by Donya Lynne
Trace followed him, his bare feet pattering quietly on the uncarpeted floor. Now the reason for the deliberately slow shower, body part by body part, was clear. His entire body hummed with awareness, fully alive. Every nerve ending tingled as air flowed over his skin and cooled him.
For two weeks, Trace had endured sensory deprivation, held mostly in darkness and shadows, with nothing but a cold floor and a scratchy, dirty cot to lie on. No breeze had flowed within his cell, and aside from Cordray’s one and only visit, the only people he had seen were the guards who brought him tasteless food and tended to his waste. He hadn’t been allowed to bathe, and he’d had no way of knowing day from night.
Now he was free. At home. At least, this was the only place he’d been in a long time that felt like home. The trailer where he resided had always felt more like a tomb. Lifeless and without joy. That was why he used to spend his downtime at AKM, inside his dorm. Now he spent that time with Micah and Sam.
But this was the first time he had been inside Micah’s dungeon, and it didn’t disappoint. The space was large and packed with equipment he both recognized and had never laid eyes on before. The St. Andrew’s Cross was familiar, but the contraption that looked like a combination ramp and deformed bench wasn’t. He wondered what that thing was used for.
One terra-cotta wall was adorned with floggers, and two large, custom-made storage units that looked like dressers stood nearby. In one corner sat an ancient Iron Maiden that looked more decorative than functional, and beside that was a wrought iron bed with enough loops and hooks molded into both the head- and footboards, as well as in the frame and the ceiling overhead, to make for some interesting bondage.
How often had Micah tied Sam to that bed? And would Micah eventually tie him to it, too?
He could hope.
The ceiling reminded him of the Sistine Chapel, only the mosaic in Micah’s dungeon included erotic images, not angelic ones. Men and women engaged in all manner of congress stared down at him as he followed Micah to a straight-backed chair in the center of the room. Micah set the shaving gel and razor on a small, nearby table.
“Sit.” Micah gestured toward the chair then opened a nearby cabinet and pulled out a plush hand towel.
It wasn’t Trace’s place to ask what was happening. His job was simply to do, to trust. Not think or doubt.
He sat down as Micah grabbed a deep, silver bowl from a cabinet under the counter. He took the bowl to the bathroom, filled it with water, then returned and set it on the table beside the towel. In the next blink, Micah was behind him, grabbing his arms. Hard.
He almost moaned as Micah bound his wrists to the rear legs of the chair so that they hung straight down past the wooden seat.
The delicious sensation of being bound vibrated through his muscles, and his helpless dick nodded in approval. He always got hard during play sessions. And even though he was only just out of a two-week incarceration, all it had taken was that first slap in the bathroom to awaken his depravity and give his annoying power a kick in the nuts.
Without a word, Micah came back around to the side of the chair, filled his hand with shaving gel, lathered it into thick, musky foam, and slathered it over Trace’s head. “If only I had a straight razor,” he said thoughtfully as he wiped his hands on the towel. “Oh, the fun I could have with you if I did.”
Trace looked up to see the corner of Micah’s mouth turn slightly upward, as if he were entertaining a private thought.
“May I speak, Master?” Trace said.
Micah met his gaze and nodded, that half-smile still on his face. The guy looked as content as a nurse in a hospital, right where he belonged. Exactly where he wanted to be. It made Trace feel loved.
Not like sexual love. More like familial love. Brotherly, but not quite . . . a little more heated than that.
Theirs was such a strange relationship.
“Yes. You may speak.” Micah lifted the razor and smoothed it down the side of Trace’s head. The quiet sound of stubble snapping off against the blade mingled with gentle, synthesized music piped into the room.
“Thank you.”
Unfazed, Micah dipped the razor in the bowl of water and went back to shaving his head. “For what?”
Heat spun in the air around Micah, who gave off strength and confidence unlike anything Trace had ever felt. It was why Trace had longed to be his sub. Micah was self-assured, virile, and yes, attractive. He was what Marilyn Manson referred to as one of the beautiful people. Easy on the eyes and hard on the body, with an intensity that measured itself not just on his face, but over every inch of his skin and right down to his bones. Even his clothes—black cargo pants and a long-sleeved, body-hugging Under Armor shirt—seemed alive with his energy.
“For coming to get me.”
The razor skimmed another line down his head. “I told you I would . . . that I would take care of you.”
“I know, but . . .”
Micah switched sides and continued to strip his scalp of what little hair had grown in over the past couple of weeks. “I wouldn’t have left you there,” he said quietly, his voice deep and resonant. “I was ready to kill to get you out of that place.”
Nothing was said for a while as Micah finished shaving his melon then wiped off his head, grabbed the shaving gel, and collected another palm full of it before smoothing the foam over Trace’s jaw, cheeks, chin, and mustache.
“What did you do to your arms?” Micah tugged Trace’s cheek with his fingertips and ran the razor up his stubble.
His arms? He began to look down, forgetting that he was bound, but he knew what Micah was referring to. He wanted to know about the cuts and the self-inflicted bites. In his cell, the self-mutilation had been all that had stood between his sanity and full-on mutation.
“Well?” Micah cleared the shaving cream from one side of his face and moved to the opposite side.
“I cut myself. It was how I kept my sanity without you.”
Without you. Something Trace never wanted to endure again.
“The cuts aren’t healing,” Micah said nonchalantly. “When was the last time you fed?” He wasn’t talking about food. He was asking about blood.
Trace shrugged. “I don’t know. I lost track of the days in there, especially at the end.”
“You need blood.” Nothing in Micah’s tone betrayed what he was thinking, but when he tipped Trace’s head back to shave the underside of his chin, he bent down and licked the side of his neck. “You’ll feed from me,” he whispered against Trace’s skin.
Just the thought of taking blood from his master—from Micah—sent warmth into his belly, along with a stab of hunger.
“Micah—”
“I’ll hear no protest. It will be my gift to you if you please me in our session. And I know you will please me.” Micah’s lips caressed his neck as he spoke. “I can replenish myself from Sam later.”
The razor made one last pass over his skin, and Micah stood without making eye contact, grabbed the towel, and wiped the remaining shaving cream away.
“How is Sam?” Trace said, his body alive and eager for more as Micah continued to reawaken his senses.
“Ready for you to rejoin us in our play with one another.”
In other words, Sam wanted Trace to return to his role of voyeur to her exhibitionist. “And you?”
Micah disappeared behind him, and Trace heard the rustle of his cargo pants as he crouched and released his bound hands. “What are you asking me, Trace?”
Before Trace was sent to King Bain’s dungeon, he had admitted to Micah that he was attracted to both him and Sam. How could anyone not be attracted to either of them? They were beautiful. Just look at Micah. Trace’s gaze drank in his best friend as he stepped in front of him again. Micah’s face was all sharp angles, the perfect balance between handsome and brutally sexy. Black hair hung in lustrous waves past his shoulders, and the black shadow of facial hair lining his jaw made him look more like a god than a sloppy bum. Micah was
a sculpture of flesh and bone. A vision. A magnificent work of art worthy of the Louvre.
Trace cleared his throat and rubbed his thumbs over his wrists. “Are you eager for me to rejoin you in your play with one another?”
A smile teased the corners of Micah’s mouth. “You’ll just have to wait and see.” He pointed to the floor in front of the chair. “Now, present yourself to me, slave.”
The time for talk was over. It was time to revert back to full submission.
Trace dropped to the floor, on his knees, towel still around his waist, head bowed. He placed his hands on his thighs and waited. This was it. His dreams were coming true.
Micah’s black Doc Martens entered his field of vision. “Every Dom you’ve had before me is nothing, slave.” He paced to the side. “They could never give you what I can. They never knew you like I do . . . like I will. In time, you will submit to me as you’ve never submitted to anyone.” He began walking a slow circle around him. “You think you need pain for your power, but with me, you will come to love it for what it is. You will love it for the pleasure I infuse within it.” Micah’s palm caressed the top of Trace’s freshly shaved head, his hand warm on his damp skin. “You will need it for more than just to keep your power at bay, Trace.” His hand trailed down to Trace’s neck and shoulder as he stepped around him from behind. “I will bleed your mind more than your body, and then you’ll see what true submission is. The Doms you’ve used before me may have been capable. Some might even have been superior. But no one can give you what I can, Trace. You’re mine. You belong to me now. Do you understand?”
A chill raced up and down Trace’s spine. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Very good. From now on, when we’re here, in my dungeon, you will call me Master. Only here. Not at AKM. Not in the rest of my home . . . except if you need me in that way. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
Micah caressed the side of Trace’s face, across his forehead, and then rotated his wrist and brushed the backs of his fingers down his cheek as he walked another circle. “Tonight, I will give you just a taste to get you through your needs, and then we’ll talk. Since I can’t get inside here, yet”—he tapped Trace’s head with the tip of his index finger—“you will tell me your limits, if you have any.” Micah stopped in front of him, his toes firmly planted directly below Trace’s eyes. If Trace lifted his head, he would come face to crotch with Micah. “I will tell you my limits now.” Micah reached under Trace’s chin and urged his head up. As he suspected, Micah’s crotch was only an inch away from his face. Micah’s expression remained stern. “Despite what you’re used to from your previous male masters, I will not fuck you. That part of me is for Sam. Do you understand?”
Trace nodded, and his chin grazed the cotton fabric of Micah’s pants as Micah tilted his hips ever so slightly forward, as if he were teasing Trace with what he’d just vowed he would never give him. “Yes, Master.”
“Good. And you will not fuck me, because . . .” Micah’s right eyebrow ticked upward as his mouth quirked. “Well, because I pitch. I don’t catch.” He gave a subtle smirk. “But . . .” He slowly lowered himself until he was crouched in front of him. They were eye to eye. Hell, they were almost nose to nose. “Oh, but Trace, I will make you come.” He leaned forward and let his scruffy cheek rub against Trace’s freshly shaved skin as he whispered in his ear, “I will use what you told me before you went to prison, about your attraction to me, as well as to Sam, and I will use it well.”
“Yes, Master.”
Micah’s lips caressed the lobe of Trace’s ear. “You revealed yourself ever so little that day, but ever so much.” He ran his lips down Trace’s jaw then brought his face around so that he looked Trace squarely in the eyes, their lips so close Trace could feel the warmth from Micah’s skin. So close they shared the same breath. “To you, these sessions might be about keeping your power at bay, but to me, they will be equal parts agony and pleasure. Pleasure no other Dom has ever been able to give you like I can.”
“Yes,”—gulp—“Master.” Trace’s eyelids had grown heavy. He was more aroused from Micah’s words than his last mistress had been able to get him by flogging him.
“I will push you, Trace. Not just physically, but emotionally. Mentally. But I will never give you more than I think you can handle.” He edged closer, and their lips touched, but not in a kiss. “I will earn your trust, and I will break you. And you will never want for another master for the rest of your life.”
“I already don’t want for another master for the rest of my life,” Trace said quietly, his lips moving against Micah’s.
Micah grinned, and the tiny lines around his eyes creased, but he didn’t pull back. “That’s good, slave.” He inched backward. “And one more thing.”
Trace’s gaze locked drunkenly to Micah’s as if he were hypnotized, ready to hang on every word Micah uttered. “Yes, Master?”
“You will let me in, Trace. You will open your mind to me.” He cupped his hand around the back of Trace’s head, swiped his palm over his cranium and back down, where he secured his hold against the back of his skull. “I can be so much more effective if you open your mind to me.”
Trace blinked, swallowed, and then let his gaze drop away.
Micah abruptly leaned forward and pulled Trace’s head to his so their mouths crashed together. Micah growled as he closed his lips over Trace’s in a bruising, possessive caress. All Trace could do was relinquish and let it happen.
This wasn’t a kiss of passion, nor one of lust. This was a seal of ownership. One that declared Micah as the keeper of Trace’s body and soul from here until forever. A promise Trace readily acquiesced to as he opened his lips and gave himself over to the power exchange. He was eager to begin this journey with his new master.
Micah released him and pulled away. “Am I understood, Trace? Do you understand the importance of opening your mind to me?”
“Yes, Master.” Trace didn’t know how or when, but he knew he would eventually have to knock down the barrier around his thoughts to let Micah see his secrets. Micah was a tenacious fucker. Now that Trace had agreed to let him in, Micah would needle, paw, and—eventually—demand Trace to open his mind.
Just as long as Micah was ready to see everything.
The good, the bad . . . and the regretfully ugly.
Chapter 5
I can suck his ass? Really?
Cordray picked up Micah’s words from the guard’s thoughts as easily as if that SOB were standing right in front of her.
Rainwater still dripped from her hair and clothes, the taste of blood still filled her mouth, her vision wasn’t quite back to normal, and from what she could tell, her lip had swelled up like a marshmallow. Even so, what Skeletor had done to her was the least of her worries. Micah had taken Trace without her permission, which shot him to the top of her shit list.
Granted, from the images she’d picked up from the guard’s mind, Trace had been one pint shy of overflowing, and the terror streaming off the guard was enough for her to know shit had been critical. Micah busting Trace out had been the right call, especially since she’d been almost an hour late.
Would she ever admit that out loud? Hell no. But she knew if Micah had waited for her to arrive, Trace might not have survived.
The idea that Trace could have died tonight didn’t sit well with her. In fact, it chilled her marrow and struck fear into her heart, which only added to her irritation. When had Trace become so important to her?
Okay fine, she’d been drawn to Trace the moment she first saw him two weeks ago, but that didn’t mean she cared about him. She was drawn to lots of people. Didn’t mean she would cry if they died. So then why did the thought of Trace’s demise hit her emotions so hard?
That first day she’d seen him—when she’d found him so magnetically intriguing—he had touched her. He’d grabbed her arm. No biggie for someone else. But for her?
Him touching her had been anything but ordinary. Monumental was more like it. Because when he touched her, he lit her world on fire. In an instant, with his hand wrapped around her forearm, life as she’d known it for eight hundred years ceased to exist. Trace could make her feel. Hot, cold, pain . . . aroused. Name the physical sensation, and as long as Trace was near, she felt it. But only with Trace. The rest of the time, she felt nothing at all. No pain. No pleasure. Just emptiness.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath as she spun away from the destruction that had been Trace’s holding cell and marched up the hall toward the lobby, leaving a trail of rainwater behind her.
Trace aroused her. And not just because she could feel him. He aroused her because he was the most powerful male she’d ever known, and that kind of power turned on any warm-blooded female with a heartbeat. Her especially, because she was one tough bitch who didn’t need pussies for lovers. She liked it rough, because rough allowed her to at least pretend she could feel. But with Trace, she wouldn’t have to pretend. She would be able to feel every heated caress, every bruising thrust, every scratch of his fangs. With Trace, she wouldn’t need it rough. Slow and easy would be good enough to send her into orbit.
Just the thought was enough to make her girly parts clench.
But her attraction to him was about more than his power and his ability to awaken physical sensation. About more than his wicked mixed-blood gifts that roused her awareness. Her attraction stemmed from the fact that everything about Trace spoke to every part of her. The low timbre of his voice made her heart flutter. The square set of his jaw beckoned her teeth to take a nibble before tasting his lips. His sultry, pale-green bedroom eyes hinted at carnal mysteries yet to be discovered. And the way he carried himself—all primal power and unbridled aggression—made her want to fall on her back and pull him between her legs.
She hated admitting it, but Trace’s soul called to hers in a way she hadn’t experienced since her youth. Not since Gideon. But look at how that had turned out. Thanks to the male vampire’s traitorous call to mate, she’d lost her sense of touch completely. Until Gideon, she’d felt everything. Cool breezes over her face, warm water on her skin . . . pain, pleasure—all of it. It wasn’t until he broke her heart—no, shattered it—that the world became a numb desert she could participate in but never feel.