Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) (10 page)

I’m sitting here, across from Jax aka the Honorable Jackson Carter but I’m low key. Can’t tell him I had lunch with GOP frontrunner and tech hardware magnate,
The Beck
in SoHo earlier today. Nor can I relay my recent visit to a campaign office in Brooklyn with Secretary of State Meg Winston this morning and yesterday. Or the day before at ex-President Frank Harmon’s Montana ranch when his stepson pulled out of the presidential race—again. My life is composed of dots along the map that only my administrative assistant manages to keep track of. But even Nora is at her wits end and told me she wants to hire an intern to help. The past week is a blur and in the middle of a dance club, I relinquish my need to micro manage my staff.

I text Nora,

“Fine. Hire someone. But you take care of the details.”

Tomorrow and Sunday, I’ll do pseudo campaigning in Newark and Brooklyn. Country club GOP glad-handing and super PAC stroking aside from the lucrative golf games. Then on Monday, I’ll be racing under the radar. A ride out to Queens. Santo is holed up in a safe house to avoid retribution. Our meetings are always held in out-of-the-way locations, but he’s off the grid more so than usual. One of the lieutenants of the Gulf Cartel got busted last week—a huge load of women and weapons. After I deal with the Saint, it’s on to JFK, and back to Boston.

It’s all on the
q.t.
and I’m running on fumes. Inside my head the pressure builds, a throbbing icepick to my temple. I might be tight with Jax and Kurt—but I don’t discuss my absolute plans for The Saint and PanCorp with either. With the Bloomberg news, I’m skating a cliff and ready to flameout.

Out of necessity, I compartmentalize the people in my life, same as I do with the personas I’ve cultivated. Jax is in command at the Wheelhouse
.
Sometimes the only real house in my life. At this rate, I could use a solid week at our club, far removed from the Capitol.
Except, I’m minus a submissive
. Or a pro.

I swing my gaze back to the woman on the dance floor. A waterfall of wheat-colored waves accentuates her delicate bone structure. I flex my fingers, imagining the feel of her silky hair in my fists. What I’d give to have
her
waiting for me in a dungeon. The fact that she’s a bondage virgin poses no problem; actually, I could use the challenge to unwind. The one aspect of the dom life that melds with my own is the initial hookup. Breaking in a submissive is meticulously meditative if done right. But how can I wrangle this pipedream?

This will be history in the making if I recruit a sub from a public place. And if Jax gets wind of my thoughts, he’ll give me a rash of shit over a sliver of innocence we both know is nothing more than a prick tease. For men like Jax, hardcore dominants who command and control the submissives they own, she’s hands-off. Lying cocksucker that I am, I’m forced to subscribe to the same tedious rules in playing the Dom/sub game. But tonight, that game is wearing thin, unless I do something insane like kidnap the girl.

Jax and I, along with the other men at this table are business partners. Two others—Wesley and Jude are absent. Jointly, we walked away from vanilla years ago and have made a bundle by opening the Wheelhouse. As the owners, we’re all classified as diehard Doms (and one Dominatrix). Another seamless masquerade of mine. Two of my partners are into edgy if not experimental S & M. One tops from the bottom. Another is a switch. Three are divorced. One might be married…I slide my gaze across the table. Confirmed by the wedding ring on his finger.

And me, I’ve developed a specialized niche. It requires secrecy and why I bought into the Wheelhouse. What goes on in a Dom’s dungeon is not discussed. It’s true enough that some of my partners allow club members free access by way of a viewing window. Sure, there are moments that I’ve permitted a few members to observe—but it’s more a quid pro exchange, of course.

As business partners, our collective experience is a declaration that we don’t dick around. We maintain control in every aspect of our lives and that is a dom facet I adhere to out of necessity. Our public image and our dungeons don’t intersect. The façade that’s pushed: we aren’t apologetic about the truth. Truth being subjective, relative, and something I routinely manipulate.

At the House, a selling point that members buy into is we’re brutal in how we maintain our stone-cold domination. More PR bullshit, but it affords me a place to bring clients for my cottage industry. So much that five years ago I found the location and scouted out business partners. Together, we fleshed out the details required given our joint resources and requirements, and the Wheelhouse concept was born. We opened the House as an exclusive underground luxe bondage club. And committed to a set of operational policies that prohibit recruiting chicks in random places. I don’t openly buck the rules. Why? It’s easier to break them silently.

Yet tonight, clearly I’m not thinking with my head. Well, not the one above my shoulders. My muscles constrict into rigid cords and it feels like I’m going to lose it if pushed. For my sanity, I could use a release.
One hard, deep fuck
.

Watching this young woman, I assess what I can do and how fast. There’s a private hallway off the dance floor that is used to access the club owner’s furtive dungeon onsite. He’s the representative of the 14
^th
District, and wants to be the newest
House
member. I’m sure he’d be up for a little quid pro and I’m wondering if I can get the keys. It’s risky. I’ve got to either stop this erotic fantasy of what I’m devising, or keep this insane idea of tasting that girl under wraps. I imagine spreading her legs and having my way with her for one night. The things I hunger to do to her fill my head. I haven’t felt this keyed up over a chick in years.

Nothing might come of this, I remind myself. The woman could be here with a date or husband, but why is she dancing like
that
. Alone?

Doesn’t look like the kind of girl anyone has tied down. But damn, she needs to be. I’d relish being the man who indoctrinates her to dark proclivities she probably doesn’t even realize exist, except in movies or books. Watered down versions at best. Definitely, there’s something achingly familiar about her. She doesn’t look old enough—or jaded enough—to be an operator in some high-powered career. She might be an actress or a model, but I can’t be sure. She doesn’t act like the typical trophy date. Not in how she dances, r
otating her hips
…

A man sidles up next to her. My diaphragm constricts and instinctively, I ball my fingers into fists.
Keep moving asshole
. The dumbfuck moves on and I’ve made my decision
.
My hunger to connect with her overrides my common sense.

Atticus Stone~
It Only Gets Better

“I’M HEADING OUT,” I say, downing my drink. Crazy doesn’t begin to describe the level of intoxication running rampant in my veins from watching the blonde bombshell.

“Where’s the fire?” Noah replies. “Tuck, you just got here.”

“Jax has other plans tonight. Don’t you?” I rib him, knowing full well he’s contracted two subs and has got a private jet on standby to take him back to D.C. Back to our club for the night.

“Let the pussy go.” Jax follows up with, “He’s got to get his beauty sleep. Can’t have the prettiest of the senators with dark circles under his eyes.”

“Actually, I’ve got a blind date waiting. So if you four pricks don’t mind.”

Believing that I’m pulling their chains, they all laugh. Even Kurt seems to accept my levity.

“Better than your self-imposed celibacy,” Jax snorts, eyeing me critically. He doesn’t say anything else—no one does.

What can they say? I got royally shafted and took a break, trying to figure out my future. It was a cover and one I used to justify several absences last month when I attended to family business. The last being a run to Tamaulipas near the Mexican border. A face-to-face glad-hand with a Gulf Cartel drug lord and the Saint got complicated during a shoot-out.

Without an actual sub on contract I took advantage of Angela Warner, one of our members when she nearly self-detonated her political career. I used her situation to fabricate a pretext for needing a hiatus from my Wheelhouse duties. As if I’d been backstabbed by a sub and I’d played it to the hilt. Easy to assert Warner two-timed my ass when one of her real doms ended up dead. The other concealed his involvement, and so what if I just happened to use their circumstances to my advantage. Warner’s now a former club member—manipulative and manipulated—and strangely enough, she’s doing great as a senator.

But I tell myself that we’re nothing alike. Beyond an alibi and a defense for why I stopped offering up Dom services at our club, I peg Warner as
persona non grata
.

Covering my ass and covering my tracks are becoming a full-time endeavor and preoccupation. I still take part in the running of our club and tonight, I feel the itch to push aside dealing with business of any sort other than owning the woman wearing the white dress.

“Are we good?” I look from Jax to our partners.

Ethan leans back and surveys the club, directing his attention toward the dance floor, and suddenly I feel a twinge knife my chest. I don’t want his eyes or anyone’s eyes on that woman. He squints but doesn’t do more than lift a brow as he swings his gaze back to me. “Yeah. This place is happening. No doubt it’s classy. So, do we accept the congressman or not?”

Jax nods as does Noah. I stall as if I’m on the proverbial fence. “I’ll scope out what’s happening at the bar. Listen in on what’s being said. Ask a few questions. The congressman has got to agree no more dungeon action onsite. If he shuts that door, and there’s nothing being talked about, I’ve got no problems with him.”

“Good idea,” Noah says. He was a D.A. before becoming a senator. Cynical to a ‘T’ and redefines ballbuster.

“Enjoy.” I stand and loosen my tie, then reach into my pocket and remove a pair of concert tickets. “Happy Birthday, cocksucker.”

Jax has a thing for jazz. Good jazz, and he smiles. “These are right nice. Near impossible to come by,” he drawls, his voice brimming with a Texas twang, and I laugh.

“Later,” I say in parting.

Walking away from the table, I spot the woman moving to the side of the dance floor and that asshole is back. Only now, the jerkoff has latched onto her arm. I lengthen my stride, aware that me punching out his lights isn’t a plan.

When I reach her, I order the shithead to stand down, covertly showing him my piece. With a Glock in hand, I’m doing my impression of…
Vince.
Holstering the gun, I clench my jaw. Why is it whenever you need a bodyguard, they’re nowhere in sight?

“You’re quite a dancer,” I go with glib and rattle off the first thing I’d noticed—not what I’m actually fantasizing about involving my mouth and her breasts.

She thanks me and I immediately pick up on the tint of Boston Brahmin, but that fact fritters, vanishes as do all the ideas within my skull. It’s her eyes—I’ve never seen eyes that crystal arctic color, and it’s my turn to say something.
Do something
. Come up with a plan that goes beyond trading stares. I’ve got to move us out of the line of sight from the table. She agrees to come talk to me, and I can’t resist touching her. I imagine sucking each of her erect nipples into my mouth as I fist her hair. And don’t ask me why, but I’m in the mood to thoroughly spank some ass—namely hers.

The feel of her satin smooth skin has my nerve endings relaying a message, confirming that she’s too innocent. Too inexperienced for what I hunger for. Too unspoiled, and that’s the problem. All those factors make her perfect: lush temptation and shoves me to the edge. The campaign trail has been brutal and I’m strung tight. What I need won’t be appeased with a quick hookup. With this woman, I’d be back on track and ready to rock the nation. A no-holds-barred rendezvous to get my head back on straight.

Pulling her with me down the hall, I check each door. Each is locked. I’ve got a limo outside and an apartment blocks away. With an exit door nearby, I could whisk her there. I’m stunned in how hard I want this woman. Or why she provokes my desire for a hardcore fuck. One night of her riding my dick as I rut like a beast.

“Who are you?” she asks me as if what I’m considering is obvious.

In her presence, there are a dozen options but really only one. She’s the kind of woman I need to back away from and the best I can offer is the truth.
A warning
. I give her a choice to pack it in, and head for the hills.

Our bodies are so close, I whisper against her cheek, “Your worst nightmare.”

The twin crescents of her thick lashes fly upward. Her stark gaze engulfs me in ice-blue flames. “You aren’t,” she promises and I’m hooked.

A question about the details of what this girl has been through bleed into my thoughts. No one this pristine should be touched by darkness. She moves in my arms and the feel of her body captivates my full attention.

Our mutual attraction is raw, sharp, eviscerating, and has me hungry to see this through. I move us into the hall and lay out the edge of what I want. A tiny morsel: a sample of her mouth.
In a kiss, a woman divulges more than she suspects.

She agrees and I tell myself to go slow, but all bets are off when our lips touch. I thrust my tongue all the way inside her wet mouth, threading my fingers in her silky mane. The exquisite feel of her has me ravenous for more. Pinning her to the wall, I pump my tongue into her hot liquid mouth faster, deeper, and she doesn’t relent. Not her. Every curve of her body shouts defiance.

“Open for me. All the way,” I command her as all the alpha traits I’ve suppressed resurrect into overdrive.

“Please,” she begs me in a siren’s voice that reverberates in my brain. Her tone, the softness she offers I hunger to devour.

I crave her like a drug. Worse like the answer to a curse. The one I possess and she’s the only person who will break it apart. Break me apart. Sampling this girl is as dangerous as it will be satisfying.

“You can’t imagine the things we could do,” I murmur against the shell of her ear. “The way you’d feel if you gave yourself to me.” I’m out of my head at this point.
And it only gets better
.