Flog Me, Sir: Bonds of Worship 2

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Lissa

I didn’t usually work much past three, but with the Laurents hosting a huge dinner party and Mrs. Hummel, their housekeeper, needing extra hands, I offered to help. Add in our employers paid double overtime, and I had jumped at the chance to slip between the rich and famous like a wraith, unseen and unimportant, silently gathering fodder for my muse while handing out hors d’oeuvres and drinks.

The scent of champagne and booze wafting off the glasses I offered to the guests, however, turned my stomach. I kept my pasted smile in place, focusing on the extra dollars I could hoard away rather than the memories fighting to cower me in my new black shoes. I’d fought PTSD for years from a childhood fraught with alcohol, a***e, and an absolute lack of love, and not a day went by that something triggered the control I held a tight rein on.

Thanks to my mom and whoever the addict was who donated his sperm to create me, I had issues I’d fought to erase from my mind for years. I had grown—moved on physically—but still dealt with the bullshit, especially since meeting Mrs. Hummel three months earlier and finally realizing fully what I had missed out on as a child. The elderly housekeeper had hugged me the moment we’d met, loving me and taking me under her wing two weeks later when I’d begun my job at the Laurents’ estate. As though she’d seen through my murky hazel eyes, deep into my soul, and recognized I needed a momma hen.

And the Laurents themselves...

I’d never met such nice, real people, who seemed to accept me as an equal. Rich, blessed with the Midas touch to the point even the weather cooperated with their dinner plans—and not for the first time, I’d been told.

Stars twinkled overhead, most of their hundred plus guests meandering in a sea of low voices in the open air rather than watching the live band beneath one of the three tents set up beyond their sprawling mansion’s formal gardens.

Warm air licked at my sweat-dampened skin as I made my way back toward the house, but I smiled while breathing in the scents of summer’s sweet flowers, fresh mulch, and soil. The sliver of moon couldn’t compete with the stars, same as me in my black and white uniform among the sequins and glittering jewels of the Laurents’ affluent guests, but I appreciated the white orb’s desire to be seen.

I preferred the opposite, however.

Imagining a fairy tale ending could take place on such a night, I set my mind on the scene I had been writing for my newest manuscript and set aside a tray with its emptied glasses.

“Slowing a bit?” Mrs. Hummel asked from the spot she’d taken up in the middle of the vast kitchen.

“A bit, yes,” I replied, while retrieving another tray full of bubbling liquid, trying not to breathe in too deeply the scent of alcohol.

“How are you, child?” she asked, her chocolate-brown eyes peering into mine, no hint of her usual white smile flashing from her cocoa-like skin.

“Good.” I smiled—but it lacked the same sincerity I’d shown to no one but myself while being beneath the stars moments earlier.

“If’n this is too much, you let me know.” Mrs. Hummel pointed at the champagne in my hands, and I nodded, knowing exactly what she’d meant.

Knowing there was no safe place for me in the world, I tended to keep to myself, but in the short time I’d known her, Mrs. Hummel had pulled my secrets from me easy as vinegar wiped up streaked window panes. There wasn’t anything she didn’t know about me—and I’d found that speaking to her had helped far beyond what the counselors at school had done. A free therapist, she offered what many hadn’t, and I clung to her motherly arms and listening ears.

“I appreciate you,” I murmured to her in passing as I often did.

“Same, child,” she whispered back.

Feeling a bit lighter, I stepped once more beneath the star-filled sky, glancing first right then left for guests who might wish for a fresh glass.

Mr. and Mrs. Laurent—Adam and Lily, they’d insisted I call them—stood on the patio’s far end. She leaned against his taller form, gazing up at him with a soft smile, the type of emotion I didn’t understand shining on her face. A part of me longed for such feelings, such acceptance, but the smarter side of my brain pushed such sentiment away.

Hand on her neck in a possessive hold, Adam gently kissed her forehead and glanced my way. He smiled, but his grin widened as he glanced over my shoulder.

“It’s about time!” He called to someone beyond me as one of his guests picked a filled flute off my tray. “What the hell, man?”

I dipped my head at a party-goer’s quiet word of thanks, and someone brushed against my arm, sending a shiver through me at the rich, deep voice returning Adam’s greeting.

A tall man approached my employer, his dark hair a touch long, kissing the collar of the tux hugging his shoulders. His trim waist and a jacket short enough to reveal his fine backside sent another shiver over me. From the back, he appeared the perfect Disney prince come to life, perfect in every way—

“Excuse me?”

I jerked my focus off the newcomer, forcing a smile at a narrowed-gazed woman. I lifted my tray. “More champagne, ma’am?” I repeated what I’d done a dozen times that night.

She picked up a glass with bejeweled fingers, glancing at the man who had snagged my attention. A sniff pursed her lips as though she wondered why the hell I even wasted my time looking at such a man.

As if I didn’t know my station in life.

I ignored the stinging thought, keeping my fake smile in place and moved on as though invisible, more than happy to do so.

The Laurents came from money, both of them having grown up in privileged southern families. I’d heard hints of rumors as to how they ended up on an estate deep in New Hampshire, only a few hours’ drive from Boston. Adam’s company, JAG originated not long after, and with his wife having given birth to twins, he had been working from home more often than not. The second of the three CEOs of JAG had left for vacation a few weeks prior. A month-long cruise of the South Pacific on their own yacht, chefs and staff onboard to see to their every need.

The lifestyle of the rich and famous baffled me. Intrigued me, of course, and gave my muse all kinds of luscious fodder for billionaire romance heroes, but I prided myself on keeping grounded in reality.

I lived my fantasies—fulfilled my dreams—in the books I wrote. Dozens of manuscripts sat on a shelf in my bedroom, on my hard drive, and a cloud in cyber space, stories I used to self-heal and one day dreamed of sharing with the world. Writing had given me something to fill the long evening hours as a teenager when my mom and her latest fling occupied the couch to watch sitcoms, drunk and high as hot air balloons. Even after I moved out, barely squeezing by on a grocery bagger and waitress’s salary, I continued my love affair with words, since god knew I’d never have one with a real human.

I’d had enough disappointment in my life to last me to the grave. Choosing safe over what I wanted was the smart thing to do. I focused on what mattered—doing my job and doing it well. A friend of a friend had landed me the live-in job at the Laurents, and I’d never felt more privileged in my life. They had given me the chance at a better life, even if I did scrub toilets, mopped countless square feet of tile and hardwood, and on occasion, helped serve meals.

Being tutored beneath one of the best, I strove to please Mrs. Hummel, going beyond my usual to-do lists with a preciseness I required of myself even in my personal life.

As a kid, the only thing I did have control over was cleaning the s**t hole I’d called home. Being a clean freak who loved marking things off her lists had stuck, and the Laurents loved me for it.

My attention wandered toward the gorgeous man countless times as the evening wore on, and I became enamored by the beauty of his front that outshone the perfection of his back. Dark eyes with perfectly arched brows, sensually curved lips that curved in a slow smile more often than not, melting my panties—and probably every other woman’s on the estate except Lily.

I recognized Garret Edwards from the covers of tabloids, but images on paper didn’t begin to capture the socialite’s gorgeousness or charisma. The son of a famous actor and director, Garret had lived his life in the limelight, being seen with countless women. Rumors were hundreds of women littered his past, creating a name for him, whether true or not.

Two women hung on him, one on each arm, acting like permanent fixtures, same as the cocktails in their free hands. I focused on the story in my mind rather than the heart breaker I couldn’t seem to keep my focus off of.

Guests began to trickle out the front door, leaving a mess in their wake. One final tray of empty glasses in hand, I made my way to the kitchen on tired feet, more than ready to collapse on my bed in the staff’s wing and scribble down all the words filling my mind.

“That’s the last of them,” I told one of the two extra hired hands Mrs. Hummel had brought in to help with the dishes.

She’d also hired a catering company, using their flatware and linens, but like me, she didn’t hand control over easily. She still ruled her kitchen domain, eyes bright and cheeks flushed even though she had to be close to eighty and the clock read two in the morning.

“There’s my Tillie girl!”

My heart skipped at the suave baritone I recognized from overheard conversations while sneaking through the crowd.

Garret slipped through the kitchen, sidestepping workers, a grin on his face. He focused on Mrs. Hummel, and I stared as he swept her up into his arms, planting a loud kiss on her wrinkly cheek.

She giggled like a much younger woman. “Where in the good Lord’s name you been, boy?” she asked while glowing and patting her hair as Garret set her back on her feet.

“Pining for you,” he said with a light laugh before kissing her other cheek.

“You.” More giggles escaped through her pursed lips as her gaze twinkled up at him.

I took note of the two women standing in the kitchen doorway, the same he’d had tucked to his side all night. Feigned smiles were plastered on their faces.

I turned back to soak in the presence of a god come to life, tucking away little nuances of how he moved for a new character in my head.

“Grits in the morning?” Garret asked, stooping down to peer into Mrs. Hummel’s eyes.

“My spoiled boy can have whatever he wants,” she told him, patting his cheek.

“You’re the best, Tillie girl.”

A deeper shade of pink infused Mrs. Hummel’s cheeks as she glanced around the kitchen, seeing all of us staring. Her gaze landed on me, and her smile widened, white teeth flashing. “Lissa, come here, child.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied on auto pilot, obeying even though I could feel Garret’s focus turn toward me.

I held her gaze, refusing to look at him—because I feared tripping or doing something stupid and making a complete fool of myself.

“Lissa,” Mrs. Hummel grabbed my hand, “this is Garret—the G in JAG.”

I gulped, knowing I had to look up at him.

Eyes dark as espresso peered down at me, the lashes fanning them long and thick enough to make any woman envious. A smile shone in their depths, the type that would tell anyone his character even if he hadn’t flirted with Mrs. Hummel seconds earlier.

“This is Lissa, my shadow and an absolute delight,” she said, and I blinked at the praise. “She’s also the Laurents’ greatest asset on this estate.”

My face flamed at her words, but Garret’s touch as she handed my hand off to his sent that heat clear through to my toes, soaking my panties in its flare downward.

“Lissa.” His voice held a smooth melodic note as he tipped his head to the side as though studying me.

My knees knocked. “Mr. Edwards,” I managed a nod of greeting, all good sense flying out of my head with every thought except you’re gorgeous—can I die now?

“Garret. I insist.” The twinkle in his eyes deepened as though he knew he’d ruined my panties, and I pulled my hand from his.

“A-a pleasure, sir,” I said, turning toward Mrs. Hummel. Brow raised, she glanced at Garret as he cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me?” I hurried away, intent on gathering linens—and escaping the first man I’d ever met—had ever seen—who was capable of turning me into an addict.

His two female companions stinking of expensive perfume didn’t move as I approached the doorway, and my face flamed again as I was forced to beg their pardon.

One snickered, the other called to Garret, saying something about being in a rush.

I escaped to the gardens, the tents beyond, busying myself with gathering table cloths while the caterers cleaned up.

Giggling drew my focus off work, and I glanced over my shoulder to find Garret and his two women walking off into the night—toward the old stone church snuggled against the far woods. Jealousy stabbed me in the stomach as previously heard rumors whispered by the help rose to my mind.

Once a place of gathering to sing praises to God, the church had become a house of a whole different kind of worship. Being well read in the romance genre, and a tinkerer of words toward the spicy side of stories, I knew a bit about the lifestyle the Laurents and their close friends enjoyed.

But the furniture inside, the instruments of t*****e and pain, I could only guess at.

Garret strode toward the church as though he owned it—and the women hanging on him. The door opened beneath his hand, and all three slipped inside. Seconds later, a light shone in the front window, dim behind frosted glass.

I turned away, hating my churning stomach. With no right to be jealous, I yanked a linen free of one of the round tables, determined to erase my scowl. Focusing on another story scene in my mind didn’t help—and my hero and heroine took a decided kinky turn in their budding relationship.