White Collared Part One: Mercy (8 page)

“That’s because I do.” Their gazes locked, knocking her off-kilter.

Jaxon appeared years younger than thirty-five, dressed in a relaxed pair of faded jeans and a simple black T-shirt that spread tightly across his broad chest. The suits she’d previously seen him in had hidden the masculine beauty underneath. He wasn’t built like a rich businessman. At least none she’d ever known. If she’d met him on the street, she’d peg him for a construction worker. Tall, lean, broad-shouldered. And she could drown in his expressive eyes.

“Your house is beautiful,” she managed to say, heading toward the winding staircase. “Umm . . . we should probably get started.”

A stoic blank slate replaced his smile. There was an air of duty in his stride as he climbed the steps to the second level of the house. He hadn’t spoken a word about returning to the scene of the crime, but how could it not haunt him? The scent of bleach was so thick it stung her nose and brought tears to her eyes. A tangible reminder of the violence it had scrubbed clean. But the stench of blood and death lingered in the memory, which neither bleach nor time could erase.

When they reached the landing, Jaxon stopped, his body taut with tension and his hands fisted at his side, showing he wasn’t quite as immune as he pretended to be. Instinctively, she rested her hand on his shoulder blade in an effort to comfort him. The hard muscles of his back rippled under her fingers.

“We don’t have to do this here,” she said.

They could have met at the law firm or in his hotel room, but he’d insisted on using his dungeon to give her the full effect.

He didn’t respond for what felt like minutes. Then he murmured, “Yes, we do,” and proceeded down the hallway.

The walls were decorated with bright, colorful paintings of landscapes. She didn’t claim to know the first thing about art, but this felt sterile and impersonal.

In the trailer where she’d grown up, the walls were covered with photographs of her parents throughout their marriage and every class photo of Kate through her freshman year of high school.

After her father had died, it had pained her to roam the halls with the constant memory of what she’d lost. But eventually, she was grateful she had documentation of a happier time. She clung to those memories like a toddler to a security blanket. The photos had given her the strength to find new dreams. She may have been victimized, but it didn’t mean she had to become a victim.

They passed several closed doors before Jaxon took out a key and unlocked one. She steeled herself, having seen a sex dungeon only on the news—a tiny, dark, decrepit basement with a couple of menacing whips hanging on the wall—and she was pretty sure the descriptions in the erotica she’d read were made up to sound sexier to the readers.

This dungeon was on the second floor of the house, and, from what she’d witnessed so far, there wasn’t anything dark about his home. Or, surprisingly, the man himself.

Weren’t Dominants supposed to be all broody and intense? Jaxon didn’t fit the mold she’d envisioned of a man who enjoyed the BDSM lifestyle. Yes, he’d just lost his wife and there was somberness in him, but even so, she’d never call him dark.

He was surprisingly . . . normal.

He pushed open the door and then flicked on the lights. His body blocked the view of the room, but the clean scent of pine greeted her. He strode inside, pivoted, and, with a crook of his finger, beckoned her to cross the threshold as if offering her a taste of forbidden fruit. She worried her lip between her teeth, her entire body trembling. Exactly why she wasn’t certain. But she did know, once she stepped inside, her life would never be the same.

The room looked nothing like she’d imagined. Rich caramel-colored hardwood floors warmed the space, as did the crème-colored walls. Except for the gorgeous wooden St. Andrew’s cross and what, at first glance, appeared to be a gynecological examination table, she could find the remaining furniture in any living room. A chaise lounge made of brown leather. A round, cushioned chair. A long couch with throw pillows. The beautiful armoire in the far corner of the room drew her attention, and she moved closer to admire it. She fingered its intricate flower etching. “When I thought of a dungeon, I thought of . . . well, a dungeon.”

“I prefer to call it a playroom.” He stalked across the floor until he stood immediately behind her, so close his warm breath caressed her neck. “What were you picturing? Chains attached to stone walls, concrete floors, and instruments of torture?”

She shivered. The scent of pine intensified, and she realized the entire room smelled like Jaxon. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, but yes, I’d thought you would have whips and crops.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty of them, but I prefer to keep them organized in the armoire you’re admiring.” She stilled, the heat of his chest on her back. “I built it with my own two hands. Same as the St. Andrew’s cross. Gives me an extra thrill to know something so innocent can cause so much pleasure. So much pain.” His hair tickled her cheek as he whispered, “Go on and open it. You know you want to.”

Her stomach clenching, she gripped the armoire doors but couldn’t force herself to see what waited for her inside. Why was she afraid?

She trusted he wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want. The problem was . . . she didn’t know what she wanted.

Liar.

The problem wasn’t that she didn’t know what she wanted. The problem was she shouldn’t want it. Especially not with Jaxon.

Curiosity won. Lightheaded from the anticipation, she tugged open the doors, her heart galloping faster than a racehorse.

Her eyes scanned from top to bottom. Three shelves. Several iron hooks bolted into the back of the armoire.

All empty.

She spun and pushed against Jaxon’s chest. “You played me.”

A slight smirk formed on his face. “A little. Just a kindergarten version of a mind fuck.” He stepped back, and the smile melted away like an ice cube on an August day. “Actually, the police confiscated all of it for testing. To see if it contained evidence of . . .”

She itched to cradle his cheek in her hand. Instead, she closed the doors to conceal the memory of what he’d lost and whispered, “The armoire is beautiful. You’re very talented.”

His face morphed into stone once again. Unreadable.

He trudged to the couch. “The first lesson I need to teach you is how to stand and present yourself. Did you ever sing in a choir?”

Thrown by the sudden chill in the room as well as the change in topic, she faltered. “Sure, my freshman year of high school.” Before her father died, she’d loved to sing. Had even beaten out a couple of the older students for a solo in the Christmas concert. By the end of the school year, she hadn’t bothered to show up for class.

“Do you remember how you were expected to stand?”

She joined him in the center of the room in front of the U-shaped couch. “Shoulders dropped and pushed back, feet spread apart, don’t lock the knees.”

“Do it.” He issued his command quietly, but there was a harsh edge to it that she’d never heard from him. As she complied with his bidding, tendrils of heat swirled in her core and her breasts grew heavy with want. She waited for further instructions, praying he wouldn’t notice her hardened nipples pressing against her bra. “Now bow your head slightly, keeping your gaze on the floor in front of you. If we’re in a scene, I’d expect you to clasp your hands behind your back, but while we’re exploring the club, feel free to keep them relaxed at your side.”

She slowed her breathing. “Will I have to be naked?”

He chuckled. “No. The first time we go, you can wear a black skirt, the shorter the better. Do you own a corset?”

“Yes.” She’d bought the corset and matching panties to surprise Tom but had never found the courage to wear them.

“Wear the corset for your top. Comfortable shoes since you may be on your feet for a long period of time. Hair down.” He moved behind her. His hand brushed the side of her neck, his fingers playing with one of her blond curls. “You have beautiful hair.”

Her lids fluttered shut. “Th-Thank you.”

“Have you ever been tied up? Bound during sex?”

“No,” she whispered. She couldn’t speak any louder.

His cheek’s stubble rubbed against her neck. “Never had a lover pull your hair or bite you or spank you with the back of his hand?”

Her pussy quivered, liquid desire dampening her panties.
Was it possible to climax simply from listening to his voice?

“Do you fantasize about it? Tell me the truth. I’m not going to judge you. You’re always safe with me.”

Safe? She was two seconds away from forgetting she had a boyfriend. To regain control, she broke from her submissive position and turned. “Who hasn’t fantasized about it?”

He frowned. “When we are in a scene, you will refer to me as ‘Jax.’ Understood?”

The disappointment on his face sent a sharp pang in her chest. “Yes, Jax.”

He moved closer. Close enough for her to feel the erection hidden by his jeans. “What is Kate short for? Katherine? Kathleen?”

“Katerina,” she answered without thinking. No one in Detroit knew her as anything other than Kate since she’d legally changed it at eighteen. How had he made her forget to lie?

“Like you, beautiful and unique. When I use it, you’ll know we’re in a scene.” She nodded, unable to speak. He cradled her head in his hands. “Now tell me the truth. Do you fantasize about a man taking control over you sexually?”

She couldn’t look away from his brown eyes. Couldn’t resist answering. “Yes.”

He arched a brow. “Yes, who?”

“Yes, Jax.”

“Have you ever used nipple clamps?”

They tingled at the suggestion. “No, Jax.”

“A vibrator?”

The lawyer in her wanted to challenge the relevance of these questions, but like she was under his spell, she felt compelled to answer. “Yes, Jax.”

“What kind?”

Kind? Was he kidding?
“I don’t understand.”

“You are an innocent, aren’t you? Clitoral, vaginal, anal, dual?”

Dual?
Her pussy throbbed. She’d rub her thighs together if it wouldn’t clue him in as to how much his questions aroused her. It had been a long time since she’d been an innocent, but these questions made her feel like one. “Um . . . It’s just your average purple vibrator.” She added teasingly, “It’s shaped like a Popsicle . . . Jax.”

“I like grape Popsicles.” He licked his lips. Was he imagining its taste? Or hers? “Have you ever been handcuffed?”

A memory sparked and her chest tightened. The phantom sensation of steel pinched her wrists. She tried breathing through her nose like Nick had suggested at the police station. “Not for sexual purposes.”

“Why then?”

She tried to pull away, but his hands held her firm in his grasp. “I don’t . . . I don’t talk about that.”

Soothing her, he drifted the back of his hand over her cheek. “It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me . . . yet.”

Her throat grew dry, and she licked her parched lips. Anger rose to the surface at the suggestion that he’d expect her to reveal her past. She didn’t talk about it with anyone. Not even Tom. “Why all these questions? I thought you were going to train me.”

“Training isn’t only physical. It’s mental. Emotional. Even spiritual. At Benediction, it won’t be good enough to
pretend
you’re my submissive. You will have to
be
my submissive.
In every way. You’ve indicated you have some knowledge of BDSM, and so you understand it’s a power exchange. A negotiation of parameters. Those items you may not be ready for at the moment but are not completely off the table are your soft limits. I may push those boundaries at some point. But I will not challenge you on your hard limits. You will entrust me with power over your body, and I will honor your wishes. Keep you safe. My pleasure derives from yours. While it would arouse me to parade you naked through the club wearing nothing but jewelry dangling from your nipples, I will only choose scenes I know will please you. These questions may seem personal to you, but soon I’ll see and touch the most intimate parts of your body. Parts you may not have even explored. As my sub, you’ll have to trust that everything I say and do has a purpose, even if you’re not aware of what it is. If you can’t accept my terms, we’ll find another way to prove my innocence.”

“But I’m not submissive.”

Was she? His words penetrated those protective boundaries she’d carefully constructed and accessed her most personal desires as if he’d plucked them out of her conscience. The ones she thought about at night when she lay alone underneath the cool sheets and explored her own body, picturing herself tied spread-eagle to a bed by a stranger. Helpless. Defenseless. Empowered. But those were her fantasies. In reality, she wouldn’t trust anyone with that amount of power over her.

“Don’t lie to me or yourself. Any Dom worth a damn would see your submissiveness from miles away. Believe me, I was drawn to you from the moment you slid into the interrogation room, so desperate to please your boss, you wouldn’t even ask for a chair.”

Her body shuddered at the idea that this man desired
her.

“No bodily fluids. No needles or permanent marks. And no bondage. Those are my hard limits.”

“If I hold you down with my hands . . .?”

“Maybe,” she said with a sigh, the fire between her legs burning brighter at the thought. “It’s a soft limit.” There was a limit to the amount of control she’d give. She wouldn’t place herself in a position where she’d be completely helpless, no matter what she fantasized.

“You think you know what you’re going to see at Benediction, but I can’t possibly prepare you for the seductive debaucheries on display. When Cole DeMarco opened his home to the kink community fifteen years ago after the state closed the public club he belonged to, he wanted a place where people could safely participate in whatever their kinky hearts desired. It’s not solely a BDSM club. It’s a den of iniquity. As long as you’re over eighteen and pay the membership fee, all your darkest fantasies can be brought to life. Whether it involves bondage, sadomasochism, voyeurism, exhibitionism, roleplaying, or simply a foot massage, nothing is off limits.” His hair caressed her cheek as he whispered in her ear, “Tell me. What’s your desire?”