The Switch

Copyright ©July 2013, C.C. Denham

Cover Art by Christine Denham

Edited by A.C. Torgerson

Produced in the US

The Switch
is a work of fiction. The
characters, events, dialogue, and locales found within the story
are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as
real. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, either
living or deceased, is completely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other
people. If you would like to share this book with another person,
please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re
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purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of
this author.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Sneak peek of
The Beard

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Marion craned her neck over her shoulder to
check the seam of her hose in the floor-length mirror. Much as she
loved the effect of French silk thigh-highs, they weren’t her usual
fare for this sort of thing. She was more of a leather bodysuit
kind of girl - comfortable, supportive, protective, and sometimes
just a little terrifying, bodysuits were simply more practical for
her purposes. The black leather mini she’d ‘borrowed’ from Tam’s
wardrobe looked fantastic, but left her feeling exposed and
vulnerable.

That’s rather the point
, Marion
supposed with a smirk. Pin-up girls showed skin, even the renowned
“bondage queen” she was imitating for the night. She wasn’t merely
attending Grayson’s birthday masquerade as dominatrix, after all,
but as his dream girl.

“Typical bad-boy bollocks,” she muttered,
adjusting the garter clip on her left thigh.

She adored the man, but he was such a
cliché. He actually prided himself on it, living the part of the
spoiled rebel playboy from the time they were in high school and
well past college. An extremely wealthy, good-looking son of a
senator and lawyer, Grayson Jones took full advantage of his
appeal. Wherever he lived, whatever circles he moved in, he was
quickly and consistently tagged as the man to catch.
‘The
battlefield,’
he called it. And Marion - she was little more
than his sparring partner.

‘
Was’
being the key word. After
tonight, bets were pretty solid even that would come to an end.

“May as well go out with a bang,” she said
on a sigh, turning to face the mirror.

Frowning, she smoothed the newly-cut fringe
that ended just above her eyebrows in a glossy under-curl. She
still wasn’t sure she liked it, but it could have turned out much
worse. The staff at the club would get a kick out of it, at
least.

The silence broke as her cell phone buzzed
against the glass top of her dresser, louder and more obnoxious
than a bargain bin vibrator. Marion picked it up and groaned when
she saw who it was. No use avoiding her business partner’s nagging,
though, so she took a deep breath and answered.

“Hey, Tam.”

“Is it a done deal?”

“I only got in a couple of hours ago. I’m
seeing him tonight,” she replied with as much calm as she could
muster.

“You do understand what’s at stake, here? We
could lose everything.” Tam’s voice was hard and tense.

“I am aware of that,” Marion said, trying
hard not to grit her teeth. She busied herself with the front laces
of her corset.

“Oh, so you knowingly put the club and
everyone involved at risk? If it was anyone else, you would be so
fired.”

But Marion wasn’t anyone else. She was
part-owner of
Ten,
an exclusive BDSM club with health and
privacy standards that made most high-end fetish clubs look like
common brothels. It was the latter of those standards that she had
royally screwed up.

“You’re not wrong,” she replied with true
remorse. “I’ll fix it.”

Her eyes slid down to the manila folder on
her dresser. Inside was a simple contract termination form. And
under that, another, slightly-worn folder with a red tab bearing
the name,
Jones, G.

“Honestly, Marion,” Tam continued, “of all
our members… Not that this is okay in anyone’s case, but you know
who his father is--”

“Tam, if I’m going to do this, I need to get
going,” Marion interrupted. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She ended
the call and turned all notifications ‘off’.

Idiot. Coward.
It was a mantra,
repeated over and over in her head for the past three months.
Almost four, if you counted the weeks between her last encounter
with Grayson and the morning she discovered his membership
application to her club.

She should have said something then. Should
have denied his application due to conflict of interest and breach
of confidentiality. Instead, she convinced herself she was acting
in the best interests of her
friend.
Hers was the best BDSM
club on the east coast. People didn’t come to
Ten
unless
they were serious about their needs. She couldn’t turn him away and
risk him winding up in some sub-par rathole.

But, she could and should have come clean
and told him what was going on. She probably would have, if not for
their drunken tumble at the Fourth of July bash.

With sickening predictability, her gaze
drifted to the small, silver-framed photo next to her jewelry box.
It was one of many, but she made it a point to keep only a couple
of them visible. In this one, Grayson was shirtless and typically
gorgeous, his light brown hair longish and mussed. He was grinning
doggedly at the camera while carrying Marion piggyback-style.

She’d bet him the shirt off his back that
Tampa would win the Stanley, even though she was rooting for
Calgary. She still had the oversized sweatshirt from that day,
although it was faded and tattered in places by now.

Pathetic
was a much older mantra when
it came to Gray. For as long as she’d known him, they’d been
‘buddies.’ Sometimes raunchy, frequently controversial, but always
just friends, despite the sad, deluded torch she’d carried.

Okay, maybe not deluded - she knew it would
never happen. Even if he got over his rich, bad-boy image, opened
his eyes and realized she was an attractive, warm-blooded female,
he’d freak the hell out if he knew she was a Domme.

That’s what she’d told herself for
years.

Then July Fourth happened. She still didn’t
know how or why - it’s not like they’d never been shitfaced
together alone before. Yet there they were, making out in a dark
corner of her friend Reese’s loft while the trendy and rich ooh’ed
and ahh’ed at fireworks.

Shaking her head, Marion tucked the picture
into the back of her underwear drawer. She was risking their whole
friendship on this. But it was just as well - she could no longer
stomach the thought of him with someone else, especially at her
club. And they hadn’t even spoken since the Fourth. Regardless of
how the night went down, she was finishing this once and for
all.

“She’ll
come.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking
about.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Fuck off.” -- Lazy, insouciant words with
no real animosity, steeped in the warm smoky timbre of a fine
Scotch whiskey.

The vintage Springbank was a gift – Will’s
annual tradition. Grayson smiled inwardly as it slid past the lip
of his glass, over his tongue, heating his throat and chest. The
tension eased a bit.

At least one thing was perfect tonight.

“Thanks, man.” He tipped his glass at his
friend.

Will nodded in response and leaned against a
pillar. They weren’t close, but at times like this, Grayson almost
felt like Will knew him better than anyone else.

“So, what’s the plan this year?” Will
asked.

Shrugging, Grayson glanced out the French
doors to the line of high-end cars filling the drive. “Corbin
wouldn’t say. Maybe he’s surprising everyone this year.”

Will sighed and nursed his Scotch. “We’re
getting too old for this, you know.”

“Pretty sure you’ve always been too old for
this,” Grayson replied.

In their small group of friends, William
Averson was actually the youngest by a year. But with his
understated, impeccable taste in everything; his quiet demeanor and
unwavering sense of responsibility, he always seemed more like
their tolerant old uncle than ‘one of the guys.’

“Well, he’s already done strippers, at
least.”

“True.”

Will chuckled. “You know, it took me two
months to find exact replacements for Mother’s drapes. Thank god
she was never here long enough to notice the oil stains.”

Grayson made a half-laughing sort of grunt
that he hoped was appropriate and turned his attention back to the
window. They never spoke of the stripper incident. It had been
Corbin’s eighteenth birthday gift to him.

Too much alcohol, too much bare flesh, and a
holy shitload of stupid.

The idiocy of youth could excuse things like
stained drapes and rowdy behavior, but some memories had a way of
souring until they permanently tinged a friendship.

“
S’matter, Willsy? Can’t get it
up?”

The redhead at Grayson’s feet chuckled
pleasantly around his cock.

Will gave the brunette in his lap a gentle
nudge of dismissal. “I appreciate your efforts, Gray. Just – not in
the mood.”

“
Are you ever?” Grayson snorted.

“
For that?” Will cast a dry glance at the
head that was now bobbing furiously in Grayson’s lap. “Not
particularly.”

“
What do you mean, ‘for this’?” His voice
hitched as the girl’s incisors grazed the head of his cock
again.

“
Forget it.”

But he didn’t forget. Fortunately, the vague
conversation had taken place in relative privacy, but it changed
everything. Once he pieced it together, he couldn’t quite look at
Will the same.

Grayson wasn’t a total asshole; he never
breathed a word to the others. But the standard, easy crassness
that bounced between guys was strained. It was impossible to joke
about women and sex around Will after that, knowing what he knew.
Or suspected, anyway.

“Idiots,” Grayson mumbled apologetically.
“We were such a spoiled pack of assholes.”

Will chuckled and gave a flick at the heavy,
lush drapery framing the doorway.

Time had mellowed the uncomfortable tension
between them, but it did nothing for the shame. Especially now that
Grayson had his own secrets. How the hell do you apologize for
being an ignorant homophobe, particularly to someone who is
definitely not “out”?

A loud thump jarred his thoughts. The ornate
double doors at the head of the ballroom had swung open, bouncing
carelessly against the walls.

“Let the festivities begin!” a familiar
voice boomed with overdramatic grandeur.

Will smirked at Grayson and proceeded to
pour two more tumblers of Scotch. Grayson cast one more glance out
the glass doors before greeting his oldest and best friend, Corbin
Harrington.