Crossing the Line: Without a Trace series, a contemporary erotic romance novel (25 page)

“Are we ready for a new adventure?” Ian asks as we get in our taxi that will take us to the airport.

“With you? Absolutely.”

THE END

The first book in the Without a Trace series,

available on Amazon!

Who am I if I surrender to him?

Worse yet, who am I if I don’t?

What happens in love might destroy you...

Or remake you altogether.

I make a living offering men and women their ultimate fantasies…as submissives of the mysterious Mistress Hathaway.

I’ve never surrendered to anyone. That’s not the way it works. Or rather, not the way I operate.

But when the gorgeous Fin MacKenzie shows up in my life, he throws everything out of balance.

Now I’m not sure who I am anymore, and I’m questioning everything.

What woman can turn away from a gorgeous Scotsman, especially when he sets her body on fire and her heart ablaze?

I have to stop it…us. I can’t keep going like this. It will ruin everything I’ve worked so hard to build.

Who am I if I surrender to him?

Worse yet, who am I if I don’t?

Inside the Lines
take place after the prequel

Crossing the Lines
, so read on for a sneak peek into Lux’s sexy adventures with a hot Scot...

Inside the Lines

CHAPTER ONE

NO NAUGHTY DEED GOES UNPUNISHED

This isn’t my usual client.

Normally, they come to me. It’s discreet and makes everyone’s life easier. But for certain people, you make exceptions.

In the back of a sleek Lincoln Town Car, I relax into the leather as we enter the tunnel, heading for the famous Ritz Carlton. The car and driver are a courtesy of the client, and while it’s not the first time I’ve had such treatment, I always enjoy it.

Deprived of scenery, I mentally review my gear, ensuring nothing is left to chance. Leather crop, purchased several years ago from a tack shop. Restraints in the form of scarlet cotton rope—silk ties are for movies and books. Entirely too slippery and time consuming. The usual detritus: blindfolds, clamps, rubber whips that range from noisy to pain-inducing. Sultry music, though I also brought a selection of classical entries on my iPad.

A quick check in my compact mirror assures me that the deep red lipstick I’ve fallen in love with provides the right contrast to my long, jet curls. My suit—pinstripe, skirted—fits my curves like a glove. Beneath, a dark leather and crimson corset meets a matching g-string, finished off with garters and stockings. Red stilettos complete the ensemble. The things I do for clients...

As we surface, I take a calming breath. There’s always a bit of nerves right before an introductory scene. This client is new, and while I have a website with a photo gallery and specialties listed, each person’s sexual desires are like snowflakes: while similar in appearance to others, each has their own unique intricacies.

Topping—or playing the Dom—requires you to know your bottom, or submissive. You can’t push too hard or too far, as you risk injuring not only your client, but also the relationship, that’s tenuous at the beginning. At the same time, if you go too light, or God forbid, too slowly, you lose future profits and referrals.

A balancing act. That’s the best way to describe it. Sometimes, I wish I could be a submissive. A friend who enjoys playing the slave once told me that she loves turning inward, focusing on her own interests and pleasures, while the Dom does all the work. God, I wish I could let someone else run the show. But that’s not the way it works. Or rather, not the way I operate.

Traffic in New York City is always brutal this time of day, but the driver gets a few lucky breaks. As he navigates the crowded streets, I go over my notes, replay my client’s application video on my phone, and try to gauge his personality and true desires.

Creating—or recreating—someone’s fantasies requires imagination and research, but it also relies on innate skills. For this client, I have a pretty good idea of what he wants.

Who am I kidding? I know exactly what he wants. Because in reality, all of my clients want the same thing.

To let go. To be in the moment. To escape life.

Sounds amazing, doesn’t it? I envy them in so many ways.

The driver drops me off at the entrance. The Ritz Carlton isn’t your average hotel — I probably don’t have to tell you that. The lobby defines elegance, with sleek lighting, antique furniture with a modern flair, and a quiet confidence that bespeaks the well-to-do that venture here.

I visit the concierge on duty and receive an envelope from him. The elevator doors snick shut behind me, and I slip behind the crowd, falling against the back wall and closing my eyes. For once, my outfit doesn’t draw hushed comments, as besides the skirt that barely covers my ass, I’m pretty low-key in a city of models and movie stars. Okay, maybe the shoes stick out a bit, too.

The elevator is empty by the time I reach the top public floor. Penthouse access requires a special passkey, and I extract mine from the envelope and slide it into the card reader. Then I wait while the elevator’s silken glide ferries me to the penthouse floor.

Stepping onto the lush carpet, I have two doors to choose from. I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland until I remember the room number the client texted me earlier today. With the Pixies’ “Where Is My Mind?” forming an earworm in my brain, I knock.

A delicious man opens the door. Thick, dark hair, lightly threaded with silver, strong jaw with an aquiline nose, sultry eyes that take in the length of me. He wears an exquisitely tailored suit that cuts across his impossibly broad shoulders in a mix of elegance and power. When he smiles, even my jaded heart quivers a bit.

“Mistress Hathaway. A pleasure.”

I level a gaze at him, knowing that my raven curls and gray eyes captivate my clients. “The pleasure will be mine, Charles. Naughty boys have to be punished.”

As a professional Dominatrix, I follow three rules:

1. Never let them disobey you.

2. Never let them touch you.

3. Never have sex with them.

At least, I used to follow them...

Technically, that’s the end of the sneak peek, but I couldn’t leave you hanging without letting you get a glimpse of the sexy Fin MacKenzie.

So here’s Chapter 3, too, so you can meet our red-haired Scot who just might be able to handle Lux’s heat...

You are never going to believe me when I say that I work out of a dungeon space I keep on reserve, but I swear that’s usually the case. But in this specific situation, I am, once again, going to the client. Tonight is a very special evening.

I arrive at the Parisienne Hotel, one of the newest hotels in Soho. This evening’s client wanted something romantic and chic, and the Parisienne Hotel fits the bill, while not breaking the bank.

Everything about the hotel is European, from the creamy decor to the extravagant chandeliers that line the ceiling. I’m early, as intended, so I check-in and head for the far alcove. My stomach drops in time to the quick lift of the elevator, and I swallow hard. While I usually have a bit of nerves before a scene, this one comes with complications.

I wasn’t kidding about my three rules. They’ve served me well. Somewhere along the way, though, I started breaking the last one. Fuck it; I’ll be honest. It happened after my relationship with Evan ended. He was—and is—a sweetheart. Good looking, submissive, kind, loving, talented...the list goes on. He’s what every healthy, normal woman wants in a really nice guy. It wasn’t enough for me. I wanted it to be—so badly, I wanted it to be enough. But I couldn’t do it. He deserved someone who loved all of him, completely. And I couldn’t do that. So I let go of him. Pushed him away, really, because he’d wanted to continue dating.

Something about that experience angered me. It created a resentment that’s hard to describe. So when a long-time client of mine booked me to join him in a scene with another couple, I did something I never do: I got involved sexually. It was delicious, and I had an amazing time. Limiting your sex life to only what you can create with one lover when you consistently create sexual energy for others is draining. And that experience reminded me that I had this raw need inside, and that it could be sated.

The downside: I had sex with several people. And got paid for it. I didn’t like the way that part made me feel. That hasn’t stopped me from doing it again and again. With only a select few clients, of course. I’m not a prostitute, for fuck’s sake.

But then...what am I?

The candescence of pink light softens the room. The hazy glow turns the blood red decor into a deep maroon. This hotel made a splash because of its “red suites;” they’re swanky and beautifully styled. And for this evening’s pleasure, they seemed like the perfect fit. I’ve remade the suite’s bedroom with the softer bulbs, draping scarves, red boas, and a few well-placed, cotton restraints.

Someone knocks, and I hope it’s Stephen. But when I open the door, it’s Ari.

“Oh, God, am I too early?” Her blue eyes go round as she takes in my cut up t-shirt that falls artfully, exposing my shoulder, and stops just shy of my wine-colored skinny jeans.

“Well, it’s not quite—” I check my phone for the time but also see a missed text, which makes me frown. “What the...” Apparently, I nudged the ringer off, and with setting up and moving around, I missed the vibration of a new text. One that says Stephen can’t make it. “Un-fucking-believable. You asshole.”