How to Punish Your Playboy (DommeNation #3) (2 page)

“Three hundred thousand,” the sunglassed man said, looking squarely at me and not at the auctioneer.

Derek sneered. “Three twenty-five.”

The handsome man did nothing. He stared at the car and cocked his head, either bored or calculating.

Another shiver of fear slunk up my spine and I started eyeballing any wealthy-looking folks in the audience and giving them extra-big smiles.

“Three thirty.” An elderly man with a nice suit and a big grin said.

“Three thirty-five,” chimed a sunglassed blonde who held a local politician’s arm.

A few more put in hesitant bids, but that dick ex of mine just kept coming like the fucking Terminator. He was now the current high bidder by ten grand.

I looked over at the handsome playboy, who hadn’t bid again. What was wrong with him? Why did he stop?

“Going once,” the announcer said, voice slowing to a drawl. I wanted to scream. I was trapped here onstage with nothing to do but make smoochy faces at rich folks and hope they’d bid on my car so Derek wouldn’t get it. Was there anything else I could do? I needed to get out of that apartment and I needed this car off my hands. The gorgeous man stared at me, a smirk crawling up one tan cheek.

“Buy the car and you get a date with me, handsome,” I said with a wink. The man lifted his sunglasses and the smirk broke into a full-on grin. “Five hundred thousand dollars.”

The crowd gasped, and I tried to hold my smile in place. I cocked my head at Derek and shrugged my shoulders. Guess a girl from the wrong side of the tracks could get noticed by a classy guy. Derek merely frowned, and the vein below his eye throbbed. He looked angry, but more than that, afraid.

Good.

“Sold!” Vince shouted. “Sir, you’ve made a lot of veterans and their families very happy.” The crowd cheered and I slid off the stage as they readied the next auction. Derek looked like he was pushing through the crowd to get to me.
Shit
. I wanted revenge, not confrontation. I wasn’t ready for that.

Instead, I walked toward the man who bought the car—and the date with me—just as he was settling up with the charity. They handed him the keys and I felt my stomach clench. It was over. I placed my hand on his wrist and smiled. “Thank you. It’s a great cause.”

The suited man stood by the window of the convertible and lowered his glasses as he peered inside. “She’s a beauty,” his low voice purred. I felt my body tingle at its tenor.

“It’s a he.”

The man looked up. “Excuse me?”

“Johnny. My car. It’s a he, not a she.”

He walked behind the car and bent to look underneath. “Sorry, didn’t notice those. I’ll just pretend it’s cold out.”

I chuckled.

The man slid his glasses completely off, folding and tucking them neatly in his jacket pocket. He stood there in the summer heat, fully dressed in a stifling suit, and not a bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. I hated the way I was gawking at him—I was typically under control when it came to my hormones, but this guy was making my brain do naughty mental gymnastics.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, extending his hand, “I’m Aston Delano, my family—”

“Owns all of Federal Hill. I know. Everyone knows that name.” Delano’s Steakhouse, Delano’s Trattoria, Ristorante Delano—pretty much every high-end restaurant in Providence was owned by the Delano family. As I looked at him, despite his light calico hazel eyes, outlined with dark lashes, he definitely looked like a rich Italian prince. His nose was long and Roman, and I could even say he looked like a young Marlon Brando.

“You know you overpaid, right?” I said, stunned by my sudden boldness. Hell, the last five minutes had been bolder than the last five years of my life.

“The car’s gorgeous, but I’m afraid I’m not entirely sure how to handle this bad boy. I need you to come along. Show me the ropes, if you know what I mean,” he said, licking his lower lip. “Plus, I could use that date tonight.”

This time it was my eyebrows that drifted into the atmosphere.

Ropes?

I bit my lip. I had been begging Derek to let me get a little kinky with him, ever since Sarah had introduced me to the Domme/sub lifestyle she lived. Part of me yearned to don one of her vinyl catsuits and make a man worship me. Here was someone who just bought a date with me, mentioned ropes, and then did something absurdly suggestive with his tongue—it must be my lucky day. I looked him up and down. There was definitely a nice body under that fitted suit. His arms strained against the tight gray fabric of the jacket, and I wanted to rip the buttons off the teasing vest beneath. His bottom lip was far thicker than his top and it simply begged to be bit.

And yes, it would be nice to teach this handsome playboy some manners. The set of micro-tools I kept in the car would double nicely as weaponry in case he was actually a psycho instead of a striking, possibly submissive, rich socialite in need of some discipline. Sarah wouldn’t be home until midnight—I had more than enough time to raid her stash and grab a few goodies. I’d just have to figure out how to use them.

“Oh, I can definitely help you with ropes,” I said, gauging his body’s response. I watched as his face flushed, his throat bobbed. Inside, I was fist-pumping. Outside, I maintained my suggestive smile.

But what if it was obvious I was a novice? He couldn’t sign up for ropes and end up with a newb and some duct tape. I channeled my inner smut reader and mentally flipped through the books I had devoured on bondage for some inspiration. Domme or die time, Veronika.

He smirked and got into the car when I realized I definitely needed more than just my imagination. “Give me a moment, I have to make a call,” I said, waltzing away without looking back over my shoulder at him. I whipped out my phone and dialed Sarah’s number.

“Tell me you’re coming to my blast-your-ass sesh today.”

“Um, does that involve strap-ons, ’cause no.”

“It’s a bike-centric buns workout and it’s fierce,” she answered.

“No, my buns are all set. Um, I called because I have to ask you a few questions.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding deflated. “What’s up?”

I glanced over my shoulder at Aston in the passenger seat, caressing the car’s white leather, and licked my lips. “Uh, could you give me a quick crash course in something?”

“I’m so glad you finally want to commit to fitness! What do you want to do? CrossFit? Mixed Martial Arts? Tell me!”

I grumbled. “No, it’s not fitness related. Well, I guess it—”

“Spit it out, chica!”

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and blurted, “I need you to teach me to be a Domme.”

Sarah squealed. “You can sit in on tonight’s session. Tom would love it. He gets off on—”

“I need you to do it over the phone, right now.”

As she screeched, I held the phone away from my ear. My eyes watered from the pitch, and when she was done, I gingerly brought it back. “You okay?”

She gasped.

“Listen, there’s a hot man in my car who wants me to show him the ropes, okay? So what do I do?”

I could almost hear the gears in her head turning as I waited. “Okay, first off, just boss him around. Don’t let him do anything to you that you don’t initiate. Everything must go at your pace.”

I nodded. “Okay, what else?”

“Give him a naughty nickname, teach him how safewords go—you remember that from that dirty Domme trilogy you read, right?”

“Couldn’t forget it. Green light means go, yellow means slow down, red means stop.”

“Right. Now, I can’t teach you how shibari works over the phone, so let’s stick with handcuffs and bondage tape for now. I—”

“What?”

“You’ve got him in your car, right?”

“Yeah.”

Sarah giggled. “Let’s just say there’s a gift for you in the glove box.”

“Sarah . . .” I warned. What was she getting at?

“I couldn’t help myself!” she burst. “My new sub loves cars, so I may or may not have done naughty things to him inside Johnny.”

“You made my Johnny the trois in your ménage?!” I shouted.

“Well, it’s all going to work out for you now, since there’s something you can use in the glove box, okay?”

I put the phone a short distance from my mouth and yelled at her. “Do I need to Purell the seats?!”

“We brought blankets! It’s sanitary! Now go have fun with your boy!”

“I can’t yet—you haven’t told me enough!” She couldn’t just give me two or three tips and expect me to know what to do with this guy; my smut knowledge wasn’t enough either.

“Gotta spin. Good luck! I want all the dirty deets in the morning!” she said and hung up.

I sauntered back to the car, mentally playing my words over and over in my head. Don’t look like a poser, don’t look like a poser. I got into the car and he greeted me with a cocky expression. This is it, time to set the tone. “I’m going to tell you how this is going to go.” I held my finger to his lips, scraping lightly with my red acrylic nail, and tried to imagine what Sarah would say. “Here are the rules. You stop talking now. I’m the one calling the shots. Now be a good boy and wait for further instructions.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, hot breath tickling my finger. I nearly giggled. He bought it! Wait, not just it, but the car . . . and me, too! Oh dear.

I brought my thumb to his lips and pinched. “That’s Mistress Veronika to you.”

We cruised along in silence for about a minute before I decided to speak. I figured I should try to let the tension mount, make him wonder. I also tried to figure out what the fuck I was going to say. I smiled, hands on the leather of the wheel, imagining how I’d take this wealthy boy down a notch. Sarah had suggested I make up some sort of slightly demeaning but cute nickname for him. What would I call him? Little boy? No, that was gross. My little fuck toy? Sounded too much like My Little Pony. How about Dirty Playboy? The more quick looks I stole at him, the more I found myself nearly veering off the road. He was gorgeous. Really gorgeous, and he knew it. Was he the sub type, or was I delusional about this whole little escapade? He looked far too cocky to be dominated, but dammit I was going to try.

This time when I glanced at him, my eyes thankfully disguised by my sunglasses, I saw him admiring the car’s leather interior, stroking it with his long, tan fingers. Two emotions zipped through me—desire and, oddly enough, defense. Part of me suddenly wanted to go back to the auction and call the deal off. People always said I was born to drive this car, with my stoplight red hair and creamy skin. We were a perfect match, Johnny and me; we looked good together. Then again, Aston looked . . . good in general. I wanted to swipe his neatly combed bangs into his eyes, rough him up, and give him a long kiss on that full mouth. Then slap the smirk off his face that would likely follow. All this Domme stuff made me feel so empowered. But after the stunt I pulled today, of course I felt empowered! I gave Derek the most epic fuck off of all time, aside from the little cards I sent out after we broke our engagement a month ago.
Chose the wrong guy, gave him the wrong finger. Thanks for your support.

“Everything okay?” Aston asked. I must have been frowning. Or possibly drooling like a post-lobotomy patient. Keep it together, Veronika!

“You’re getting a little handsy with my car,” I snapped. “But don’t worry, you’ll get your share of leather before the night’s through.” I did notice his Adam’s apple bob, so maybe he liked my harsh tone.

He snickered and leaned toward me. “So it’s still your car? Then it seems I just paid a half million dollars for this ride. Oh wait, you’re calling the shots, I forgot.” He pulled his hands off the interior and placed one on the stick shift. My stomach clenched and if I wasn’t driving, I’d have crossed my legs at the gesture. “What are your plans for me?”

Goose bumps started at my legs and slinked farther north. I had to mentally douse myself with cold water before answering. My voice always rose an octave when I was turned on, and I didn’t want to sound like a soprano yet. I didn’t really know if he was into me, into the car, or just into kink. I could have some fun combining all three.

“You wanted me to show you the ropes,” I said slowly, emphasizing the key word. “I’m going to grab a couple of things at my apartment. You have a lot to learn.”

He was still facing me, eyes obscured by his dark glasses. “Can’t wait.”

“Such an eager boy. Are you sure?” I clenched and unclenched a fist, eager to get my hands on one of Sarah’s floggers she kept in the little dungeon room of our apartment. I’d never gone in there, but she’d mentioned her giant chest of treasures once or twice, and I was pretty sure she wasn’t talking about her model-size A cups. I wanted to message all my fellow dirty-book lovers and squee that I was finally about to make use of the absurd amount of unused BDSM knowledge I had stored in my brain.

Hell, I was going to need some hashtags for this encounter: #tyingupmisterfancypants #breakingthestallion #sayhellotomylittlecrop.

He nodded. “I’m sure.”

“Very well, Dirty Playboy, we’ll start your lessons by having you open up the glove box.” For a moment, a jolt of fear shot through me. Sarah didn’t say what it was in the glove box. I assumed it was a skein of rope, but what if it was a butt plug or some sort of two-ended dildo?! Well, I suppose we’d have to make do, but still—yowza!

He grumbled something about not needing an instruction manual, when a pair of pink fuzzy cuffs fell into his hands. “Well, hello there,” he crooned, picking up the handcuffs and holding them in the air. “Shouldn’t these be dangling from the mirror or something?” he asked and slid his sunglasses down his nose. It could have been the sun glare, but I thought he may have winked at me. Wink at me? Oh, Aston, you’re in for a whole lot of discipline. He was positively shimmering with amusement.

I pretended he was incorrect in his assessment. “Do you know how to use those?” I asked. “Because they’re not for dangling.”

I looked his way again and saw his half-open mouth and blinking eyes and felt a pang of concern. Why was he so surprised?

“I want you to cuff your hands together.”

This time he wasn’t chuckling, he was downright guffawing.

“Shall I take that as a yes?” I asked, putting the blinker on and taking a hard right turn toward the complex. Sarah had mentioned the room was always open, but I wondered if she’d started locking it since I never took her up on her offers to check it out.

I supposed I should have been paying more attention to my charge, since I was driving like a maniac. Aston was pressed against the door, arm flailing for an “oh shit” bar and finding none. He gripped the seat and looked at me like I was crazy, chuckling with a nervous intake of air.

“Is this some sort of kidnapping attempt?” he asked, wiping his eye. Was that a tear? “Because if you need money, I can offer you personally another hundred grand and you can keep your fuzzy cuffs.” He ran his hand through his hair, fixing what the wind had done to those long bangs, and leaned back in his seat. I was disappointed; I preferred them in his eyes. The way the wind had mussed his hair, he looked much more punk than J. Crew. Maybe I’d order him to wear it like that later. Listen to me, imagining myself ordering him to do something. I nearly giggled.

“You said you wanted me to show you the ropes,” I said.

“These are handcuffs! Do you want me to learn to drive the car with my knees?” he asked.

“Who’s calling the shots? I’m your Mistress and you’re my Dirty Playboy,” I reminded him with a stern wag of my finger.

His smirk fell and his cheeks reddened.
There you go
, I wanted to say. I watched as he silently placed one cuff around his wrist and fumbled with the other. “Fine, but once I’m behind the wheel, no Cirque du Soleil–type acrobatics. There’s no way I can drive like this without killing us.” He seemed to be having some trouble with the second hand.

“Do you need me to put the other cuff on you?” I asked, already hot under the hood from watching one of his wrists wiggle around in the fuzzy restraint.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this, but sure,” he said, shrugging. “This might be the weirdest day of my life, just so you know.” I was thinking the same thing. One hand on the wheel, I leaned over and slipped my fingers around his wrist and felt his pulse jump at my touch. I saw him glance down my blouse and swallow hard. I should probably slow down. I clicked the cuff closed and he placed his hands in his lap. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“So, seriously,” he asked, leaning his head back and relaxing into his new position, “are you kidnapping me?”

I snickered, driving into my parking space. The lot was empty, as it normally was on weekends—everyone in our complex was the outdoorsy type once the weather got nice. “No. I like my victims willing,” I joked, stealing the line from one of my favorite books. I was becoming such a badass.

I put the car in park, unbuckled, and hopped out, giving him a little peek at my short shorts as I exited.

“Hey, where are you going?” he asked, glancing around frantically.

I leaned over the hood of the car and put my chin in my hands. “To get my ropes,” I said, giving him a wink, then standing. He shook his head as I headed to the apartment door, walking with a slow swagger. I opened the door, blew him a kiss, and stepped inside.

I dropped my confidence at the threshold and ran toward the naughty room. I put my hand on the doorknob and half expected it to feel hot to the touch. I closed my fingers around it, twisted, and took a step inside.

At first glance, it seemed like a workout studio. Mirrors, hardwood floors, bars along the walls and vertical poles placed sporadically around the room. Then I began to notice the hooks in the floor and walls. The suspension gear on the ceiling. Yup, Sarah liked to let her freak flag fly.

Across the room was a piece of furniture akin to a treasure chest. While I was curious about the paneled doors along the room that looked like a row of closets, I knew the chest was where I’d find some more goodies. I knelt low, opened the box, and I could swear I heard the “Hallelujah Chorus.”

Dozens of skeins of colorful rope, floggers, crops, and bondage tape winked at me from inside. I smiled, marveling at the kinky motherload. Not wanting to keep Aston waiting, I grabbed a number of items and shoved them into a bag, then darted to my room to change.

Looking in the mirror that hung over my closet door, I assessed myself and smiled. My bright red hair was curled, my cat-eye makeup was on point, and if I do say so myself, my bod looked slammin’. I checked the clock and popped my pill. Good timing.
This should do
, I thought as I slipped out of my tight denim shorts and into a breezy white skirt.

I walked back to the car and the laid-back, smarmy look he had since the beginning of the trip was replaced with a rigid mask. “What the fuck is going on?”

I laughed, tossing the bag over my shoulder.

“I wasn’t going to let you just drive off in my car without showing you the ins and outs of this bad boy,” I said slowly, opening the driver’s side door and facing him on my knees. “And now we’re here, and so are my tools.” I held up the goody bag and pulled out a long red cord, checking over my shoulder to make sure we were truly alone.

I watched his chest rise and fall. It didn’t matter that I had never done this—my body knew what to do. My instincts would guide me.

“What are you?” he whispered. I noticed his body no longer tensed. He sat there like a good boy, for once.

“I’m a Domme,” I said, unraveling the rope. I was surprised at how easily the word had fallen off my tongue. Yes, I may be inexperienced, but deep down I knew it was true. Maybe I’d been taking mental notes from Sarah this whole time.

He licked his lips, and a look of panic flashed across his face. “Shit, I swear, my family is not connected. If this is about the restaurants—”

“I’m a Domme, not a Don.”

His wide hazel eyes held mine for a moment, then he blinked. “I still don’t understand.” The snarky tone in his voice had transformed into something much more basic—innocence.

Now it was my turn to panic. Did I interpret his suggestion wrong? Could I have misread the entire situation? I decided that I was committed at this point, and I should hold my course. No stopping now. The way he looked at me right then, a combination of trepidation, desire, and confusion, urged me forward. I wanted more. And by the looks of his posture, so did he.

I put my hands on my knees and leaned over in a full-on sex kitten pose. “I’m kinky. I’m into bondage. I like to tie men like you up and have them for dinner,” I said into his ear. Part of me contemplated adding,
Not, like, literally
, since this boy was skittish.

Again with the ragged breaths. This one was going to drive me crazy. I undid those tempting buttons on his vest first. Jeez, a jacket, vest, and shirt just to get to this guy’s skin? What a tease.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Um, what do I do?” His eyes were still full of fear and questions, but I knew he was game. His body was telling me more by the second. His open, wet mouth and the stiffening in his pants betrayed his real interest.

I smiled. “All you have to do is obey. Submit.”

“Okay, but I don’t think I’ve ever done either of those things in my life,” he admitted, his roguish expression returning. I knew he was too cocky for this. “What happens if I don’t?” He narrowed his eyes and pouted his lips.

Instead of dropping my smile, it widened. “You get punished.” It was go big or go home time with my Dirty Playboy, and he had lessons to learn.

His tan skin blanched slightly and he forced a nod. “Yes . . . Mistress?”

I tapped his cheek with my fingers. “You’re a fast learner. Good boy.” And apparently I was a fast learner, too, because I was even convincing myself I was up for this. Part of me considered FaceTiming Sarah for tips, but I knew I needed to do this on my own.

Swinging my legs over the center console, I planted myself firmly in his lap with my bag of tricks to my right. I unlocked the cuffs for a moment so I could get that stifling jacket off him. “Don’t worry, those are going back on,” I said.

He nodded.

“But first, I’m going to bind your chest.” I slid his jacket off his shoulders and tossed it behind us. A stiff piece of paper dropped beside the seat, probably a business card. I clicked the furry cuffs back into place and his arms were immobile again. Damn, he looked so good. Even though he had the stereotypical rich brat look about him, there was an edge to the way he dressed and with his hair a mess, it made me want to reveal the bad boy inside who was dying to get out. But those diamond cufflinks winked at me, telling me exactly how much I needed to know about Aston. He was loaded and spoiled rotten. And I was a girl from the rough side of town.