Page 20 of Hell On Heels
Looking at herself in the mirror, Lottie remembered how she felt the last time she stood in that very dress. Decadent, dangerous, and dominant. All three words that described her to a tee as she stood looking at herself. “I do look good.”
She grabbed her full-length black coat from the closet and tugged it on, buttoning it up, then grabbed her purse.
She got to the door; her hand hovering over the knob. Sighing, Lottie turned and walked back to the kitchen and poured another glass of wine. She drank it down, licked her lips, and squared her shoulders. It wasn’t as if she was going to the club to have sex. No, this was an evening of watching the art of sex. Maybe a little voyeurism would help get her past her issues.
Determined not to let the memory of Dawson keep her from having a nice evening, Lottie opened the door and walked out.
Chapter Nine
Eyeing the submissive, Razor reminded himself that there in the dungeon he wasn’t Dr. Clermont. He wasn’t Razor with the Royal Bastards. He was a Dom and the woman before him standing on the raised platform was his for as long as the scene lasted. They were both there for the same thing. A release from the world outside.
With the viewing area full of spectators he settled behind his playmate for the evening. This was his playground, and he was a master at seduction. The outside world slipped away when he was in the club.
He enjoyed the moment a sub settled into surrender, when negotiation turned into trust. His control was subtle—voice, touch, presence—and it always matched the dynamic they had agreed on. Shannon was his partner for the evening.
It had been her choice to be there. If she wanted to leave, she only had to say so—no one stopped anyone from walking away. She had requested him, after all.
Razor had taken time deciding on her. She wasn’t an easy submissive; she pushed, tested, provoked. Some Dom’s lost patience with that. He didn’t. He read it as defiance looking for structure.
He prided himself on control—on never letting a scene slip beyond what he intended. And Shannon wasn’t a weakness in that control.
She was a challenge.
His last sub wanted more than Razor was willing to give. She wanted in his outside world. Razor liked things compartmentalized. For lack of a better word, he was private. And private seemed too simple when it came to some of the females who came to the club.
Razor liked his personal life to remain secret for many reasons. There were too many people who didn’t understand the world of Doms and Subs. They judged out of ignorance.
The Red Door wasn’t just any sex club; it was an elite club. You had to be invited, vetted, and pay a membership to obtain entrance. He trusted that his place there was secure. Because this information in the wrong hands could give someone ammunition to ruin his career.
Looking at the female splayed before him, he realized if the evening had a chance of going as planned, he had to get out of his own headspace, or he wouldn’t finish the session.
Leaning over he whispered in her ear, “Are you comfortable?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl.”
Her hands were palm out facing him. Razor allowed Shannon’s hand to feel his leg as he brushed against them. He watched as her breathing became ragged. He knew why. He told her not to touch him, but her fingers danced across his thigh. That would cost her.
“Do you want this?” Razor loved the sensuality of his hands running over a woman’s skin. He loved how the skin pebbled with every touch. Finding sexual pleasure in them. He found peace in their submission; he would give Shannon what she wanted.
“Yes, Sir.”
“How long have you wanted this?”
“Months, Sir.”
“Why?”
“I want to quiet my brain, Sir.”
“Do you have a safe word?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Tell me.”
“Trust, Sir.”
