, I was concentrating on my breathing.
On forgetting the memory of where it all started—Richard, the bastard, telling me on my very first private flight that the toilet would suck me outside the jet the moment I flushed. Four-year-old me refusing to use the bathroom, refusing to get out of my seat amidst stomach-churning turbulence, for eight hours, until I wet myself.
The disappointment on my parents’ faces, Richard sniggering in the background, when they realized what a mess I’d been come landing.
I concentrated on forgetting the fear that one stupid ordeal had created in me. Tried. Failed. Failed to dispel the roil of my gut or the clamminess of my palms.
But I tried. After all, I finally had a new submissive to tend to now; this was the least opportune time for the aftermath of my childhood trauma to rear its ugly head.
And, really, I understood it was absurd. Pampered rich kid has tough time on his family’s luxury aircraft—scarred for life. Ridiculous.
I wasn’t this man.
I pulled in a deep breath and tucked my phone back in my jacket.
I was a Dom.
I stretched my arm out along the back of the seat again, this time toying with the end of Belle’s ponytail.
I could do this. For my submissive, I could do anything.
I didn’t have a choice.
3
Belle
Who was this man sitting across from me?
Not the same man who’d sat across from me on all those coffee dates. The Dean Donahue who had effortlessly led conversation, ordered my favourite scones for all our meet-ups, and told me—and a room full of legal people—exactly what kind of kink he wanted to engage in on our two-month trip… He wasn’t here.
Glimpses of him had slipped through since he’d picked me up. My heart fluttered every time I saw them, a stark reminder that I found him wildly attractive—and that I shouldn’t. Sure, it was great to have physical chemistry with a client, but I genuinely liked Dean, which, as Penny reminded me constantly, was a recipe for disaster with escorts. It led to an inevitable downfall, some awful implosion. First and foremost, it led to heartache, something I intended to avoid. It also had you switching back to the lower-paying gigs at Elysium until Candace could trust you not to get too involved again, and that infringed on my plan to create a sizeable financial buffer that would carry me when I was ready to pursue my real passions in a year or two, whatever those might be.
As I crossed my legs, seated opposite him on a gorgeous private jet, I tried to find the real Dean—all the while fearing that this new Dean might be the actual Dean I’d get once we were alone. Always checking his phone. Always looking everywhere but me. Quiet, reserved, distracted, his smiles few and far between.
This wasn’t him.
Infused with luxury and elegance, his plane dripped opulence, from the private shower to the ridiculously plush leather seats. Light grey and white carried throughout the interior, black and gold accents giving the décor a distinctly masculine feel. We had settled into a pair of cushy seats facing one another, the pullout table tucked away for takeoff. Beside me, an enormous white couch spanned half the length of the passenger area, and there were two more sets of seats facing one another next to the large oval windows.
And if I was being honest, none of it felt like Dean. He might have rocked a tailored black suit on every occasion we’d met in the past, but to me, Dean’s spirit was jewel-toned. Venetian rose. Azalea. Indigo. Ocean blue. Jasper red. Rich and alluring, velvety and seductive. Warm, too. Comforting. In control yet reassuring.
So, who the heck was this guy?
&nbs
p; The plane rattled as it evened out, our ascent into New York airspace complete. I adjusted the seatbelt digging into my waist; facing Dean, I had essentially taken off backwards, my body lurching against the climb, seatbelt death-gripping me in place. Now that the captain had announced we’d reached our cruising altitude, I had no qualms unbuckling myself. The plane shook again, harder this time, bopping through turbulence, and suddenly Dean’s large hand snapped onto his armrest. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, white-knuckling his way through until the plane settled again.
I frowned, studying him in silence.
The white knuckles. The clenched eyes. The deep breaths. The pale face. The clammy forehead.
He wasn’t a different person.
Dean was scared of flying.
The realization hit me like a runaway freight train, and I let out a soft, relieved breath—all the while hating that I found relief in his suddenly very obvious, very real fear. Still, I preferred knowing that the Dean I’d been so taken with on the ground would probably reappear as soon as we stepped onto the tarmac.
Nibbling my lower lip, I watched him, waiting for him to relax. Another slight bump—a rise up, then a sharp drop—only made things worse.
Poor guy.
My heart broke for him. I could understand that fear. I felt it every time I was up somewhere high. The only reason I didn’t freak out whenever I got on a plane was because I couldn’t really see the ground. My fear of heights only kicked in when I could guesstimate just how many feet I’d fall before I slammed into the concrete.
In that moment, I knew I had to do something—because that awful feeling, like you’re about to die, resonated deep within me. In that moment, Dean wasn’t just my Dom, my client, my employer.
Dean Donahue was a human being.
And he was scared.
And it broke my big, overly emotional heart.
Just pretend not to notice, Penny’s voice insisted at the back of my head. He’s probably embarrassed. You saw nothing.
No. I saw it. I saw it plain as day, and I couldn’t believe I had missed it. Couldn’t believe I hadn’t clued in, that I’d let him suffer by himself. Well, no more.
I hesitated briefly. Was this how an escort should respond—or was I already getting too emotionally involved? I’d been told to look out for this. I’d been told to engage, but protect myself, too.
Then again, escorts cared for their clients, right? They looked after them, saw to their comfort, their needs. This wasn’t just me being me—it was me doing my job.
But as I sat there staring at Dean, at his gorgeously tanned complexion, the dash of freckles across his nose hinting that he spent most of his time hopping between family-owned luxury hotels in Malta, Italy, and Greece—I couldn’t help but wonder what I ought to do to make this right. I knew his kinks, his interests. I knew he had an older brother and a younger sister, that his parents—English dad, American mom—were still married, and that he had a net worth of about eight billion dollars to his name as of this year. He preferred decaffeinated drinks on our coffee dates. His smile was like a homing beacon to all women within a one-mile radius.
And I knew that at some point in the next two months, he wanted to put a leash on me, march me like a dog around his island, and then tie me to a palm tree and have his way with me.
It was in our information packet, right after all the legal jargon.
But for all that, I didn’t know him—not where it really mattered.
Still, there was one thing that could always distract a man. My cheeks burned at the thought. It was bold—maybe too bold for a guy who seemed to really dig my girly-pink, wide-eyed innocence thing, a thing I hadn’t even realized I did until I started working at Elysium.
Semi-sure I could go through with this, I smoothed the bumps and rolls out of my white cardigan, undoing one of the baby-pink heart-shaped buttons and opening the material a little. It didn’t exactly highlight my cleavage or anything, but it suggested—something.
Without a word, I stood, taking a moment to steady myself when the plane rumbled. Now that we were just above the cloud cover, sunshine streamed in through the window between us, and I quickly reached over and closed the shutter. The vanishing light had Dean opening his eyes, eyes that darted to me as I crossed the space between us and climbed onto his lap.
“What are you—”
“You looked like you could use a distraction,” I murmured as I situated myself, legs straddling his rock-hard thighs. Rock-hard everything. We’d hugged before, and I had a pair of eyes in my head, so I’d known I’d be in for a treat the second he took his shirt off—but feeling it, him, was another experience entirely.
Okay, don’t be weird about it. Focus on the task at hand.
His whole body seemed to stiffen beneath me, his hand still white-knuckling the armrest, and I noticed him swallow hard when the plane bobbed again. I glanced over my shoulder at the closed cockpit door. Seriously. Weren’t private jets supposed to be more luxurious in every way than commercial airliners? Shouldn’t this be a more relaxing ride?
Tentatively, I pressed my hands flat to his chest, then smoothed them up the muscular dips and swells. Sage-green eyes. Kissable lips. Just a hint of scruff, sandy blond like his thick hair, perhaps a touch darker. It was hard not to let my mind run wild with a man like Dean.
No. Focus. I rolled my shoulders back, hands cupping his face, and then leaned down to kiss him. At first, it was nothing more than a tentative brush of my lips against his, yet as I inhaled, I breathed in his masculine scent—a scent that had me thinking of the outdoors, of sitting before a roaring fire at a lakeside cottage, bundled in thick blankets and wrapped in someone’s arms.
Dean’s arms.
Goosebumps erupted beneath my cardigan. His gaze dropped to my lips, tracking my tongue when it wet them. Gently, my thumb trailed across his lower lip, his minty breath warming me.
Just as I was about to go in for another easy, curious graze of my mouth, Dean responded. He surged up and claimed me with a much fiercer, much more demanding kiss, one that I felt shoot straight between my thighs. I moaned softly, molding myself against him, arching my back as his arm snapped around my waist. Beside us, I heard his hand peel off the leather armrest, and suddenly it was wrapped around the base of my ponytail.
He tugged, forcing my head back just sharply enough for my heart to quicken. I gasped, eyes widening, and Dean seized the opportunity to thrust his tongue between my lips.
If I thought I’d felt his kiss between my thighs, it was nothing compared to his tongue—each teasing lick, each purposeful caress, seemed to sweep across my sex, across my clit, desire pooling in my core. Heat flashed deep within me, and I fought the urge to unbutton the rest of my cardigan and just rip it off, desperate to feel more of him, skin-to-skin. This moment wasn’t for me. It was for him.
Not that I didn’t think he’d enjoy the show. As I bucked against him, pleasure unfurled with each brush of my clit against his hardening shaft. It would have been easy to get lost in the moment, in the fire of his kiss, in the way his eyes raked across my face—in the way he steered me, drove me, held my reins with a fist around my ponytail.
The pink satin bow had been for him. I’d chosen it deliberately.
Something told me he liked it.
The thought gave me courage, gave me the strength to drag myself away from his lips, from his tongue, from the hint of teeth, sharpness, danger in his kiss. Breathing harder than I should, I braced myself on his shoulders and pushed back. While the arm around my waist gave way, he only just loosened his grasp on my ponytail, holding it the whole way down, moving from base to middle as I unbuckled his seatbelt, then slid down his legs and settled between them.
Unable to hold his stare, so riddled with interest and curiosity and blatant need, I sat up on my parted knees and discovered damp heat pooled between my thighs.
A client had never made me wet before.
With slightly trembling fingers, I went for
his belt. Dean sat forward a little, as if to accommodate me, saying nothing as I fumbled with the buckle and battled with the unyielding leather. Sections of the contract danced across my mind—about a belt around my neck like a leash; a belt around my waist so he had something to hold while he pounded into me from behind; a belt for punishment, cracking mercilessly across my bare ass.
I shuddered, forcing myself to take controlled breaths. This was supposed to be for him. Not me.
He had already tented his black trousers by the time I popped the button and slid down the zipper, and I wasted no time pulling his briefs out of the way. His hand tightened around my ponytail the moment I touched his cock. Perfectly groomed, the shaft hardened further in my hand, its size impressive but not horribly intimidating—thank goodness, because how was I supposed to have sex with some enormous, ten-inch cock for two months straight?—as I guided it out, briefs tucked under his balls.
Dean inhaled sharply when I leaned forward and flicked my tongue across the engorged head. Salty precum replaced the lingering taste of mint from our kiss, and I tipped my head to the side, offering a little half smile as I waited for his go-ahead. I might have taken charge initially, but Dean ran this show—not the other way around.
His hand drifted up my ponytail, wrapping around its base again, no doubt crushing my cute little bow, and a slight quirk of one brow was all I needed. Taking a deep breath, I wrapped my lips around the head of his cock, then sucked, my core tightening pleasurably at the way he groaned. Wanting to start slow, I trailed my tongue down each side of his shaft, top to bottom, before dragging my lips back up and taking him in.
Penny had warned me that the first time I was this intimate with a client, it would feel—strange. Unsettling, maybe. After all, my foot fetish clients usually touched themselves, or my feet, and all my bondage or discipline scenes had been with other associates at Elysium.
This was uncharted territory.
Sort of. As I gripped the base of his length, pumping my hand slowly, and worked the upper half with my mouth, I could acknowledge that I wasn’t that innocent. Definitely not virginal. I’d given a blowjob before.