The Romantic Dominant (8 page)

I really want to spank you. I want to lift this dress and spank you as you stand there, just as you are.

Deciding it was time to test the waters, he rested one hand on her backside and brought the other up to circle her waist.

“Tell me, how could your shop do better?” he whispered.

“What?” she breathed.

“Just tell me,” he pressed, squeezing her bottom.

“I fall behind with my book work, tracking orders, that kind of thing,” she admitted, her voice low.

Taking a deep breath, he threw the pitch.

“I could motivate you to do better,” he suggested softly.

“How, and why are we talking about this right now?” she asked, and though her voice was soft, he could sense the frown creasing her brow.

“I could spank your beautiful backside.”

Her reaction was immediate and strong, the negative energy hitting him as he felt her body tense, and dropping his arm from her waist he stepped backwards; at the mere suggestion she had recoiled.

“You’re not serious,” she exclaimed, turning quickly to face him, her voice strained.

“I am,” he replied, feeling his semi-erection shrivel and die. “Some women enjoy being spanked, either romantically or as a kind of motivation, many times both.”

“I’m not one of them,” she said brusquely, standing tall and running her fingers through her hair. “I know there’s this crazy thing going around now, all because of some book, but I’m a strong independent woman and I don’t need a man telling me what to do. I certainly don’t want or need one to smack me around.”

“I would never, ever, smack you around,” he retorted. “I would never hit a woman. Never. I cherish the women in my life.”

“You just said you wanted to spank me. What’s that if it’s not hitting?”

Zander sighed heavily, and dropping his shoulders he moved to his nightstand to turn on the light.

“I’m very sorry if I offended you, or frightened you, or caused you any discomfort. Please accept my apologies.”

“So, that’s it?” she huffed.

“Yes, I’m afraid, that’s it,” he said somberly.

“I don’t understand any of this,” she stammered, her righteous indignation floating around her like an invisible aura.

“I know you don’t and it’s entirely my fault. Again, I’m sorry.”

“Just so I’m clear, if you can’t, uh, do uh, things like that to me, you’re simply not interested?”

“Heather, there’s no way to explain how I feel, it’s impossible, so I won’t even try. Let’s just say we’re not compatible and leave it at that, no hard feelings at all. None.”

She stood, unmoving, staring at him.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Will you answer a question for me?”

“I can try.”

“Is it very common, this, uh, thing? I mean, is it something that’s happening because it’s the flavor of the month, or is it, I don’t know, has it been around a long time.”

“First, let’s call it by it’s name, Dominance and submission,” Zander said slowly. “Second, it’s inherent, it’s not a choice. For people like me it’s very difficult to have a relationship without it.”

“But, why?”

“Why are some men born attracted to other men? They don’t choose their sexual orientation. It’s the same thing. I have been a Dominant for as long as I can remember. It’s not a choice. It’s how I was born.”

“So, you can’t have a normal relationship?”

Zander was losing his patience. He didn’t blame her and he wanted to help her understand, but the last question was a fist in his gut.

“I think it’s time we parted company,” he said soberly, controlling his frustration. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

“I’m just interested, that’s all.”

“I can’t tell you anymore than I already have,” he finished.

Heather moved forward, passing him as she entered the hallway, and he followed her into the living room, retrieving her coat from the closet.

“Normal is a relative term,” he said quietly, holding it as she slipped her arms into the sleeves.

“Yes, I know,” she quipped.

“Quite frankly I think I’m the normal one. I don’t understand how you can live such a bland existence. For me, that’s not normal.”

She turned and faced him, a puzzled frown crossing her brow.

“I don’t see it as bland,” she said, shaking her head, “at least, not with the right partner. I guess we’re just different,” she sighed. “For what it’s worth, you’re the first man that’s held my interest in a long time.”

“If you change your mind and you’d like to experiment a bit, call me,” he offered tenderly.

She had become warmer, softer, and he could feel her defenses dropping.

“I can’t imagine it but thank you, Zander. I’ll remember that.”

And she was gone.

That’s it. That’s my last attempt in the vanilla world. It always ends the same and I’m not doing it anymore.

Walking out on to the terrace he picked up the dishes from the table and carried them into the kitchen. As he closed the sliding glass doors he remembered that Abigail had left him a voice mail, and moving to the desk in his study he picked up his cell phone, immediately noticing that there was a second message from a number that rang a vague bell, but wasn’t instantly recognizable.

“Hi Zander, it’s me, Abigail. I’m so excited, I meeting a Dom for lunch at Marigolds. He’s really cool, I really like him. I’ll call you later.”

Marigolds. Nice place. I wonder how it went. I’ll call her tomorrow.

Touching the screen to listen to the voicemail from the unidentified number, he was surprised to hear her voice a second time.

“Hi Zander, it’s me again. Anyway, I met him, and oh my gosh, you wouldn’t believe it. He lives in this really big, gorgeous house, and we spent the afternoon together, and I’m going to spend the weekend with him really soon. I think he’s kind of famous, you might even know him. His name is Connor Matthews. He’s very strict but you know I need strict. I’m in heaven. In case you don’t remember my cell doesn’t work very well in my apartment, so the number showing up is my home landline. If you want to call me back use this number. Talk to you later. Bye.”

Right, of course, her home phone. I should have recognized it. Well, well, Connor Matthews. Interesting. I’m not surprised he’s a Dom.

Turning off his phone he placed it on the charger, thinking about the Connor Matthews he knew of but had never met. He was a successful architect and held in high regard; Abigail could do worse.

He was about to head out when he saw his wallet. Pulling Gabriela’s card from behind his license he stared at her name, and for reasons he didn’t quite know he carried it with him into his bedroom. Stripping quickly he slipped between his sheets, turned out the lights, and left the fireplace dancing its flames.

Gabriela, where are you? I just know something’s not right. Call me crazy but I swear I can feel you thinking about me.

He stared out at the city for a moment before picking up his tablet and touching the button that closed the drapes. With the card still firmly in his grasp he closed his eyes, but sleep did not come easily. Restlessly he shifted positions, and as he finally began to drift away he saw her.

I’m here, please find me. Please, Zander, I need you.

Her voice was a thick echo, and though she was hidden by a dense cloud her emerald eyes were piercing the fog. He ran towards them, calling her name, and her hand unexpectedly thrust out to grab his. Pushing through the murky grey he stretched out his arm, reaching for her, but it disappeared like a hand sinking into the ocean depths.

Bolting upright, sweating and panting, he blinked his eyes open. His heart was pounding, and as he scanned the still, silent room, he tried to come to terms with the dream.

Switching on his bedside lamp he took several deep breaths, then rolled from his bed and padded into the bathroom. Running a hand towel under the cold water, he wiped it across his face, staring at his reflection.

“You have to do something. I don’t know what, but something. You won’t have any peace until you find out where she is and why she disappeared on you.”

G
abriela finished loading the dishwasher and stared out the window at the manicured backyard. Rose bushes, olive trees, and a green lawn that sat majestically like a rich, verdant carpet, made for an engaging picture. At the far end sat the storage shed where the gardeners kept their equipment. It looked innocent enough, but behind a false wall was the cage.

She had spotted the tiny spy camera the first time he’d thrown her in there, and knowing she was being monitored she’d immediately feigned comfort and ease. He’d left her for three hours, and in the dim red light she had hummed for a while, then sung Brazilian love songs in her native Portuguese before yawning and laying down for a nap.

Though Gabriela had been suffering, she would have appeared completely calm. Her ruse had worked, and he’d never put her in the cage again.

The first time he’d placed the blindfold around her eyes, gagged her and tied her to the bed, she’d pretended to be upset and begged him to let her go. Consequently he used that to punish her, never knowing she looked forward to the serenity and peace it afforded her.

It was his threat to harm her young nephew, Nicholas, that had controlled her. She simply couldn’t take the risk that Connor might make good on his hateful promise, but what Connor didn’t know was that her sister, Aveena and her husband, Thomas, took Nicholas to Brazil every year in October, and they always left on the fifteenth, staying for a month. It was already the seventeenth, and Gabriela could safely assume Nicholas was out of danger, at least for the moment.

Things in the Tudor house were questionable at best, and she was convinced Connor’s frustration with her had reached its peak. Though she had been methodically planning her escape, she believed she was running out of time.

Connor could only fire up an erection when she called him Master and claimed to need him and his money, but he’d only been successful the first week or so she’d been there. Ever since, though she’d be bent over, skirt up and wearing no panties, it didn’t matter how many times she’d repeat the words, he would end up screaming in frustration and marching away.

His other bizarre habit only lasted the first few nights of her captivity. She was made to wear a plain cotton nightie, open the top buttons to expose her breasts, and after tying her arms above her head he had slathered them with whipped cream and lapped it up. She’d hated it, and during a particularly grotesque episode she had snapped her head down on to his, viciously head-butting him.

Screeching in shock he had leapt backwards, then lunging forward struck her across the face. She had sported a painful bruise for some time, but he never attempted to devour her breasts again.

It had been weeks since he’d attempted any lewd attention at all, and while it was a relief it was also a worry. Would he simply let her go, or was there a greater threat?

The sound of the garage door snapped her from her reverie; it was lunchtime and Connor was home. His habits were chillingly consistent. Every day he would arrive at 12:10, sit at the table while she served him a small steak or chicken breast, steamed broccoli and brown rice. It had to be followed with a cup of coffee accompanied by steamed milk in a small jug, and during the silent meal she was required to stand next to him.

In the early days his hand would move under her skirt and he’d fondle her bottom, but even that had stopped. At the time she would close her eyes and imagine it was Zander caressing her, finding the idea of serving her handsome Dominant delightfully alluring. Escaping into her romantic fantasy, she’d been able tolerate the disgusting grope, pretending it was Zander’s tender, warm caress.

The sound of the powerful Porsche engine abruptly stopped, and a moment later Connor marched through the kitchen door and headed straight to the table. Gabriela was already taking his plate from the oven, and she hurried across to place in front of him.

“Permission to speak, Sir,” she said softly.

“What?” he snapped.

“It’s time for a grocery run, Sir.”

“The list?”

“Kale, apples, broccoli, milk, eggs, laundry detergent, bleach and there is only one steak left, Sir.”

“You’ll leave at 3 and be home by 3:45. Every minute you’re late will be ten minutes on the bed.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Don’t forget, you try anything and I’ll know about it, and that snot nosed brat will be the one who pays,” he snarled.

“No, Sir, I won’t forget,” she replied, hoping the fabricated tremble in her voice was convincing.

“Bring me the envelope,” he ordered.

Every two weeks he would give her $200 in a white envelope, and every time she shopped or picked up his cleaning the money was paid out, the receipt placed in the envelope.

It was kept in a kitchen drawer, and walking briskly she retrieved it and hurried it back to him, but he continued to eat, ignoring her until he’d finished, then leaning back in his chair he looked up at her. She was supposed to look away but she never did, and he had long since given up any attempts to make her obey the edict.

“Table,” he snapped.

Placing the envelope on the table next to him, she picked up his empty dish and cutlery and made her way to the dishwasher, then began to steam the milk for his coffee. When she returned he was holding two twenty dollar bills in his hand; the envelope was closed, sitting where she had placed it.

This was a shift in their routine. Normally he would count the money, check the receipts, and hand the envelope back to her. She felt a small flip in her stomach; something was wrong.

“Make this be enough,” he warned.

“Yes, Sir,” she dutifully replied.

“Remember, the cab picks you up at 3 p.m. and you’re to be home by 3:45.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“That means you tell the cabbie to pick you up at 3:35.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He placed the two $20 notes in her hand, and stuffing them in the pocket of her skirt she stood quietly as he finished his coffee. Rising from the table he grabbed the envelope and started towards the garage to leave, but at the door he stopped and turned.