Master of Freedom: A Mountain Masters Novella

by Cherise Sinclair

  Nice. Atticus set his hand over the little submissive’s pussy—playing fair by keeping his fingers on the outside—but he could feel her cunt spasming. Under his palm, her jutting clit was softening. She’d grown even wetter.

  Fuck, she came beautifully, and he damn well wanted to send her over again.

  However, he’d pushed her enough for one night, even though he’d given her opportunities to quit if needed. She had been a bit unnerved near the end—but her body had won out over her mind.

  He loved when that happened.

  As he withdrew his touch, she made tiny enjoyable whimpers, then opened her eyes, still looking dazed.

  He held her gaze and put his slick fingers in his mouth. Luscious honey, much like her voice. “Mmm.”

  A second later, she understood what he was doing and an adorable redness rolled from her breasts up into her face.

  Would she turn that same embarrassed color if he licked the taste straight from the source? If so, he’d have to make sure her hands were tied so he could enjoy himself at leisure.

  When the last of the treat was gone, he ran his wet fingers over her rosy nipples, enjoying the way they pointed again. Yep, arousable more than once. A man would be able to take her over and over. Make her come her head off.

  There was more than one kind of sadism, after all.

  But not tonight, unfortunately.

  “Let’s get you out of these ropes, sweetheart.” He unknotted the ties from her hips down. Sure, he could have cut through them, but…hey, he wanted the excuse to run his hands over her some more. Soft and fragrant, enticingly rounded, with skin like the smoothest of satins.

  Been a long time since a submissive delighted him so well.

  Her voice had gone husky, but the liquid smoothness was still there as she said, “Um, thank you, but this was awfully one-sided. I mean…”

  Oh, he knew exactly what she meant. His cock throbbed as if it wanted to burst its own restraints. “This night was for you, Virginia.” He rolled up the rope and tossed it onto his bag. Gently, he straightened her legs, massaging her hips and knees, hearing the cute suppressed mewls of enjoyment she made. Inhibited and yet not. Interesting contradiction.

  “But…”

  He stood her on her feet so he could undo the rope around her waist and breasts. “BDSM is a give and take sort of play, but doesn’t have to happen all at once. There are some times I take and take and take.” Not many, he’d realized after Jake and Logan had pointed out what an idiot he was. “Sometimes I give. And sometimes it’s both.”

  As he tugged at the knots, his knuckles brushed over her breasts. So fucking soft.

  “But you must be, um, hurting.”

  Wasn’t she a generous little cutie? “Yep, but I’ll survive. Was worth it to see you enjoy yourself.” After unwinding the rope from her waist, he tossed it onto his bag with the other to be cleaned later. Cupping her cheek, he kissed her lightly. “You’ve been a good girl. Why don’t I get you a glass of wine while we watch the others finish up?”

  Chapter Three

  She couldn’t believe how much the temperature could drop in these California mountains. When she’d left her cabin this morning, there’d been a frosty haze on the meadow grasses. Gin shivered and stood closer to the bricked-in grill as she stirred the gravy.

  Only the clients were still in bed. An hour ago—sometime near dawn—Jake had lit a fire, so Gin could cook over evenly hot coals. The biscuits in the Dutch oven should be done soon.

  Kallie’d made the coffee, and Atticus had gone to feed the pack animals.

  Unable to resist, Gin checked out the corral. Again.

  The Dom was simply heart stopping. His sheepskin jacket made his shoulders even broader. His jeans snugged over a really fine ass. Ignoring the food and water, the horses crowded around him, wanting his attention.

  He gave it in full measure just as he had with the students last night. Why did his unstinting generosity make her go all gooey inside?

  As the fragrance of bacon rose in the air, Gin popped a crispy strip into her mouth. Yum. Everything tasted better in the mountains.

  So…was the great outdoors why her orgasm last night had been off the charts?

  Or was it because she’d been tied up?

  Or because the person who’d wrapped her up like a macramé project was a drool-worthy hunk? An experienced, forceful Dom?

  Or all the above?

  Her lips curved. Perhaps, she should research the subject, since—hey, every female in the world wanted to know the answer. She’d start with sex in the wilderness without bondage, and advance to non-wilderness sex with bondage. Either way, she didn’t see a downside.

  As for the drool-worthy hunk—and powerful Dom, well… Gin shook her head. Finding comparable subjects might be difficult.

  After her “lesson,” Atticus had ignored her excuses, put his fleece-lined flannel shirt on her, and they’d joined the group around the fire. Classes over, the students and instructors were all having a good time. Atticus had served her a glass of wine and kept a comforting arm around her. Whenever she’d look up, his gaze had been on her. Studying her. Oh, she knew from her romance books he was just being a good—would he be called a top?—and performing aftercare stuff and making sure she wouldn’t have a bad reaction.

  Yet, the way he paid attention when she spoke, how he’d attended to her needs and cared for her, had made her feel important. Beautiful and intelligent.

  Worthy.

  Later, he’d walked her to her cabin and…mmmhmm…pressed her against the door and devoured her mouth until she was weak-kneed. To her regret, he’d steered her into the cabin and bid her good night as if they’d been on a perfectly ordinary date.

  This morning, she’d given herself a talking to about how one-night stands—one-night scenes?—were not to be taken seriously.

  Whatever the phrasing, one night was the operative term she’d told herself sternly.

  And then she’d seen the remnant of a rope mark on her ankle, and her panties had dampened as if she’d devoured an entire erotic romance. One perfectly good scolding totally wasted. She wasn’t listening to herself at all.

  “Those biscuits smell fantastic.” Kallie walked over to steal a piece of bacon. “You can ride trail with me any time you want.” With a quick grin, she strolled out to the cabins and yelled, “Five minutes to breakfast.”

  Gin blinked. The woman had a shout rivaling a prison guards’.

  The doors banged as people emerged.

  A few minutes later, Gin put a giant bowl of scrambled eggs on the table.

  Atticus patted the empty seat beside him, so, feeling like a starstruck teenager, she joined him. In the morning sunlight, his eyes were bluer than blue, and his beard was dark against his tan skin, giving him the appearance of a pirate.

  He smiled, tugged a loose strand of hair, and released her from the bondage of his gaze.

  Conversation was drowned out by the clatter of utensils as the crowd helped themselves. As people dug in, silence ensued.

  “I haven’t had biscuits and gravy like this since I left home,” Atticus said eventually, juggling his second biscuit.

  The mere sound of his deep, rough voice sent her heart into a set of flip-flops.

  “You’re a fucking fine cook, Gin.” His praise and the chorus of agreement warmed Gin better than any sweater.

  Even as she smiled her thanks, she studied Atticus. In the daylight, he seemed oddly familiar, as if she’d seen him before…although no woman in the world would forget meeting him. Then again, Bear Flat was so small she might have caught sight of him in the grocery or something.

  “Gin, I think you have a volunteer to help with the leftovers.” Jake motioned toward something behind Gin.

  She turned to see a black dog with sorrowful brown eyes sitting at the edge of the pavilion. A big Labrador, with every rib showing. She could see the hunger—and hope—in its eyes. “Oh, the poor baby. He’s starving.”

 
Kallie frowned. “Isn’t that old Cecil’s new bird dog? Um…Trigger?”

  “You think?” Jake studied the animal. “You figure no one picked him up when the old guy died?”

  “Cecil didn’t have family,” Kallie pointed out. She started to rise.

  “I’ll do it. I’ve got some food here,” Gin said. She crumbled a biscuit into the empty egg bowl and poured some bacon grease over it.

  “Gin,” Ralph said. “Be careful. The beast looks dangerous.”

  No, he just looked hungry.

  Before she was halfway across the pavilion, Atticus had joined her. She eyed him.

  “Just in case, sweetheart. The guy’s been on his own for a while.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Yet, having someone looking after her was comforting. And unfamiliar.

  Atticus stood silently as she knelt a few feet from the dog. “Hey, buddy, would you like some breakfast too?” she asked quietly. With the bowl beside her, she reached out her hand.

  The dog stood quickly, and she held her breath. What if he did attack? But then he padded forward, neck extended to sniff her fingers. After a second, she was able to stroke his head, ruffle his fur.

  “Oh honeyboy, look at you,” she crooned. “No one’s been caring for you, have they?” She nudged the bowl forward. “Time for breakfast, boy.”

  The Lab began to lower his head, then waited, gaze on Atticus.

  “Go on, buddy. Help yourself,” he said.

  And exactly like Gin last night, the dog obeyed the big Dom.

  After watching for a minute, Gin let Atticus pull her to her feet. They returned to the table.

  “No, we can’t take him in,” Jake was saying to Kallie. “Thor won’t share territory with another male dog. We’re lucky he made an exception for your cat.”

  Kallie pffted. “Mufasa would have clawed his face off.”

  “Like owner, like cat,” Atticus said and winked at Kallie.

  As everyone laughed, Kallie rolled her eyes. “Anyone up for taking in a dog?”

  The guests shook their heads, offering excuses ranging from no-pet condos to allergies to a houseful of cats.

  “How about you, Atticus?” Jake asked.

  “Not a good time. Lost my old hound last month; I’m not ready for another yet.” Atticus looked away.

  Bless his heart, he’d loved his pet, hadn’t he? Gin squeezed his arm in sympathy.

  His gaze settled on her, and a dimple appeared. “When I grew up, the last person to speak got stuck with the chores. Looks like you won yourself a dog, darlin’.”

  “What? No. No, no.” She drew herself up. “You’re very funny, but I can’t—” Her mind spun, trying to think of why she couldn’t.

  His grin was drop-dead devastating, darn the man. “Got other pets? Kids? Family? Allergies? No-pet living quarters?”

  The little mountain town had very few apartments, and she’d ended up renting an actual house. She thought frantically for a minute and reluctantly answered, “No.”

  When he ran a finger over her lower lip, heat touched his eyes, then disappeared as he said, “Cute pout, sweetling.”

  Bite him. Show the dog how it’s done.

  Atticus’s grin widened as if he could hear her thoughts. He tapped her lip lightly before removing his hand to safety.

  Darn.

  “You like dogs, sweetling. He likes you too.” He jerked his chin to the right.

  She turned.

  The Labrador sat behind her, looking ever so obedient. His brown eyes held a hope she couldn’t rebuff.

  “I think you’ve been claimed.” Atticus put his hand over hers. “He needs someone—and nothing is as straightforward as the love a dog can offer.”

  Gin had always wanted a dog, but her mother hadn’t allowed any animals; a strand of animal hair might mar Mama’s perfection. Preston had refused to consider pets—he hadn’t wanted to share her with anyone or anything.

  When younger, she’d visit her pet-blessed friends and discovered that purring cats and wiggling dogs were more addictive than any drug.

  A bubble of anticipation rose. Her gaze slid to the Lab. “Trigger? You want to come home with me?”

  He licked her hand.

  “Fuck, that was too easy,” Atticus muttered to Kallie. “She’s a pushover.”

  Grinning, Kallie winked at Gin and changed the conversation to the day’s plans and the route they’d take back to the wilderness tour headquarters.

  “So I simply…take him home?” Gin whispered to Atticus.

  “That’s right, baby.” He rested a hand on her shoulder, his blue eyes tender. “Take him home. Feed him. Walk him. Love him.”

  Atticus smiled down at the little submissive. Her face showed everything she felt, and the wonder there was that of an orphan seeing Christmas tree lights for the first time. She could break a man’s heart.

  He wanted to spend some time with her, and the fact she’d sat beside him pleased the fuck out of him. Unlike some awkward post-scene mornings, he was enjoying the woman’s company.

  Despite her clothes. Seriously, who wore gorgeous lingerie in a log cabin? And designer jeans and an expensive, curve-fitting sweater in the wilderness? Over it, she was wearing his flannel shirt from last night—and damned if he didn’t like that.

  High-maintenance women were usually piss-poor company. But…this one was a mass of contradictions. She wore no makeup. Although she’d pulled her hair back in some fancy braid on both sides of her head, the rest tumbled down her back freely. And she didn’t fidget with it. Her only jewelry was a necklace with a golden pendant: “If you can imagine it, you can achieve it. If you can dream it, you can become it.”

  She was a romantic. And she was going to adopt a bony Labrador. Yeah, he wanted to get to know her better.

  Although the fact that Jake would approve was annoying as hell.

  With a couple of bites, Atticus finished off his biscuit and grabbed another before Jake could get there.

  At Jake’s low curse, Gin giggled.

  Atticus turned to her. “Thanks for making my kind of food. When I helped at one of Kallie’s gourmet camp cooking weekends, I swear, the chef taught people to make a salad of two lettuce leaves topped with something gooey and a single raspberry. Jesus.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “No gourmet from me. I’m all about southern comfort food.”

  “Works for me,” Jake said, joining in. “I hope you come on more trips. We could expand our menus.”

  “I’d like to join you again,” Gin said. “I love cooking for others.”

  Jake glanced at Atticus. “See? She has the attitude you should search for.”

  Atticus stiffened. “Don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

  The Hunt brothers could be as tenacious as wolves on carrion, and Jake ignored him to say, “Those ‘do me’ submissives you pick up aren’t worth the time.”

  “What’s a ‘do me’ submissive?” Ralph asked, keeping the annoying topic going.

  Jake smirked at Atticus. “Much as there are Doms who are only interested in getting serviced”—he added air quotes around the word—“there are selfish submissives who care only about getting their needs met. They want to be taken under command for a scene, to get their rocks off…so to speak…and then they’re done. In a good relationship, each party—whether Dom or sub—has as much desire to please the other as to receive.”

  The guy from San Francisco nodded his understanding. “That selfish attitude is found in vanilla relationships, too.” The man kissed his wife’s hand. “Before Sylvia, I might not have understood what a difference a generous heart can make.”

  Atticus glanced down at Gin.

  She was listening with interest, although he doubted she fully understood.

  “The Dom/sub dynamic can confuse people. Sometimes it’s difficult to sort out what’s going on,” Kallie said to the guy, then turned to Atticus. “For example, you have a super-take-charge and protective side that disguises your over-the-top need t
o make your subs happy.”

  “Interesting. Super-take-charge and a need to please. I bet you were the oldest.” Gin tilted her head. “And maybe you needed to take on adult status before your childhood peer group did?”

  Atticus stared at her, brows drawing together. “Where the hell are you coming up with that?”

  “Gin’s a social worker at the prison.” Kallie added for Gin, “Atticus works with Summer’s husband at the police department.”

  A social worker? Like edged steel, the words sliced into his brain. He couldn’t move for a second. Sawyer’d mentioned last week that his counselor was a pretty Southerner.

  Counseling, my ass. Last winter had revealed to him the truth of prison “counseling.” It’d been in the prison reception room. Sawyer had his elbows on the steel table, his shoulders hunched like an old man, as if each day drained more of his endurance. After the so-called therapy had started, he’d almost stopped talking. Unable to tolerate the silence, Atticus had to fill in with talk about his week.

  When he’d complained about a perp arrested for the third time, his brother had muttered, “He’s a total fuckup. Like me.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Fuck, Att, even my therapist says I’m not worth the food I eat. The air I breathe. That I’m a waste of skin.”

  Their stepfather’d tried to convince Sawyer he was worthless. This counselor had damn well finished the job. Damn her. She’d appeared so softhearted; seems her generosity didn’t extend to convicts.

  As the students’ conversation drifted to overcrowded California prisons, Atticus turned to Gin and lowered his voice. “You like working with inmates?”

  “Not as much as I thought I would.” His frozen voice and expression must have registered. Her head tilted. “Even though you’re in law enforcement, you have a problem with people who work in prisons?”

  No. He had a problem with shrinks in general, like the one who’d medicated a teammate into a coma, the one who’d let his stepfather loose after his so-called “therapy,” and definitely this one in particular. “Yeah.”

  She flinched.

  He wanted to apologize…until he remembered his brother’s spiral into hopelessness. God, Sawyer, fight it. Frustration chilled his voice even further. “Yeah, I do.”