The Contract (Nightlong #1) Read online

  The Contract

  Nightlong Series #1

  Sarah Michelle Lynch

  Copyright © Sarah Michelle Lynch, 2016

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. You must not circulate this book without the authority to do so.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  For strong Irish women,

  some of whom I call family

  Also by the Author

  A Fine Profession

  A Fine Pursuit

  Chambermaid: Pocket Sized

  The Radical

  The Informant

  The Sentient

  Unbind

  Unfurl

  Unleash

  Dom Diaries

  Angel Avenue

  Beyond Angel Avenue

  Fabien: a Vampire Serial

  They Say I’m Doing Well

  Tainted Lovers

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  About the Author

  ‘I don’t like novels that end happily. They depress me so much.’

  Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

  Prologue

  2010

  IT HAD ONLY BEEN A few days since I signed that contract… but he wanted me to immediately cut ties with my current life to start a new one, despite the consequences: letting down Miss Lindy, and Trixy who’d recommended me, not to mention my boss at the office who’d have preferred a month’s notice instead of a day’s.

  Dante’s driver gave me a fright when he arrived to pick me up from the shared house I lived in on a long stretch of road in Islington where it was impossible to get parked. He’d not only stopped right in the middle of the one-way road with his hazard lights on, not bowing to pressure from cars stacking up behind the Phantom – he’d also been wearing those scary chauffeur clothes which made me feel like I’d been recruited for some important job or something. I felt the pressure and all I had to show for my life was a couple of duffel bags filled with raggedy clothes and bits of props I’d picked up from Miss Lindy’s, the domme den where Dante had found me.

  Once the journey got underway, I asked the driver, “Where are we going then?”

  “Knightsbridge.”

  “Where?” I gasped, almost lurching off my seat.

  “Mr Sinclair warned me you were… young.” His emphasising my youth seemed to actually be his way of voicing his distaste of our arrangement.

  “So, what do I call you then?”

  “Sexton,” he said, “Charles Sexton. Sinclair just calls me Sexton.”

  “No way?” I giggled. “Sinclair and Sexton… like Batman and Robin, yeah?”

  He rolled his eyes and rolled up the privacy wall so I couldn’t bother him anymore. When I noticed there was a couple of chocolate-covered strawberries and a small champagne bottle in the centre console, I didn’t hesitate to dive right in, almost knocking my eye out with the cork. I either didn’t see the complimentary champagne glass or else I didn’t care and drank from the bottle anyway.

  WHEN we got to Knightsbridge, I gulped as we rolled up outside the house. The streets were pristine! Label-clad men and women walked small pet dogs around the streets and not one crisp packet blew in the wind.

  “Here we are, miss.”

  Three stories and terraced, but whoa. It had a shiny blue door and railings and double glazing and everything.

  “Feck me,” I mumbled, “feck me.”

  “Mr Sinclair,” he said with boredom, “is waiting inside. Go right in.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Did he hate Sinclair? Did he hate me?

  “Sorry, do you want a tip?” I asked, figuring I could give him a few hardboiled sweets at best.

  “I’m well cared for Miss Patrick,” he said, calling me by my domme name, “like a retired old horse really, fed the best of everything, just never again to do what I was born to do.”

  “And what was that, sir?”

  He turned and looked over his shoulder, directly into my eyes. “Fight… and be a soldier, miss.”

  “My granddad was a fighter,” I said, “put it there, soldier.”

  I held out my hand and he shook it.

  “Don’t let Sinclair mess you around.”

  I winked. “Oh… it’ll definitely be the other way around.”

  “Good.”

  I left the car, walked up the stairs to the front door, and tapped lightly. Sexton had said it was unlocked, but still.

  Dante opened the door swiftly and beckoned with a finger that I step quickly inside. Stood in the hallway and so close to him, I felt invaded by all the various delights he possessed. His oak smell, so deeply man, his height and his athletic build, his blond crown. His devilish eyes. Shaven face.

  There was this feeling I always got when I looked into his eyes, like I was looking at a man fifty years old, not someone in his late twenties.

  “You’ve met Sexton?” he asked, his British accent impeccable, so husky and with that edge of education.

  “Yes, he told me you’re an arse wipe I should steer clear of. He said he’s killed men for you and he doesn’t think he gets paid enough.”

  He saw I was ragging him and smiled, shaking his head. “He didn’t say much then?”

  “Nope,” I giggled, high on him. His whole. His aura. His presence.

  “Do you want to look around?”

  “Sure.”

  As he showed me the living room, dining room, kitchen, two en-suite bedrooms upstairs, a small gym, study, a spare room… I got to thinking Sexton might have actually killed for Sinclair. How come he was putting a teenager like me up in a house like this? All sorts went through my mind, but the one thing I couldn’t stop thinking about was bouncing on all the beds and messing the covers up as soon as he left the place.

  After the tour, we convened in the kitchen where he placed a credit card on the table and told me, “You can buy whatever you need but if there’s any indecent spending, I will require a receipt to make sure I’ve not bought illegal weapons or something.”

  So, he has a sense of humour, I thought.

  “Okay, cool,” I mumbled, wondering if the plastic might self-destruct if I did something really wrong.

  He passed me a square bit of paper. “The pin’s here. Memorise it, then burn this on the wood burning stove.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve kitted out the basement but the only key we have is the one currently resting in my jacket pocket.”

  “You mean,” I tapp
ed my lip, “I’m not to pry in there… because it’s a little private party palace for the two of us?”

  “You’ll be given access, but not yet.” He pursed his lips. “By the way, it’ll be just the same stuff as before. Just consensual play, nothing more. You’re not a prostitute.”

  “No,” I mumbled, biting my nails, “just a kept woman.”

  He took something else from his pocket. “Here’s a phone. Sexton and myself are programmed in. Please don’t use it to call anyone else. Use a payphone for that, okay?”

  A payphone? I couldn’t remember the last time I used one of those. Not that I’d need to use one, anyway…

  “Dante?”

  “Don’t call me that. It’s Sinclair, remember?”

  I lifted my eyes and dared a look into his, so green and glaring, so vexing. “Can I ask one question?”

  “You can ask.”

  “Why me?”

  He stood from the kitchen stool and smiled. “I said you could ask… I didn’t say I’d give an answer.”

  He walked to the front door and I followed.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow evening. Give you time to settle in.”

  “What am I to do?”

  “Go buy some clothes, have your hair done. Whatever you want. Don’t worry about anyone unwanted showing up, I went ex-directory on everything. I’ll always give you notice when I’m on my way and all the mail goes to a PO Box, so if anyone knocks on this door but me or Mr Grumpy Drawers, you lock all the doors and windows and call me. Anyone but us knocking is basically a criminal in the making… or an actual criminal.”

  Either he was out of touch, or in his neighbourhood, people simply didn’t receive unscheduled visits from the Jehovah’s Witnesses, Latter Day Saints or charity canvassers.

  He turned his back to me and paused with his hand on the door latch. For a brief few moments I watched him intently, running my gaze up and down his slender, compact physique. He was surely the fittest guy I’d ever known or would ever know. I imagined slinging my arms around his neck from behind and drinking the scent of the ocean from his hair. Whatever shampoo he used, I could smell it even over his cologne.

  “You’re watching me, Cleo.”

  “You’re standing there not moving, Sinclair. What else am I meant to do but wait for you to go?”

  “I don’t know. Go and order pizza?”

  “I can order pizza?”

  He turned his head and nodded over his shoulder. “You could do with some proper sustenance.”

  I looked at the floor, ashamed. “I know.”

  “Just as you are, dear Cleo. You’re fine just as you are.”

  He undid the latch and left, taking a piece of my breaking heart with him.

  He was a god.

  I was simply happy to have him in my life.

  One

  2016

  I WOULD’VE ARGUED IT WASN’T my choice but Cleo Patrick was the alias I ended up with. It was cheesy, I supposed. Cleo because of the way I looked, Patrick because of my Irish heritage. Somehow this false name had stuck because Sinclair had an insane predilection for mystery.

  “Mistress Cleo, tell me what you’d have me do.”

  “On your knees,” I responded, even though I wasn’t a true Mistress, any more than Sinclair was a true slave. In reality, I was trapped in a hateful predicament – and he knew it. He’d always known it but I’d only begun to realise how caged I was a couple of years after I signed my false name to our false arrangement.

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Dressed in latex underwear, his arms tied behind his back in Shibari knots, his head was up but his eyes were down, no doubt trained on the heels of my thigh-high leather boots. From my standing position, I looked down at the gimp mask he wore and imagined how it might feel to smash a blunt object against his skull. The black leather would surely contain any blood or bruising or damage. It’d be easy, not brutal at all. No mess. I’d say it was a game gone wrong, or something. Maybe a robber came.

  What had seemed like a cushy arrangement six years ago had turned into a full-blown nightmare. I was more than ready to get out, even though I knew that was impossible:

  I’d already tried to escape – and I’d failed.

  “Lick my shoe,” I demanded, and I watched with disgust the subtle shimmy of his shoulders as he got ready to take the treat he was so desperate to indulge himself on.

  “Yes, that’s it,” I encouraged, “lick my boot. So nasty.”

  I watched for a moment as his tongue, pink and tender, flicked at the pointed tip of my boot. When he started panting, I recoiled and looked away.

  “That’s disgusting. More,” I asked, actual fury in my tone of voice.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw his hands ball into fists behind his back, tension mounting as his arousal did.

  “Am I doing it right?” he asked, submission and servile fortitude licking not just my boot, but the fiery flames of defiance inside me.

  I wanted freedom.

  “Other shoe. Clean the other shoe. Look how filthy it is.”

  He eagerly lapped at my left shoe like a dog licking treacle from a bone. Grunts and moans erupted from him, breaking the silence, and perhaps if I were any other dominatrix I would have punished him for his indulgence but this wasn’t me. He’d trained me to be the Mistress he wanted me to be but… something was wrong here. I was meant to be in control – but I wasn’t. I was a pawn in his game, a prop for his self-indulgent fantasies. This was one-sided and when I signed on that dotted line, I’d not realised then how much servitude would be asked of me, nor how my soul would gradually deteriorate with every encounter like this. Encounters which were just me, playing a part. It turned out that acting full-time came with a hefty cost.

  “That’s clean enough. Now, my pocket pussy needs stroking, what do you think?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, shaking with anticipation.

  I held the chain attached to his collar in my hand and tugged gently, watching as he slowly raised himself to standing on his feet.

  Sinclair was handsome beneath his twisted fetishes. Yellow-blond hair slightly curly at the ends, brushed back behind his ears. Emerald-green eyes. Athletic. Debonair even, I supposed.

  I hooked his chain up to a wall plug and gestured he stand right in front of the crudely lacquered table waiting nearby. The furniture in the playroom looked medieval, the floors even worse. I wondered how many other people in the world kept a secret room like this.

  Standing behind him, I used my leather-gloved hands to slide his underwear down over his sharp, slim hips, just enough to hear a gasp from his mouth as his cock was released.

  “Two steps forward,” I guided him, and he followed my instructions. “Pussy is waiting.”

  I didn’t watch, but remained standing behind him.

  I’d never seen his cock and I never wanted to. He’d never seen me naked, either. He sometimes asked for peephole bras with sheer tops, so he’d seen my nipples, but he’d never seen me.

  He started thrusting inside the pocket pussy I’d arranged on the table edge, nailed down so it wouldn’t move; a crude vice for his vicious desires, desires I was in charge of but wanted nothing to do with. While he moaned and groaned, I struck him with a flogger with knotted ends. I held its braided handle steady, clinging to my fraying sanity by a thread as I watched his back vein red with my strikes. His body was so defined with muscle I knew he must be a boxer, or maybe a long-distance runner. Not a scrap of fat, just total definition. No inflated bulges, just hard edges, angular limbs. A cuddle from him would be hard and mean, I thought. There was nothing soft about this man. He was coarse all over.

  What was he thinking as he fucked the plastic toy? Was it a device to fuel his train of thought or did he really like fucking wet plastic? Was it really the delay of fucking me that continued to get him off? If so, six years was a long time to delay getting something over and done with.

  The grunting upped and I felt sick.

  I st
ruck harder, knowing he needed it.

  The braided knots large and unyielding, it was a fierce and violent weapon with extra-long tails, but he always wanted more. He needed to feel.

  “Ah god, Mistress,” he cried, pulling out of the pussy to come all over himself. He was at least gentleman enough never to make me clean that up.

  His scent filled the otherwise dank air, as strong as those trees you sometimes pass which smell of semen – if not stronger. The musky tang, so human and unique, made me want to see what his cum looked like, coating his body. Thick and creamy, or thin and stringy? Forever, my mind wandered; it was what happened when starved of pursuing pleasures of the flesh.

  I untied his arms from the Shibari knots he’d taught me to tie and still standing behind him, I helped to lift his underwear back over his no doubt wilting cock. I didn’t want to see his manhood, not like this. This was a business arrangement. It didn’t include real sex or seeing each other like that.

  He turned and knelt, kissing my boot once more. Along his arms I saw the indents my ropes had left behind, while down his back lay soft, puffy welts where I’d struck him with the tails. Vulnerable as he sat at my feet, my mind wandered again…

  The pocket pussy couldn’t do any real damage, but I still couldn’t help thinking about using it to smack him round the head.

  “You’re so kind to me, Mistress.”

  “My kindness might not last. Go get washed.”

  He nodded slowly and moved out of the room, head bowed in servitude.

  Once he was gone, I took out some antibacterial wipes and wiped everything down, including all the lube I’d placed in the pussy for his delectation.

  The man was all about keeping himself clean.

  And disaffected.

  Or should that have been disinfected?

  I left the dungeon and locked up, carrying the key for the basement with me as I moved upstairs. I climbed two flights before reaching my own bedroom in the place I lived in. It was a beautiful Victorian townhouse with all the trimmings but it wasn’t a home. I slept there, ate there, masturbated myself endlessly there… but it wasn’t my home.