Submit to Desire

Charlotte Brand is tired of dull boyfriends and boring sex. Kingsley Edge, who owns clubs rumored to supply more than just cocktails, seems just the man to revive her: intense, sophisticated…and looking for a submissive he can train for an elite client.

Charlotte is seduced by the offer…and by Kingsley himself. Soon they are engaged in a series of lessons that test her darkest desires. But when their training is over, will Charlotte be ready to let him go?

Submit to Desire

Tiffany Reisz

Contents

Submit to Desire

Spice Briefs BPA

Copyright

“Another one bites the dust,” Charlotte said, raising
her glass. Two other glasses met it and the resulting clink sent Amaretto sour
dripping over her fingers and onto the floor.

“Good riddance to bad boyfriends.” London downed the last of
her Fuzzy Navel and sat the empty glass on the bar.

“I’ll drink to that,” Sasha said, sucking out the last drops of
her Long Island Iced Tea.

Steele, the bartender, refilled her glass.

“That’s the problem.” Charlotte tucked a stray strand of red
hair back into her straw cowboy hat. “Nick wasn’t a bad boyfriend. He
was…nice.”

Sasha and London stared at her over the top of their
drinks.

“You already dumped him, Char.” London wadded up her napkin and
tossed it at Steele. “Don’t add insult to injury.”

“You women are all the same.” Steele set three shots up in
front of them. “God forbid you date a guy who’s nice to you.”

“Nick
was
nice.” Sasha picked up
her shot. “And kind of hot. Nice isn’t bad. Nice is just…boring.”

“Boring,” London agreed.

Charlotte sighed and gazed down into her drink.

Nick was nice. Too nice. So nice she wanted to kill him for it
sometimes. Last week had been the last straw. She’d fallen asleep during sex.
Missionary position. Five minutes of foreplay. Five minutes of thrusting. Ten
minutes after of “I love everything about you.” Just…like…always.

“Boring,” Charlotte echoed as she looked up and met the eyes of
a man walking through the bar. The man, whoever he was, looked to be in his
mid-thirties and had shoulder-length dark hair and olive skin. From what
Charlotte could tell, he wore a weird suit, kind of Victorian-looking, like
something off a romance novel cover. And he wasn’t walking so much as strolling,
as if the crowded nightclub was a park in spring, and he was a country squire
out on a pleasant Sunday ramble.

“Steele, who is that guy?” London asked.

Steele gave the three ladies a half-cocked smile.

“That is Kingsley Edge. And he is the opposite of boring. And
if you three have any sense you’ll stay away from him.”

“What sense I had just took her panties off and laid down in
front of him,” Sasha said with a drunken giggle.

“God, he looks like a pirate.” London ran her finger around the
rim of her glass.

“I think he looks dangerous.” Sasha shot the man her best
come-over-here smile.

Charlotte sighed. Sasha and London had promised her a girls’
night out to help cheer her up over yet another failed relationship. “No men”
had been their promise. Only alcohol and dancing. Maybe it was time to get some
real friends.

“He looks like he needs a haircut.” Charlotte downed her shot
in one bitter swallow.

“Hey, do your trick, Char. That’ll get his attention,” Sasha
begged.

“I don’t want to get his attention. He’s a pimp.” Charlotte had
heard of Kingsley Edge. No one who haunted New York’s nightlife hadn’t. His
respectable business interests included owning several of the city’s top clubs.
Rumors swirled about the man, however; rumors that he made the vast majority of
his money pushing flesh and not cocktails.

Steele laughed and the three friends spun back around on their
bar stools.

“Kingsley Edge is not a pimp.” Steele poured Charlotte a fresh
Amaretto sour. “Kingsley Edge is a talent scout.”

“Talent scout?” Charlotte’s eyes followed Kingsley Edge as he
made his way through the club. Every few feet he’d pause and gaze at her through
the crowd. “What sort of talent?”

“Maybe your talent.” Steele winked at her. She’d worked at this
club,
Le Cirque de Nuit,
a few years ago and had
picked up a trick or two.

Sasha and London looked at Charlotte with pleading eyes. Steele
held out a shot glass full of liquid paraffin. Once again Charlotte decided to
make getting new friends a top priority. She was almost drunk. They were
definitely drunk. And they were making her perform for them. Fine—if they
insisted.

Charlotte sighed and took the shot glass. Sasha handed her a
lighter.

Sasha and London clapped while they hopped off their stools and
stood far away. Charlotte noticed that the commotion had not just gotten the
attention of most of the nightclub patrons, but had alerted Kingsley Edge as
well. He stood next to a column and leaned against it with one eyebrow
raised.

Charlotte inhaled deeply, swigged the liquid paraffin, pursed
her lips, flicked the lighter and pushed air out so hard her ears popped. A
fireball blew out several feet in front of her and set everyone in the nightclub
screaming and clapping. She kept blowing even after the fire went out, knowing
she had to exhale anything left in her mouth. Hopping off her bar stool, she
gave a small bow before turning back to her drink. She’d already had five
tonight. One for each nice boyfriend she’d dumped in the last five years.

Two hours later she lay on the floor in the VIP section. She
heard two male voices talking above her. One sounded like Steele’s. The other
sounded almost melodic…deeply male and as intoxicating as all the alcohol she’d
imbibed.

“It’s last call, chief. What should I do with her?”

“I’ll take care of
le petit
dragon
.”

“You sure about that?”

She was close to passing out but she remembered the laugh. A
warm, low laugh, she felt it more than it heard it. It rolled down her body from
her neck to her ankles.

“Quite sure,” the voice said in an accent her addled mind
recognized as French. “I like a woman with a little fire in her belly.”

* * *

Charlotte woke up in the fetal position. Groaning, she
opened her eyes and saw a pair of knee-high leather riding boots. The boots
belonged to a pair of long legs crossed at the ankles and using her back as a
footstool. Looking up she saw Kingsley Edge lounging on the VIP sofa with a
dainty teacup and saucer in his hands. Sipping at his tea he smiled down at
her.

“I hope you don’t mind my saying this,
chérie
, but you need a new hobby.”

It took her much longer than it should have to process his
words.

“Hobby?” she asked. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am. And I know who you are.” He held up her
driver’s license and studied it with his dark eyes. “Charlotte Brand. Steele
tells me your friends call you Char. Shameful. I’ll call you Charlie, if you
don’t mind.”

“I might mind.”

“Twenty-seven years old,” he said, still staring at her
license. “A good age, Charlie.”

“You’re really going to call me Charlie?”

“
Oui.
I love women with men’s
names. It satisfies a certain deviant side to me.”

“Is your boot on my back part of your deviant side?” Charlotte
sat up, and Kingsley lifted his feet off her back with a graceful air.

“What can I say? When I see a beautiful woman so drunk she ends
up passed out on the floor, I assume she’s there because she wants to be walked
all over.”

“Nice guilt trip. I heard you were a pimp. Are you a priest,
too?”

“
Non.
But I have a priest on speed
dial if you need one,” he said with a wicked grin on his sculpted lips. “Would
you like to come home with me now, Charlie?”

“What are you going to do to me?” His face came into focus for
the first time. She’d heard he was French…or half-French, something like that.
He was rich and had half the judges and cops in town in his back pocket. She’d
also heard he was handsome, but handsome didn’t do justice to the man in front
of her.

“Breakfast and a shower are in order. Perhaps then we can
discuss a certain business opportunity.”

The phrase
business opportunity
triggered a memory from last night. Steele said that Kingsley Edge wasn’t a pimp
but a talent scout. Talent scout—she had a feeling she knew exactly what this
business opportunity
might entail.

“The shower and breakfast might work. But I can save you the
trouble—
no
to any business opportunities.”

“You say that now…but wait until you try my pancakes.”

He sat his teacup and saucer down and held out his hand.

What the hell was she getting herself into?

Charlotte reached out and put her hand into his. Wrapping his
fingers around hers, he pulled her to her feet. Wobbling a little on her high
heels, she put her hand on his chest to steady herself. He covered her hand with
his and met her eyes.

“You’re a beautiful woman.” His dark-lashed eyes studied her
face. “Even with scuff marks on your cheek.”

Charlotte blushed and rubbed her face.

“Don’t bother. We’ll wash it off at my townhouse. Shall we,
Charlie?”

“Okay, so you’re going to call me Charlie. What do I call
you?”

“Everyone calls me Kingsley or King. Or Monsieur. Take your
pick.”

“Monsieur?”

“Mon père était français et j’ai servi
dans la légion étrangère française.”

Charlotte blinked and tried to make out any of the words
Kingsley had said. But none of it registered as anything but poetic
nonsense.

“I said ‘my father was French and I served in the French
Foreign Legion.’”

Charlotte stared at Kingsley. French…riding boots…the suit…and
he changed her name to Charlie.

“You’re a little insane, aren’t you, Kingsley?”

“
Oui
, and you’re coming home with
me.” He flashed her a wicked grin.

“Touché.”

Kingsley strode off and Charlotte followed behind him. He
paused as he passed the bar and picked up her cowboy hat, which someone had left
there. He tossed it back to her.

“I’m giving it to you but don’t think you’re allowed to wear it
in my presence.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have the most beautiful claret-colored hair I’ve
ever seen, and it’s a crime to cover it.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes.

“It’s not real. Well, the hair’s real, but not the color. I’m a
hair stylist.”

“I don’t care if it’s real. I wasn’t born bilingual but that
doesn’t change the fact that it turns you on that I am.
Oui?
”

Kingsley spun on his heel to smile back at her. He raised his
eyebrows and seemed to be waiting for her to answer.

“Okay,
oui
,” she admitted.

“J’accepte.”
Kingsley threw open
the doors to the club.

Charlotte shielded her face as the morning sunlight beat down
on her aching eyes. Once inside the back of Kingsley’s car she noticed the lush
leather interior and the old-world feel.

“Holy shit…is this a Rolls-Royce?”

Kingsley sat on the bench seat opposite her.

“She is. Not my favorite one, but she’s fine for running
errands.”

“So am I an errand?” Charlie asked.

“I don’t know.” Kingsley gave her a long look that set the
hairs on her arms standing up. “Are you running?”

Charlotte looked out the window and saw the city regulars on
their way to work—men in power suits, women in severe dresses. And here she sat
in a Rolls-Royce with one of the city’s most notorious underground figures.

“Not yet.”

Kingsley grinned.

“Good answer, Charlie. Here we are.”

The Rolls pulled in front of an elegant black-and-white bricked
town house that looked at least three stories high.

Kingsley left the car first and held out his hand for her. She
tried to stay steady on her feet as he pulled her out. Kingsley steered her up
two flights of stairs. A stunningly beautiful young woman delivered a file
folder to him with a quick curtsy.

“You can shower while I read,” Kingsley said.

“You’re really going to make me take a shower?”

“I can give you a bath if you prefer.”

“I wouldn’t prefer,” she said, not sure if she meant that.

Kingsley pushed open a set of intricately carved black double
doors.

Never before had she seen a bedroom more erotic and inviting.
She wished she knew more about architecture so she could properly describe it to
her friends…if and when she ever made it out of here. She wanted to study the
vaulted ceilings adorned with black-and-white paintings of lovers coupling in
positions both pornographic and artistic. Or the hulking black marble fireplace
on the lush oriental rugs that covered the black-and white-tile floor.

But in truth only the bed held her attention. A huge
four-poster behemoth, it captured both her attention and her imagination. She’d
never seen sheets so red, like the color of fresh blood, or pillows so thick she
thought she could drown in them and die happy.

“Nice bed,” she said when Kingsley caught her staring. “It’s
really…big. King-size, I guess.”

“Kingsley-sized.” He winked at her as he pointed at a door
across the room. “Bathroom in there. There is a bathrobe you can use while I
have your clothes sent out.”

Charlotte entered the bathroom and found it as luxurious as the
bedroom. She locked the door behind her and looked in the mirror. Scuff marks
had been only a slight exaggeration. A streak of black floor polish adorned her
left cheek. It looked almost like a bruise. Her eyes were shaded with smudged
and flaking eye makeup and her lipstick had worn halfway off from the alcohol
and the paraffin. She turned on the steam shower and stepped inside. As she
washed the club grime off she wondered what on earth Kingsley wanted with her
before deciding she didn’t really care.

She turned off the water and wrapped herself in the plushest
towel she’d ever felt in her life. Squeezing the water out of her hair she
pulled on the black silk bathrobe. With nothing on but the robe she emerged into
the bedroom. Kingsley reclined in a chair with his feet propped up on an
ottoman. He’d discarded his suit jacket and put on a pair of wire-rimmed
glasses. With a cocktail in his hand he perused the file folder in his hand.