He sat down to look over some notes, nursing a cup of coffee. He felt tired but invigorated. Soon his mind drifted into more whimsical fantasies. Pretty Ekaterina, the surgeon’s wife. She could bring him coffee every night while he went over his medical notes. He would keep her dressed in nothing but a collar and cuffs. Afterward, he could melt away the stress of the day with her. Hell, with what he made she wouldn’t even need to work. She could just stay at home and be his sex kitten, his sub. Their relationship would be based on power. His power over her and her willing agreement to submit to that power. And then, perhaps, marriage…children…
But not yet. For now, he needed to concentrate on making her his sub. His obedient, beautiful, pliant, emotionally available sub. His job entailed long hours, a lot of pressure and tension and she would provide a welcome outlet from the stress, although there was a hell of a lot he’d have to teach her to get there. She had a sassy streak a mile wide, not to mention a serious lack of confidence and a hiding problem. No matter. All of that paled in comparison to how aroused she got when he gave her orders, the way she’d reacted to his discipline, the way she moaned and turned to fire when they fucked. He had high hopes for her. When he was done shaping her she would be his prize, all the more special because he’d trained her himself.
He’d been with a lot of subs, trained a lot of girls the way he wanted them and been with a lot already trained, but they’d never fired him up half as much as Kat. Something had coalesced between them that night in the storage room. He knew it. She knew it. The difference was, she still fought it. Oh well, she’d see soon enough.
But he had notes to work on and phone calls to make and it was already late. He would let her simmer until Friday. Friday, he’d spank her again.
Friday arrived, though, and Kat wasn’t at the club as he’d told her to be. You said if I came to that club I couldn’t act like a whore. And I love to act like a whore. She was testing him. Common sub behavior. Would she dare pick up a guy somewhere else? There was no fucking chance he would allow that. He left Masquerade and checked a few other clubs where he thought she might be. Finally, he went to her house and sat on the stoop to wait for her to show up. It was a clear night, pleasant waiting weather at least. But if there was some stupid, drunk guy with her, he was in for the greeting of his life.
Ryan didn’t wait long. Just after midnight he saw her come walking down the block. Walking alone in her short little skirt, her tight sweater, her slut heels. She had walked from the club district here to Brighton all by herself. He was going to kill her. She slowed when she noticed him, too far away to see who he was.
Yes, you little fool. I could be a murderer or a rapist sitting here waiting for you.
She looked a little scared to find a strange guy blocking the way, but even more scared when she saw who he was. She turned on her heel and started to walk back in the other direction.
“No. Just…no. Go away,” she said when he fell into step beside her.
“I’m not going away. You’re a smart girl. You should have figured that out by now. Anyway, you don’t want me to. Not really.”
Her heels click, click, clicked on the sidewalk and she wrapped her arms around her waist. “I’m tired. I’ve been out dancing. I just want you to leave me alone.”
“Did you walk home from the clubs by yourself or are you coming from someone’s house?” he asked as calmly as he was able.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He stopped her with a firm hand on her arm. “Yes, I would like to know and you’re going to tell me. Were you with someone else tonight?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I wasn’t,” she said, trying to pull away.
“You aren’t coming from someone else’s bed?”
“Let go of me or I will scream bloody murder until somebody comes.”
He released her and she started to walk again. He took her hand. She tried to pull it away the second he did.
“Just let me hold your hand,” he said.
“I don’t want to hold your fucking hand.” They struggled like two children thumb-wrestling.
“Cut it out! Jesus, you plague me, Kat. Just—” He finally trapped her rigid hand in his.
“You have an annoying habit of manhandling me.”
“And you have an annoying habit of irritating me.” She was silent but she stopped pulling her hand from his. “Why do you try so hard to avoid me? What have I done?”
“How can you ask that? Do you remember at all pulling me into that storeroom and spanking me and fucking me against the door? Or fucking me in my parents’ own house while they all sat downstairs—”
“Yes, and I remember you enjoying both episodes immensely. I remember you falling apart in my arms.” She looked furious that she couldn’t refute his words but she bit back any false denials.
“So maybe I did. So what? It’s still wrong, it’s still—”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Perverted.”
“Like you.”
“I am not a pervert. You
