How to Punish Your Playboy (DommeNation #3)
Page 22
Five minutes later, I stepped out from under the car and the audience showered wild applause at my filthy form. My dress was ruined, and I could tell from the sticky feeling on my forehead that there was a giant black smudge on it, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care what the judges were writing, how many calories were in an In-N-Out Burger, or what the hell that asshole Derek was doing right now. None of it mattered, because I was myself and I was happy.
From where I was standing, I already won.
IT WAS THE waiting onstage that was the hardest. After we had displayed our evening gowns, we simply stood fanned out on stage and awaited our fate. It wasn’t the anticipation of hearing another girl’s name instead of mine and maintaining a smile, it was the fact that the audience was watching us wordlessly as we stood there while the votes were tabulated. It was a sick kind of torture, one this Domme didn’t like at all. Not to mention the fact that I couldn’t completely get the motor oil off my skin. Why couldn’t we just stay backstage?
The band played while we waited. The announcer chatted with the other judges and soon they were all nodding. A moment later, he ascended the stairs and addressed the crowd.
“What a bunch of dolls we have here today!” he cried, and the audience clapped. “But only one can be Miss Pinup Las Vegas. The runners-up will receive a ten-thousand-dollar modeling contract with our print magazine, Pinup City, and these prize baskets donated from The Doll Mall.”
More claps.
“And without further ado, the second runner-up is . . . Miss Debra Stacie!”
I clapped enthusiastically. She seemed really sweet to all the girls in the dressing room. No dirty looks from that one, just happy smiles.
“And the first runner-up is . . . Leisa Crow!” he cried. I clapped like crazy. It was so kind of her to have helped me with that tape—she had a chance to take down the competition, but she didn’t. A class act, that one.
A hushed silence fell over the crowd. I blinked in the lights. The smudge didn’t come off my forehead and the grease was still on my hands, so I knew I hadn’t won. Who would pick a dirty pinup queen? But I was up there as myself, proud, and nobody could take that from me.
“This year’s winner has real heart, folks. She impressed us with her bold personality and fearless talent. The winner of this year’s Miss Pinup Las Vegas is . . . Veronika Kane!”
I didn’t want to do the shocked pageant winner face, I swear. But when he said my name, my grubby, greasy hands flew to my mouth to stifle the scream. I saw Aston at the back shoot up from his seat and jump in the air as the rest of the crowd went wild. Tears formed in my eyes, but I kept them in like a champ.
The announcer walked up to me. “We had to find a napkin for the bouquet so you don’t get motor oil on the flowers,” he said, and laughter erupted in the audience. I took the carefully protected bouquet in my hands as they placed the tiny jeweled crown on my head, right behind my curl.
I waved to Aston, to the audience, and the other girls swarmed me. They didn’t shy away from my hugs or my greasy hands; we just all embraced in a happy pile of giggles and lots of hairspray.
The band played, the announcer said his goodnights, and the girls and I shuffled off to the dressing room to get comfortable and celebrate. The Bellagio was throwing a private party for the contestants, former contestants, and the staff of the show. I changed into a spare outfit from Erika—we were the same size and she was just as sweet as the other contestants I’d met—and I walked out of the room and directly into Aston’s arms.
“Hey Mistress,” he said, swooping me up into his arms for a passionate kiss that may have lasted longer than public decency allowed.
“Hey yourself,” I said, squeezing him. “Thanks for that talent surprise,” I said.
He shrugged. “Thanks for being just as awesome at it as I knew you’d be. I mean, I knew you were good, but wow, you really nailed it.”
I pointed to my forehead. “I could have done without this,” I said, and he tried to scrub the grease off, to no avail.
“Just do some bumper bangs,” he said.
I clapped. “You’re learning the lingo!” We walked over to the party room together, arm in arm, floating on cloud nine. Inside I could see a swanky bar, fancy little canapés, and a giant cheese-and-cracker display.
The food reminded me of one thing. “Aston, you didn’t tell me how the interview went!” I said, shaking him. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“You had the pageant; it’s okay,” he said, smile faltering. “I didn’t want to say anything that would bring you down before the show.”
“Oh no, Aston. I’m so sorry. What happened?”
He shrugged. “He said I wasn’t experienced enough, and you know what? He’s right.”
I squeezed his arm tightly. He waved his hand. “Seriously, it’s okay. He offered me a position as a sous-chef since he liked my ideas, and I prepared a few things for him that he enjoyed.”
“Are you going to take it?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine Aston working for anyone, no matter how far he’d come.
Aston nodded. “For now. I need to learn some things—he is completely correct, I need to earn my stars, if you know what I mean. It’s an amazing restaurant, and while the pay isn’t great, I’ve been thinking about something else that may work, but it’s going to take some time and a whole lot of effort.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked.
Aston nodded. “It, like everything else in my new life, is inspired completely by you.”
ONE YEAR LATER
“Order up!” Aston shouted over the din of the lunchtime crowd. They all stood at the counter, waving their money. I wiped my forehead and took the cash from someone and placed another order.
Everyone in Las Vegas loved Mistress Nika’s Burger Joint.
Aston and I had pooled our money for a vintage food truck—a dumpy rust bucket—and I restored it when I wasn’t modeling or doing conference calls with the garage back home, which was doing well under its new manager. I fielded questions here and there, but for the most part, Gary had it under control.
“One chicken marsala burger,” I said, handing the ravenous customer his dish. I licked my lips. No matter how many times I’d tasted our food, it still made my mouth water. This burger had sautéed mushrooms and onions in a sweet wine sauce, plopped on top of a ground chicken patty with melted Asiago cheese. The bun was a soft, fluffy rosemary focaccia.
Aston’s phone sat on the counter next to the fig preserves and buzzed frantically. I picked it up with a smile. “Hi Ma,” I said, propping the phone up with my shoulder and using the other to spread some marsala sauce. “Yeah, he’s got time for you. Oh stop.”
Aston glanced over at me.
“It’s your mom!” I shouted. Aston smiled and pulled the phone from my shoulder.
“Ciao, Mama,” he said with affection in his voice.
I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I was so glad Aston and his family had made up. Once we were settled in Vegas, he invited them out to visit. On my suggestion of course. He prepared them a meal from the restaurant where he was working as a sous-chef and I sat with them and talked about what we were doing out here, how proud Aston had been and how proud I was of him.
By the time he sat down, they were primed. He straightened his posture, looked them squarely in the eyes, and told them he was building a life out here. As proud parents are wont to do, they gushed endlessly and forgave Aston for his past indiscretions. Partially because I set him up for success, but Aston had learned enough from his time as a sub to knock it out of the park.
And he did so with the food truck we bought later that year.
I took another bill from another customer. “One meatball burger, a veal Parm double stack, and a side of polenta fries,” this one said. I handed the order off to a burger technician and planted a kiss on Aston’s cheek as he chatted hurriedly
with his mother. I grabbed a polenta fry and teased his lips, then stuck it in my mouth.
I never thought when I mentioned fancy burgers that Aston had thought it was a brilliant idea, but he had. And he created an entire menu of Italian favorites turned into upscale hamburgers.
I looked in the mirror. I had some marinara on my forehead. Wiping it off with a napkin, I approached Aston and gave him a kiss. “Gotta mingle with the customers,” I said.
He beamed. “Do your thing, Gorgeous.”
I swatted him on the butt and exited the food truck, where dozens of cameras were ready to snap my picture. Catchy rockabilly music blared through the speakers and our happy customers bopped to the tunes.
In addition to burgers, people loved coming to Mistress Nika’s for the photo ops. I took pictures with everyone from tourists to townies, and sometimes car enthusiasts from the area would come down with their rides to show me. Sometimes they wanted advice, other times just a friendly pair of eyes on their pride and joy. I knew how that was. Johnny was always proudly parked next to Mistress Nika’s, although we kept him roped off. Nobody touched my baby.
And trust me—at night, I had my other baby roped as well.
Aston was good enough to allow me to stock one of the locked cabinets in the food truck with supplies of another sort. Spatulas that wouldn’t see a burger, and twine that wasn’t used to tie up a roast. Cooks’ tools were as fun as any for a little kink.
Once the crowd had cleared, the line cook had dispersed, and the last few pictures of Johnny had been taken, I took the liberty of unlocking my cabinet. My eyes lit up when I noticed a little gift from Aston, wrapped with a bow. It was a ravioli cutter, but he knew I’d use it like a Wartenberg wheel.
Aston slipped his arms around me and planted a kiss on my neck. “You’re becoming such an amazing cook, I had to buy you more tools of the trade.”
I grinned, spun, and leaned into his embrace. Aston took the encouragement and pushed me up on the counter. I felt the tingle of arousal build inside me.
“Careful!” I lectured playfully, twisting my fingers into his hair. “You almost dunked my bum in the mustard!” I glanced beside me at the tray of condiments.
He picked up some garnishes. “Lettuce do it,” he said, taking a raunchy bite of iceberg.
I guffawed at the awful pun. “Only if I can toast your buns,” I said, grabbing some bread and smacking it against his ass. He snickered and ground into me. I unbuttoned his fly.
He swirled his finger in the mayonnaise. “Mistress, mayo I pleasure you right now?” he asked, smirk overtaking his face.
I bit my lip and pulled him closer. “I think it’s time to ketchup.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MINA VAUGHN is an international woman of mystery and a shoe whore with a heart of gold. When she’s not writing her unique brand of silly smut, she’s plundering Sephora for any pin-up girl makeup she can find. How to Punish Your Playboy is her third book in a series featuring dominant heroines.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: authors.simonandschuster.com/Mina-Vaughn
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ALSO BY MINA VAUGHN
How to Discipline Your Vampire
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Pocket Star Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Mina Vaughn
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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition April 2015
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Interior design by Esther Paradelo
ISBN 978-1-4767-7024-6
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
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
Epilogue
About the Author