Fearless
Elite Doms of Washington
Elizabeth SaFleur
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright ©2019 by Elizabeth SaFleur. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Elizabeth SaFleur LLC
PO Box 6395
Charlottesville, VA 22906
[email protected]
www.ElizabethSaFleur.com
Edited by Patricia A. Knight
Cover Design by LJ Designs
ISBN: 978-1-949076-08-0
Dear Reader:
This book is a work of fiction, not reality. My characters operate in a compressed time frame. A real-world scenario involves getting to know one another more extensively than my characters do before engaging in BDSM activities. Please learn as much as you can before trying any activity you read about in erotic fiction. Talk to people in your local BDSM group. Nearly every community has one. Get to know people slowly, and always be careful. Share your hopes, dreams and fears with anyone before playing with them, have a safeword and share it with your Dom or Domme (they can’t read your mind), use protection, and have a safe-call or other backup in place. Remember: Safe, Sane and Consensual. Or, no play. May you find that special person to honor and love you the way you wish. You deserve that. ~XO, Elizabeth
Contents
Prelude
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
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Also by Elizabeth SaFleur
About the Author
Prelude
“Washington, DC,” Steffan said. “I need to make the fundraising rounds. It’s time to get my nonprofit the attention it deserves.”
“But in the States?”
“Yes, and I’d like you with me. You can finally get that degree. I hear George Washington University has the best physical therapy program. What do you say?”
Laurent scratched his five o’clock shadow. “You want out of Stockholm.”
The man didn’t respond, which told Laurent he was right.
“Don’t you think it’s time we do something different?” Steffan asked.
“I’m not as self-destructive as I was in Amsterdam.” Laurent began to pace. “But I know you don’t want to leave me to my own devices. I thank you for rescuing me, and I would be content to be wherever you were, if I, alone, made you happy. I love you like a brother, but you and I both know you may not be enough for me, and I can’t be what you need sexually or as a submissive—not fully. How’s this going to work? I will do anything for you, Steffan, but I cannot change my gender.” He lifted his eyes to the person closest to him in the world—in all ways except physically.
“Which is why we should go to DC. There’s a way for both of us to have what we need.”
“Oh?”
“Do you remember that Domme I scened with at Club 501? In London?”
“She was rather unforgettable.”
“She’s a founding member of a private, secret club called Accendos. I want both of us to join.”
Laurent examined his best friend for a few moments. “When can we leave?”
1
The soft-close doors on her fire-engine red Maserati GranTurismo made a soft thunk. The elegant machine gave a quiet chirp when she hit the key fob. With a grimace, Sarah shifted on her new Valentino Rockstud patent-leather pumps and limped to the garage elevator for Club Accendos. While the heels were to-die-for gorgeous, an hour ago she’d lost all feeling but pain in her feet. She’d been on them since eight that morning with three client dress fittings, including one Senator’s wife who could not make up her mind—as if choosing a blue tulle A-line over a black crepe shift was akin to national security. Ah, well, beauty had its price, and in the end, all that mattered was that her patrons were happy. With any luck, she’d make it to her private bedroom unnoticed despite what had to be a large crowd in the club. The garage was full. Thank god for her reserved parking space. She needed a lavender-scented bath and eight hours of blissful, uninterrupted sleep.
The elevator doors slid open, and she came face to face with the owner of Club Accendos, Alexander Rockingham.
“Sarah, just who I was looking for.” He stepped back to allow her to pass.
“Hello, Alexander, aren’t you on your way out?” Ignoring the complaint from her throbbing feet, she rose on tip-toes and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“I saw you come in on the security camera. Have a minute for a walk in the garden? Everything’s in bloom, and it won’t take long.” He jutted out his elbow in invitation.
“Of course.” She slipped her arm through his. For her friend of fifteen years, she had all the minutes in the world to give. To hell with her aching feet.
“By the way, nice car. What made you decide on a Maserati?”
“It’s beautiful? It purrs?” she offered with an unapologetic laugh. “Indulgent, I know. What can I say? I have a weakness for pretty things. Besides, if I have to be stuck in DC traffic as often as I am, I might as well do it in style.”
“Nothing more than you deserve. You’re working too hard, aren’t you?” Alexander’s handsome face formed a concerned frown.
She shrugged lightly and patted the arm that held hers. “It’s spring. It’s what I do, though I thought Mrs. Darden would never make up her mind this morning. When she finally did, she chose the first of the fifteen dresses she tried on.”
“That brings me to good news. Your charity fashion show last week broke a new record. The battered women’s shelter will be able to add 300 beds with the $200,000 raised.”
“We raised,” she reminded him. “I’m thrilled. I can’t thank you enough for getting Senator Markson there. Perhaps I can get her to come to my next one. I’ve decided four events a year isn’t enough. We should do more.”
“Ambitious.”
“It’s the least I can do. I spend my days fitting the wealthy and elite of D.C. in Gucci and Prada, while the Washington Shelter for Women and Children does meaningful work. They give people their lives back.” While as a personal stylist and wardrobe consultant, she had the ability to enjoy luxury and glamour, she would never lose touch with what was really important in this world—freedom to live your life without fear. “So, was that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No, I have a request. Let’s talk where it’s more … private.” As they strolled leisurely down the hallway, he nodded at the security team standing bef
ore the massive oak doors leading into the Club’s main play space, The Library.
An arousing series of slaps followed by a man’s long wail filtered through the closed doors. She grinned. “My, we’re starting early today.”
Alexander chuckled. “You know what they say about spring. It brings all the boys and girls out to play.”
She made a small murmur of agreement as they strode by. How easily she could dart upstairs to her private room and slip into a dress, perhaps the red one with the lacing up the back which coupled nicely with her new Chanel black suede boots. Having a man crawl to her, lower the zipper with his teeth … mmmm. Perhaps another time. She’d made other plans for her rare weekend off. Plans were important. Having the discipline to stick to them was more important, and one of her rules was only Alexander could interrupt them.
They entered the long breezeway, blessedly empty, that led to the back of the house. Her breath stilled at the view through the glass French doors that opened to the stone terrace. Alexander’s extensive, walled grounds were a sight to behold in any season, but as if overnight, every flowering tree, shrub, and flower bed, had burst into a color—whites, reds, blues, violets, yellows, and oranges, against a backdrop of every shade of green. The color warmed her soul. She’d outfitted too many people today in drab navy blue and black.
“Washington DC springs are spectacular, aren’t they?” Alexander cracked open the doors, and the scents of rich earth and roses drifted over her.
“Nothing like them. So what’s this other news? Clearly it must be bad if you’re trying to distract me with your enchanted gardens.”
He winked at her. “Plan foiled. We have two new candidates for membership.”
“Ah, I see. No one else can do it? I had hoped to take off a few days.” She often vetted new members for Alexander and determined if they were a good fit for their Accendos family before they presented the application to the seven members of the club’s Tribunal Council. This weekend, however? She needed some much-delayed “me” time—and sleep. Insomnia couldn’t last forever, though this recent bout was testing that limit.
“I’m sure they can, but a request has been made for you, specifically. Let’s walk.”
“Oh? Don’t tell me. A famous politician? Military general?”
“Not exactly.”
Now she was intrigued. It never ceased to amaze her that Alexander had kept Club Accendos secret for so long. Ninety-nine percent of the town had no clue his mansion on Q street in Georgetown was the private play space of the kinky elite—members of the U.S. Congress, military heads, and other bastions of Washington DC power.
They stepped down the three wide steps to pause at the Greek God of erotic yearning. Pothos looked down upon them from his center stage placement in the oval. As she often did, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks to him for whatever force was responsible for connecting her to Alexander, the man she called mentor, brother and sometimes, in her heart, father. An overwhelming sense of gratitude for her well-ordered and privileged life arose—as it often did when she stood in his gardens.
She eased off her heels, hooking them over her index finger. Normally she’d never take them off, as they were important to her overall presentation, but, as usual, Accendos’ permissive atmosphere urged her to take a moment of pleasure. The sunlight had warmed the stones, and her toes stretched in delicious freedom.
“You said these potential members asked for me?” With eyes closed, she lifted her face and let the sunshine pour over her. Heaven.
“Yes, Derek met them in Copenhagen. Apparently one of them was quite complimentary of you. That’s why Derek felt he could invite Steffan to check us out.”
Her eyes snapped open. “Excuse me, did you say Steffan?”
“Steffan Vidar. He impressed Derek. Watched him handle three female submissives at once, and now that he’s moving to DC—”
“Wait. He’s moving to DC? To here?”
“You know this man?”
Know him. Familiar regret followed by a budding panic swelled up inside. “I met him in London. Club 501. It was a while ago.” She lifted her foot and put a heel back on, then the other.
“I sense you don’t agree with Derek’s assessment of him?”
“Oh, no, it’s not that …” She stepped around the fountain. How could she talk to Alexander about Steffan? He couldn’t be moving to DC. He said he’d never leave Sweden, never leave “those who depended on him.” His exact words that morning she’d left him—after a night that never should have happened.
“Do I need to know something about this gentleman, Sarah? He seemed rather eager to see you. A little too eager in my estimation. He was quite … adamant.”
“You talked to him.” She stopped in front of him, having made a full circle of Pothos.
“Of course. No one steps foot in this place without speaking with me.” He smiled as if trying to put her at ease. “Derek seems to believe he is quite seasoned. Did something happen with him? Is he safe? You look rather shocked.”
His questions speared her heart. She knew what Alexander asked. Did he adhere to all the rules of safe, sane and consensual BDSM play? Yes, he did. But was he safe? Not for her. In an instant, the two years it had taken to erase every memory of his ice blue eyes, that shock of blond hair that fell across his forehead, were gone. His face crystallized in her mind as if she’d seen him last night—in the flickering red light of that basement club.
She’d been in town for London Fashion Week, and, on impulse, she’d skipped an official event. She found herself teetering down stone steps into an old wine cellar the owners had converted into a secret space. She’d seen Steffan immediately. Or he’d seen her. As she roamed by the scenes unfolding around her, his cobalt eyes had tracked her. It took less than ten minutes for him to introduce himself and invite her to co-top a red-haired woman in his care. Funny the details you remember and the ones you don’t when emotions run high, like the way his lips had curved against her ear as he pressed her into that other woman they’d sent so deep into subspace—together. Steffan’s eyes had shaded to violet when he stood directly under the red light that had shone down on them. She vividly pictured the desire in them when she’d said “yes” to his later proposal. A shaft of pleasure moved through her body at the memory of how they’d celebrated their meeting later that night in his suite at the Dorchester Hotel. Neither had topped or bottomed for the other. They’d indulged in pure, unimaginably delicious, raw, foolish vanilla sex.
They’d argued the next morning. He’d wanted more time with her, wanted to get to know her. Those were his words, right? When he’d pushed for her to stay, that cemented her decision to leave. She’d slipped out when he’d stepped out to the balcony to take a phone call. She’d left a cordial note, thanking him and did not leave her phone number. On the flight over the Atlantic, she’d assured herself that she could—she would—better manage herself in the future. She’d let herself go with him, broken a deal she’d made with herself decades ago. Many years before that she’d once hurt a man, deeply, but she’d recovered and made a wise, responsible, lifetime decision—all romantic liaisons would be relegated to a dungeon where protocol and rules kept everyone safe. Anything else led to dangerous consequences. She couldn’t afford to be one of those women who just followed her heart and acted rashly around men. By the time she’d gotten through passport control in the States, she had thoroughly let Steffan go. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—have Steffan fall in love with her or her fall for him. Instead, she tucked her time with him away like a treasured souvenir from a trip to some far-off land that one places in a box under the bed. She knew it was there. She had no need to pull it out.
“Sarah?”
Her eyes snapped open, not realizing she’d disappeared so deep into memories they’d drifted closed.
“Are you sure you’re all right? You know you can tell me anything.”
Her chest squeezed tight at the kindness in his eyes. She had worried him, and she made
a point of never worrying anyone about anything. “I’m fine.” She added a slight laugh to her voice.
Alexander didn’t look convinced, but she couldn’t have him believe—what? Two years and she still couldn’t quite nail down her feelings about what had happened, as if feelings mattered in this scenario. Steffan had impacted her to the point she’d let her long-held policy about men and how she got involved with them slip. In the heated darkness, she and Steffan had said things they didn’t mean. They were both Dominants, for God’s sake. Even if she didn’t have an iron-clad rule in place around relationships, how would they ever get over that? A headache began like a low drumbeat behind her forehead.
“He would go through the usual vetting process,” Alexander said cautiously.
“Of course, and background checks. Interviews. Tribunal Council deliberation.” The mechanics kicked in quickly. She hadn’t even had to think about those words. “Carson would be a good person to—”
“No, by you. It was one of Steffan’s requests. He wanted you to be the one to assess his suitability and his partner’s. He has a man with him.”
“A man?” He was gay? A sliver of illogical hurt bubbled up that she could have been an experiment. No, Steffan’s voracious sexual appetite that night with her would belie that probability. Perhaps he was bisexual, which wasn’t anything new in their world. See? Already things were … messy.
Fearless (Elite Doms of Washington Book 5) Page 1