Page 18 of A Secret and a Lie
“You must be Clark,” the petite brunette behind the reception desk chimes, a bright, inviting smile on her face. At my nod, she reaches for a folder and gets to her feet.
“Follow me, please.”
When we step into the elevator together, a security guard joins us. He’s about my size, maybe an inch shorter than my six-foot-four frame, his SIG Sauer P226 exposed at his hip. I want to snort. I’d be willing to bet that I’d have his own weapon pressed to his temple before he got that thing unholstered. Since I wasn’t sure what the protocol would be today, I chose to arrive unarmed. Although, that doesn’t leave me defenseless, by any means.
“If Allison accepts you as a client,” the woman begins next to me, her dark ringlet curls bouncing against her shoulders as she speaks. “You’ll be instructed to use this elevator and to take it to the twelfth floor. She’ll give you a temporary access code before each of your appointments that will expire five minutes after your scheduled meeting time.”
I nod, absorbing the information as the lift climbs. Finally, a chime indicates that we’ve reached our destination, and nerves bubble to life within my stomach. The sensation is foreign to me. I didn’t feel anxious, just angry, while I was deployed in an active combat zone, so why the fuck am I nervous now?
Swallowing hard, I follow the woman, stepping into the room.
The first thing I notice about my surroundings is that it’s almostlike a bedroom, except not at all. There’s a massive four-poster bed against the wall to my right, covered with black sheets and pillows. Opposite the bed, in front of me, there’s an ornate black armoire with silver trim, the doors concealing whatever methods of torture reside inside. There’s a large X against the far corner that I remember from my research being called a St. Andrew’s cross.
To my left, there’s an innocent-looking sitting area complete with a fully stocked wet bar, a couch and several chairs, but no coffee table.
“You indicated on your forms that you’ll be assuming a submissive role. Is that correct?”
I stuff my hands into my pockets and nod. Henry mentioned that Madam Allison almost exclusively takes submissives as clients, so I chose to list that as my preference. It’s the only question I lied about on the forms.
She smiles then, showing off her bright white teeth. “Perfect. She’ll be with you in a moment.” She calls for the elevator, but before she steps inside, she glances back at me and suggests, “I’d recommend assuming a submissive position before she joins you.”
I arch an eyebrow in question as I frantically scan my memory, trying to recall reading anything about a submissive position, and come up short. She must see the mild panic on my face because she inclines her head. “Allison prefers her submissives on their knees in the middle of the room, hands on their thighs, palms up and head bowed.” Just as the doors close on the woman, she adds, “And for the love of all things depraved, do not look at her without permission.”
The silver doors shut, and I blink, only to realize with abject horror that the security guard remained in this torture chamber with me.
Great.
I take a solidifying breath and attempt to ignore the man stationed by the elevator. Telling myself that the faster I get through this, the faster I can quit the FBI and move the fuck on with my life, I unbutton my suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair in the sitting area and rolling my sleeves up to my elbows. I’m glad I choseto forgo the tie this evening. It’d be too tempting to strangle myself with it right now.
Running a hand over my face and the trimmed three-day scruff lining my jaw, I move to the center of the room and sink to my knees, my ass resting against the back of my dress shoes. Turning my hands palms up, I rest them on my thighs as the pretty brunette instructed.
Fuck, this is all kinds of uncomfortable.
My molars grind as I dip my chin and close my eyes against the discomfort running through my veins. This feels wrong, flawed on a base level.
I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of on various assignments, but this might take the cake. I don’t like being on my knees, submitting my body, my control, my mind. It’s not that I’m on my knees for a woman; it’s that I’m on my knees at all that feels so fucking awry.
Maybe Drake was right; perhaps thiscanteach me about what I like and what Idon’t. So far, I’ve learned that I’m not a submissive.
But I can pretend. I can pretend to be whatever the fuck will get me through this assignment faster.
Just then, I hear the door to my right open and the sharp intake of breath, but I don’t look up, heeding the brunette’s warning. A softsnickindicates that the door has shut, and I open my eyes, my gaze fixed on my upturned hands.
I hold my breath as black, wide-legged trousers come into view, accompanied by black stilettos. I recognize them immediately as expensive designer shoes, the kind that cost more than some of the rent in this city.
The owner of the shoes circles me twice, her fingernails gliding over my back, just below where my shirt collar folds over. When she comes to stand before me again, I fight the urge to look up.
Then she speaks. “Leave us, please, Marcus.”
That voice.
It can’t be. I must’ve imagined that.
“We’ll be just fine, won’t we,Clark?”
No.
Genevieve
