Bared to Him (8 page)

Phillip hadn’t wanted her to leave upset. He might be a Dom, but he was also a gentleman whose mother had demanded he treat the fairer sex well.

He hoped she’d allow Tony to see her home. It mattered to him that she was safe.

Thirty minutes later, as he was nearing his house nestled on a dozen acres far south of Denver, his cell phone rang. He answered on the first ring. “How is she?”

“When I picked her up earlier this evening, she asked if she could sit up front with me, said being in the back was too pretentious. When I drove her home, she sat in the back. She answered a few questions, said she’d had a good evening, but she sure didn’t make any small talk.”

“You made sure she made it into her building?”

Tony didn’t respond.

“Sorry,” Phillip said. “I seem to be saying all the wrong things tonight.”

“You’ve got a talent, boss.”

“Have I fired you recently?”

“Not this week.”

“You’re fired.”

Tony was quiet for a moment before saying, “Don’t drink the whole bottle. You’re not that big of an asshole.”

Phillip was still thinking about her when he poured a single malt in his home office. His computer sat there, the email program open. Since all his messages also appeared on his phone, he knew she hadn’t tried to contact him. He checked anyway.

He sipped the fine liquor, feeling the burn all the way down his throat.

All the way home, he’d told himself she would go on to scene with others, but the idea of anyone but him marring her beautiful skin made him feel icy, controlled anger.

The look on her face when the evening was ending haunted him. Her face was incredibly expressive. He’d seen her frown indicating shock. She’d obviously fought for control over her emotions, and he’d seen her shoulders slump slightly. Scant moments later, her back had stiffened. She’d clearly accepted and agreed with what he’d said, and her blue eyes had darkened with resolution. Her emotions were there, raw, on the surface. She’d never make a good poker player.

He realised that was what he’d liked best about her. Until this moment, he hadn’t seen it himself.

The women he’d been with were fake, from their whitened smiles, to their highlighted hair, and their surgically enhanced features, and all of them had their sights set on becoming the future Mrs Dettmer. Lacey—was that her name?—had ordered new furniture for his place in anticipation. A few had gone along with his BDSM predilections, but only with the hope of wearing a ring, not his domination.

He recalled that Myka had left the club wearing his collar. That thought made his cock tighten.

Another realisation followed. The moment they’d met and experienced sexual attraction, she hadn’t known who he was.

Phillip downed the rest of his drink in a single gulp.

* * * *

Tuesday sucked.

Myka downed her first cup of coffee. It didn’t help.

What had she been thinking, agreeing to go out with a guy for the first time on a Monday night? Oh, right. She had been thinking Phillip Dettmer was a regular guy. She hadn’t been thinking he was a Dom and a billionaire. Or that he’d turn her emotions inside out, leaving her feeling as raw mentally as she was physically.

Her ass still burned from his plug. Her pussy was still tender from the way he’d fucked her. Her throat was a little sore, her nipples ached, her left buttock had a small bruise from his punishment spanking, and one of the cuffs had chafed the inside of her wrist.

She’d been up half the night tossing and turning. She’d overslept, was running a half hour—or more—late for work, and now she’d walked into her bathroom to see his collar sitting on the vanity.

She stared at the strip for at least a minute before picking it up and fastening it in place.

It brought back a host of memories, despite her midnight resolution to never think of him again. In her mind’s eye, she pictured him kneeling between her legs, saw images of him rolling up his cuffs, affixing her to the spanking bench, forcing her to kneel in public, and securing the collar around her neck before attaching a leash to it. Everything she’d asked for, he’d generously given.

The orgasms had made her splinter. But the way he’d read her, been ruthlessly uncompromising, and demanded her complete honesty had left her in turmoil. She’d never experienced anything like that with any other man. Having had a taste, she wanted more.

Why couldn’t she be rich and beautiful, or, better yet, why couldn’t he be a frog, rather than a prince? She would have been attracted to him regardless of his income or accomplishments. The chemistry—she had to believe—had been as real for him as it was for her, otherwise he would have never propositioned her on the elevator.

She sighed deeply.

Myka Monroe was a pragmatist. And even Master Phillip had told her not to waste time feeling sorry for herself.

Last night might have been all she’d ever hoped for, but it was over. There were other Doms out there that she could play with. She’d seen a few at the club, even if Phillip hadn’t introduced her.

She wanted a Dom. If it wasn’t going to be Phillip Dettmer, it would be someone else.

Resolved, she removed the collar.

* * * *

“Tell me what you need, Sir,” Daniella said.

“A good night’s sleep,” he reluctantly admitted. What was he, an idiot? Here he was, with a beautiful, dark-haired, perfect submissive, facing him, hanging from a St Andrew’s cross. He held his favourite flogger, and he was thinking about a blonde-haired, blue-eyed neophyte. And he hadn’t stopped since Monday night, three days ago.

This morning his secretary had brought in a small box, saying it had been dropped off by the receptionist on the twelfth floor. Once he was alone, he’d opened the package. The collar he’d placed around Myka’s throat was nestled in tissue paper, as if it were a gift.

For the right woman, he supposed, it would be.

He’d run his thumb over the leather for a moment, remembering it on her, with the leash attached. He recalled the image of her kneeling, looking up at him with trust, fear, and lust.

Thoughts of certain women typically didn’t stay with him long, which was why the paparazzi labelled him a playboy and a few other less-polite terms. That was when he’d made an appointment with Daniella. He’d work out his need to dominate a sub and forget Myka in the process.

It hadn’t worked. “I apologise,” he told Daniella.

“May I be bold, Sir?”

They’d played together for so long, he figured she would say whatever she wanted.

“The rumour mill is buzzing with the news you were here with a sub and that she ran out.”

“People should mind their own business,” he said, jaw tight.

“Where you’re concerned, Sir?”

He unfastened Daniella’s wrist before bending to unshackle her ankles. He was nose to chest with her, they were both naked, and he had no discernible physical reaction. An unused pile of condoms were on the counter, as if mocking him.

“I know you, Sir. You watch your subs intently. So my guess is you didn’t frighten her off with a beating. After all, you spanked her in the bar and she still went to a private room with you.”

“Do I have any secrets?” He stood.

“Just one.” She rotated her shoulders beautifully, and that made her breasts rise and fall enticingly.

But he remained uninterested.

“Whether or not you’re going to go after her,” Daniella said. “If I have a vote, I say yes. Any woman who can throw you off your game is worth having.”

“Who said I’m off my game, subbie?”

She looked at him pointedly, flicking a glance to his crotch. “Someone who knows, Sir.” Without asking permission, she began to dress.

He moved behind her to tighten her corset, cinching it until her waist was ridiculously small. Usually, even after he’d ejaculated, performing this small act for her aroused him. Tonight it was nothing more than an ending to an unspectacular scene.

She shimmied her way into a miniskirt, put on her pumps, then leant forward to kiss his forehead. “Good luck, Sir.”

Once again, he was alone in the playroom.

He faced a conundrum. He could go home alone, check his email unnecessarily, have a solitary drink before jacking off in the shower. Or he could go after what he wanted.

Resolved, he packed up his bag, dressed, then headed outside into the cool Denver air. He tossed the leather bag in the back of his SUV before climbing behind the wheel. He turned on the seat warmer and looked at the box in the centre console.

* * * *

This was pure craziness.

Myka lay on the floor of her loft, a yoga mat beneath her, staring at the instructional video playing on the television. No matter how she tried, her body would not do
that.
She’d enjoyed a few of the stretches, but contorting into that position, lying on her back, grabbing her ankles with her back arched towards the sky was most definitely out of the question, even if it was good for her.

She had felt stiff for two days after playing with Master Phillip, and if she were going to continue an exploration of BDSM, she wanted to be more resilient, and she desperately needed to relax. She’d barely slept all week, and exhaustion was claiming her normal sunshiny disposition.

This programme wouldn’t help much. She needed something more basic than the beginner’s DVD.

The doorbell rang. She frowned. She rarely had visitors drop by unexpectedly, and tonight she’d been planning an early night, a long bath, definitely a large glass of wine, and a hot fantasy while she masturbated with her new nipple clamps and plug-in vibrator.

Master Phillip had provided plenty of material to fuel her fantasies, and tomorrow she was supposed to have coffee with a Dom to see if there was chemistry. She was trying her best to move on from Master Phillip, but she thought of him hourly, and he was still the source of her sleepless nights. He’d turned her on and made her crave the mind-bending experience of BDSM.

The doorbell rang a second and third time.

With a sigh, she muted the television volume and slowly got to her feet. Yoga was supposed to make her more flexible, but so far it had just left her sore. Yes, definitely a night for a hot bath.

She opened the door and stood there in shock.

Billionaire Phillip Dettmer stood there, his hair a bit mussed, the top two buttons on his shirt undone.

“Uh…” Manners deserted her. “What do you want?”

“Are you going to invite me in?” He smiled.

“No,” she said.

“No?”

He sounded as shocked as she was. Even though she was chatting with other men, eradicating thoughts of him was impossible. She didn’t give a damn that he was one of the richest men on the planet. She had connected with him emotionally, and that was what had mattered most. “You promised to lay bare my innermost secrets.”

“Go on,” he said, as if they were in his domain, with him being in total charge, rather than him standing outside her door on the third floor of a converted warehouse building.

“Well, here it is…” She took a breath and looked up at him. Seeing the set of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, and inhaling the scent of his power nearly undid her. She wanted to be ordered to her knees and craved his domination. But the hurt she’d endured when he sent her away ran deep. It wasn’t just a bruised ego, it was emotional devastation. “I won’t play with you again.”

“Because…?”

“Damn you, because it meant too much to me. I can’t be like other women. I can’t separate out my emotions from my reactions to you and your flogger. I can’t give myself over to you totally while we’re in a scene and then go back to my regularly scheduled life.” A lump formed in her throat, and she resolutely pushed away the traitorous thought that playing with him under his rules was better than not having him at all. But what happened when he fell in love, or when she saw a picture of him online with another woman? She reminded herself she couldn’t endure the emotional rollercoaster of being involved with him. “I’m sorry, Mr Dettmer, but you need to go away.”

She tried to close the door, but he placed his foot in the threshold. He was so much bigger and stronger, there was no way she could force the door closed.

“I want five minutes of your time.”

She scowled.

“If you still want me to go away after that time, I promise you’ll never hear from me again.”

“You’re used to getting what you want.”

“Please,” he said, instead of rising to her bait.

“You can’t sit down, I’m not offering you a drink, I don’t want you to touch me, and I won’t pretend I want to hear anything you have to say.”

He didn’t pause before saying, “Agreed.”

Damn him for being so reasonable.

She stepped back, and he entered, closing the door behind him. He didn’t lock it, and he didn’t attempt to move her deeper into the room.