Fearless (Elite Doms of Washington Book 5) Page 16

  Alexander had named the flogger, the Contessa, years ago as a long-standing joke between him and a past lover. Sarah was one of the few privileged to ever hear the story. It was long and sad, and she couldn’t think about it now, not when the man who was the single greatest influence in her life stood there, magnificent, confident and with such certainty, she understood the message to everyone in the room. Whatever had kept him from publicly playing was now over.

  Over. His note’s message floated across her mind. It’s time. Was this what he’d meant? She forced herself to look away for one second to scan the crowd that had drifted toward the scene in a cloud of diamonds, gowns, and nudity. Like a magnet, Alexander had transfixed all three hundred people who had left D.C. for St. Thomas to honor the man who turned sixty today.

  “You didn’t know either, did you?” Jonathan had sidled up next to her. She turned to see his eyes, an understanding passing between them that he hadn’t been expecting this, either. He, of all people, would grasp the pivotal moment they witnessed. Alexander was playing publicly for the first time in over a decade. Ten years.

  “I’ve never seen him out of a business suit,” Christiana’s voice floated to her ears.

  Sarah was vaguely aware of London and Carson standing nearby. Sarah couldn’t rip her gaze from Alexander, now flogging the woman hard and fast while groans emanated from her lips.

  “I've never seen him from behind a desk—how can he … oh, my God … He must work out with Marcos,” Christiana said.

  “There’s no way that chest belongs to a sixty-year-old,” London added.

  “Sixty is the new fifty or in his case, the new forty,” Christiana said. “I mean, look at him.”

  The rest of their conversation was lost to her as she tuned into the deep thud of the flogger snapping backward and forward, again and again, landing perfect hits that left long red stripes on the beautiful woman’s back. The woman who gripped the metal links sighed contentedly. The links had to bite into her skin.

  Despite the mask he wore, a tall man Sarah recognized as Eric Morrison, stood a few feet away, mesmerized by Alexander. Sarah knew Eric had been after Alexander for years, though Alexander had shown nothing but polite acknowledgment to anyone in all the time she’d known him. And, she and Alexander had known each other for decades. He’d known her when she wasn’t as she was now—ordered, disciplined, responsible.

  She’d played hard during her first decade in the lifestyle. There was a time she couldn’t get enough, learn enough, try out enough things. Then, the unthinkable happened. She’d hurt someone. Thank god Alexander stepped in when he had. He had mentored her through that lost and angry time. As she discovered bits and pieces of herself, she built a set of rules like someone builds a house—one board at a time. She learned to channel herself.

  She’d helped him, too. She worked hard to assist him as he built Club Accendos and the Tribunal and believed in its order, its purpose, and its gift to the people in the lifestyle.

  She grew dizzy with the realization of how quickly time had passed. Steffan’s hand landed on her hip as if to steady her, and when she leaned backward, she met the hard muscle of Laurent’s chest. They’d closed in to support her.

  Alexander laid his hand on the woman’s wet, dark curls, his palm so large it covered her head. He murmured something to her, and Sarah was sure the woman purred a response. Sarah’s eyes grew wet with the beauty of the scene and threatened to flow when Alexander himself, untied the knots that bound her to the contraption. The web was righted with the help of two assistants. Alexander gently placed her into the arms of two submissive assistants. Propped up between them now, he took both of her hands into one of his, tipped her chin up with the other. “Thank you,” he said. The woman’s eyes were glazed, but Sarah knew she’d remember those words, the pride in his eyes at her service.

  He then turned, chest rising and falling still from exertion, and looked down at her. She’d gotten close, probably too close, and her shoulders tightened ever so slightly.

  “Sarah,” he whispered and held out his hand. A kick of complicated emotions—awe, thrill, fear, love—intruded on her composure, and she had to clear her throat. She stepped up the three wide steps and took his hand.

  She had zero romantic interest in Alexander, and he felt similarly toward her, but she drank in the sight of him—his silver hair, deep blue eyes, and a six-foot-five frame that towered over most people. They had been so much more to each other than mere lovers. She had never felt small in his presence, never felt less than him. That was his rare gift, she supposed, making others feel worthy no matter the truth.

  He turned her palm so it faced up and ran his thumb along her wrist line—something he’d never done. “You got my note.”

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Good. You know my past, and I know yours. It’s time to put it where it belongs—behind us. Now, you’re going to do something for me.”

  “Anything, Alexander.” Why was she so damned emotional?

  “Stop holding yourself back. Fall in love.” When his lips quirked upward into a rare, full smile, she felt the full weight of his words.

  Her eyes stung with pending tears. “I do love … Laurent.” She could admit that. Who couldn’t love that man who now knelt at the base of the podium? His ability to give was unfathomable.

  “That’s a good first step. Be willing to keep going.” He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “You’ve never harmed anyone in your life … not even back then, and you won’t now. Trust him. Trust both of them.”

  A tidal wave of memory threatened to drown her. She knew what he was saying—let go of what Joshua did. Let go of what had happened when he found her in that dungeon. But how could she?

  “What if I can’t?” she said.

  “Then trust them to show you how.” He released her hand and then beckoned for Steffan to join them. “The note wasn’t just for you.”

  S. It never occurred to her the note could have been for Sarah or Steffan—or as Alexander had just said, for both of them.

  Alexander looked over her shoulder. She turned to find Laurent, kneeling at the base of the steps. “Laurent,” Alexander’s voice boomed. “Your Master and Mistress have need of you.” He turned back to Sarah. “Trust. We’re nothing without it.”

  Steffan’s ice blue eyes found her, along with his hand, which he placed on the small of her back—not declaring ownership but rather something more important. He wanted to support her. He had never tried to turn her into something she wasn’t, someone who needed his reassurance. Yet, there he was, giving it to her anyway.

  “Laurent,” Steffan said. “Now.” Laurent swiftly rose and climbed the stairs. He’d not moved until he heard Steffan’s voice.

  “No,” she said when he moved to kneel before Alexander. “Before me.” Alexander was right. It was time to move forward—with these two men. She’d made a mistake long ago, and she’d been punishing herself ever since. Why?

  “Alexander,” Steffan said. “Happy Birthday.”

  The man chuckled. “It will be very happy if you promise me something.”

  “Never harm Sarah.”

  “Or Laurent.” The man’s eyes flicked downward to where the beautiful submissive knelt.

  “Alexander, if Sarah or Laurent were ever to come to harm because of me, well …” He looked at her. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

  Her stomach lurched. Memories could cut as sure as a knife, and she felt the slice of his words as if he’d taken a machete to her heart. That agony she’d leashed over the years, the remorse she’d boxed up so carefully, burst out so violently she struggled to stay upright. She absolutely believed him. A few minutes ago she was facing one direction, and with those words—I wouldn’t be able to live with myself—the past spun her around. She’d let her guard down, and she’d been punished for it. Steffan wouldn’t know what his words meant, but they hit her dead center. Shattering. She honest-to-god felt her heart splinter int
o pieces.

  Steffan’s hands were reaching for her, but she couldn’t let him touch her. “Steffan, I … need a minute.”

  It was such a lie. No amount of time was going to fix this.

  30

  Sarah spun and jogged down the steps, pushing past people who’d gathered to watch Alexander. She even bumped into one of the dungeon monitors, a man in a black tee-shirt that strained around biceps and chest muscles, his eyes visible through a black mask.

  Steffan turned to a stone-faced Alexander. “What was that?”

  “Go after her.” Alexander wrapped a hand around his bicep. “Ask her about Joshua Martin and Troy Myers.”

  Steffan jumped down the steps, nearly knocking a man into two women. The crowd was thick. Men and women in various states of dress—or wholly nude—had resumed their conversations, their playing, their flirting, oblivious to what occurred. Hell, he didn’t know what had happened. What had he said? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. An exclamation to grind the seriousness of how much he felt about her, but somehow that statement induced a crushing agony in her eyes, trembling in her lips.

  He was vaguely aware of Laurent behind him, and God love the man, Laurent kept in stride with him as he sprinted between people. He had no idea where Sarah would head. Then by the grace of God, he saw her dart through the ballroom doors about forty feet away. Before they snapped shut again, he caught a glimpse of her heading straight for a set of glass doors that led to a terrace and the beach.

  He caught Laurent’s ashen face as he pushed through the doors.

  “What happened?” Laurent asked.

  He wished he knew.

  It wasn’t hard to find her. She sat on the sand, halfway down to the water, staring out calmly, as if she hadn’t just bolted from Alexander Rockingham himself, through a crowd of three hundred guests with the two of them giving them chase. Tiki torches lining the walkways, a few dotting the sand, illuminated her form. Her knees were pulled up under her chin, her long diaphanous gown whipping in the wind, tendrils of brown hair rising and swirling in the air currents. She looked like a goddess summoning a storm. He kicked off his shoes and strode toward her. His heavy breathing from the chase could be heard over the rumble of the ocean waves.

  He stood over her, while Laurent fell to his knees. The sand was cold under his feet, in contrast to the heat of the air.

  “Sarah—”

  “When did you know you were a Dominant?” she asked, not looking up at them.

  “What’s wrong, Tell me.”

  She turned her face up to him, a sheen of unshed tears glistening in her eyes, the firelight from tiki torches sharpening the angles in her face.

  “When?” she asked again.

  “College. I think. It was slow.” He dropped to his butt next to her. “Why is this important?”

  She took a deep breath. “I always ask in interviews, and your answer is telling. If you answer ‘always,’ it tells me two things: you started at least thinking about dominance at a young age and two, you might be reckless. If you say ‘I’ve always been a little bossy, but I didn’t start feeling sexually Dominant until later, and then when I found the scene, I felt at home,’ that tells me you might have taken your time.”

  Why was she explaining this to him?

  “Okay then. I guess I can’t pinpoint exactly when,” he said. “Now what happened back there.”

  “I was fourteen when I realized I was a sexual Dominant. I always knew I was powerful. My father was the first person to tell me I had to be careful. He said, ‘Sarah, you are able to make people do things. Be careful what you ask for.’ I was seven. Funny how you never forget some things, but I can’t remember what his hands looked like.” She turned to Laurent. “Isn’t that odd?”

  He swallowed. “No. I can’t remember what my mother’s voice sounded like. It’s disconcerting.”

  She placed her hand on his arm and gave him a sad smile. “Yes. Then there are some things you try hard to forget and you can’t.”

  “Who are Joshua Martin and Troy Myers?” Steffan asked.

  Her gaze darted to his face. “Who told you those names?” Her voice, stronger and tinged with anger, told him she wasn’t completely gone.

  “Alexander.”

  She swallowed. “He wouldn’t.”

  “He just did.” Steffan settled closer to her. “These men hurt you.”

  Her mouth twisted into a slow, sad smile .“No. It was very much the other way around.” Sarah dug her toes in the sand. “I knew there was no getting out of this weekend without remembering. Tomorrow is the anniversary of … Joshua. But it was the price I was willing to pay for my loyalty to Alexander, to show up here and honor the man who’s been the single most important influence in my life. And”—She looked at Laurent—“The two of you were going to be with me.”

  “We are with you.” Laurent took her hand. “Sarah. Mistress, please.”

  She intertwined her hand into his, then reached for Steffan’s and did the same. “I’m going to tell you something.” Her throat clenched, the muscles taut against her words. “And when I do, know there is always a jet waiting to take you back.”

  “Fat chance of that happening.”

  She gave him a wavering smile but then returned her attention to the water. “We’ll see. Joshua Martin was the son of the most elegant woman I’d ever known. Clementina Delvecchio Martin. She was so nurturing, so much more of a mother than Claire Marillioux ever was. Clementina gave me my first Hermes scarf. She taught me about clothes and cultivated a sense of style in me—all done with the greatest love. In many ways, she made me the stylist I am today. I adored her—loved her far more than I loved my own mother. She and her husband, James, were friends of my mother’s and Jonathan’s father … maybe. Or had they met when my mother was married to Harold?” She shook her head. “Who can remember which husband.” She rested her chin on her knees.

  “They had one child, a son, Joshua. A golden boy. Tall. Handsome. Smart. Athletic. So very, very gentle and kind. There wasn’t anything he didn’t excel at, and he adored me. All through high school, we were a ‘thing.’ He was my first—everything. First date. First dance. First kiss. First lover … first submissive. He was more than willing to help me explore that side of my sexuality. He got off on it, too.”

  She paused and swallowed, angrily swiped at a tear that had run down her cheek. She then straightened and drew in a long breath.

  “Josh had a full scholastic scholarship to Harvard. Pre-law, though he would have made an awful lawyer,” she laughed. “Not nearly cut-throat enough. I told him he should go for pre-med. Pediatrics. He would have been great with kids. Josh begged me to go to Harvard with him. He wanted us to go to school together, get married, settle in DC and have a family. Stay close to his parents. Clementina and James would have been over the moon, but they never pushed. It would have been the perfect fairytale ending … for everyone but me.” She pulled her other hand free and placed both in her lap.

  “I was seventeen and even then realized I didn’t love Joshua in the way he loved me. I didn’t want any of the things he wanted. I wanted to go to New York. I wanted to work in design. Wanted to travel. Explore the club scene … explore other men.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “I think I was the first and only thing in his life he really wanted he couldn’t have. He was devastated, but I thought … he’d get over me. Find some nice girl at Harvard. It’s what people do, right? They move on.”

  She shuddered, and he barely restrained himself from gathering her into his arms.

  “So, I left for Vassar. He went to Cambridge. I did miss him, just not in the way he missed me. I was so excited to be so close to New York City.” Her eyes glazed as she stared into nothing. “Almost every weekend I took the train into the city and explored the club scene. It was like … a whole new world for me. Then I came home for Thanksgiving. Joshua invited me over to have dinner with his family. I was happy to accept. When I got to their house …”

/>   A strangled cry erupted in her throat, and by the way her neck strained, the way her hands balled into fists, she was fighting to not break down. “It was so dark. No lights in the windows, nothing to show that anyone was home. I let myself in. I’d always had a key. I figured there had been some miscommunication. Maybe I had gotten the time wrong. I walked through the house, calling, and … I found him.” She halted and took a huge steadying breath. “I found him hanging from the light fixture in his room. I called 911 but …” She shook her head and tears streamed freely down her cheeks. “Clementina and James arrived with the paramedics. He’d left a note.”

  Her voice dropped to a flat whisper as if reciting from memory. “You never believed me when I said I couldn’t live in this world without you. Always remember I loved you more than life itself.”

  “It was the worst day of my life. Either before or since, except when … they found the pictures in his duffle bag. Joshua liked me to take polaroids of him when he was bound. Clementina and James never needed to know that. They should never have had those images be the last memory of Joshua. If nothing else it was a hideous reminder of the final rope around his neck. The scandal was horrific. I can still see the headlines in bold font, Prominent Family’s Son Suicides Over Teenage Lover. James burned the pictures in the bathroom sink and Clementina accused me of killing her son. They never spoke to me again. They sold the house and moved from Washington DC. I was shipped back to Vassar in disgrace, told to stay away for a few years. I deserved far worse than banishment."

  “Sarah.” He didn’t hide the empathy in his voice. “It wasn’t your fault; you know that. You were so young.”

  She shook her head and stared at the ocean. “I should have seen it coming. I should have done more … I was closer to Joshua than anyone in the world. I was responsible for him. I should have done more.” She ground out those last words as if trying to etch them into her soul.

  “Mistress,” Laurent began.

  “Please, Laurent. Don’t.” She held up her hands, then dropped them into her lap again.