Free The Dom Project by Heloise Belleau, Solace Ames

blouse.”
    She tried to think of the task as just that—a task, a goal, no other meaning. Simple. The buttons passed easily through the silk slits, one after one. She didn’t fumble.
    The hard part was when she took her shirt off. The strapless bustier had looked gorgeous in the fitting room, and stayed tight around her waist, but couldn’t cling to what wasn’t really there in the bust department. The rolling motion of her shoulders lifted her right out of it. So much for a sophisticated look.
    The cool weight of the pearls reminded her to stop judging and measuring. I’m here to please ... someone else. That’s what matters.
    She folded the shirt into a neat square and waited.
    A completely different man spoke to her with John’s voice, so close she felt his breath against her ear. “You want to be useful , don’t you?”
    “Yes,” she murmured.
    He tapped her heel with the toe of his boot. Enough to shift her minutely, not quite enough to make her stagger. The shock was profound. Every muscle in her thighs tensed. Stop it. Stop it. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to tell him that, or herself.
    “You forgot something,” he said.
    “Oh. Sir. Yes. Sir.” God, this was crazy. Saying that word stirred her on a visceral level, as if an invisible hand had reached inside her chest to subtly rearrange her body. She shivered in one breath, felt comfortably warm in the next.
    “That’s right.” The floorboards creaked as he stepped back and forth behind her. Examining her. She arched her back a degree more, and a spike of desire hit between her legs—violent and unexpected—knowing that she’d just presented herself and was overcome with the shamelessness of that, no matter how subtle. “The right word, the right pose—you’re very dedicated.” There was no teasing in his voice, not anymore. “I have some work for you, Robin. A way to be useful.”
    A few years ago, her response to those words would have whiplashed her into self-loathing. She’d overcome that. Now it only felt a tiny bit wrong but mostly really, really hot and full of triumph that, yes, she could go there, so far down into the depths, and come back up again. For now, she’d be his servant, but when it was over, they’d be friends and equals again.
    It’s working .
    “Yes, sir?” she said, putting a rising intonation in her voice, an expectant lilt.
    “Put the shirt on the chair over there, and walk into the kitchen. There’s a set of antique sterling silver candlestick holders and everything you need to polish them.”
    A menial, repetitive task that was mildly humiliating... and weirdly compelling? He knew her too well. The fine detail of beautiful objects was that rare place where her public and intimate life intersected. And that crossing was electric .
    She leaned down, bending at the waist, and placed the shirt on the chair. She wanted to see his reaction very badly, but she didn’t turn. Luckily, she didn’t really need to: there was no mistaking his hissing intake of breath.
    So his control of the situation wasn’t superhuman. A small, private smile curled across her lips before she forced it down again.
    Only a few steps to the small corner kitchen. The candlesticks were neoclassical in design, relatively unornamented, with fluted columns that had collected a thin layer of dark, oxidized grime. The pattern of the luster beneath was complex, swirling, hypnotic. Her fingertips itched to trace those swirls, to transform them.
    There was a container of silver polish by the sink. It was the traditional stuff: thick, dark pink cream, looking organic and glutinous. A pair of gloves rested next to the container, along with sponges and drying cloths.
    The scene of a domestic ritual. Her role was clear. She assumed it by snapping on the gloves. She knew exactly what to do, her mind settling into a comfortably narrowed focus—
    He touched her. When he’d placed the pearls around her neck, she’d known and seen what was