Cherise Sinclair - The Dom's Dungeon

His shrewd gaze dropped from her face to her fisted hands. “MacKensie,” he said in an even voice. “I've never paid, traded, or bargained to have sex with a woman. I'm too old to start now. Sit down.” The command had a touch of the whip this time, and her knees dropped her in the chair before she had a chance to think.

She rubbed her hands on her jeans and frowned. If he didn't want sex with her, then what did he want? And why did his voice give her quivers inside?

“So?” she managed to say, striving for a hint of defiance and failing miserably.

“You need a place to stay during your interviews.” His eyes seemed too blue, too intense. “Am I correct?”

How much did she want him to know? Would admitting this make her more vulnerable? “It would be useful,” she ventured.

Elbows on the arms of the chair, he steepled his fingers, contemplating her over the top. “I have a problem with just letting you go and not warning Exchanges or the community about your behavior. And I don't know you well enough to assure myself it won't happen again.”

Oh no. The iron in her spine started to fold. All her worst fears…but why had he said persuaded? “So you suggest what?”

“An exchange of sorts. I would let you stay here, and unless you prove to be untrustworthy, will not speak about your behavior.”

“What do you get in return?”

“Let me explain. Over the past month, I took a submissive to a few parties and a BDSM club and then stopped calling her. She apparently has become…fixated on me, and nothing I've said has deterred her. She feels that since I haven't taken on anyone else, it's just a matter of time before I return to her. I think if I appear to be in a relationship, she will give up and move on.”

Mac stared at him in disbelief. Rich, handsome, exuding a power that should have women buzzing around him like flies. “You want a girlfriend?”

His deep laugh went through her skin and squeezed her chest. “Absolutely not. I want the appearance of a girlfriend. A submissive lover, to be exact.”

“Me?”

He nodded. “Perhaps we can solve our problems together in this way.”

“No way.” She shook her head. What a horrifying thought.

“You have an interest in BDSM.”

“No, I don't,” she said automatically.

His brows drew together, and his blue eyes darkened as if a rain cloud crossed the sky. “MacKensie, the first thing a sub learns is not to lie to her Dom.”

“I'm not your sub.” Just the thought sent chills through her. She'd seen the way the Doms in the clubs treated their subs, handling them as if the subs had no say over their bodies. She shivered. This man would be no different. Yet she could still feel his arms around her, how he'd held her against him.

“The thought of being my sub appears to frighten you,” he murmured, “as well as arouse you.”

“Right,” she said sarcastically. Like she even knew what arousal felt like? Sex was always for the guy, not the girl. She scowled when his gaze dropped to her chest. “That's not true.”

“You may not want to acknowledge it, but your body is interested. And aroused.” As if aiming a pistol, he pointed a finger at her chest.

She glanced down at her tits and frowned. Under her thin bra and T-shirt, her nipples blatantly poked out. Aroused? Me? And yet her body did feel different, as if her skin had become more sensitive all over. This is just not happening . “I'm not going to have—to fuck you. Forget it.”

He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine, reining in his overpowering presence and giving her a chance to breathe. “Ah. You're uncomfortable with the idea of sex. Perhaps we can work around that. What if”—he smiled slightly—“no fucking were involved?”

“Let me get this straight. I'd follow you around, looking all wussy—with no sex—and you'd let me live here for the next two weeks and wouldn't destroy my reputation.”

One eyebrow tilted up. “Nicely put. However, I'd expect true submission from you, MacKensie.” He rested his forearms on his thighs and pinned her with a stare. “That's quite different from being wussy. That's giving control to me—control over everything for certain occasions.”

The room felt awfully hot, and her heart raced as if she'd run laps for an hour. “What occasions?”

“When at my club. At any party I take you to. Whenever we're with my friends.”

Not all the time, then. Could she let him boss her around for two or three hours? With sex out of the picture, this might be doable. A trickle of hope eased the tightness of her stomach. But all that control. She tried to remember what had happened in the BDSM clubs. Oh frak . “No whipping or any of that stuff, right?”

He leaned back. “I have a list we'll go through together. But I will expect you to bend over backward to please me, so unless there's something on it that is past your endurance…”

With a mighty yawn, Butler stood up and wandered over to sit next to Fontaine's feet and laid his big head in the man's lap. Mac watched as the lean hands ruffled the dog's ears, scratched under the collar, and then stroked Butler's side. The dog's tail thumped against the floor.

She frowned, feeling a tug at her heart and a decrease in her wariness. Could anyone who loved that ugly mutt be all bad? Don't be stupid, Mac . Even mass murderers adored their pets. And yet… No sex, her reputation undamaged… Ack, her reputation. Dear Lord, she couldn't do this.

“What?” he asked, even though she hadn't said anything.

“I plan to start a life here, work here. Being your…whatever… It's too… I can't afford to damage my reputation.” And God, she knew how important that was.

“Ah. A fair concern.” He nodded. “I will not ask you to”—his flashing grin was devastating—“act as my whatever anywhere except with a few discreet friends or at Chains, which is a private club. Anonymity is part of the contract, and the members value their reputations.”

Well. But could she really do this? “A trial period?” she offered.

He nodded. “Fair enough. Tell you what. If you do a really fine job and Cynthia gives up, I'll make some calls and shove some influence your way.”

Oh sure, like Mr. Big Shot would know the vet community. “Thank you,” she said politely.

Chuckling, he rose. He gave her his hand and pulled her to her feet. “The foundation I oversee helped start both of the county's no-kill shelters and the city's feral-cat program. Once a year we sponsor a fund-raising dinner and dance to benefit all the pet charities in the area. As it happens, the dance is in two weeks, and just about every vet in the city attends.”

Her mouth dropped open. This was just what she needed. Oh God, could this possibly work?

She'd planned to leave the house early the next morning before Mr. Fontaine—Alex—came down to breakfast. But when she walked into the kitchen, she realized from the smell of coffee and the cup in the dishwasher that he'd already been there and gone. Maybe he felt the same need to escape that she did.

Oh that would be the day . She rolled her eyes. That man wouldn't run from anything. Nope.

As she made a fresh pot of coffee, she breathed in the heady fragrance of the aromatic grounds. No cheap coffee for this household. A few minutes later, she poured herself a nice full cup and walked into the sunny breakfast nook. Skirting the antique table and chairs in the center of the room, she chose the couch under a window with a magnificent view of Puget Sound and the mountains turning pink with the rising sun.

When she sat, her still-tender bottom touched the cushions, making her squeak, then scowl at the unwelcome reminder of yesterday.