knew his thoughts were miles away.
She wanted to push, make him talk to her, but she forced herself to walk away. She
made it to the door before she heard him call her name.
“Wait. I have a question for you.”
Shiori turned to look at him. “All right.”
“What were
you
looking for at the club last night?”
“Not a man to crush under my heel. Not a lapdog. Not a slave. Not a whipping boy.
I’m looking for a man strong enough to give up control to me when it comes to sex.”
“Not a twenty-four-seven Domme-sub relationship?”
She shook her head. “That doesn’t appeal to me. I want a man who knows that his complete
submission to me means he’s under my care. His needs are more important than my own.
There’s a connection that ensures the highest level of trust. From both sides. And
with that comes the hottest sex you can imagine.”
“And you can’t have that in a normal relationship?”
“I had a so-called normal relationship when I was married. I didn’t deny who I was;
I didn’t
know
who I was. Once I figured that out, I knew why I’d always been unfulfilled.”
Knox said nothing.
Shiori took that as her cue to leave. But she really wished he would’ve asked her
to stay.
* * *
A submissive.
She thought he was a fucking submissive.
The woman had a screw loose. No doubt about it.
Because of all the ridiculous accusations . . . There wasn’t a submissive thing about
him.
He snorted. He wasn’t a simpering girly man with mommy issues.
She was reaching. She’d seen him in the club as a familiar face, a man who’d watched
her scene with a sub, so she’d come to a wrong conclusion and projected that preference—her
preference for what she wanted him to be—onto him.
So what if he’d asked permission to kiss her. Wasn’t the first time he’d done it in
his life. Wouldn’t be the last.
Him. A submissive.
Like he’d ever kneel at anyone’s feet on command.
Like he’d let anyone put a collar on him and lead him around with a leash.
Like he’d give up control in the bedroom.
He was a fucking man. Men made the first move; men made sure the magic happened between
the sheets and the woman was satisfied. God knew he’d never had any complaints.
No. Mistress B was dead wrong on this one.
Knox was a man’s man. Period.
To prove it to himself, he beat the fuck out of the punching bag.
Then he went home and watched rugby—a real man’s sport.
Then he called Deacon and talked him into hitting the strip club. He paid for two
lap dances. That was him, being in control, asserting his dominance. Being a man.
When his head hit the pillow at midnight, he relived the day.
But it wasn’t the lap dances and the sports machismo that stuck in his mind.
It was that damn kiss. Because for the briefest moment, he felt the pull of her. Not
in his groin, but somewhere deeper inside him.
Knox had no fucking clue what it meant. And he sure as hell wasn’t gonna ask her.
* * *
THE next afternoon Knox was supervising the new trainees for the MMA program. So far none
of these guys impressed him. But they’d paid for the training, so he walked a fine
line between false encouragement and the brutal truth. Maybe he was a softer touch
than Ronin, but he could still get his point across.
A softer touch doesn’t mean you’re submissive.
Where the motherfuck had that thought come from?
And of course Shiori picked that moment to stroll in, looking like some fucking queen
with the regal way she carried herself.
His admiration of her didn’t mean he wanted to bend down and kiss her feet or anything.
All the guys who worked for Ronin and Blue thought she was the shit.
She hadn’t changed into her gi yet. She wore a sexy suit and heels, entirely in professional
businesswoman mode. And he could tell by the way she hung back that she was waiting
to talk to him.
He strolled over, keeping his face neutral. “What’s
She wanted to push, make him talk to her, but she forced herself to walk away. She
made it to the door before she heard him call her name.
“Wait. I have a question for you.”
Shiori turned to look at him. “All right.”
“What were
you
looking for at the club last night?”
“Not a man to crush under my heel. Not a lapdog. Not a slave. Not a whipping boy.
I’m looking for a man strong enough to give up control to me when it comes to sex.”
“Not a twenty-four-seven Domme-sub relationship?”
She shook her head. “That doesn’t appeal to me. I want a man who knows that his complete
submission to me means he’s under my care. His needs are more important than my own.
There’s a connection that ensures the highest level of trust. From both sides. And
with that comes the hottest sex you can imagine.”
“And you can’t have that in a normal relationship?”
“I had a so-called normal relationship when I was married. I didn’t deny who I was;
I didn’t
know
who I was. Once I figured that out, I knew why I’d always been unfulfilled.”
Knox said nothing.
Shiori took that as her cue to leave. But she really wished he would’ve asked her
to stay.
* * *
A submissive.
She thought he was a fucking submissive.
The woman had a screw loose. No doubt about it.
Because of all the ridiculous accusations . . . There wasn’t a submissive thing about
him.
He snorted. He wasn’t a simpering girly man with mommy issues.
She was reaching. She’d seen him in the club as a familiar face, a man who’d watched
her scene with a sub, so she’d come to a wrong conclusion and projected that preference—her
preference for what she wanted him to be—onto him.
So what if he’d asked permission to kiss her. Wasn’t the first time he’d done it in
his life. Wouldn’t be the last.
Him. A submissive.
Like he’d ever kneel at anyone’s feet on command.
Like he’d let anyone put a collar on him and lead him around with a leash.
Like he’d give up control in the bedroom.
He was a fucking man. Men made the first move; men made sure the magic happened between
the sheets and the woman was satisfied. God knew he’d never had any complaints.
No. Mistress B was dead wrong on this one.
Knox was a man’s man. Period.
To prove it to himself, he beat the fuck out of the punching bag.
Then he went home and watched rugby—a real man’s sport.
Then he called Deacon and talked him into hitting the strip club. He paid for two
lap dances. That was him, being in control, asserting his dominance. Being a man.
When his head hit the pillow at midnight, he relived the day.
But it wasn’t the lap dances and the sports machismo that stuck in his mind.
It was that damn kiss. Because for the briefest moment, he felt the pull of her. Not
in his groin, but somewhere deeper inside him.
Knox had no fucking clue what it meant. And he sure as hell wasn’t gonna ask her.
* * *
THE next afternoon Knox was supervising the new trainees for the MMA program. So far none
of these guys impressed him. But they’d paid for the training, so he walked a fine
line between false encouragement and the brutal truth. Maybe he was a softer touch
than Ronin, but he could still get his point across.
A softer touch doesn’t mean you’re submissive.
Where the motherfuck had that thought come from?
And of course Shiori picked that moment to stroll in, looking like some fucking queen
with the regal way she carried herself.
His admiration of her didn’t mean he wanted to bend down and kiss her feet or anything.
All the guys who worked for Ronin and Blue thought she was the shit.
She hadn’t changed into her gi yet. She wore a sexy suit and heels, entirely in professional
businesswoman mode. And he could tell by the way she hung back that she was waiting
to talk to him.
He strolled over, keeping his face neutral. “What’s
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