Perfect Vision (The Vision Series Book 2) Read online

Steph’s brows lift. “Why does the word photograph rhyme with murder when you say it?”

  Nate chuckles. “Because our London might have been a wee bit drunk when she agreed to pose for my belated grand-opening present for the bosses. I want to do erotic nudes. Black and white. Totally tasteful. Well, except for maybe a nipple here or there.”

  Steph squeals and shoves my shoulder lightly. “Oh my gosh, that’s awesome! Girl, I can’t believe I thought you were a prude when we met.”

  I roll my eyes as Nate laughs loudly.

  “She’s not even as vanilla as she thinks she is, right, London?”

  I glare at him, then tell Steph, “Nudity doesn’t bother me.”

  “You should hear about her childhood,” Nate provides, “total hippie parents. Orgies in the backyard, masturbation classes, dildo-making. Didn’t you tell me your parents held some big ceremony when you and your sister got your periods?”

  Steph gapes at me. I kick Nate under the table. “Remind me not to trust you with any secrets, shithead.”

  “Oh, come on now.” Nate gives me his cheesiest smile. “We’re your BFFs. No secrets here.”

  No secrets. My stomach flips. I look down quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice the guilt in my expression. Thankfully, Steph speaks up. “So what’s the present, exactly?”

  “I want to hang the series of photos in the back hallway.” He points a finger at her. “You can’t tell anyone, though. It’s a surprise, and London doesn’t want anyone to know it’s her.”

  “You’re not going to let me out of this, are you?” I whine.

  “Nope,” he replies brightly. A club napkin covered with writing flutters to my empty plate. “We have a contract.”

  Steph snatches the napkin and reads, “I, London Limerick, do solemnly vow to pose for nude photographs taken by Nathan Amherst, on the condition that my face and vagina aren’t in them. I will do this for free.” Fighting a smile, she glances up at me. “You both signed it.”

  “I was drunk,” I mumble unconvincingly.

  I hadn’t actually been that drunk last night, but I had just walked down the hallway with private playrooms and seen something I could never unsee. Dominic Cross, shirtless and in black leather pants, standing above a naked woman bound in rope to a high table. She trembled and bucked as he mercilessly held a vibrating wand to her clit.

  The image that seared me most, however, wasn’t the fierce, focused look on his face or the beautiful stacking of muscles beneath his olive skin. It was the outline of his long, hard cock against the leather of his pants.

  I was angry—so angry that he was hard for someone else, that he might fuck someone else. Fueled by jealousy and three shots of booze, my only thought when Nate made his proposal was revenge against Dominic for the way he made me feel. Torturing him with images of my naked body every time he walked to and from his office seemed like a perfect plan.

  Only in the rising light of day do I realize the stupidity of my impulsive decision. Dominic won’t know it’s me in the photographs. And even if he does figure it out, he probably won’t care one way or the other.

  The last weeks have proven that my fascination with him is one-sided. Since opening night, our interactions have been minimal. When they do happen, they’re back to the borderline frostiness of our first meetings. And with direct deposit now in effect, I don’t even see him to pick up my paycheck.

  There’s no logical reason I should think of him as anyone other than my boss. But I just can’t seem to stop. I fall asleep fantasizing about him and wake up throbbing for him.

  The moment we shared in the hallway after his blatant test—that stark flare of desire I saw in his eyes—now seems like wishful thinking.

  Maybe I had been drunk last night, after all.

  12

  Jim and Emerald Limerick gave my sister and me a gift we can never repay—a happy childhood wrapped in the colorful landscape of their love. The anecdotes I’ve shared with Nate are some of the wildest—and all true.

  My parents aren’t weekend-warrior hippies who drop acid at festivals and go to their desk jobs Monday mornings, but the real deal. I’m talking free love and uncompromising personal expression and “accidentally” leaving pot brownies on the kitchen counter when I had friends over as a teenager.

  They also had an endless stream of new, amazing, have-to-try spiritual vocations, which despite giving my sister and me an adventurous childhood full of travel and odd characters, also gave us both a need for control and stability as adults. To this day, my mom is baffled by how her children turned out.

  I love my parents, but I’d be lying if I said a good part of my early ambition in life wasn’t to be different from them. From my teenaged years, I knew exactly what I wanted. Financial security and independence. A home mortgage and retirement plan. A dedicated career I was passionate about. A family, PTA meetings, and cheering at after-school sports games.

  Everything I didn’t have as a kid.

  Despite my rejection of my parents’ life philosophy, my childhood nevertheless shaped who I am—or was. Someone who looked on the bright side and noticed everyday miracles. Saw the beauty in people and nature. Breathed consciously, was present in the moment, and expressed my passions without reservation.

  The young woman I once was—ambitious, grounded, perpetually positive—is still inside me, curled up in a dark corner of my heart. She flickers there, in her death throes, as I… exist. Live out my penance. Pretend I’m a normal woman, when all I really am is a shadow of a woman who died with her husband.

  My present-day pain has many flavors. Grief, shame, and guilt predominant among them. Their potency shifts day to day, triggered by errant thoughts, random sights and sounds. But losing my only, biggest dream—the dream of my future and myself—has never dimmed. Every day, it sits sour on my tongue.

  A constant reminder of my failure.

  As I walk into a silent, empty Crossroads to meet Nate on a Wednesday afternoon, I can taste my usual defeat mixed with trepidation. The emotions are salt and copper and bitter lemons.

  What am I doing here?

  Why am I doing this?

  “Hello, London.”

  The unexpected voice—not Nate’s—makes me jump and gasp. I spin toward the bar, zeroing in on a familiar—if dangerous—face. The man smiles broadly, hands up in a placating gesture.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Hand over my heart, I wait a few seconds for my voice to return. “Mr. Rourke, right?”

  He nods. “Call me Liam.”

  “Okay. What, uh—do you know where Nate is? We’re supposed to meet.” And the little sneak promised the club would be empty.

  Liam nods toward the door leading to the back hallway. “He’ll be out in a few. Tinkering with his camera, I think.” At the look on my face, his eyes narrow. “Ah, Nathan forgot to mention he’d roped me into helping? Pun intended, of course.”

  It’s then I notice the coils of rope on the bar beside him. Neat little piles of what looks like braided cotton—a fact I would have been clueless about mere months ago.

  Swallowing hard, I meet Liam’s amused gaze. “I didn’t know you’d be here, no. I guess I thought Nate would be doing the…” I wave a hand toward the rope.

  Liam chuckles. “Trust me, you don’t want Nathan trussing you up.”

  Well, I sure as shit don’t want you doing it.

  The thought must reflect on my face, because Liam’s smile softens in understanding. “I can see you’re uncomfortable. Come, have a seat. I’ll pour you a drink and we can chat about what I’ll be doing. Very basic bondage, I assure you. I can probably do most of it blindfolded, if you’d like.”

  The faint, soothing lilt in his voice and his casual manner make it hard to stay on guard. I take a step toward him, then stop. “Just so we’re clear, this is a purely professional… situation.”

  Liam merely nods. “Of course. I would never presume otherwise. Perhaps we should lay down some ground rules?” />
  Damn, he’s charming.

  Before I’m fully conscious of it, my feet carry me to the stool beside his. As soon as I’m settled, Liam leans over the bar and snags a bottle and shot glass. He doesn’t ask me if I like whiskey, merely pours and hands me a shot. I throw it back without hesitation.

  “Well done,” he says and pours me another.

  I eye him skeptically. “You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?” I ask, then swallow dutifully.

  His eyes twinkle with mirth. “I don’t particularly like the company of drunk women, so no, I’m not.” He leans an elbow on the counter and fixes me with a bright blue stare. “Tell me, London Limerick, how does a promising investigative journalist end up bartending in a Los Angeles sex club?”

  The words burn hotter than the whiskey in my throat. Meeting his gaze, I shake my head. “I don’t talk about it, sorry.”

  He nods, as if expecting the answer. “I understand. For the record, though, I think you deserve a fucking award for going up against Ivan Reznikov, and it’s a damned miracle you’re alive.”

  An icy wave breaks across my scalp as my stomach clenches in fear. For a moment, I’m paralyzed by the thought that Liam was sent by Ivan to kill me. That despite our arrangement, he’s going to tie up the final loose end from last year. Me.

  “You’re perfectly safe, London.”

  Liam’s calm, compassionate voice brings me back to the present. Away from the heat of fire, the spray of shattered glass, and the tang of spilled blood. I swallow acid, my fingers shaking as I pour myself another shot.

  “How do you know about that?” I ask, focusing on Liam. “About him?”

  “Reznikov?” He shrugs. “I know a lot of things about a lot of people. As for what I know about your… circumstances, you could say I specialize in finding things. Information, people, whatever suits my fancy or the fancy of my employers.”

  A new spike of fear propels a question from my lips. “Did he pay you to find me?” I ask, my legs tingling with the urge to run.

  “No, God no. I wouldn’t work for that madman if he offered me the bloody moon.” Liam sighs, his forehead creasing with remorse. “I’m truly sorry for frightening you, London. Some of the information I gathered made it seem… well…”

  Understanding dawns, and with it, a bitter dose of memory. “That I was involved in what happened to my husband,” I finish.

  Liam winces, but nods.

  Familiar footsteps echo behind me. Nate’s voice rings out, vibrating with censure. “Are you getting my model drunk?”

  Liam swings on his stool, a shit-eating grin firmly in place, no sign of our conversation in his relaxed posture. “Just getting to know London a bit. She has a weakness for Irish Whiskey.” He winks. “And Irish men.”

  Nate groans and studies my face. “Are you okay?”

  I nod, the movement oddly delayed, like I’m not occupying my body but watching it. Nate frowns, not buying it. You wear every emotion on your face.

  I force a smile. “I’m fine, really. It’s now or never.”

  Nate grins, rubbing his hands together. “Excellent. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  13

  When I return to the bar after changing into a thong and robe, Nate and Liam are already setting up. The lattice above the Epicenter is lowered. Liam is busy tying ropes, his hands moving swiftly as he creates some complex rigging system. Nate is testing lighting, using a remote to adjust the overhead spotlight. The rest of the club is still shadowed and empty, but we only have an hour before people start arriving for the early evening shift.

  “Ready?” calls Nate when he spots me walking toward him.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  If my parents could see me now…

  …they’d be thrilled.

  The thought twitches my lips, a welcome reprieve from lingering echoes of my conversation with Liam. I have questions for him, but they’ll have to wait. At least I know he’s not going to kill me or deliver me back to Ivan. I can’t explain it, but I trust him.

  “Okay, London, come on down.” Liam’s voice is brisk and professional. “As this is your first experience with bondage, I’ll walk you through each step. If you feel uncomfortable at any point, please tell me.”

  Stepping down the short flight of stairs into the sunken area, I begin to pull off my robe. “Is it going to hurt?”

  Liam laughs. “Not unless you want it to.”

  “What the fuck?” bellows a voice behind me.

  I gasp, clutching the lapels of my robe over my bare chest. Nate almost drops his camera as he jumps out of the pit and starts babbling at the tall, dark figure just outside the spotlight’s glow.

  “Hi! What, uh, are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming in until later. This is nothing. Nothing’s happening. Just, um—”

  “Shut up, Nathan,” snarls Cross.

  My wide eyes veer to Liam, who doesn’t look alarmed in the least. Quite the opposite—he looks downright giddy.

  “Dominic!” he says with a jaunty wave. “Good timing. Want to help?”

  Silence reigns for three seconds. Then, “London, come here.”

  Cross’s voice is liquid-smooth and utterly controlled. My legs vibrate with the need to obey even as my mind rebels. The pieces of me stretch apart, bound by brittle glue. When those bridges snap, I’m either going to scream, cry, or fall down dead.

  Liam murmurs, “Just give in to it. Embrace it.”

  My feet obey before my mind can catch up. I walk up the stairs, past a shocked Nate, toward the looming darkness of Dominic Cross. I don’t look up—can’t seem to lift my gaze past his belt buckle. But my mind is quiet. Oddly peaceful.

  “Follow me, please.”

  He doesn’t wait for a response before striding across the club. I follow, my bare feet silent, my body relaxed and muscles loose.

  Cross doesn’t stop at the door leading to his office but continues on to another door at the far rear of the club. I’ve seen workers come through it with deliveries before but have never been inside. Cooler air skates over my exposed legs as I follow him down a short hallway. At the end is a roll-up metal door, currently down and locked. There’s only one other feature in the hallway—a black door with gold lettering proclaiming Private.

  Cross produces a key and unlocks the door, opening it on a narrow stairwell of rich wood and white walls.

  “Up you go.”

  My skin prickles with mingled anxiety and anticipation. Questions ricochet in my head, but my tongue stays glued to the roof of my mouth. Clutching the short, silk robe over my chest, I step past him and up. At the top, I pause in surprise.

  Cross moves past me, his black dress shirt whispering against my robe. His scent lingers, tendrils of it curling around my body. I watch him stride across the lavish loft to a galley kitchen.

  Without turning, he says, “I’m going to pour myself a drink. Please make yourself comfortable on the couch. To answer your question, yes, I live here. No, I don’t publicize the knowledge, and yes, I’m livid right now so you’re making the right choice by treading lightly.”

  He doesn’t know what I’m feeling. This sweet surrender, this relief. What I want from him. What I need.

  Hell, I don’t have a clue what I need. But for the first time in so, so long, I’m 100 percent in the present moment. And until Cross tells me otherwise, I’m staying right here, right now.

  I make it five steps across the loft before my knees weaken. Give in, Liam said. So I do, allowing gravity to carry me to the ground. I sit back on my heels. Bowing my head, I close my eyes and rest my hands in my lap. As I mimic the way I’ve seen submissives present to their Doms, I’m surprised by how natural it feels. How freeing.

  Silence looms against the backdrop of muted street noise, the hum of a refrigerator, and a soft tick-tick of a wall clock. Not until my knees begin to hurt on the hardwood, until my calm begins to buckle, until every breath I take becomes overly loud, does Cross move.

&n
bsp; Slow, measured footsteps approach me. Circle around me. My skin comes alive at the phantom pressure of his gaze. By the time he stops directly before me, I’m trembling.

  “Open your eyes, kitten.”

  I obey, blinking several times before he comes into focus. Or rather, his crotch comes into focus. One broad hand sits on the outside of his zipper, cradling the bulge beneath it. Before I can react, before I can even consider what this means, his nimble fingers reach for the zipper.

  “I’m going to fuck your mouth,” he says mildly. “When I come, you’ll swallow every drop.”

  “Wha—wait,” I gasp, jerking back and falling on my ass. My robe falls open, but I’m too stunned to grab it. With humiliation rising like a tidal wave inside me, I stare up at him.

  The smile on his face is cruelty personified. Condescending, yes, but more, too… worse. It’s pitying.

  His head tilts appraisingly, dark eyes gleaming like twinned black holes. “Don’t want it after all, do you? That’s too bad. I’ve thought about that pretty mouth choking on my dick.” He sighs and turns away. “Get off my floor, London, and cover your tits. We need to talk.”

  Fueled by adrenaline and rage, I scramble to my feet. Since it’s likely I’m about to be fired, I throw caution out the same window my pride plummeted through seconds ago.

  “Fuck you, Dominic! Who do you think you are? Is that how you treat your subs? No wonder you can’t find a steady one!”

  Between one breath and the next, he’s in front of me, towering over me with a sucking storm in his eyes. “That little tirade just proved my point. You’re not cut out for this life. If you were, I’d be sliding down your throat right now.”

  The words add salt to my open wound—horrifyingly, tears burn in my eyes. My voice emerges thin and shaking. “You didn’t give me any warning. Aren’t people supposed to discuss everything beforehand? I’ve never done this before!”

  “And you never will,” he snarls, then spins away with fingers clenched in his hair. “Goddammit, London. Just get out.”