Deliverance (NYC Doms Book 1)

by Jane Henry

  “You don’t have a chain?” he asks as way of greeting.

  “Oh, well, I don’t live here,” Beatrice replies. I stifle a groan. “Diana will be right out. May I get you… a drink or… something?”

  So. Classy.

  I give myself one last look, slide into the silver heels I’d set out to wear, and go to meet him. When I come around the corner, he’s leaning against the dining room table, facing away from me. I can see his profile. My belly warms as I take him in.

  He’s wearing slim-fitting black pants with a white button-down shirt tucked into his waist. His narrow waist widens to broad shoulders. His dark hair is slightly damp, and he carries his jacket on his arm. He’s so beautiful, I forget how to speak and only stare, suddenly shy.

  That’s when he sees me. His eyes heat, taking me in, doing a quick but appreciative once-over. The heat between us crackles, and suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I’m pushed over the bench at Verge, my ass perched in the air, and he’s behind me, stern and ready to punish me. He reaches for my hand. “Diana.” His deep voice reverberates through the room, the mere sound drawing a low throb between my thighs. The way he says my name makes me feel like royalty.

  I can only nod, not trusting my voice.

  “Ok you two kids, have a great time!” Beatrice chirps from the kitchen. “And, um, make sure you have her home by midnight, young man.” She wags a scolding finger.

  I groan. “For God’s sake,” I mutter, but Tobias only grins.

  “Can’t promise I’ll have her back by curfew,” he says, wordlessly taking the coat from my hands and holding it for me to slide into.

  The formal, gentlemanly gesture makes me feel bashful. “Thank you,” I whisper, slipping into the coat.

  “You got a hat and gloves?” he asks. “Cold as Siberia out there.”

  I nod, removing them from my pocket, while Beatrice nods approvingly from the kitchen. He leans in, a lip quirking up, his obsidian voice washing over me. “Didn’t know we’d have an audience. Would’ve inspected to be sure you followed instructions, but it’ll have to wait until we’re alone.”

  Electricity zings between my legs at his words when I realize what he means. He’s going to check if I have any panties on.

  I swallow hard, hoping that whatever plans he has for me tonight include alcohol of some sort that would, please God, numb my vanilla sensibilities. He takes my gloved hand in his, and waves to Bea. “Night,” he says, opening the door to my apartment. Standing beside him, I feel somehow smaller, younger. Attractive.

  I will not cave, I decide. Will. Not. Cave. He’s just a guy. There are no “Mr. Rights.” There is no man who will be my savior. I’ll never rely on another human being to give me what I need. I’ll never let a man sweep me off my feet again. I need to protect myself.

  “You like Italian?” Tobias asks.

  “Love Italian. There’s literally like no such thing as an Italian dish I won’t eat.”

  “Calamari? Tentacles and all?”

  “Mmmm. Yum.”

  He grins. “Ok, so I need to swing by Verge after dinner. You game?”

  I’m suddenly tongue-tied, the idea of going to Verge as his date does strange, scary, wonderful things to my lady parts.

  Damn, I’m hopeless.

  “Cat got your tongue?” he asks. I shrug and bite my lip, shaking my head. I can’t reply. My mind is a sudden jumble of confusion and hope and heat.

  His lips twitch. “Didn’t mean to intimidate you, honey. But gotta tell you, not happy with a lack of response when I ask you a question.” He pushes the button for the elevator and turns to look at me. “We’re new, so I should explain to you that I expect an answer when I speak to you. So I’ll ask you one last time. Cat got your tongue?

  God! I swallow. “No.”

  His gaze sobers, just as the door to the elevator swings open, we step on, and as the door closes, he whispers in my ear, “No, what?”

  Oh, God!

  “Um, no, sir,” I say, finally remembering the text conversation. Beatrice and those damn texts. I’m half-tempted to tell him the truth but it’s too embarrassing. And if I’m honest, calling him sir is oddly titillating. A reminder of his authority or something. I’ve never in my life called a man sir.

  Until now.

  “Very good,” he says. A surprising warmth floods my cheeks and chest at his praise.

  After Chad went with his father, I’d spent some time surfing the web, finding groups on Tumblr and Fetlife, watching YouTube videos that made my jaw drop in shock, or cringe in horror (Knives? Breath control? Hot wax?) while others made me shift on my chair with arousal at the very thought of Tobias doing some of those things to me. But one thing that made the longing in my chest grow was the complete and utter control that submissives gave their dominants. To reach that level of trust, you’d have to let yourself stand at the threshold of pain and know that the person you granted authority and control to would not hurt you, but protect you. Care for you. Make you the sole focus of their attention.

  And though I don’t consider myself a selfish person, I have to admit, being the absolute pinnacle of another person’s focus is utterly compelling.

  I want that.

  “You’re deep in thought, Diana.” The timbre of his voice, low and mellow, snaps me out of my reverie. I merely nod. He slips a hand into his pocket, and takes out a shiny copper penny.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  “That’s so corny.” But I can’t help but laugh.

  His lips twitch, his eyes crinkling around the edges, and the look makes my belly warm again. He sobers as the doors to the elevator open and we exit. “You don’t want to talk about what’s on your mind?”

  “Maybe after a glass of wine?” I venture, cringing as I see the still-demolished door of his Maserati. I hope he’ll allow me to drink. I wonder. Is that a thing? Not allowing drinks? I remember his admonition and his not allowing me to drink at Verge, but that was a different circumstance.

  “I can arrange that.”

  The remains of my Caesar salad with grilled shrimp sits in front of me, and I sip the last drops of wine from my glass. It’s delicious, but I don’t ask for the name. I’ll never afford another glass.

  Maybe it’s the wine that makes him seem so much… sweeter than I’d initially thought. His cool, calm, collected nature does something to me, giving me the idea—no, the hope—that this is a man to be trusted. Conversation flows easily. He speaks of his home life as a child, the oldest of four kids in the Bronx, with a stern, tough-as-nails single mom who’d made him toe the line.

  “Do you see her often?” I ask. He nods.

  “Once a week and on holidays, my brothers and sisters visit, too. She’s a good woman and likes where she lives. Holds the cribbage cup title, runs the book club, and sometimes sneaks into the kitchen to bake pies.” His eyes soften, talking about his mama, something I sorta love. “They let her, but she doesn’t know it. And you?”

  I look away, my throat tightening at the thought of talking about my own childhood. My father who I loved but who never did pay the bills, and my mom who put out, so she could. No, I don’t want to talk about them. Not now. Not yet. The only people I want to talk about he’s already met. Chad and Bea are the ones who matter among the string of those who’ve failed me.

  “Let’s table that convo for now,” he says, his warm, strong hand reaching out to gently rub the pad of his thumb over the top of my hand. The gesture is sweet and somehow soothing, and my pulse quickens at his touch.

  “Ready to divulge what you were thinking about earlier?” he asks. He sips from his frothy, dark beer, his level gaze focused on me. “Something tells me it has to do with our going to Verge later. It’s the only reason I’m pushing it.”

  “What?”

  “What you were thinking about earlier.”

  I look away quickly. “My mind is like a squirrel or something, you know. Hmm, what’s for dinner. Oh, I need stamps! Did I sign the permission slip?
Damn, I think I left a load of laundry in the dryer downstairs. Did Angelina Jolie break up with Brad Pitt, or vice versa, and what the hell kind of child support does he pay?”

  His shoulders shake with laughter. “Point made,” he says. “But I don’t believe you forgot what you were thinking about.”

  Damn. He’s good.

  “Do they give you, like, mind-reading skills in dom school?”

  He nods seriously, though his lips twitch. “Among other things.”

  The napkin I pick up and finger is a cream-colored brocade, edged in crimson stitching that likely matches my cheeks. Inspired by the wine and the easy, comfortable conversation, I’m feeling braver. “Do they teach you to… tie girls up?” He fills my wine from the bottle on the table, and I gratefully take another sip, the sweet liquid warming me through. My eyes flit back to him, and his own gaze, though heated, is slightly amused. “And do they teach you to—to use those—wand things?”

  “Violet wands? Maybe.”

  “What about…” I bite my lip and my heartbeat quickens, my breath traveling through my lungs as if labored and half-frozen, “like… pain and stuff?”

  “Spanking?” he asks outright.

  A jolt of shock courses through me. He just… says it… like this is normal.

  I swallow a gasp and pretend to be all brave about it, nodding silently. I don’t trust my voice.

  God, I’m such a wuss.

  “So bondage, yes. Violet wands, I learned from a former master whose skills are unparalleled. I’ve learned wax play and sensory deprivation. But to be honest,” he says easily, as if we’re talking about baking cookies or changing a tire, “a submissive really teaches a dom how to spank. I know how to wield a paddle. I can bring a sub to sub-space with nothing more than a flogger. I don’t favor caning but can give a caning that doesn’t injure, or a strapping that teaches a good, solid lesson.” He pauses, and finishes the rest of his beer in several long gulps before finishing. “But a good spanking is most effective when administered with honest feedback from the submissive.

  Hearing him speak like this, I feel my naked pussy clench between my thighs. Fire creeps along my neck and collarbone. If just hearing the man talk about… all these things… turns me on, what would it be like to experience them?

  I suddenly noticed our waitress standing next to him, her mouth gaping open. She blinks when we look up to her, then mumbles something about hoping our meals were good, before she turns tail and runs away.

  “Scaredy-cat,” I say, finishing my wine. “Not sure why a little spanking talk is so outlandish.”

  He grins, a full, wide-tooth grin that lights his whole face like sunrise over the ocean, making me smile back easily.

  Something about pleasing him makes my belly flip with pleasure.

  God, he’s hot.

  I lean across the table, spurred on by my attraction to him, the wine helping me leave my inhibitions behind, and whisper, “I did what you said. About my clothing… or… lack thereof. Are you going to check, sir?” I shiver when his warm hand caresses my knee, gliding upward softly, bringing heat along with his touch. He lifts the hem of my dress and grazes just one finger along my inner thigh. My whole body tremors.

  He growls, his eyes molten, his voice husky and low. “I’ll get the check.”

  I sit on the passenger seat of his car, clenching my thighs together. I’ve made out with men and been less turned on than I am after eating a single dinner with Tobias.

  “Glad you obeyed my instruction,” he says in his low voice. “I like that, Diana.”

  My name spoken in his deep, reverent tone, makes my chest tingle with pleasure, my skin prickling at the possessive sound of it.

  Get a grip, girl, I lecture myself. You can’t develop a crush on a guy who owns a BDSM club. No crushes allowed.

  But as I look over at him, his large, powerful frame easily navigating his car through the congested streets of NYC, another thought flashes through my mind.

  Why the hell not?

  I know why not and can enumerate the reasons easily, as I have in the past. Chad’s counting on me. I can’t go around losing my shit to some guy I barely know. Again. Falling for a guy means I could get rejected, and I fucking hate rejection. I can’t do that to myself.

  I know now, no man will ever deliver me from the shit hand I’ve been dealt, and I almost don’t care anymore. I’ve got good friends, a son I love more than life itself, a fulfilling job. Happy endings are meant for the pages of a book. I’ve worked my ass off making a good life for me and Chad, and I’ll be damned if I’ll sink to the level of expecting some guy to make me happy.

  So when we come to a stoplight and his large, warm hand rests on my thigh, his fingers lightly graze the naked skin where my dress rises, I freeze. The wine has begun to wear off and with it, my courage.

  I have to ignore the way my body flames to life at his touch.

  He tenses, and asks in a low tone, “Do you want me to remove my hand, Diana?”

  There’s my name again. Shit.

  I swallow. “No,” I say out loud. My mind tells me to get a fucking grip, but my body thanks me.

  His fingers grip my leg tight, a warning that both surprises and arouses me. The correction makes my nipples furl against the fabric of my bra.

  “Try again.”

  What? Oh, right.

  “No, sir.”

  Once more, calling him sir brings with it a flush of pleasure. Swallowing, I say no more, silently cursing the roller coaster ride that careens at a breakneck speed.

  Yes. No. Don’t stop. Stop!

  More wine at Verge is a must.

  He approaches the intersection that brings us to Verge, and slows the car to a stop, giving my leg a little pat. “You’ll find that I like control.”

  Yeah, no kidding.

  He continues. “Time will tell whether or not you enjoy allowing me to have it.”

  I don’t know how to respond. I want so desperately to give him control, to see what it would be like to have someone else tell me what to do, if only to satisfy my curiosity.

  “We’re almost at Verge. Follow my lead. You and I need to have a frank discussion that I’d prefer to have in a private room.”

  I feel my eyes go wide, and his chuckle makes me blush. “Don’t worry so much. I just want to talk. Okay?”

  “Okay. Yes. I mean Yes, sir.”

  He squeezes my leg appreciatively. “Good girl.”

  God, I want that hand somewhere else. My pussy pulses with the need to be touched. I barely stifle a whimper when he removes his hand to park the car.

  “Stay there. I’m coming around to open your door.”

  Obediently, I wait for him, swallowing hard as he comes around to my side of the car. Where did this guy come from? He’s like some kind of throwback from a simpler time. Well… minus the whole kink thing.

  My hands shake with nerves.

  The car door opens, and he takes my hand, helping me out onto the curb. He tucks my coat around me and pulls me up against his side. “It’s cold. I’m glad you wore a warm coat and not that shell of a coat you wore yesterday.”

  “I don’t like bulky coats.”

  “I don’t like frostbite.”

  Alrighty then. I tuck my head, grateful for the wall of protection his large frame offers as the wind whips my legs and the bare skin of my neck and cheeks. Opening the door to Verge, he half-lifts me in, bringing me in from the cold. A burly guard stands at the door, defying the bitter cold by wearing nothing but a t-shirt stretched tight against his muscled chest and arms, dark, worn jeans, and black boots. It’s like the Verge dress code. He has a shaved head and a strong, chiseled jaw with a thin beard that’s vaguely familiar. He’s huge, and looks ready to take down the Hulk if need be.

  “Hey, Geoff,” Tobias greets. “Meet Diana.”

  Geoff gives me a chin lift. “Met last night. Philippa was giving her a tour.”

  Ah. Geoff’s the Daddy dude I met in the dungeon. />
  Tobias nods. “Right. Geoff, you hear anything from Zack?”

  “Nope. Tell you this, anyone touches my girl, not gonna be held responsible for what I do.”

  “No shit,” Tobias says. The large metallic door shuts with a bang behind us, bringing with it a feeling of finality.

  I’m here with Tobias in his Club. As his date.

  As his… submissive?

  Am I?

  “Got some things to check on,” Tobias says, reaching for his phone. “Later, Geoff.”

  “Later.”

  He swipes a finger across the screen and I see the name Zack come up. He hits send on a text, then puts his phone back in his pocket before he takes my hand.

  I don’t remember the hall being so dark and long last night, and I shiver as I walk beside him. “Cold?” he asks. He places an arm around my shoulders to warm me, tucking me up against his side as we walk. The immediate protective gesture makes sudden tears spring to my eyes.

  Girl, you’re a mess.

  I want to shake myself. I’m falling, hard, and it seems every time I fight against it, he does something to draw me back in again. I’m not quite sure I like the loss of control.

  As we near the end of the hall, a door opens, and a couple comes in. The man, like Tobias, is tall and intimidating, with a shaved head like the guy at the door but leaner, more muscular, and clean-shaven. The curvy, vivacious blonde woman by his side is clearly his, holding onto his hand as their arms entwine. She wears a silver choker about her neck.

  A short while ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about her necklace. Now, after spending time perusing all things BDSM online, I know better. She’s a collared submissive. They’re long-term. A quick glance at her hand reveals a thick silver wedding band on the ring finger of her left hand. Ah. Married, too. So people do take this beyond casual scenes.

  “Hey, guys,” Tobias greets. He stops and gestures to the man. “Diana, this is my partner Seth and his wife Rochelle.”

  Rochelle looks from Tobias to me, a smile playing on her lips. Her light green eyes warm as she reaches for my hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she says pleasantly, her long blonde hair swinging freely. She seems skeptical but welcoming, and I instantly like her.