Enough [Club Pleasure 7] (Siren Publishing Classic) Read online

  Shifting in his chair, uncomfortable again, he considered his approach, wondering how long it would be before she required correction. And she would require it because he, too, believed she had a bitchy, stubborn streak a mile wide, just as Patrick intimated. Definitely her best defense.

  Olivia never needed correction. She needed erotic pain to drop her into subspace, followed by orgasm. It served to help her let go and get past her huge stresses, and she came to him for scenes. Patrick had placed her with him instead of Jonathon, and Jordan wondered at that cruel quirk of fate.

  There was no need to feel disloyal to Olivia’s memory by showing a greater interest in Emily. Olivia never let him believe there was anything more to their connection than that of a once a month or every two weeks scene. It wasn’t her fault he’d wanted more, had bided his time. But then Fraser showed up and Jordan ran out of time. He should be happy for her, and he was. He really was. Olivia was ecstatically happy, and Fraser knew Jordan would kill him if he fucked her over again. Shit. He didn’t want to go there. Something about Emily was triggering his memories. That was why he was unsettled. The two women were nothing alike, but they both called to him and awoke his protective and possessive side. He wasn’t going through that again. He would dominate Emily, but put some firm limits in place on his personal involvement.

  Movement caught his eye, and he realized all the night’s events had come to a close. He stretched in place and then yawned mightily. Time to let the cleaning staff in and head off to his quarters. He’d grab a few hours of sleep then take care of some personal errands so he would be back in good time to work with Emily. Damn it, she was a job, and if he was late, she’d wait for him. Subs waited on their Masters, not that he was any more than her mentor. He squared his shoulders and pushed up from the chair to shut down the monitors and lights. He made his way to finish the evening tasks and ignored any further sly comments from his cock. That appendage didn’t know what was good for it. Or him.

  Chapter Two

  Jordan found himself standing stock-still in the living area of his quarters upstairs. He’d run down his mental checklist and was satisfied the Club was buttoned up for the night and ready for the morrow. So what was he thinking about that he was standing immobile and looking at nothing in particular? Shit. He headed to the small table holding his laptop and settled into his chair. He powered up and after a couple of different spellings and age adjustments, found Emily Brown online. The paucity of the information gave him pause. No social media hits, just a mention of her present occupation as an adult education instructor and a list of her educational credits, a blurred picture. He wasn’t out there as a fount of personal information for people to stalk either, but it was as if she’d sprung into existence at age eighteen.

  Backtracking to her first college years found the name Brown in some of the surrounding towns, and Jordan wondered if she was related to any of them. But he had no way of knowing, and it was such a common name. There was no hint as to what happened to traumatize her. He believed her inability to trust and issues with flashbacks came from at least one traumatic event. There were no news reports or anything connected with a crime attached to her name as an adult, so it was probably in her childhood.

  Jordan had completed a degree in clinical psychology, although had never used it. At least not in the accepted sense. He’d planned to be a psychologist but discovered it didn’t suit him. He found BDSM next and so it went. His educational background only enhanced his present occupation. He knew women’s bodies, but more importantly he knew how their heads worked or at least better than most men knew how women’s heads worked. He refused to think about his other reason for forsaking his chosen profession.

  Prentiss. What the hell? She’d said her name was Prentiss first then said she was now Brown. At the time it seemed irrelevant, an automatic response shared within the context of all those endorphins and other substances the brain secreted in heightened emotional states. He’d assumed Prentiss was her birth name and Brown her married one. Yet she’d stated her single status on the form. He’d assumed further—that she was divorced. He ground the heel of his hand into his forehead. Of course he’d assumed many things about Emily, all the while focusing on her appeal and her submissive side to help her while ignoring her history. To avoid getting entangled. No. He’d just laid eyes on her, for Christ’s sake.

  Blowing out a deep breath, he made the decision to help her share what needed to be shared, and reward and punish her as required, part of the journey. Behavior modification with an overlay of BDSM. Maybe one and the same, although there were many who would infer a variety of different theoretical approaches applied. His new little subbie in training was going to make him proud, even as he uncovered her secrets and unraveled the maladjusted thinking that allowed her to cope, but left her confused and miserable, unable to trust and connect.

  His mind settled, if belied by the state of his cock, and Jordan took himself and his lust off to the shower, where he opted for the usual temperature instead of the cold one he probably needed. Scrubbing to erase the slight essence of Emily’s perfume, he sniffed experimentally, but the clean, crisp scent of her was still in his nostrils—or his memory bank. He cautiously allowed himself the idea of training her as being a change from the mundane. Oh, the job wasn’t a hardship and nor was he bored. It was just…he needed a challenge, a change. That was it.

  Fuck, he was making excuses, and wondered again about who he might pass Emily on to, because the protective layers of his past experiences were shifting and he didn’t like change. It challenged his perception of self and reminded him of his weakness. If he got involved past the training relationship, he’d self-sabotage. The sight of her round breasts with their pink nipples confined in that little wisp of lace, and the way the matching panties lovingly outlined the pout of her sex surged into the forefront of his brain, shoving aside all of his musings and he gripped his cock.

  The foreskin slipped against his shaft with his efforts, and eased back to reveal the swollen head, dripping with pre-cum. He worked himself hard beneath the spray of the shower, and his head fell back to mark the surge of a massive release boiling up from his balls. As the water washed the evidence away and his cock softened, Jordan gave himself a final squeeze. Masturbating to thoughts of his newest trainee wasn’t helping him pretend she hadn’t had an impact on him.

  Toweling off, he made his way back to the laptop again, careless of the water droplets marking his path. He checked his e-mails and dashed off a few less-than-detailed replies to his parents and little sister. They were bewildered by his choice of employment but allowed him to live his own life, although he knew it was more a lack of interest than acceptance. His mom had been really sick for awhile and he’d gone to help out, but she had no time for him even then. She’d recovered from the strange infection and all was well back east. Jordan rubbed his forehead as he considered the next visit back home, although in truth, Austin was his home now, and many of the members of Pleasure his family. Maybe his parents could come and see him here. Although Sybil probably couldn’t get away, what with her new high-powered job, his sibling the apple of his parent’s eye—they’d always wanted a girl and made no effort to conceal it. And they wouldn’t likely plan to visit anyhow.

  His parents continued to remain indifferent, and their lack of interest bothered him even as an adult, despite all his efforts to come to grips with it. Understanding it didn’t mitigate the sting. He wondered if he’d ever accept his place or continue to yearn for more. Pah, hardly appropriate reflections for a man, or a Dom.

  Scrolling through the rest of his messages, he deleted the majority of them, and dumped his spam folder. And then there was nothing else to do. His bank account was healthy, his bills paid, and even his investments were holding their own. Pushing back from the desk, he stood to tug the towel free and draped it over the back of the chair. His cock stirred again, and he willed it into obedience. What the fuck was going on with him?

  Squa
ring his shoulders, he stalked to the bedroom and yanked back the covers of the big bed he’d custom ordered. A waste of money, really, because he didn’t bring women here. There were member rooms for sex, and he made good use of them. Something kept him from having any kind of sexual congress with a woman in this bed. A vision of sweet little Emily lying on his dark-brown sheets, her pale, silky skin such a contrast, bright blonde hair spilling across his pillows, wavered in front of his eyes, and he blinked it away. Jesus Christ. He hadn’t had a long-term sexual relationship in far too long, obviously. If ever. Emily wasn’t so sweet, and she hadn’t even taken her underwear off!

  Those cool sheets welcomed his heated body as he slid between them and pulled up the duvet, nearly groaning with the luxury of it. He shut the light with a slap of his hand against the base of the lamp and closed his eyes resolutely, expecting he’d lie awake and ponder for hours, much as he’d done all freaking evening.

  * * * *

  What the hell time was it? Jordan groaned and shoved up on one elbow to squint at the illuminated numbers of the bedside clock, the heavy drapes covering the bedroom window efficiently blocking any nuance of light. Ten oh six. He’d slept heavily, to his surprise. Dropping his head back on the pillow, he stretched, contemplating his day. Breakfast. Quick clean of his quarters. The gym. Errands. Emily.

  His mind snagged on the last item of his list. Emily. His morning wood pulsed a little in response to her name, and he shut down anything more prurient. He threw the covers back and hit the bathroom, working through his morning ablutions in record time, then retraced his footsteps to fish some boxers out of a dresser drawer. He normally went commando, but jeans weren’t his preferred fabric to chafe against his cock. And he expected some chafing today. The sooner he figured little Miss Emily out, the better, although the fact he’d fallen asleep and slept so well told him he’d already figured her out, subconsciously. He just couldn’t reconcile it in the cold light of day.

  Putting his place to rights took little time. He scowled at the still-damp towel and carried it back to the bathroom and to drape it over the rack, then tugged the bed linens back in place. The floors were clean and the amount of dust on the furniture was easily dealt with. The same cleaners who scoured the Club would have taken care of his quarters, too, but like Jon, Jordan valued his privacy. Dropping the little duster into the trash, he then stepped into his jeans and tugged a T-shirt over his head before snagging a light jacket. As he shoved his feet into his boots, he made a mental note to place another order as these were getting worn. With one last look around his place, he grabbed his gym bag and exited, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.

  Deciding to eschew the atrium for breakfast—primarily because he really didn’t want to run into Patrick or Jon and any entourage and have to participate in conversations that would inevitably lead to what was new in his life—he headed straight out. He’d hit the gym, then stop at a diner and fuel up. Anything not to think about later.

  * * * *

  Showered and re-dressed, his running shorts and tank wadded up in his bag beside his shoes, Jordan made his way to his SUV. After stowing his bag in the back he slid behind the wheel and cranked the engine over, backing from the parking space then wheeling out into the stream of traffic. The workout had cleared his brain of all those annoying inconsistencies, and he felt focused and back in control. Yessir.

  Finding an available parking space was clearly a portent for the rest of the day going smoothly, and he ordered a full breakfast at his favorite diner. He checked his phone for anything of interest while he waited. Caffeinated coffee went down easily as he scrolled through a raft of new e-mails. Nothing jumped out at him. The server put down a plate of eggs, sausage, hash browns, and toast with a side of fruit, and he dropped his phone back in his pocket to tuck into the food. He didn’t eat like this every day. Like most of Pleasure’s Doms he took good care of his body, but sometimes a decadent, cholesterol-filled breakfast fit the bill.

  Mopping the final bit of yolk up with a scrap of toast, he chewed thoughtfully as he wiped his hands on the napkin. A few errands to run and he’d be back at Pleasure in good time to prepare. For Emily. Damn it. There was no help for it. He’d figure her out and help her figure herself out in the process. Bring her lots of pleasure with and without erotic pain—but this time he wasn’t going to deny himself. Unless it was her hard limit. And why couldn’t he remember all of those limits? Because you aren’t thinking clearly, asshole. Distracted by some big baby blues echoing with intriguing pain, and a drift of golden hair, he hadn’t even discussed them with her.

  Too annoyed to wait at the till, he threw some bills on the table and escaped the booth. He headed to his car and thought only of the things he needed from the pharmacy and a couple of other places, and set his mind on maneuvering through traffic to his destinations.

  Late afternoon found him already dressed in his leathers, unable to even read, his favorite pastime besides smacking round butts. Jordan paced his quarters and mentally mapped out how the evening would go with Emily. No, how the evening would proceed with the new sub. He wasn’t going to personalize this any further.

  The first thing that was going to happen was for her to lose the underwear. Or safe out and leave. He didn’t have time for the soft sell. She knew what she was getting herself into when she signed on for this, and he’d been all caring and kind last night because she needed it. Now it was time to move forward and peel those layers of denial and protection back—she had no need of them here, with him.

  As a sub she’d come to learn about herself and get in touch with the inner self, gain some confidence and like who she was, and in the process gain immeasurable freedom. He was going to treat her like a psych experiment, all clinical and aloof, while tending to her best interests. Lord knew he’d helped numbers of damaged women, just as Patrick had, in the past. Yes, Pat now owned Madi, but he still pitched in when needed, remaining detached, and Jordan would do well to take a page out of his mentor’s book and put his own emotions on the back burner.

  Electing to grab something to eat in the atrium, he found Maurice Alain, the doorman and sometimes hard dungeon stand-in Dom, at a table for four, methodically working his way through an enormous salad and two huge chicken breasts. Jordan’s mouth watered and he ordered the same thing.

  “Join you?”

  Alain lifted his head and bent a dark-eyed look on him before nodding and kicking a chair out. Jordan took it and lowered his frame onto the seat, knowing it’d be a quiet meal. Maurice was freaking intimidating—no one got past him if he didn’t allow it, and he was a man of very few words. Still, Jordan liked the other man. He knew depth of character when he saw it.

  “Are you in the hard dungeon tonight?”

  Maurice swallowed. “Doubt it. There’s nothing going on. Hasn’t been a call for awhile, but I didn’t feel like cooking.”

  “How’re you doing?” Jordan wondered if he hadn’t picked up on some kind of wistfulness in the big man’s tone.

  “Good. Life’s okay.”

  Jordan decided to probe a little. There had been a little excitement at the most recent meet and greet. “I heard Graham brought a tourist by.”

  A flush darkened the other man’s face, and a scowl twisted his features. “He did.”

  “I didn’t see her, was working with a new sub, but I heard she created quite a stir.”

  Maurice made a casual gesture, but the obvious control of the motion told Jordan much more. He smiled encouragingly at the doorman.

  “Older, a slip of a thing. She’s gonna interview,” Maurice said.

  “And you are offering.”

  With a not-so-subtle shove of his plate, Maurice glowered. “What’s your business in this, Sterling?”

  Well, fuck. He should be ashamed of himself. He was poking this particular bear to avoid his own prickling tension. Shaking his head, he apologized. “Sorry, man. I’ve got no right to give you the gears.”

  Maurice swigged so
me water and shrugged. “There’s three of us interested. Spence being one and a paying member the other. And I’ll scare her as a newbie. To say I’m disappointed at not even having the opportunity would be putting it mildly.”

  This was the first time Jordan could recall having a conversation with the doorman that embodied such emotion. He felt like an ass for giving Maurice a hard time. That feeling swiftly passed at the other man’s next comment.

  “But then you know about disappointment. Olivia meant something to you.”

  It was like salt in the wound, freshly opened, and for a moment he struggled with the sting. Then he answered, honestly. “She did. Fucking Fraser.”

  “Yeah, well, life sucks sometimes, Jordan. But I’m gonna move on. Even if it’s another disappointment. So likely you can, too.”

  Bitterness choked his voice silent, and then released enough for him to nod and mutter a halfhearted “maybe.” His meal arrived, but his appetite was gone. Served him right for his tactics. Forcing himself to eat a few bites, he and Maurice sat together silently, lost in their own thoughts.

  At length, Jordan set his plate aside and composed himself. “Have a good night, Maurice.”

  “You, too. And whatever else you got going on, you make sure to get what you need.”

  Puzzling on the cryptic advice, Jordan wandered the Club for awhile, chatting with some of the members who were making an early evening to get on their kink, offering input when requested. A fire scene then held his attention for some time, and he successfully avoided watching the clock. The Club slowly filled up, and people drifted past him in twos and threes, depending upon their interests, and the scene rooms were occupied, member rooms assigned.

  As the time drew closer, he made his way to the room he’d told Emily to meet him in, and went through the contents of the wardrobe and organized the room again, as nervous as a kid on prom night. He’d read her application again and memorized it this time around. It was close to the hour when he was finished, and he slouched in the only chair, awaiting her arrival.