Amanda's Dominant Daddy Page 3

  “But,” he continued, pausing dramatically. “I also see you as caring and compassionate, but stubborn and opinionated, and I’m right about that too, aren’t I?”

  “Good grief, you’ve only known me five minutes.”

  “Aren’t I?” he pressed.

  “Maybe. Are you enjoying your wine?”

  “Very much. Are you changing the subject?”

  “Possibly,” she said with a soft smile, then laying her fork on her empty plate, she let out a long sigh. “I needed that.”

  “Yes, you did. You look much calmer.”

  “I’d never have made that for myself. I’m glad you came in, so thank you again.”

  “Your sauce was fabulous. It’s me who should be thanking you. This was much better than talking to you over coffee at Starbucks, or at that bar in that crowded restaurant.”

  “I agree,” she nodded. “I wish I had some dessert to offer you. I could have sworn there was a slice of cheesecake in the fridge, but it seems to have disappeared. Miriam probably ate it. She’s not shy about helping herself.”

  “Probably just as well,” he murmured. “I think I’ve had enough carbs and calories for one night.”

  He was scrutinizing her, and as he lifted his bulbous glass and drank the last of his wine, a serious look crossed his face.

  “It’s time for me to leave, but before I do I’m going to ask you a question. It’s not a question you have to answer, it’s a question I want you to think about, but only if you want to.”

  “Ask away.”

  “This might be uncomfortable,” he warned, softening his voice.

  She took a breath, trying to push away a sudden flight of nerves. She knew it would be something challenging, probably sexual, and she suspected it would be something she didn’t want to think about at all.

  “When was the last time you felt alive, Amanda? Really, truly alive. Spine-tinglingly alive.”

  He had locked her eyes, and for the second time that night she could think of nothing to say, and she was grateful when he dropped his gaze, pulled his wallet from his pocket, and withdrew a card.

  “You can call me or email me,” he said, laying it in front of her, “or you don’t have to do either. Forgive me, but now I absolutely must kiss you, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  Her pulse thudding against her temples and her heart banging against her chest, she watched him rise to his feet, walk around the table, and slowly lean forward.

  “Close your eyes,” he whispered.

  Feeling utterly powerless, she did as he said, and when his lips smoothed themselves across her mouth, gliding languidly with just a little pressure, she felt a flood between her legs. She never wanted the kiss to end, not ever, and when he pulled back, she wanted to grab him and beg him to take her to bed, but instead she sat very still with her eyes closed, and listened to his footsteps as he left the room.

  Chapter Three

  Braxton had often wondered why God had blessed him with such an abundance of gifts. He’d been born an athlete, and excelled in any sport he cared to explore. He had a sharp brain, and at an early age he had developed an Internet resource site for gamers. It was the first of its kind, and though others had copied him, with his ability to market and keep in tune with the times it was still the king of them all.

  Then he had his exceptional looks.

  His sandy brown hair was straight, but it carried a shimmering gloss. As a boy his mother’s friends would want to touch it, and the girls were jealous of it. His green eyes were almost jewel-like in their sparkle, and his perfectly even, incredibly white teeth had never seen braces. Those he’d inherited from his father, and as a teenager Braxton had often thanked him when he saw his cohorts suffer through major dental work.

  Though it had been constantly suggested that he should seek a career as an actor, he didn’t go looking for fame and fortune. It was show business that sought him out. In true Hollywood fashion, he was discovered by a modeling agent while shopping in a men’s store in Beverly Hills. The agent convinced him to take some acting lessons, and Braxton soon had a theatrical agent. With his easy charm and stunning good looks, he landed almost every part for which he auditioned, but with his Internet business making oodles of money he didn’t need the work, so he began to pick and choose the roles he wanted to play, and it was only for fun that he’d dipped his toe in the stunt world. He would have continued had his agent not begged him to stop.

  “You cannot scar that beautiful face, or lose any of those pearly whites,” his agent had said earnestly. “Please, Braxton, so I can sleep at night, please stop jumping off buildings and smashing up cars!”

  Braxton had felt so sorry for his agent he’d quit his stunt training, but he still surfed big waves, raced cars on a supervised track, and did the occasional parachute jump when the spirit moved him. From the outside looking in, Braxton had it all, and for the most part he did, but it was when he was at a girl’s condo watching an old movie called The Way We Were, starring Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford, that he found himself relating to Robert Redford’s character, and a particular line at the beginning of the film had never left him.

  In a way he was like the country he lived in, everything came too easily to him, but at least he knew it.

  It was exactly how he felt, and driving away from Amanda’s house he knew one of the reasons he was so attracted to her was because nothing about her was easy.

  For months he’d been trying to flirt with her. Rarely did Braxton have to try hard at anything, especially capturing a woman’s attention, but Amanda had an invisible screen he couldn’t penetrate. She hadn’t been rude or aloof, she just hadn’t responded. He refused to believe it was because she was older than him. Older women were just as attracted to him as his contemporaries, and after a few discreet inquiries that told him she’d never been married and didn’t appear to have a special man in her life, his curiosity grew. Was she a lesbian? Further investigation discounted that theory, and when he learned she had a reputation as being as tough as nails but was extremely well-liked in the business, he began to study her at the gym.

  Whenever he would catch sight of her arriving or leaving, she was usually in a dress or skirt showing off legs that any supermodel would envy. He found her style of clothing extremely feminine and sexy as hell. Though she was there often, she didn’t have any particular friend with whom she hung out. Almost all the women came with another female or spent time with one, but not Amanda. From everything he’d observed and what he’d uncovered, she was a considerate, strong, super-smart woman who was a perpetual loner.

  It made no sense. She was very attractive. How could she be single? Had someone broken her heart and she’d sworn off men? Or was she so involved in her career that she simply didn’t have time for a relationship? That he didn’t believe for a moment. Plenty of career women had men in their lives. When she’d finally agreed to have coffee with him, it had felt like a winning field goal in the last few seconds of the game, but when she’d copped an attitude in the parking lot, he’d experienced a rare moment of impatience, and when he’d turned and marched away, he wished he hadn’t. She’d done that to him. She’d gotten the better of him. She’d made him react impetuously. Was it just him she affected that way, or was that one of the reasons she’d reached the top echelons of the entertainment business?

  Sunset Strip never slept, but the hour was late so the traffic was light, and as he turned left and headed up Sunset Plaza Drive, he thought about how much he’d enjoyed her company. She had substance, she was comfortable in her skin, and her wit was quick and amusing, but more than that, he was deeply attracted to her for no other reason than just because he was. There was an energy between them, an electric chemistry. He had felt it was mutual so he’d rolled the dice… twice. He’d asked the question that he was sure would titillate her, and he’d kissed her. Pulling into his driveway and rolling into his garage, he could still feel her need, and her warm moist mouth against his. Just like him
, she’d wanted more.

  As he climbed from his car and entered his house, he was struck by how stark it was, and how totally different from hers. Amanda’s home was big, but it was warm and inviting, traditional and comfortable. He’d liked it. He’d liked it a lot. Staring at his cream leather sectional and the brushed aluminum glass top coffee table, he felt a dawning awareness of who he’d been when he’d bought the home and hired a decorator. He wasn’t that young, carefree party animal anymore.

  “This is so weird,” he muttered. “This house is so not who I am. How could I not have seen it?”

  He’d cut his social teeth at the slick home with wild parties and a revolving door of beautiful young women, almost all of whom were actresses and models, but his dating life had slowed considerably over the last couple of years, and as the epiphany took hold he realized he no longer wanted to live in a bachelor pad. Wandering through his living room with its shining cream porcelain floors and contemporary rugs, he stared out his floor-to-ceiling windows over the infinity pool to the City of Angels below, and made a solemn decision. He’d sell the house and find something warmer and more traditional. He wanted to settle into a home and find someone special with whom he could share his life. Regardless of what might or might not happen with Amanda Anderson, he’d reached a fork. It was real, and he felt it through his entire being.

  Pouring himself a glass of wine, he plopped down on his couch, took a sip, and started thinking about the script he’d written. He’d used an alias, Carrera Baton, an anagram of his own name minus the ‘x,’ and it was called One Autumn Day. He had pitched it to an agent named Peter Steinberg, not just because Peter was a seasoned pro, but because he represented a rising young director, Jim Bailey. Braxton thought the young man was a genius and would become the next Steven Spielberg or George Lucas. Peter Steinberg had been impressed with the script and sent it to Jim, who had called back immediately and said he wanted to do it. Braxton had made it clear he was to play the lead, and with the exception of Jim Bailey, no one was to know that Braxton Carter and Carrera Baton were one in the same.

  “You’re not a star, so having you attached will make selling it tougher,” Peter had warned, “but I’m willing to give it a shot. I’ll talk to your agent and we’ll put the package together, but you know at some point Carrera will have to come out of the closet.”

  Getting the film off the ground was a mammoth undertaking, bigger than anything Braxton had ever attempted, and though he’d been delighted that Peter had agreed to take it on, he felt unexpectedly unnerved by the daunting prospect and asked him to hold fire for a few weeks.

  “Maybe being around Amanda has inspired me?” he murmured, staring out at the twinkling city.

  Taking another swallow of wine, he placed his glass on the coffee table, rose to his feet, and headed to his office. Opening a drawer, he withdrew a key, ambled to a locked door in the hallway, and paused after opening it. The overhead recessed lights came on automatically, but they could be controlled by a dimmer switch, and sliding it all the way up, he fully illuminated the stairs and the space below. Moving down, he watched the decadent furnishings and erotic paintings come into view, and idly wondered just how many girls had been bent over his spanking horse, or shackled to his wall, or suspended in his elaborate swing. He’d been entertaining in his decadent dungeon for years. Just how many women had passed through the room? Was it dozens, possibly hundreds? The thought made him uncomfortable. He’d only had one monogamous relationship. A beautiful southern girl with corn-colored hair and dark brown eyes called Rebecca, but after only a few months she’d left him for a big-time producer and she was now a superstar. At the time his best friend, Mick, a drummer in a popular rock band, had shrugged his shoulders and slapped him on the back.

  “Hey, man, this is Hollywood. It happens.”

  His display of floggers and crops beckoned, and meandering around the exotic furniture, he reached the row of hooks that held them in a line across the wall, picking up the first one he’d ever owned. It was still his favorite. It was heavy, with thick, wide tendrils, and it delivered a deep burn that made most women bleat with joy and pain.

  “Would you love this, Amanda?” he murmured as he lifted it from its holder. “Would you moan with pleasure if I sent it across your backside? Would I find you wonderfully wet after only a single lash, or would it take two, or three? Have you ever experienced the highs something like this has to offer?”

  She was so intense when she worked out, so focused, so determined, it suggested she was a deeply passionate woman, someone who didn’t believe in half-measures, but he also knew the work of a film executive could be extremely stressful, and he could imagine the pressure she was under. He wanted to set her free, to release her brilliant mind and beautiful body. Could there be anything more wondrous than a woman so accomplished and strong, kneeling before him and calling him sir? Was there any chance that such a woman would surrender to him, whimper his name as she begged for her release? Just the thought sent his cock to life, and placing the flogger back on its hook, he grabbed a towel, laid it on one of his bondage benches, and unzipping his slacks, he pulled out his cock and began to rub.

  He pictured Amanda in her workout clothes, tethered and bent over in front of him, presenting her bottom for pain or pleasure, though in his world pain and pleasure were kindred spirits connected in a deliciously decadent dance. Closing his eyes, he imagined slowly lifting her long T-shirt up to her waist, peeling down her black tights to the tops of her thighs, and gazing upon her bottom for the very first time. A wave of energy pulsed through his loins as he saw himself running his hands over her flesh, pinching and squeezing, then spanking her with hot, stinging smacks. He wanted her; he wanted her like he’d wanted no other woman. He clenched his teeth as his fever took hold, and an unexpected image suddenly flashed through his mind. She was in a red satin corset and red stockings, with black glossy high heels gracing her feet. His cock exploded, spewing his essence across his hand, and he panted heavily as the powerful eruption passed. He rested for a minute, then catching his breath, he grabbed the towel and wiped himself up.

  “What the hell was that?” he mumbled, perching on the side of the bench. “When was the last time I pictured a woman in a corset, or even saw a woman in a corset? Where did that come from?”

  Slipping off the bench, he glanced around the room and scrutinized his salacious furniture. Some of it had seen better days, and the phrase ‘less is more’ wandered gently through his head. He had many friends in the local BDSM community, and he decided to sell some of his older pieces and donate the proceeds to a local women’s shelter. His desire to protect and care for women was something he’d felt his entire life, and it was to women’s causes that his charitable donations were sent.

  The salacious image of Amanda in the corset stayed with him as he climbed the stairs, and the thought of selling his party house and buying a comfortable, cozy home was filling him with a sense of liberation. Feeling elated and inspired, he decided he was going to call Peter Steinberg first thing in the morning to tell him he was ready to start pitching One Autumn Day.

  “Where should I move to?” he mumbled as he headed to his bedroom. “Definitely out of this area, that’s for sure, closer to the ocean.”

  Stripping off and climbing into his platform bed, he smiled as he thought about what a remarkable evening it had been. Finding Amanda at the restaurant had not entirely been coincidental. Someone had told him she frequented the place so he’d decided to stop in. When he’d seen her sitting in the shadows at the end of the bar, he could hardly believe his luck.

  “It was destiny. That’s what it was, and even if it wasn’t, that’s what I’m going to believe,” he murmured, and with a heavy yawn he slipped off to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Filled with apprehension, Amanda moved down the wide hallway, turned left, and walked into the east wing of her house. It was on the second floor, offered three bedrooms and a small sitting room, and h
ad its own back stairway down to the kitchen. In the golden era of Hollywood, the home had belonged to a mega-star and the wing had been the servants’ quarters. When Amanda first bought the property, she’d had visions of knocking out the walls and creating a theater, but she’d never gotten around to it and the wing was rarely used. As she approached the door to the first room, she paused and listened intently. Hearing nothing, she pushed down the handle and peered inside. It was exactly as it should be.

  “This is so bizarre,” she muttered.

  The rest of the rooms appeared normal as well, and as she walked down the back stairs she shook her head, completely bewildered. While the east wing felt removed from the rest of the house, it was relatively close to the master bedroom, and for several weeks she’d been hearing mysterious bumps in the night. When they’d stirred her from sleep, she’d been afraid to investigate, so she’d wait until the following morning to check on things, but she’d never found anything disturbed. Walking into the kitchen, she poured herself some coffee, sat at the breakfast table, and picked up her phone, smiling as she spied the card Braxton had left behind.

  “You are quite something, Braxton Carter,” she murmured. “I wish you’d been here last night. I wish you were here right now. I also wish you were ten years older; even five would help.”

  She’d canceled her morning meetings so she could wait for the Mercedes dealership to send over a tow truck, but there was plenty she could do from home. She returned a few calls and replied to the important emails on her laptop, but when she left to pour herself a second cup of coffee, she found her mind wandering. The night before had been eventful for many reasons, especially Braxton’s unexpected and delicious kiss that had sent a warm flood between her legs, and his tantalizing question that had haunted her through the night. Unable to sleep, when she’d heard the sounds coming from the east wing she knew she hadn’t been imagining things or dreaming. Jumping from the bed, she’d hurried to lock her door, then leaned her ear against the wall. The noises had stopped so she’d started back to bed, but then they’d started up again. This time they were faint, but they were there.