Domination

by Lyra Byrnes

  Domination

  Lyra Byrnes

  Josie’s become the only female journalist at a renowned music magazine by working hard, being a good girl and taking every assignment. Even when it means showing up at Bram’s dressing room. He’s only the most deliciously sexy, commanding, leather-clad rock god in the world. But when Bram mistakes her for a groupie and orders her to get on her knees, a shocked Josie realizes she has a lot to learn.

  Fortunately he’s willing to introduce a hesitant but fascinated Josie to a bit of BDSM play during their two weeks on the road together. The deeper she delves into the decadent rock-and-roll lifestyle, the more her feelings for Bram grow. As a writer Josie can’t help detailing her sexual adventures in a private blog. After all, no one will ever see it, right?

  Domination is a harmony of mind-bending sex, secrets, betrayal and lust. Turn up the volume.

  A Romantica® contemporary erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  DOMINATION

  Lyra Byrnes

  Dedication

  For my awesome army. No return favor needed.

  Chapter One

  Josie dug through her messenger bag outside the dingy metal door, the roar of the crowd still echoing through the shabby backstage hallway. Tape recorder, notebook, pen, all present and accounted for. Now where was that slip of paper that had the door number on it? It was thirteen for sure. Unless it was three.

  She had already missed the show, having been asleep like a normal person at midnight when the call came from her editor. The hard-rock critic’s wife was having a baby. Could Josie get to City of Angels Arena on the double to interview the bassist for the English heavy-metal band Domination? Bring a tape recorder, he’d added.

  That made her roll her eyes, although Artie had meant it kindly. Of course she recorded all her interviews. You didn’t get to be the only female journalist at Rock Star magazine by winging it. You got there by working harder than the guys and jumping at the chance to do a story, any story. Heavy metal wasn’t her beat but she needed to prove herself a willing and hard worker, especially now that the very existence of Rock Star was in jeopardy. She had pulled her hair back in a ponytail, slipped on a pair of flats she hoped matched and arrived at the venue in time to hear only one song, if a song it could be called. Violation. The singer had introduced it as one written that very day. The music was dark and loud and horrible but she could pick out lyrics—something something “All must pay!” the singer bellowed. It did not offer the easy pleasures of dance-pop but had a rough, compelling power.

  And now here she was backstage, catching her breath outside dressing room number thirteen. She had little doubt this Domination bassist would be like the others—sexy, arrogant, dumb as a rock. She chewed the already frayed end of her pen and lifted her knuckles to knock.

  The door swung open and her jaw dropped. Josie forgot to lower her hand. He was more than six feet tall, broad-shouldered but lean as a whippet, wearing nothing but a pair of skintight leather pants low on his hips. Way low. She forgot how to breathe. One more moment staring at the flat abs and the slanting cuts inside each hipbone pointing down like arrows and she would forget her own name.

  “Are you the one I’m waiting for?” His voice was a low, soothing rumble with a touch of threat.

  Josie’s throat closed up. Sweaty dark hair framed his face, but what a face. Killer cheekbones, intense midnight-blue eyes with a suggestion of crow’s feet in the corners and ringed by black lashes. Her reporter’s eye kicked in automatically. Guyliner? No. He was one of the lucky black-haired, blue-eyed types with a weirdly piercing stare. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels dangled from one hand.

  Sexy—check. As for the rest, she’d have to see, although in her experience there was no such thing as a smart bass player.

  “Josie Arrington.” She stuck out her hand. “Rock—”

  “Let’s not fuss with introductions, love. You’ve got a job to do.”

  “All right.” Arrogant—check.

  She padded into the dressing room, empty but for a couple of plastic chairs and a table holding a vegetable platter and a huge pitcher filled with something brownish. Where were the groupies, the hangers-on, the usual backstage mess of wilting flowers, overflowing ashtrays, kicked-off shoes and congealing Chinese food?

  “I must say, you don’t look the type.”

  Josie recovered enough composure to lift her head and meet his eyes. She had grown used to the sexism and paternalism of her work, not only in journalism but also in the music industry.

  “Well, surprise,” she said, gratified that her voice didn’t shake. She reached into her messenger bag. “Just let me get the equipment…”

  “No need for that either. I’ve got it sorted. So that walking calculator of a manager sent you.” He shook his head and swigged from the bottle. “He knows what I like. Dark hair, tiny waist, lovely eyes. And the getup—that’s extraordinary, that. Who’s the bird with the specs in Scooby-Doo?”

  “Velma.” Self-consciously she pushed up the bridge of her glasses. No one had ever called her eyes lovely. In truth they were smallish and gray. It was her wide mouth the guys at work whispered about, adding various offensive gestures. Dick-sucking lips.

  “Velma, right. With Daphne’s body. You’re a wet dream come true, sweetheart.” He began to unlace the crotch of his leather pants. “On your knees.”

  Josie gulped. “What?”

  He looked down into her eyes, not kindly. “Knees, slut. I don’t have all night.”

  “I’m not a slut,” she snapped. And I’m not getting on my knees to you, even if I was fantasizing about that exact thing just a minute ago.

  “Ah, you want to fight back.” He put a hand on the top of her head and pushed. “Normally I like it like that but the bus to Salt Lake leaves in an hour.”

  Panic kicked in—this is unprofessional. It’s not you. Explain the situation, have a laugh, get the interview and go home. But somehow she found herself kneeling in front of him, her bag sprawled on the floor.

  He kneaded the crotch of his pants, his bulging erection straining against the leather. “You’re going to suck my cock until I see stars. And if you don’t suck it good, sweetheart, you’ll be punished. Time enough for that.”

  “I don’t…” But her body did want to. Very much. Even as her brain protested like crazy, her panties were wet and her nipples were making a humiliating spectacle of themselves.

  “That’s good,” he sighed, rubbing a hand against his cock. “Tell me what a good girl you are. That will make it so much hotter when I violate your mouth.”

  Something pinged in her head—the song, Violation. Against her will Josie giggled.

  “The fuck you laughing at?” he snapped.

  “I just realized what the lyrics were of the song you wrote today. ‘All may park/all must pay,’” she said, stifling another laugh. “Violation. That’s written on the sticker on all our parking meters.”

  That brutal, dark song had been nothing but a joke. Maybe this guy wasn’t so dumb after all.

  His hand stilled, although the bulge remained. He looked down at her, the faraway look gone. His eyes seemed to penetrate hers.

  “Get up,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “Who are you?”

  Chapter Two

  “You got an interview with Bram Hunter?”

  Artie goggled at his computer screen. He was fat, sloppy and not a pretty sight at the best of times, let alone when he had half an egg-salad sandwich in his mouth. He was also the last of the old rock-critic lions, who had partied with the Clash and suggested David Bowie move to Berlin. The guy was a legend and Josie appreciated his dogged determination to keep music journalism alive in an online world for as long as he could. Already the ax hung heavy over the magazine.
There had been talk of the publisher pulling the plug on Rock Star and taking it digital.

  “No one gets to talk to the singer of Domination. How’d you swing it, Josie?”

  Tell the truth, tell the truth. “A little finesse,” she lied.

  “Well, this is great stuff.” He took a sip of coffee, splashing a little on his T-shirt. “I love the bit about the parking meters. That’s hilarious. And it really humanizes the guy. You hear stories about Bram Hunter, not pleasant ones, but he’s basically a mystery.”

  Josie knew all too well. Back at home, tiptoeing so as not to wake her roommate, she had looked into Bram’s story, staring at the glowing blue screen until her head was pounding and the morning garbage trucks shook the rest of the neighborhood awake. He never gave interviews and kept a dressing room separate from that of his bandmates. Rumors and vague tales told of equipment he demanded in his tour rider—braces on the walls, lengths of rope—but none of it could be verified. She scrolled through his pictures, searching for clues. Did he have to look so insanely hot in every one? There was no posture, no gesture, no expression that looked less than confident, dangerous and full of erotic promise. She lingered over each one, recalling the growl in his voice when he demanded she get on her knees, juice wetting her panties.

  Stop lusting over this dude and finish your article, she told herself. But she clicked one more button and her mouth went dry. Bram in a dark, industrial-looking space, peering down into an open suitcase. His hair hung in his face and his expression was hungry and calculating at once. One hand held the top of the case open but she could just see the gleam of light on something tucked inside, coiled like a snake. A leather whip.

  She slammed the laptop shut and turned on the shower. The detachable showerhead with its powerful massage setting was no substitute for the throbbing bulge she’d watched him stroke but it brought her to a shattering orgasm anyway. A little ashamed of her weakness, she questioned herself as she dressed for bed. What had put her over the edge? The whip, Bram himself…or both?

  “Did he say anything weird to you?” Artie was asking.

  “Not really.” Not after he figured out she wasn’t a menu-ordered groupie sent to suck his cock dry or be punished. “He was a gentleman. I still hate their music though.”

  Artie wiped his hands on his T-shirt. “Well, about that. I’m going to call a mandatory staff meeting today but I wanted to tell you first.”

  Her guts filled with ice water. “Artie, no…”

  “I’m sorry, kid. The world is changing—it’s already changed. We just stayed in the Jurassic, hammering out reviews on stone tablets. Rock Star was lucky to have hung on this long.”

  All she knew was print journalism. Of course it was a dying business but that was what made their magazine special. She could have explored other opportunities but the truth was she liked the busy newsroom, she liked checking the pigeonhole labeled “J. Arrington” and finding a stack of real, physical mail. (Well, once she had found the label covered with a Post-It reading “Dick Sucking Lips”. She hadn’t liked that at all.) Josie had spent her adult life doggedly following one path and only now realized if she had been smart she would have had a plan B. Now she had nothing.

  Goodbye, regular salary. Goodbye, 401(k). Goodbye to her career and her future, which she had hoped would be in Artie’s chair once he retired. But even a lion couldn’t keep an army from storming the gates.

  “I know you’re ambitious, Josie, and to be honest I’d hoped you’d occupy this chair one day,” he said, reading her mind. He smiled. “Sorry about all the coffee stains all over it.”

  “It’s okay.” She tried to smile back. “When I get a job as a barista I’m sure I’ll learn how to get those out.”

  “Don’t fill out an application yet, kid. Yes, the magazine is closing down. But the publisher is taking us digital. We’ll still exist but with a smaller staff, lower salaries and almost no overhead. And I’m keeping you on. You’re my best reporter.”

  “Thank you, Artie, but I don’t know anything about Web design and all that.” She felt like a dinosaur admitting it.

  “No need. It will be writing, just as you do now. There’s a pay cut though.”

  She chewed her lip. “I’ll take it.”

  “And a catch.” He handed over a sheet of paper with a schedule on it, cities and dates. Josie frowned at it—Salt Lake City, Albuquerque, Austin…

  “Domination’s tour itinerary. You got such great stuff out of that interview with Bram Hunter, I want you to go on the road with the band, hang out and blog the tour. It’s a perfect gig for you. It’s got atmosphere, personality, sex, drugs, rock and roll. No drugs though. I want your head clear.”

  All she heard was “sex”. On a bus with Bram Hunter. In hotels with Bram Hunter, backstage with Bram Hunter.

  “They agreed to this?”

  “Their manager Bucky said Bram approved it personally.” He grinned. “How’s that for access? You’ll get a travel stipend to start but it’s small, so don’t order the lobster, okay?”

  “I have to get my finances in order, make sure my roommate can take care of the apartment, buy a new phone charger.” And lose ten pounds, she added silently. “This says the next stop is tomorrow night.”

  “Yup. Pack your bags. There’ll be a rental car waiting for you. Drop it off at the hotel in Austin. I want your first dispatch by the end of the week. Five hundred words.”

  Five hundred words? Her lead paragraphs were that long. “I take it you’re not paying me by the word, Artie. Give me some real space.”

  He shrugged. “Blogging isn’t print—folks want it short and colorful. Go to a thousand words if you like but I can’t guarantee anyone will read page two.”

  Josie stood, her bag under her arm. So much to do before she left—pack, leave a message for Melanie then race to the rental-car company. Oh, and buy a map.

  There was no time to digest the fact that her career and salary had been slashed to a fraction. Just as well.

  “Good luck, Artie. You were an inspiration.”

  He shook his jowls. “No, it was the music that inspired me and it should inspire you as well. Get going, kid. See you on the other side.”

  The music, ugh. With her path skewed, her ambition thwarted and her orderly life shattered there was only one aspect of this assignment that appealed to her and it sure wasn’t that dark clangor of Domination’s music.

  It was the devastatingly sexy man behind the mike.

  Chapter Three

  Austin’s fabled Peach Orchard Grand Hotel seemed to be in decent shape considering the rowdiest band in rock was occupying its penthouse floor. No shattered windows, no television sets in pieces on the pavement. Perhaps they were still asleep, Josie mused. It was only three in the afternoon.

  She had left a note for her roommate Melanie with specific plant-watering instructions, transferred money from her savings account, written out and sent the next month’s bills, bought a charger and hit the road, frantically going over her checklist and hoping she hadn’t forgotten anything. Toothpaste? Spare glasses? Batteries for the tape recorder? Aspirin? Condoms? No, no condoms. She was here to work.

  Two weeks on the road! She would need clothes along the way—god knows what traveling with the band on a smelly, beer-soaked bus would do even to her sturdy journalist’s wardrobe of jeans, T-shirts and boots. As it was, Josie was feeling smelly and stale, exhausted from ten hours of driving, a short night’s sleep and ten hours more, powering through the desert as fast as she could, Domination on the soundtrack. She had to give the band grudging respect for keeping her awake. The music might not have been pretty but it had power, propulsion and a kind of ferocious excitement.

  And then there was Bram’s voice, an impossibly alluring mix of menace and seduction. It could bludgeon like a weapon or stroke the listener with velvet, and when he let loose a scream his anguish was almost palpable. All metal sounded alike to her but it was clear Bram controlled the mood of the music,
its building tension and explosive release, whipping up more than enthusiasm from the listener, something like sympathy, even desire.

  She thought about that whip as she entered the chilly lobby. Was it upstairs now, coiled in a suitcase? Or was it lashing down on the shoulders of some groupie, the taste of his come still in her mouth? Stop it, she told herself. When did you become such a slut, Josie Arrington?

  “Josie Arrington?”

  She snapped into focus. No, this wasn’t Bram reading her mind. It was a sharp-featured man in early middle age, holding out his hand to shake. She took it. Only an Englishman would wear a three-piece suit in a Texas July.

  “Buckingham Croft. You’re in Penthouse B.” He looked past her and nodded slightly to someone in the distance. A bellhop scurried over. “Is that your only bag?”

  “Yes,” she answered, almost finishing with “sir”.

  “If it is not sufficient, let me know. We will provide for all your needs for the duration of the tour. Bram has requested to see you. Penthouse A.” He handed her a keycard and was gone before she could respond.

  He was again wearing nothing but the tight leather pants. This time Bram didn’t hang in the doorway but walked back inside the luxurious sitting room, Josie following. Peripherally she could see the room was a veritable Oriental love palace, rich in gold, red and black, with ornately worked rugs and sumptuous wall hangings. But it was hard to take in the furniture when she was busy ogling Bram from behind. It wasn’t the first time she’d gotten a look at his perfect butt—there were plenty of pictures of it around the Internet, most with slavering comments—but it was damn sure the closest look.

  “I don’t have my tape recorder,” she announced.

  Bram sank into a leather club chair, his arms spread over the back. “Hi,” he said simply.

  “Yeah, hello.”

  “It’s good to see you again, the only girl to ever get an interview with Bram Hunter.”

  “The only person.”