Theirs to Take

by Laura Kaye

“He didn’t want to?”

  She shook her head. “Over time, I had to fake my arousal, but he could tell. I think it made him feel like less of a man, and he started taking it out on me. First, it was my weight. I was too big, not sexy enough for him to want me. Called me fat and useless. Then it poured out in all aspects of our life together. From how I did my job, to how I cleaned the house, and everything in between. I was a failure of a wife. I was a failure at turning him on. It went on and on. And finally, one day I realized I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I looked in the mirror and saw nothing. Or at least, nothing I liked.”

  Anger thrummed in his veins, heating his blood. Oh, if he could bash her ex’s face in, he’d be over the fucking moon. Typical shit. His ego got threatened so he took it out on his wife. “Sounds like you were strong enough to realize he has a serious condition.”

  She cocked her head. Inky waves spilled over her right cheek and tumbled over her shoulder. The scent of citrus drifted to his nostrils. Clean. Tangy. Sharp. Like her. “Condition?” she asked.

  “Yeah, your ex is a true asshole.” He relished her smile, then leaned into her space. The air between them crackled to life, twisting tight with a delicious sexual tension that couldn’t be forced. Oh, his hands itched to get all over those gorgeous curves and show her how sexy they were. “Damned if you haven’t impressed the hell out of me, Scarlett Rose. First, you were strong enough not to let him win. To claim who you were and walk away. Second, you were brave enough to tell me the truth. That’s a woman I want to be with. A woman I want to give excruciating pleasure to with my mouth and tongue and teeth. Tie her up with her thighs spread wide and fuck her till she begs for mercy. Spank her ass till she’s dripping wet and hot.” Her pupils dilated at his words. “Would you like that?”

  “Yes, Sir.” This time, her words came out ragged. He raked his glance over her tight nipples, and noted her rapidly racing pulse. Citrus mingled with the musky smell of arousal. She liked the dirty talk. Good, cause so did he.

  “Then our play will begin. Call me Sir at all times. Use the word yellow to slow things down. Red if you want things to stop completely.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Don’t be afraid to use it. Gaze lowered as I lead you to our room. No

  speaking unless spoken to.” He studied her lush body, allowing a slight smile to rest on his lips. He hadn’t looked this forward to a session in too long.

  “Shall we begin?”

  About the Blasphemy Series – An erotic romance series of standalones…

  From the ruins of a church comes Baltimore’s most exclusive club

  12 Masters. Infinite Fantasies.

  Welcome to Blasphemy…

  BOOKS IN SERIES:

  HARD TO SERVE

  BOUND TO SUBMIT

  MASTERING HER SENSES

  EYES ON YOU

  THEIRS TO TAKE

  COMING IN 2018:

  SWITCHING FOR HER

  ON HIS KNEES

  Hard to Serve (Hard Ink #5.5/Blasphemy #.5)

  To protect and serve is all Detective Kyler Vance ever wanted to do, so when Internal Affairs investigates him as part of the new police commissioner’s bid to oust corruption, everything is on the line. Which makes meeting smart, gorgeous submissive, Mia Breslin, at an exclusive play club the perfect distraction. Their scorching scenes lure them to play together again and again. But then Kyler runs into Mia at work and learns that he’s been dominating the daughter of the hard-ass boss who has it in for him. Now Kyler must choose between life-long duty and forbidden desire before Mia finds another who’s not so hard to serve.

  Bound to Submit (Blasphemy #1) – FREE ON ALL RETAILERS

  He thinks he caused her pain, but she knows he’s the only one who can heal her… Kenna Sloane lost her career and her arm in the Marines, and now she feels like she’s losing herself. Submission is the only thing that ever freed her from pain and made her feel secure, and Kenna needs to serve again. Bad. The only problem is the Dom she wants once refused her submission and broke her heart, but, scarred on the inside and out, she’s not looking for love this time. She’s not even sure she’s capable. Griffin Hudson is haunted by the mistakes that cost him the only woman he ever loved. Now she’s back at his BDSM club, Blasphemy, and more beautiful than ever, and she’s asking for his help with the pain he knows he caused. Even though he’s scared to hurt her again, he can’t refuse her, because he’d give anything to earn a second chance. And this time, he’ll hold on forever.

  Mastering Her Senses (Blasphemy #2)

  He wants to dominate her senses—and her heart… Quinton Ross has always been a thrill-seeker—so it’s no surprise that he’s drawn to extremes in the bedroom and at his BDSM club, Blasphemy, where he creates sense-depriving scenarios that blow submissives’ minds. Now if he could just find one who needs the rush as much as him… Cassia Locke hasn’t played at Blasphemy since a caving accident left her with a paralyzing fear of the dark. Ready to fight, she knows just who to ask for help—the hard-bodied, funny-as-hell Dom she’d always crushed on—and once stood up. Quinton is shocked and a little leery to see Cassia, but he can’t pass up the chance to dominate the alluring little sub this time. Introducing her to sensory deprivation becomes his new favorite obsession, and watching her fight fear is its own thrill. But when doubt threatens to send her running again, Quinton must find a way to master her senses—and her heart.

  Eyes on You (Blasphemy #3)

  She wants to explore her true desires, and he wants to watch… When a sexy stranger asks Wolf Henrikson to rescue her from a bad date, he never expected to want the woman for himself. But their playful conversation turns into a scorching one-night stand that reveals the shy beauty gets off on the idea of being seen, even if she’s a little scared of it, too. And Wolf loves to watch. In the wake of discovering her fiancé’s infidelity, florist Olivia Foster never expected to find someone who not only understood her wildest, darkest fantasies, but would bring them to life. As Wolf introduces her to his world at the play club, Blasphemy, Liv finds herself tempted to explore submission and exhibitionism with the hard-bodied Dom even as she’s scared to trust again. But Wolf is a master of getting what he wants—and he’s got his eyes set on her…

  Theirs to Take (Blasphemy #4)

  She’s they’ve always wanted to share…

  Best friends Jonathan Allen and Cruz Ramos share almost everything—a history in the Navy, their sailboat building and restoration business, and the desire to dominate a woman together, which they do at Baltimore’s exclusive club, Blasphemy. Now if they could find someone who wants to play for keeps…All Hartley Farren has in the world is the charter sailing business she inherited from her beloved father. So when a storm damages her boat, she throws herself on the mercy of business acquaintances to do the repairs—stat. She never expected to find herself desiring the sexy, hard-bodied builders, but being around Jonathan and Cruz reminds Hartley of how much she longs for connection. If only she could decide which man she wants to pursue more…As their attraction flashes hot, Jonathan and Cruz determine to have Hartley for their own. But the men’s erotic world is new and overwhelming, and Hartley’s unsure if she could really submit to being both of theirs to take…forever.

  Need more Masters?

  Meet Master Griffin in

  BOUND TO SUBMIT

  CHAPTER ONE

  As Kenna Sloane stood on the stage in front of the applauding audience, one word kept echoing through her brain.

  Fraud.

  Fraudfraudfraud.

  Keeping the smile plastered on her face, she looked out over the ballroom full of women from a local business and professional organization.

  Since being medically discharged from the United States Marine Corps two years before, Kenna had become something of a motivational speaker. She didn’t feel particularly motivational or inspirational, for that matter, and she certainly hadn’t set out to be any such thing.

  It had started when her physic
al therapist at Walter Reed asked her to speak a few times to the new amputees. And then her nephew’s teacher invited her to speak to his school assembly around Veteran’s Day. One of the kid’s fathers turned out to be a reporter for the local paper who pushed her to do a story until she finally agreed. Though the Baltimore Sun wasn’t just any local paper. It was big. And so was the story. After it ran, the invitations came in from all over. And though some part of her always resisted agreeing, another part wondered how she could consider turning them down.

  Because she was alive when others weren’t. She could share their stories when they couldn’t tell them themselves. She could perhaps offer other veterans and their families the hope that was so hard to grasp onto in those early months after a serious injury.

  It was her duty. One way she could continue to serve. The only way she could continue to serve.

  The long minutes after her speech passed in a blur of congratulations on her talk and introductions to dignitaries in the audience.

  “Thank you for your service, Miss Sloane.”

  “Fantastic speech, Kenna. Truly inspirational.”

  “You’re a real survivor, Miss Sloane. Thank you for sharing your story.”

  Kenna was grateful for everyone’s appreciation—being thanked for her service and sacrifice meant a lot. But it was also hard to hear sometimes.

  Hard to hear because so often—too often—she felt like such a damn fraud.

  Everyone thought she’d adjusted so well—to the loss of her career, to the loss of her best friend in the Corps, to the loss of her right forearm and hand—but on the inside, she felt like a disaster. Grief, regret, guilt. And so much pain that sometimes she had to give into the promising lure of the narcotics her doctor prescribed.

  She should be stronger. She should be able to fight all this. She was a damn Marine—and always would be, whether she still wore the uniform or not. At least, that’s what she tried to remind herself.

  “How did it go?” Sierra asked through the car speaker phone not five minutes after Kenna pulled out of the hotel’s downtown Baltimore lot. Her sister was one of the few people who understood even a little of the inner turmoil Kenna tried to keep hidden from the world.

  “Fine. Good. It was a nice crowd,” Kenna said, her hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. One hand real, the other hand part of her myoelectric prosthesis. The hand was matte black and connected to a black and silver forearm shaft that cradled and covered the small stump of forearm that remained. Her gaze dropped for just a moment to the way the almost skeletal-looking fingers wrapped around the wheel.

  Be thankful for what you have.

  Because the prosthetic’s cost of over fifty thousand dollars had been mostly, and generously, covered by a foundation.

  “You there, Kenna?” Sierra asked.

  “Yeah, sorry. How’s Jake?”

  “He’s good,” her sister said, a smile clear in her tone. “He lost a tooth at school today and I’m waiting to make sure he’s asleep so I can play tooth fairy.”

  As Kenna maneuvered through Baltimore traffic, she couldn’t help the small smile that crept up her face. “How much does a tooth earn these days?”

  Sierra chuckled. “I’m giving him two bucks. The little bugger’s losing teeth so frequently lately that I’m half convinced he’s yanking them out for the cash. How was physical therapy? Didn’t you have an appointment this morning?”

  And there went that smile. Kenna didn’t question the effectiveness of physical therapy—the muscles in her residual limb were stronger, which enhanced her ability to control the movement of the prosthetic—it operated in part based on the electrical signals her remaining muscles generated. She also had more mobility in her right shoulder, and her neck and upper back pain had improved a lot.

  But physical therapy also left her arm fatigued and her body emotionally drained. And an intense session always seemed to exacerbate her phantom pain for a night or three after.

  “It was fine. Good.” Kenna merged into the right lane and turned.

  “That’s the same thing you said about your speech,” Sierra said, her tone easy-going but obviously concerned.

  Despite the light touch her sister tried to use, the comment still tripped Kenna’s shorter-than-usual temper. “What the hell do you want me to say, Si? That I’m exhausted? That I’m randomly driving around right now to avoid going home because I know the second I lay down the phantom pain will start, and I’ll have to grit my teeth through it all night in order to resist downing more pain killers? Which don’t always work anyway. That I’m terrified that the pain will never go away and I won’t be able to carry it, and I’m terrified that it will go away and how can I deserve that when George is dead? That every time I give a speech it makes the fear worse because now all these fucking people think I’m some kind of hero which means when I finally crash and burn they’ll all know I never deserved their praise and applause in the first place? Is that what you want to hear?” By the time Kenna finished the tirade she was breathing hard and shaking, her eyes dry as always. Why couldn’t she have a good cry and feel better like a normal person?

  The phone was quiet long enough that Kenna wondered if she’d dropped the call. And then her sister spoke. “That’s exactly what I want you to say. That and whatever else you’re really feeling. Pull over.”

  “What?”

  “Pull over. I want you to be safe and you’re driving upset right now.”

  On a huff, Kenna made her way to the side of the street and parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant. “Okay,” she whispered, smoothing her hands over her black dress pants.

  “I’m not a stranger, Kenna. You don’t have to put on an act for me. I’d know you weren’t in a good place even if you did so don’t waste your energy on it. I’d love for you to talk to me, but you don’t even have to do that. You can just be silently miserable with me if you want. Or you can rant at me. Whatever you need, I’ll do for you. And if you don’t know what that is, I’ll just be with you until you figure it out.” Another long pause. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” Kenna said.

  “Do you want to talk about any of what you just said?” Sierra asked.

  Kenna gave a humorless chuckle. “Nooo.”

  “Fine. But I will say this, I didn’t know Georgia as good you did, obviously, but I knew her well enough to know she would kick your ass for torturing yourself about her death. And you know that’s true. Even if you can’t feel it yet, you have to know it. She would not have wanted you beating yourself up on her behalf. She would’ve hated that for you.”

  A squeezing pang tugged in the center of her chest. Georgia Kern had been Kenna’s friend from the first day of basic training, and they’d quickly become close. “I know that’s true, but I…” She shook her head, the sadness of the loss washing through her for the millionth time.

  “I know,” her sister said.

  Kenna and Georgia, or Ken and George as everyone had quickly taken to calling them, had both volunteered for the Female Engagement Teams, or FETs, small, specially trained groups who served alongside male infantry units in the Middle East. In their FET, they’d worked as cultural advisors and liaisons, communicating especially with the women and families their units encountered. She and Georgia had loved their jobs, loved being central to the mission of the infantry units, loved getting to serve in such a fundamental and intense way.

  And then George hadn’t made it when another of the guys in their unit, Evan Burrell, had triggered a forty-pound IED during a patrol. Kenna had been walking on the other side of George, the force of the blast enough to throw Kenna up in the air, spinning her body like a helicopter blade. She’d been close enough that the explosion had ripped skin and muscle off her arm, and the way she’d landed had done the rest of the job of destroying the arm she eventually lost, despite multiple surgeons’ efforts to save it.

  One of the doctors had said that Georgia being there had probably saved Kenna’s life and, after he�
�d left the room, she’d vomited despite having nothing in her belly. Somedays, knowing she was alive because someone else had died was more guilt than she could bear. Especially when that someone had been her best friend.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, Si, okay?” Kenna said.

  “No you won’t,” Sierra said with absolutely no judgment. “But I’ll talk to you soon.”

  After driving around for another hour, Kenna finally returned to the small studio apartment she’d managed to find when she’d been discharged. She’d been living off of her savings, her disability, and the honoraria she received from her speaking engagements, so the five-hundred-square-foot place was the most she could afford. Sierra had wanted her to bunk in her guest room, but no way had Kenna wanted to force her less-than-cheerful self on her sister’s little family.

  She was so used to removing her prosthesis that the process barely took thought anymore. She released the suction, removed the limb and plugged it in to charge, and rolled off the protective sleeve and cleaned it for the next day’s use. And then she climbed into bed.

  Hours later, she remained wide awake, her eyes glued to the dark ceiling overhead, ghosts of every kind making it impossible to fall asleep.

  Tonight, the phantom pain was the worst of those ghosts. The pain made her arm and wrist ache despite the fact that she didn’t still have those parts. It was an ache that felt like, if she could just massage the muscles and joints, it would feel better. It was a pain that sometimes felt like an itch she could never scratch, or pins and needles that would never go away.

  But there were other ghosts, too. “Quit yer bitchin’.” Georgia’s voice. One of her favorite sayings when anyone uttered a gripe about anything. Kenna supposed that imagining her bestie wanting to kick her ass over the poor-me routine was better than remembering the sound of her screams when that IED had detonated.