Chapter One
She was being watched.
Watched by eyes hooded with thick, dark lashes and strong brows, like a bear’s. The unrelenting black of the pupils pulled her in, but that didn’t frighten Ros.
She’d never been lost in the dark. Quite the contrary.
The man was standing against the rail of Club Progeny’s mezzanine level coffee shop and nursing a beer. His ironed button-down shirt was light blue, the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. The shirt was tucked into belted jeans. She pictured his underwear as black brief shorts that hugged his ass. She was betting he had a superior one that would flex at the bee-sting kiss of a whip. He wasn’t a tall man, but he had broad shoulders and biceps that filled out the shirt. His mahogany-colored beard was neatly clipped, enhancing rather than obscuring the strength of his jaw and corded neck.
She inhaled. Despite the cocktail of perfumes, sweat and other provocative scents surrounding her on the ground level of the club, she vividly imagined the scent of his aftershave. She could do that. Tune out reality, bring the imagined into such sharp focus that it became real to her. It was a useful tool, professionally and personally.
Old Spice. If your grandfather hadn’t worn it, you wouldn’t exist.
Her lips curved at the remembered slogan. It would work for him. He looked like a complicated man with simple tastes. And he was fixated on her.
Or rather, her shoe.
It sparkled in its lightly bouncing position, because she had her legs crossed. He didn’t appear to be absorbed by it in the foot fetish kind of way, though the Italian four-inch heels could inspire that kind of devotion. The delicate leaf pattern of the silver uppers molded to the top of her foot. Gladiator style, they were called. The purple soles picked up the matching hue of the lace sheath she wore. The long sleeves, scoop neck and mid-thigh hem showcased her firm body and excellent legs. The liner beneath the lace was flesh colored, adding to the ways she could tease a man.
The shoes had come from a boutique in a tiny West Virginia town. The operation offered unique designs that looked like works of art. Unfortunately, the place had been on its last legs. She’d given the store an effective, wide-reaching online presence and increased their annual profits exponentially, with the side benefit of a nice bump in tourist traffic to the town. The owner gave her the shoes for free, a personal gift on top of what her marketing firm charged.
“Have you ever had trouble getting a man on his knees, Ros?”
The question brought her attention back to her companions. The three of them were sitting at a table in the socializing area, which still offered a premium view of the club’s spacious public play space. She cocked her head at the raptor-featured handsome bastard to her right.
“No. Because getting a man on his knees isn’t a problem. It’s an opportunity. I went by your building today, Matt. I think it was taller than when I saw it last. Don’t you ever get tired of showing off the size of your dick?”
“I need a little more space and breathing room than you do,” Matt replied equably. “We haven’t added floors, but they have reworked the landscaping around the base.”
Ros shot him an amused look. “No doubt. Manscaping can change size perception. Very clever of you.”
Matt chuckled, but his only response was to take a swallow of his Kentucky bourbon. It didn’t matter that they were sitting in a BDSM club and they were both sexual Dominants. Matt Kensington was never coarse in the presence of a woman. Not unless he had her in a state of near orgasmic torment and was whispering in her ear, telling her all the lovely, dirty things he was going to do to her.
“One of these days I’m going to drag a four-letter word out of you,” she informed him. “Bring you into the norms of 21st century male-female relations.”
“Those norms are overrated. All women should be treated with respect.” He swept his gaze over her, a compliment as well as a frank appraisal. “But particularly one like you.”
He was relaxed in his chair, his long arm draped along the back of Ros’s. The ankle he had resting on his opposite knee meant the bent knee brushed her thigh. The intimacy wasn’t inappropriate. They’d been friends for some time, and Matt Kensington was the type of man who exuded unconscious sexual cues. Along with more consciously applied qualities, such as dangerous authority, powerful coldness or a biting sense of humor, capable of cutting up an opponent as efficiently as a guillotine.
He was also deeply in love with his wife, Savannah Tennyson Kensington. Savannah was CEO of another Fortune 500 company. If her husband ever strayed—which would happen never times infinity—she was the type of woman who would gut him from balls to gullet with a letter opener.
A truth that didn’t conflict with Savannah being a 100% submissive who embraced her husband’s dominance.
At one time a strong businesswoman with a submissive orientation would have mystified Ros. She’d also once thought most male Doms needed to bend over a spanking bench and give themselves a taste of what submission at a woman’s hands was like. But time had taught her some compelling and often painful lessons.
They were all seekers. In their deep yearning to express themselves as Master and sub, toward one person alone until death do you part, Matt and Savannah had found one another. When a person found what they truly wanted and needed, particularly in this world, that demanded respect and acceptance.
Judge not, lest ye be judged.
After all, she didn’t particularly care to be second-guessed by assholes who thought a Domme was a woman who hadn’t found a man strong enough to top her the way she “really” wanted.
Her gaze slid back to the man on the mezzanine. He wasn’t looking at her like that. She wasn’t getting a full-on sub or Dom vibe from him, but definitely something intriguing.
She’d worn the high heels because she wasn’t planning on playing tonight. Well, playing hard, that is. But if she changed her mind about that and needed more stability—in order to do things like accurately throw a whip against a willing body—she had square-heeled knee-high suede boots in her locker. A smart woman always kept the right footwear options close to hand for life’s unexpected delights.
“I might have an ‘opportunity’ for you.”
That came from the other man at the table, Dale Rousseau. While not a businessman like Matt, he was every inch a Master. A retired Navy SEAL, he ran a local animal rescue, and was married. To Athena, another businesswoman and committed submissive.
Ros smiled. “I suspected this wasn’t a casual invitation. So what’s up? Professional or personal?”
“Professional first, with a personal possibility,” Matt said. “You asked me for recommendations to beef up your security for Laurel Grove. Dale has a man who could do that, and be a personal driver for you.”
She sent him a narrow look. “I need enhanced security for LG. Not for me.”
“The threat was made against you personally,” Matt said.
The men now looked grave. Determined. Protective. White knights, the both of them. “This sudden testosterone surge is making me feel faint,” she said. “Catch me if I swoon.”
“When you tell a gang lieutenant to stay away from his pregnant girlfriend, the hiring of a bodyguard is good common sense,” Matt pointed out. “Particularly when his gang has over a hundred thousand members in nine major U.S. cities, including New Orleans.”