Dangerous Control (Dark Dominance 3)

Chapter One: Milo

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year…”

That’s debatable, I thought, as I wove around my parents’ massive Christmas tree with a bottle of wine in my hand. Every year, they invited hundreds of celebrities and musicians to a holiday bash at their Chappaqua mansion, and hundreds of people showed up, crowding my parents’ second home. I’d hated these annual parties for as long as I could remember, but I’d never missed one. I was giving up a Saturday evening at The Gallery to be here. That was love.

And I loved my parents. Since my brother died of a respiratory illness in our childhood, I’d been their model son, trying to fill the hole my twin had left. Well, most of the time I was their model son. On Saturday nights, I was more of a demon, making my salacious rounds at The Gallery, a BDSM club for those who enjoyed the more serious side of dominance and submission.

“Massimiliano!”

That was my friend Devin using my full name to irritate me. I turned to find him hand in hand with his girlfriend Ella. Fort and Juliet were there too. My two best friends had both settled down into relationships in the same year-and-a-half period. Great for them, not so fun for me.

“Who invited you guys?” I joked as I joined their circle.

“Hey, you got me something. Thanks.” Fort lifted the bottle of thousand-dollar Bordeaux from my hand, then promptly handed it back. “Too rich for my tastes, especially since I’m already drunk.”

“There’s champagne going around.” Ella lifted a half-empty glass of bubbly. “Your parents’ house is crazy, by the way.”

“It’s a nice place,” I said, an understatement. It was embarrassingly ostentatious, almost as bad as their sprawling estate in Italy, but my friends seemed to be enjoying the party. I wished I were as drunk and happy as they were.

“How’ve you been, Milo?” asked Juliet. “You’ve seemed…busy.”

“Well, ’tis the season. A lot of people are hoping for violins under the tree.”

“Santa’s violin elf has been in his workshop.” Devin cracked a smile. “Except on Saturday nights. I hear you haven’t missed a night at The Gallery in a while.”

Ella nudged him. “Shh, people will overhear.”

He waved off her concern. “This hoity-toity crowd will assume I’m talking about an art gallery. No offense,” he said to Juliet, who worked for an artist-photographer.

“No offense taken,” she chirped.

Yeah, they were all drunk. I was about an hour behind, since I’d stopped off for the wine. “I’ve been to The Gallery every Saturday since…” Since you guys found love and happiness.

“Since forever,” Fort said, slapping me on the back. “Good for you. We’ll get back there one of these days.”

Maybe they would, to visit, but they weren’t regulars anymore. The occasional drop-in was enough for them, because they were living together, spending time in their home dungeons. No uniforms required, no papers to sign. And I was at The Gallery every single fucking Saturday, because…

Because it was my club, my concept, a place I’d helped build from the ground up. Because I was looking for a new sub, someone to replace my most recent partner, who’d caused too much drama. Because it gave me a safe venue to unleash my sadistic side, and watch others doing the same.

But not tonight, because I was a good son and it was Christmas party weekend. I said goodbye to my friends and wove through crowds of smiling people until I found my parents in a corner of the dining room. They stuck together at these parties, because they were one of those old-fashioned couples who actually loved each other.

“Massimiliano!” My full name was called for the second time, this time by my mother. It wasn’t that I didn’t like my name, it was just that it had too many syllables for the average non-Italian to pronounce. She hugged me, bottle of wine and all, then passed me over to my father.

“We’re so glad you’re here,” he said, pulling away. “What have you got there?”

I handed over the wine, embellished with a velvet bow. “Merry Christmas, Pop. Thought you could use this in the wine cellar.”

He squinted at the bottle, pursed his lips, then smiled. “Beautiful. You didn’t have to, but we’re glad you did. Aren’t we, Luciana?”

“Look at you,” my mom said, clinging to my arm. The crowds around them pushed us together. People loved my parents, and my parents loved all people, which was why their parties were so well attended. “Are you still getting taller?” she asked in her thick Italian accent.

“Ma, I’m almost forty.”

“Your hair’s getting longer, that’s for sure.” She was teasing. My dark hair had been long forever. “Did you bring anyone tonight?” she asked, a hopeful lilt to her tone.

“No, I’m not really seeing anyone at the moment.”

“You know, I think Lala’s here. Isn’t Lala here?” she asked, prodding my father.

He nodded. “Last I saw, she was over by the Christmas tree.”

Had I walked right past her? Thank God. “She goes by Alice now,” I muttered. Lilly-Alice Nyquist had been “Lala” from her earliest days, because of her first two initials, and her natural affinity for music. Around the age of thirteen, she’d put her foot down and said she would be Alice from now on, that she’d had enough of being Lala.

No matter her name, I had to stay away from her.

“I didn’t know she was in New York,” I said.

“She moved here about a month ago. She’s playing with the Metropolitan Orchestra, now that her father’s retired,” said my dad.

Her father, Stefan Nyquist, had been my first serious violin instructor, the one who’d guided me from childish flailing to adolescent confidence over the space of ten years. He was a longtime family friend, and a renowned musician, like his daughter. My parents wished he’d become my father-in-law. They’d pushed me toward Alice for years, refusing to believe it was impossible.

“Maybe I’ll run into her later,” I said, although I’d do everything in my power to prevent that from happening. I excused myself from the circle around my parents and prowled the outskirts of the crowd in the great room. Christmas classics wafted from my parents’ state-of-the-art sound system, and voices rose and fell in merriment, bouncing off the frescoed ceiling.

A waiter stood at the bottom of the

wide marble staircase leading to the second floor, holding a tray of glistening champagne with cranberries floating on top. I took one of the flutes as I made my way upstairs.

I loitered in the second floor hallway a while, and the balconies overlooking the great room, saying hello to family and friends. If Lala—Alice—was downstairs, then I’d stay upstairs, and everything would be okay. I took a sip of champagne, tasting tart cranberry on my tongue. Someone downstairs shouted from the piano. A cheerful group sang carols in multi-part harmony as a distant cousin played, punctuating each line with obnoxious glissandos. It was fun to belong to a musical family, but also loud. My mother corralled groups toward the food tables, and gestured up to me to join them. I would, eventually.

For now, though, I waved and made an escape toward the second floor gallery, a long, narrow chamber of photographs and family memorabilia between the bedroom wings. It had always been my favorite room in this house, which was why I’d suggested “The Gallery” when we were brainstorming names for our BDSM club.

Not that this gallery had much in common with The Gallery where I hurt and fucked masochistic women. This gallery was quiet, with frosted skylights that sparkled in the sun and glowed by the light of the moon. As I shut the door behind me, my gaze went there first, to those skylights I’d stared at since I was a boy.

“Milo?”

The soft, feminine voice sent a chill racing along my nerves. Danger danger danger. Alice Nyquist stood on the other side of the room in a fitted ivory sweater dress and tights, smiling her angelic smile. Good God, that smile. Her hair. Her legs. Her tits.

“Milo Fierro! I haven’t seen you in so long.” She started toward me, half at a run, her arms thrown out in welcome. “Your parents said you’d be here.”

I swallowed hard, trying not to shudder as her scent assailed me. “I never miss their Christmas party,” I said against her wispy, ginger-blonde hair. “You’re the one who never makes it. I was surprised to hear you were in New York.”

“I’m here.” She pulled back, her wide green eyes shining.

“Look at you,” I said softly. “You’re here.”

“I’ve been here almost a month now. I would have called you, but I thought you were working in Italy until the spring.”

She seemed so pleased with herself, so certain I’d be happy to see her. She didn’t understand how hard it was for me to stand beside her, to even be in the same room with her. I’d known Lilly-Alice all through her Lala years. She’d been a rival then, an adversary in pigtails, as likely to laugh as burst into tears. Even though she was six years younger than me, she’d always outplayed me on the violin.

Then she’d grown up and become Alice, the most beautiful woman in the world. Not just the most beautiful, but the most kind, bright, talented, emotional, mysterious, and fascinating woman on earth. I’d been with some top-flight women in my kink career, model-gorgeous women who’d do anything I asked of them sexually, women who’d debase themselves for me at a word.

None of them touched the depth of my feelings for Alice. She was real with me when other women were fake, and from an early age, she’d carved out a special place in my heart. She still played the violin better than me—I’d kept track through the years—but she was also so fucking perfect she made your soul ache.

I rubbed my eyes, nearly sloshing champagne on my sweater. I set the glass down on a table, because I needed my wits about me.

“Not in a drinking mood?” she teased. When she smiled, her Nordic cheekbones made her face look like a heart. Her mouth was so fuckable. No, Milo. No. This is why you can’t be near her.

I cleared my throat. “What are you doing here? I mean, here in the gallery?”

“I was getting a headache downstairs. Your parents are wonderful, but their friends talk so much. I don’t know how they had a son like you.”

When I raised a brow, she elaborated. “I mean, you don’t talk a lot. You’ve always been so quiet. Mysterious.”

Was she flirting? Didn’t she understand that I was dangerous? We were alone in my parents’ gallery, so alone. My mind raced, realizing there was no one to stop me from assaulting her, from forcing myself on her and working out all the perverse impulses she sparked in me.

“Does your head still hurt now?” I asked. It took all my self-control not to touch her, not to stroke a finger down her velvet cheek.

“No, I’m fine. It’s not that bad. I feel better now that you’re here. You look great, Milo, really. You have those…” She gestured, blushing. “Those dark, calming eyes.”

Holy shit. If she didn’t stop looking at me in that worshipful way, I couldn’t be responsible for the things I did to her.

“Why don’t we go downstairs?” I said, tearing my gaze from her face. “We’ll ask my mom if she has anything for your headache. If you don’t take something, it might get worse.” I took her arm before she could argue, scooping up my champagne glass in my other hand. “She’ll want to fawn over you anyway.”

We went down the curving staircase, moved past the glittering tree, and negotiated tables of cookies, cakes, and canapés. I touched the small of her back twice, pretending it was necessary to guide her. I’d forgotten how tall she was, how she could almost meet me eye to eye. It was slightly easier to be close to her with others around us. They could pull me off her if they had to. She was safer now, though I felt equally fucked.

“Ma,” I said, when we finally found her in the music room. “Alice needs some Tylenol or something. Her head hurts.”

“Oh, my dear.” My mother cupped Alice’s heart-shaped face between her hands and frowned. “Let’s see what we can find for you.”

We? I had planned to pass her off to my mother and blow this party before my self-restraint snapped. Instead, my mother hooked my arm along with Alice’s and dragged both of us to the kitchen. It was as busy as the rest of the house, as the caterer’s assistants prepared artistic spreads and the hired waiters refilled trays of champagne. My mother found some ibuprofen and gave it to Alice, along with a tall glass of water. Once she took it, Ma led her to a chair at the long marble counter.

“The headache’s not that bad,” Alice said as my mother clucked over her. “I’m fine, it’s just a little crowded here. I mean, it’s a wonderful party. I just haven’t been to a lot of them lately.”

“Poor dear. It’s only going to get more crowded.” She turned to me, taking away my champagne glass. “Maybe you should take Lala home.”

“She goes by Alice now,” I said. “And I’ve been drinking.”

“Pah. A few sips of champagne.”

“It’s okay,” Alice cut in. “I took the train from Manhattan, so I can get home on my own.”

“You can’t ride back on the train if you’re not feeling well. Milo can drive you home,” said my mother, offering my services like a shepherd handing a sheep over to a fucking wolf. “Where are you living, dear?”

“In the old Michelin building, near Lincoln Center.”

“Why, that’s so close to you.” Ma grasped my hand, delighted at the coincidence. I tried not to frown. “You were going to leave soon anyway, weren’t you?”

She was prodding me to say yes, because she’d raised her Italian son to look after women, especially women like Alice, whom my mother hoped might entice me into a relationship. Her eyes twinkled as she regarded the two of us. Alice started blushing again.

“I guess it’s up to Alice,” I said, a little surly. “She said she could get home on her own.”

“But why should she, when you’re here?” My mom patted my arm. “You don’t enjoy a lot of noise and conversation either. You too are so similar.”

“Okay, Ma.” She was only going to get worse the longer we stood here. I turned to Alice, pushing down a sense of dread. An hour back to the city, stuck in my car together. She was so beautiful, so vital and lithe and talented.

Fuck.

Chapter Two: Alice

I huddled into the smooth leather passenger s

eat of Milo’s sports car, resisting the urge to hug myself. I’d hoped to run into him at the party, but this was a wildly exciting treat. Milo Fierro, my longtime crush, had just opened the door of his car for me, and invited me into its interior. Then he’d shut the door and walked around the front while I sucked the drool back into my mouth, feeling like a creeper. The older he got, the more attractive he became. He’d always moved through my world with animal grace.

When he got in the other side and looked over at me, I could feel a scarlet blush rising under my skin, because that always happened to me.

“I’m not drunk,” he said. “Not even a little.”

“I know.”

“If I was, I wouldn’t drive you.”

“I know, it’s okay.” I stretched my legs, trying to be cool. “I’m only a little buzzed myself. Well, it’s mostly wearing off now.”

He didn’t answer. In fact, he let out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to a sigh as he started his car. The engine roared and settled into a hum, and we pulled away from his family’s house, the headlights beaming across the grand front stoop.

Neither of us talked, although it was quiet in the car. Why did I feel shy around Milo, considering I’d known him for as long as I could remember? Probably because I lusted for him, even though he always acted like a distant friend when he was around me. I still fantasized that he was more. Riding in his car—just the two of us, together—would provide masturbation material for months to come.

“So how does it feel, being back in New York?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.

“Awesome.” I took a moment to steady myself, so I wouldn’t start acting weird or manic. “I mean, I love Stockholm. It’s beautiful, clean, all those things, but it’s not as big a cultural scene as Manhattan. There’s not as much to do, and the New York Metropolitan Orchestra is the best in the world, so when they invited me, I couldn’t jump fast enough.”

“Makes sense.” He shifted gears as we revved onto the main road. “Honestly, I’m surprised it took them so long to come after you.”