Dana (Elite Doms of Washington)
Dana
An Elite Doms of Washington Short Story
Elizabeth SaFleur
Contents
Title
Dana
Introduction
DANA
About the Author
Also by Elizabeth SaFleur
Dana
An Elite Doms of Washington Short Story
Dana Moore waited two years to reignite the fire lit by an impromptu scene with Jackson Reese. Two years is a helluva long time. When they finally pick up where they left off, Jackson unlocks her deepest, darkest desire—one she didn’t even know she had.
www.ElizabethSaFleur.com
Dana
Elite Doms of Washington Short Story
Copyright © 2018 Elizabeth SaFleur
ISBN ebook: 978-1-949076-00-4
Cover Design: L.J. Stock
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, with the exception of a reviewer who may quote passages in a review, without written prior permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, events, incidents and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
WARNING: The author and publisher would solemnly advise you not to attempt any of the sexual or non-sexual actions of any of the characters in this book. Any damage physical, mental or emotional is the sole responsibility of the person/persons attempting such actions. Please be aware that this is a work of fiction and you are responsible for yourself and the consequences caused thereof.
Introduction
Dear Reader,
This book is a work of fiction, not reality. My characters operate in a compressed time frame. A real-world scenario involves getting to know one another more extensively than my characters do before engaging in BDSM activities. Please learn as much as you can before trying any activity you read about in erotic fiction. Talk to people in your local BDSM group. Nearly every community has one. Get to know people slowly, and always be careful. Share your hopes, dreams and fears with anyone before playing with them, have a safeword and share it with your Dom or Domme (they can’t read your mind), use protection, and have a safe-call or other backup in place. Remember: Safe, Sane and Consensual. Or, no play. May you find that special person to honor and love you the way you wish. You deserve that.
XO ~Elizabeth
DANA
After four agonizing weeks crafting, recasting, and second-guessing every word choice for her message, Dana wrote the truth.
<
She attached the scan of her divorce decree to the text and hit send. It was done.
Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes for one brief second before snapping them open to gaze at the recipient of her words. Jackson. Just thinking his name made her legs quiver. He stood twenty-five feet away. He might as well have been twenty-five miles away for all the attention he’d paid her since she’d strode in on her brand-new, harlot-red, come-fuck-me Christian Louboutin heels that matched her Robert Cavalli dress, purchased just for this occasion. Given her text message, he’d have to pay attention now.
She sipped her warm chardonnay, smoothed the front of her dress over her thighs, and waited. Ten seconds, thirty seconds, and then a full minute ticked by. He did not stop talking to the couple who’d been holding him captive for thirty fricking minutes. They stood before him in rapt attention—the woman, especially. Of course, the blonde would be riveted by Jackson. Just look at the man—all masculine confidence tucked into a charcoal grey Tom Ford suit. He was what so many men were not in Washington, DC. He rode that line between blue-collar and white-collar masculinity. He had just enough edge to make him formidable and just enough polish to make him charming.
He’d be more charming if he’d stop talking and pull out his phone. She shuffled from one foot to the other trying to bring some blood flow back to her pinched toes. How did women wear these pointy-toe shoes regularly? She’d have to march, or hobble, right up to him and … he reached into his breast pocket. Her heart hitched as he glanced at his screen. A tremor the size of the Potomac ran through her middle when his eyes lifted, found her, and nailed her in place with the sheer force of his gaze. He dipped his head in acknowledgment as he tucked his phone back into his suit pocket. He commandeered another tumbler of scotch, or whiskey, or whatever the hell he was drinking, off the tray of a passing waiter and turned back to the blonde who was one step from drooling on his custom-tailored suit.
What the hell?
He’d told her two years ago—instructed her—to send that text and when she did—which she had—he’d said he’d respond. She’d spent every last second of the previous 730 days thinking about the moment he’d see that document liberating her from her ex-husband. When you text me with an image of your signed divorce decree, I’ll answer it. He’d also added, No promises.
Whatever. She’d obeyed his directive to the letter, and all she got was a nod across a crowded cocktail party? This was not how this scenario was supposed to unfold. He was supposed to stride over, brush a strand of hair from her forehead, smile, and say, “It’s about time.” Because it was about fucking time.
Unable to endure his inattention—hell, his thorough dismissal—she turned away and dropped her wine glass, now smudged with her lipstick and fingerprints, on a cocktail round. “Two years, Jackson,” she whispered to no one and looked down at the hotel carpeting as if its gaudy swirled pattern held an answer to this development. Or non-development.
“You wore your hair down.”
She managed to swivel without losing her balance on her death heels but immediately began to babble.
“You told me to …” Her hand rose to the short ends brushing across her bare shoulders. “Though I know it’s probably shorter than you like.”
“Don’t do that,” he said. “Rule number one tonight. You won’t say what I like or don’t.”
Her nerves slithered under her skin at his stern voice.
“What are the other rules?”
Crinkles formed around his eyes. “How do you know there will be more?”
“No one numbers something if there isn’t at least a second.”
“Hmmm. You always were a smart one, Dana. And still saucy I see.” He eyed her up and down, and her skin prickled under the slow slide of his gaze as if invisible fingers had raked up her limbs, her torso, her neck. Was she blushing? Or had the heat between her thighs just shot up her body to color her face, because damn, it was suddenly so hot in here.
“Let’s go.” He inclined his head to the door. When his hand connected to the small of her back, she nearly buckled with relief from the contact.
“Easy, pet,” he whispered as they neared the coat check.
Oh, but easy wasn’t what she was after. A cascade of mental images of all the things she’d hoped this man would make her do rained down so fast and hard, she blinked several times as if that would help wipe them from the windshield of her mind.
“What is going on in that head of yours?” he asked as he helped her on with her coat.
“Too many things,” she admitted.
“Let’s see if we can do something about that.” He offered his arm, which she took. She had no idea where he was going to take her, but she didn’t care. Her arm draped in the crook of his elbow, and his suit jacket brushed against hers. He held open the door, and she stepped out into the chilly air and the promise of a future she’d waited for her whole life.
“Did you know I got engaged last year?” Jackson’s keys clanked on the console table just inside his front door. When he lifted his face to her, no angst or hurt registered
. He might as well have asked her if she wanted tea or coffee.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” she offered.
“Liar.”
“No, I feel sorry for any woman who had to lose you. I know what it’s like to believe you have a future with someone and then you suddenly … don’t.” She stepped forward, and before she could touch him, he grasped her wrist.
“I know you do,” he said, gentler than she expected.
“If I could have, I’d have spared you that misery,” she added.
“That’s considerate of you.”
Maybe. Sure, it would have killed her if he’d made it to that wedding altar, but she hated thinking he’d ever experienced what she had, to have uncertainty take residence so completely in your bones that you second-guessed your very existence.
They hadn’t spoken or touched on the way to his house. His thumb rubbing her pulse point felt so good, her desire rose ten times what might be considered normal. A sigh escaped her throat. Two years was a helluva long time to desire a man’s touch—this man’s—and she was far from normal. She’d learned that much since that evening he’d demanded she strip down to panties and bra and crawl across a boardroom table. She’d felt like an idiot. Now, she couldn’t wait to do it again.
“Are you wearing panties or a thong?” he asked, still caressing her wrist as gently as one might pet a newborn kitten.
She swallowed hard. “Thong.”
“Take it off.” He lowered her arm, released his hold, and stepped back.
Oh. So much for chit-chat.
She shimmied her dress up her hips, slipped her fingers inside the elastic of her panties and drew the slip of fabric down her thighs. His eyes followed the blue lace falling to her ankles. After stepping out of it, she pulled her dress down and re-clasped her hands in front of her. Errant schoolgirl awaiting her punishment? That was merely one in the long string of fantasies she’d feasted on over the last two years. Or, okay, since she hit puberty at fifteen.
Jackson straightened, peeled off his jacket, and laid it on a chair near the doorway. “I read about your divorce in the Post.” He rolled his sleeves up, baring muscular forearms dusted with dark hair.
“You didn’t call me.” Gah. She’d whined a little with that statement.
“That wasn’t our deal, remember?”
“I remember.” Everything. She hadn’t seen or spoken to Jackson since that night, but in an instant she could conjure up the smell of his aftershave, the unforgiving glass under her knees and palms, and the snap of her garter belt as he teased her, made her practically beg for his attention.
“Besides, who believes what they read in the paper anyway?” he asked.
“Still have trust issues, I see.”
“Still trying to push my buttons, I see. Go to the staircase behind you. Slip off your shoes and climb up to the second step.”
Gladly. She left her heels by the bottom step. As she stepped up as ordered, she prayed she wasn’t going to get sick. She’d been so focused on just getting to this place that now she’d arrived, her earlier nerves took residence in her stomach.
Jackson joined her at the base of the stairs. Yanking at the knot of his tie, he stretched his neck as the dark blue silk loosened. His five o’clock shadow roughened his jawline. The scratch of his chin against her face—no, her thighs—would be so, so good. She must have swayed as he placed his free hand on her hip to steady her.
“We’re not going to do everything at once, Dana. Little by little. Now …” He brushed over a piece of hair that hung in her eyes. “Willing to play a little game?”
“What kind of game?”
“A get-to-know-you exercise.” His gaze traveled up to the top of the stairs and then back to her. “There are thirteen steps on this stairway. Each honest answer will get you up a step and closer to what you came here for. But you’re only going to get it if you play.”
“I’ll play,” she answered quickly. So what if she sounded desperate? She was.
He straightened, all amusement draining from his eyes. She clasped her hands together to stop herself from reaching out to him. She probably resembled a teenager after being caught breaking curfew, awaiting judgment and punishment. That fantasy rose up hard and clear, and her pussy clenched in a resounding God-yes-please-do-it kind of way.
“Here are the rules,” he said. “You heard rule one. Don’t assume what I like. Rule two is you will be completely candid at all times—”
“Easy.”
“Don’t interrupt, either.”
Her teeth grasped her bottom lip, a habit her ex-husband hated. She made sure to do it often during her last meeting with him.
“If at any time you don’t want to be here,” Jackson continued, “or even at some point in the night, you can quit. I’ll drive you home.”
Fat chance of that happening.
“No matter what, we’ll talk tomorrow about what scared you. Then take it from there. You’ve got nothing to lose in the long haul. Only tonight. You game?”
“Game.”
He rose up with her, putting them at eye level. When he yanked his loose tie free from around his neck, and the sizzle of the silk went straight to between her legs. Most men hated neckties, but they had the effect of Red Bull on her libido. He rolled the fabric around his palm, each wrap slow and deliberate. He had to be doing that on purpose—ratcheting up her desire.
“First question.” He placed a fingertip under her chin to raise her gaze to his. “Dana. Eyes on me. You’ll always tell me the truth, right?”
“Yes. Of course. Truth.” She wouldn’t lie to him or anyone else, no matter what. As a senator’s wife, she’d lived an imaginary life for so long pretending everything was fine—when it was not. Once the veil of pretense had been lifted, she vowed never to be shrouded in untruth again.
“Up one step. Now, how much research have you done on dominance and submission since I last saw you?” he asked.
“A lot.”
One of his eyebrows quirked up.
She swallowed, and her brain scrambled to gather the details of her exploration. “Three meetings at the Rose and Thorn Society in Maryland and two munches in Fredericksburg—it seemed prudent to go out of town—and fourteen books. Nonfiction. Here are my limits. No edge play. No third parties. No giving me away. If you want a longer list, I can produce one.”
His low chuckle uncurled that nest of nerves in her belly.
“I should have known once you put your mind to something you’d go all the way.” His mouth dropped into a serious frown. “Why did it take you so long to text me?”
“I was afraid you didn’t want me. Or if you did, it’d be a pity session.”
“You reached out anyway.”
“I had to. You’re all I’ve thought about for two years. For the record, though I regret any pain you felt, I’m not sorry you’re single. Not even a little bit.” Damn-it. Her eyes pricked at that final bit of truth.
He placed his palm against her cheek. “Thank you, Dana. Right now I’m not sorry either. Up three more, pet.” His tie uncurled from his fingers and dropped to the carpeting as they rose up the stairway together. He kept his eyes on her, seemingly not caring where his tie landed or even to watch his own step. A spurt of pride for capturing his attention so thoroughly competed with her growing arousal. His eyes were so intense, they practically spanked her.
“What do you want, Dana? Specifics, remember?”
“I-I remember. I’d like you to … make me.”
“Force you?”
“Yes. A little rough is good.” God, she had to be every shade of red known to man. Was truth this hard? Or was it because what that truth said about her? An ex-wife of a member of Congress and career woman wanting to be dominated, overpowered, taken.
“Not very specific, pet.”
“I just don’t know what I like yet. I don’t know what I don’t know, if that makes sense.”
“Hmmm.” He studied her for a short minute. �
��Well, exploration’s not a bad thing, either.”
“Yes, I’d like that.” Her words came out breathy and needy, but they were authentic.
“Up two more, Dana.”
After she complied he picked up her hand and laid it on his chest over his heart.
“We’re going to go easy,” he said. “Slow.”
Her hand looked so small against his pec, but then it had been so long since she’d touched a man with desire and need—feeling his hard muscle, heat, blood thumping under her hands. Funny how just touching him choked any lingering doubts. Her fingers itched to curl into his shirt, to cling and claw at him. If she let her fingers trail down to his groin she could see if he was hard …
“Turn around. Face upstairs,” he said before she could do just that.
Taking delicate steps to get around on the narrow step, she presented her back to him.
“This is what I’m planning.” His hands brushed her hair over one shoulder. “First, at the top, I’m going to take care of you … because quite frankly, your body is screaming for it.”
A tug on her dress zipper shot a burst of desire up her spine, quickly followed by a shock of realization. Oh, God, she was going to be naked. A laugh rose in her throat, truly ridiculous given how long she’d dreamt of being with Jackson. How could she forget he’d see her—all of her? The determination and bravado she’d clung to for the last two years shattered at the sound of her zipper being lowered. Her arms instinctively crossed over her chest to keep her dress from falling. Whoever said desire equaled immediate courage? No one, that’s who.