There came another awkward silence.
“Thank you for coming in,” said Mistress Scarlet.
I rose and reached into my handbag. “Here are my…um…Victoria’s Secret.” I placed my lacey underwear on the table before Mistress Scarlet.
Cheeks burning, I backed away and headed for the door.
“Wait a moment, please,” said raven-haired, rising to her feet and making her way around the table.
I caught sight of her black leather thigh-high boots. The spiked heels appeared deadly. Elegantly, she closed in. This striking woman was the first dominatrix I’d ever met. She oozed a sexual confidence and her musky perfume of fresh cut flowers and amber wafted over me; the heady scent of Dior’s Poison. Yet strangely enough there was something comforting about her. The sense that she could handle pretty much anything. Or anyone.
“What did Tara tell you exactly?” She straightened my collar, which must have been sticking up the entire time.
I glanced over at Mistress Scarlet and Ms. BlackBerry, while fumbling to get my collar under control. “Tara mentioned you’d see this as a gesture of my seriousness to…”
“Go on?” she purred the words like a panther, pretty to look at but ready to pounce; a dominatrix’s allure.
“Tara told me it got her the job.”
She leaned in closer. “Tara took them off in front of us.”
I wondered why Tara had left that out.
She gestured to my skirt. “You have panty lines.”
My gaze found the door and I held back a cringe. I’d merely popped into the mall on my way here and picked up a brand new thong and ripped off the tag. Though I’d never have gone pantyless no matter how much I needed this job. I wasn’t ready for anything like that.
These women specialized in the darker side of sex. If I wanted to work here I’d have to prove I could handle whatever they threw at me. Studying the faces of my female jury, I’d clearly failed to convince them I could live on the edge. Instead, I balanced precariously on it, ready to fall from the dizzying heights of lasting embarrassment and land squarely on my ass.
“I’m willing to learn.” I ran my hand through my hair, conceding it was over. “I want to learn.”
Panther peered under her long black lashes at me.
“You never told me your name?” I said.
“Charlotte.”
“I’m from Charlotte.”
“You told us.”
Yes, I had, and now I’d gone and embarrassed myself all over again.
“Call me Lotte,” she said.
There was a ping on Ms. BlackBerry’s BlackBerry and she peered up. “We’ll be in touch.”
Lotte lingered close, as though testing my personal boundary. “I’ll show you out.”
We made our way down a long hallway. The artwork was stunning; dark gothic paintings lined the walls on both sides and I wished there was more time to look at them. Whatever hung in the air in that room had taken on a life of its own. Perhaps it had been the combination of their richly textured perfumes, the kind I could never afford, mingling with the warrior confidence of these women.
I wondered how they’d all ended up here. What had driven them to this lifestyle choice of black leather and getting up to goodness knows what in dark, sexually charged dungeons. The kind they apparently had here on the lowest level. There was something so wicked about this whole punishment and pleasure thing, and I was fascinated by what really went on.
After we went out another door, back the way I’d come, we headed toward the elevator. Lotte punched the down button to call the elevator. Upon her neck twinkled the largest diamond I’d ever seen.
She twirled her fingers around the delicate chain. “From a very naughty client.”
My eyebrows rose before I could stop them. “What did you do before this?”
“I was a pharmacist.”
“This pays better?”
Lotte burned a look through me. “I don’t do this for the money.” Her gaze drifted over to the other elevator. The one right behind the secretary’s desk. “I’m a healer.”
“Where does that lead?”
“That’s where we take our clients,” she said huskily.
My spine tingled with anticipation. I discreetly took in her attire. Those thigh high boots and her fitted leather corset that creaked seductively when she moved; the way her pale cleavage rose above the delicate lace edging. The spicy scent of incense wafted through the air and music flowed out of hidden speakers; a deep, foreign chanting that was so soothing, so enticing, it made my stomach quiver. It was all so forbidden.
Slowly, she curled a strand of my long hair around her fingertip. “Are you a natural blonde?”
“Yes.”
“Beautiful,” she said. “You look like you’ve stepped right out of a William-Adolphe Bouguereau.”
“Um…”
“A painter.” She smiled softly. “He knew how to portray the soul of a woman. He’d have perfectly captured your delicate frame, those deep blue eyes and your rosebud lips.” She leaned in closer. “Only the old masters could have painted your innocence.”
An awkwardness followed.
After stepping into the elevator, I held my breath until the doors closed. Mistress Lotte oozed a sensuality I’d only ever read about. Those last few minutes left my head spinning, as if I awoke from a dream. I took in the expensive full length mirrors, plush carpet, and state-of-the-art buttons. I glanced around for a camera but couldn’t see one.
My Mini-Cooper was parked between a silver BMW and black Jaguar. I moaned when I saw oil trailing from beneath my car, staining the concrete. I hoped my Mini would at least start and I’d not bring unwanted attention by having to rev the engine to get it going.
Lingering for a few minutes in the fresh air, I took in all that grandness. This Hollywood Hills club even intimidated from the outside with its chic brickwork design, an ornate facade rising up as a majestic statement of privilege. Had I really believed a girl like me could ever get to work in such an elegant place like Enthrall?
What the hell had I been thinking?
Get Enthrall here!
SNEAK PEEK OF CORRUPT KINGDOM BY AVA HARRISON
CHAPTER ONE
Cyrus
I’m the king. This is my castle, and if I had a throne, I’d be fucking sitting on it.
I set my cognac glass on the staircase’s banister, watching it teetering near the edge. Below me, one of my subjects holds court in my mansion, no shits given, but once I descend the steps, he’ll remember his place.
I own him.
I own everyone here.
Officially, my bank is the wealthiest private bank in the world. Unofficially, it is the gateway to the underworld. Every penny earned by criminals passes through me. Unlike most of the banks on Wall Street, I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. The money that lies in my vaults is dirty as fuck because I don’t cater to a normal clientele.
No.
Mine is of a different breed.
The lowest dregs of life.
They are drug dealers. Gunrunners. They are the cartel and the mafia. At times, they are even the shady politicians who run countries, and the trust fund babies who fuck up.
To them, I’m their savior. No more hiding bags of cash under their beds. Nope. Instead, they all come to me to clean their money and, once it’s spotless, grow it.