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She was being watched. The man up on the mezzanine had light-colored eyes, maybe green. They were hooded by thick, dark lashes and strong brows, like a bear’s. His pupils were an unrelenting black that pulled her in. That didn’t frighten Ros. She’d never been lost in the dark. Quite the contrary.

He was nursing a beer, and he wasn’t dressed as a club player. A casual but ironed dress shirt was tucked into dark blue jeans, belted. She pictured his underwear as black brief shorts that hugged his ass. She was betting he had a superiorly tight one that would flex at the bee-sting kiss of a whip. He wasn’t a tall man, but he had broad shoulders and biceps that filled out the shirt. His dark beard was neatly clipped along his jaw line, enhancing rather than obscuring the strength of it and his corded neck.

She inhaled, but instead of the cocktail of perfumes, sweat and other provocative scents surrounding her on the ground level of the club, she imagined his aftershave. She could do that. Tune out reality, bring the imagined into such sharp focus that it became real to her. It was a useful tool, professionally and personally.

Old Spice. If your grandfather hadn’t worn it, you wouldn’t exist.

Her lips curved at the remembered slogan. It would work for him. He looked like a complicated man with simple tastes. And he was fixated on her.

Or rather, her shoe.

It sparkled in its lightly bouncing position, because she had her legs crossed. He didn’t appear fixated in the foot fetish kind of way, though the shoes would definitely inspire a fetishist to salivate. The icepick four-inch Italian heels molded a delicate silver leaf pattern over the top of the foot.  Gladiator style, it was called. If women with superior fashion sense had been gladiators, she supposed these shoes would have fit their preferences. The silver shoes had purple soles.  The purple picked up the dark hue of the lace sheath she wore, the long sleeves, scoop neck and mid-thigh hem showcasing her firm body and excellent legs. The liner beneath the lace was flesh colored, adding to the ways she could tease a man.

The shoes had been designed by a boutique in a tiny West Virginia town. The operation had been on its last legs. She’d given them an effective, wide-reaching online presence and increased their annual profits by 416%, with the side benefit of a nice bump in tourism to the town. The owner had given her the shoes for free, over and above the fee her marketing firm charged.

“Have you ever had trouble getting a man on his knees, Ros?”

The question brought her attention back to her table companions, two equally riveting men.

“No. Because getting a man on his knees isn’t a problem. It’s an opportunity.” She cocked her head at the dark eyed, dark haired, raptor-featured handsome bastard to her right. “I went by your building today, Matt. I think it was taller than when I saw it last. Don’t you ever get tired of showing off the size of your dick?”

“I need a little more space and breathing room than you do,” Matt replied equably. “We haven’t added floors, but they have reworked the landscaping around the base.”

Ros shot him an amused look. “No doubt. Manscaping can change size perception. Very clever of you.”

Matt chuckled and took a spare sip of his Kentucky bourbon. She knew he wouldn’t engage in the casual sexual banter. It didn’t matter that they were sitting in a BDSM club and they were both sexual Dominants. Matt Kensington was never coarse in the presence of a woman. Not unless he had her in a state of near orgasmic torment and was whispering in her ear, telling her all the lovely, dirty things he was going to do to her.

“One of these days I’m going to drag a four-letter word out of you,” she informed him. “Bring you into the norms of 21st century male-female relations.”

“Those norms are overrated. A lady deserves to be treated with respect.” He swept his gaze over her, a compliment as well as a frank appraisal. “Particularly one like you.”

He was relaxed in his chair, his long arm draped along the back of Ros’s. The ankle he had resting on his opposite knee meant the other knee brushed her thigh. The intimacy wasn’t inappropriate. They’d been friends for some time, and Matt Kensington was the type of man who exuded sexual cues like that. The same way he could broadcast dangerous authority, powerful coldness or a biting sense of humor that would cut up an opponent as efficiently as a Cuisinart.

He was also deeply in love with his wife, Savannah Tennyson Kensington. Savannah was CEO of another Fortune 500 company. If her husband ever strayed—which would happen never times infinity—she was the type of woman who would gut him from gullet to balls with a letter opener.

A truth that didn’t conflict with Savannah being a 100% submissive who embraced her husband’s dominance. In their deep yearning to express themselves as Master and sub, toward one person alone until death do you part, they’d found one another.

At one time it would have mystified Ros, discovering a fellow strong businesswoman with a submissive orientation. She’d also once thought most male Doms needed to bend over a spanking bench and give themselves a taste of what submission at a woman’s hands was like. But time had taught her some powerful and often painful lessons. They were all seekers. When a person found what they truly wanted and needed, particularly in this world, that demanded respect and acceptance. 

Judge not, lest ye be judged.

After all, she didn’t particularly care to be second guessed by assholes who thought a Domme was a woman who hadn’t found a man strong enough to top her the way she “really” wanted.

Her gaze slid back to the man on the mezzanine. He wasn’t looking at her like that. He was studying her as if he was trying to figure out some things, but there was an interesting mix in that examination. She wasn’t getting a full-on sub or Dom vibe from him, but definitely something…intriguing.

She’d worn the Italian shoes because she wasn’t planning on playing tonight. Well, playing hard, that is. But if she changed her mind about that and wanted to throw a whip, or anything else that would require more stability and a lower point of gravity, she kept square heeled knee-high suede boots in her locker. A smart woman always kept footwear options close to hand for life’s unexpected delights.

“I might have an ‘opportunity’ for you.”

That came from the other man at the table, Dale Rousseau. While not a businessman like Matt, he was every inch a Master as well. A retired Navy SEAL, he ran a local animal rescue, and was married. To Athena Rousseau, another businesswoman and committed submissive. His blue-green eyes glinted with dry humor when Ros smiled at his twist of her phrasing.

“I suspected this wasn’t a casual invitation,” she said. “So what’s up? Professional or personal?

“Professional first, with a personal possibility,” Matt said. The pleasant deep tones of his Texas upbringing vibrated through her when he spoke. “You asked me for recommendations to beef up your security for Laurel Grove. Dale has a man who could step into one of those positions. A personal driver for you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I need enhanced security for LG. Not for me.”

“The threat was made against you personally,” Matt said.

His expression changed, matching Dale’s. Grave, determined. Protective. White knights, the both of them. “This sudden testosterone surge is making me feel faint,” she said lightly. “Catch me if I swoon.”

“When you tell a gang lieutenant that he better not come within a mile of his pregnant girlfriend, the hiring of a bodyguard is good common sense,” Matt pointed out. “Particularly when his gang has over a hundred thousand members in nine major U.S. cities, including New Orleans.”

“I didn’t do it in front of his underlings.”

“No. But you also threatened to remove his undersized manhood with your fingernail clippers,” Dale added. “A direct quote.”

“Abby has a big mouth.”

Ros said it without real heat, however, since she knew Abby was genuinely worried about her. She’d said the same things to Ros that these two were saying now. She and Abigail Rose didn’t keep secrets from one another, which had contributed not only to their friendship, but the success of the marketing firm they’d founded together, Thomas Rose Associates.

“Ros.” Matt put his hand over hers. Not a patronizing gesture, but one motivated by friendship and concern. “She and the rest of your team are smart enough to realize they might come after you. And not just at home. You have thirty employees, and no security at that Garden District office location of yours. Dale has a man who can be security expert, personal driver and bodyguard, all for the price of one staff member.” His dark eyes twinkled. “Nice for your bottom line, and he might just keep you alive. A win-win.”

She sighed and flicked his large hand with the black-purple nails on her free one, making him withdraw with a faint smile. “Fine. I’m not agreeing yet, but tell me about him.”

“He served on one of my teams,” Dale said. “I worked directly with him for eight years. Exceptional operator. He just reached his twenty-year mark, and needs a bridge to civilian life. He’s thirty-eight.”

Thanks to her club friendship with Dale before he was married, which had included plenty of relaxed late-night conversations over drinks after sessions, she knew that SEALs who made it through BUD/S training in their teen years were pretty damn exceptional. So the man in question was more than qualified, and he had the confidence of Matt Kensington and Dale Rousseau.

In truth, she didn’t need more than that to hire him. But then Matt looked at Dale as if there was more he wanted the retired SEAL to say. The warning flags went up. Her brow creased as she considered the situation from a different view.

“We could have discussed this at my office, with Abby and the rest of my team’s input. Why here?” She shot a sharp look at Dale. “Matt said professional and personal. What does that mean?”

His lips tightened into a line. “You’re going to notice something else about him. Something that you may want to explore.”

She blinked. “He’s a sub.”

“Maybe. Yes. No.” At her raised brow, Dale shook his head. “I picked up on it when we worked together. He’s one of those who doesn’t know it, not consciously. He’s not part of this world. He has no context for it.”

“I know you have a well-developed Dom gut, but do you have any concrete proof he wants that side of himself manifested? Plenty of people have Dom or sub traits and go through life without the drive to pursue it in this kind of setting.”

Dale considered the question. Proof of his high security clearance career, he thought most things through before responding. As a Dom, he’d also always weigh variables before revealing details about a person not physically present. “When I first started to suspect it, I had him tag along with me to my regular club one night. My closest guys know who and what I am. He wore the non-player bracelet, but I watched him watch. And we know it when we see it.”

Yes, they did. An experienced Master or Mistress picked up on it like a matching heartbeat. That hunger, the leaning forward of the body, the tension in the muscles, as a submissive got so lost in watching what he craved, nothing could distract him. Except the attention or touch of the right Dominant, a quiet word to draw him away from the theoretical window, in order to take him over the threshold to the reality.

She did like that kind of challenge. When it was real, when the sub truly wanted what she wanted to give. Matt and Dale understood that desire. They were sexual Dominants like her, where the core of their being was closely melded to a desire to hold a submissive’s pulsing soul under their will, cherish it, test it, ask everything of them, in order to give everything back. A closed circle of pure sexual and spiritual bliss, when done right.

Her gaze flickered back to her green-eyed beast. He’d shifted, giving her a hint of the broad shoulder, a tapered waist. A body that looked ready to be stretched to the limits of peak endurance. With reluctance, she drew her attention from that, bringing it back to Matt with a frown.

“I’m puzzled. You sound like you’re encouraging me to explore this if I’m interested. Mixing business and pleasure is always problematic, but when that business is security?”

“He will put the mission first, because that’s how he’s trained.” Dale spoke before Matt did. The dead certainty in his voice, his now flat and steady gaze, told her he meant it. “Forgive the bluntness, but I don’t want there to be any doubt on this point. He could be balls deep in you, Ros, and if there was a threat, he’d be aware of it, on his feet and ready to meet it, faster than you could draw breath.”

“How useful. He saves my life and I get to punish him afterward for withdrawing without permission. A double boon.”

That earned her a twinkle from Dale’s blue-green eyes and a tight smile from Matt, but the men remained somber. They were ready to double down on their determination to persuade her to do what they thought was best for her. Because it was motivated by mutual regard, she wouldn’t let it raise her hackles—much. However, with overprotective men, no matter how well-meaning, a woman had to make sure they understood which decisions were hers to make. And no better way to do that than to make it clear they hadn’t distracted her from all the nuances of this meet.

“You could have kept this out of the equation. Left it just business. You know I never lack for companionship when I want it. So tell me what’s happening here?”

Matt looked toward Dale again. Apparently, further explanation remained his call.

“I care about the man,” Dale said simply. “I think there’s an emptiness to him, Ros. I’ve seen you take men who need what he needs and help them find it.  You give yourself what you need at the same time, and when you cut them loose, they continue the journey with a better, more balanced sense of themselves. Coming out of the SEALs is hard. Really hard. And I think it’s going to be harder for him than most.”

Another warning flag there. “You think me teaching him to embrace his sub side would be a good distraction?”

“Not a distraction. A way to see himself as more than a SEAL.”

She kept her gaze on Dale. “What’s his backstory?”

Shadows crossed Dale’s eyes. “Complicated. But he’s straightforward in the ways that matter.”

A complicated man with simple tastes. Well, shit.

“Dale,” she said evenly, “is your man standing up on the mezzanine? White shirt, blue jeans, and a Corona lime?” As well as exhibiting an unwavering fascination with her shoes, and everything above them.

Matt’s lips curved in a faint smile and he tapped his glass to Dale’s beer. “Told you.”

“I prefer to choose my own bedmates,” she said.

“Well, since you’ve been eyeballing each other for twenty minutes, it doesn’t sound like I’ve interfered with that,” Dale said.

“Really. You sure you two aren’t handing me a carrot to lead me where you want me to go?”

Matt chuckled outright. “How long have we known one another? How stupid would we have to be to think we could get away with that with you? We’re giving you an option that might make the security idea more appealing. Straight out, no hiding it.”

“Hmm.” Mollified, she sat back, but since she was still frowning, Matt continued. “There’s no obligation here, Ros. You enjoy a challenge. When you see one here that suits you, you indulge. If you don’t wish it to go that way, then look at him merely as a security option.”

She tapped her nails on the table. If she’d suspected for a minute they were trying to handle her, she would have torn both men a new one and left the conversation. But Matt had been honest, his evaluation spot on, and Dale’s concern for his man was genuine.

Plus, she couldn’t deny she was intrigued. That had happened the moment her gaze landed on him, before she even knew he was here at Dale and Matt’s invitation.

“Didn’t he think it was a little odd, you wanting to do a job interview here?”

“Didn’t tell him it was a job interview.” Dale grunted. “He knows he needs to find something to transition to civilian life, and I told him you were looking for additional security. Told him he could come along with me tonight and get a sense of you. If it worked out on both sides, you could set up an interview at your company.

“I haven’t brought him back to a club since that one time,” he continued. “Haven’t offered and he hasn’t asked, though I sensed more than once he wanted to do so. So it didn’t take much convincing to get him to tag along.”

Ros sighed. “What’s his name?”

“Lawrence.”

Lawrence, a name whose Latin roots came from a town known for its laurel groves. The mythology behind the laurel was why she, Abby and the rest of the ladies of her executive team had named the domestic violence shelter they’d founded Laurel Grove. It meant refuge, safety, protection. As well as triumph over adversity.

Most importantly, it had been named after the woman they’d loved. That they couldn’t save.

Well, shit. She wished she wasn’t the type of person susceptible to signs from the universe. But the universe liked to stick its mega-sized foot up your ass when you tried to ignore those signs.

“All right. Invite him over and introduce him to me. I’d appreciate it if the two of you would make yourself scarce after that. We’ll see where it goes from there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Matt murmured, giving her an amused look. She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Mess with me, I’ll tell Savannah you flirted with the waitstaff.”

“She won’t believe you.”

“I’m in marketing. I can convince people to trade bitcoin for dogshit.”

He chuckled. During their banter, Dale had lifted his attention to the mezzanine. Ros didn’t look up until after she saw him make the gesture. Her intriguing male straightened with a nod, another lingering look at her, before he disappeared into the shadows and silhouettes of people moving along the platform. She knew several of the men up there, their comparative heights. She’d been correct about his. He wasn’t a towering six foot plus kind of male. He might be about five seven, five eight. She was just over five feet in her bare feet, so with her heels, she’d be close to eye level with him.

She didn’t need to be taller than a man—she preferred taking control of a man far more physically powerful. As he came into view, she knew that wasn’t going to be a problem. The shirt straining over his shoulders and biceps had also told her the truth. He was solidly built, all compact muscle. He worked the jeans well with his confident stride. He moved exactly as she expected, a man trained to be an operator with one of the most elite special forces in the world.

The smooth, close cropped beard was dark roast coffee brown, matching the simply styled but well-cut hair. A feathering of strands over the brow, layered and clean on the sides and nape. She suspected he’d acquired that style recently, because most active SEALs seemed to keep their hair a little shaggier.

As he reached the table, his eyes brushed over hers, held. Dale and Matt had risen, complying with her request immediately, though Dale took the time to make the introduction.

“Munch, this is Rosalinda Thomas,” Dale said. “She goes by Ros.”

As they studied one another, Matt and Dale moved away, Matt giving her one last slight nod. Then it was just her and Lawrence.

Munch. An interesting nickname. She’d figure that out another time. For now she just looked, and Lawrence did the same.

Maybe it was the venue, or maybe Lawrence took his time studying someone before saying hello, no matter where he met that person. She appreciated the silence. His gaze was on her face. She’d been right again. His eyes were green. In the club’s flickering light, traces of gold highlighted the green color, some darker flecks. She wondered if she’d also see glints of blue-grey in there. True green eyes were rare, and usually a compendium of color shades. As a Mistress, she could take the time to study whatever feature of her male she wished, however long she wished.

She wondered what would happen the first time she told him he couldn’t look at her until she gave him permission. The thought made her lips curve, and his gaze lighted there, a flicker of intensity going through those depths that received an answering tingle of sensation in her chest. The anticipation of a beginning.

Done with her own evaluative pause, Ros offered her hand.

Lawrence took it immediately, his fingers closing over hers the way a strong man’s did, carefully, but with a firm surety. His fingers were blunt and warm, the cuticles carefully kept but not manicured. She noted a certain speculation to the way he grasped her, as if he were absorbing the way her fingers folded and fit inside the grip of his. She liked being held by a man who knew how to do it. With the right mix of sexual hunger and respect.

“Hello, Rosalinda,” he said.

Her smile deepened at the hint of challenge. He’d deliberately ignored Dale’s direction.

Oh glory be, yes. He was a sub all right. Just the kind she liked.

* * *

Enjoy At Her Command in 2020, the first of the Mistresses of the Board Room books, a spin-off series from Joey’s award-winning Knights of the Board Room series.

[ NOTE: this is a DRAFT preview of the first chapter of "At Her Command". The final published work will contain endless obsessive author changes and polishing.]