Cherise Sinclair - The Dom's Dungeon

“I want you to remain in this position—what was your name?—ah, MacKensie. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” She couldn't manage more than a whisper as the magnitude of her terrible blunder struck her harder than his blows. Oh God, what have I done? She'd not only broken the Exchanges contract, but more… Her neurotic need to open doors had destroyed her new start. How could she get a job as a vet out here if he turned her into the police? Or he could do something worse…

After Exchanges sent Fontaine's bio, she'd checked him out on the Net. He was not only richer than God, but he mingled with the elite in Seattle society. He could easily destroy her reputation. Who would hire her if he denounced her?

Footsteps moved away and returned. Then his hand pressed down on the small of her back. “This won't feel good, but it will help the pain and redness.” She had only a second to wonder what he meant before he began to massage lotion into her skin, right where he'd hit her. As pain flared back to life, she jerked, arched, tried to kick—and got a swat on her burning butt.

“Lie still.” The sheer authority in his voice made her force herself back down. “Good girl.” His touch gentled, and the pain eased, leaving only a hot throbbing in its wake. “Up you come now.” He lifted her off the bench. Broad hands gripped her upper arms, steadying her when she wobbled.

After a breath for courage, she looked up into a strong face and piercing blue eyes. His short dark brown hair lightened to gray at the temples. He had sharply chiseled features and a stern jaw with a cleft in the chin. A white, tailored shirt with sleeves rolled up displayed muscular forearms.

Still holding her by one arm, he cupped her cheek, using his thumb to brush away her tears. “Almost over, pet,” he murmured, then stepped back. “Kneel and apologize.” His voice had turned cold, eradicating for a frozen moment even the thought of arguing.

But kneel? Did he think he lived in some feudal century or—her mind flashed to the BDSM clubs she'd visited and the submissives at their master's feet. Frak, she'd not only found the Dom's dungeon, but she'd found the Dom to go with it.

Still…if this guy thought she'd kneel, he could think again. She gave him a scathing look and headed for the door. Could she arrest him for hitting her? Probably not, considering she'd broken—

“MacKensie.”

She glanced back.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “If you leave, I'll report this through legal routes. If you stay, perhaps we can discuss alternatives.”

What kind of alternatives would a man demand? Oh she knew exactly what, and a cold hand squeezed her chest. She wouldn't be a whore again. Never. But stalling couldn't hurt. Maybe his anger would cool a little. “What alternatives?”

He pointed at the floor in front of him. “Apologize.”

Fine. She started back across the room and almost groaned when the room blurred. No food since breakfast, too long in the Jacuzzi, and this… Her legs buckled as she tried to kneel, and she landed painfully on her knees. She gritted her teeth against the pain.

He bent over and lifted her face. “Are you all right?” he asked softly.

She nodded, confused. Beat me and then make sure I didn't hurt my knees? Was the man bipolar?

After caressing her cheek, he stood. And waited.

Damn him . She forced the words out, the taste of the apology bitter in her mouth. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have opened a locked door.” She stopped.

“'Please forgive me, Sir,'” he prompted.

Oh honestly . Her hands tightened into fists. If she thumped him in the balls, she could run and… And what? Escape onto the street bare-ass naked? Assuming her legs even held her up, because right now that wasn't looking likely; she could feel fine tremors sweeping through her. “Please forgive me, S-sir.” Her voice broke at the last word.

“Very nice.” He paused. “You have my forgiveness.”

Relief swept through her so powerfully that she shuddered. Now if he'd just let her leave.

He walked across the room—maybe she should make a dash for it?—and returned. A warm, incredibly soft blanket wrapped around her.

She pulled it closer and pushed to her feet—too quickly. Cold sweat broke out on her skin, and a hum filled her ears. She took a step and squinted, hoping to see a chair. Sit. Must sit. Not faint . Her legs gave out.

He scooped her up as if she weighed nothing. Shifting her in his arms, he winced and said under his breath, “Damned knife,” then pulled her against his chest. Carrying her. No one had ever carried her. Ever. Even when she'd been little. Her foster mother hadn't believed in coddling children.

She didn't even feel unsafe being held so high. His chest was solid muscle, his arms like iron bars under her shoulders and legs; the world probably would end before this man dropped her. He walked over to a chair she hadn't noticed in the corner of the room and sat down.

When her weight landed on his thighs, her butt burned, and she jumped. What in heaven's name was she doing? “Let go of me.” As she pushed against his chest, the blanket dropped away from her, baring her breasts. Dammit.

“I'll let you go when I know you can walk across the room without passing out.” His arm tightened, keeping her in place. When his hand rose, she forced herself not to cringe. Her fingers curled into claws to rip him apart if he tried to grope her.

He huffed a laugh. “Quite the little cat.” His hand slowly lowered to stroke her hair with a disconcertingly gentle touch. “Gently, pet. Take a minute to get your bearings. Then you can get dressed. And we'll talk.”

Oh, she heard a definite threat in that last phrase. But as the warmth from the blanket and his body sank into her, her muscles melted as if the trembling had used up all her energy.

He leaned back in the chair, settling her more comfortably. “Tell me. Has anyone ever spanked you before?”

“No.” Her cheek rested against the softness of his shirt. She could hear the even thud of his heart under her ear; her pulse still raced twice as fast. “Never.” And it would never happen again. Yet the memory of his hand holding her in place, the feeling of being overpowered, made her feel weird. Lost.

“Have you been around BDSM before?”

She tried to push away, and he eliminated her struggle to move before it hardly began. She glared at him.

“No, you're not getting up yet,” he said. “I want to see some color in your face first.”

Her teeth ground together, but she wasn't totally stupid. The little flickers of blackness at the edge of her vision and the numbness around her lips and fingers said he was probably right. She'd pass right out before she got to the door, and wouldn't that be the perfect end to this disaster? She pulled the blanket tighter and prepared to wait him out.

His scent surrounded her, a rich blend of exotic cologne and masculine fragrance that blended with the scent of leather. His voice deepened. “MacKensie, have you been around BDSM before?”

“I went into a club three times.”

“Ah.” Alex felt an odd satisfaction at her answer, almost as much as he felt holding her in his arms. One visit to a club, maybe two, he could attribute to curiosity. A third time? Probably she'd discovered a need that BDSM satisfied…or might satisfy.

He shifted her so he could see her face better. She was a sweet armful, curved in all the right places. Her big brown eyes were darker than Butler's but could hold the same pleading look, one that pulled at his heart and a Dom's need to make things right. Everyone had hidden places and dark secrets, but this little vet's eyes held something shadowy and sad. “What did you do when you were there?”