Ella Dominguez - Becoming Sir

To family, friends & coworkers who keep me entertained, inspired & who can never be replaced.

To the following amazing, responsive & speedy beta readers for their keen eyesight & insight: Becki W., Yvonne L., Monica M., Terrie A., Lita T., Gabby B., Christina M. & Dorothy R.

To Gwen from Rebel Books Chicks & Terri from My Book Boyfriend for their significant contributions & invaluable feedback (& whom I’m seriously girl crushing on)

To the best fans an author could ask for & loyal readers whose kind words keep me going.

To the readers & lovers of The Art of D/s Trilogy who encouraged me to write Sawyer’s story.

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Sawyer’s eyes rested on his face in the mirror. What was reflected back was someone he didn’t like, but that he had come to accept; someone cold, hard, and murderous. His dark, ominous eyes held a note of desolation that was hard to hide, and his handsome, scruffy face looked older than his true age of thirty-eight.

His eyes flicked to the sink as he washed the last of the blood from his hands, the crimson swirling into the abyss of the drain pipe. He hoped he had just killed for the last time. Three times he had murdered in the name of loyalty to his friend, confidant and business partner, Dylan Young and his wife, Isabel. There was no doubt in his mind that he would do it again if push came to shove, but he prayed to a God he doubted existed that it would never come to that again. Sawyer had his fill of death and was put off by how easily he found it to take another person’s life. He would be content if only the murders of these three people were on his hands, but there were many more than that. Dozens. Who the hell was he kidding? The number was far more than that and he damned well knew it. He was good at killing and that was one of the many reasons the CIA had hired him.

His breath caught at the sudden and sharp stab of pain that shot through his chest. The gunshot wound emblazoned over his heart was still on the mend and the bullet still lodged near his aorta. Lifting his shirt, a fresh blood stain soaked through the gauze bandage reminding him of his own mortality. He had come so close to losing his life it was frightening to think about.

After his beloved wife Serena had died so many years ago, nothing mattered to him, not even his own existence, but with Sonya in his life, he felt a sense of responsibility to her, as well as to Dylan and Isabel. They all needed him and it was both touching and terrifying to face the reality that so many people relied on him. What if he failed them? He couldn’t bear the thought.

He made his way from the bathroom to the kitchen and found the cleaning supplies he needed to create the mysterious concoction that would eliminate all traces that he, Dylan and Isabel had been in the house. It was just another of the many tricks of the trade he had learned from his days with The Agency. Clearing his mind of everything but the task in front of him, he mixed the ingredients. After he finished, he found some latex gloves with the housekeeping supplies and went about the undesirable and tedious chore of setting up the crime scene.

What a fucking mess. Images of Isabel standing over her father, Emilio Ibanez, at point blank range invaded his thoughts. The distressing words she had spoken, begging him to explain his abuse of her and his heartless response about hating her and never having wanted her.

Sawyer wasn’t sorry in the least for having taken Emilio and his henchman Simons lives. That abusive son-of-a-bitch Emilio was a menace to his family and society, and they both deserved to die for all the shit they had done, not only to himself, but to Dylan, Isabel, her mother, and God only knows who else.

As if it was second nature, Sawyer finished staging the scene and typed out a suicide note and letter of admission of guilt on Emilio’s behalf for his actions against Isabel’s mother and for murdering Simons. It was only a partial lie at best seeing as Sawyer had been the one to deal the final blow with a deadly shot to Simons’ heart. He had simply carried out his revenge on Simons and finished what Isabel had started. It only seemed appropriate after Simons had wounded Sawyer in almost the same spot only days before.

Nearly two hours after the whole ugly fiasco had played out, Sawyer’s job was complete. He walked out of the house feeling satisfied and met Dylan and Isabel back at the car.  He climbed into the driver’s seat and Dylan moved next to him.

“Is it done?” he asked with hooded eyes.

“It’s finished,” Sawyer responded, his mellow baritone voice edged with control.

“I’m starting to think this will never be finished. I’m so tired, Morrison.” Dylan’s voice was distant and the sincerity in his tone tore at Sawyer’s heart.

He peered over the back seat to see Isabel in a crumpled heap, sleeping soundly. He reached over and pushed her wavy and tangled blonde hair from her blood spattered face and ran his index finger over her leather and diamond collar fastened securely around her frail neck. She looked like a sad, delicate, corrupted angel.

“I promise you, Young, one way or the other, it’s over. You and Isabel need rest; lots of it. Take as much time as you need and leave the business to me. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

Dylan leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

The drive back to the airport was short. Sawyer attempted to lift a still sleeping Isabel from the back seat, but the pain was too much. Dylan gently pushed him aside and lifted Isabel into his arms and carried her onto the jet. Seating himself next to them, Sawyer became engrossed in watching Dylan and Isabel. They were such a beautiful sight; Dylan holding onto Isabel as if nothing else in the world mattered to him, and Isabel resting oblivious to the world in his wearied arms. Their love was so pure and intense; Sawyer couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. He wanted what they had; he wanted to command and own his own submissive like Dylan; he longed for the kind of devotion that they shared.

As if reading Sawyer’s thoughts, Dylan spoke without taking his eyes off of Isabel. “You can have this kind of love, too, Morrison,” he spoke softly, running his fingers over Isabel’s lips and then through her hair.

Again with this. Sawyer recalled his previous conversation with Dylan about the BDSM lifestyle. Yes, he wanted to experience that kind of powerful love and commitment with Sonya, but how would she feel about it? Would she take the same interest in it that he had? He held out hope that she would.

“Yes, I want it, too,” Sawyer replied. “Show me, Young. Teach me.”

“Are you ready for this, Morrison?”

Sawyer was halted by Dylan’s iron grip on his shoulder just before they made it to the entrance of the Dark Asylum club. His expression stilled, his mood instantly growing serious. No, he wasn’t ready. He had been putting this day off for months; making excuses and avoiding it like the plague.

Close to a year had passed since he had taken Emilio’s life, and with Dylan and Isabel being mentally rested and stable, they were back into full swing and pushing to get Sawyer’s Dominant training started. But Sawyer liked routine.  As the head of a major security corporation and now equal partners in Young Security Corp., He thrived and relied on knowing exactly who, what, when and where.  He hated the unknown and that’s exactly what he was facing – unfamiliar territory.

Even though he had been studying and going over the basics of Domology for just over a month, he still felt ill-prepared for the meat and potatoes part of his education to commence.

When Dylan’s mouth opened, Sawyer swiftly cut him off. “Is this where you give me the ‘this is the first day of the rest of your life’ speech?”

Dylan smiled benevolently as if dealing with a temperamental child. “No, but I can if you’d like.”

Sawyer’s eyes darkened with insolence and his jaw tensed. “I’d rather you didn’t. I’m already nervous as fuck.”

Slapping Sawyer on the back lightheartedly, Dylan shook his head as he reached for the door. “You nervous? I find that hard to believe. If it makes you feel any better, I’m certain this is what you were destined for.”

“I’m not completely convinced of that yet,” he countered.

He wished he had the same confidence about his future as Dylan did. Was he really destined to be a Dom? He wasn’t so sure. Yes, he was attracted to submissive women and had even fantasized about them, but that didn’t mean anything. A lot of men were and they weren’t Doms. On the few occasions he tried to be dominating in the bedroom he had been harshly rebuffed and chastised, and had quickly put those inclinations aside. Work was the only place he was allowed to exert his control and he had come to accept that.

With a light shove, Dylan pushed Sawyer through the door and into the club. He was immediately hit with the smell of rich fragrant oil and leather. He had been in the club before when securing it for Dylan and Isabel, but never past the main entrance.

As they entered the large, dimly lit social area, he took in his surroundings; white Christmas lights adorning the bar, painted red brick walls, and an assortment of kinky memorabilia like whips and canes hanging everywhere in addition to vintage photos of scantily clad women in leather and lingerie. The smell was sensual and pleasant, the ambiance warm and inviting. He even spotted a few of Isabel’s erotic paintings hanging proudly near where the manager and owner were seated.

The usual sounds of sexy activity were absent and only the lull of music to the tune of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 14, Moonlight, could be heard.  Between the muted lighting that was casting murky shadows across the walls and floor and the sounds of Beethoven, the atmosphere took on a somber feel. Sawyer’s eyes scanned the room as he counted the number of people mingling and made a mental note of the location of all exits. It was innate for him to always be on high-alert and his former CIA training was always running in the background.

A few people were seated at the bar, one of them being the club owner, Kerian. Luckily, he was engrossed in a lively conversation and completely ignored both him and Dylan. The last thing he needed or wanted was fanfare and a welcoming party. Dylan motioned for a tall woman who was seated at a table and she promptly approached them, carrying herself confidently.

“Mr. Young, Mr. Morrison,” she bowed her head. “It’s my pleasure to meet you,” she offered her small hand to Sawyer.

He took her hand into his and gently squeezed it. When the woman didn’t make direct eye contact, Sawyer grasped harder, trying to prompt her to look at him, but she kept her eyes to the floor. Slowly and gracefully, she lowered herself to her knees, making for an awkward situation. He stood immobile and addressed Dylan.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with a woman on her knees in front of me,” he spoke unconvincingly, his eyes never leaving the woman.

When she timidly peered up at him, he was stunned by her beauty. She had long, straight, hazelnut-colored hair that hung around her face and shoulders and flowed down her back. She was wearing a sheer lace halter dress that accentuated her curves and large breasts. She wasn’t thin. In fact, most might consider her on the heavy side, but it made no difference, he was instantly attracted to her and found it difficult to take his eyes off of her. The woman’s bright eyes, light skin and cream-colored frock were a stark contrast to the darkened room, and the way they glowed from the overhead lighting reminded him of a bright winter day.