The Princess Sub: Club Volare Boston Page 8

  Sierra didn’t know any of that. But she still flinched with every flash of a camera. Every time someone yelled her name. Flinched, then smiled, her shoulders going another fraction of an inch up towards her neck. Like watching a stress thermometer rise in real time.

  “Keep it moving,” he said, keeping his voice easy as he hustled her past the line of fans, into the huge, airy atrium. The developers had bet a lot on this fancy rooftop bar. The private entrance was just a smaller lobby with a private set of elevators leading up to the bar, but it was decked out like a slick nightclub from a movie.

  By prearrangement, they would have the elevators to themselves for Sierra’s arrival. The bar was supposed to be stocked already with pre-screened party goers, the elite influencer types who made this kind of thing their business, and some of Sierra’s biggest fans. Strict guest list. But they’d have privacy for her entrance.

  Conor nodded at one of the big men in a security shirt who had silently closed the door behind them and was now controlling access to the private elevator entrance. The man nodded back, murmured something into his radio.

  The event was ready to go.

  Sierra fucking wasn’t.

  Her whole body was rigid, and when she thought no one was looking, her mouth was a grim line of determination. This woman was strong as hell.

  And she was being an idiot.

  But Conor wasn’t her Dom. As far as he knew, she wasn’t a sub. His hands were tied. It was not a sensation that Conor would tolerate for long.

  The matte-black elevator doors opened with a smooth hiss, and he guided her inside. The lighting was soft inside the elevator, the mirrors in the corners working extra hard to give you a line of sight on everything. There were only two buttons, marked “Heaven” and “Earth.”

  Conor looked at Sierra. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew that regular Sierra, relaxed Sierra, would roll the hell out of her eyes at that. She’d laugh.

  Instead, he watched her take a deep breath, her tiny hands balled into fists. Still pretending she was fine.

  Conor suppressed a growl. Her stress levels were unacceptable from a personal perspective, but he had no basis for getting in her business unless it posed a safety issue. He didn’t fucking like it. It felt wrong. Against nature.

  If she were his sub, he’d know exactly how to deal with this. He’d press that emergency stop button just above the button to “Heaven,” pin her up against the elevator wall, put his hand up her dress and give her a choice: call it a night, give herself a break to recover from the stress of another attack from the stalker, or he’d fuck the tension out of her right then and there.

  But he couldn’t split the mission. So all he could do was say this:

  “You don’t have to do this, Princess.”

  “What?”

  “This event,” he said, flatly. “You don’t have to do it.”

  Sierra shook her head slightly, a frown on her pretty lips. Her focus slightly shaken. But she still wasn’t hearing him. Not when he could only speak as her bodyguard.

  “Of course I do,” she said, finally.

  And with that, the doors opened, and she tried to walk right out into the party.

  Conor glowered and grabbed her hand. He ignored the electric jolt that went straight up his arm, all the way to his cock, and leveled her with a look.

  “I go first, Princess,” he said. “You stay behind me.”

  The look he gave her said one thing.

  If I were free to do what I wanted, you’d already be over my knee.

  They stood there like that for a moment, the elevator doors opened in front of them, kept that way by Conor’s foot. The fucking current between them surged, and for a second Conor thought about just doing it.

  But no. He had to keep her safe first. Don’t split the mission.

  “Stay close,” he said, finally.

  Sierra nodded. Her thumb brushed against his hand where he held her, and Conor almost turned everything upside down. But it would pass. He let it pass.

  And then he led her out into another dumbass party.

  The place was packed full of good-looking people laughing, taking selfies, flirting. Drinking under the late summer sun. Lots of guys who looked like they had money, lots of pretty women, all of them young.

  But there was something about the vibe of the place he didn’t like. There was the drunkenness, which was fine for a bar. But not when it was this overcrowded like this. Not when the crowd was this young. There were way too many young douchey drunk dudes and way too few bouncers.

  “I thought this was supposed to be an invite-only event,” he said into her ear.

  She turned her cheek towards him instinctively, automatically. She caught it just in time, her cheek just barely brushing his. He felt it down to his fucking toes.

  “Party promoters aren’t the most reliable people, in my experience,” she said.

  Conor growled. Sierra shivered.

  That was interesting.

  And then came the selfie-takers.

  Jesus Christ, he didn’t know how she handled it. It was just a parade of drunk people wanting selfies with Sierra. She was great with every single one of them, joking around, making them feel like they were special. She probably did think they were special. Conor thought they were all either one of two things: a threat, or not a threat.

  And the more he watched Sierra, and the crowd, the closer they were getting to “threat” status.

  The bar had been giving out free tequila shots for the opening. And the crowd was starting to get that weird hive mind thing that happened sometimes, that dangerous shared consciousness that happened when drunk people wanted to break rules. Still in its early stages.

  But that’s not what worried him.

  He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. Conor could just read Sierra’s body. He’d always been good at it, especially as a Dom, but this was on another level. It reminded him of when he was a kid, in the second foster home, the one where he slept on the first floor. He’d leave the window open and this neighborhood cat would come hang out with him. It was the most comfort he got in that house. He’d pet that damn purring cat all night. But that cat, like some people, had its wires crossed. It would get so happy sometimes that it just had to let that energy out with a bite. A hard bite. And after the first time, Conor would always know. He could just feel it. Some tiny change in body language, shift in tension. Nothing you could point to. But he would know, and he’d cover the cat’s eyes until it calmed the hell down.

  Sierra reminded him of that cat. Winding herself tighter and tighter until eventually…

  She had to snap.

  Sierra was practically buzzing. She was dead sober, as she always was, and she was somehow vibrating with nervous energy. Her brother being a creepy jerk? Sure. A stalker? Bring it on! Want to pile on the launch of her business? Why not. And now there was the usual stupid stage fright and a hot as hell bodyguard who kept her in a constant state of arousal. It was all making her crazy.

  So she might as well use it.

  And she was about to, when she felt his hand on her back.

  She half-closed her eyes, for just a second. There was nothing like Conor’s touch. It was completely insane, what it did to her. It made no sense, and she was already addicted to it.

  And it only made her vibrate faster.

  “Take a break,” he whispered in her ear.

  And have this drag out longer? Was he nuts?

  She turned towards him, letting his big body cocoon her in the middle of a raucous bar, intending to give him a piece of her mind. But then she looked up into those ice blue eyes, and immediately forgot how to do that.

  Damn it.

  “Take a break, Princess,” he said, again. “You need it.”

  Now she remembered.

  “Really?” she said. “You want I should just go sit down for a while? Maybe tell them how I’m feeling? Just explain to everyone that the poor little rich girl has problems? How do y
ou think that’s going to go, Caveman?”

  Because Sierra knew exactly how it would go. She remembered all the times she tried that kind of thing as a kid, before she got wise. Her father would look uncomfortable and find a reason to go do something else, leaving her to Jared, who would punish her for stealing the spotlight. Didn’t change much as she got older, either. No one wanted the real her. She’d learned to deal with it, after many, many mistakes, but having to explain it stung a little.

  Except she’d just said all of that, out loud, to Conor Kelly.

  That was more than she’d ever said about it to anybody.

  And he was looking at her like…

  Oh God.

  Like he remembered the promise he’d made when he’d put her in the back of the car.

  Over my knee.

  “What did you just say, Princess?” he said. Low, slow. Dominant.

  “You don’t know what I need,” she lied.

  Conor’s eyes flashed, and his mouth opened. And then at that exact moment, a large drunk bro tripped over one of the potted palms that dotted the rooftop bar and slammed into Conor. Conor’s reflexes were bananas fast; he caught the guy, probably saved him from a concussion.

  But Sierra’s reflexes weren’t bad, either.

  She knew she was going to do it a fraction of a second before she did it. That had only happened before during sex, during submission. It was like some wild part of her took control of her body and did whatever it wanted with her. Usually by giving up that control to a Dom who could handle it.

  But Conor thought she was a spoiled brat, and the rest of the world agreed.

  And now that wild side wanted her up on top of the bar.

  She ducked away, her years of experience on heels paying off as she weaved through the crowd, arms up, yelling like she was on Spring Break. The crowd parted, cheering, and there it was. The freaking bar, complete with bewildered bartenders. There was only one choice at that point: grab a bottle of tequila and pretend her heart wasn’t trying to jump out of her chest.

  “Free shots!” she yelled as she clambered up on the bar, holding the bottle up above her head. “Line ‘em up!”

  There was a pause.

  And then the whole place roared.

  What is wrong with me?

  The crowd surged towards her, and Sierra suddenly saw the full, spinning chaos of the scene. This was not in control, at all. And there was someone out there who wanted to kill her. It scared her, and yet some part of her needed to provoke it. She was just…

  I’m losing my mind.

  There were men clambering at her feet, reaching up. Yelling. Screaming.

  And just as she was realizing she’d made a huge mistake, a hand grabbed her arm from behind and spun her around towards the back of the bar.

  The last thing she saw before she was flipped over his shoulder again were those ice blue eyes.

  Eleven

  Sierra had one thought as Conor flipped her over his shoulder and carried her around the back of the bar.

  Again?!

  There’d be clips of this one online, too. This time with her ass in the air, tequila flying everywhere, and the surprised yelp she was sure came out of her mouth.

  And the whole thing turned her on more than should be physically possible.

  Well. Turned her on, and pissed her the hell off. Who the hell was he to make this even harder on her?

  She swallowed a shudder as Conor slid her down his body again, not so carefully this time. Her dress caught on his suit and she couldn’t even look to see how obscene it was, because those baby blues were on her.

  And it was now or never.

  “What do you think—”

  “Quiet,” Conor said.

  She shut up.

  He growled at her and pushed her back into a corner of the elevator, his shoulders heaving, his breathing hard.

  Oh God.

  This close, she couldn’t fight it anymore.

  She wanted him to slam her up against the elevator wall and hike her dress up around her waist. She wanted him to hold her by the throat with just enough pressure, his eyes boring into hers, as he ripped her last pair of underwear off. She wanted him to be looking right at her as he lifted her leg, his big hand digging into her thigh, and drove into her. She wanted to know that he saw every single inch of him written on her face.

  Holy moly what is wrong with me.

  The pressure between her legs was almost unbearable. It took all her self-control not to move her hips, not to squirm, not to just break down and beg him to take her. To do what he’d said he’d do: put her over his knee, and give her exactly what she deserved. To give it to her until she forgot how to beg for more.

  You need a Dom, Sierra.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Conor said. His voice brought her back to reality. Suddenly she could hear her breathing, and his. Loud, in the tiny elevator.

  He was pissed off, too. Pissed off that way men got pissed off at the world when underneath they were really worried.

  Worried?

  “What?” she said.

  “You heard me,” he said, his voice lower, a whispered growl. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Sierra? Why are you pushing me? Putting yourself in fucking danger to be someone you’re not?”

  Sierra blinked, the world momentarily coming to a stop. That was the last thing she expected. For him to see that. To know that about her.

  With anyone else, it would shut her down. With freaking Conor Kelly, she was only more turned on.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said.

  “Listen to me,” he growled. “Your brother is an asshole and you’re being stalked. But you don’t take it out on yourself, do you understand me?”

  “No one’s ever talked to me like that before,” she whispered.

  “Someone should have.”

  Sierra licked her lips. Her brain was screaming, trying to be heard over the deafening chorus of her body. Like it was an argument she could win. Don’t want him, because he doesn’t want you.

  “How do you know who I am,” she heard herself say.

  Conor took a deep breath, his whole body pulsing with it.

  “Look at me,” he ordered.

  She did.

  And then Conor put his hand right in the center of her bare chest, between her breasts.

  Sierra gasped.

  It had been so long since anyone had really touched her. Since it had been anyone other than a manicurist, or a masseuse, or even a freaking doctor, who’d actually put their skin against her skin.

  For a second her whole body lit up. The sensation of his skin on hers burned through all the questions whizzing around in her mind until she knew exactly why he’d done it.

  He could feel her heart beating against her chest like it wanted to escape. He could feel her breathing. She couldn’t lie. Couldn’t evade. Could only look into those pale blue eyes and face him.

  “Pay close attention, Princess,” he said. “And do not lie to me. One more time: is there something you need to tell me?”

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  She knew what he was asking. What he’d been asking the last time. But how was that possible? How the hell could he know she needed a Dom? That she needed to submit? That she needed…

  Him.

  No.

  Sierra didn’t know totally where it came from, but suddenly fear was setting up shop in her chest like it was planning to stay a while. Not of him. Not of Conor.

  But of Conor…seeing her. All of her. This part of her.

  Of seeing her and walking away, just like everyone else who thought she was a silly spoiled brat.

  “No,” she lied.

  And then in the next second, she knew what she’d done.

  Sierra bit her lip, her wetness soaking through her thong, spilling onto her thighs. She could barely think through the deafening drumbeat between her legs, while Conor’s hand burned its way into her chest and his eyes rak
ed over her, mercilessly. They left a trail of heat in their wake, her body beginning to move, needing to feel him. And when they locked with hers, she knew that he knew she’d lied.

  Her breath hitched. She remembered exactly what he’d said when he put her in the car. She’d remember it for the rest of her life.

  You pull another stunt, and I’ll have you over my knee.

  For a long, still moment, that was all Sierra could think about. Images of him holding her down, her ass in the air, his hand coming down hard…

  And she could have sworn it was what Conor was thinking too.

  She stood there, breathing hard, her blood rushing in her ears, her pulse pounding between her legs, feeling the absence of his cock inside her as an actual ache, her whole freaking body on fire even while she was soaking wet, dazed and dumb and…

  Saved by the elevator door opening behind him.

  Conor pushed off the wall behind her. Took his hand away. Broke contact.

  Sierra blinked.

  “You’re not ready,” he said, with a shake of his head. “You wouldn’t learn a goddamn thing.”

  And then he stepped outside the elevator, standing there sentry, as though he hadn’t just had her on the brink of begging with just a single touch.

  The tension in her body came back with a vengeance, this time with the sting of rejection behind it. Not just rejection. Worse than rejection. That feeling of having disappointed your Dom. Which was so profoundly unfair, she wanted to scream.

  Conor had just made her about a million times crazier than she had been going in, and she had already been at the end of her freaking rope.

  She stepped out of the elevator, trying to hide the fact that she was shaking, holding her head high.

  “Don’t think you know me, Caveman,” she said. “Now take me home.”

  Screw Conor Kelly.

  He was gone, but he wasn’t gone. It was his night off, merely twenty-four hours after what Sierra now thought of as the Elevator Incident, but he still lived in her head. She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  And neither could anyone else.