Chapter One
“Here
you are, Mr. Kent. One more signature and the property is yours.” One signature was easy enough. John signed with a flourish. It was hard
to contain his excitement now that the deed was done.
“Thank you, Mr. Kent,” Jim Banks, his solicitor, said,
separating out John’s copies and slipping them in a large manila envelope. “You have something special in mind for
the property?”
He did
indeed! “A nice bolt-hole, don’t you think?”
Banks
agreed wholeheartedly—a little enviously, John suspected. He thanked him, put
the papers that gave him ownership of Goose Island into his briefcase and bade
Banks and his clerk a good afternoon.
Once in
the car park, John threw the briefcase in the boot and set off. He hadn’t felt
this excited in ages. Years in fact. But now the sheer
delight of planning a truly sexy and kinky weekend for Ellen had him jubilant.
Yes, he
was a truly lucky man. He’d picked good parents. They’d not only given him
kinky genes in spades but left him a respectable fortune.
He
somehow knew his father would approve of how he was spending it. And especially
approve of Ellen.
He
called her once he got back to his flat in St. Katherine’s Dock but went into
voicemail.
“Call
me,” was all he said. All he needed to. She would the minute she was free.
Which was about ten minutes later. He’d just had time to make a cup of
coffee and wonder whether to go out for dinner or settle for cheese on toast at
home.
Once
glance at the caller ID and, damn, his cock was going hard. He had it as bad as
any adolescent and it was bloody wonderful.
“Hello,
Ellen. Are you naked?”
Even at
this distance, her chuckle was sexy as hell. “Actually no,
John. Since I’m standing on the platform of the Gare du Nord, it’s just as well I’m not.”
She had a
point but better not let her get too confident. “If I ordered you to take off
your clothes and stand there naked, with a placard around your neck that said Property
of John Kent I think you’d be fine. The French tend to respect other men’s
property.” He heard the catch in her breath all the way from Paris. He bet she
was getting wet between her legs too. “What if I gave that order? Would you
disobey, knowing what would happen when I found out?”
“For heaven’s sake, John! Much more of this and I’ll need to
change my knickers.”
“Would
you?” he persisted. “Would you obey my command?”
He sensed
her hesitation. Could imagine her racing pulse and the scent
of fresh sweat on her skin. And he knew damn well she was smiling.
“Since
that would get me arrested and really delay my getting home, you’re not going
to, are you?”
Damn! He
loved her. All those idiots who thought submissive women were cowed and timid
needed to meet Ellen Forsythe. Actually, on second thought, they didn’t!
“John, the
train’s coming in. Have to hang up. I’ll call back in a jiffy.”
She was
gone, and like the fool in love that he was—correction, contented fool in
love—he put his phone on the arm of the chair and waited for her to call back.
After all, waiting was the perfect opportunity to think out some delicious,
erotic torture for when she did get home.
* * * * *
Ellen put
her laptop on the table and her bag on the empty seat beside her and leaned
back, letting out a sigh. She hadn’t been kidding about damp undies. How was it
John could
stir such a response by his voice alone, and on the other side of the Channel
come to that? She smiled and let out another sigh of deliberate and pure
pleasure. After the heartbreak of watching Edward die, she’d truly believed
she’d never find another lover as dominant and demanding and as gloriously
harsh as her late husband.
Had she
been wrong! She met John on a blind date and was smitten on sight. Had it been
her submissive instincts that immediately recognized a Dominant? Or her pent-up horniness? No, it was more than lust and a
need for sex. John filled the depths of
“Here
you are, Mr. Kent. One more signature and the property is yours.” One signature was easy enough. John signed with a flourish. It was hard
to contain his excitement now that the deed was done.
“Thank you, Mr. Kent,” Jim Banks, his solicitor, said,
separating out John’s copies and slipping them in a large manila envelope. “You have something special in mind for
the property?”
He did
indeed! “A nice bolt-hole, don’t you think?”
Banks
agreed wholeheartedly—a little enviously, John suspected. He thanked him, put
the papers that gave him ownership of Goose Island into his briefcase and bade
Banks and his clerk a good afternoon.
Once in
the car park, John threw the briefcase in the boot and set off. He hadn’t felt
this excited in ages. Years in fact. But now the sheer
delight of planning a truly sexy and kinky weekend for Ellen had him jubilant.
Yes, he
was a truly lucky man. He’d picked good parents. They’d not only given him
kinky genes in spades but left him a respectable fortune.
He
somehow knew his father would approve of how he was spending it. And especially
approve of Ellen.
He
called her once he got back to his flat in St. Katherine’s Dock but went into
voicemail.
“Call
me,” was all he said. All he needed to. She would the minute she was free.
Which was about ten minutes later. He’d just had time to make a cup of
coffee and wonder whether to go out for dinner or settle for cheese on toast at
home.
Once
glance at the caller ID and, damn, his cock was going hard. He had it as bad as
any adolescent and it was bloody wonderful.
“Hello,
Ellen. Are you naked?”
Even at
this distance, her chuckle was sexy as hell. “Actually no,
John. Since I’m standing on the platform of the Gare du Nord, it’s just as well I’m not.”
She had a
point but better not let her get too confident. “If I ordered you to take off
your clothes and stand there naked, with a placard around your neck that said Property
of John Kent I think you’d be fine. The French tend to respect other men’s
property.” He heard the catch in her breath all the way from Paris. He bet she
was getting wet between her legs too. “What if I gave that order? Would you
disobey, knowing what would happen when I found out?”
“For heaven’s sake, John! Much more of this and I’ll need to
change my knickers.”
“Would
you?” he persisted. “Would you obey my command?”
He sensed
her hesitation. Could imagine her racing pulse and the scent
of fresh sweat on her skin. And he knew damn well she was smiling.
“Since
that would get me arrested and really delay my getting home, you’re not going
to, are you?”
Damn! He
loved her. All those idiots who thought submissive women were cowed and timid
needed to meet Ellen Forsythe. Actually, on second thought, they didn’t!
“John, the
train’s coming in. Have to hang up. I’ll call back in a jiffy.”
She was
gone, and like the fool in love that he was—correction, contented fool in
love—he put his phone on the arm of the chair and waited for her to call back.
After all, waiting was the perfect opportunity to think out some delicious,
erotic torture for when she did get home.
* * * * *
Ellen put
her laptop on the table and her bag on the empty seat beside her and leaned
back, letting out a sigh. She hadn’t been kidding about damp undies. How was it
John could
stir such a response by his voice alone, and on the other side of the Channel
come to that? She smiled and let out another sigh of deliberate and pure
pleasure. After the heartbreak of watching Edward die, she’d truly believed
she’d never find another lover as dominant and demanding and as gloriously
harsh as her late husband.
Had she
been wrong! She met John on a blind date and was smitten on sight. Had it been
her submissive instincts that immediately recognized a Dominant? Or her pent-up horniness? No, it was more than lust and a
need for sex. John filled the depths of
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