Inside the Lines: Without a Trace series, a contemporary erotic romance novel

Inside the Lines

by

Ally Bishop

©2015 Ally Bishop

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution

Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

Attribution--You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

Noncommercial--You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

No Derivative Works--You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work with written consent from the author and/or publisher.

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Cover Design by Ally Bishop

Edited by Patricia D. Eddy

Proofread by Audrey Maddox

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

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To Sir Prystauk, my knight in a shining white muscle car.

More than I can promise, my love.

Chapter 1

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...

Chapter 2

Caffeinated Confessions

“Oh, God. Tell me the coffee is ready.”

I grin at my roommate’s dramatic entrance, then check the clock. It’s 8 a.m. now, and I vaguely heard him crawl in around four this morning. Given his current marathon of one-night stands... “Rough night, eh, Romeo?”

Noah drops his hand from his eyes to scowl at me. “You know fucking well that I had a client party last night, wench.”

“I never know with you. Party one night, orgy the next—”

He groans. “I’m a one woman kinda guy. You’re the one with the resume in orgies.”

“One woman per night, you mean.” With a laugh, I get up and hold out my chair. “Take a load off, and I’ll even get you a cuppa.”

Sinking into the seat, he slumps. “I take it all back. You are a goddess.”

I refill my own mug and then mix Noah’s with lots of half-and-half and sugar. Wuss.

“How was your evening?” he asks as I hand him his favorite extra dark roast that’s now nearly white with creamer.

“Better than yours, it appears.”

“Really? What can top cleaning up not one, but two vomiting episodes courtesy of a host whose religious friends have no tolerance for alcohol?”

Noah and his sister are co-owners of Elementary, a mystery dinner party company. Their business has exploded over the last year after gaining some celebrity clients, and while they now have a team of coordinators and planners, they both personally handle the more prestigious bookings.

“Hm, let’s see: torturing one of the handsomest men in all of Christendom?”

He sticks out his tongue. “Rub it in.”

I grab the newspaper off the front walkway and return to the kitchen table. We split up the paper, Noah taking the comics and the sports sections, while I peruse the international and local news. We’re both engrossed by the time the front door opens again.

“Tell me there’s coffee,” comes the voice of Noah’s sister, Ella. When she finally appears in the kitchen, she’s wearing jeans and a short-sleeve sweater with a suspicious stain on her shoulder. “You know I love my child. I adore her. But someone tell me that she will eventually sleep through the night?” Despite the faint purple smudges under her eyes, Ella is stunning with her long, dark hair wrapped into a sloppy french twist and pale skin. Even after having her daughter Mia, she manages to look dewy and gorgeous.

“I’m told they do, but I wouldn’t know from personal experience.” I leave my paper spread over the table and head for another cup of coffee.

I return to the table with her favorite mug.

“You are a goddess,” she says as she takes her first sip.

“In case I ever forget that you and Noah are related...”

“What?” they both ask at the same time.

“Yeah, that.”

Confused, they stare at me, but I shake my head. “I will get no peace now that y’all are together, so go forth: make crazy money and build your business to monstrous proportions, you nutty capitalists. I’ll be in my room until...well, whenever.”

I drop a kiss on Ella’s head before I take shelter upstairs. I moved in with Noah about eight months ago, not long after Ella moved out to marry the love of her life. It wasn’t just a financial decision—I’ve taken care of myself for years, and Noah had just started to make a good income with Elementary—though affording a place anywhere near New York City isn’t easy. Noah and Ella lost their parents in a car crash when they were teens, and as a result, have lived together all of their lives. They even went to college together—that’s where I met them. So being alone didn’t sit well with him. When I mentioned my lease was ending and I was considering moving to a bigger place, Noah offered me Ella’s old room. Their apartment, tucked into the bottom two stories of a Brooklyn brownstone, is spacious—for NYC—and has plenty of room for two people. It helped that we were friends already. With the exception of the occasional annoyance over laundry duty or who last changed the toilet paper roll, it’s worked out pretty well.