by Chloe Cox
The Princess Sub
Club Volare Boston
Chloe Cox
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
A Special Note from Chloe Cox
Hi my lovelies! So while I love Boston very much, it is one of the oldest cities in the United States and so it still has some, um, shall we say antiquated laws on the books. As a result, a place like Club Volare could not exist in Boston today. So while it’s a little wish-fulfillment-y I decided to allow myself the artistic license anyway. This book takes place in a version of Boston where the blue laws have recently been repealed and a new Club Volare has opened among the mansions of Back Bay, much to the delight of the Doms and subs of Boston. Happy reading!
xox
Chloe
One
Conor Kelly woke up just before his alarm sounded at five in the afternoon, his cock hard as a rock. He’d hoped night-shifting himself before he started this job would stop the dreams, but no luck. Another dream about her. Another massive erection that would go to waste.
Still a damn sight better than the dreams he normally had. He had to give her that.
He had her face memorized, already, her eyes, her lips, even the curves of her body. He would need to get used to her body language, get used to the subtle cues everyone gave off when they weren’t thinking about it, until he could read her like an open book. He’d get to know all the people in her life, even the ones she didn’t think much about. Because she was the client he had promised to protect, and Conor Kelly kept his promises. It was all part of the job.
Wanting her wasn’t part of the job, but he’d do that for free.
Conor rubbed a hand over his face, the tattoos on his arm reminding him of other promises he had made. Promises he meant to keep, come hell or high water.
Right after he took care of his damn cock.
He looked around, shaking his head. Waking up in a playroom at the new Club Volare Boston didn’t help his wood problem. The sheets were satin, there were mirrors in strategic places, and worst of all, there was the gear. So much brand new expensive BDSM gear, and he wasn’t going to get to play with any of it. He was just staying here while he completed the job, and he couldn’t afford the distraction. Not on this case.
Besides, he’d had his fun at Club Volare New Orleans while he was down there on a different job, cleaning up an investigation for a club member, and having his way with the subs of NOLA in the meantime. He’d thought that might give him some relief from the fucking dull gray blankness that had taken up residence in the center of his chest ever since the last funeral — or hell, would get him to feel anything at all — but no such luck. He was still the same on the outside, still a mischievous, cocky son of a bitch that always got what he wanted. But none of it felt like real life. None of it had any damn color. And he wanted that color back.
And only one thing would get it back.
Revenge.
So when he got word of a lead back in Boston on the case, he was on a fucking plane. It was the only case that mattered. And the lead was too good to pass up.
She needed a bodyguard.
A couple of phone calls, an introduction to Kane Lyons, the owner of Club Volare Boston and a premier security firm, and Conor had the job. So he’d abstained from D/s play since, even while staying at the Club. He needed to keep his focus razor sharp on one thing, and one thing only.
Sierra Fiore.
After all, he wasn’t back in Boston for a good time, or a long time. There were too many memories, too many ghosts. He was here for two reasons only: keep Sierra Fiore safe, and revenge.
He should say justice. But if he were being honest, it was revenge. And a Dom was always honest.
Except this time, he was going to lie. To her.
Conor rose from the bed, his aching cock demanding attention, and walked over to the small writing desk that was just the right height to bend a sub over. There he flipped open the file. He’d already memorized the contents, but the pictures still got to him.
Sierra Fiore, American Princess. They’d called her that from the moment she was born. Sierra and her brother Jared had been instant royalty, the twin babies of an American entertainment legend, Vincent Fiore. Their mother died in childbirth, and a few years back Vincent was killed by a “crazed fan.” Sierra and her brother were the only heirs to either a music fortune or a mob fortune, depending on who you asked.
Conor had to admit, the old guy could sing. But his daughter was something else.
She wasn’t cookie cutter beautiful, but there was something about her eyes, her smile. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She had the kind of feminine curves that made Conor forget what little manners he had, and giant doe eyes that looked one way when she posed, another in the candid shots. That dissonance alone was enough to get his attention.
But she played dumb for a living, and Conor didn’t suffer fools. Or possibly actually was dumb. Definitely fake. Life was too fucking short for that. And whatever her job was, it involved being all over social media, making crazy videos, getting photographed at clubs being crazy, and somehow getting paid a ridiculous amount of money for all of it.
Conor, on the other hand, liked his women smart. Smart and capable. Made their submission mean something.
Good thing, too. Otherwise she’d be too damn tempting, even while on the job.
Because Sierra Fiore really did need protection. There was nothing dumb or fake about that. A “stalker” had popped up a few months back. The threats escalated, just like they had with her father. It was all the same pattern.
And he couldn’t prove it yet, but Conor knew exactly who was behind it.
It was her goddamn brother.
Jared Fiore. Conor clenched his big hands into hard fists, the tattoos on his forearms twisting, pulsing. That little son of a bitch had gotten away with murder all these years, and he was getting away with another one now. The official story was that Vincent Fiore had been shot by a deranged stalker, right before Jared himself came upon the scene and shot the “stalker” himself. A “stalker” named Eddie Fleek with a rap sheet a mile long and a string of debts to a bunch of guys in the North End, the kind of guys you wouldn’t want to owe a damn dime to. The sort of guys who were friendly with Jared Fiore.
Conor had memorized that file, too. Eddie’s “obsession” with Vincent Fiore had been recent and half-hearted, his gun had been untraceable, and none of it had been believable. Of course, Eddie wasn’t around to tell any tales, because Jared shot him point blank. But Vincent and Eddie hadn’t been the only casualties that day. There had been one more. The bodyguard.
Mikey.
Conor’s best friend. More than that. His family. Mikey and his grandmother had been the only reason Conor came out of the system alive, while Conor’s own sister hadn’t been so lucky. Grann
y was always there when Conor got bounced to another foster home. Mikey was always there when he needed a friend.
Then Mikey got shot on deployment, and he’d gotten out of the service while Conor stayed in. Mikey came home to take care of Granny when she got sick, told Conor he was taking a fat security paycheck, more than enough to keep Granny living in the high style she would never get used to. Said Vinnie Fiore was the kind of crook who got a conscience as he got old, said the old man was a funny S.O.B. and whip-smart and full of regret. Said he was learning.
Then he died.
There was no fucking way that Mikey Donner, former Green Beret, had been taken out by Eddie Fleek, two-bit criminal with a serious drinking problem. The whole thing was wrong. Everyone around the case could feel it, could smell it. It had been a setup.
But Jared didn’t leave any witnesses. And the cops didn’t want a circus. It was easy, clean, done.
Conor wasn’t done. Conor wouldn’t be done until Jared Fiore was rotting in a jail cell or dead. He’d made a promise to Granny as soon as he came home, just before he lost her too.
Conor couldn’t prove any of it yet, but he would. And in the meantime, he was going to keep Sierra Fiore safe.
Whether she liked it or not.
Conor grinned as he walked right into the oversized shower and under the cold water. Something told him that Sierra Fiore, American Princess and professionally famous brat, was not used to taking orders from anyone. Well, she’d get used to it. Hell, she’d get good at it by the time Conor was done with her.
He let the cold water sluice over his muscled, scarred body, the tattoos on his arms brighter when wet. Usually they’d remind him of the promises he’d made to people who were already dead, but this morning his cock wasn’t having it. The thing pulsed, thinking about her. Not acceptable. He was always calm, controlled, professional when going into a job. Couldn’t do that if he was still thinking about bending the client over and fucking her so hard she forgot her own name.
He shook his head, spraying water everywhere, and grabbed his aching cock in one hand. His eyes closed, and images of Sierra floated through his mind as he stroked himself. He couldn’t figure it out, exactly. What it was about her that drew him. Maybe the way she smiled as she spun the media around her little finger. Maybe the way her antics cried out for discipline like she was a sub who needed a Dom.
Nah. She wasn’t a member of the Club. He’d checked.
So maybe it was just her goddamn luscious body.
Those fucking doe eyes, looking up at him as she got to her knees. Those lips wrapped around his cock. Her tongue working as he fucked her mouth, her eyes screaming her submission.
Fuck.
His hand moved faster, the tension building at the base of his cock. The woman wasn’t a member of Club Volare, but she had hired a security firm owned by the state’s most famous Dom. She might be new to BDSM, she might not know what she was, or how to submit. And Conor didn’t have the patience for a newbie, even if she wasn’t his client. But Jesus fucking Christ, would her submission be beautiful. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew: she would beg.
The idea made him groan, his free hand slamming into the wall of the shower with a wet thud as he braced himself. Those eyes looking into his as he drove into her, her tits bouncing with every thrust, her lips screaming his name as her pussy clenched around him…
“Fuck!” he growled, and exploded all over the shower wall. His knees buckled slightly, his vision swimming as hot water ran over his face, his chest, his cock. He already knew he’d be ready to go again in a minute, thinking about her.
Ridiculous. She wasn’t his type. Even if she was smarter than she let on by a damn order of magnitude, Conor didn’t have much patience for the kind of stupidity she engaged in. Dumb stunts, social media, any of that. But he hadn’t even met her yet, but she was still the best fuck he’d had in months.
Yeah.
Sierra Fiore was going to get used to taking orders, one way or the other.
Conor got dressed and left for his first night on the job.
The night Sierra Fiore met Conor Kelly started just like any other.
That is not how it ended.
Sierra was nervous about the whole bodyguard thing. Not as nervous as she was about the actual stalker thing, but still. There were just no good solutions. Her entire job was doing silly, ridiculous, slightly dangerous and unpredictable things on camera. She had been very clear that she would need to keep doing that job, but she had a sneaking suspicion that any bodyguard worth his salt would, uh, take issue with that.
And then, because she was a glutton for punishment and kind of impulsive, she’d gone ahead and hired the company owned by a Dom, knowing she was likely to get, well.
A Dom.
So. “Nervous” was perhaps an understatement.
She’d been finishing up the last of her makeup, just a smokey eye thing she came up with on the fly — still on brand, but not too crazy for a staid charity fundraiser event — and she’d been doing it in her barely-there dress, too, because that was the closest she got to living on the edge in her real life, and talking to her best friend — fine, only friend — Tiffany Halston, which was how most work nights started. So, innocent enough.
“You’re an artist, I swear,” Tiffany said.
Sierra snorted. “Yeah, ok,” she said, but she felt that familiar tension run up her spine, the tension she felt whenever anybody called her an ‘artist,’ even jokingly. Yeah, her third bedroom had easels and paints, but it was more of a hobby. A little secret hobby that no one knew about and that she felt insanely protective over. And besides, it’s not like she’d been able to paint in weeks. The stalker thing had put a stop to that. Turns out she didn’t feel super creative when she was, you know, scared.
“I wasn’t kidding, but whatever,” Tiffany said. “You ready for this snoozefest tonight? Any plans to make it fun?”
Tiffany waggled her eyebrows.
“Well, fun for me,” her friend corrected. “I guess just work for you.”
Sierra blew a raspberry at her. But Tiff, of course, was right.
The snoozefest in question was the annual fundraiser for a local Boston kid’s charity that the Fiore family had sponsored since forever. It was a good organization that needed a boost — which was why she’d been invited, and why she felt obligated to go, even though Jared would be there too.
And any plans she might have to make it “fun” for work were…
Sierra sighed. Her job was ridiculous.
It had all started with one accident and some terrible timing. After a few years away in England for school, Sierra had started to come to terms with how she felt about her family’s “business,” and her place in all of it. Kind of freaking out about it, actually. She’d always kind of known things were wrong, but she hadn’t really known, like known the details. In retrospect, she just really hadn’t wanted to know. But she had felt, instinctively, that it was safer to just put on a smiling face and pretend to be whatever her family needed her to be long enough for them to leave her alone.
But then a British tabloid did a little piece on her as the daughter of the entertainment icon-and-alleged-criminal Vincent Fiore, Sierra finally started doing her own research, and the floodgates opened. Sierra put the pieces she remembered from childhood together with what was publicly known, and the results were…not good. Short version? Her father had definitely been a mobster. And her brother might be. And people had died. People she’d known as a little girl had been killed. It was horrible to think about. After that, Sierra didn’t know how she was going to deal with her family, but she knew she didn’t want any of that money. It was blood money, after all.
That was before her father died, but she’d still been too chicken to tell him. Especially once he started to change.
Of course, rejecting her family money meant she’d have to make her own, and she was, admittedly, completely unqualified for pretty much everything.
; And then, right on schedule, she’d gotten a little bit too drunk at a club, tripped on something, and some photographer had gotten a shot of her skirt up over her head on a night when she was wearing the world’s most invisible thong.
Absolutely mortifying.
Even more mortifying? That picture ended up everywhere. Suddenly she went from being a little famous by association and nostalgia to being a bonafide “It” girl.
And that’s when the offers started to roll in. People wanted to pay her to go to their club, or be photographed drinking their vodka, or wearing their bag. It was bananas. Like certifiably crazy. Sierra couldn’t quite believe it, but suddenly she saw a way out of the whole blood money-oppressive family situation. So she leaned in.
Then her father died, Sierra came home, and everything came crashing down. Jared went fully into the “business,” and Sierra had become even more determined to get out.
And now, a few years later, it was like she had a tiger by the tail. She had an entire “brand,” business partners who had invested kind of a lot of money in that brand, and she was about to use said brand to launch her big makeup line. And after that? She’d be free. That’s if her new stalker didn’t get in the way first.
Unfortunately, her “brand” was…
“Come on, doesn’t America’s favorite party girl have something planned to liven this up?”
Tiffany was teasing her, of course. Because Tiff was the only person in the world who knew that Sierra was really kind of a homebody. The rest of the world knew her as Sierra Fiore, professional hot mess.