Elite: Elite Doms of Washington Read online

  Elite

  Elite Doms of Washington

  Elizabeth SaFleur

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright ©2014 by Elizabeth SaFleur. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Elizabeth SaFleur LLC

  PO Box 6395

  Charlottesville, VA 22906

  [email protected]

  www.ElizabethSaFleur.com

  Edited by Nancy P.

  Cover Design by Shanoff Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-7320207-0-2

  For Marilyn and Patricia

  Dear Reader,

  This book is a work of fiction, not reality. My characters operate in a compressed time frame. A real-world scenario involves getting to know one another more extensively than my characters do before engaging in BDSM activities. Please learn as much as you can before trying any activity you read about in erotic fiction. Talk to people in your local BDSM group. Nearly every community has one. Get to know people slowly, and always be careful. Share your hopes, dreams and fears with anyone before playing with them, have a safeword and share it with your Dom or Domme (they can’t read your mind), use protection, and have a safe-call or other backup in place. Remember: Safe, Sane and Consensual. Or, no play. May you find that special person to honor and love you the way you wish. You deserve that. XO ~Elizabeth

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Also by Elizabeth SaFleur

  Untouchable

  About the Author

  1

  The Jefferson Suite had a reputation. Everyone said so.

  Christiana Snow watched Henrick, the sous-chef, slip a red rose into the silver bud vase on the room service tray she’d been tasked to deliver. “There are some naughty stories about the guests that stay in that suite.” He winked. “Let me take you to dinner, and I’ll tell you all about it."

  She turned her back on Henrick’s smirk—and his eyes that never seemed to travel farther north than her neck. Since the day Christiana started working at The Oak she’d fought the desire to bend her knees to force his gaze to her face. It would only give him the wrong idea.

  Instead she threw back two ibuprofens with her milk and then set the glass into a nearby bin of dirty dishes. Gossip made her head hurt.

  She felt Henrick’s eyes travel her body as she pushed the room service cart into the elevator. "For a reporter's daughter, you aren't very curious,” he called after her.

  Curiosity wasn’t the issue. The Oak, which stood mere blocks from the White House, attracted politicians and paparazzi—and dozens of men, sporting earbuds attached to wires disappearing into their dark suits, sent to watch them both. It took real concentration to ignore the stories that the hotel’s staff collected like trophies.

  At least the tips were good at the boutique hotel and restaurant, and the mundane work gave her time to think—or think forward, as her father always said. And that’s what she was going to do—think forward and move forward. She didn’t have time to get wrapped up in other people’s lives and certainly not the pseudo reality of the D.C. politicos.

  The elevator creaked to a stop. Water sloshed in the silver pitcher as Christiana leaned over the cart to push the slatted metal door aside. A dusty, oil-paint smell greeted her as she started down the hallway, lined with canvases of hunting scenes set in over-sized, gilded frames higher than she was tall and wider than her arms could stretch.

  Christiana took in a lungful of the stagnant air as she reached the Jefferson Suite’s double doors at the end of the corridor. She knocked and listened for the sound of footsteps. No one came.

  Her leg danced with impatience. Mrs. DeCord’s order was Christiana’s last task of the day, and she wanted to finish it as fast as possible to rush off to meet Avery, her best friend. Christiana had agreed to be her “date” at some society fundraiser that afternoon.

  Christiana studied the rich mahogany crown molding, lining the long hallway. Gold brocade wallpaper led her eyes to images of smiling women, draped in gossamer swaths of pastel blue and green fabric. They stared down from their ceiling mural home, their eyes cold and full of secrets.

  Christiana knocked on the door once more. After no response, she pulled her master key card from her apron pocket and slipped it to the lock slot. The door cracked open but stopped against something on the other side. Through the gap in the door, she saw a man’s shoe lying on its side.

  She called into the room, “Hello? Room service. Ma’am?” No one answered though muffled voices resonated deeper within.

  Well, she couldn’t wait. She pushed harder on the door, and the shoe slid aside.

  The cart’s wheels whispered over the marble entryway floor. She announced herself one more time. No reply. She picked up the man’s dress shoe, an expensive leather smell wafting to her nose. She set it down beside a tufted chair in the hall.

  A male voice echoed from the bathroom off the suite’s master bedroom. “No, Yvette.”

  “Please take me. I won’t say a thing.” Mrs. DeCord’s voice reverberated off the tile.

  “You know our agreement.”

  Mrs. DeCord whined, “I don’t understand why I wasn’t invited. I’ll show up anyway.”

  “You won’t do any such thing, Yvette.” He spoke her name like a caress. “Take off your panties.”

  Christiana’s insides seized at the man’s abrupt change in tone. Maybe she had heard wrong. After a long silence, she urged the cart forward, but the wheels bogged down on the plush carpet in the living area.

  The voice spoke. “Bend over, put your hands on the counter. Good. Look in the mirror. Eyes on me, Yvette.”

  Smack! A sharp slap pierced the air, and Christiana jerked backward as if stung. Mrs. DeCord moaned. Was she hurt?

  Christiana couldn’t break her gaze, eyes glued on the bedroom doors. They weren’t closed completely. They were slightly ajar, a sliver of the interior showing through a small crack.

  “Open your legs.” The man’s voice, sandpaper and velvet, rooted Christiana in place even though her heart fluttered wildly. “Very nice, baby.”

  Christiana took a deep breath to steady herself, inhaling musk mixed with the fragrance of lilacs. Something else hung heavy in the air.

  Mrs. DeCord’s whimpers grew louder.

  Should she call, so they knew she wasn’t trying to hide her presence? If they saw her, would they realize she had overheard? Should she leave? If she abandoned the lunch, they’d know she’d heard and run away, probably to
gossip.

  “Mmm, you like that, don’t you, sweetheart?”

  Christiana licked her lips at the man’s chocolate-caramel tone. She tried to place the voice—maybe he was a radio announcer. No, he sounded too sexy and way too dangerous.

  Slap! Slap! Christiana’s leg bumped into the cart and silverware clanked. Water splashed on the linen, and she stilled, but no new sound came from the bedroom.

  She couldn’t abandon the lunch in the middle of the living room. She’d just have to be quick. Christiana maneuvered the cart to the small bay window overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. She set up the silver and lifted the dome on Mrs. DeCord’s salad.

  “Touch yourself,” the deep, rich voice said. Christiana’s heart punched at her ribs, and she lifted one hand to her breast to still it. Her eyes darted to the doors.

  She gulped and tried to shake off the sound of the man’s sexy intonation. Christiana tiptoed over to the French doors of the master bedroom and risked a peek into the room. The bed’s comforter wilted over one side of the bed, and sheets bunched in a tight wad at the foot, bulging through the brass rails of the footboard. Pillows lay scattered on the floor. Braided black ropes hung limply from the frame of the headboard. She envisioned a restrained body, spread-eagle and helpless on the bed. Oh, god.

  A chill broke out across her body. Instinct told her to click the doors shut. She winced at the snick of the door jam. Did they hear her?

  More whispers escaped from behind the closed doors. She couldn’t make out the words, but the sensual rhythm of his voice rose and fell in a soothing, hypnotic cadence. Christiana’s ears strained for the man’s instructions, for what he wanted Mrs. DeCord to do next. Footsteps brushed across the carpet in the bedroom. The man spoke in rumbling purrs, approaching the bed.

  She bit her bottom lip when a thought arose about that strange, human scent. Sex. A pang hit between her thighs as an image slipped into place of the faceless man—with that voice—putting his mouth on Mrs. DeCord’s neck.

  A long wail and an ecstatic groan drifted from inside the bedroom.

  Christiana stepped back. She needed to leave—now. If caught eavesdropping, even accidentally, she’d be dismissed. She clutched the silver dome to her chest like a shield and slunk to the marble foyer. The man’s smoky voice oozed into the main room as the suite’s front door clacked behind her, a barrier to . . . what?

  She jogged down the long hallway to the elevator, punched the call button, and tried to steady her breathing as the elevator creaked upward. The man’s voice still reverberated in her chest. Relief coursed through her body, glad she hadn’t run into either of them inside, especially him. One look and he would have guessed she’d heard, had sucked in the air, heavy with sex, and understood.

  Her imagination settled on Mrs. DeCord pressed into the mattress under a dark, mysterious man. His lips floated over her breast. Christiana shook her head in a vain attempt to stop the image from evolving into the man slipping his hands between the woman’s legs.

  Christiana hit the button twice more. Come on. She gave up on the antiquated elevator and headed to the stairs. More questions surfaced with each step downward.

  Did Henrik’s wink mean he knew? Who was Mrs. DeCord hooking up with in the Jefferson Suite? The mystery man had done something carnal to her, something she’d wanted done, though Christiana couldn’t imagine what. Something with ropes and slaps and Lord knows what else. Maybe she should’ve listened when the other waitresses, huddled in the employee break room, tittered about who slipped through the hotel lobby trying not to be noticed.

  Then again, maybe not. She began to understand why her manager, Brian, had directed staff to drop off the orders and avoid looking around. He had warned, “In the political climate of Washington, D.C., some things are best not to see.”

  Christiana dislodged her overactive daydreaming and ran to the staff room to gather her things before clocking out. She jumped when her phone rang.

  “Hey, get here already! I’m guarding your dress in the main ladies room. You know where,” Avery said. “I never wore it, and you seem to like blue.”

  Avery’s closet enjoyed a regular turnover, as the budding socialite wouldn’t be caught dead photographed in anything twice. Christiana was the grateful recipient of Avery’s generosity. Her hand-me-downs were really more like hand-me-ups for Christiana.

  She grabbed her purse from her locker. “I’m leaving right now. How come this event is so early?”

  “Mom said it’d be like happy hour. It’s really so they can all start drinking earlier. Serve anyone interesting today?”

  “No one special.” She glanced in the small mirror inside the door and smoothed down a few wispy bangs to cover up the two-inch scar on her forehead, now pink from exertion.

  “Oh, come on. It’s an election year. Everyone wants to be seen.”

  Christiana laughed. “You sound like my dad.” The silence on the other end signaled Avery wasn’t pleased with the comparison. Another faux pas—something Avery said Christiana was very good at making, like wearing the same dress to a charity event more than once.

  “Um, do you know Mrs. DeCord?” Christiana asked.

  “Sure. Former Miss Dallas, married to a high-powered lawyer. Well, at least for now. Women like that go through men like wardrobe changes. Why? What’d she do? Spill it.”

  “Oh, nothing. She comes in from time to time.” Damn, she shouldn’t have asked. Avery’s natural investigative nature came alive when a fellow socialite’s name arose.

  “Who was she with today? Not her husband?” Avery’s voice lit up with excitement.

  “I don’t know what her husband looks like. It was probably him.”

  Avery snorted. “Yeah, right. No one goes to The Oak with who they’re supposed to be with.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Look, I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?”

  Christiana stuffed her phone into her purse and sprinted to the garage.

  Cars choked Constitution Avenue even on a Saturday. Tourist season had begun in Washington. Families clad in matching t-shirts and people carrying maps and cameras would soon replace D.C.’s full-time residents, who would escape the city for Rehoboth Beach on most muggy summer weekends.

  She shifted in her seat and adjusted the air conditioning vents to blow directly over her clammy chest. Christiana glanced to the National Mall alongside Constitution Avenue. Stopping at a red light every thirty-five feet never used to bother her. It gave her time to take in the sights. But lately the Washington Monument’s constant pointing to the sky created an unsettling feeling. It only reminded her nothing really changes in D.C.

  Christiana pulled up to the entrance of the Rosemont Country Club only ten minutes late. Sunlight bounced off the brass plaque on the white brick pillars, the only announcement to the outside world that the elite of Washington gathered at the other end of the dogwood-lined driveway. Members of Congress discussed budget negotiations while golfing and bored wives complained about Neiman Marcus inventory while sunning themselves on the terrace.

  Avery’s family had held membership here since the club opened in the 1920s. Her great-grandfather was one of the founding members. The Churchill women had spent countless hours flipping from their backs to their fronts by the swimming pool and attending mixers and events in the cool evenings. Avery reveled in the ambience. Butterflies usually took over Christiana’s stomach at the thought of crossing the threshold of the country club though she attempted to raise a little gratitude for Avery’s generosity in letting her tag along. Or drag me along.

  Christiana handed her keys to the valet, whose traditional red coat was replaced by a ridiculous number in black and pink. Oh, right, today’s event was a fundraiser for breast cancer research. Great, she’d be in blue while everyone else draped themselves in various shades of fuchsia and rose. She hoped no one would notice. She knew everyone would. Even when helping a great cause, Washington feasted on mistakes, and failure to heed dress codes was a majo
r gaffe. It took a lot of time and money—none of which she had—to conform to all the rules of Avery’s world.

  She shook her head and tried to focus on not tripping up the stairs in her high-heeled sandals. But memories of work today and what she’d overheard at the Jefferson Suite kept replaying in her mind. Stop it. Chris. Think forward. She slipped through the massive oak door.

  2

  Jonathan Brond thrummed on the steering wheel impatiently at another stoplight on M Street. He hadn’t expected his little pet to be so demanding this morning, and now he was late, very late. Hell, he’d missed the opening speeches on the latest developments in medical research on breast cancer. Never mind, he had done his own breast study that morning.

  His cell phone interrupted his recollection.

  He smiled as he answered. “Sarah, I’m begging you.”

  Soft laughter filled his ear. “You haven’t done that in years.”

  “You get him off my back, and you can have anything.”

  “What makes you think I have any pull with Brond Senior? I’m just the step-daughter.”

  “He likes you better than me. Tell him you met a nice accountant from Baltimore, and he has a sister. We’ll double date. Orioles game.”

  She laughed. “Let me guess. Such unmasked desperation must mean your father arranged a not-so-blind blind date with Marla Clampton.”