Dom Vs: Domme: The Deluxe Trilogy: A Billionaire Romance (Dom Vs. Domme Book 0) (6 page)

Suffice to say, Stephanie was not impressed. I haven’t heard from her since.

“Even for chess you’re awfully quiet.” My mother taps her finger against her cheek while she waits for me to move. She’s not that much older than me, it feels like. Only twenty years. My mother and father were a classic story of a rich man screwing one of his secretaries until she stopped having a period. Nobody but my mother will openly admit to it being a shotgun wedding. Telling the world that I was born two months prematurely is better.

Don’t hold it against my mother, though. She’s smart and capable. Not only did she teach me chess, but she taught me almost everything I know. She taught me how to read, how to do basic math, and even how to change a tire and check oil – not that I ever do those things. She stayed married to my father for a whole twenty years. The length of time stipulated in the prenup that said she would be viable for half my father’s fortunes in a divorce. The man knew it was coming. Said he owed her that much for putting up with his ass for twenty years.

So now my mother is filthy rich. Most would have taken the money and ran, but after the divorce she stayed with my father’s company as a key investor. She’s almost as rich as him now.

“Let me guess… girl problems?”

Lots of guys are used to hearing their mothers say that. Except most guys don’t have Caroline Grant-Mathers for a mother. She doesn’t make a statement like that lightly. Not unless she’s totally sure what’s going on.

“I said I’m concentrating.” I’m always so full of shit around my mother. “I know how good you are at this game.”

“And I know how good
you
are. Your terrible playing speaks volumes right now.”

Not only does she end up taking my knight, but she’s got my king trapped in two different places. I’ve got one out, but she was probably banking on me being so scatterbrained today that I would never notice.

“You going to tell me what’s going on or not?”

I sigh. When my mother bites into something, she never lets go. Stubborn like that. Some would say I get it from her. “You’re absolutely convinced that a woman is involved…”

She looks at me with neither exasperation nor disbelief. My mother controls her emotions way too well. “It’s you, dear. Anything you don’t tell me I’ll find out from the papers. Can you blame me for rather hearing it from your lips? And the truth, at that?”

I have to come up with something to placate her. So I tell her about Friday’s meeting. My mother is tangentially involved in The Grand project. Putting up some of the funds we’re using to buy the property and do the renovations. Oh, and she recommended that design firm we’re working with.

“That’s highly unlike Kathryn.” My mother studies the board, but I can tell she’s thinking about something else. “Or any of the Alisons. They’re usually on top of things.” She shrugs. “I’m sure it was a fluke. Things will go swimmingly from here.”

My mother picks up her queen and decimates a pawn. A quick glance at the board tells me that she’s also set herself up to take another pawn. “You’re not the one who has to work with her,” I mumble.

“Hmm?” Those thin lips clad in thick, red lipstick intimidate me sometimes. My mother is the only woman who can legitimately make me shake in my boots. Probably because she’s the only one who knows me so damn well. “Do you have a problem with Kathryn? I wasn’t under the impression you two knew each other well.”

“We both went to the Winchester School.”

“You’re older than her.”

“We know each other well enough.”

“Well enough to have a problem?”

My mother is treading dangerous waters. I can hear the end of that sentence right now.
“You don’t usually have a problem with women at work. What did you do to Kathryn?”
I’m not sure how to tell my mom what’s “going on” with Kathryn. How we got to second base as teenagers before Caroline Grant-Mathers’s golden boy spilled the goods before sampling the main course. Or how I hooked up with a starlet two nights ago and called out Kathryn’s name.

“She brings out a side of me I’m not keen on.” The kind that majorly fucks up. Especially with his dick.

“You two butt heads because she’s a take-charge kind of woman.”

“I suppose you could say that.” Surely, that’s one way to put it. As long as she’s been in the kink scene, I’ve known about it. Doms are public, no matter how much they try to keep it private… and Kathryn doesn’t keep it private. She’s very open in those clubs when she’s got some guy by a leash and the balls. Hey, it doesn’t bother me any. The world needs more women in that role. I just, you know, have no particular interest in Dommes. For obvious reasons.

Look, I enjoy a show where a Mistress pleasurably tortures her male sub on stage as much as the next person, but that’s a show. I’ve never harbored any fantasies about a woman doing to me what I do to women. Partly because Dommes are so… well, look at Kathryn.

They have a lot to prove.

“I spoke to your father yesterday and he says that you will be working on that presentation starting tomorrow. Putting aside everything else to secure the buy?”

“Dad will be watching over the holdings while I focus on this, yes.” Normally my father and I split up the responsibilities of the company, with my mother filling in where necessary. Yet as the only child it falls on me if I don’t want to see my family’s company go to hell when my parents are no longer here. It’s stressful, but I manage. Especially when I have such delightful ways to unwind at the end of the week.

“And I suppose Kathryn will be working with you.”

“Why would she?” I don’t need Kathryn to do anything. Well, besides show up with
the right materials
this time.

“I asked her to.”

I drop the pawn I’m holding in my hand. It rolls off the table and lands at my feet, but I’m delayed in bending down to pick it up. My mother never misses a thing.

“We’re counting on you two to make this happen. The Andrews are eager to sell, but it means nothing if we don’t play by their arbitrary rules.” My mother shrugs, nonchalantly, but I know not to mess with her. “If we’re going to get that hotel in a timely manner, then we need to wow the council. If you two are on the same page all the way, it
will
happen.” With finality, she slams her bishop onto a space. “Check mate.”

I sigh. Third time in a row my mom’s beaten me at this stupid game. I’m usually not this careless. I’m preoccupied.

My mother stands, picking up her empty glass of iced tea to take back to the kitchen. She has a maid, but the woman spends more time texting than cleaning because my mom does so much on her own. “Try to get along with her for more than a few minutes to make this happen, dear. Focus on being professional.”

Easy for her to say. She’s not fantasizing about this woman while having sex with other people.

She catches something on my countenance. Damn me and my shitty poker face. “By the way, whatever happened to that lovely girl you were seeing? The actress?”

“Stephanie May.” I put the pieces back into their starting positions. “Not sure it’s going to work out.” Not after what I did.

“Ah.” My mother continues to stand, her impeccable dress stiff against her body. She is a woman of clean lines and cleaner manners. “Too bad. She was lovely.”

“You never even met her.”

“Honey, I
read the papers.
”

Is she trying to tell me something?

I don’t read the papers. I barely read the internet. I keep abreast on business matters, stock prices, etc., but that’s about it. Otherwise I count on my assistants to do the grunt work there and pass on the important stuff to me. So as my mother puts her glass in the dishwasher and heads to the bathroom, I stop by the dining table and pick up these precious papers of hers.

This was the pivotal difference between my mother and father, and what makes them a formidable team even after their divorce. My father is all numbers and schmoozing people he already knows. My mother is all about schmoozing people she
doesn’t
know yet. She ropes them in, and my father keeps them attached. It’s not odd that my mother is obsessed with the local tabloids. They tell her who the up and comers are so she can keep an eye on them.

I should have known. Right there on Page 6 is my and Stephanie’s faces in separate pictures, side-by-side.
“Hollywood Sweetheart Dating Rich Billionaire Playboy?”
I admit we’re a handsome couple. Her high cheekbones, blond tresses, and bright eyes go well with my darker everything. Especially in this picture. I look good.

“Rumor continues to fly that Ian Mathers only uses women for his own amusement. An indiscriminate playboy, he has a great mind for business but a closed-off heart to love. But who cares? He’s young and enjoying what the world has to offer.”
For some reason my eyes are drawn to this excerpt.
“And the world offers a gaggle of beautiful girls, like Stephanie May, who was seen dining with Mathers on the 16
th
. We could say this is young love in bloom, but knowing Mathers’s track record, it’s more likely another fling on the road to 30.”

On the road to thirty? Excuse them. I just turned twenty-nine.

I fold up the paper and drop it on the table. Why do I care what a tabloid is saying about me? My business associates don’t care. Half of them are on that page with me, cheating on spouses or getting caught in another lie. As long as we’re still good enough for business, it doesn’t fucking matter. As well it shouldn’t…

On the front page, staring back at me, is an article about that library Kathryn helped a while ago. Her picture is superimposed over the children’s section, where a homely librarian is reading a story to a bunch of low-income kids and some of their guardians.

“Thanks to Ms. Alison’s skills, Foster Library now has a completely updated technology section that allows community members to search for jobs, take online classes, and apply for necessary permits. The new community wing invites local groups to reserve time for efforts, such as a quilting group, a French language consultation, and remedial writing classes.”

I step away from the table. My brain flickers between the image of Kathryn everyone has: the ball-busting businesswoman who also takes her time to help out those less fortunate. Next year she’ll probably be in a soup kitchen singlehandedly overhauling their methods to make them more efficient. Or maybe she’ll be arranging Secret Santa projects for the kids.

I don’t begrudge her for any of this. Better her than me trying to make a difference. It’s just funny. The Kathryn I know is much different from the Kathryn the papers portray. The Kathryn my mother supposedly knows.

The Kathryn
I
know is one who goes up to guys and flirts with them until it’s time to get frisky in a closet. The Kathryn
I
know hauls men around on a leash, steps on their groins with stiletto heels, and publically offers them a handjob if they will give her three orgasms in a row with their tongues.

The Kathryn I know? She spends half her time in my head, haunting and taunting me. When I’m not suddenly reminding myself of that incident twelve years ago, I’m imaging my nose buried in that silky blond hair, inhaling her body as I thrust my cock between her legs, taking her, filling her with everything that makes me a man.

There seems to be a few Kathryns running around out there. There’s Kathryn the rich philanthropic billionaire, Kathryn the nasty Domme who makes subs come in their pants, and….

…And the Kathryn willing to lie beneath me and accept my Topping, her moans begging me to make her come as she promises to do anything I want in exchange for pleasure.

I’m not sure that one exists anywhere outside of my head. Apparently, however, I would like to find out.

Chapter 7

KATHRYN

“Get those numbers to me by the end of the day, please,” I say to Anita as we step out of the elevator. “I’ll call them first thing tomorrow morning to set up the relevant conferences.”

She stops in the middle of the hallway to jot this down. I go ahead without her, because I don’t have time to wait for my assistant to do her job. Besides, she knows where we’re going.

Unfortunately.

I see Ian through the open door to the office we’ll be sharing for at least a week. We’re on one of the private floors of his family’s primary building, so graciously offered by Ian when “we” decided to work on the presentation together. I know what this is about. He’s babysitting me to make sure I don’t fuck up again.

You know what? At this rate, I need it.

The office is small and even a bit cramped, but it’s fully equipped with everything we could possibly need. Tinted windows to keep the cleaners from distracting us as they go up and down the hall in the evening. A drafting table with a light box so we can go over every detail of the designs. Endless coffee from both our assistants making runs to the café downstairs and the machine in the corner of the room. And, of course, the big table in the middle of the room, where Ian is currently sitting with his laptop open and papers spread all over the place.