Velvet Submission (2 page)

The man closed his eyes and shook his head. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but all right. Three months probation. During that time you will use absolute discretion, and Celia Jenner will not have access to my club."

Megan let her smile bloom. "Celia won't gain access to your club
through me
. It's up to you to keep her out the rest of the time, darlin'." She laughed out loud at the sour look on his face, turned on her four-inch heels, and sauntered through the door.

*

Brady sat back and dug the heels of his hands into his closed eyes as the buxom blonde walked out his office door. He had to hand it to Rose Red, as he'd come to think of her. She certainly knew how to play the game. He'd walked away from Ryder International nearly ten years ago without a backward glance, and had thought only his former partner, Marcus Worthington, knew his history.

Now he realized he should have expected Miss Megan Jamison to recognize his name. Her father was a wealthy Virginia business mogul who moved in the same social circles as his family. It made sense she'd know who he was … or who he used to be.

She had him by the balls, but he actually believed her when she said her intention wasn't to blackmail him. She'd invaded his club frequently with Celia, and since he made a career out of watching that little pain in the ass, he'd done some watching of Megan as well. A part of him admired her fire, while another part resented the hell out of it.

Still, he had to admit that she would be a popular Domme; she was tall and curvy as hell. Large breasts and long legs and flowing blonde hair… Yeah, there were going to be a lot of men, and women too, for that matter, falling all over themselves to do her bidding. He hoped they knew what the hell they were getting themselves into with this one. Because, there was one thing Brady Ryder knew, and that was when trouble came knocking. Megan Jamison didn't fool him for one second with her husky, soft-spoken southern accent. She was trouble with a capital T.

Chapter Two

May 30th

Megan looked around her newly decorated room on Velvet Ice's third floor with deep satisfaction. She'd finally completed her three months of probation, and all the resources of the club were at her disposal, including the use of a private and exclusive room. The walls, a deep twilight blue, contrasted beautifully with the whitewashed wooden equipment that filled the space. There were quite a few bulky pieces set throughout the room; the only obviously missing item was a bed. Megan didn't need a bed, though. She wasn't here for sexual satisfaction. Megan
never
mixed sex and her Domme life.

For her, being a Domme was a way for her to take back control. As the pampered and beloved only daughter of a powerful man, Megan had learned early that her place was to fall in line with her Daddy's plans. He knew the best school to gild the magnolia, the best clubs for her to socialize at, and the best boys for her to date. Megan trailed her finger along a beautifully appointed St. Andrew's cross and smiled. Somehow, she didn't think this was the kind of club her daddy would approve of.

When she'd finally gotten the nerve to explain she wanted to become a nurse and that she was leaving Virginia to attend Madonna University in Michigan, her daddy had been furious. How dare she want to leave her family, to have a career instead of marrying an eligible bachelor handpicked by him? He had her life all planned out for her, and for her to try and change the script at this late date was unacceptable.

Thank God for her Nana Stella. That genteel lady had enough fire to keep her son, Megan's daddy Beau, in line, and enough money to give Megan the freedom from her family she'd so desperately needed.

She'd never been a passive person, or a biddable lover, but Megan believed her Domme persona was born from the last year she'd spent arguing with her father about her future. Wandering in to Velvet Ice the first time with Celia and Kendra had merely put a name to the urges that had been growing in her for years. Dominating a submissive gave her a much-needed release from being under her daddy's command. For Megan, holding a submissive's very will in her hands was even more alluring than sex. And it was a natural role for her; she had a flair when it came to delivering the correct amount of pain, of pleasure and punishment to her submissives.

Domination wasn't about sex for Megan, but she knew it was for most of her subs and, while she never got off herself, she would, on occasion, allow her submissive to have an orgasm as a reward for following her rules perfectly. Of course, perfection was very, very rare.

Walking to the wall, Megan began to arrange her numerous baby blue floggers on the appropriate hooks. She hung them first by length, then by width, and then moved on to her collection of straps, again in her favorite color of baby blue. A company in California made them especially for her. All her paddles, crops and even butt plugs, were her signature baby blue.

An armoire along one wall held her play clothes. The outfits were meant to tantalize her subs, giving them a hard-on before she ever opened her mouth. Megan knew her body well, and made sure her costumes played up her strengths. Her breasts were large, so her tops were low cut, allowing a generous view of her cleavage. Her hips and derriere were full and round, so skin-tight pants and skirts hugged her ample curves. Megan loved how it felt, walking through the club, ass swaying. She loved feeling every eye on her, hypnotized by the swing of her hips. She loved feeling like she
owned
the room and everyone in it.

Knee-high boots were another favorite. At five-eleven barefoot, Megan was used to towering over everyone around her. In her role as a Domme, that height gave her another advantage, that of intimidation. Besides, any sub too greatly cowed by her height and physical gifts wasn't a sub worth her time.

She'd even whipped a female sub once or twice, if their Masters requested it. Since she wasn't having sex with subs, it didn't bother her in the least, though she preferred male slaves. The bigger and badder the male, the better, as far as Megan was concerned.

All in all, she decided, Velvet Ice was perfect for her, a perfect sanctuary for her deepest needs. Within these walls, she was in control of not only her own destiny, but also of reality for those she allowed to serve her.

She placed a few favorite toys in a beaded satin bag, and checked her reflection in the mirror. Her silky blonde hair fell in soft curls around her shoulders. Her make-up was expertly applied and finished off with cotton candy-colored lipstick. Her nails matched her lips, and she kept them the perfect length to tease without causing serious damage.

Her costume for the evening was a long pink dress that hugged her curves, showing them off to perfection. While it covered her from neck to wrists, a deep, keyhole neckline bared a generous amount of cleavage. The tight fit of the skirt made a dramatic slit necessary, and Megan knew that with every step she took, an equally dramatic amount of satiny thigh was revealed. For a final touch, she buckled on her favorite gold stilettos. They looked like pure, agonizing sin, but they were actually the most comfortable footwear she owned.

Megan picked up her bag and slunk toward the door. It had been a hellacious week. She'd pulled two doubles at work, and it seemed the whole of the city was celebrating the country's men and women in uniform on Memorial Day by drinking themselves sick and then playing with pyrotechnics, automobiles or boats. She'd cleaned up more fireworks burns over the last four days than in the last four months, and if she saw one more baggie holding a finger or toe, she thought she just might retch.

Tonight she wanted to
play
, and play hard. And she knew it would be an especially good night since
he
was working.
He
being Gregori the Hot, head of Velvet Ice security, and almost irresistible submissive. There was something about the huge man that called to Megan. Since the first time she'd seen him, blocking her way to the fabled third floor, she'd wanted to pet him, to feel all those large, sculpted muscles jump under the whisper of her touch. It was purely an ego thing. He was a big, powerful man; she was attracted, and she wanted him on the other end of her flogger.

Checking her lipstick one last time, Megan scooped up her bag and stepped out the door and into the fantasy.

*

She was here again. Gregori leaned against the wall in the third floor public play area, eyes locked on his golden goddess. He'd tracked her from the moment she'd come from the private rooms and claimed her favorite table near the balcony. She'd ordered her usual red wine and sat watching the dance floor below her.

Tonight she was wearing pink. An insanely hot candy-pink dress that clung to her breasts. Her long shapely legs crossed and her skirt fell to either side, offering him a tantalizing view of pink garters and soft white thighs. She trailed one finger lingeringly around the rim of her wine glass, and his dick pressed hard against his zipper as he was reminded once again of the night he'd turned her down, the night he'd already been committed to serve Master Dorian and his lovely wife-to-be.

He shivered at the memory. It hadn't been the first time he'd watched her at the club. It hadn't even been the first time he'd spoken to her. But it had been the first time she'd really seen him as a submissive, as a potential play partner.

She'd approached him slowly, a long, tall cat moving gracefully through the crowd. She hadn't yet been a member, but she'd acted liked she owned the place. Gregori watched her drink, and savored the memory.

She walked right up
to him, and Gregori automatically cast his eyes down to the floor. Long elegant fingers brushed aside his shirt collar just enough to reveal the plain black collar that marked him as a submissive.

"So, sugar, you enjoy taking direction from a woman who knows what you need." It wasn't a question and her husky southern accent licked down his spine like fire.

"I do, Mistress."

"Mmm. I thought you might." She trailed her finger the width of his shoulder, and he didn't even try to control the shiver that followed in her wake. A brief, sultry laugh escaped those glossy pink lips, and he shivered again. "Where are you from, Sug? That lovely accent certainly isn't from around here."

Gregori was trying desperately to maintain control in her presence. She'd always affected him, but now, without his role as security and babysitter to stand in his way, every instinct he owned screamed for him to be on his knees at her feet. He'd never regretted a commitment more than he did at that moment.

"I am from Russia." His mouth was dry, and he had to clear his throat before he continued. "From St. Petersburg."

"You sound as pretty as you look," she murmured, giving a little hum of pleasure. Damn, he wanted to raise his eyes and look at her face up close, see if she was truly as spectacular as he remembered.

She bent to his ear. "Tell me, Sug, do you like a bite of leather across your fine ass?"

"Yes, Mistress," he rasped. The tip of her nails lightly scraped the back of his neck, and he shuddered in reaction. His balls drew tight as she continued to torment him.

"Do you get off on a little pain? Strapped down, spread wide and at the mercy of a woman?"

"Yes, Mistress." The image she described exploded in his brain and all the blood in his body went straight to his dick. This woman was a fireball, beautiful and dangerous at the same time.

"Would you enjoy that with me, sugar?" Her nails teased the top of his spine, dipping tauntingly beneath the collar that marked him as hers for the asking.

"God, yes, Mistress," he hissed, thinking that, if she didn't stop touching him, stop talking to him, he'd come in his pants and be useless to Master Dorian, and the Master's tender little sub.

She held out a hand to him and waited, and Gregori wanted to howl with frustration.

"To my very deep regret, Mistress, I am promised elsewhere this evening." The words tasted like ashes in his mouth.

"Is that so?" He risked a glance up and, yes, she really was as beautiful as he remembered. She focused in on Master Dorian, who had his submissive collared and leashed, and was heading in their direction with an intent expression on his face. "Ah, I see," she murmured. "Well, sugar, you have a good night." Her warm breath tickled his ear and she turned on her heel and walked away.

That had been two years ago, but the memory was burned into Gregori's mind forever. He'd played with other Mistresses, been
strapped down, spread wide and at their mercy
, but no other had captured his imagination the way his golden goddess had. He'd lost count of how many nights he'd lain in bed getting himself off to the memory of her words, her nails teasing over the nape of his neck.

It had only gotten worse since Brady'd granted her club membership.

While at the club she was Mistress M; as head of security, a position he'd taken with stunned honor a mere eighteen months after he began working at the club, he knew she was Megan Jamison, best friend to Celia Jenner and Kendra Moore, the sweet-faced fiancee of Velvet Ice's events coordinator, Sinclair Martin. More, he knew she was trouble, if only to his peace of mind.

Since her admission to the third floor, Megan always arrived alone and left alone, which suited Gregori just fine because he was overwhelmed by unjustified bouts of jealousy every time the woman even looked at another man. She had yet to take anyone to her private room, but every time she led a submissive to one of the public play areas he suffered the torments of the damned. He wanted to rip the fucking flogger from her dainty little hand, and beat the clueless ass that'd caught her attention into a bloody mess.

He wanted to feel the sting of her lash on
his
bare skin while she talked to him, taunted him, and owned him with that sexy southern drawl. It was both heaven and hell having Megan Jamison on the third floor.

Gregori was a sexual submissive, true, but he wasn't a submissive man by nature. Yes, he craved the pain and ecstasy to be found at the hands of an experienced Mistress, but he also craved the battle, the gentle, inexorable bending to his Domme's will. And, complicating things, he'd come to crave one particular Domme. And, dammit, spending his evenings watching the woman he wanted to serve take another male to play with was the worst kind of torture.