Defiant Queen (Mount Trilogy #2)

I search the box for the remaining item of clothing that I assume must also be inside, but there’s no thong or panties. I look in the drawer, and the only other item inside is a black leather box.

Those never contain anything good, I scoff, but apparently my inner voice decides to play devil’s advocate. Except for when they lead to orgasms.

Do I want to open it? I consider the question for all of half a second before I flip the lid.

What. The. Fuck.

Nestled in black velvet is a ball gag and a silver butt plug, this one wider than the last.

If he expects me to—

My phone chimes again from the bed with another appointment reminder.



Five-minute warning. Your shoes will be waiting outside the door.



That arrogant asshole. I’m not waiting five minutes. He has a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

With the leather box clutched in my hand, I take a step toward the door whose lock I drunkenly tried to pick with hairpins last night. I freeze before I make it a second step.

Do I wear the lingerie and obey?

I look down at my naked form and haul in a deep breath. There’s no way in hell I’m walking in there like this.

I reach for the lingerie, pausing when I realize I can smell the booze seeping out of my pores.

Yuck. Even I’m not willing to defile those beautiful clothes by putting them on without rinsing off first. Plus . . . maybe if I appear sweet and obedient, I’ll get the answers I want faster than if I flip Mount the bird and defy his orders.

The clock on my phone shows I’ve wasted another minute deliberating, which means I have exactly four minutes to rinse off and get changed.

Screw it. I rush to the bathroom and grab a toothbrush and toothpaste off the counter before stepping into the massive shower and turning the spray to hot. I brush my teeth, not caring that it’s Mount’s toothbrush, as I scrub last night off my body.

Conscious of the seconds ticking away on my deadline, I practically scald myself flipping the tap off, then snag a fluffy towel to wrap around me.

I toss my borrowed items back on the counter and dry off as fast as I can before shimmying into the bustier and tying its silk ribbon in a bow. I take extra care with the stockings, not wanting to snag them as I slide each one up a leg. Finally, I step into the garter belt and hook the clips to the top of the stockings.

A final chime sounds on my phone, and I want to hurl the thing at the wall. Instead, I read the latest appointment reminder.



You’re late. For every minute that passes, I’m taking it out on your ass.



A shiver rushes through me, hardening my nipples, even though I tell myself that doesn’t mean anything good. I saw the butt plug. So, what the hell does taking it out on your ass mean?

I rush to the door, almost tripping on a pair of sky-high black pumps that can’t be called anything but what they are—hooker heels. But in this case, they’re the really expensive kind.

I don’t think before sliding my feet inside. I touch the door handle, but immediately remember the last thing I’m missing and scramble back to the bed to grab the leather box.

My phone reads 12:05. I really am late.

Hell. This isn’t going to be good.

I hurry to the door again, steadying myself as I twist the knob and push it open.

The room I’d tried to break into the night before isn’t like the infamous red room of pain like I’d imagined, but an office. For some crazy reason, I actually feel a little let down. I thought for sure Mount would have some kinky room in this place, but apparently he’s not quite the sexual deviant I thought he was.

Or I just haven’t found it yet.

From behind the wide desk, much like in his other office, he fixes his dark eyes on my body as I step inside the room and close the door behind me. Voices come from his phone, which he has on speaker, and I realize he must be on a conference call.

He crooks a finger in my direction as he speaks. “Now that we have everyone necessary present, let’s begin. Yakamora, you can start.”

Yakamora, a name that’s unfamiliar to me, begins discussing market fluctuations and hedges against risk. I can’t tell if Mount is paying any attention to him because his gaze never leaves mine as I walk toward him on my towering heels, the leather box in hand.

“I understand your aversion to risks, but none of us would be where we are if we hadn’t taken them,” Mount says. “Casso, you want to share your opinion?”

A deep voice with an Italian accent fills the room next, but I’m not paying attention to his words because I’ve stopped a foot away from Mount. His dark gaze starts at the toes of my fuck-me heels and drags up the sheer black stockings, pausing on my pierced hood for a moment before rising to the garter belt and then the bustier.

“Just because those methods have worked for the old guard doesn’t mean they’re going to continue to work. If we want to maintain any control over what’s happening, we have to be united in our approach,” Mount says as his gaze finally reaches my face.

When the man with the Japanese accent begins to argue, Mount holds out a hand to me, palm up.

What does he want? I only wonder for a moment before I realize he’s waiting for the box clenched in my grip. I offer it to him, partly terrified and partly thrilled at the thought of him using either or both of the items it contains on me.

What the hell is wrong with me? I shouldn’t want this.

But I do.

Now that I know he’s on a conference call, the gag makes sense, but it doesn’t make it any less intimidating. Mount sets the box on his desk as the call continues, a roundtable of opinions, and from little bits and pieces I’m comprehending, it has to do with nothing I want to know about.

Mount lifts the gag out first, his dark gaze almost seeming to spark. He reaches his right hand out to hit the mute button on the speaker. “You ever wear one of these before?”

I shake my head, unintentionally following his order not to speak, but I literally have nothing to say.

His smile takes on that predatory quality I’m beginning to recognize means he’s pleased and aroused. “Good.”

He unmutes the phone first before standing and pressing the gag against my lips, as if daring me to speak.

In our skirmishes, I’m rarely obedient, but I’m not sure I want to find out what the punishment would be for interrupting this conference call with my protests. Besides, the rationalization fits right into my dark fascination with the device.

With the ball in my mouth, he fastens the strap behind my head. Now that my ability to speak freely is gone, my other senses are heightened and my nipples harden under the thin cups of the bustier. Mount reaches out and flicks one with a thumb. A muffled whimper escapes my lips as I squeeze my legs together, my new jewelry already causing wetness to gather between my thighs.

Mount mouths something at me, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s saying.