Betrayed by Love Read Online Free PDF

long and hard. He controlled her body, pushing it away as he withdrew, then slamming it back onto his cock as he thrust forward.
    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
     
    Roman pushed himself out of the chair. He paced his living room, running his hands through his hair.
    He remembered the feel of her skin under his fingers, the smell of her hair. It had been five years since he last saw her, but he’d forgotten nothing.
    He had to get out of here, he would go insane if he stayed. He thought about calling Peter and going out to a bar but he wasn’t in the mood to play games. At least, not those sorts of games.
    He grabbed his cell phone and placed a call to a private BDSM club in the heart of the city. He didn’t want to participate but he was in luck. There was a special show tonight—just announced. Some famous Domme was in Chicago and would be performing.
    That was just what he needed, something dark to match his mood. A Domme wouldn’t remind him of Savannah and what he’d lost when she left him.
    * * * * *
     
    The room was crowded and only his reputation got Roman a seat. He ended up on a couch, pressed next to another Dom, whose sub was curled up on his lap. As the Dom tickled the girl, whose hair was up in pigtails, her ballet-slipper-shod feet kicked Roman’s thigh.
    He turned and gave the Dom a long, cold stare. He didn’t recognize the man, who was portly in the extreme. The Dom looked him up and down, sniffed when he saw that Roman didn’t have a sub with him, but pushed his own sub off his lap. She curled up on the floor, cooing and batting her lashes.
    Roman turned to the stage. He didn’t have a regular sub, but once he’d had the most beautiful and graceful of women. He’d had a woman whose passion and fire could be expressed in submission. A woman who’d followed him into the darkest parts of the BDSM world.
    And he’d lost her.
    The show started, tearing Roman from his dark thoughts.
    The house lights went down and the packed crowd of BDSM enthusiasts fell silent. The majority of the women in the room were subs, the men Doms, but they all wanted to see the Domme.
    The single spotlight on the stage lit up, illuminating a naked man. He wore a collar, the leash dangling down the center of his body like a too-long tie. The Domme stepped into the light.
    Roman sat up, eyes wide in surprise, then narrowing. The Domme wore a black catsuit over a too-thin body. A black half-mask covered her face, crystal beads catching the light as she walked around the sub, her gloved hands skimming his chest and arms.
    It was the hair that gave her away. Auburn hair fell to the middle of her back in a straight curtain. The tilt of her head, the way she stood, weight back on one leg, hips tilted, were all familiar.
    Roman’s heart was thumping so loudly he could barely hear. It was Savannah, his Savannah.
    No, it wasn’t. This woman was too thin, pronounced cheekbones showing under the mask. Savannah was curved, perpetually failing at diets as she tried to lose ten pounds. She had a round face with full cheeks and hair more black than red.
    But there was something about this Domme that reminded him of her. Surely he was seeing things, seeing Savannah because he’d been thinking of her.
    He watched the Domme skillfully torture the sub. The sub’s face was a picture of ecstasy. The Domme engaged his body and his mind, taking him deep into sub-space but not allowing him to become passive. The audience watched, breathless, as the Domme wielded the whip. She had been whispering to the sub, but now she spoke a command loud enough for them to hear.
    It wasn’t Savannah. This Domme had a faint Southern accent. Despite Savannah’s name she wasn’t from the South. She’d talked about moving to Savannah, Georgia, where her grandparents lived, but it had only been a daydream, no more. He couldn’t imagine his beach-loving California girl giving up the beach and palm trees for the South.
    Roman relaxed and tried to focus on watching the show. It