Which was where Sixx went and where she stopped to watch, also not surprised that Talia was working a sub mostly because those two circled each other just this way. If Talia took a sub and he caught it, Aryas wasn’t too far from taking his own. If Aryas took one and Talia caught it, she hustled a sub into a playroom.
Retaliation.
As Sixx watched Talia work a sub named Bryan, definitely a favored and oft-used toy of hers, she got worried.
In a heartbeat, Bryan would take things further with his tall, slender, lithe, beautiful, mocha-skinned, tawny-fro’ed Mistress, and not just because he seriously got off on the way she worked him.
She wasn’t just beautiful and had a serious style going on in and out of a playroom. She was funny, quick-witted, smart-mouthed, loyal and very sweet. And Sixx had witnessed her aftercare of Bryan when she got down to serious business with him, and even knowing Talia’s heart was with Aryas, her head and attention was with Bryan in a way he could mistake the fact that he didn’t have a place in that particular vital organ.
Sixx considered having a word with the Mistress.
She did that, and then she decided instead to have a word with Leigh so Leigh would have a word. Amélie was probably already thinking of doing it. She wasn’t Queen Bee just because she rocked a playroom, and she took her unofficial role seriously.
But if Sixx had a word, she might light a fire, and perhaps if they double-teamed Aryas and Talia, they could get something going.
Before hitting the Dom Lounge, she found her feet taking her one last place.
At first, she positioned herself carefully in order to be able to process what she might see and at the same time be out of his line of sight because he always broke scene to catch her eyes if he saw her at the windows. And the possibility of seeing him working a male sub was something she wanted without him breaking scene.
This eye contact, at first, she’d found terrifying, because it was encouraging. It was rare a Dom working would do that unless he was working directly with another Dom.
When months passed and nothing came of it, Sixx stopped finding it terrifying or encouraging and just found it weird.
There was no invitation in his gaze. No challenge issued. No warmth or comradeship or humor or anything.
He’d just catch her gaze and hold it for as long as it took for her to break it. Even if he was physically inside one of his subs, he’d thrust while simply looking at Sixx, remote and disengaged, from her and his sub, until Sixx herself broke the contact and his attention went back to his sub.
But if he was working a male, especially inside one, this she’d want to see. Man-on-man was a thing of hers, and since she’d returned to Phoenix, she’d indulged in that, always taking multiple submissives, they were always male, and she’d call the shots to get that fix.
Seeing Stellan engaged in something like this would probably make her orgasm right there in the hall. Hell, just thinking about it got her wet.
Then again, although this would be an extraordinary sight to see, Sixx didn’t figure it would take much to do that. In all her play since she’d come back, she had not once let a single sub touch her, she’d rarely touched them, and she hadn’t had that first orgasm, not in play, not with some random partner she picked up out in the vanilla world (because she hadn’t picked anyone up), not even at her own hand.
But as she hesitated at the edge of one of the rooms Stellan favored, the silhouette and blackout blinds up like he normally played it, she didn’t even see Stellan.
The female was working the male, and that work was inspired, but there was no Stellan.
Sixx took one step along the hall.
Another.
And there he was, still in his trousers and dress shirt, but the suit jacket was thrown over the back of the leather club chair he was sitting in. He had his long legs crossed, and he was slanted to the side, elbow on the arm of the chair, head propped up in his hand where it held his square jaw at his knuckles with his forefinger extended along his chiseled cheek.
She drew in a breath at the bored expression on his arrestingly beautiful face, that expression running deep into his dark blue eyes.
He did not look annoyed, upset, or distracted, as news of his father acquiring then disposing of another wife in a matter of months might make him.
He didn’t look anything, certainly not like he was in a room where sweet and dirty sex acts were being performed at his command by the slaves he’d chosen for the evening.
He looked like he was in a meeting that he couldn’t wait to get out of.
Then suddenly, his gaze came to her.
He didn’t move, didn’t lift his head, just swept his eyes straight to her, not like he’d noticed her standing there, like he’d sensed she was there.
His expression didn’t change. Neither did his position.
He stared her right in the eyes, pinning her to the spot, giving her nothing except his regard.
She wanted to scream, Why? Why do you look at me like that? Why can’t you give me something? Anything?
She didn’t do that.
Of course not.
She accepted the only challenge he gave her and stared straight at him in return for as long as she could stand it.
And Sixx could stand a lot, so this lasted a long time, perhaps full minutes, before, as ever (and as ever wanting to kick her own ass), she broke the contact and walked slowly, and as casually as she could fake it, away.
Once out of sight of Stellan, she didn’t mess around going to the Dom Lounge.
There were cameras in there too, but she’d given herself a reason to return there after she had a drink in the hunting ground. This being so she could collect what she’d put there a week ago and be done with the job she was on so she could then collect the paycheck.
She did just this, going directly to her locker and grabbing the small, boxy, black python Alexander McQueen clutch with its four finger loops topped with various skulls or roses. A clutch she’d placed there after she’d arrived rather than giving it to reception, which was what most of the Dommes did.
Inside was a slim, business-card-sized wallet with her credit card, ID and a few banknotes, her phone, another phone that was hers-but-also-not, her lip liner and lipstick, her fabulous vintage compact with mother-of-pearl inlaid in black depicting cranes flying across a yellow moon, her Cayenne keyfob and nothing else.
With her back to the camera, she grabbed a random vibrator she had in her locker, twisted off the bottom where you’d put batteries, upended the flash drive she’d hidden there, and slid it in the lining of the clutch that she’d jimmied so she could open it, hide things behind it, and then press it back in place where it held.
She then went to the mirror.
At first, she didn’t look at herself, but instead used it to take in the plush surroundings of the Dominants’ Lounge.
Deep-seated, purple-velvet banquettes spanned the walls. They were covered in red-and silver-velvet toss pillows. The patterned silver wallpaper behind them was bottom-lit with soft light.
There were attractive steel tables with scented candles glowing on top of them.
The lockers were made of the same steel as the tables and looked like a bank of cabinets with a variety of digital locks, not lockers.
The gleaming black basins had no faucets, just wide, lush waterfalls that activated by motion. There were no paper towels, instead thick, soft, purple, red or silver hand towels and washcloths.
There were showers around the side, as well as a Jacuzzi tub, a steam room and a sauna.
Available for use was anything you could need. Disposable razors (for men and women) and shaving cream, aftershave, a variety of colognes and perfumes, hairspray, lotions, oils, deodorants, tampons, condoms, face moisturizer, bath soap and scrub, shampoo and conditioner.
Submissives were specifically disallowed there. The lounge was for downtime and Dom time outside any scene. If a sub needed to be cared for or it was part of the scene, you req
uested a room that had those amenities, and the Dom took care of that.
And Sixx longed to stretch out on those banquettes and close her eyes to the D. L. & Co. candles that smelled like vanilla, balsam and pepper, soothing and spicy, so very Aryas. So very the Honey.
God, she loved it there. It was like her home. It was the only place, outside being on a job, where she could be …
What?
Not herself. She played a role there. No one knew who she was. Not really. (Except Aryas, or at least he knew more than everyone else.) Not even people she called friends.
So why did she love it there so much?
And why was her heart hurting that she wasn’t getting out of it what she needed anymore?
She looked at herself in the mirror.
“Because it’s safe,” she whispered to her reflection.
That was it.
And now it no longer felt as safe.
Because Stellan was there, and wanting him and not having him—but more, knowing she should never expose him to what it would mean to have her … hurt.
That didn’t make sense either. She’d wanted a lot in life.
And never got it.
But Stellan was different.
Stellan was …
Sixx shook off her thoughts and took herself in through the mirror.
She couldn’t see the black pumps or her long legs she’d sleeked not only by giving them a close shave all the way up to her pubis but also with a subtle oil that made them shine.
What she could see was the black leather micro-mini that sat tight on her hips, cupped her ass and had a wide black belt with a bold silver buckle.
Up top she wore a white leather modified camisole that had a deep plunging neckline that went to her midriff and spread wide at the sides, showing the inside curves of her smallish breasts. The straps were very thin. There was a tight band across her ribs. It was cropped but not by much, showing only a hint of flesh at her belly between camisole and skirt, depending on how she moved.
Her hair was short, clipped in a graduated bob at the nape of her neck, the champagne highlights in her dark cinnamon hair looking (she thought) great in the sweeping, long bangs that fell well past her eye, the sides of her hair hanging below her jaw, all the ends in messy flips.
She had to style it, which was a minus. But it was short so it didn’t take long, and it had a sex-bomb vibe, so that was a definite plus.
She looked into her wide, brown eyes and wondered, What next?
A weighty question because it wasn’t about what was next for her at the Honey.
But what was next for her with everything.
At Aryas’s appeal (which meant repeated demands), she’d given up “the job.”
Ostensibly.
As far as he knew, Sixx had gone legit, working as the internal investigator for a large local law firm.
However, directly due to Aryas’s interference in some of his other friend’s lives, a need had arisen in Phoenix when Branch Dillinger stopped doing what he did out there and became the operations manager for all of the Bee’s Honeys.
Nature abhorred a vacuum.
Cue Sixx stepping in because first, her pay at the law firm was good, if you weren’t used to making a lot more doing a lot more dangerous shit for a lot more dangerous people. And second, if you were used to doing a lot more dangerous shit for a lot more dangerous people, as well as used to the adrenaline rush that got you, it wasn’t an easy habit to break.
So she had a proper job, not a normal one, but one that included a 401K and a bi-weekly paycheck that gave her insurance benefits.
And on occasion, she moonlit on the side.
Aryas didn’t know.
No one knew (except her friend and sometimes partner, Sylvie Creed, and her husband, Tucker, who she and Sylvie sometimes had to call in to help. But Sylvie wasn’t in the life Sixx pretended to lead through her play and relationships at the Honey).
Even if Sixx got off on it, and the cash she accumulated doing it, not to mention the freedom that offered, she knew she couldn’t do it forever. She had the scars to prove that particular story you told yourself to stay on the job was a lie.
But what would she have if she stopped?
The kink was getting boring. There were only so many orders you could give that led—perhaps in a lengthy way, but nonetheless the end was always the same—to someone else’s orgasm.
It had lost its appeal.
Because she wasn’t connecting.
She used to connect.
She used to stay mostly silent, watch, listen, open herself to being acutely aware of every expression or even twitch of the skin to sense what her sub wanted … then she’d find some elaborate or creative but always hard-earned way to give it to him.
Now she didn’t even have that.
Anyone could give their own self an orgasm. It was her job as a Dominatrix, regardless if the emotion wasn’t there, the attention and the respect and the motivation and the deliberation had to be there to connect. Somehow. Some way.
That was gone.
So what was the point?
To yank herself out of thoughts that were going nowhere, even though her long-lasting lipstick was doing its job, she still opened her clutch, pulled out the liner and lipstick, refreshed the ruby red, ended it with a nice coat of clear gloss, and dropped the stuff back in her bag.
She then grabbed her phone—not her actual phone, the other one—before she clicked the clutch closed and made her way out of the lounge, deciding to have a drink while she dealt with the details of finishing up her final mission of the evening.
She wandered the halls, doing it avoiding having to walk past Stellan’s room, and hit the hunting ground.
The back corner booth was open, so she went there, flipped open the burner phone in her hand, set it to silent and then used her thumb in the onerous task of hitting the numbers on the pad repeatedly to get to the letters she needed to send the short text.
Really, smartphones were a gift from God.
The drop happens tonight.
She tucked the phone by her thigh when a server came, and she decided cool-but-luxe Sixx, Mistress with the Mostest, was fucking dead.
It was over.
No rep to uphold.
No bullshit to convey.
She was over that too.
She wasn’t going to sip from a glass of wine, withholding any personality, any hint of what made her, what defined her, that she might convey through the simple matter of ordering her preferred drink.
“Gordon’s cup. Hendrick’s,” she ordered.
“Gotcha,” the server said then moved away.
She looked to the hunting ground and saw subs avoiding her eyes but still preening in view, hoping she was there to make a selection.
God, she was dried up. Not even a tingle.
The only time she’d felt anything in—Lord, it had been days—was when Stellan’s eyes met hers earlier through the windows to his playroom.
And those days had been the days since she was last at the Honey and Stellan had turned his attention to her.
She looked down to her thigh, flipping open the phone to see no return text, and muttered under her breath, “I’m a fucking mess.”
“Sorry, didn’t catch that.”
Her head snapped up just in time to watch Stellan, back in his suit jacket and definitely out of his playroom, slide in the booth across from her.
God, he was gorgeous.
But …
What the fuck?
“You were saying?” he prompted.
She flipped the phone shut and tucked it against her thigh so she’d feel it vibrate when the text came in.
“I have something on my mind,” she shared, not knowing what to make of this, him in the booth opposite her, making an approach, sitting there looking magnificent but still inaccessible, speaking directly to her with only her there to speak to.
“And that would be?” he asked.
“It
’s work,” she told him.
“Ah,” he murmured, glancing to the side and looking up when the server set her drink in front of her. An action he oddly watched with what appeared to be rather avid fascination as the old-fashioned glass came to rest on the burgundy cocktail napkin. “Scotch, please,” he ordered before the guy could ask.
“On it,” the server said and moved away.
Stellan didn’t watch him go and it took a good deal, Sixx didn’t look away when Stellan’s attention came back to her.
“Not in the mood tonight?” he queried.
She shook her head, lifted her drink, and took a sip.
When she put it down, she verbalized that same response. “No.”
“Hmm,” he murmured, and there it was.
God.
There it was.
That “hmm” was almost like a purr, and that purr snaked right up her pussy, an area that instantly got wet.
“You’re finished early,” she noted.
He gave a one shoulder shrug that managed to be masculine and elegant at the same time, something only Stellan could pull off.
“I thought I’d try something new.”
“And?” she asked.
“It wasn’t as successful as I’d hoped.”
“Too bad,” she murmured, taking another sip of her drink.
“Is it?” he returned, and her gaze lifted to his, because he’d asked a question but mostly because that question was strange.
“For you, and them, of course it is,” she replied.
“They got a good deal out of it, I assume, unless she faked it, which is doubtful. He, however, couldn’t fake it as the evidence he left was physical.”
Perhaps she shouldn’t have left so soon. It would undoubtedly have been interesting to watch Stellan orchestrate something like that.
“Unusual for you to choose a male,” she remarked.
He turned his head to the hunting ground and remarked, “An experiment I’m unlikely to repeat.”
She gave it some time, and this was mostly because she was arrested in the act of taking in the beauty of his profile. The cut line of his strong jaw. The angle of his cheekbone. The shadowed hollow under it. The fine lines that fanned from the corner of his eye. The straight slope of his nose. And, Lord God … that remarkable swell of his lower lip.
The Greatest Risk Page 3