F*ck Toy: A Dominatrix Enemies to Lovers Romance Read online

  After several calming breaths she was pretty sure she could walk her way up toward the looming, wooden-stilted house. It looked the same as any other shore house, more than three stories, sprawling, and a little weather beaten. She took her first tentative steps to the bleached back staircase listening to the sharp crash of waves, the rolling crunch of gravel beneath her suitcase, and the heavy soled shoes of her driver.

  Only a few houses were dotted across the scrubby shoreline, far enough away that she supposed she’d still feel isolated. The one to the right seemed far enough off in the distance that it would be a hike. The back of her neck prickled as she smoothed a shaky hand into her hair. When she looked back all she saw was the sprawling, winding road they must have taken to get here. A black line of asphalt next to swamp, marsh grass, and sand. It looked more dirty than anything pretty—but to each their own, she guessed.

  Strange that there was no sign out front for the “spa.” Any place her mother had deemed fit would have enough PR that their spa name would be attached to the back of a plane on a rippling banner flying overhead in the sky. But simple was good. Nice. So far the house almost seemed too good to be true. When she reached the top of the landing she stared at the front door with pale pink chipped paint. There was a logical sequence of events to follow, but hell if she could remember them in her tipsy haze.

  Was knocking appropriate? It was kind of early and there didn’t seem to be a whole lot of lights on inside. But they had to have someone on staff at all times, right? Unclear on exactly how these things worked, Chloe settled for opening the squeaky screen door, leaning her forearm on the wooden house, and executing a polite, low knock.

  But when she pulled back her hand her knuckles stung from the impact.

  “Oops, maybe not so polite after all.”

  “I’ll leave your bags here, Miss. Please be ready at eight in the morning when I come to collect you.”

  “Wait—”

  Seized with a sudden cramp of fear, she was halfway to grabbing the man’s thick bicep and begging him to stay. She sucked on her knuckles and refrained—but only because she didn’t want the story getting back to her mother. The loud clamor of something being knocked over echoed through the windows until her thoughts diverted back to the house. Whoever was coming down the stairs wasn’t exactly light on their feet either. Aside from the loud tread on the stairs, the person was swearing up a storm.

  And a few of the colorful words she’d never even heard of—which was impressive.

  With her hand tightly pressing against her mouth she suppressed a drunken giggle. She didn’t even bother to remove her forearm from the side of the house knowing it was the only thing keeping her from face planting into the weathered boards below her feet. Wow, now probably hadn’t been the best time to get lit. Especially when she was meeting some total stranger who probably owned the weird spa and who would be interacting with her on a constant basis for three days.

  “Way to go, brain trust,” she muttered.

  “Hold on, don’t go anywhere. I’m coming.”

  Maybe she’d had a little more wine than she thought—like hallucinogenic amounts—because Chloe could have sworn up and down on her collection of antique fairytale books that the person behind that door sounded awfully male. Despite her mind being a complete jumble she lurched away from the door as it swung open. Which left the screen door wafting in the breeze—until the wind turned harsh and slapped the screen against the stranger’s face.

  “Christ on a cracker,” he growled while his large hand immediately covered his face.

  “Oh, shit. I mean, damn. I mean—aw, hell.”

  Chloe made a dash for the stairs lowering down each one with a two-handed grip on the splintering wooden banister. Nothing mattered more than getting away from the guy. Or any guy. After the breakup she was hardly ready to see anyone of the male species at all. So what if she had to spend the night on the beach for three days? The world spun like the teacups at Coney Island—except the ride had no end in sight.

  His hand clutched her bicep and she screamed bloody murder, launching back from the railing, and pin-wheeling backward. Until she thought she would plummet down the wind weathered steps to her death. His other hand landed on her shoulder and snapped her back onto the staircase. Yet she couldn’t find breath to cry out again. They were both steady for a few seconds.

  “Are you okay? Can I let you go now?”

  He cleared his throat and his warmth licked through her light jacket as if the fabric was kindling. Chloe closed her eyes. When she opened them she intended to remember exactly what he looked like—so if she wound up escaping from the guy’s basement two days from now she had something to tip off the cops. She nodded and groaned with the effort as her head swam. Time to get it together.

  With way too much effort, she peeled her eyelids open and looked up—way up—into the man’s face. Suddenly she regretted not eating anything as her stomach knotted with nerves. One bottle of wine should have thrown her for a loop—but skipping a bunch of meals hadn’t helped the situation.

  Her vision wavered. Pulse thundering inside her skull until she couldn’t think straight and the outside swam, everything blurred. She lost her footing and managed to get out a yelp, knees going wobbly, and stomach churning with bitter bile. When was the last time she’d passed out from alcohol?

  Darkness.

  Her mouth was like the inside of a fuzzy, overripe cantaloupe. She tried to focus beyond the loud whirring against her temples. Nope, nothing outside of a head splitting ache and the odd sense that she was sitting in some kind of sauna. There was no way she looked like anything other than last night’s garbage. Not unless the hangover fairy had been to visit. But the likelihood of that visit probably decreased once she’d turned twenty-six—and twenty-six was six long years ago.

  Chloe groaned, managing to maneuver her aching legs so the heavy blanket slid partway off her lower body. God, what was that scent? Her mouth watered, but that didn’t mean she could expend the effort to sit up yet. She was too afraid to open her eyes, unwilling to let the world tilt beneath her again.

  Half-tangled in blanket, she slowly pushed herself up onto her elbows wincing when the leather couch squeaked. The flesh of her back peeled away from the surface as if she’d been sleeping on a bed of gum. What a lovely thought. She groaned and rubbed her temples with small, soothing circles.

  Didn’t do a damn thing.

  Fine, perhaps it was time to face the big bad that was reality. Besides her throat was aching, sandpapery, and squeezed tight. With a deep inhale she eased her eyelids open to face the day. Someone had gone ahead and closed all the curtains over the room’s large floor to ceiling windows. Well—that was nice of them.

  Wait.

  A prickle of apprehension tickled her lower back making her pulse push harder against her temples. How had she gotten on the couch? The man from last night—the living room sure as shit didn’t look like any spa she’d ever set foot in—and she’d been to a lot, courtesy of a picky mother. No pamphlets lying out on the coffee table, no check-in desk to welcome guests, no banner proclaiming some kind of healthy living promotion. Not even a measly vase of fresh cut flowers.

  Either minimalist, beach hippie was the interior decorating fad of the year or the beach house had been falsely advertised. Chloe stifled a giggle that almost hurt with her sensitivity to noise. If her mother had paid money for this experience—she had no doubt the amount was staggering. The very idea of her mother standing in the bare bones living room surveying the place and seeing what her hot to trot money had paid for was a step up from hysterical. She’d be absolutely horrified.

  All in all, the room was exactly like any other rental beach house living room she’d ever been in, except for the lack of chipping paint, and the sweet, tart scent of apples. Maybe her mother had given the driver the wrong address? Because this house didn’t have enough rooms that she could see to even begin to cover a spa’s wellness needs. She eased her head
between her legs taking deep breaths.

  “So the cooking did wake you up? Good, I was wondering how long I’d have to deal with your snoring. Anyone tell you your nasal passages sound like the engine room of the Titanic?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m the guy who saved your ass last night. I’m also your host for the next three days. And I made food. Looks like you won the morning lottery.” He smirked.

  He placed two steaming plates down on the coffee table, throwing the towels he used for potholders across the room. At least the man knew world class hangover food. In front of them the plates were piled high with pancakes, fresh berries, whipped cream, and six slices of bacon on each side. Someone liked their protein, though she couldn’t blame him. Bacon was a primary food group.

  “Looks good.”

  “Well, you paid to be here. Part of the job description is to feed you. I figured breakfast was in order considering you slept through the first one.”

  “Aren’t you a ray of sunshine this morning.”

  She cracked her neck and winced.

  “Sorry, you get what you get until Polly comes back.” He shrugged.

  “Polly?”

  She drew her gaze away from the mouthwatering food. Taking a good, solid look at his face brought back a tangle of memories from last night. But a majority of them took a backseat while she studied the handsome stranger slash possible kidnapper. He was as tall as a damn lumberjack, at least 6’4. Lean and well-built, what her mother’s trainer would call “naturally thin and trim” with confidence in his words that didn’t play out in his awkward, casual body language.

  He dug his hands into his wrinkled, faded jeans. A fawn colored cable knit sweater brought out his walnut brown eyes. Thin, wire frame glasses, dark stubble, and a wiry, curly mass of unruly black hair completed the librarian look. From head to toe he was geek chic, down to bare feet that—thankfully—were perfectly manicured. His eyes shot back and forth, gaze never focusing during her scrutiny, while his mouth tilted down in a frown.

  “I should go get the orange juice.” He turned on his heel and walked through the door she assumed went into the kitchen.

  If she looked at him in the right light, with his glasses off, his high cheekbones and long eyelashes made him look akin to a leading man she’d seen in a Shakespeare movie a while ago. Some Fienne’s brother or something. The name didn’t matter so much, as she had the eye candy.

  Chloe shrugged and picked up her fork. What was the harm in chowing down and then calling a cab to drive her to the nearest airport? If she played it safe for the next week she should have enough money in her savings to get her back to NYC safe and sound. No way would her host argue. He didn’t exactly seem thrilled to have company. She heard the slap of male feet on the hardwood as she tucked the first delicious bite into her mouth.

  “Here we are.”

  He put two garish plastic cups advertising some Atlantic City hotel on the table.

  “Who’s Polly?” Chloe re-asserted, covering her mouth full of pancakes with her hand.

  “My sister. She runs this place.”

  “And this place would be…what?”

  “You’re all paid up for three days and you don’t know where you are? Seriously?”

  “Looks that way.”

  He cocked his head to the side, licked his lips, and seemed to be considering her for a few seconds before he shrugged. He uncurled from the large, overstuffed club chair to stand up and the movement was kind of an Olympian feat. But it wasn’t nearly as entertaining as watching his tight ass while he headed back into the kitchen with one finger raised over his shoulder to signal her to wait a second. One moment. Yeah, with the pancakes half-way devoured, she might not have many more of those left before it was time to skedaddle.

  He strolled back through the swinging kitchen door with a smile on his face a mile wide. Which was kind of nice. Okay, his pearly whites were a little more than nice. Mainly because his eyes lit up behind his glasses, leaving her wobbly knees in the pudding spectrum. But was lusting after some rebound really in her best interest? Not when she was making tracks the minute that last bite of syrupy deliciousness was done. Lord knows she didn’t need another man in her life.

  Chloe cleared her throat, decided, while he slapped a pale pink flyer on top of the coffee table next to her plate. His knuckles were sprinkled with tiny, golden hairs. Her gaze tracked back to the flyer as if she’d been caught sneaking a glance at him naked. She silently admonished herself.

  “What is this?”

  “Read it.”

  Without further comment she watched out of the corner of her eye as he deftly folded himself back up into the chair and took his plate into his lap. How he fit in the small space must have been a balancing wonder revered by the circus. She shot him a wavering half-smile and tucked in the last bite of pancake moving onto the bacon when her eyes shot to the flyer.

  A slap of adrenaline tingled across her scalp and made her blink a few times. No, no way. There had to be a mistake. Her hands fisted into the sides of her hair and she bit the inside of her cheek as a slice of pain flashed inside her mouth. How could she have been so blind?

  The Ex-Retreat

  Clear the Mind to Cleanse Past Heartbreak

  At our retreat we believe the way to heal is through self-empowerment, focus, meditation, and the understanding of ways to right past wrongs. Here you will learn from experienced practitioners how to balance your chakras, cleanse the soul, and come away with the acceptance needed to move on from hurtful relationships. Please call to schedule an appointment and meet with a private, life support coach today! Guidance and true self-love are only a dial tone away!

  “Oh.”

  She snatched up the flyer turning it from front to back. This couldn’t be right, there had to be some other explanation. Her mother couldn’t have known—and if she did know, who was she to pass judgment? Maybe there was some fine print on how to get a refund? Anything! No way in hell did her mother send her a million miles away to a New Age retreat for her failing love life. Then Chloe’d met a man—a guy on a relationship retreat meant to heal her proverbial wounds. Ugh, this whole thing was a rotten mess. A mess that made her stomach churn knowing exactly what her mother thought of her and her relationship issues.

  “My life is turning into a fucking romantic comedy,” she numbly said. “I can’t believe she did this to me.” She stared off into space crossing her arms around her stomach. “Did she plant you here, too? Or was that the only thing that she didn’t fix?”

  Noah gave her a look that spanned a few negative emotions. He cleared his throat, hunched his shoulders until his elbows rested on his knees, and he pointed at the small pile of bacon on her plate. “You going to finish that?”

  Chloe shook her head. With trembling fingers she downed the glass of orange juice grimacing as the acid tore up her dry throat. She slammed the glass back on the table, enjoying the ricochet up her arm. If the whole trip was fixed, she wasn’t going to give her controlling mother the satisfaction of staying and playing out all her grand plans for her daughter’s life. No, the last time she’d played along with her ex, it’d led her here—to a beach house and a whole heap of heartbreak. There was no use to making her mother happy. It only led to her full submission and she couldn’t do it anymore—she refused to ignore her own wishes, even if she didn’t know what they were yet, they were in her heart somewhere.

  And they didn’t align with staying in the house for three days with a sarcastic hottie who would show her exactly why being in a relationship wasn’t the best idea in the world given her current circumstances. She didn’t need a man—let alone a manufactured relationship.

  * * *

  Noah nibbled on the strange woman’s bacon castoffs unable to decide whether he was excited that she showed up or stressed about the unexpected social interaction with a newcomer. The fact that she didn’t even know that she was coming to a relationship rehab was, he had to admit it, hysterical
but it was only more sobering by the fact that she seemed to be dying to leave—and for some unexplainable reason, he wanted her to stay.

  She wasn’t part of the plan. Not even in his bubble of safety. But when he’d carted her inside the house after she nearly broke her neck a handful of hours ago he knew without a doubt Chloe would be an epic challenge and maybe a spot of needed fun in an otherwise dull existence. Even now as he covertly watched her through bites, his fingertips tingled from the remembered sensation of her body in his arms. He didn’t want to be creepy, but every male part of him perked up at the memory.

  He cleared his throat and wiped off his hands. “It’s not that bad here, you know. You won’t get a whole lot of the amenities promised but I’m pretty sure there’s some decent books on yoga, if you’re into that sort of thing and there’s a mat in your room.”

  “I don’t think yoga’s gonna solve my problem.”

  He remained silent, unable to offer anything else to help in the way of fixing her problem. Better to shut his mouth or risk condemnation. He knew firsthand most people’s look of pity when he tripped up over his first word and kept stumbling while their eyes narrowed with a judgmental sheen. They were all greedy, verbal hyenas, too quick to laugh at him. For all he knew, she wasn’t different. Noah leaned back in his chair lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug motion that made her blink.

  “You can’t fix this?” Her voice teetered on the brink of some heavy emotion. There was breathy strain that made his skin itch as he fought not to wiggle in his seat. “Maybe give me a refund and a ride out of here to the bus station or an airport?”