Chapter 9

It’d been a long and frustrating week, and Veronica wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed with a good romance novel and a bottle of wine. It might be only Saturday afternoon, but the appeal of staying in bed with nothing but her imagination and alcohol had a definite appeal.

She wouldn’t even have to dress for the part.

Instead, she had to deal with Oliver and the halfway point of this ridiculous deal.

As she stood in the shower, she went over the positive accomplishments she’d pulled out of this hellhole of a week.

Smoke damage repaired.

Insurance company agreed to pay more than what they’d first agreed to after listening to my argument.

City inspectors gave the all-clear to reopen the café.

She’d set the big day for a week from tomorrow to catch the brunch crowd. Jane was eager and Dan chomping at the bit to get Java Jive back on the map, and they’d put out the money for some local advertising to try to recoup their losses. It hurt her to put it so far ahead in the calendar, but her staff agreed they needed to put the word out and it would take time—they couldn’t risk reopening and have no one show up because no one knew they were open.

Jane had agreed to stay on for another three months before making the decision whether to stay or go. She didn’t want to leave Veronica in the lurch and had faith it would all come together.

It’d almost brought Veronica to tears as she thanked the barista and promised to do the best she could for Jane, Dan and the café.

All in all, the week had gone as best as it could have.

Now there was this—interrupting her precious free time.

Veronica turned the water off and reached for a towel.

Stupid deal.

She’d spent the morning nitpicking around the café, digging into the corners and griping about the tiniest details. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her staff to run the place, but she wanted everything to be perfect.

And perfection also extended out to what to wear to Oliver Greenwood’s house for this meal.

It didn’t take much time to pick out an outfit for this session—a simple white blouse and jeans along with her running shoes.

She paused upon seeing the leather jacket hanging by the door.

You could wear it to annoy him.

Or you could do the right thing and let it go.

Veronica ran her hand over the soft leather.

It’s not like he won’t find something to punish you for, she reminded herself.

But let’s not give him another reason.

She slipped on a pastel blue windbreaker, the thin fabric settling easy on her skin.

The cab dropped her off at the front door as usual and sped away, the driver having better things to do than watch her stand there studying her watch.

1:59 p.m.

Veronica raised her hand to knock, waiting until the last minute.

2:00 p.m.

She rapped on the door.

It opened to show Oliver standing there in his usual uniform of black T-shirt and leather pants.

Her pulse skipped a beat as he smiled.

“Right on time.” He motioned her in. “Thank you.”

She stepped into the hallway.

He closed the door behind her. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“I—” Veronica froze as the collar went around her neck, the cool leather settling against her skin.

Her mind went blank.

“I had the chef prepare a lovely meal for us. One of my favorite dishes.” He moved back into eyesight and offered his hand.

She took it, the butterflies in her stomach drowning out her hunger.

“We’re going to be in the dining room today, so I’ll be letting you keep your clothes on.” He winked. “For now.”

Veronica nodded as he led her down the hall.

What sort of game is he playing now?

Oliver had given strict orders to his staff to lay out the food and leave the premises, giving them total privacy. They’d done so as they had so many times before, their paychecks enough to buy their silence if not curb their curiosity.

The chef had been a bit more brazen, her French accent caressing his ears as she’d tried to unsuccessfully interrogate him.

“A lady? Here for lunch?” She smiled and waved a fork in his direction. “It’s good to see this.”

Marie had been with him for as long as he could remember, part of his inheritance from his father. She was short and stout and had slipped easily into his household when he’d bought his own dwelling.

“It’s not a date,” Oliver protested. “It’s business.”

“Business of the heart, I say.” Her wide smile made him grin as well. “I would like to have another woman around the house. It’s been too long for you.”

The reference to Mel snapped his good mood.

“It’s business. Nothing more,” he muttered. “Nothing more.”

Her shrug cut him more than if she’d stabbed him with the fork. “What you say. But I see you much happier after these Saturday meetings.”

Before he could reply, she’d returned to chopping vegetables, ignoring him.

He led Veronica into the dining room. The smell of the waiting food was almost intoxicating, the simple dish enough to make him drool.

He had no doubt it was having the same effect on the woman beside him.

Not to mention the room.

It reminded him of an old medieval scene, the thick oak dining table ready to be used as a battering ram if necessary. The wooden chairs set around the long table were made of the same strong wood, the dark red leather seats setting off the tapestries hanging on the walls.

Mel had chosen three from the famous The Hunt of the Unicorn series, the reproductions helping set the scene.

The irony didn’t evade him.

“Sit here.” He led her to the chair at the end of the table.

Veronica laid her purse down on the floor as she seated herself.

“Your jacket, please.”

She took off the windbreaker and handed it to him.

Oliver picked up her purse and placed both on an empty chair.

As he returned, he saw the tension in her neck muscles, the anticipation holding her stiff.

You don’t know what’s going to happen.

Good.

The stainless steel domes covering their plates reflected her face as she waited.

Oliver walked around the table to his own seat and picked up the gloves.

She frowned, obviously confused.

“Put out your hands.”

She hesitated.

“Put out your hands, or I swear I will strip you naked and put you outside in the rose bushes,” he growled.

Veronica placed her hands on the table.

“Good. Make a fist and lift the left one.” He slipped the leather mitt on and fastened the buckle at her wrist.

Her eyes widened as he gestured for her to raise her right hand for the same treatment.

Oliver stepped back and allowed himself a private smile.

You didn’t expect that.

Veronica glared at the two black blobs that had previously been her hands.

“Now.” He reached over her and lifted the plate cover. “Let’s eat.”

Veronica looked at her plate and saw it contained small roasted red potatoes in a garlic butter sauce, mixed vegetables and a lovely piece of chicken prepared with some sort of paprika recipe.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d followed Oliver’s instructions to the letter.

She studied the silverware carefully laid out on each side of the plate.

How am I supposed to eat?

Her nails dug into her palms as her temper flared.

What am I supposed to do, beg?

That’s not going to happen in my lifetime.

The heat rose in her cheeks as Oliver filled her water glass and then his own before returning to his seat.

Son of a bitch expects me to beg him for help.

Frak that.

“The chicken is my chef’s own creation. A bit spicy, but I know you can handle it.” He lifted his own plate cover to reveal the same dish. “Usually I have this with a lovely white wine, but in this situation, I don’t allow alcohol. Let me know what you think.”

He picked up his own knife and fork and fell on the meat and vegetables.

Veronica stared at him for a full minute before realizing he wasn’t paying attention to her.

What the hell—

She studied the mittens on her hands. They reminded her of the ones she’d worn as a child, but adult-sized and made of leather.

With no thumbs.

The thick padding made it impossible for her fingers to force any sort of control through the leather, her hand balled into a fist. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but she knew there was no way she was going to be able to pull these off on her own.

She’d seen these in use by other Doms and Dommes, but she’d never thought of using them herself.

Some sort of mind game.

Make me ask for help.

She ground her teeth together.

I’m not in the mood for this today.

She experimented with pushing her fork around, finding no way to get any purchase on the silverware. There was a small ring at the bottom of each mitten, and she used the one on the right hand to lift up the fork from the table.

It clattered on the fine china as she moved her hand over the plate.

Damn.

She placed her bare forearms on each side of the plate and pulled it closer.

Maybe—

She lowered her face and snatched one of the red potatoes, just the right size to fit in her mouth.

Veronica sat up with a grin as she chewed.

There.

Take that you, power-hungry punk.

She looked over at him.

No reaction.

Veronica finished off the potato and went in for the chicken. It was messy, and she only got the slender edge in a tiny bite, but she felt like she’d scored a major victory.

She licked her lips, pulling in the sauce smeared on her face.

Damn good.

Oliver dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and got up. He moved behind her, and for a fleeting second, she thought he was leaving.

Suddenly his hand was on the back of her neck, squeezing tight.

“You are not an animal,” he said in a low, steady tone. “I could put your plate on the floor, but I just had the carpets cleaned.”

She froze as he picked up the napkin and wiped her mouth.

“If you want to be a dog, I can treat you like a dog.” The heated whisper sent a tremor through her skin. “But you are a smart, beautiful young woman who I want to behave. And if I have to do this, I will.”

His other hand snaked around and grabbed hold of the ring at the base of her neck, hanging off her collar.

She could barely see out of the corner of her eye as something brushed her shoulders, a thin band pulling on her blouse.

“There.” The triumphant tone gave her goose bumps.

Oliver returned to his chair and resumed eating.

Veronica tried to lean forward but couldn’t.

He just tied me to the chair.

She pressed her fingers into the palms of her hands, trying to control her anger.

Son of a—

Her stomach was rumbling again, demanding more.

She stared at the plate.

She’s strong. Have to give her credit for that.

Oliver cut one of the red potatoes in half, watching her struggle with the mitts.

He’d only used them a few times with Melissa. She’d hated them, and while he was her Master, he wasn’t a sadist.

He also didn’t like sleeping on the couch.

Veronica licked her lips, and he could see the machinations in her mind spinning and turning to try and get around the obvious truth. The leash strung through the ring in her collar was securely fastened to the chair back, immobilizing her.

This was a battle of wills he had to win.

She struggled against the leash, testing the flexibility.

Close to none. He’d made sure of it.

She placed her arms on each side of the plate and tried to lift it up by hooking the expensive china on the metal rings that would usually be used to clip the mitts together.

Persistent. Innovative. Stubborn.

He frowned as the plate lifted a half inch into the air before crashing down on the table.

She shuddered. Whether from fear of breaking the plate, upsetting him or frustration, he couldn’t tell.

He continued to eat, watching her out of the corner of his eye. The chicken was fork-tender, the vegetables perfectly cooked. The garlic butter sauce tickled his senses, and there was no way she couldn’t be hungry—he’d heard her stomach growl during the minutes they’d been sitting there.

A sip of ice-cold water had him smacking his lips in appreciation. He’d told her white wine would usually accompany this, but sometimes you needed a nice glass of—

“Sir.”

The whisper was so faint he had to strain to hear it.

Veronica cleared her throat. “Sir.”

Oliver put down his fork. “Yes?”

“Can you please help me?”

There.

Was that so hard?

He got up and went to her, knowing it had been damned hard.

Oliver picked up her knife and fork and stood by her. He leaned in and sliced up the meat and potatoes into small bite-sized portions.

“There.” He speared a piece of chicken. “Now—”

He turned and froze.

A single solitary tear trickled down her left cheek.

It took all his self-control not to flip the plates over, unlock her mitts and pull her into his lap, throw the session’s work away.

“There, there.” He hummed as he picked up the napkin to wipe the tear away. “What’s that for? You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

He offered the forkful of food to her.

She opened her mouth and took it, her eyes brimming with tears.

Think about it, Roni, he pleaded with her silently.

Think about this.

She stayed silent as he fed her the rest of the chicken, the potatoes, the carrots and peas, and helped her sip water at intervals he chose.

Finally, he placed the silverware on the empty plate, crossing the knife and fork.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He nodded and returned to his own chair.

Veronica swallowed hard as she stared at the table.

“I think—” She paused and looked at him.

He nodded, giving her permission to continue.

“I think I understand,” she started. “I need you to feed me in this situation. I give you the power over me willingly.” Veronica held up her hands. “I could safe-word out of this, but I’m not. Because it’s sort of sexy to have a man serving me.” She licked her lips. “And you like it. I’m sort of turned on seeing you getting off.”

Oliver didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

“I have the power because I’m letting you do this. And you have the power because you did this. It’s a give-and-take deal where neither one is better than the other.” She frowned. “Does that make sense?”

He got up again and went to her, his heart filled to bursting with emotion.

“Yes.” Oliver kissed her forehead. “You have some of the power, and I have some. And it’s only in what we both give each other that creates what happens between us, what makes a Dominant/submissive relationship work.”

She smiled as he undid the leash.

“Except you forgot one thing.” Veronica rolled her neck around, and he flinched at hearing the bones pop and crack. “Your food’s cold now.”

The mischievous smile sent a warm rush to his groin.

“That’s a price I’m willing to pay if it helps you figure this out.” He returned to his chair. “But thanks for reminding me.”

He stabbed at a piece of chicken. “But while we’re figuring things out—I want to know why you assumed you were a natural Domme.” He waved the fork around. “I know there are no questionnaires, no tests you can take online that will tell you what you’re predisposed toward—at least nothing reliable.” He pointed the slender chicken slice at her. “Why did you think you were a Domme?”

Veronica frowned.

Oliver continued to eat. The dish wasn’t bad cold other than the congealing garlic sauce, and even that tasted wonderful.

He didn’t press. This was something she needed to figure out on her own.

Veronica lifted her mittens and looked at them. She rotated her hands, studying the stitching and the black leather.

Oliver concentrated on finishing up his meal.

“My father—” She stopped. “My mother died when I was sixteen from pancreatic cancer. It was a long, horrible death we tried to avoid using every method we had. We flew in specialists, we went to private clinics in Mexico, and it all meant nothing in the end.” Veronica drew a shuddering breath. “She died at home in the middle of the night while I napped on the sofa and my father in a chair by her bed. The night nurse woke us when she came in to check on her.”

Oliver felt like he’d been punched in the chest. He laid down his silverware and crossed his hands in front of him on the table.

“My father cursed like a sailor at her funeral. It made the priest blush.” She gave a wistful smile. “He was mad at the world. He’d worked his way up to a powerful position in the company and thought he could buy anything, fix anything. He couldn’t.”

Oliver pushed his chair back and got up.

“He raged for days about how powerless he felt about her dying. All that money, all that power, and one little cancer cell beat him. Beat her. Beat us.” She sighed. “He told me it wasn’t my fault when I started blaming myself. He was good about that.”

Oliver stopped behind her. He reached over and undid the buckle on her left hand as she kept talking.

“He told me to never let go of anything, never give an inch. I think he thought if my mother had been stronger, she might have beaten this.” Veronica bit her lower lip. “I watched him grow tougher, more demanding, more—” She smiled. “More controlling. And I saw being in charge meant you never had to show your emotions, never be exposed. Never be vulnerable to anyone. Anything.”

He slid the left mitten off.

Her hand rested on the table, fingers curled into a fist.

“When I was at that frat party I knew I couldn’t be on my knees for anyone. I couldn’t give up that control.”

Oliver tossed the mitt to the side and worked on the right hand.

Her eyes brimmed with tears again. “My father told me to give up control was to be weak, a doormat for others to wipe their feet on. I couldn’t imagine letting anyone do that to me.”

He yanked the glove off and threw it across the room, barely containing his anger.

Veronica looked down at her hands, still curled into fists. She turned them over and slowly straightened out her fingers.

Angry red crescents marked her palms, showing where her nails had dug into her skin.

“There was no way I could see myself as a submissive.” She turned to him. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m still not sure what I am.” Her voice cracked. “But I know I’m an awful person for what I’ve done in the past.”

The confession broke the last of Oliver’s resolve.

He crouched beside her and pulled her off the chair into his lap, curled around her protectively as she sobbed uncontrollably.

“No,” he said, forcing himself to sound calm. “You are not a bad person. You’re lovely and strong and wonderful and a good woman. You got on the wrong path, and no one bothered to put you right. Until now.” He dropped kisses into her hair until the shuddering had stopped and her breathing returned to normal. “But we’re going to fix that and make you the best you can be. The best you should be.”