Falloir (Passion Noire Book 2) (11 page)

I smile placatingly and reach out to cup his cheek when he bends to place my drink on the side table next to me. ‘It’s okay,’ I whisper. ‘I’m safe and I know what I’m doing.’

He doesn’t like it but he signals his acceptance by lowering his lashes for a second or so. I pity anyone getting on the wrong side of him tonight though—he’s as loyal as they come and he’ll be fretting until Jones departs. Probably best not to mention that I’m staying with Jones ... Gabe would probably shit a brick! I pull his face in and brush my lips over his in a gesture of gratitude and reassurance. He straightens and leaves.

Now, to anybody else, that exchange would have been so subtle that it would barely have been noticed. Not a former Commando though. His eyes are on me the moment Gabe pulls the door to. He’s still wearing those sunglasses but I feel his eyes burning into me.

‘He knows of my past. We were close—I trained him. He’s just worried. You, being around me, unnerves him just as much as it unnerved me. He’ll be fine.’

Just what the fuck am I doing, explaining myself? And why am I jabbering on like an idiot to justify this?

Because he still unnerves me.

Even with the blond hair gone and the blue eyes covered, I still can’t relax around him. He needs to lose that dominant aura, that alpha persona ... but is he capable of that?

One thing’s for certain, if I proceed with this, my little boxes are going to be smashed wide open. Will I exorcise the demons or will they fight back? If they do, am I strong enough to beat them—especially with the uncertainty over Paul’s whereabouts? Should I wait until he’s been dealt with? Or would I be strong enough to not have to call in favours to have him put back behind bars? That’s how I’d know I’d truly left my past behind and beaten my demons. If he came looking for me, I’d be able to stand up to him, after taking precautions to ensure my safety, and show him I’m not the naïve, little girl I once was. I’d put the fear of God into him myself so that he steered well clear. That’s what I dream of.

If that’s what I want then I need to do this. I need to crack those little boxes open and slay the demonic reminders of my past life. Then I can be free.

I view Jones over the rim of my glass as I sip my drink. Those sunglasses annoy the hell out of me. They give him an advantage; I can’t tell when he’s looking at me and they obscure the windows of his soul. I can’t tell what he’s thinking right now. Time to begin to strip any advantage away.

‘Take your shades off,’ I instruct in a tone that’s firm but non-confrontational.

He pauses and I feel his eyes on me. I can’t see them but I feel their force. He’s weighing it up. The frustration and grief is bubbling away inside him. He could deliberately provoke me—something I’m sure he’s considering now. Or he could hand control to me and relax. I’ve no idea which way this will go. Professionally, I hope it’s the latter—less confrontation. Perversely, I’d take greater personal pleasure in the former. Bringing an alpha to his knees ... there’s no greater thrill. No more satisfying end result. It’s empowering. It’s reaffirming.
It’s what I do.

And this one in particular. This tough as fuck, former Commando with his don’t fuck with me attitude, not to mention the piercing, ice-blue eyes and blond hair. Having him attending to my every whim, now that would be quite something. Enough to make my demons howl and flee?
Well, I guess
we’ll have to see about that, won’t we?

It’s looking promising. He’s sitting there making no move to remove his sunglasses. I can’t help but smile. He says he wants this. He thinks he can handle it. But he’s not going to give me an easy ride ... but then, when I ride, I ride hard ... I find it’s more rewarding for all concerned—especially the one who’s on top . . in the saddle, so to speak. I think it’s time to begin breaking this stallion. I’ve no doubt I’ll have to give him his head initially but with the right tack, I’ll soon begin to rein him in.

I stand and shrug off the black fitted shirt I’m wearing over my corset—it’s an underbust variety that supports my weighty tits and shows them off nicely. Then I push down my stretchy skirt. I’m wearing only my boots and my corset now. I know he’s impressed with my arsenal of feminine firepower and I know I don’t have to undress to assert my will, nor do I have to get physical but conditioning takes time. Jones needs a release for his stress and, with all that’s happened in the last couple of weeks, God knows, so do I.

I debate taking off his sunglasses so I can read his emotions but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him keep the upper hand. I cross the room and lean forward, across his lap, silently daring him not to look at my tits that are inches from his face.

‘I said to take your sunglasses off. I know what you’re doing.’

His lips purse momentarily, like a twitch. ‘And what’s that, exactly?’

‘You’re trying to avoid me seeing your eyes but it’s okay, that’s why I turned the lights down low. I’m telling you I can’t see them properly in this dim light so I’d rather you removed them. Besides, you look a complete dick, sitting here in the dark wearing them.’

Another twitch. ‘I do this for your benefit and you call me a dick?’

‘I’m grateful. And I said you
look
a complete dick. You’ve yet to prove whether you
are
a complete dick.’

He sighs and removes the sunglasses. Victory to me. I smile in satisfaction but it’s short lived.

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself. I only took them off so I can see your tits better,’ he says, staring at them while wearing a cocky fucking grin that makes me wish I had my crop in my hand.

Easy does it. Just like breaking a horse, breaking an alpha requires patience. I knew it was going to be like this. It’s half the thrill. He’ll do as I ask but on his terms ... for now: acquiescence. And that’s where the challenge begins, figuring out how to move on from that so that he willingly defers to me without question. From acquiescence to capitulation to submission.

Sure, it's what he wants but he knows enough that he realises he can’t force it. He doesn’t want mere role play. He wants the real deal. He wants to take the full journey into submission. There’s enough mutual respect to know that it’s all or nothing. I don’t play games. In my therapist’s role, I demonstrate through role play and pretence but when I train or mentor someone getting into the lifestyle, pretence and fantasy don’t exist on my spectrum.

Where true dominance is concerned everything is raw and real. There’s no room for fake. It’s dangerous. It’s pointless. Looking at the testosterone-laden alpha in front of me, pointedly staring at my exposed breasts, I want the real deal. I want to take his cocky, wilful defiance and mould it into a ball of pleasuring, amenable compliance. Don’t confuse that with spineless or spiritless ... neither of those attributes are desirable in a submissive. I need a strong, proud, masculine man at my feet, not a sissy.

‘Pushing your luck, Mr Jones,’ I say, leaning forward so that my tits are close enough for him to lick, should he be so bold—and foolish. ‘You want to get cocky with a Domme? You need to be prepared for the consequences. You’ve seen me at home, playing mum to The Kid. You’ve seen me at my weakest, saying goodbye to Dan. Don’t mistake the everyday Veuve with La Veuve Noire.’

‘The Black Widow,’ he says, a suggestive grin on his face. ‘Does that mean you’re going to eat me after you’ve fucked me?’

‘Honey, if you knew anything about Black Widows, you’d know that the male of the species has to approach with caution because she’s so eager to sink those fangs in. One wrong move, he doesn’t even get to fuck her before he bites the dust.’

His eyes leave my cleavage finally. ‘Touché,’ he says. ‘I’ll tread carefully.’

‘You can start by getting naked. Now,’ I tell him, enjoying the fact that he has to wrestle to hang on to his eyebrows. ‘Get naked and get on the bed.’

I straighten and retire to my chair, picking up my drink and preparing to enjoy the next few seconds. There’s something about a confident man undressing that piques my interest—even if I’m not about to fuck him stupid. It doesn’t have to be an incredible body but, as long as it’s not hideous, natural confidence is arousing. It just so happens that Jones’ body makes
incredible
seem like an injustice ... an understatement. And he’s so self-assured as he begins to strip. I can’t keep my eyes off him.

Even in the dim light, his sun-bronzed skin glows. The top of his head is pale in comparison, being newly shorn. I’m still finding the impulsive act of shaving his head difficult to believe. It was a gesture completely born of consideration to me. I saw the hurt in his eyes when he realised that it was his appearance that unnerved me because it triggered memories I’d rather forget. It was a completely selfless act. I’d have thought he was too vain to shave his head without a second thought. And, let’s face it, he’s not just a looker. He’s a fucking stunner—that blond hair drew attention, coupled with those glacial irises, his model looks are the sort to have women walking into lamp posts and plate glass windows. In Vouloir, I’ve seen the way women melt when he enters their sights, probably triggered by their exploding ovaries.

He must see it but I’ve never seen him show any sort of response. Maybe he’s not as vain as I thought. I’d assumed the tattoos were for grabbing attention, making the most of the canvas of perfection that is his toned, muscular body ... maybe I was wrong. Although, they’re certainly grabbing my attention as he removes his jeans. Fuck me, that’s a body. I thought Gabe was as hot as it got but damn ... add in the ink and the extra inch or so. I snicker to myself ... yeah, Jones is probably slightly taller than Gabe too.

I realise he’s taking his time and can’t help but wonder whether he’s deliberately putting on a show for me or whether he’s taking his time out of defiance. But, even so, he’s doing as I say and acquiescence is the first step ... a huge step for an alpha male. And a little victory for me. I watch him stride over to the bed, a mass of rippling muscle and dancing ink ... I’m almost salivating at the thought of breaking him in. He’s a particularly dominant alpha that requires careful handling but time is of the essence if I want to cast out and then vanquish my demons before Paul has a chance to let them loose.

He struts—no, I’m not exaggerating—across to the bed. He’s definitely putting on a show but the cocksure tilt of his chin tells me he’s following my instruction, but he’s doing things his way. A little shiver pirouettes all the way down my spine to my thrilled business parts, landing on my clit and doing a little tap dance when I see him recline on the bed and fist his cock. Oh, this is going to be enjoyable. He wants this but he still wants to retain some control, dictating how it’s done whenever he can. He’s going to be quite a challenge. My clenching arousal approves.

I LIE BACK ON the bed, as naked as the day I was born but far better equipped for the task in front of me, and I’m not just referring to the size of my cock. No, I’m deliberately pushing her buttons ... provoking her in a deliberate yet non-confrontational way that I can see is arousing her. From the state of my twitching cock, it’s having unexpected, yet pleasurable side effects.

I am who I am. I want to try something new but I have to remain true to myself or it’s a waste of time. I like to be in control ... yet, with Veuve, I want to give up control. How that pans out is anyone’s guess. It’s risky, yes. But that’s how I’ve spent the last twenty years of my life ... living on the edge, dancing with the devil ... but the higher the stakes, the greater the high when you pull it off.

I want her. This intoxicating creature who occupies my thoughts almost constantly, messing with my head, without even trying. I’m drawn to her, she’s sparked something deep inside of me. She’s the sexual equivalent of Semtex, that’ll fucking guarantee an explosive coming together ... we’ll fucking redefine chemistry. She knows it too. I can see it in her eyes; a curious mixture of apprehension, lust and determination.

I grip my cock firmly, watching desire pool in her eyes and pump through her veins. Thank fuck she decided to stop fighting the undeniable attraction between us. I need to get inside her ... yeah, I need to know what she feels like, sheathed around my cock, but worse than that, and I can’t believe I’m even admitting to this, I need to get inside her head. I need to dominate her thoughts like she dominates mine. I need to know what makes her tick. What it is that makes her unique? What makes her the only woman I’ve wanted to get to know intimately, in the true sense of the word?