A Hot Mess

by Brandi Evans

  Another orgasm broke, and I screamed through my pleasure as the strikes—both from hands and leather—came faster. Each slap pushed me higher and extended my climax. My left leg gave out, and I was fully suspended by my arms.

  The Doms were quick and grabbed each of my legs and spread them wide as they held me up, as the flogger kept making contact, as Smaller Dom kept eating my pussy—and all while my Dom stood off to the side and watched.

  My climax crested again, one orgasm piggybacking into the next. Even exhausted, my body was ready for Max. No, not ready. That was too tame. My body was jonesing for Max. Without him bringing me to climax himself, this evening would never be complete.

  I gathered what little strength I had left and parted my lips to call for him, to beg him to finally take me himself, and that was when I saw her.

  Giselle.

  The bitch had come to Restrained Fantasies.

  Chapter 7

  Watching Giselle sneak up behind Max and cup his cock through his pants was like watching a car crash in slow motion. I knew the outcome. I knew there'd be mass carnage, but I couldn't do anything to stop it.

  I wanted to cry out, to warn him, but my voice was sluggish and raspy from overuse, and my mind was slow to respond. By the time I could form coherent sentences, it'd already been too late.

  Giselle whispered something to Max as she grabbed him, but I couldn't hear her. Max's face hardened into thick, angry lines, and he grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her hand away. Unlike her words, his were loud, clear, and bubbling with hatred.

  "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

  She smiled at him and said more words I couldn't make out, but I didn't have to hear her to know she was getting to Max. I needed to save him. But how did I do that when I was shackled to the ceiling?

  I opened my mouth and screamed a single word, the only word that mattered in the situation. "Fishnet!"

  Max's head snapped around so hard that I was surprised his neck didn't break. He let go of Giselle's hand and sprinted toward me. "Stop," he said, fighting his way to me. "She said her safe word."

  Just as I'd been promised, everything stopped, and gingerly, the Doms lowered me to my feet.

  When Sir was at my side, he cradled me against him as someone unfastened my hands. "What happened?" he whispered.

  My arms were slow to respond to command, but eventually, I managed to get them wrapped around him. God, I never wanted to let him go.

  "I'm sorry." The tears straining my voice shocked me. When had I started crying?

  "Don't apologize," Max said. "Just tell me what happened?"

  Now that he was here with me and away from Giselle, everything seemed fuzzy, and I couldn't gather my thoughts. Dear god, why couldn't I stop crying?

  "Bree, my sweet, you're scaring me. Talk to me and tell me what's wrong."

  "Fucking Giselle," I finally whispered. "I'm sorry. I was into the scene, and then, there she was… touching you, and I-I-I needed to save you. I don't know. Fuck, I feel like such a hot mess right now. I'm so sorry, Max. I—"

  "Shh." He kissed my temple. "I'm the one who should be apologizing. My past interfered with your pleasure, and that's unacceptable."

  Before I could get my mind around his words, a familiar voice cut through the air. "Is everything okay over here?" Brock asked.

  "Actually, no, everything isn't okay." Max tucked me securely against his side and pointed to Giselle. "That sub destroyed our scene."

  "I did nothing of the sort," Giselle said incredulously. "That stupid sub just went crazy, and I—"

  "Silence!" Brock shouted at Giselle. "Get on your knees, sub, and keep your goddamn mouth shut. Do I make myself clear?"

  Giselle's eyes widened as if she'd just realized how much trouble she was in. "Sorry, Sir," she said and dropped to her knees.

  Max pushed on. "That sub grabbed me without permission, and when she did, it upset my sub. Because of the sheer intensity of the scene we were participating in, she was in a vulnerable frame of mind. She was so disenfranchised that she had to use her safe word."

  Giselle tensed; if anger could be portrayed in a visible form, black clouds would be rolling off her. What did she have to be so upset about? It was my scene she'd ruined. Even more important than that, she'd bothered Max.

  Again.

  Brock took Giselle by the chin and turned her face up. "Is this true, sub?"

  "Yes, Sir," she said, teeth clenched. "I'm sorry, Sir."

  "I don't accept her apology." Max gripped me tighter against him. "This was my sub's first time in a club setting. To have it ruined like this could be devastating."

  No, it wouldn't be, but I held the words back. I had a sneaking suspicion Max was talking about himself being devastated, not me.

  "As the Dom whose scene was ruined," Brock said, "it is your right to seek retribution."

  I tensed at the words and curled more securely against Max. Brock had mentioned punishment when I'd signed paperwork, but no one had elaborated on what that meant. I despised Giselle, but the idea of punishment in a place like this terrified me. I wouldn't wish unwanted pain on my worst enemy.

  "Standard club punishment," Brock continued, "is six strikes with a paddle while the sub is bound in slave position. Is that appropriate?"

  "It is," Max answered.

  "Would you like to administer the punishment yourself?" asked Brock.

  "Actually…" Max motioned to the men standing around us. "I'd like to defer. One swat for each of the Doms who also had their scenes ruined. I'd just like to take my sub upstairs to an empty dungeon if space permits."

  "Consider it done." Brock grabbed Giselle by the hair and dragged her to her feet. It was obvious he took care not to hurt her too badly. I had no doubt that if Brock had wanted to hurt her, she'd be screaming in pain. "Let's go."

  "No!" Giselle yanked against Brock's grip, for all the good it did. "Let. Me. Go!"

  "Take your punishment, sub," Brock said, voice dropping to a dangerous-sounding level, "or you will be escorted off the premises and banned for life, not only here, but at all clubs we share a partnership with."

  Giselle ignored the much bigger man. "Max, make this stop, or I swear to god you'll regret it!"

  Max turned his back on Giselle, literally and figuratively, and tucking me securely against him, we walked away.

  Max and I hadn't spoken much since entering one of the upstairs dungeons. We hadn't even turned on the lights. We'd merely crawled into the bed, and Max hadn't let me go. His embrace was hard but not unwelcome.

  "Will they hurt her too badly?" I finally asked, genuinely curious. I might despise that woman, but I felt terrible knowing I was responsible for someone else's pain, even indirectly. After all, I wasn't my father; I gave more than two shits about other people.

  His voice was cold and flat. "Unfortunately, they won't hurt the bitch as much as she deserves."

  The same question I'd had since Giselle had exploded back into Max's life drifted to the forefront of my mind.

  What did she do to you?

  I pushed onto my elbow and looked at him. I wish I could see the micro-expressions that made him so quintessentially Max, but the darkness concealed him. Maybe, though, that was for the best; the darkness would give him something to hide behind as I, once again, attempted to pry into his past.

  "Tell me what she did to hurt you so badly." I kept my voice soft but resolute. "I know you don't want to talk about her, but it's time. I need to know the battle we're facing, because we are facing it together. You know that, right? You and I… we're in this together."

  For a long time, he didn't answer. He simply stared at me with an expression I couldn't see well enough to decipher, but he didn't turn away. That was huge. Maxwell Penn was a man as damaged as he was beautiful.

  Eventually, he lifted a hand and, gently, as if touching a priceless artifact, cupped my cheek. "Let's go away next weekend. Just the two of us and ocean as far as the eye can see."

  M
y disappointment was immediate. He might as well have reached inside me and dropped an anvil right into the pit of my stomach. "Damn it, Max. Stop changing the subject. We need—"

  "To talk. I know. Why do you think I want to go away?"

  My mouth hung open, and I stared at him, waiting for my brain to reinterpret his words. He hadn't just said… had he?

  He traced my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. "You're right. It's time for us to talk. It's just…" He closed his eyes. "There are things in my past I'm not proud of."

  "There are things in my past, too, Max."

  "I know. What was it you said to me the other day? We all have secrets. It's just… I'm too damn tired to go into everything tonight. I'm exhausted, and I imagine you are, too. So, we'll take Friday off, Monday, too, and fly off to nowhere. And by the time we return to reality, there will be no more secrets between us."

  "I'd love that, Max." And I did love it, even as it terrified me. To get everything out in the open meant more than him telling me his secrets. I needed to tell him mine. I just prayed our secrets didn't destroy us.

  I hurt every-fucking-where, and only a quarter of the pain was from this morning's workout.

  Viv and I sat at a corner table in Spill the Beans. Monday's biceps workout had been brutal, and as I looked at my half-sugar, hazelnut latte, I legit wondered if I'd be able to lift the mug to my lips. Between the workout and my adventure with the bindings at the club, my arms were seriously protesting their overuse.

  Why again do I do this to myself? Oh, yeah, because strong is the new sexy, and Max's brand of sex without limits was too damn addicting to quench.

  Viv straightened her arms, flexed them, and straightened them again in a slow, rhythmic movement I knew all too well; she was sore as well. I'd worked her hard, and yeah, I was pretty sure she hated me. She hadn't undersold the muscle wasting she'd suffered as a result of her chemo, but damn if the woman didn't have determination out the wazoo. Even though Brock was built like a mountain, I was pretty sure Viv was the stronger one in the relationship.

  "Do you regret coming with me?" I asked in what I hoped was a teasing voice, but part of me feared this would be our last workout.

  "I think regret's too strong a word." The left side of her lips curled upward. "Although that answer might change tomorrow if I can't lift my arms."

  "Duly noted."

  "My arms feel like jelly, but I feel amazing, like I accomplished something. Is that weird?"

  "Not at all. I always feel that way, too. There's just something satisfying about it, but on the flip side, it ain't easy. You'll be sore tomorrow. Hell, you'll probably have trouble lifting your arms. I mean having-Brock-wash-your-hair-in-the-shower sore."

  "Necessary showers with the man I love, I'm sure he'd positively hate that."

  "Oh, I'm sure. It'll surely be the toughest task of his day."

  "By far!" She grinned, and her smile made the café's white, modern décor feel so much brighter and livelier. "It'll give him yet another reason to like that I've started working out."

  "The soreness will get better," I assured her. "If you keep pushing through, you'll start to recover faster. And then, one day, you'll be able to lift something you never thought you could in a million years. It's really gratifying." I took a sip of my latte. My arms did work! "I know this might sound counterproductive, but the more you work a sore muscle, the faster it recovers. Of course, I'm not talking about going home and doing fifty pushups. Just keep stretching and flexing them like you're doing. Don't give the lactic acid time to build up. That's what makes you really sore."

  "Showers with Brock and stretching, got it." She winked and, with a bit of a wince, brought her mug to her lips.

  For the next fifteen minutes, we chatted about anything and everything save for the lifestyle. We'd both ordered a whole-wheat English muffin topped with sliced bananas, peanut butter, granola, and a drizzle of honey. I usually enjoyed my post-exercise meal and first drink alone as I waited for my Red Light coworkers to arrive, but I had to admit sharing breakfast with Viv was a pleasant change.

  "Wait, wait, wait," she said, leaning forward. "You really take a weekly jujitsu class?"

  I nodded.

  "Can you choke someone out? I mean like legit take a man down?"

  "I mean, I've never actually put that to the test. God forbid, I ever have to." I knocked against the wooden table. "But I've been doing this a long time, and I get submissions all the time in class against guys bigger than me. So yeah, I have no doubt I could defend myself if I had to."

  "Could you teach me, too? Or am I too small to—"

  "No one is too small to do jujitsu. That's part of its beauty. It's more of a defensive martial art. Structure, not strength, is what makes jujitsu so powerful. You could easily take down Brock if you had the right technique."

  "Seriously?"

  I nodded, understanding her skepticism. Brock was a mountain, and Viv was just over three digits.

  "That's the beauty of jujitsu," I said. "It shows women their size doesn't matter as much as they think; it shows men the same thing. Just because a woman is tiny, it doesn't mean she can't kick ass and take names. I have class every Wednesday evening. You should come with me. If you're not ready for a class, I could show you a couple basic moves."

  "With those biceps…" She chuckled. "You'll break me in half. I'm not stupid."

  But we made a tentative date for the next week.

  The front door chimed, and Aimée and Chad strutted into the café. Aimée, as always, looked terrific, a pale yellow sundress wrapping around her curvy figure. Chad looked handsome in skinny jeans and a light gray V-neck. He was all smiles, but something was different about his smile today—an anomaly I pointed out after introductions were made and beverages ordered.

  He looked ridiculously happy and said, "I slept at his place last night. That makes every night this week! Is it weird I'm starting to think of his place as our place? Is that way too soon? I honestly don't know. This entire relationship extravaganza is all new to me."

  I smiled at my co-worker. "No, Chad, it's not strange. It's love." I knew firsthand what crazy love did to a person, because that was how I felt with Max, but I couldn't dare say the latter, secret relationship and all.

  "There're no rules when it comes to relationships. I've been living with my lover since the first night we shattered our way out of the friend zone." Viv shrugged, grinning. "No rules."

  When we left the café and stepped into the muggy Dallas morning, the city was beginning to awaken. I loved watching my city wake up.

  A man jogged past, wearing bright orange shorts and a black tank top, dangly earbuds hanging from his ears. A mother with two young boys in tow admonished the younger-looking of the two to stop putting stuff into his mouth.

  We stopped at a crosswalk. Chad pressed the button, and Aimée tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to Red Light.

  "I wonder what's going on?" she asked.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Close to fifty people stood gathered in front of Red Light's main entrance. The mass spilled over in front of the two shops bracketing it. To the left sat a flower shop called the Faded Rose and, to the right, a wacky hipster-esque clothing shop called Misguided Outfitters.

  "I'm not sure," I answered. Red Light didn't open for another hour, and neither did Misguided Outfitters. The flower shop opened early, but they usually didn't see this kind of business influx unless it was one of the major flower holidays, Valentine's Day or Mother's Day, of which today was neither.

  No, I didn't like this one little bit.

  The walk light flashed, and with each step closer to the crowd, something twisted tighter in my gut. I couldn't quite explain my unease until we got close enough to the mob that little details became clear. They had cameras, microphones, and determined sets to their jaw, and suddenly, I was transported back in time.

  I was outside the courthouse again, my hand in my mother's as we were ushered past throngs
of people screaming at us. My father's victims and the reporters who'd devoured every aspect of the fall of the once-famed man.

  The panic was instantaneous, and I grabbed onto the arm nearest me. My legs didn't feel like mine anymore. I'd lost my ability to use them. Reporters here? No. No, no, no. They were here for, for, for—

  No. I shook my head. Don't go there. There was another explanation. There was. I just had to figure out what it was, but my mind was frozen on only one explanation.

  They weren't here because of Red Light.

  They weren't here about Max, either. If Max had done something new to spark this kind of interest, this mass would be at Whitecliff International, not here.

  This was about…

  Don't.

  Go.

  There.

  Don't—

  A man at the back of the gaggle of reporters, a dark-haired man with glasses and a pointy nose, turned from the group and made eye contact with me. And the foundation of the life I'd made dropped out from beneath me.

  The man shouted my name—at least it used to be my name, a long, long time ago, before my father's crimes had been found out.

  The man had called me Janet Lancaster, daughter of notorious conman Phillip Lancaster, the man responsible for one of the biggest financial scandals to hit Wall Street in two decades.

  Chapter 8

  Head between my knees, I sat on my office sofa and fought to bring my heart rate and breathing back into something approaching normal—and I was failing miserably. I hadn't felt this panicky since I was a kid, but even then, I never remembered feeling this panicky.

  "This isn't happening. This isn't happening. This isn't happening." The sentence tumbled from my mouth on repeat. In fact, I was pretty sure it was the only thing I'd said since we'd barreled through those fucking reporters.

  "It'll be okay, mi amiga." Aimée stroked her hand up and down, up and down my back. "It'll be okay." Maybe, if she said it a few more times, I could bring myself to believe it.