Dear Reader -
A heads up before you begin - I tend to write long form. I love a good story, interesting characters, plot twists and dominant sex. If you aren't into IR, D/s, cuckoldry-hotwife or if you are just looking for a quick read while sitting in the bathroom, my stories may not be your cup of tea.
If you stick around, I do hope you enjoy. I wrote here years ago under another name - but forgot the damn password and had to create something new. I do hope you enjoy.
The hum of the gym vibrated through the walls--barbells clinking, the low thrum of bass-heavy music, the occasional grunt of someone pushing their limit. But inside Donovan Raines' office, it was quiet. Not silent. Just... waiting.
Sierra James sat across from him, one leg tucked under the other, a blue spiral notebook resting on her knee. Her curls were piled high and haphazard, and the oversized black sweatshirt sliding off one shoulder bore the faded logo of some indie band he couldn't name. The contrast between her easy posture and the faint bite in her gaze wasn't lost on him.
"Six months," she said, flipping a page with her thumb. "I've only missed one shift--when my tire blew on Battleground. I covered it before you even knew. Revenue from the front-end product sales is up nineteen percent. New memberships are up twelve. And I finally got the CrossFit crowd to stop leaving their protein shake cups in the cubbies."
She looked up, all smooth confidence. "So. Am I still on probation, boss man?"
Donovan leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the weight of him. His forearms rested on the arms of the chair, thick and cut, his fingers laced loosely in front of him. He didn't smile. He never smiled easily. But there was something in his eyes--a slow burn, not unkind. Just... measuring.
"You run my front like you own it," he said finally, voice low and even. "I like that."
Sierra's mouth curled, but not quite into a smile. "I do own it. Just don't get a cut."
He gave a slow nod, leaning forward now, elbows resting on the edge of his desk. "You're sharp, James. You read people. You defuse egos before they pop. You see more than you let on. I watch that."
Her breath hitched, barely, but it was there. "I see a lot of things, Donovan. Doesn't mean I always say them out loud."
That edge in her tone--soft, curious, a little rebellious--was exactly the kind of thing that made his jaw tighten. Not in irritation. Not even in warning. It was the way she pushed. Lightly. Just enough to see what might happen if she pressed a little more.
He didn't lean back.
Instead, he asked, "You like working here?"
She blinked at the shift, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. I do. It's got grit. Heart. Nobody's pretending to be perfect. And the sauna's a trip."
The one unique feature to Devil Dog Iron was the sauna - large, traditional - built by a Fin - everything imported from Finland to make it a traditional sauna. It was accessed by a fob, and limited to members who willingly agreed and were over 18.
A door in both the men's and women's locker room would open into a large room that contained the sauna - clothing optional, open to men and women. Many people wore towels, some - including Donovan did not.
That got a ghost of a smile from him. "You've been in?"
Her eyes locked with his, warm but unreadable. "Only when it's empty."
Something flickered between them then. Heat, awareness. A stretch of silence that wasn't awkward--but it was charged.
Donovan finally rose from his chair, all six-foot-one of him a wall of muscle and motion. He circled the desk, not fast, not looming--just present. Dominant by nature, not intention. He stopped next to her, looked down.
"You've earned your raise. Effective next week. You're off probation."
Sierra stood, not moving back, not looking up until her eyes were level with his chest. Then higher, slowly. "Thanks, Donovan."
He let her pass, but his voice stopped her in her tracks, "Sierra."
"If you're going to use the sauna after hours," he said, eyes steady, voice thick, "lock the door. You never know who might still be here."
She turned slightly, chin tilting, that slow grin creeping in like she couldn't stop it. "Maybe I don't mind."
Later that morning Sierra leaned against the front desk, sipping from a stainless steel tumbler that still carried the faint scent of peppermint tea. Her black leggings hugged her hips, her hoodie tied around her waist, and the fluorescent lights overhead did little to dim the mischief dancing in her eyes.
Across from her, one of the trainers--Dani, the petite former gymnast with a thing for tattoos and chaos--was whispering something and giggling like she was back in a high school locker room.
Sierra raised a brow. "Say that again?"
Dani looked over her shoulder, then leaned in like she was about to share state secrets. "I said I saw him in the sauna last week. Donovan. Just sitting there like a damn Greek god. Nothing but sweat and shadows. I swear I haven't looked at another man the same since."
Sierra laughed, low and throaty. "Girl, that's not sweat--that's intimidation steam."
