Strictly Pleasure: Hooded Pleasures, Book 2

by Sheryl Nantus

He grinned, feeling more comfortable with the change of topic.

  “Same old same old. Ups and downs, it’s the way of the world.”

  “True. I heard through the grapevine you’re trying to get more customers in.”

  “That’s an ongoing concern.” He sloshed the scotch around in his glass. “We’re considering different options. Maybe a reading room, redecorating the stores, maybe some place to get a snack—”

  Oliver dropped the glass back onto the counter. It didn’t shatter, having only been slightly above the marble, but it made a resounding sharp crack.

  “I’m an idiot.”

  “Possibly,” Wendy said. “Probably. But who am I to judge?”

  “But how can I—” He shook his head. “It’s not the right time. For everything. Anything. I’m still figuring this out myself.”

  “Maybe not this minute,” Wendy conceded. “But if not now, when? I’ll talk to you later.”

  The line went dead, and he stared at the blank screen, wondering when all the women in his life had gotten smarter than he was.

  * * * * *

  Veronica inspected herself in the full-length mirror in her bedroom, twisting to look over her shoulder.

  The majority of marks had faded on her back, only a handful of raised stripes showing she’d ever been whipped.

  Her ass however was another thing. The red angry rash was more a product of carpet friction than Oliver’s doing, the annoying itching only now beginning to fade.

  She headed for the shower and set the water to a bit hotter than lukewarm, knowing the heat would help draw out any residual pain and help her heal.

  Everything but my heart.

  She scowled at the mirror as she prepared to step into the shower. He’d had gotten under her skin as much as she’d gotten under his.

  Why won’t he accept it?

  She got he was still moving on from his wife and had to respect that—who wanted a man who tossed such beautiful memories aside without a second thought? But she’d offered herself to him, and he’d said no.

  No.

  To me.

  Veronica stepped under the stinging hot water and gasped, startled by the aches and pains brought on by the simple act of showering.

  I see now why my men cut and ran.

  She leaned on the tiled wall, feeling the tears begin to flow, the guilt threatening to overwhelm her now she knew the depth of the abuse she’d inflicted on others.

  I did them wrong.

  I mistreated them and abused their gift.

  She got it now—what Oliver had been trying to explain to her, teach her.

  It’d been a rough lesson at a rough time in her life, but it’d been well earned and needed.

  She rubbed her eyes and reached for the washcloth.

  Other parts of her were sore, but not from the whipping.

  Veronica brushed her hands over her thighs, noting the rash left from his beard stubble, the light scraping leaving his mark on her.

  It was hard to stop touching the mottled skin. She closed her eyes and recollected his blue eyes locking with hers, a twinkle of sly humor escaping as he went down on her.

  Veronica wondered if she’d left marks on his back. Did he wear her marks as much as she wore his?

  She flexed her fingers, recalling the way her nails dug into his shoulders, the strong muscles resisting her attempts at controlling his actions. She’d had to be satisfied with dragging them through his dark hair.

  Veronica allowed herself a satisfied smirk as she remembered Oliver grunting and gasping as he came.

  It’d been a long time since she’d had a man lose control like that.

  He’d come like a young man with his first real woman, and she knew darned well she wasn’t Oliver’s first. By his own confession, he hadn’t gone far with any of his HP clients, and she wondered how long he’d been celibate.

  Melissa.

  She ducked her head under the water and reached for the shampoo.

  It didn’t take a psychologist to figure out he was still mourning for her, his lost wife and submissive.

  It also didn’t take a genius to figure out she’d gotten into his heart. There wasn’t any other reason why he’d cut their sessions short and signed off on her return to Boots ’n’ Chains.

  The rules.

  They’d broken those sideways and backwards.

  Why did he act the way he did?

  She got he might be surprised by his reaction toward her, his emotions obviously pushing far beyond what he’d done with any of his other HP clients. She understood what had happened wasn’t something he or she had planned and he probably felt guilty, torn between his lingering feelings for his wife and the new ones she’d generated.

  But all they needed to do was sit and talk it out. She wasn’t ten years old and whining ’cause he stole her ice cream. They were both adults, responsible adults. A lovely meal, a bottle of wine and they could get to the bottom of whatever this was.

  She winced and rubbed her sore butt.

  Bottom indeed.

  His words came back to her, drilling into her mind.

  A Dom is responsible for his submissive.

  Veronica swallowed a mouthful of water and coughed as she figured out what he meant.

  You’re vulnerable.

  Damned vulnerable right now.

  Between the mindscrew from her father and the harsh reality of losing her business, she was in a bad place, a dark place and the sessions with Oliver was, looking back, a godsend. Despite her protests, she’d needed the distraction and the heartfelt relief of losing control, of giving herself over to the raw emotion of being at someone else’s whims, if only for a short time.

  It had made the situation with her father and the café almost bearable.

  But it’d opened her up to the dark side.

  A bad Dom, one much like what she’d been, could exploit that and use it to get what he wanted.

  Whatever he wanted.

  She spat on the shower stall floor.

  Of course.

  She wondered if she’d smacked her head in the café, it was so obvious.

  Oliver thought he’d taken advantage of her. He’d pulled her out of a stressful situation, a bad place, and used his position to get down and dirty with her.

  He was torn between his desire for her and his worry about exploiting her new mindset.

  It explained why he’d backed off quickly and furiously, practically throwing her out of the house.

  Idiot.

  Veronica spun around and slumped against the wall.

  She wanted Oliver.

  He wanted her.

  Except he thought moving on her would violate the rules. Not only those set down by Hooded Pleasures but the ones he’d created in his mind, the ones that had kept his emotions bottled up since his wife’s passing.

  The ones that kept him from seeking his own freedom because he was afraid of abusing the trust she’d placed in him.

  She scrubbed the shampoo into her hair, digging into her scalp with a combination of anger and sadness.

  What do I do?

  What can you do? She answered herself. You can’t make him come to you if he’s not ready.

  All you can do is take care of yourself. And the men and women you’re responsible for.

  She winced, thinking of the remaining work to close down Java Jive.

  Okay. Let’s put this away for right now.

  One more week to go, then you can worry about yourself on a personal level again, she promised herself. You can deal with Oliver and wrestle this out between the two of you.

  It didn’t make the shampoo running into her mouth taste any better.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Oliver backed up in front of his store, frowning as he studied
the placards being mounted in the window. He gestured at the employee standing inside to move it to the right.

  He grunted as the sign advertising the newest James Patterson book was properly centered. His gaze darted down to the sidewalk and toward the nearest intersection.

  It’d only been three days since he’d gone around the corner to where Java Jive had stood, where Veronica had been.

  It felt like decades.

  Oliver went to bed after finishing half the bottle of scotch and raiding the kitchen, leaving a lovely mess for Marie.

  He’d woken up early the next morning, hungover and grumpy but eager to set his staff on the research tasks necessary to present it to his management. Three days later, and it was finished and proofed, approved and ready to put into play.

  Now all he had to do was convince one person to go along with the plan.

  Problem was he wasn’t sure she wouldn’t kick his ass to the curb before he could explain it.

  When he woke early this morning, he’d come down here to busy himself, working up the nerve to propose his solution to save Greenwood Books from going extinct.

  Maybe proposal isn’t the right word, he mused.

  He’d seen the construction trucks rumbling by, carrying their cargo to the new SuperSmartMart site.

  The bastards were early.

  His business associates had been happy when he’d informed them of their new neighbor. They figured it’d bring more traffic to Greenwood Books, new customers who would love a bookstore to browse and shop in.

  They didn’t care an entire city block was about to be run over by a mega corporation and five small businesses, including Java Jive, were about to be wiped out of existence.

  He had an answer for one of those businesses, a lifeline that would save it.

  He wasn’t sure how to approach the situation without appearing like a total fool or a total monster.

  He coughed into his hand to hide his nervousness.

  This is ridiculous. You’ve faced down big executives who wanted to buy out the company. You’ve dealt with annoyed authors and angry readers upset their favorite book wasn’t at the front of the store.

  Hells bells—you’ve dealt with your in-laws at Thanksgiving. Doesn’t get much more dangerous than that.

  Right. Move it or lose it.

  A thumbs-up to the employee in the window, and Oliver started off down the street.

  * * * * *

  Veronica slumped in the steel chair, not caring about the hot air dragging past her courtesy of the construction vehicles.

  Things couldn’t get much worse. She’d lost precious sleep over the past few nights trying to sort her feelings out about Oliver and each day came in to find fewer and fewer customers and a deflated, skeleton staff thanks to the noise and dust kicked up by the construction crews already beginning to demolish the opposite end of the block.

  Technically, she had until the end of the week to keep Java Jive open.

  In reality, she doubted she’d have more than today. There was no point in paying people to stand around, and if she were a customer, she’d pass on by without daring to see if the store was open. There wasn’t much appeal in swallowing drywall dust along with your croissant or stirring flakes of paint into your coffee.

  Sure as hell she wasn’t going to cater to the construction crews. She doubted they’d be interested in a cappuccino and scone.

  She snapped the cap off the water bottle in her hand and took a drink.

  “What a mess.” The familiar voice sent a chill up her back.

  Veronica looked up to see Oliver standing there. The dust was already settling on his trench coat, and she saw him squinting through the haze.

  He looked—exhausted. His bloodshot eyes were still a brilliant blue, the sapphires locking with hers and demanding a reply.

  Today he wore a white dress shirt and a black tie, the top few buttons undone and the tie hanging around his neck as if it were a first attempt to knot it.

  The beard stubble was there.

  Her thighs ached with the muscle memory even as she wondered how he managed to shave and yet not shave.

  “Tell me about it.” She jerked a thumb at the work vehicles parked farther down the street. “They’re already ripping the hell out of the storage rental place.” She waved a hand in front of her face to clear the air. “I’m hoping this crap is filled with asbestos so I can sue the hell out of them.”

  He chuckled. “Can we go to your office and talk?” He held up his hands. “I’ll be good. Promise.”

  She took another sip and eyed him, saying nothing.

  “Look.” He rested his knuckles on the wrought iron table. “I’m not here about us. I’m here about helping you out and your employees. Will you at least hear me out? For the sake of Dan and your other people?”

  “That doesn’t make sense.” It took all her willpower to keep her voice steady. “You don’t want to talk about us, but we’re going to discuss something that helps me.”

  Oliver coughed as another dust devil whirled by. “Let me explain. Please.” His eyebrows rose. “Inside?”

  She capped the bottle. “Five minutes. I’ve got to help packing.”

  Dan glanced at the two of them as they entered, giving her a curious stare.

  “Might as well hang the Closed sign up and count the cash.” Veronica made sure the door closed behind them and flipped the deadbolt. “No one’s coming in with this mess outside. Let’s get ready to put ’er to bed. Make sure everyone knows they’re getting our arranged pay—it’s not their fault we’re closing early.”

  She forced herself to sound calm despite the pain tearing at her insides.

  Dan nodded. “You got it boss lady.” He gestured at Jane, who had insisted on working until the very end as well. “We’ll take it from here.”

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. “Set up a box for yourself with coffee beans and pastries. I won’t leave them behind to be crushed by those construction punks.”

  Jane’s announcement that she had first call on the chocolate croissants followed her back to her office.

  “How’s it going?” Oliver had seated himself before she got around her desk to her own chair.

  “Not much left to do. As you can see.” She looked down at her almost-bare desk. “We let most of the staff go already once it was obvious the tear-down wasn’t going to stop. I’ve already sold off all the equipment.”

  “Did you call your father? Maybe—”

  She cut him off with an angry chop of her hand. “I left a message. That’s all I could do. Probably not even his decision anyway and I doubt he’d give a crap right now.” Veronica slumped back in her chair.

  She ached all over, inside and out. The euphoria of a few days ago had been replaced with muscle aches and pains as she watched her business wither and die in front of her.

  Her hands went to her temples, and she closed her eyes. “Say what you’re here to say and be done with it. I’m sorry but I’m not good company today, and I’m not in a mood to play any games.”

  “Just listen to me.” His voice came to her, soft and steady. “Greenwood Books has been losing business. Our customers are wandering off, and we need to get them back.” She heard his sigh. “It’s hard with everyone ordering everything online to convince them to step out of the house and come to the bookstore. We’ve embarked on a new public relations campaign to sell the store as a place to come and read, be sociable and hang out with friends who love to read as well. Reading clubs, author signings and more comfy chairs to curl up in.” He paused. “It wasn’t until a few nights ago that I thought of what we needed desperately.”

  Veronica waited, massaging her temples.

  “We need a coffee shop.”

  She opened her eyes and stared at him.

  “I took the concept to my people via a
late-night video conference. It took a few days to crunch the numbers and do the surveys, but they agree it’d offer something to the customers to get them coming in and staying longer.”

  Oliver frowned. “It was suggested by one of my associates we contact the big boys, the larger companies, and offer them space in all three Toronto bookstores to start with before extending out to the other stores.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to give those assholes any more money than I have to. They’ve got their corner shops and big coffee houses and online ordering and all that. I want to give my customers something different, something unique, something independent.” He locked eyes with her. “I want to give them Java Jive.”

  Her heart skipped a beat as she took in the single sentence.

  Give them Java Jive.

  A vision flashed in front of her, of coffee shops dotting the landscape, each tied to a flourishing bookstore. Children and parents sitting down for a cool drink after purchasing the latest bestseller. Seniors enjoying a sweet treat while discussing the latest hot romance or verbally brawling over the newest nonfiction trend.

  And behind it all, Veronica stood, proudly waving the indie flag in the face of the giant coffee franchises.

  Take that, SuperSmartMart.

  Her pulse soared into triple digits before she forced herself to stay calm, tamping down the euphoria with a heavy dose of reality.

  Walking into a minefield here, girl, she told herself. You don’t want to end up in a worse place than you are now by agreeing to whatever he says.

  Let’s see how Oliver Greenwood does business.

  She let her breath out slowly, counting to ten.

  Twenty.

  Thirty.

  “Let me make a few points clear. I’m not selling out to you.” She found her voice, strong and confident. “Java Jive is mine and mine alone.”

  He nodded.

  “I want full ownership of each café. A partnership with Greenwood Books.” She waited for any negative reaction. “One in each store across the country. Where Greenwood Books go, Java Jive goes. I retain the right to open up my own independent stores on the side if I can find a good location.”

  Her heart sped up, choking her thoughts.

  Yes.