The Drake Restrained Compete Collection: Part 1 - 4 (The Drake Series Book 7) (6 page)

Ethan nodded, his face solemn. "She's pretty much recovered, but still laying low. Got another year of work before she's finished her degree."

I nodded. "Glad to hear she's doing better."

"Me as well," Ethan said and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Listen, I'm hosting a fundraiser for Doctors Without Borders on Friday night. You're welcome to come. I know your father's foundation did a lot with them and I'm sure you wouldn't mind forking over some of your dad's hard earned cash for a good cause."

"I'd be honored."

"Good. 6:30 until 8:00." He glanced at George. "Well, I guess I better get a move on. See you on Friday. You know the address."

"I do. See you then."

I left Ethan and went to the weight room for my workout.

That night, I tossed and turned in my bed, unable to get comfortable despite being exhausted. The discussion with Lara had raised all kinds of uncomfortable memories.

Her comment about why I needed dominance didn’t help me fall asleep either. My mother was a sore spot in my life – a bad memory from my childhood, which had always been difficult, despite the wealth and privilege. I didn’t remember any happy period when she lived with us, for she was never able to recover from the death of my brother Liam. She laid on the couch in her pajamas, watching soap operas all day or staring out the window at our back garden, her face pale, her hair a mess, the house a mess around her. My father was too busy with his career to notice, or too self-absorbed to intervene. In hindsight, it was clear that she had been depressed for years, and had neglected me, but knowing that did little to make me feel any better.

She left me when I was ten. I had a dozen nannies and babysitters in her absence, who all doted on me, but they also left. I had a string of failed relationships before I met Maureen, and maybe three years of happiness before I was swamped with work during my residency and our marriage started to suffer from neglect.

I never saw it coming when Maureen did leave me. Her words that day wouldn’t register. I heard the sounds they made, but it was like they didn’t penetrate my brain.

I’m leaving you, Drake… I can’t live with you any longer.

I don’t love you any more and I’m damn sure you don’t love me.

I don’t think you ever did.

You don’t know how to love anyone but yourself.

I spent the following month in a funk. Maureen moved out of our apartment and within a month, had moved in with Chris. She obtained a temporary restraining order to keep me from contacting her. I had to take time off from work because I couldn’t concentrate. I spent days in my sweats, drinking myself into a stupor each night in order to fall asleep. I came really close to losing my privileges at New York Presbyterian, but luckily, had a sympathetic boss.

Lara saved me from total breakdown, helping me to see that my marriage was fated to fall apart because Maureen and I were not sexually compatible. That I was a Dominant, and wouldn’t be happy unless I had someone sexually submissive as a partner.

I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to, for there was nothing I could do about the past. Now, my life was well-ordered, and everything was clear, delineated, predictable. I was in complete control of everything in my life. It was perfect.

Really.

CHAPTER FIVE

On Friday afternoon, once my last case of the day was done, I left the OR and spoke with the wife of my latest patient. After that, I dictated my notes on the procedure and looked over the cases on my slate for Monday. If I left right away, I'd get home just before seven, shower, eat a light meal, then I'd make my way to the fundraiser Ethan was hosting – one of the first Friday evenings I'd had off in … I didn't know how long.

A night off to mix and mingle with power elite in the philanthropic circles in Manhattan – maybe drum up some donations for my father's foundation. I'd leave the fundraiser, go home and change, and then we were scheduled to play at O’Riley’s at ten. A busy day and night as usual.

I was meeting Brent Jameson, a colleague of mine in Neurosurgery, for a drink after work to discuss an upcoming convention where we would both be presenting papers. We usually met at The Horn and Crown, a brew house a few blocks from the hospital and so I drove home for a quick shower and to change clothes before the fundraiser. I'd grab something to eat at the bar and then make my way to Ethan's for the event.

The Horn and Crown was a regular haunt for staff at New York Presbyterian and they had a bottle of my favorite brand of vodka – Russian, called Anisovaya. I picked up a taste for it from my father, a Sovietophile who loved all things Russian. A strident socialist, my father idealized the Soviet Union under Gorbachev, and I suspect he was actually sad when it collapsed, the Berlin Wall falling. He made dire predictions about lawlessness there, and his predictions came true.

We disagreed on most things political. As a teenager with a penchant for Libertarianism, I did not see eye to eye with him on the subject of Russia or politics in general. I was happy to see the crumble of the Soviet Union. He mourned it, spending even more time on his old Russian car, a Lada, which was held together with duck tape and love.

The night the Berlin Wall fell, he poured us each a glass of Anisovaya and we shot them back. I was only thirteen but it seemed as if I graduated to being a man in my father's eyes on that night. The anise-flavored alcohol had been my favorite ever since.

When I arrived at the bar, Brent was already there. The bartender recognized me and was on top of things, pushing a shot of Anisovaya towards me.

I shot it back and sighed. While I enjoyed tequila shots now and then, and a beer or two on occasion, vodka was my drink. I ordered a martini and Brent and I caught up on things, discussing cases, and then our papers. Finally, the bartender pushed an iced martini towards me, a twist of lime as garnish just the way I liked it. I checked my cell and before I knew it, it was almost time to go to the fundraiser.

I glanced around the bar and as my gaze moved over the crowd, I caught sight of a couple of attractive young women standing at a table along the periphery of the bar next to a small dance floor. One of the two I recognized from NYP – a pretty blonde nursing student that I'd seen around during her surgical rotation.

The woman with her was brunette and on the petite side, with a nice rack. Our eyes met momentarily, and I smiled. She wasn’t my usual type, but there was something about her. An innocent look that was in direct contrast to the sexy little black dress she was wearing that barely held in her cleavage. I wondered if she was a nurse as well but I hadn't seen her around NYP.

Maybe a new nursing student. If I hadn't been in the lifestyle, I might be tempted to go over to the table, strike up a conversation with the blonde so I could meet the brunette, but that was out of the question.

Before I left the bar, I went to the washroom for a quick pit stop and bumped into the pretty brunette. She pushed the door open to the woman's washroom and knocked into me. I had to grab her to keep her from falling, because she was wearing ridiculously high leather heels and hadn't seemed to have mastered them.

"
Whoa
," I said, and caught her by the arms, pulling her against my body. "
Steady
…"

"Oh, so sorry," she said and grabbed onto my shoulders. She glanced up shyly, her cheeks reddening. "I'm not really used to these."

In that moment, I was struck by the soft warmth of her body, the scent from her hair, and the soft curve of her breasts pressed against my chest.

She was
delicious
.

I was probably half a foot taller than her and from my vantage point, I was able to peek down her dress and see the swell of her breasts pushed together by the tight bodice.

Now, I had admittedly fucked a lot of women in my time. Before I was married, I played around a lot, trying to figure out what sex was all about and what I liked and needed. I was married for five years and had a
lot
of sex, especially in the first few years we were together. Since I divorced, I had quite a few submissives, both as regular play partners and one-offs I topped at dungeon parties.

I wasn't an inexperienced teenager, but the way my body responded to her, you would have thought I hadn't had sex for months instead of a week and a half.

In that second or two I had her in my arms, her body pressed against mine, I imagined her naked, those breasts bound with thin leather straps, the leather wrapped around them so they protruded, her nipples hard and swollen. Her lips would be parted, she'd be blindfolded, and would gasp as I ran my teeth over the sensitive peaks, just a tiny bit of pain to make her aware of how soft and warm my tongue was afterwards.

God
… She was lovely.

She smelled like shampoo and citrus. I wanted to bury my face in her groin and inhale deeply.

I finally pulled myself together enough to respond. "Trying to defy the laws of physics?" I said and smiled as I helped steady her. I glanced down at her shoes once more. "Nice shoes though.
Love
the leather straps…"

I would love to see her naked,
my
leather straps binding her body, looping around her tiny waist and over her hips, down between her thighs, splitting her labia…

"Thank you," she said, straightening up with my help.

At that moment, I wished she
were
a submissive. She had creamy white skin, and looked to be of Celtic background with green eyes and long golden brown hair. Her shyness suggested she might incline towards submission, especially with someone older, but there was no way of knowing from such a momentary meeting. It was wishful thinking on my part.

She smiled briefly and then turned back to the bar as if she couldn't wait to get away from me.

Despite my strong response to her, I knew she was right to do so for in that moment, I wanted her the way a wolf wants a doe, the need to possess her completely welling up inside of me more powerfully than it had in a long time.

Run away, little girl. You don't belong with someone like me.

I followed her back to the bar without using the washroom, forgetting completely why I went. At that moment, I wanted to go up to her and speak with her, but instead, I finished my martini with a gulp to help calm me. I said goodbye to Brent and made my way through the tables to the door. As I passed her table, I caught the brunette's eye and smiled. She smiled back, her expression shy.

She
was
submissive – I had no doubt of it. She'd never approach me herself. With her, I'd have to be the one to make the move, and I was upset that I didn’t have more time or I would have, despite the fact I never approached women outside the lifestyle.

It would likely be a huge mistake so I tried to push the encounter out of my mind as I took the stairs leading out of the pub to the street where my car was parked.

I might have to ask the blonde about her if I saw her again at the hospital. I knew it was a mistake to do so, but there was something about the pretty brunette that attracted me.

In truth, I couldn't get her out of my mind.

I drove to Ethan's apartment on Park Avenue, taking the elevator to the penthouse suite where the fundraiser was being held and put on my best game face, prepared to raise money for my foundation and donate some to Doctors Without Borders so I could help make Ethan's event a success. After getting a drink from the bar in the living room, I stood at the edge of a group of people discussing the latest antics of some politician they all loved to hate.

"Oh, Drake, I want you to meet someone." Peter, one of Judge McDermott's lackeys, pulled me away from the group. "Has his own foundation. You might know him – Nigel Benson. Sir Nigel. Recently Knighted by her Majesty for his work on the West Africa famine."

Peter led me over to one of the tallest men in the room, a   heavyset fellow with a smiling face and a shock of grey hair that seemed to fall perpetually into his eyes so that he was always brushing it back. He spoke with a thick British accent, which I could hear all the way across the room.

"Nigel, this is Drake Morgan. Chairman of the Liam Morgan Memorial Foundation. Careful with his hands," Peter joked. "Neurosurgeon."

Nigel extended a huge meaty hand to me and we shook, his grip crushing. "I've already had the pleasure," Nigel said, giving me a knowing smile. "Drake."

We’d met at a dungeon party he attended with his partner. It was only later, when we’d both been at a Doctors Without Borders fundraiser that we realized we shared a mutual friend in Ethan McDermott. I had to rely on his discretion not to out me to Ethan, but then again, that would out Nigel to him as well.

"Nigel," I said, smiling back. “Always good to see you.”

"Good to see you again, as well," Nigel said, smiling distractedly. "How's brain surgery? Keeping you out of
trouble
, I presume…"