The King of Infierno

by Jasmine Hill

  “Why would you see him later?” Makayla enquired curiously.

  “No reason,” Donovan said curtly and looked at his watch. “Let’s go back to the suite.”

  His tone didn’t brook disagreement, so she finished her drink in silence and followed him back to their rooms.

  * * * *

  Makayla flicked through the Canal+ channels trying to find something interesting in English to watch. She surreptitiously observed Donovan. He seemed restless and hadn’t settled down since they’d returned to their suite. She’d made up her mind that if he left again that evening, she was going to follow him. It would be a little difficult, getting out of the suite undetected, but the fact that he wouldn’t be expecting to be followed would be on her side. It meant that he wouldn’t be looking out for her. She’d changed into flats in readiness and hoped fervently that wherever he planned to go, he would go on foot. She didn’t know how to say ‘follow that cab’ in Spanish.

  Donovan walked into the bedroom and emerged a couple of minutes later, texting. He had a small bag with him.

  “I have to go out for a while, baby. I’m sorry.” He walked toward her then kissed her, plunging his tongue into her mouth and slanting his lips across hers. He grabbed her ass and massaged the cheeks hard, grinding his pelvis into her. “I won’t be long,” he promised.

  Makayla forced herself to wait until she knew that Donovan would be in the elevator. Then she raced out after him, punching the button for the service lift. She tapped her foot impatiently until the lift reached the lobby. She stepped out cautiously and was relieved to see Donovan striding toward the lobby doors. She followed him, keeping at a safe distance. She needn’t have worried, however, since he was striding with singular purpose, paying no attention to anything around him and definitely not bothering to look behind himself. The street signs indicated that he was heading in the direction of Chueca. Not unusual. Chueca had many bars and clubs. If he was actually meeting for business, it wouldn’t be an odd place to convene, particularly given that Donovan’s associates were mostly in the same line of work—clubs.

  She kept a discreet distance and eventually they emerged in Chueca, the narrow streets, robust nightlife and fetish shops signifying the barrio’s specialty.

  Donovan stopped outside a nondescript entranceway, checked his watch then opened the door and stepped through.

  Makayla crept closer, keeping flush against the wall and waiting a few minutes until she was confident that Donovan wouldn’t be coming back out any time soon. She walked away from the wall and stared up at an unremarkable sign above the entrance. It was odd in its lack of showiness—Infierno, lettered in simple red cursive.

  “Infierno,” she whispered. “Hell.”

  Makayla paced outside the entrance for some minutes, working up the courage to go in. She wasn’t sure what to expect and it scared the life out of her. She gave herself a mental pep talk then strode with purpose through the door.

  The dim interior was ominous, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. There was a heavy beat of music coming from somewhere within the bowels of the building. A stairwell led directly down to another level. She walked gingerly down the steps and over to a young man standing guard behind a desk. He wore black leather pants and what looked like a spiked dog collar around his neck. His lean bare chest was tanned and oiled and his short, dark hair gelled into severe points.

  He looked her up and down approvingly, his gaze settling on her breasts. She shifted uncomfortably and cleared her throat.

  He collected himself and met her eyes. “¿Puedo ayudarle? Este club es solo para los miembros,” he said in rapid Spanish.

  Makayla wrung her hands in confusion, suddenly feeling out of her depth, her gaze alighting on a thick black curtain directly behind the man. Was he telling her that she couldn’t enter?

  He looked her up and down again. “¿Habla ingles?”

  She understood enough to recognize that question. “Yes,” she said, relief coloring her voice.

  “Can I help you?” He spoke in hesitant, heavily accented English. “This club is members only.”

  “Oh, I was looking for someone.” She said slowly and clearly. “Donovan King.”

  The man arched his eyebrows in surprise. “El Rey?”

  Makayla frowned in confusion.

  “The King,” he elaborated. “The King of Infierno.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Makayla froze, mouth agape in dismay. What the hell was this club? But she didn’t have to stretch her imagination far. Her discovery on Donovan’s laptop, the oddly attired ‘doorman’ and the preferential entry requirements pointed squarely in one direction—this was a BDSM club. A BDSM club that Donovan was obviously highly placed in, if his ’The King’ moniker was anything to go by.

  She tried to calm her beating heart and get a grip on her emotions. The young man behind the counter was studying her curiously, obviously wondering what her relationship was to Donovan. Though what exactly she was to Donovan had yet to be established. The term girlfriend hadn’t even been tossed around in passing, just his constant references to her as his. It wasn’t lost on her that she hadn’t claimed that privilege for him. They hadn’t even discussed exclusivity, and thinking about that now gave her a sick feeling.

  “Are you his girlfriend?” The man finally asked the question that she’d just been contemplating.

  “Something like that,” she murmured, settling for a suitably vague response.

  “Any friend of The King’s is welcome here,” he said amiably in his sexy accent. “We will find out soon enough if he does not know you.”

  She understood from her brief investigative foray into BDSM that it didn’t always entail sex. Often it didn’t involve any sex at all, but was all about the control and submission aspect. At least she could hope that Donovan wasn’t on the other side of that curtain fucking some beautiful woman’s brains out. They obviously had a bar here, so perhaps he was just catching up with friends.

  She breathed deeply, squared her shoulders and prepared to face what was on the inside of Infierno.

  The young man swept the curtain aside and motioned her forward.

  She wandered into a bar area, the music louder and clearer inside. It was a rhythm that pulsed and beat with a heavy bass, something she didn’t recognize. People around the bar reclined in lounge chairs or perched on stools. They had one thing in common—they were all dressed in similar fashion—namely PVC, latex, leather—and were very skimpily clad. It was a kinky, fetish sex bar—not that she’d ever been to one—but she imagined this would be an excellent example. She stood on the threshold, keeping to the shadows, taking it all in. Nearby, a woman knelt by the feet of a man who was chatting to a gentleman next to him and patting the woman’s head, stroking her hair while she remained silently stoic in head-bowed submission.

  A woman dressed in a corset and impossibly high stilettos strolled past. She held a leash attached to a collar around a man’s neck. He walked behind her sedately, head down and clothed in nothing save for a pair of black leather briefs that left little to the imagination.

  Cries and moans echoed in the large space, emanating from different corners. Men and women alike were strapped to various contraptions and looked to be involved in what she now understood to be scenes. Dominants wielded bondage apparatus, whips, paddles and numerous toys, the music providing a sinister background to the kinky activities.

  Makayla was at once shocked and intrigued. It was one thing to read about these things, another to see them first-hand. To watch a person wielding a whip and lashing the flesh of another—it was alarming stuff.

  She assessed the scenes from her vantage point in the background for a few minutes longer, absorbing the atmosphere and willing her heart to calm. She couldn’t see Donovan. Of course, her position didn’t allow her to see all of the large space and she knew she had to move. She stepped away from her position by the door and tentatively ventured farther into the bar area. She didn’t g
et far when a gentleman stopped in front of her, eyeing her with interest. He spoke to her in rapid Spanish and she didn’t need a translator to recognize the hunger in his gaze. She smiled weakly and shook her head no. Whatever he’d asked, she didn’t think it would be something that she’d readily agree to, and no doubt, something that Donovan would be murderous over.

  She endeavored to look unremarkable as she walked around, keeping her head down and not looking anyone in the eyes. The air conditioning was low, sending cool air rushing over her skin and turning her nipples into hard points. The way they jutted beneath her dress was obscene, and while it was totally acceptable in that environment, it didn’t exactly make her inconspicuous. She wondered if Donovan was in a meeting in a back room. She was contemplating whether to go back to the hotel when she saw him.

  Her breath stopped in her throat and her stomach clenched. He wore fitted black leather pants, his bare muscular chest was heaving with exertion. His hard jaw and his eyes were cold and unforgiving. He looked totally hot and dominant, and relentless. But that’s not what had Makayla’s chest tightening and her breath halting. It was what he was doing and who he was doing it with.

  At his feet, a handcuffed woman knelt while he circled her, a crop held at his side. When he turned, the scarified eagle’s wings dominating his back stood out in stark relief under the ultraviolet lights, undulating as his muscles rippled with his movements, making them seem almost real.

  Makayla stopped and stared. The image he created was dramatic and literally took her breath away. She realized immediately the true symbolic nature of the eagle’s wings to Donovan—they represented everything he was as a Dominant.

  Makayla let her gaze drift over the kneeling woman. The woman wore a latex bra and matching miniskirt, a relatively sedate outfit, considering the venue. Red welts criss-crossed her back. She trembled, but Makayla could tell that it wasn’t from fear. The submissive was obviously excited, aroused even. Her flushed face, slightly parted lips and her erect nipples easily visible through the latex all indicated her stimulated state. She arched her back, exaggerating her chest. She wore a blindfold and her dark hair formed a soft veil around her bent head. Even to Makayla’s untrained eye, she looked beautiful in her submission.

  Jealousy, fierce and hot, flared through her, fisting her heart and squeezing, leaving her physically shaking from the intensity. She wanted to take that crop and smack the woman over the head with it. She felt positively violent. Donovan’s betrayal and his duplicity were absolute. Only the previous evening she’d been fantasizing about this very thing, imagining Donovan doing these things to her. And here he was, wielding that supremacy, that dominance, over another woman.

  Makayla watched with blurred vision as he raised the crop and sent it expertly cracking across the woman’s back, forcing her to arch farther and moan, but drawing no blood and leaving only the smallest mark. They were surrounded by a group of observers, all watching the scene with acute interest.

  The second strike was too much for Makayla to bear and she sobbed loudly, hurt and outrage taking tight hold of her.

  Donovan snapped his eyes to hers, wide with confusion then, in a nanosecond, they narrowed with his anger.

  Makayla didn’t wait around. She needed out of there—and fast. She swung about and headed blindly for the exit, stumbling in her haste. Donovan’s loud and emphatic cursing followed her but she didn’t pause. Then, incredibly, Fernando appeared at her side—where the fuck had he come from? She didn’t know, nor did she care, only that he was the closest person she could call a friend, however loosely.

  He grasped her elbow. “Makayla, you’re in no state to be alone. I’ll take you back to the hotel.”

  She nodded and leaned on him, allowing him to lead her outside and into a taxi, thankful for his proximity. Her mind raced as she tried to piece together what she’d witnessed and the implications. She was now supremely relieved that she had access to her savings. At least she’d be able to purchase a return ticket. She’d leave everything at the hotel save her few personal items. She didn’t want any of the clothes or other things that Donovan had given her and had always intended on returning them to him. She’d only acquiesced where that was concerned because he’d cajoled her into it, playing to her compliant nature.

  She really didn’t know what to think, her mind a jumble of questions. She did know, however, that she felt totally wounded by Donovan’s betrayal. Why had he been keeping this from her, hiding his activities and covertly sneaking around? She hoped to God that he hadn’t taken his scenes further and into sexual territory—the thought made her physically ill.

  Beside her, Fernando placed a reassuring hand on her knee and gave a little squeeze. She smiled weakly at him. At least her tears had subsided, but she must look a frightful mess.

  She sighed and leaned her head back, closing her eyes, the events of the evening having exhausted her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Donovan raged. He wanted—no—he needed desperately to go after Makayla, but his responsibilities as a Dom left him with few options. Aftercare of a sub was an extremely important aspect to a scene, and he would be remiss in his duty if he just charged out and left the sub to tend to herself. Some Dominants required aftercare too, but Donovan had never gone in for it. He suspected because he felt it challenged his own self-control. Now, he had to waste precious time tending to someone else—

  “Fuck!”

  The look on Makayla’s face had just about broken him. Initially, he’d been confused. Then anger had overtaken him, so visceral that it had left him shaking. How the fuck had she found him and who the fuck had let her in?

  And where the hell was Fernando? The last time he’d seen him was before Makayla’s arrival. Was that motherfucker using Donovan’s predicament and Makayla’s distress to his advantage? Jealousy gripped him like a vise. If Fernando so much as touched a fucking hair on her head, Donovan would kill him.

  He spent half an hour ensuring that the sub was okay, that she felt comfortable and safe. Then he got the hell out of there, hailing a cab to take him directly to the hotel. He’d spent most of that half an hour of aftercare rejecting the sub’s advances. She always wanted something more. She’d wanted sexual release from him, even though they had discussed beforehand that it wasn’t an option. A while ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated. In fact, he would have taken great pleasure from it, but not since Makayla. From the time when she had entered his life, there hadn’t been anyone else, only her. Fuck knew what she was thinking now. No doubt that he’d been cheating on her, and in a way, he guessed he had, but not sexually. He’d understood the risks associated with sneaking around behind Makayla’s back, but he’d needed the release, the outlet that a BDSM session gave him. He should have fucking listened to his gut instinct. He had to hope that she was still at the hotel, that she didn’t have the funds to get herself back to Australia, but knowing Makayla, she’d have factored in the possibility of having to return without him. The five-minute cab ride seemed interminable. Finally, they pulled up outside the Totally Five Star. Donovan threw a ten-euro note at the driver, not waiting for change, and dove out to sprint inside to the elevator bank.

  He tore through their suite like a madman—she wasn’t there. All of her things looked to be in place so he had to hope that she hadn’t left the hotel. Then again, he wouldn’t have put it past her to have left all the things he’d given her behind. He’d virtually had to bully her into accepting everything in the first place.

  He headed back downstairs and thought about Fernando. He was suspicious as to why that fucker had left Infierno when he had—right after Makayla had fled. Donovan knew he wanted Makayla. He’d been pretty fucking blatant about it, actually.

  Donovan barged into Fernando’s office and took in the scene. They were sitting side by side on the lounge. Fernando had one arm around Makayla’s shoulders and a hand on her knee. Her head was bent close to his as they talked quietly—what the fuck? Rage, hot and heavy, roared
through him and punched him in the gut. How dare the prick touch her! In two quick strides, Donovan was looming over them.

  “Do you fucking mind?” he grated between clenched teeth, his hands fisted at his sides. “Keep your hands to yourself, motherfucker.”

  The other man smiled grimly. “It’s not a good time, King. Makayla needs a moment.”

  “She can take a moment in our suite,” Donovan snarled. “She’s coming with me.”

  Without another word, he bent and snatched her away from the man, scooping her up and into his arms. She didn’t struggle, perhaps assuming that it would do no good. It wouldn’t. He needed her to hear him out and he would do anything in his power to ensure that happened.

  He stalked out of Fernando’s office and glanced down at Makayla. Her mouth was set in a mulish line and she refused to meet his eyes. He used his elbow to punch the elevator button, keeping her cradled in his arms.

  “I am capable of walking, Donovan,” she snarled at him.

  “I’m well aware of that. But I prefer you in my arms.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” she muttered under her breath.

  Donovan narrowed his eyes on her but remained silent. Her sullen expression and rigid posture told him not to push things.

  He didn’t want to stand her on her feet. A strange fear had gripped him, telling him that if he let her go, she’d be gone for good. They arrived at their suite and, holding Makayla with one arm, Donovan swiped the key card, opening the door. He always marveled at how easy it was to carry her. She was so little that he handled her with ease. Good job too, he mused—it meant that he had better control of these unfamiliar situations.

  “You can put me down now,” she said petulantly.

  “Promise me that you won’t run,” he demanded, holding her tightly against his body.

  She huffed out an exasperated sigh. “I won’t run.”

  He looked down at her, assessing her expression then decided that if she did break her promise and run, he could catch her easily. He loosened his hold and allowed her to slide down his body slowly, relishing the feel of her soft curves against his hardness.