His to Claim

by Sierra Cartwright

  His to Claim

  Sierra Cartwright

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Come to Me

  Sneak Peek of Come to Me

  Other Titles By Sierra Cartwright

  HIS TO CLAIM

  Copyright @ 2019 Sierra Cartwright

  First E-book Publication: January 2019

  Editor: Nicki Richards, What’s Your Story Editorial Services

  Line Editing by Jennifer Barker

  Proofing by Bev Albin and Cassie Hess-Dean

  Layout Design by Once Upon An Alpha, Shannon Hunt

  Cover Design by Once Upon An Alpha, Shannon Hunt

  Photographer: Annie Ray at Passion Pages

  Cover Model: Dillion Lalor

  Photo provided by Annie Ray/Passion Pages

  Promotion by Once Upon An Alpha, Shannon Hunt

  All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Adult Reading Material

  Disclaimer: This work of fiction is for mature (18+) audiences only and contains strong sexual content and situations.

  It is a standalone with my guarantee of satisfying happily ever after.

  All rights reserved.

  Created with Vellum

  Especially for the sprint group that motivates and encourages, inspires and kicks ass. Thank you, Shayla, Jenna, Stacey, Angel, Elle, and Shayla F. You help me get more done, and I appreciate the brainstorming and the way you’re so generous with sharing ideas. Your friendship is a gift I cherish.

  BAB, I have no idea what I would do without you.

  And to you. I appreciate your taking the time to drop me a line to say hello and share your stories with me.

  Chapter 1

  There were a hell of a lot better ways Mason could be spending his Friday night. Watching a documentary on television, for example. Doing woodwork in his shop. Putting together ideas for his upcoming pitch to a home and garden network for a renovation show.

  Instead, not looking forward to the evening, Mason pushed through the door that led from the stairs to the reception area of the Quarter, New Orleans’ most exclusive BDSM club.

  Because of the large number of guests arriving for tonight’s charity slave auction, Aviana, the owner, was helping the receptionist check people in. When she spotted him, she smiled. A moment later, she excused herself and rounded the podium to greet him. “Mason!”

  “Milady.” He raised her hand to his lips. “Radiant, as always.”

  Tonight, the tall, willowy woman looked fierce, every bit the Mistress she was. Her boots snuggled her thighs, and the heels sent her soaring past six feet tall. Her two-piece outfit was sensational. The skirt and cropped jacket-type top were brown leather armor and adorned with hundreds of metal pyramid spikes. Her long hair was piled on top of her head, and silver pins were stabbed into it, making sure none of the strands dared attempt an escape.

  “You look dashing,” she said, smoothing one of his lapels.

  “It’s rented.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  It wasn’t a secret. Mason spent his days in blue jeans, well-worn boots, and T-shirts as he visited his job sites. When he had the chance, he swung the hammer himself.

  “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “You…” He cleared his throat. Coerced. “Convinced me.”

  She smiled with obvious triumph.

  To be fair, he owed her the show of support. They both served on the board of a charity his father had started, rehabilitating homes for the city’s elderly population. And once a year, Aviana hosted a fundraiser that helped make their work possible. He’d skipped last year’s event, and she’d made a point of mentioning that fact at each of their monthly meetings ever since.

  Still, this was the last place he wanted to be. He preferred to visit the Quarter on those rare occasions when he desired the connection with a submissive.

  “Program?” Aviana offered, taking one of the folded pieces of paper from the top of the podium.

  He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. Thanks.” Mason had no intention of bidding on any of the women participating in the slave auction.

  “Who knows? Perhaps you might be tempted.”

  To spend an entire weekend with a woman he’d purchased? Not likely. It had been more than two years since he’d invited anyone to share his bed. He checked his watch. “What time can I escape?”

  “The festivities should end around midnight.”

  “Drinks being served?”

  “The bar is closed until the auction ends.”

  He generally appreciated her rules. Right now? Not so much. The next few hours would be much easier with a nice bourbon.

  A crowd entered the foyer, filling the space with laughter.

  “We’ll catch up later?” she suggested. “Perhaps lunch within the next couple of weeks?”

  “As long as it’s friendly, with no written agenda.”

  “Of course.”

  He eyed her suspiciously, unsure whether she was telling the truth.

  Aviana turned away, then stopped to look back over her shoulder. “I’m glad you came.”

  He gave her a half smile. It was the best he could manage. Until he picked up the tux a few hours ago, he hadn’t been sure he’d actually attend.

  Mason pushed through the frosted-glass door leading to the dungeon that was filled with loud, thumping music, no doubt meant to excite the crowd.

  The first thing he noticed was Aviana’s throne, placed on a raised dais off to one side where she could lord over the event.

  All the usual play equipment had been removed from the area. The Saint Andrew’s crosses were lined up against the walls, with spanking benches placed in front of them.

  A stage had been erected at the far end of the room. Never one to do things by half measures, Aviana had hired lighting and camera crews and had positioned two large screens at angles so that all attendees would have a good view.

  Comfortable padded chairs had been arranged in precise rows for the bidders and gawkers who’d paid Aviana’s exorbitant admission fee. He knew exactly how much it was, since she’d billed his ticket to the credit card the club kept on file for his incidental expenses.

  Numerous gilded cages hung from the ceiling, all containing at least one person, several containing two. The entertainers moved in time to the music, some holding on to a wire in the top, others grabbing the bars, a few sliding up and down. The atmosphere seethed with energy.

  For twenty minutes, he talked to a few people he knew and thanked them for attending and supporting the charity.

  Suddenly the lights dimmed. Music shut off, and as if on cue, performers froze in place in their cages.

  “Welcome to the Quarter!” The w
ords reverberated through the dungeon, loud and commanding.

  On the stage, a flash exploded, and a stunning couple appeared near the edge. They were tall, exceedingly thin, and they looked so much alike he guessed they were twins, though one appeared to be female, the other male.

  They were dressed identically in stark-white pantsuits. Each had enormous eyes, with long, feathery lashes. Stunningly, they also sported dark hair, cut in a long bob, accented by angular bangs. Aviana was providing her guests with a spectacle. Despite himself, Mason was intrigued.

  The twins clapped in unison, then spoke as one. “Ladies and gentlemen, your seats, please.”

  Dungeon monitors urged attendees toward the chairs. Mason remained where he was, back pressed against the wall. Tore, Aviana’s massive bearded chief dungeon monitor, nodded his permission to allow Mason to stay where he was.

  As soon as everyone was in place, the twins spoke again. “Please rise for Mistress Aviana.”

  The doors were thrown open, and Aviana stalked into the room. Two beautiful male submissives trailed behind her, their leashes attached to her epaulets.

  She made her way down the center aisle. With each step, the gold in her outfit shimmered beneath the spotlights that were turned on her. When she neared the front of the room, Tore fell in step next to her, then offered his hand as she climbed onto her dais.

  After waving to acknowledge her adoring crowd, she took her seat on the throne. It had been commissioned years before by an admiring sub, and Aviana’s likeness was carved into the top. The rounded arm ends were custom-made from a plaster cast of her grip. As befitting her stature, the upholstery was the finest maroon-colored velvet. It had been crafted with hooks in strategic places where she could attach a slave or submissive.

  Once her subs were settled, curled at her feet and chained in place, the twins invited the audience to return to their chairs.

  Aviana didn’t put on many displays of her dominance, but when she did, the power of her command was as impressive as hell. His gaze strayed to the men at her feet.

  At one time, he’d had a submissive who showed him the same kind of deference. But behaving well during a scene hadn’t meant a flying fuck outside of it. When she finally left him—at the worst possible time—part of him had been relieved. Since then, he’d avoided personal entanglements.

  Until this moment, he hadn’t missed having a sub.

  Maybe Aviana had been right to encourage him to visit the Quarter more often.

  The twins introduced the evening’s emcee, Jaxon Mills, a renowned—and at times polarizing—internet marketing superstar. The man had in excess of a million followers on his social media platforms, people who hung on his every video and podcast. He’d started giving speeches to rapt audiences, and since his recent marriage, he’d evidently stepped up his volunteer work as well.

  A spotlight hit Jax as he all but leaped onto the stage. He pointed a finger, then swept it wide, indicating everyone in the crowd. “Get your checkbooks out and your credit cards ready. We have the world’s most stunning subs available for you tonight. And it’s all for a good cause. You’ve heard of Reclamation, a charity that benefits seniors living in our great city.” On the screens, a video started, showing volunteers scraping paint, hammering shingles into place, installing windows, working on plumbing, replacing furniture and appliances. Everyone was dressed in T-shirts bearing the charity’s logo. Volunteers were dirty, sweaty, but smiling, often pictured with the residents they were helping.

  Surprising Mason, several of the images included a picture of him.

  Without losing a beat, Jaxon continued. “This is what your contribution does. As you know, the need in our community is great. Because of your abundant contributions, last year we restored more than two hundred homes. If you were one of the heroes who made that possible, thank you.” He pushed his palms together and bowed. “But let’s be honest, shall we?” His voice was low and intimate.

  The man’s charisma had the room spellbound.

  “You know damn good and well that you’re fortunate sons of bitches. You can do a fuckpile more than you do. You can dig deeper. If you don’t help out tonight, you’re a loser, and I’m calling you out on it. We’re here for a purpose, and that isn’t just to leer at some gorgeous humans. It’s to leer and make our city proud.”

  “Hear, hear!” a woman called out.

  The video ended, and he stood there in a shimmering pool of light.

  When the raucous clapping ended, Jax reached inside his tuxedo jacket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a check. “Can I get a close-up, please?” Jax held up the piece of paper.

  The audience gasped, and Mason nodded approvingly. A hundred grand. Not a bad way to start the evening. There was a stunning amount of good they could do with that kind of money.

  “I have a confession.” Jaxon folded the check and used a thumbnail to make the crease sharp. “I’d budgeted fifty thousand for this event. But my wife watched this video. After seeing it, she volunteered for the charity.”

  A spotlight found a woman who was at the front of the room. She wore a long gold gown, formfitting and glittering with sequins.

  “In case you don’t know, this is my wife, Willow Mills.”

  People cheered for her, and Mason knew, firsthand, it was deserved. Despite being a submissive, she was next to her husband, and he credited her with helping him become a better man.

  “Tell them what you said to me, honey.”

  “I told you not to be a cheapskate”—a close-up image of her face was being projected on the screen, and her eyes danced with laughter that showed the love between them—“Sir.”

  The crowd exploded with laughter and more applause.

  “All right, all right!” He grinned. When the attendees settled again, he went on. “So I’m passing along her words. Don’t be a damn cheapskate. Our seniors have given so much over the years. It’s time to give back. And hey, if you’re not bidding, or you miss out on your favorite slave, you aren’t off the hook.”

  More hoots and cheers greeted his words.

  “There are silent auction items in the bar and reception areas. I know you want to hear some of the highlights. How about a week on a private island in the Caribbean? Griffin Lahey has made the donation, and your stay there includes a chef and an outdoor massage for two.” Images scrolled across the screens, of a couple snorkeling among tiny bright-colored fish, then lounging on chairs beneath an umbrella, a cocktail in hand. A sunset was shown next, with kayaks seemingly being rowed out toward it.

  How long had it been since Mason had taken a vacation? Shit. He dragged his hand through his hair. Not since his dad had passed. The year before that, Mason had been swamped with trying to keep the business running by himself. Maybe that explained his soul-deep exhaustion.

  “If that’s not your style, how about a high-roller weekend at the Royal Sterling Hotel in Las Vegas?” The resort was pictured, soaring from the Strip with its glass sparkling against the desert sun.

  Though Mason wasn’t a gambler, the restaurants were legendary, and the pool was the stuff of fantasies. He could sleep there for a week. Jesus. He really did need to get away.

  “Perhaps you’d like to fall in love with New York this autumn with a package that includes tickets to the hottest performances”—the pictures showed Broadway, then Grand Central Station—“a horse-drawn carriage ride through Central Park, and three nights and unlimited possibilities in the penthouse suite at Le Noble.”

  Even though he had no one to invite along, Mason was tempted to bid on every damn one of the escapes.

  “We have something for every taste. How about a signed giclée by Flahey?”

  A few people gasped at the sight of the bold colors and staggering lines slashed across the canvas. Mason knew the artist was well respected. He just didn’t understand why. The image was supposed to be of a rock star. If he squinted and turned his head to the side, he could make out a guitar. Maybe. Still, the man commanded a
fortune from collectors. The cynic in Mason would definitely prefer that money go to Reclamation.

  “If you don’t win a weekend with one of the Quarter’s amazing subs or one of our spectacular prizes, we’ll still accept your more than generous contribution at the end of the evening. There will be boxes throughout the space, at the coat check, at the exit, and a bunch at the bar. Oh, and one last thing—free drinks for anyone who donates more than five grand.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I hope you were prepared for me giving away your booze, Mistress Aviana!”

  The camera flashed to her. She gave a half smile and a very regal nod.

  “Ah, and finally, anyone who donates over ten thousand dollars will get an exclusive half-day consultation with me.”

  That was reportedly worth a lot more than ten grand. Jax was gifted at studying a business, branding it, focusing on its strengths, and positioning it for success.

  “And if you don’t contribute something, your name is going on my shitlist.”

  His statement was met with laughter—some genuine, some nervous.

  “In case this is your first auction, I’ll give you a little background on how the evening will proceed. We have a total of fifteen slaves. Yes, fifteen gorgeous, well-behaved individuals”—he looked directly into the camera—“who want to spend the weekend with you.”

  “Get on with it!” someone shouted.

  “They will be presented for your inspection in groups of five. After all the introductions have been made, we will have a brief intermission, and then the bidding will start. Now…who’s ready to begin?”

  The dungeon plunged into darkness. Moments later, strategic lights hit the stage and the overhead cages with their writhing occupants. Cheers rocked the room, and music again blasted through the air, a thumping, arousing sound that penetrated even Mason’s jaded senses.