His Driven Domme (The Dungeon Fantasy Club Book 4)

by Anya Summers

  His Driven Domme

  The Dungeon Fantasy Club Book 4

  By

  Anya Summers

  © 2016 Blushing Books® and Anya Summers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

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  Anya Summers

  His Driven Domme

  EBook ISBN: 978-1-68259-716-3

  Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

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  Table of Contents:

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  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

  About the Author

  EBook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  Blushing Books

  Acknowledgements

  I needed to take this opportunity to thank all the people involved in making this book possible. To the entire team at Blushing Books, my stupendous editor Tahlia B. for helping me take this world I've created and make it shine, my incredible cover artist Lawson Craighill for some of the most gorgeous covers, and Patty Devlin for all your hard work at helping spread the word. To my agent, Donna Bagdasarian, for being such an awesome partner in this business.

  Thank you to all of my readers for your enthusiasm and support of The Dungeon Fantasy Club Series! I need to thank Jason Mott for his keen insights into the racing world. One of these days we're hitting up ComicCon together! And last, this one is for my friend Samantha, one of the best Dommes I know!

  Prologue

  April

  Jesse Noble stared at the little white pill in his hand that he'd poured from an aspirin bottle. Only it wasn't aspirin. He slid the bottle back in his duffel bag in his tent. The team, his team, moved at lightning speeds around him, everyone intent on making sure his stellar Formula One racecar, which the team had lovingly dubbed 'Alice', was fully prepped for the upcoming race.

  Jesse debated internally over the ramifications of taking the white pill. Bad idea all around. But hell, his shoulder ached like a son of a bitch. The ibuprofen he'd taken an hour ago—all eight hundred milligrams—had been ineffective in cutting the pain; more like attempting to piss out a forest fire.

  This qualifying race was a must win for the team if they were going to compete on the Pro Circuit. He'd practiced this specific track multiple times over the last few days. Jesse had his time whittled down to go neck and neck with the top five racers. All this little white pill would do was ensure he could shift his arm effectively around some of the hairpin turns on the circuit without pain digging into his chest. The whole team, including his sponsor, APEX Industries, were counting on him to have the race of his life and ace this track. In order to move on to the next round, he had to place in the top three.

  Nothing like a little nudge to sway his hand, not when there was so much riding on this race. The pressure to succeed, to excel above the rest of the competitors who were all at the top of their game, was always present in his career. As a Formula One racer, the need for dominance, to be the fastest, the best driver on the track, even at the risk to his personal well-being, far outweighed the risks of taking pain medication. It helped his recovery, dulled the sharp edges of the pain.

  The only place he ever felt at home was behind the wheel of his racer. The supple leather of the steering wheel within his grip, the smell of rubber grinding over asphalt, the roar of the engines filling his head, and the crowd screaming his name as he zoomed past the finish line. It suited his adrenaline junkie soul perfectly. Winning a race, the pleasure from it, was right up there with mind-blowing sex with a submissive. Most of the time, anyway.

  Jesse's need for speed, to be the best, competed with his common sense on more than one occasion. Like last night. As much of a looker as she'd been—a Nordic beauty with a sex kitten bod—in the glaring light of day, the rather perfunctory release he'd experienced at her submission, the agitation to his injured shoulder as he played with an unfamiliar sub, testing her boundaries with a f
logger at the BDSM Club, Bondage Gardens, last night had been a bad call on his part.

  He debated in his mind the pros and cons of taking another oxycodone this morning. His injured shoulder, where he'd torn a rotator cuff when his shoulder was dislocated at the end of last season, still wasn't fully healed. Jesse had been working to regain strength in his arm but that didn't diminish the throbbing and stabbing pain in his shoulder.

  He was supremely lucky that the team doctor made sure he was as pain free as possible. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to complete half the circuits he did. The only problem was, the dosage he'd started with didn't seem to work as well anymore, and he'd begun increasing the amounts he took. He'd avoided taking them on race day, but after last night's aerobatics with the cute little blonde subbie, he had agitated the hell out of it. It hurt to move his arm up and down. That was not going to speed him across the finish line before the douchebag, Norman Bardon. An extra one here, an extra one there. It helped, or so he thought. He'd already taken the drug test and passed, so he didn't have to worry about anyone knowing.

  Jesse was living the good life. This was what he had trained for his whole life. Why he'd scrimped and saved to put together his first racing car in high school. So for him to back out now, moments before one of the most important circuit qualifying races of his career, was without a doubt asinine, not to mention out of the question. Without further thought, he popped the white pill in his mouth, took a swig from his water bottle, and then stood as the fifteen-minute warning bell chimed. It was a signal that the race was about to begin and all drivers needed to take their marks. He grabbed his helmet, strapping it over his head as his team pushed his Formula One racer, a sweet red and black number with a Ferrari engine, onto the pitch.

  He followed them into the glaring sunlight, affixing his face shield over his helmet, and climbed in. Derek and Ben helped double check his straps, making sure he was fastened into the cockpit nice and tight.

  Jesse started the engine, feeling the whoop, whoop, varoom of the motor as it revved to life. After one final once over from his team, he drove onto the track, taking his position fourth back in the line-up. The track was overshadowed by cloud cover moving in from the west, the threat of heavy rainstorms nearing as each minute passed. After much debate and a check with a meteorologist, FIA Officials had made the decision to hold the race. The air held the expectancy of strong storms but nothing fell from the heavens yet, with the rain forecast for later in the afternoon and evening.

  The other racers took their marks. Jesse held his breath; this was an in-between space, where nothing truly existed for him. He considered it un-time, as the racers and spectators perched on the edge of excitement, creating a dull roar over the crowd as they waited for the contest to start. Engines revved, stirring the crowd who were already on their feet, waving banners and posters for their favorite team and racer. All the extra sound diminished as he focused on the track, seeing the map outlay in his mind, running over the mileage, replaying what he knew about the other drivers. The numbers on countdown hit ten, nine; Jesse gripped the wheel. Eight, seven; his foot perched over the accelerator. Time ticked down to one. The buzzer sounded. The light switched from red to green. Engines that had been puttering in idle formation roared to life as the racers punched the gas.

  Jesse felt the usual impact of acceleration as his racer gained speed, holding course with the rest of the contenders. By the third lap, he was holding steady in third place. The car purred like a satisfied lover as he shifted gears, stroking the engine as he swung around a tight seventy-five degree curve in the track. This was the space, in the cockpit, the smell of oil and gas, where he found peace. By the tenth lap, gray clouds had rolled in faster than officials and forecasters had anticipated. A light drizzle coated the track but FIA Officials weren't calling for a halt to the race.

  He was pleased with his car's performance. His crew team was the best in the Formula One system, as far as he was concerned. By the fifteenth lap, the light rain had begun mixing with the oil on the track making the turns more precarious. But the officials still hadn't called it. If the worst of the storm could just hold off, Jesse could nudge into first place and get that qualifying run he needed.

  His vision wavered, his hands slackened as the wave of the painkiller swamped his system. Sweat rolled down his temples as he gripped the wheel, fighting to stay cognizant as he took a hundred-and-thirty-five degree turn at top speeds. If he could punch it past this turn, he could slide into first and then just maintain his lead. The sharpness of the turn, combined with slick roads and his sudden impairment brought on by the pain meds, made his hold on the wheel slip, forcing him into a tight spin. The squeal of tires roared in his ears, followed by a loud thud as his car barreled into a roll, flattening anything that got in his way, including Marco Fiortino's car.

  His head whacked against the side of his seat and it was lights out.

  Chapter One

  Last week of October

  Jesse exited his room on the fourth floor of Mullardoch Manor. He'd dreamt about the damn accident again. He had come here to escape from the hounding of the press. With the review panel hearing coming soon, the media frenzy surrounding his April crash had resurrected to a fevered pitch.

  When Declan had made the offer that he could stay at the Manor and Dungeon Fantasy Club until the legal hearings were finished, Jesse had hightailed it from his apartment in Monaco. The rabid zealousness of the media meant he couldn't even venture forth to the grocery store without being photographed or questioned.

  And any chance of getting to his favorite BDSM Club, Voyeurs, had been out of the question.

  After the short ride in the elevator, Jesse entered the Dungeon Fantasy Club hoping that he'd find a sub to help him pass the time. The resounding bass pumping rock out of the sound system filled the air. He liked Declan's place. The sleek and sophisticated aura and layout of the club were different from his local club, but he really liked this one. The DFC, as everyone called it, was like stepping into first class accommodations BDSM style. The black, ultra-modern décor, where everything was state of the art with clean lines, was plush with hints of the sexual undercurrent always present at a club.

  Since he'd arrived a week ago, the offerings at the DFC, while utterly and beguilingly attractive, had barely managed to pique his interest. Not even a little blip on his radar. Which, in his opinion, majorly sucked. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sunk himself into the tight sheath of a willing sub. Jesse's normal change of pace was a much more balls to the wall, anything goes, sampling a different sub every night routine. He wasn't looking for a relationship. Hell, in his line of work, women were more plentiful than flies on shit. On the circuit, he'd had a different one—sometimes more than one—a night. Those who'd been more strictly vanilla, he'd still been able to convince into trying some light bondage. And he had always been more than obliging to accept what was so readily offered.

  Except here lately, he couldn't seem to rise to the occasion, any occasion. Since the crash in April, Jesse's life had taken on a monotonous overtone where misery and guilt were his only companions. Christ, just thinking about the crash made his chest tight and the air stutter in his lungs.

  He climbed on a barstool, flagging Jared for a beer, and set his black leather goody bag on the stool next to him. This would be his one drink of the night. Ever since the accident, he didn't allow himself to indulge in more than one drink per night, ever. He had to maintain control, which had become too much of a slippery slope. He wasn't an addict. At least, that was what he told himself. But if he loosened the reins a bit, partying more than was wise, he feared he would start popping pills again. Down that road, madness and addiction lay in wait with subtle, welcoming arms.

  It was Wednesday night, and the Dungeon Fantasy Club had a small crowd of regulars. When it came to the sub pool, it was slim pickings tonight. While it was early yet, there were only three unattached subs he spied. Darla, Paige, and Alexandra, while eac
h was gorgeous in their own right, not a single one revved his motors in the slightest. Darla was a playful handful, and her slim curves, dressed up tonight in a schoolgirl uniform, should make him want to get on his knees and beg for a scene. Paige's voluptuous bare breasted perfection, her dark rouge nipples enticingly displayed in tiny black leather straps, each one tightened and circled with a dangling pendant triskele disk, should make his cock stand at attention. Then there was Alexandra, the dark skinned beauty who loved ménage and had invited him to join in with her scene last night.

  But he couldn't seem to rise to the circumstance. Where Jesse should have experienced a hum of desire at the beautiful bounty available, the most energy he could raise was mild appreciation. As a Dom, his lack of enthusiasm would be a disservice to any one of the subs if he couldn't get into a scene. The dungeon, the familiar and comfortable surroundings of a BDSM club, did soothe him some. It at least helped him to forget, for small slices of time, the ever-present regret residing in his heart and soul.

  Jared placed an opened longneck bottle of Stella Artois on the smooth black bar top in front of him.

  "You all right?" he asked Jesse with concern stamped across his features.

  Jesse liked Jared. He was a right fine Dom, a good man who made him think of Robert the Bruce and other Scottish legends of old. Didn't hurt that the man was wearing his kilt tonight. Jesse knew it made a lot of the subs swoon when they spied Jared in that get up. The three unattached subs were all batting their eyes Jared's way. They'd topped a sub or two together before, and Jesse trusted him as much as he trusted Declan to have his back.