Page 95 of A Secret and a Lie
“I moved to Amsterdam and spent four years being mentored by a professional Domme at a brothel. She taught me everything I know about BDSM, more specifically dominance and submission. Allison was born when I moved back here ten years ago.”
He nods slowly, like he understands, but I doubt he does. I likely only left him with new questions.
Instead of pressing the issue, he’s quiet for a moment, shifting in his seat, his elbow resting casually on the armrest. He looks at ease, confident, as he asks, “So what kind of Domme are you?”
My eyebrows crease as I attempt to follow his line of questioning. “What?”
“You said in one of your lessons that there are types of Doms, so what are you?”
“I’m a dominatrix, a pro-Domme. I get paid to dominate people. I don’t fall into any of the other categories you’re thinking of because I’m not a Domme outside of my playroom.”
Grady changed everything; he changedme. Engaging in risky sex outside of the safety of my playroom wasn’t something I was interested in anymore.
Ford tilts his head to the side, confusion clouding his face. “And you don’t submit, so what? You just don’t have sex?”
This topic isn’t uncomfortable for me, not after almost two decades of sex work, but there’s something about conversing with Ford about my recreational bedroom activities that has my insides twisting. Still, it’s not enough to make me blush. I lift a shoulder casually. “I’d top or opt for something vanilla that kept me and a partner on a more even playing field.”
He holds my gaze, his features hard. “Not with me, you wouldn’t.”
His bold statement vacuums the oxygen from the room, tilts the room on its axis, and leaves me dizzy. I believe him. There’s no doubt in my mind that what he’s saying is true. It makes being in the same vicinity as this man absurdly dangerous.
“You know,” he adds carefully. “I’d give you whatever you wanted.”
Something tells me he’s not talking about sex, but that’s the problem. My stomach flips like a fish out of water, and my survival instincts implore me to leave. Staying in this room is dangerous.
But as I turn once more, Ford inquires, “Would you go to the Acme Ball with me?”
The Acme Ball is the largest, most prestigious ball in Washington, behind the Inaugural Ball. Held every year, it’s where the world’s elite drink and conspire. The lobbyists pressure and petition under the guise of friendship. Cabals of politicians from varying countries collude and deceive one another. And capitalism’s finest corollaries extort, coerce and compel until there’s no one left undefiled. It’s where games are played; chess pieces locking into place as pawns topple over.
There was certainly no way I was going to miss it. I didn’t foresee Ford as someone interested in the District’s gala season. I figured I’d be securing my own ticket—after spending a cool twenty-five grand or weaseling my way back onto Julien’s arm—but now that Ford is asking, I weigh the consequences of going with him.
Wearemarried, and having the public backing of the Crawford name and estate might not be the worst thing in the world. Beyond that, though, the longing simmering in his gaze like the flames flickering in the fireplace makes my chest ache.
“Alright,” I say, hoping the confirmation will force the twinge behind my ribs to abate.
It doesn’t.
Genevieve
Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the car window, I find a wicked grin on my face as I take in the killer floor-length gown the shade of sin and rubies. Its neckline plunges down past my belly button in a seductive arrow that practically points toward my pelvis, leaving plenty of my full, ample breasts on display. The skirt of the dress accentuates my nipped waist, moving with me like oscillating waves that only I can control. There’s a slit in the skirt that stops dangerously high on my thigh, practically begging the observer to part the panels of fabric for a peek.
I feel sexy, beautiful even. More importantly, I feel dangerous.
Ford offers me his hand as I duck into the car, and I study it for a beat before sliding my fingers against his palm. I sense the caress intimately, my skin growing tight as electricity sparks beneath the surface. I wish I could bottle the feeling, since I can’t get more than this.
On the way to the gala, we drive through the neighborhood of Logan Circle, going right past the park that boasts the monument of General Logan. I’m wedged between Ford and his best friend, and the tension in the car is stifling, but when I glance at Drake, he seems unbothered, unaware of the significance of the route.
For years, I’ve avoided this area of the city at all costs. When that wasn’t an option, I’d choose the path that didnottake me by the park.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I don’t have totwist my neck to know Ford is staring at me. I’m surprised that I haven’t developed holes in my skull from how intense his gaze is. It’s all I can do to fight off the memories now flooding my mind.
I don’t look at him; I can’t.
The rest of the drive is uneventful, with Ford’s expression shifting to an enigmatic mask of dominance that’s a twin to my own, one I can spot from my peripheral. Once we arrive at the gala, Drake climbs from the SUV first, but just as I slide toward the door, Ford clutches my forearm, his grip just firm enough to demand my attention.
“Do me a favor and at leastpretendto like me tonight.”
My lashes flutter as I examine him, my eyes scanning his face as my glossy, scarlet-painted lips spread into a lurid grin. “As long as you promise not to keep looking at me like you want to toss my legs over your shoulders and eat me out.”
