Page 3 of Enthrall Secrets
“You mentioned something about going in first?”
The four inch heels on my leather boots ensured I matched his height, our lips dangerously close. He leaned toward me and I stepped back to avoid his kiss. His jaw flexed in frustration.
“You have to earn the right,” I chastised.
“Jesus, Scarlet.” His dazed expression morphed into iciness.
There was an irregularity in his mood and something in his tone that hinted of rebellion. I was no stranger to defiance. But this was different.
Hewas different.
He stood straight and shook off the moment as though I’d had no effect on him. With every move I made he maneuvered masterfully to resist subspace.
His reaction to my voice didn’t reflect a man who’d been a member of this scene for years, as he’d told our admissions officer at Enthrall. He’d looked surprised when I’d dragged that bullwhip across his torso - and his gaze had locked onto mine, as if in warning that he might use it on me.
I pointed at the floor. “Crawl on all fours around the room.”
With a smirk, he slipped out of the restraints and stepped away from the cross. He sank to the floor and began to crawl forward in an erotic display of subservience.
The softest sigh escaped my lips as I enjoyed the scene of having such a primal creature relent to my orders.
The art of dominance in any form is to accept the power handed over by the sub and then lead them into the center of bliss and hold them there indefinitely. This man refused to totally surrender. Or even erotically enjoy the scene. This was clear from his lack of erection. And at no time had his pupils dilated. Not one sign of arousal.
Yet he’d openly admired me, drinking in my curves, his gaze lingering on my ample breasts. And that lick of his lips proved he wanted to take me.
He gave his head a shake and it seemed that frustration seeped from his pores as though annoyed that he couldn’t get there; for him there was no rising to the occasion.
I was self-aware enough to know I’d catch any man’s eye. My daily runs along Manhattan Beach, which were a stone’s throw from my condo, kept me fit and Pilates kept me lean. Nutrition and a truck load of sunblock held back the years.
Way back when I’d studied psychology at Harvard I’d paid for my tuition by modeling underwear, no shame there. At first I’d refused all that money left to me in a lover’s will, though later I’d come to accept his gift, realizing the good I could do with it.
I’d gotten into the kind of adventures worthy of a wild child during my college years, including an adventure in Paris amongst France’s most erotic masters.
I couldn’t think of that now.
Couldn’t let the memories of those unbridled months of happiness derail what was meant to be a finely tuned hour.
I’d been taught by the very best.
And even now I worked under Dr. Cameron Cole, a brilliant psychiatrist and the man who’d navigated me through those delicate years. He was the director of Chrysalis, and a man I counted as one of my dearest friends. Ironically, he’d have this client cracked open like a nut in seconds. My approach was always gentler. Cameron’s idea of nuking a mind was always a last resort.
The art of a session was our ability to comprehend the root of the problem, and whereas all other forms of therapy had failed, our results were legendary. We healed, changed lives, and returned love to the loveless.
I was considered an internationally sought after mistress, having clients fly across continents for the pleasure. So this client’s continued rebellion felt skewed, considering he’d personally requested me. Frustration lingered deep in my gut because he hadn’t submitted to me yet. A failure foreign to me.
He pushed himself to his feet.
“Did I say you could stand?”
“God, you’re beautiful, Scarlet.”
“Mistress Scarlet,” I snapped. “Back to the cross, now!”
He moved over to it with a careless swagger - the only sign of arousal was that fiery look in his eyes.
I got closer. “Tell me how I can help you.”
“Perhaps if you use your mouth?” He arched a brow.
