Expecting Surrender (Dominion Trust Book 3)

by Trent Evans

  Jesus, you’re not really going to do this are you?

  Her head fell back, her lower lip clamped between her teeth as she pressed her fingers deep, fluttering them in just the right spot, the spot he so enjoyed tormenting her with until she screamed out with it.

  She was so wet, juices coursed down her fingers, a drop collecting on her knuckle, the smell of her sex filling the stall.

  Please don’t let her…

  The toilet in the other stall flushed, the bolt on the door thrown, heels clacking over to the sinks.

  As the sound of running water drowned out all other sound, Kirsten couldn’t help but stroke that spot once again, her teeth clamping harder to her lip, the flare of pain keeping her grounded — barely. Thankfully she managed to stay quiet, despite a moan that threatened to burst from her lips, the pleasure of simply her fingers inside her making her eyes roll back in her head.

  Her phone buzzed again, its frame vibrating loudly against her wedding ring. Kirsten cursed silently.

  There was a light, knowing giggle from the sink area. “They can’t even let us pee in peace, can they?”

  Kirsten swallowed, trying to keep the quaver from her voice. “God, don’t I know it.”

  She waited, frozen, fingers still within the clutch of her sex, the sound of her heartbeat loud in her ears. Then came the blessed sound of the heels again, receding, the squeal of that door hinge one of the sweetest things Kirsten had ever heard in her life. She looked at the text.

 

  Shit.

  Pulling those soaked fingers from her sex, she stared at them, willing herself to do it, needing to do it. But for long, terrible moments she was paralyzed, the thought of what she was about to do sending a shiver through her. Then she did it, hoping her shaking hand didn’t blur the picture, the flash unexpectedly bright in the confines of the stall. She didn’t look directly at it as she attached it to a text message, but she saw enough, heat flaring in her face once again. Her thumb hovered over ‘send’.

  Do it, idiot.

  It shouldn’t have mattered, really. He’d seen everything she had to offer. But this was different — it was pure, naked control. He was testing her, and they both knew it. Would she really do whatever he told her? Did she have the courage to explore The Game as far as it might go? She hit send, and pressed the phone to her forehead, the beat of the pulse in her neck in perfect time with the throb of her lonely, swollen clit.

 

 

 

  Oh no.

 

 

  It was easier to think about how good it was going to feel, than it was to fully acknowledge the mortification — and the dark arousal — she felt at his words. This was … well it was more than she’d ever thought herself capable of. Yet, here she was considering whether to obey or to call off the whole fucking thing. What if she were caught? Could she stay quiet enough? What if she came? She knew he’d be angry with her, even though he’d only just now made the no-orgasm pronouncement. No doubt he’d been thinking about it for some time, only needing the perfect moment, the instant to most fully realize her embarrassment, to inform her of this latest restriction. Shouldn’t this have been too much? A line finally crossed? It should’ve been … but it wasn’t.

  She couldn’t quite bite back the moan as her fingers slipped between her slick folds once more.

 

  Texting and stroking her g-spot were apparently incompatible pastimes, her typos making her groan in frustration, her shaking thumb erasing, fucking up, then erasing again.

 

 

 

  The sound her fingers made as they stroked through her juices, was loud in the quiet bathroom, and Kirsten silently thanked God no one else was there to hear it. Too soon, she was right at the edge, her thighs visibly trembling, her belly clenching with the unique, powerful pleasure she got from stroking that spot. The urge to pee was already upon her, the last sign before she reached the point of no return. She groaned aloud as she pulled her fingers from her pussy, every atom of her being not wanting to stop.

 

 

  Damn him!

  She plunged her wet fingers into her mouth, sucking them, her scent filling her nostrils, tasting the tang of her own juices.

 

  Kirsten could feel the very air currents on her inflamed, throbbing clit.

 

 

  She wanted to scream, the urge to touch her pussy again so strong, her hand seemed to move of its own volition, sliding down her belly.

 

 

  It took shamefully little time, a few strokes of her fingers, and she was nearly panting again, her hip flexors screaming from the tension in her body, her need to orgasm thrumming through her body like an electrical current.

  Twice more, he ordered her right to the precipice, then pulled her back, each time more torturous than the last. On the last one it was a very close run thing, Kirsten panting into her palm, her sex pulsing, on the knife’s edge of orgasm, her body held rigid, silent, as someone else walked in, the loud sound of the running water at one of the sinks taking an eternity.

  She waited for his next text, hoping, dreading. A bead of sweat left its wet, itchy trail as it coursed down the valley between her breasts. The door hinge finally squeaked — salvation — and Kirsten blew out a breath, feeling as if she might collapse.

 

  With cheeks burning, a rushing sound in her ears, she typed.

  There was a pause, her heartbeat thudding in her chest as she waited.

  “Thank God,” she murmured, her hands shaking now. Her pussy ached though, her clit throbbing insistently. The thought crossed her mind that the humiliation of squirting all over that bathroom floor was almost worth being allowed to come. Almost.

  Slut.

  But Keihl didn’t give her that option, leaving her equal parts frustrated and grateful. The knowledge that he didn’t even give her a choice just turned her on more, that fact holding a dark allure she still didn’t quite understand yet.

 

  How was she possibly going to get through the rest of the day?

 

 

  She didn’t know whether to jump for joy or burst into tears.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Keihl hunched over in the rain as he walked out to his truck, cursing under his breath as the downpour suddenly increased, soaking his shirt.

  “Check the weather once in a while, asshole,” he muttered, scowling up at the gray.

  His mind was elsewhere these days though. Kirsten occupied more and more of his tho
ughts, his idle time. She’d taken to things faster than he’d ever imagined, but that wasn’t what really surprised him, what still had him puzzled.

  It was his own reaction.

  Rather than things cooling down as the pregnancy progressed, they were heating up. She’d never looked more beautiful, her sex drive was through the fucking roof — which he couldn’t help but respond to — and they’d drawn even closer. He was starting to wonder if it was The Game that had done it, or the fact that she was pregnant. Did the distinction matter anymore? Increasingly, in his mind, the two were now almost inextricably linked, both playing upon, enhancing the other. How could pregnancy make D/s even better? He’d have never believed it before, but now it was something akin to pouring kerosene on a fire. Everything just burned that much hotter.

  Nothing else had ever brought out the now almost obsessive protectiveness he felt for her — and the baby. He really understood now the old saw about putting the woman carrying your child up on a pedestal, safe, sound. Increasingly, it just didn’t feel right leaving her side. Not being there to watch over her, to keep her safe, gnawed at him every minute he was away. He wanted to be there all the time now — and not just because he had an almost perpetual hard-on around her either. Gone were the Happy Hours, the late nights trying to impress the partners. Instead, it was rushing home as fast as he could, eager to be at Kirsten’s side, to touch her again, kiss her again, renew that connection. Just to have her there with him, on his lap, in his arms, in his bed.

  His.

  Contradictory to that sentiment though, was his lust for her — and his need to control her, to give her orders, to see what he could get her to do, to test her obedience. That alone held a dizzying, cock-hardening power he’d never suspected he had within himself. She got off on being given orders, on obeying — but he got off every bit as much on giving those orders, on compelling her obedience.

  He thought back to that day on the tennis court, at his visceral need to flee what he was seeing — and what he was feeling. He’d thought it was too much for even him — and something he feared would be overwhelming for his wife. He’d been sure it was something she’d never go for, let alone understand.

  It was too much, too soon.

  Now, he wasn’t at all sure. Seeing the way she’d blossomed under this new dynamic though, the way she responded physically, emotionally, psychologically to what their marriage had evolved into, he wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Now, he suspected part of his need to run that day was more than that. Was he fleeing the truth, the suppressed needs within him he didn’t yet know how to articulate? Maybe he just didn’t know how to handle them — so he’d run from it, run from something he could never change?

  But he knew now. And so did Kirsten.

  Yes, definitely time to talk to Tom.

  Faint thunder rumbled in the distance as he walked, no longer rushing, resigned to the fact that he was already drenched. He stepped off the curb, glancing at the sleek black stretched BMW idling there, white exhaust billowing lazily in the rain. It wasn’t a car he’d seen there before. A client? Ella would probably know. His little researcher secret weapon knew everything.

  As he walked by, the tinted rear passenger window rolled down.

  “Bad day to forget your coat. Better than snow, I suppose.”

  Keihl stopped, turning toward the deep, somehow familiar voice.

  “What’s that?”

  A big hand beckoned him, the raindrops gleaming as they struck the cuff of the black suitcoat. “Get in — unless you like it out there in that crap.”

  The door cracked open, the muffled tone of a chime sounding from inside the car. Thunder clapped again, louder this time, echoes rolling over the expanse of the parking lot.

  What the hell do you think you’re doing?

  Keihl looked back at the office building. He’d slipped out early, most everyone else still working. The blinds on the windows were mostly drawn though.

  He dropped his laptop case on the seat, and climbed in, pulling the door shut behind him. Sitting across from him was not one, but two people — the man and his companion, a woman. His long black coat seemed to absorb what little light the tinted windows allowed in, his blue black hair neat, cut short, a streak of gray at each temple. The woman seemed to be all legs, dressed in white, a mini skirt and a tight, fitted vest accentuating her buxom figure. Decidedly not dressed for winter. Her auburn hair was coiled atop her head, revealing the long lines of a pale, vulnerable throat. Rings gleamed at her interlaced fingers, her legs crossed, hands clasped over one knee. She gazed out her window, not even acknowledging Keihl’s presence.

  Behind them, through the darkened glass of rolled-up partition, Keihl could just make out the hulking outline of the driver.

  “Are you Keihl Warren?”

  “That’s me.” Keihl held out a hand.

  The big hand shook it. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  Keihl shrugged, picking at the shirt plastered to his chest. “I’ve heard your voice before. You wouldn’t happen to be Stanton Broughton, would you?”

  The man inclined his head. “I am.”

  “I, uh, wasn’t expecting you, Stan. But it’s nice to finally meet you.” Keihl pointed to the office. “Be glad to take you inside, give you the tour if you’re up for it.”

  What the hell was Stan doing here? Last time he’d talked to him, the man was supposed to be in London, for God’s sake. Said he’d be stuck there for months.

  “How’s Coal Creek going?”

  The woman glanced at Stan, her frank gaze alighting on Keihl for a moment, looking him over. Her eyes were the pale blue of a glacial crevasse. She turned her head toward her window again, her lips a glossy pink line.

  “Is that why you came to see me? Come all the way from — London, right?”

  “No.” The partition behind them lowered with a low hum. Stanton craned his head back, murmuring something to his driver that Keihl couldn’t make out, then turned back to Keihl, giving him a show of straight white teeth that fell short of the warmth of a smile. “Do you know Tom Forster?”

  Oh. Shit.

  “I do.”

  Keihl glanced out the window toward the front entrance where Lewis the security guard sat behind clean, understated, yet very much bullet-proof, glass.

  “That’s what I’m here to talk about.”

  “I… didn’t realize you knew him.”

  “I know everyone in our organization, Keihl.”

  Stanton’s keen gaze slid over to his companion for a moment, his hand clasping her thigh. She gave away only a slight stiffening of her body.

  “How do you know him?”

  “Mr. Forster is in charge of… let’s say, medical matters, related to our organization.”

  Keihl sat forward, elbows on his knees, looking Broughton in the eye. If Stan thought he was going to intimidate him, he needed to be disabused of that bullshit notion. And quick.

  “And what is your organization, Stan? Do you work ven-cap? Or are you guys running dark pools? Hedge funds are so 2008, right?”

  Stanton’s gaze grew cool, his square jaw tightening.

  “Maybe it’s one of those dozen or so non-profit foundations? Which one is it, Stan?”

  He knew this could cost him his job, but he needed to know. No time like the present. He had to press on this, because his instincts were telling him to get the fuck out. As in yesterday.

  The soft laugh from Stan’s companion startled Keihl.

  “There goes your whipped dog theory, Stan.” Her pink lips curved in a wry smile. “I’d say your lawyer rather resembles a tiger, don’t you?”

  Broughton’s head turned slowly, as if on a swivel, a muscle clenching in his strong jaw.

  “Quiet.”

  She shrugged, raising a dismissive hand.

  “My apologies.” She tugged at the skirt hem riding high on her pale thighs. “Sir.”

  “What’s going on here, Stan?” Keihl sighed, glancing out
the window. “I can’t be involved in a project like this, if we aren’t straight with one another.”

  Stan’s glittering gaze settled back on Keihl. “What sort of project is that, Mr. Warren?”

  Keihl took a deep breath, meeting Stan’s gaze. “I can work… complicated.”

  Lord knew, he’d been asked to look the other way before, but he’d still found a way to make things happen — and legally. He wasn’t about to change his ways. Not now that he had a lot more important things in his life. Like his wife — and his child.

  Looking the other way wasn’t who he was. And never would be.

  “Define complicated.”

  Stan’s fingers twirled around the rim of a crystal glass that sat in the console between he and his companion.

  “I’ll find you the most obscure law, I’ll make novel arguments — I’ll find loopholes. Christ knows, there’s plenty to be found.” Keihl inclined his head. “But I don’t do dirty. You go there, and I’m done. I won’t do it.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about, Mr. Warren.”

  “You still haven’t said why you’re here.” He looked to the woman, extending his hand. “I’m Keihl, by the way. You are… ?”

  “The silent partner,” she said, making a ‘lips zipped’ gesture, blue eyes full of mirth, her hand soft and smooth in his.

  “I need something from you.” Stan cleared his throat, leaning back in his seat. “Let’s talk straight with one another.”

  “I’m listening, Mr. Broughton.”

  Stan’s lips quirked at that, but he went on, his voice quieter, the steel in it no less evident.

  “There have been inquiries — and your profile has… raised.” He tilted his head, a finger tapping the rim of that glass. “Sometimes a high profile can lead to things. Positive things. Lucrative things.”

  Keihl still didn’t have a handle on it. This was too neat for organized crime. He remembered the forensic accounting courses he’d taken. The Mob case studies. In every one of them, the Mob had a nice, seemingly solid veneer. But it was always thin, very thin. Dig down just a little, and that veneer cracked into a million tiny pieces. A complete mess.