Claiming Fifi

by Tara Crescent

  “Too stubborn,” Xavier corrects, a smile on his lips. “But she seems to have changed her mind in recent months. There have been quite a few charges on it.”

  It’s always been Layla for Xavier and Rafael. It’s been fifteen years, and there have been other submissives—God knows there’s no shortage of women throwing themselves at Xavier Leforte—but none of them have lasted.

  Adrian and I exchange glances. “So,” Adrian says, “what brings you here, Xavier?”

  “I could just be visiting old friends,” he replies.

  Cagey as always. “But you aren’t,” I say. “You hate DC. You didn’t come into the city for small talk.”

  That’s uncharacteristically blunt. Of the pair of us, Adrian’s usually the surly asshole, not me. I’m the charming, tactful one. But Xavier’s presence is bringing back memories of Club M, and I miss it. I miss the anticipation of a scene. I miss the sharp intake of a submissive’s breath as she wonders what I have planned for her. I miss the awareness, the control, the connection. The safety.

  And now Xavier’s in our office.

  “You’re right,” he says. “I need your help with a situation. I just hired a private investigator to investigate a blackmail attempt on one of the members.”

  Blackmail? That sounds serious. Club Ménage prides itself on secrecy. It has to. This close to DC, the club attracts a high-profile crowd. When I last played there, there had been a half-dozen senators on the main floor, one of them being led around on a leash by his mistress. “What kind of blackmail?”

  Adrian leans forward. “I’m a little offended you didn’t come to us,” he says. “Who did you hire to look into it?”

  “Fiona Clarke.”

  A crash wave of memory sweeps over me.

  Two years ago, we’d met a guy called Raymond Downing at a poker game. Downing was a douchebag. His father was a senator who sat on the armed services committee, and Raymond took full advantage of the senator’s influence.

  That kind of influence peddling isn’t uncommon in DC. I didn't approve, but that wasn't the reason I couldn't stand the sight of him.

  No, I hated Downing because he treated his submissive like dirt. His submissive, Fiona Clarke.

  “I didn’t know Fiona was a private investigator.” An expression of distaste crosses Adrian’s face. “Is she still with Downing?”

  Xavier shakes his head. “No. Their relationship only lasted three months.” He gets up and pours himself another Scotch. “It seems a shame,” he says casually, “that her introduction to BDSM was in the hands of someone like Raymond Downing.”

  I look up, alerted by that too-casual voice. Xavier’s up to something. “Are you playing matchmaker again?” I demand. “Neither of us is looking for a submissive.”

  “Just as well,” he replies. “She’s left the lifestyle. Fiona Clarke’s tastes are vanilla now.”

  I don’t know why that bothers me. Xavier is right. It is a shame that Fiona’s first and only BDSM experience was with Downing. I remember her clearly, kneeling in the hallway of Downing’s Dupont Circle apartment, her brunette hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes submissively lowered, her knees spread.

  She’d deserved better than an asshole like Downing.

  “She’s going to be at the club for the next month, asking questions and looking into this blackmail attempt,” Xavier continues. “I’d feel a lot happier if someone were to keep an eye on her.”

  “Why?” Adrian demands. “What do you think might happen?”

  The Belgian man tips the Scotch down his throat. “Downing might try to get her back.”

  “Why would…” The dots connect. “Xavier, tell me Downing’s not a member of the club.”

  “He is on a trial membership, yes.”

  “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

  He sets his glass carefully down on the side table. “No, Adrian,” he says, a hard edge in his voice. “I have not lost my fucking mind. While the two of you were sitting around and feeling sorry for yourselves, I’ve been trying to keep people safe.”

  He strides to the window and looks out to the busy streets below. “First, Fiona, after the two of you dropped the ball on that. I begged favors from Maddox and sent him into Downing’s weekly poker game.”

  “Dropped the ball?” My voice rises in outrage. “Xavier, I don’t know if you noticed, but Sandy died.”

  “Two years ago,” he retorts, just as furious as me. “In the meanwhile, Downing’s been through seven submissives. Seven women who refused to press charges, no matter how much I try.”

  My anger drains away. God knows I can relate to that. I’ve pleaded with the families of the women my father assaulted. Press charges, I’ve begged. He has to be stopped.

  But like Raymond, my father picks his targets well. Too vulnerable to fight back.

  “That’s why he’s a member?” Adrian realizes the truth sooner than I do. “You’re trying to see if you can catch him in something?”

  He nods. “Downing is a menace. What he’s doing isn’t BDSM. It’s assault, plain and simple. But he’s protected by his father’s position and power.”

  I take a deep breath. “You could go outside the law,” I suggest.

  There’s a pause, and once again, I get the sense that Xavier isn’t telling us everything. “Things are complicated,” he says finally. “I’d prefer to keep things legal if I can.”

  “Xavier,” Adrian points out. “Fiona and Downing have history. You’re using her as bait. It’s not like you to put someone in danger.”

  His lips tighten. “I want Downing locked up,” he snaps. “It’s not negotiable. You’re concerned about Ms. Clarke? You know what to do.”

  Something’s going on. Xavier isn’t a dick, but he’s certainly doing a good imitation of it now.

  I exchange another glance with Adrian. He nods slightly.

  “Fine,” I grit out. “We’ll play this your way. For now.”

  “Thank you.” He gets up to leave and then turns around. “Incidentally,” he says. “You do know that Fiona Clarke’s private investigator firm is in this building? She’s your new neighbor. You should go over and say hello.” His lips twitch. “Offer to show her around the club.”

  He’s definitely up to something.

  Damn Xavier Leforte. Adrian should have let his call go to voicemail.

  5

  Fiona:

  Dr. Avery Welch is my therapist. She’s amazing. Calm, unflappable, and funny as hell, with a dry wit that is very British. Right now, she’s looking at me with barely-concealed irritation. “Fiona,” she says, tapping her pen on her legal pad, “tell me again why you’re here.”

  My reply is flippant. “You cost a hundred and fifty bucks a session, Avery. You’re cheaper than an escort.”

  “But do I provide you the same amount of pleasure?” she asks dryly. “Never mind, don’t answer that. It’s your birthday. Why aren’t you out with your friends?”

  “It’s Tuesday night.”

  “So?”

  I grimace and admit the truth. Avery will worm it out of me anyway. “I don’t really have any friends I want to celebrate with.”

  She sighs, and I hold up my hand to cut off her lecture. “It’s not my fault, Avery. I’m not interested in politics, and that’s all anyone in this town cares about.”

  “Half a million people in the city and you can’t find anyone to connect with.” She writes something on her notepad. “Okay, Fiona. We have an hour. You can either sit here and tell me nothing is wrong, or you can start talking. My advice? Stop flushing your money down the loo.”

  Loo, not toilet. God, she’s adorable. Adorable and annoying.

  “Fine. A couple of weird things happened today.”

  “You’ve already told me that you spilled marinara sauce on your blouse.”

  “No, something else.” Something real. “I saw two guys I used to know, and I ducked behind a fountain to hide from them.”

  She stops writing and l

ooks up. “Who are they?”

  I take a deep breath. “Their names are Brody Payne and Adrian Lockhart. I met them when I was with Raymond.”

  “Raymond, your former dominant?”

  I give her a surprised look. I don’t remember talking about Raymond to Avery. Hell, I don’t talk about Raymond to anyone. I’m not proud of that part of my life. I was brought up to be fearless. I am the daughter of cops. I have a black belt in taekwondo.

  Those three months, I’d been terrified.

  She catches my expression. “You mentioned him in your first session.”

  Oh. I don’t remember much about those first few months. I hadn’t been able to sleep. Whenever I shut my eyes, I’d been haunted by nightmares of Raymond Downing coming to take me back. Punishing me for daring to leave.

  Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night.

  “Yeah.” My reply is terse. I don’t really want to get into my time with Raymond.

  She changes tactics. “You said a couple of weird things happened. What was the other?”

  I tell her about Xavier Leforte’s visit. “So obviously, I agreed to investigate,” I say, ignoring the goosebumps that cover my arms. “I mean, a hundred thousand dollars. That’s too much money to pass up.”

  She gives me a measured look. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “What do you mean, Avery?”

  “You tell me,” she says. “Are you ready to go to a sex club?”

  I glare at her. “Avery, I’m not in the mood for psychobabble.” I can say shit like this to Dr. Welch; I’ve been her client for the last two years. “If you’re talking about Raymond, I’m totally over it.”

  “Yet you hid behind a fountain when you saw two men that you associate, however remotely, with your former boyfriend. Those things aren’t disconnected, Fiona, and you know it.”

  She’s wrong. Yes, those three months with Raymond hadn’t been great, but it’s in the past.

  Avery is in a rare advice-giving mood. “Have you ever considered that you’re in a holding pattern with your personal life?”

  “A holding pattern?”

  “I’ve never heard you mention a serious relationship.”

  Because there haven’t been any.

  “And you don’t have any friends,” she continues. “You were hurt by this man, Fiona. He scared you badly. Until you deal with your wound, you’re going to find it difficult to move forward with your life.”

  “Maybe I hid behind the fountain because I didn’t want them to see me with marinara sauce all over my clothes.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “Did you have time to change your blouse before you met this Xavier chap?”

  Chap. She’s so British. “No,” I admit.

  “And did it bother you?”

  “No,” I confess reluctantly. “After the first minute, I totally forgot about it.” I take a deep breath. “I’m not avoiding BDSM.”

  “You aren’t?” A slight smile plays about her lips, and I realize I’ve walked into her trap. Avery hadn’t accused me of avoiding BDSM. Damn it. Now she’s going to start quizzing me on that.

  “Raymond didn’t scare me off the lifestyle.” I get the sense that I’m digging myself deeper into a hole, but I can’t seem to stop talking. “I’m just being careful. If I can meet a dominant I can trust, you know, like Adrian or Brody, then I’d totally be interested. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy to find someone trustworthy.”

  “Someone like Adrian and Brody? Why not them?”

  Oh. I’m on more comfortable ground here. “They’re with someone. They share a submissive.” I sigh. “Lucky woman. One good dominant is hard enough to find. She has two.”

  “So the only thing holding you back is that they’re in a relationship. Nothing else.”

  “Yes,” I insist. Avery’s hinting that my time with Raymond has traumatized me, and it has not. I’m stronger than that. “If they were single, I’d make a pass at them.”

  A voice inside my head tells me I’m lying to both Avery and myself, but with practiced ease, I ignore it.

  When I get back home, I watch some dumb rom-com on Netflix while drinking the better part of a bottle of wine. At twelve, when my exhaustion outweighs my dread of the nightmares, I fall into bed.

  But tonight, I don’t dream about Raymond. Instead, I have a sex dream about Adrian and Brody.

  I’m naked except for a pair of stockings and high-heeled shoes, bent over a sawhorse, in a room that’s otherwise empty of all furniture. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail, attached to an out-of-sight hook that keeps my face lifted.

  My ankles are shackled to the wooden legs, and my pussy on display to anyone that might walk by. My breasts hang down on either side of the thin leather seat.

  I’m totally restrained and completely turned on. I’m dripping wet.

  Adrian walks in front of me. “Part your lips, Fiona. You’re going to suck my cock.”

  My insides thrill at his words, and I’m helpless against the tone of command in his voice. “Yes Sir.”

  His cock is large, hard and engorged. I open wide, fitting as much of his erection in my mouth as I can.

  Adrian growls, the sound low and primal. The way my head is tied, I can’t bob up and down on his length, but I swirl my tongue around him the best I can, taking pleasure in the way his eyes clench shut, and his breathing quickens.

  Just then, someone smacks my ass hard. Brody. I whimper at the sharp stroke but don’t take my lips off Adrian’s cock.

  This. I’ve missed this. Restrained over this sawhorse, with a cock in my mouth, I feel more alive than I have in a very long time.

  Brody’s fingers move between the folds of my pussy. “So wet,” he says. I moan into Adrian’s cock as desire builds in my core. Though I try to hold still, I can’t. I stand on tiptoe, raising my hips in unspoken invitation.

  “So fucking wet,” Brody says. He homes in on my clitoris, circling the tight bud. Heat runs through me, consuming me, overwhelming me with pleasure.

  Adrian grabs the back of my head and shoves deeper down my throat. “All the way down your throat, kitten,” he orders, his dark brown eyes on my face. “Wrap your pretty little lips around my cock and suck. That’s a good girl.”

  I struggle to take his length, but just as I start to gag, he pulls back, letting up on the pressure. I take a deep breath and nod, letting him know I’m ready again, and with a slight smile, he thrusts into my mouth again, stroking my cheek with his fingers.

  That gesture, sweet and unexpected, makes me want to please him even more. I relax my throat and take him deeper, rewarded by his groan.

  My pussy aches to be filled, but Brody has other plans for me. He spanks me again, this time where my thigh meets ass. It stings, and I whimper around Adrian’s cock.

  His grip tightens in my hair. “Keep sucking, Fiona.”

  I do as I’m told. Brody spanks me, alternating hard swats with soothing caresses. The barriers between pleasure and pain start to blur, and all that’s left is a desperate desire to please my dominants.

  “Such a good girl,” Brody whispers. “You want my cock, little kitten?” I feel his head rub at my entrance, and I try to thrust my hips back at him.

  “I can’t hear you, Fiona.” His voice has an edge of laughter to it. Damn him. He knows full well that my mouth is filled with Adrian’s cock, but I know Brody, and he’ll tease me all night long if he wants.

  “Please fuck me, Sir,” I gasp, the words garbled.

  He rubs his erection over my slit, up and down, teasing me until I’m almost sobbing with need. Tied down as I am, there’s nothing I can do about it, nothing I can do to convince Brody to hurry up and fuck me already.

  “Eyes on me, kitten.” Adrian’s eyes have a devilish twinkle in them. Oh God. I can’t take it. It’s too much.

  Then Brody slams into me, his cock punching through my pussy, and I can’t hold on. I know I don’t have permission to come, and I know I’ll be punished, but I can’t seem to bring myself to care. An orgasm rips through me, powerful, brutal, glorious.

  I wake up.

  I’m lusting after Adrian and Brody, two men who are in a committed relationship, and who’ve never expressed any interest in me.

  Fuck.

  6

  Adrian:

  Xavier’s right. The Clarke Agency is on the third floor. The next day, after our mid-morning team meeting, Brody and I head over to Fiona’s office.

  I can’t deny I’m curious. The woman I’d seen in Downing’s foyer had been adamant that Raymond was perfect for her, determined not to listen to my warnings, but yesterday, Xavier had said that Fiona had broken up with Downing after only three months. Good for her.

  An older woman is sitting in the warm, inviting reception area, knitting away busily with neon orange yarn. Brody gives her a charming smile. “We’re old friends of Fiona Clarke’s,” he says, exaggerating the truth. “We just moved into the building, and thought we’d say hi.”

  “You’re from Lockhart & Payne?” The knitting needles don’t stop their clacking as she surveys us curiously.

  “That’s us,” Brody agrees cheerfully. “Is Fiona in?”

  “Yes.” She waves a needle in the direction of the seating area as she lumbers to her feet. “She’s on the phone. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  “No need, Mrs. Morales,” a richly melodious voice cuts in. Fiona. “I’m done with my call.”

  Her skin is luminous and soft, her cheeks faintly dotted with freckles. Her curly hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her blue eyes are wary as she surveys us. “Mr. Lockhart,” she nods in my direction. “Mr. Payne. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Her eyes meet mine, bold and challenging, a refreshing contrast to the too-meek, too-cowed woman she’d been when I met her last. “Shall we head to your office, Ms. Clarke?” I suggest, conscious that Fiona’s receptionist is staring at the three of us, her expression avidly curious. “I wanted to chat with you about our mutual friend, Xavier Leforte.”

  Her cheeks go pink. “Of course,” she says, stepping aside. “Please, come in.”

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