Please Me (Crush Me Book 2)

by Stasia Black

  “Callie.”

  My eyes snap open at Jackson’s voice, only to find him standing over me, glowering. Okay. Here it comes. I brace myself, eyes on the floor. I deserve whatever he’s about to say.

  “Callie, look at me.”

  God. He’s not going to make this easy, is he? I bite the inside of my cheek, but I bring my eyes up to meet his. I have to crane my neck, he’s so tall. He seems to notice this and he sits beside me on the couch.

  It’s worse, so much worse when he does this. He’s so close now, I can smell him. The manly scent of forest and pine that always makes me imagine him belonging out in a cabin in the woods instead of a business suit. I want so badly to look away, to avoid seeing the disappointment in his eyes. But this is part of my just desserts. So I hold his gaze.

  He reaches for my hand but I pull away.

  “Don’t.” In spite of the front I’m trying to put on, my voice sounds choked and teary. Dammit. God fucking dammit.

  “Calliope.” His eyebrows drop with compassion and before I know what’s happening, he’s drawn me into his arms and pressed my face into his large, warm chest. His scent surrounds me as he cradles me, half pulling me onto his lap. “I’m so, so sorry, Callie. This is all my fault. I should never have trusted him or even introduced you. Or at least I should have warned you about him.” His voice is full of self-censure. “I thought he was better. His probationary period at the club was over and I thought he was recovered.” I feel his chin shake back and forth where he’s nestled it over my head. “I’m an idiot to have even risked exposing you to such a potentially manipulative sub. I’m so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

  What? Is he serious? Oh my God, did Daniel try to cover for me somehow? I pull back from Jackson even though it’s a struggle at first to make him let go of me. He finally loosens his grasp. I try to pull back all the way to the other side of the couch, but he won’t let go of my hand. Still, I have to set the record straight.

  “No, Jackson,” I shake my head, “it was my fault. Daniel was chained to the pole the whole time. I don’t know what he told you, but it was all me. I lost control. I’ve just… I just…” I wave my hands, not knowing how to explain it. “… lost it. I kept hitting him and then when I stopped, there was all that blood and I’ve…” Tears gather and fall down my cheeks. Stupid fucking tears. Like I have any right to them when I was the culprit tonight. I scrub at my cheeks furiously.

  “No,” Jackson says, reaching for me again. “No, Callie, you’re the one who doesn’t understand.”

  I glare furiously at Jackson. “Stop it! I was the one who was there.”

  Jackson’s face loses some of its softness. “Yes you were,” he says, “but you were inexperienced. You trusted Daniel and he lied to you. Did he or did he not tell you that the rubber whip is a so-called ‘practice whip.’”

  I throw both my hands up in the air. “Yeah. So what? He trained me how to use it. And I ignored everything and started going way too hard. That’s all on me.”

  Jackson’s jaw sets and his neck goes red. “Rubber whips are the most intense impact implements in all of a Dominant’s arsenal. Did he tell you that? Leather ones are actually much kinder. Besides which, there was no way you should have been anywhere near a whip at this point in your training. I wouldn’t let you near a person with the gentlest flogger until you’ve had at least three hours of practice. And a whip. For Christ’s sake.” He runs a hand through his hair, his frustration more than evident.

  It takes several moments before what he’s saying sets in. Daniel lied to me.

  “He knew what he was doing,” Jackson goes on. “He targeted you because you’re a brand-new Domme. He’s pushed too far with his previous Mistresses and they’ve all dropped him for trying to top from the bottom. He’s gone outside the club before to find partners who will abuse him. The last time he did, he ended up in the hospital beaten all to hell with broken ribs and internal bleeding.” Jackson cuts himself off with a sharp shake of the head. “Diana, I, and some others had an intervention. This was a couple years ago. We thought it was rock-bottom and that he finally wised up. Then he goes and pulls this shit.” Jackson shakes his head again, mouth twisted like there’s a sour taste on his tongue. “Diana insists it’s just a setback, but I’m done with him. He’s through at the club.”

  I look to the ceiling. Daniel tricked me. He knew exactly what he was doing when he slipped me his card while Jackson wasn’t around. He took advantage of my inexperience without a care for what it might do to me. I want to be angry, but I’m suddenly exhausted. I’m too tired for any of this. The feeling of my insides being scraped out is back. Nothing goes right. It’s all I can think, over and over on repeat. Nothing ever works the way it’s supposed to. I break everything. And the only common denominator?

  Me.

  If everything I touch breaks, then it’s not hard to see what the problem is. It’s me. Daniel looked at me and saw an easy mark. Just like Gentry when I came for that fucking interview. Just like my ex did when I took his philosophy class. All this time and nothing’s changed. I try so hard and nothing changes. I fight to remake myself but it’s all for nothing. For fucking nothing.

  And Gentry. God. Fuck. Do I really think I’m going to be able to stand up against him this time around? I fail at every goddamn thing I try.

  “What are you thinking? What’s going on in that head of yours?” Jackson’s voice is demanding but I just can’t bring myself to care.

  “Nothing,” I respond in little more than a monotone. “I’m not thinking anything.”

  “Don’t give me that, Calliope Cruise.” He grabs me by my upper arms and turns me on the couch cushions so that I’m facing him. “Don’t you dare slip away from me. Not now.”

  I shrug noncommittally.

  He gives my shoulders a little shake. “I’m serious.” And he is. I can tell. I just don’t see the point. He sees a victim when he looks at me too. Wasn’t that always my problem with any potential relationship between us?

  “I’m tired. I want to go home.” I try to stand, but he doesn’t let go. I should be angry, but again, I just don’t have the energy for it.

  “The only way a Dom/sub relationship works is if there’s complete trust between the partners. That was broken tonight. And I can see that I’ve gone about this all wrong. Trying to mentor you from the sidelines was never going to work. How did I expect you to be able to forge that bond with someone else?” This last part is quieter, almost as if he’s asking it of himself. Then his eyes come back to mine. “I don’t know your history, but from the little I do, I know it’s been shit. You need a sub you can trust completely.”

  I don’t even know why he’s still talking about this. “No way.” Obviously this whole BDSM thing is a bust. I should just be celibate. Buy a couple fancy battery-operated boyfriends with all the frills and call it a day.

  “There is a way.”

  I’m about to tell him no way in hell when he cuts me off.

  “Me. I’ll be your submissive.”

  Speechless. Literally. My mouth opens and then it shuts again. I open it to say something but then that too dies on my tongue. Finally, I manage, “But, but you’re a…”

  His hands slide down my arms until he’s grasping my hands, palm to palm. “For you, I’ll be whatever I need to be.” He nods slowly as if thinking things through while he speaks. “I’ve known Doms who’ve transitioned to switch relationships before. They made it work.” His chin lifts a notch. “I can too.”

  “But, but…” I sputter. “That’s crazy!”

  He shrugs, settling against the back of the couch. I try to get him to let my hands free, but he’s not letting go. “I don’t think so at all.” A smile quirks up one side of his mouth and his dimple appears. “I imagine it’ll be very easy wanting to be at your beck and call. I already want to fulfill your every desire.” His eyebrows move up and down in a motion that admittedly stirs my blood.

  “Have you ever done that befo
re?” The question pops out before I really think about it, but suddenly I have to know. “Been someone’s sub?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  But he’d do it for me. Holy shit. I move to the edge of the couch and this time when I tug at my hands, he finally lets me go, though, with a reluctant sigh.

  “I guess if you’re going to be my Mistress, I better start learning to let you have your way. Even if all I want is to drag you into the back of my town car, push that dress up your thighs, yank down your thong, and eat you out until you’re screaming my name.”

  I feel the heat rushing to my cheeks and again I’m hit with a case of total mind blank. I mean… What…? Because, I just…

  After a good ten seconds of just staring, eyes searching Jackson’s sharp-featured face, what finally comes out is, “Um.”

  He grins like I’ve just given the Gettysburg Address. Full out, dimple burrowing deep in his cheek, gorgeous white teeth flashing.

  And I just sit there feeling totally fucking whiplashed from this entire evening. Because what the fuck? I just came out to like, try to blow off some steam, forget my shit for a while, maybe gain some skills as far as being a Domme. And then it all turns to shit. I end up being played by a masochistic mind-game playing super-sub. Going all attack mode, injuring said sub, and feeling like a complete worthless fuck up. Then coming out of it with the most dominant man I’ve ever met offering himself up to be my new submissive?

  What. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck.

  I sit up straighter on the couch. “Your proposal sounds…” I fight through another loss for words. “Intriguing.” Thank God, ten thousand rounds of applause to myself for finding an actual human word. “Maybe we can get together sometime and talk about it more. For tonight, I think it’s time for me to go home and get some rest.” I grab my bag and stand up, again super proud of myself when I don’t wobble on my feet or faint or anything else embarrassingly cringe worthy.

  “I’ll have my town car pick you up Saturday night? Say at six o’clock? We could catch a light dinner and then play.” His eyes glitter on the last word.

  My stomach swoops and for the first time in several hours, it’s with excitement and not nausea. Well. Fuck me. Guess this night really has turned around.

  It’s a struggle, but I manage to keep my voice even. “That sounds acceptable.”

  “Excellent. I’ll get you home now. We should both get as much rest as possible the next couple days.” If possible, his grin grows even wider.

  I nod but then pause. My eyes go to the ceiling. “What about Daniel?”

  Jackson’s face sours ever so slightly. “Diana will stay with him.”

  I want to ask more about the woman’s relationship with Daniel, but sense that now’s not the time. Plus, I really am exhausted. I follow Jackson as he heads toward the door.

  Chapter 10

  My chest is tight when the town car pulls into Jackson’s rounded driveway on Saturday evening. I can’t tell if it’s anticipation or anxiety. Probably both. Yesterday I had work and my visit with Charlie to distract me, but today was torture. Having this to look-forward-to-slash-freak-out about all day long? And now it’s here.

  My heart pumps a mile a minute when I step out onto the brick walkway and head up to the door. Before I can even press the bell, the door opens and there’s Jackson.

  Immediately my mouth goes dry. He’s shirtless, and holy shit, I’ve forgotten how built he is. His barrel chest is a golden expanse of muscles that cut sharply down in a V below his waist. And yep, ab muscles round out the whole sex god vibe he’s got going on. A worn pair of jeans sit low on his hips and my eyes linger on the light dusting of hair that trails from his navel down to—

  “You look gorgeous.” His voice comes out strained with lust and I look up, startled. I’m not the only one doing some ogling, apparently. His eyes dart up from my chest guiltily, like he’s embarrassed to have been caught staring. Normally it always turns me off when guys can’t stop staring at my rack, but on this occasion, Jackson gets a pass. After all, I picked this dress with the super low corset top for a reason. It laces in the front and I went ahead and laced it tight for full effect, meaning my double Ds are spilling so far out of the top, the top edges of my nipples are just barely covered. Thank God Shannon had an early date with Sunil so she didn’t see me getting ready.

  I made a stop at Miss Monroe’s Adult Toy Expo early this afternoon and bought the dress and stiletto boots. I opted not to go for the obviously latex dress and instead picked out a dark maroon velvet number with a bustier bodice and a small bustle in the back. It looks a little more like a burlesque number than a strict dominatrix getup, but somehow it felt right. It all cost a pretty penny, but I figured looking the part would give me the confidence to truly inhabit the role.

  The thought of anyone other than Jackson seeing me wear it was crazy embarrassing, but the chauffeur was extremely professional and kept his eyes averted the entire time, even when he held the door open for me. I had to fight back a smile at the thought that he’d make for a good submissive.

  Jackson swallows hard and from how intensely he’s looking into my eyes, I’m guessing it’s taking all his willpower not to glance back down at my chest. This brings a feline smile to my lips. I have no idea how tonight will go. Since today was Saturday, I spent a lot of it reading up on being a Domme, watching instructional videos online, basically anything and everything I could get my hands on. Despite the disaster of last night, before everything went to shit, there were some good moments. Even just having Daniel constrained and at my mercy felt amazing. But I’m not going to be caught unaware again, that’s for damn sure.

  I arch an eyebrow at Jackson. “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to let your Mistress in?”

  Jackson’s eyes widen and he swings the door open. “Of course. Christ, of course, come in.”

  I smile as I step over the threshold. Jackson Vale, flustered? Oh, tonight is going to be fun.

  My stiletto heels make a clack clack noise on the expensive tile of his entryway. Jackson’s eyes have dropped, but not in deference. He’s staring at my thigh-high boots.

  I lift my chin and it creates the effect of looking down my nose at Jackson, in spite of the fact that he’s taller than me—even though he’s barefoot and I’m wearing four-inch heels. Speaking of, my gaze lands on his feet. What is it about a guy’s bare feet that is so sexy? Well, not any guy’s. My ex, David, had nasty feet. He never trimmed his nails and they smelled so bad when he took off his socks, it was like a family of rodents had died in the walls. So yeah, I either had him wash his feet when he got home or keep his socks on at all times. Which is, you know, less than sexy when doing the deed.

  But Jackson’s feet are sculpted and manly with neatly trimmed nails and, insofar as I can tell from standing right beside him, no problematic odors. The whole package, him shirtless and with bare feet just makes him look… approachable and vulnerable in a way that I’ve never seen him before. Usually he’s in power suits, in perfect control of everything around him.

  But tonight he’s handing those reins over to me. A sudden rush of giddiness flushes my skin.

  He seems to notice and his dark blue eyes dilate. “Dinner is ready and waiting for us.” His words seem to contradict the way he’s looking at me. He looks like what he really wants to say is fuck dinner, grab me, shove me up against the nearest wall, and completely ravish me.

  But he restrains himself. He’s keeping it all leashed inside. I tilt my head sideways at him. Will he actually be able to do this? Submit to me? My fingers squeeze reflexively into my palms. Shit. My hands are sweaty. But fuck it. No overthinking it. Stay in the moment. That was the advice from the Dommes in one of the videos I watched and I’m thinking she knew her shit.

  “Dinner sounds nice,” I say.

  Jackson nods his head. “This way.” He turns sharply as if fighting some internal battle with himself.

  I follow slowly behind him. It’s
not reluctance that stays my steps. More curiosity. And again, anticipation. I bite my lip. Just how far can I push him? The question sends a somersault through my tummy. Not of fear, but a thrill. He’s offered himself up on a platter and God, I want to bring him to his knees, in all senses of the word.

  He leads me to a dining room full of windows and a skylight so that the room is doused with natural light. One window boasts a view of a tree-lined lot and the other, an inner garden courtyard. An antique mahogany table and otherwise simple furnishings make the room elegant without being ostentatious.

  Jackson surrounds himself with beauty. I don’t know why the realization startles me. I’ve known since I first met him that he has an appreciation for the finer things. But watching him move around in his home reveals a new layer to him.

  Oh yes, I’m going to bring this man to his knees. And I’m going to start by doing so literally. He moves to take a seat beside the head of the table, where he gestures for me to sit.

  But I shake my head at him. I snap my fingers loudly and point at the floor by my feet. I stare him down and continue pointing at my feet. The message couldn’t be more clear. There’s a spark of rebellion in his eyes. It’s as if I can hear his thoughts: This is my house. I’m not going to be reduced to sitting on the floor like a lapdog in my own house.

  But he doesn’t voice any of that out loud. Other than a tick in his jaw, he gives nothing else away. Instead, he comes over to stand by my chair and bows his head. Then he gracefully drops to his knees before settling back on his haunches, head still bowed.

  The thrill I felt earlier races even more forcefully up and down my spine. Oh God, I knew this would be a rush, but I didn’t anticipate feeling this much. And so quickly. We’ve barely started. All he’s done is sit at my feet and God… I shift in my seat and feel the beginning signs of moisture between my legs.