Mitch had told her he’d carefully vetted Cordell Roberts before asking him to take her under his wing. She’d been in such a bad place after breaking her contract with Master—no, she wasn’t allowed to call him Master anymore. Bruce Whitlow had been her first full-time Dom, and he’d insisted on a Master/slave relationship. In the beginning, he’d charmed her, and she’d fallen for it. What Tiffany hadn’t realized at the time was that there were many people out there who called themselves Doms or Dommes, yet they didn’t have a clue what that really meant. Some people used the lifestyle as an excuse to treat others poorly and abuse them—mentally, physically, and/or emotionally. While Bruce’s physical abuse never amounted to anything serious—he’d never broken any of her bones—he’d done a number on her psyche to go with the bruises he’d left on her skin. By the time she’d figured out the relationship hadn’t been healthy for her, she’d been too scared to try to leave him. Thankfully, a Domme at the club they’d belonged to, Silk, had seen what was happening and how depressed Tiffany had grown. Mistress Rayanna had furtively stepped in and helped Tiffany move out of Bruce’s house when he’d been out of town on a business trip. The Domme hadn’t wanted to get in trouble for interfering with another club Dominant and his submissive, since that was frowned upon in many lifestyle circles, and Tiffany had gladly kept her secret.
After letting herself in the back door to the main house, she sidestepped Eastwood who was splayed out on the kitchen floor. Sir had rescued the gray cat on the side of Las Vegas Boulevard one night while investigating a fatal accident three years ago. When no one had claimed the four-month-old kitten, he’d apparently claimed the lieutenant as his forever human, who’d named him after his favorite actor, Clint Eastwood.
Tiffany removed her sandals, shirt, and capris, folding the garments neatly and setting them on a stool at the kitchen island. That was her routine every time Sir called her into the house, unless he stated otherwise. Clad only in her blue, lacy bra and matching thong, she padded down the hall toward his office, with Eastwood hot on her heels. When she reached the closed door, she knocked and waited for Sir to respond.
“Enter.”
Tiffany turned the doorknob and pushed before stepping inside and shutting the door behind her again. As usual, Eastwood was quick and scooted in with her, so he could take his favorite spot in a bay window overlooking the side yard. Without a word, Tiffany moved to the center of the room, in front of Sir’s desk, and gracefully sank to her knees onto a pillow that was always there. Her eyes were downcast as she presented herself to her Dom. Back straight. Head bowed. Hands on her thighs, palms up. Ass resting on her heels. She mentally inspected her positioning to make certain it was perfect and would please her Sir.
Again, she waited. Long ago, she’d learned that Sir took his time whenever they were in D/s mode, which was more often than not. He would not be rushed. As he tapped away on his computer keyboard, Tiffany took a deep breath and let it out slowly, calming her nerves. She still got antsy whenever he summoned her. With Bruce, she’d never known when he would fly off the handle because of something she’d done, hadn’t done, or said. Even after all these months, she worried that Sir would start yelling and use a cane on her ass and thighs because she’d screwed up. However, Sir never yelled. At least not at Tiffany. That didn’t mean she hadn’t earned her fair share of punishments from him. But any transgressions on her part always resulted in spankings or non-physical discipline like standing in a corner or public embarrassment at Club Domain, the private lifestyle club they belonged to.
Technically, Mitch had secured Tiffany’s membership for an entire year because there was no way she could’ve afforded it on her income. Working as a cage cashier at the Golden Nugget Casino paid well enough for her to cover her rent—before she’d moved into the guest house, since Sir didn’t collect rent from her—her car payment and insurance, utilities, and other expenses. But after all that, it wouldn’t have made a dent in the membership fees at an elite BDSM club. In fact, she wasn’t certain what was going to happen in five months when her year was up. Without paying rent, she’d be able to extend her membership by another year, but that would wipe out her savings.
Sir stood suddenly and rounded the desk to take a seat in the guest chair in front of Tiffany. He crossed one leg over the opposite knee. A shiver ran down her spine as she felt his gaze roam her body. She knew she was imagining it heating her skin, but that didn’t stop her nipples from pebbling and her clit from throbbing in response.
“Eyes on me, little one.”
Lifting her gaze, she took in the man before her. Even if she hadn’t been in the lifestyle, she would’ve recognized his commanding presence. Maybe it was because of his police training and experience. Maybe he’d just been born with it. But wherever he’d gotten it, she definitely responded to it.
Sir stood six feet three and had a lean, muscular body that made most women drool. Tiffany loved when he was shirtless while working in the yard or swimming in his pool. At the club, he usually wore snug T-shirts or just a leather vest, and while they showed off his toned physique, she still preferred him not to cover his chest and shoulders. He was what some people might call ruggedly good-looking. The sharp angles of his jawline and previously broken nose prevented him from being gorgeous by some women’s standards, but his personality and self-confidence made him all the more attractive to Tiffany. His electric blue eyes could go dark with anger, disappointment, or frustration, yet lighten with laughter, calm, and delight. When he was in a good mood, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement and mischief. The mustache and goatee he’d grown out since being shot were kept neatly trimmed and matched the dark-brown hair on his head. A two-inch scar ran parallel to his right eyebrow, but Tiffany had never had the courage to ask him how he’d gotten it—or the broken nose—because it seemed too personal, and that was something their relationship wasn’t. Non-personal might seem odd for two people in a D/s contract, when one of them was currently kneeling on the floor in her underwear. But Tiffany had known going into this that Sir’s intent was to help her redefine the habits and feelings Bruce had instilled upon her over their two years together.
“Did you have a good time with Tori yesterday?”
Sir often asked her how her day had gone or other questions that made her feel like they were a couple, but then she had to remind herself they weren’t. “Yes, Sir, I did. I wish I got to see her more often. She’s my favorite cousin.”
He smiled. “I kind of guessed that, since you’re on the phone with her a few times a week and you were thrilled to find out they were coming to visit.” There was a pause before he asked, “Did Tori tell you why they came to Vegas?”
Tiffany blinked several times, uncertain what Sir was alluding to. “Um, I thought they just decided to take a mini-vacation.”
“Well, that’s part of the reason they’re here. The other reason is to offer me a job as manager and resident Dom of a new lifestyle resort in the Florida Keys.”
What? Why hadn’t Tori told me that? Sir was going to leave her, and Tiffany wasn’t ready for that to happen. She needed him. There were still times she fell back on old habits, and she was terrified she would never find a Dom who treated her like she should be treated. The way Ty and Mitch treated Tori. How Mistress Rayanna treated her submissive, Teagan. How Sir treated Tiffany. What would happen when he left her all alone? Would she fall for another abusive Dom like Bruce, who didn’t show her his evil side until she was too invested in the relationship to leave?