Willing Sacrifice (Knights of the Board Room)

by Joey W. Hill

  “No, I’ll do it. I need to charm her a bit for what I’m going to want from her in the future.”

  “Well, lesser miracles than you and charm have been known to happen.”

  “Nice. Tell Satan to send up some demons to give you a hand, so you can get out of here on time.”

  She gave him a suitably disdainful look in answer to that, and then he was headed to the elevators, shouldering his laptop bag as he went through the message notes.

  Max noted the slight tension leave Janet’s shoulders as Ben left her area. Then she noticed him and her gaze cleared, a smile curving her lips that warmed him from head to toe.

  He sidled into the room, leaned against the corner by her printer table. Ben didn’t take a limo to that five o’clock meeting, but his attitude toward it, and how regularly it occurred, made it pretty clear what it was, to a discreet staff that paid attention. It was a therapy session.

  Ben was the most streetwise of the group, with a volatile Irish temper yet a fierce loyalty to all of them. Marcie, Cass’ little sister, had been in love with him since her teens and just this year had gone to great lengths to prove he and she were meant to be together. Her stubbornness had convinced him. However, earlier in the year, when Marcie had come back into Ben’s life, the man had been struggling with some nasty issues from his past, trying to drown them in alcohol.

  Max had had a ringside seat when Ben’s past and present had collided, and had witnessed the collateral damage it had caused. But the result was Ben was now getting help and seemed to be doing better. Of course, Max had buddies who’d had to get treatment for PTSD, and knew no man enjoyed the serious mind probing needed to get back on track, let alone one used to being in authority. Ben was the most hardcore sexual Dominant of all of the executive team, with serious control issues. Max wondered if his therapist took Valium before their sessions.

  He liked a lot of things about Ben and wished him well, but he couldn’t deny the knot of tension that had risen in his chest at the exchange between him and Janet. If Ben had reached across that desk in any way Max interpreted as a threat, he wouldn’t have hesitated to put him on the ground. Hard. He wasn’t going to let anyone touch her.

  Okay, maybe he needed to step back, get his emotions under control. Anger and passion had their place, but not in executing a mission goal. He still hadn’t really decided what his mission goal was with Janet, but the strategy had to be carefully thought out, not driven by reckless emotion. Then he thought about how she’d climaxed, crying out to the stars. Maybe reckless emotion had its place as well.

  When he approached the desk, he couldn’t help reaching out, touching the hand resting on the files. She had thin hands, elegant, but the knuckles were a little prominent due to the thinness. “Okay?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Ben and I regularly lock horns.”

  “That was a little less good-natured than I’ve seen in the past.”

  “Yes. I think they’re hitting some particularly rough areas in his sessions right now.”

  He appreciated that she didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know Ben was in therapy, even as he was impressed that she recognized how in tune he was with the comings and goings of his main charges. He supposed they shared that trait.

  “I keep it marked on all their calendars,” she continued, “which he doesn’t know, but as a result, no one makes any meetings for him during that time, just like when Dana was doing physical therapy and Peter was going with her. They watch out for each other.”

  “And you watch out for them.”

  “It’s what Satan’s Mistress does,” she said.

  When she sat down at the desk, smoothing her skirt beneath her hips, he realized it had flustered her a little. He knew Ben didn’t intimidate her, so that suggested something in Ben’s struggle had resonated with her. He didn’t comment on it, simply filed it away as he let her choose which way to go to regain her composure.

  “Have you decided teenage girls terrify you and you’re here to back out of the class?”

  “Yes, teenage girls terrify me, but no, I’m not here to back out.” He smiled at that. “I wanted to know if you need to go to your house beforehand.”

  She considered him with a bemused look that instantly made him wary. “How early can you take me?”

  “Five o’clock. I need to run Dana home. You’ve been pretty slammed here though. I don’t mind waiting around if you need to work later.”

  “No, I told Matt I’d be leaving on time today. There’s something I want you to do beforehand, at my house. And no, I’m not going to tell you what it is.”

  Okay, wary moved right into alarm, but he covered it with a shrug. “Whatever you need.”

  She gave him that thoughtful look again. “Do you live here, Max? You never seem to leave.”

  He made a vague grunt. “I go get food. I never miss a meal. And I expect you know my home address already.”

  “I’ve got it on my stalker board at home. I’ll show it to you.”

  “I’ll bet.” He let his gaze drift over her face, pause on her lips as he recalled their last kiss. “You’re wearing a different gloss today.” A different scent.

  “Yes.” Her look challenged him to try to find out what it was in exactly the same way he had last time. Matt’s door was open. The man was sitting at his desk twenty feet away, on a call, but he had a clear shot of Janet’s desk.

  Max thought about meeting her challenge anyway, but they both knew he wouldn’t take it further than that. That was part of the charge. But he better head back to the elevator, or his typical male reaction to such a challenge would become way too obvious.

  “I’ll see you at five, ma’am. Looking forward to it.”

  Her snort followed him to the elevator. When he stopped there and looked back, she was giving him a thorough appraisal. She didn’t look away when he noticed, not embarrassed to be caught looking. From the direction of her glance, the way it shifted upward at her own leisurely pace, he had a pretty good idea she’d been studying his ass. He was wearing slacks and the K&A dark embroidered placket shirt, no sports coat over it at the moment. When he lifted a brow, she shrugged.

  “That’s sexual harassment,” he muttered.

  Despite the distance, she offered a seductive smile and picked up her pen. “Report me,” she mouthed, and gave him a wink.

  He grinned all the way back to the parking deck.

  * * * * *

  Matt decided to leave with Janet, as he was meeting Savannah in the French Quarter for an early dinner with Peter and Dana. They’d all been working long hours, so Max could tell Janet was pleased they were taking some time as couples. However, since Matt walked out with her when Max pulled the limo out to the front, there was no immediate one-on-one time.

  Max kept an eye on her in the mirror, but she was still in full work mode, switching out papers with Matt for him to sign, their heads bent together as Matt showed her certain things he needed adjusted. He wanted them by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. With the dance class tonight, Max wondered when she would get any sleep. But she didn’t seem concerned at all, merely agreeing it would be done.

  As Matt exited the limo at Jackson Square, he gave Max a nod. “Take care of her.” Those dark, hawklike eyes held his a moment, then Kensington turned and was striding across the street, a tall, powerful man who always drew attention. He crossed in front of one of the carriages, gave the dappled horse harnessed to it a fond pat on the nose before he cut through the park.

  “Home, James,” Janet said from the back. Max glanced up at her amused face in the rearview, then pulled away from the curb. “I notice you didn’t ask for my address,” she said.

  “Because it’s on my stalker board.”

  “Ah. I figured that was you outside my house this week, scratching on my windows. I’ll leave some Windex out there so you can make yourself useful.”

  “Sounds like you need a gardener to cut back branches.”

  “Hmm. I prefer to do it myse
lf. I like yard work.”

  “If you want, I can come help you do it this weekend. I’m pretty handy with pruners.”

  “I’m sorry. Bringing me to screaming orgasm in the back of your pickup is one thing. Helping me with yard work is moving way too fast. I’m feeling smothered. We may need to back off this relationship for a while.”

  He snorted. “You want to come sit up here? It might save your life, because I keep looking in the mirror to see you.”

  “Then I’m ordering you to stop looking at me.” She slid out of his view then. A moment later, she was leaning against the seat directly behind him, her voice so close her breath touched his ear. “Just drive, Max.”

  She slid her hand around the side of the seat and found the open collar of his placket shirt, her thumb caressing the light layer of hair there. He was taught to focus on more than one thing at once, so he didn’t have to tell her to stop to get her home safely. Not unless her hand dropped to his cock, in which case they might have a real problem. They didn’t really cover cock teasing in combination with combat driving.

  He couldn’t resist covering her hand, though, interlacing his fingers with hers. “I’ve thought about you a lot this week. Missed you.”

  She was silent a moment, her fingers going still beneath his touch. He sensed a pressure against the seat, almost as if she’d rested her cheek against it. “I don’t really do easy when it comes to relationships, Max. I prefer chess to checkers. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

  “No ma’am. Not so far.” To his way of thinking, learning the way his opponent played the game was to anticipate and get out ahead of them, make them play the game on his terms. He sensed some of that between them, but something else too. Something that was more like checkers and chess mixed. He stroked her fingers. She was very responsive, every inch of her skin so aware of contact. He felt her concentration on that one stimulation. It made him want to touch a whole lot more of her.

  Her Garden District house was built in the eighteen hundreds. It was a two-story with floor-to-ceiling front windows, large black shutters and an elaborate wrought iron railing on the second story. The front porch was flanked with a lush potted garden. He noted what she’d mentioned, that some of the surrounding vegetation and trees were growing a little wild, but in an appealing way. On the side of the house, vines twisted around the light post, which threw illumination along a cobbled garden path. She told him it led to a screened gazebo and porch in back. Two big concrete pineapples on either side of the front walkway welcomed visitors.

  It was a nice place, and though Max was sure Matt Kensington paid her well, this type of home was beyond a secretary’s salary. Perhaps an inheritance? For all that he knew about her at work, he realized there was little he knew of her outside it. She didn’t speak with an accent. No Southern or Texas drawl, no Midwest flavoring. She spoke with precise, perfect English, like someone raised with a strict, disciplined education. Whether intended or not, it fed into the Domme side of her, making it easy to imagine her as a stern schoolmistress or haughty queen. From what he’d seen of her performance with Thor, that was just an element of the whole, genuine package. She was a woman who enjoyed control over a man, and could make him enjoy it as well, even if it wasn’t necessarily a part of his nature as it was with Thor.

  She pointed him to an alley to park the limo, and chose to walk with him rather than have him drop her off in front. She took him up to the house through a back cut-through, so he saw the garden space she’d created in her small backyard. It was obvious that, when in season, fresh vegetables and herbs grew in pleasant disarray next to more carefully designed flower beds and shrub groupings. In addition to the gazebo and porch, there was a screened pavilion in the yard so she could enjoy her garden at ground level without being eaten by the bugs. The porch had a saltwater spa she explained converted to a hot tub in the colder months. It was nine feet by six feet, a rectangular small pool.

  She took him past it to the back door. Handing him the keys, she let him open the door. He stepped in, taking stock of their surroundings, then gestured to her to step in and lead the way.

  Janet gave him a curious glance but said nothing. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her making note of his personal security detail training, but she was apparently like him, filing it away rather than bringing it up. At least not until it would be useful to their interactions.

  Her interior layout was what he expected. Quality furniture choices, a little eclectic, but they worked together. She added touches of color with flowers and pillows as women did, but kept the walls a simple, clean white, accenting them with pictures. Over the sofa in the living area was a large oil painting of a ballerina. Her back was to the viewer, but she was stretched out on the floor of a dance studio, a bevy of milling ballerinas behind her in their gauzy white skirts. She was on her hip, one leg pointed and bent over the other, her back arched and hand gracefully lifted behind her head.

  A matching painting on the adjacent corner showed a ballerina leaping in the air, that white flowing skirt making her look like a bird in flight. The leotard she wore was cut low between her small breasts, accenting the slim grace of her body. Her face was to the camera, but his attention returned to the one that wasn’t. It was the central feature of the room as one came into it, meaning it had the most significance to her.

  The space was comfortable, a haven for the woman who lived here. He could imagine she did some entertaining, but likely small groups of intimates. She wouldn’t invite strangers or business acquaintances here. He’d bet money on it.

  “Follow me upstairs.” She touched his arm, moved up the steps, her fingers trailing the banister. She had her hair twisted on her nape, accentuating the delicate ears, the slender bones of her neck. It reminded him of the ballerina in the painting. His gaze followed its desired track down the trim lines of her suit where it nipped her waist, clung to the swell of her hips and ass, accented those gorgeous legs. She had on a slip beneath the skirt. He could see the edge of lace through the modest slit, a strange vulnerability that made his heart tighten. She’d stepped out of the shoes before she went up, and carried the low-heeled pumps in her hand.

  He put his hand on the banister and followed her.

  She turned the corner and vanished. When he reached the top of the wooden steps, he saw there was a side table in the hallway, holding a vase of flowers. Two small paintings flanked them, probably bought from the art district. They were New Orleans Blue Dog paintings, one where replicas of the dog lined a railroad track, and the other showing four images of him in a grid pattern. The whimsy of it reflected the woman herself. Controlled beauty with touches of the unpredictable, hints of the chaotic passion she could display as well. He was willing to put a lot of effort into making that last one happen again.

  There was one photograph on the table as well. A young woman who looked like Janet, likely a sister. She had a soft prettiness that Janet did not, but Max saw it as a difference, not a shortcoming. Janet made up for it with her mesmerizing charisma. They shared a love of dance, because in the posed shot, the photo’s subject reached for the ceiling, leg stretched out behind her, neck arched as she cast her gaze toward the stage. She wore the gauzy long skirt, her upper body clad in a brief top of satin and glitter.

  “That’s Nelle,” Janet said, something odd in her voice. “She’s not part of this.”

  When Max looked toward her, she was leaning against the doorframe of a room at the end of the hall, and she had something in her hands, a black piece of cloth with strings trailing from it. He decided to leave that peculiar statement alone, for now. He came toward her. Through the open doors he passed, he saw a guest bedroom, an extra bath and what appeared to be her home office. The rail followed the hallway, open to the foyer below.

  “Stop there,” she said, when he was about three feet from her. He would far prefer to close the distance between them, because he could feel her intent need and wanted to taste it, but he complied. There was a tran
quility to the house he liked, a hushed presence that suggested it was a good space, a place guests would feel welcome, when she chose to make them so. What was swirling between them in the hall had a biting edge of the unknown, of risk and danger, but the kind that engaged his senses, sharpened them.

  “I’ve been doing my homework,” she said, “and learning more about your training. What they’ll share online of course. The one that intrigued me was ‘ditch and don’. Do you remember it?”

  Where a SEAL was required to ditch his gear underwater and then put it back on, all without surfacing. If even a strap was out of place, he had to redo it until he got it right. Guys who made it through Hell Week sometimes didn’t make it through the water phase, discovering they couldn’t handle that sense of drowning, of lungs burning and still having to think, to stay focused on the task, the mission.

  “I remember it.”

  While she threaded the black fabric, some kind of satin, through her fingers, he noticed she’d changed her nail polish to a deep burgundy. It matched what was on her lips beneath that gloss. Strawberry. That was this week’s scent. Not a sickly sweet teenager’s gloss. Just a faint fragrance that made him imagine her biting into the fruit, licking the juice from her lips, the red deepening the color of her tongue.

  “I’ve come up with an exercise somewhat like that. I want you to help dress me for my class.” Now she lifted the piece of fabric. “You’ll wear this blindfold, so you have to do it all by touch and intelligence.”

  He extended his hand. “Let me see the mask.”

  She put it in his palm, her fingers whispering over it as she withdrew. It would cover his face fully, a hole for his mouth and nose, and lace down the back curve of his skull to ensure that he was fully blinded, no chance of cheating and catching a glimpse. He grimaced. A SEAL wasn’t above cheating if needed to achieve the objective, because the point was winning. A fair fight, while an exciting challenge, always made that more difficult. He had a more important concern, however.