First Taste: A Collection of Hot Alpha Doms

by Sidney Bristol

  “Shh, bébé. Shh. I’m here. We’re going to fix this.” His arms wrapped around her from behind, and his big body cradled her.

  For once in her life, she wanted to believe the lies someone spoke.

  If only Jacques could fix it.

  JACQUES SAVOY PUSHED A MUG of hot decaf coffee across the worn table that had once graced his mamère’s kitchen. “Drink.”

  Odalia slumped in her chair. She’d drawn in on herself, shrinking from the dynamic woman who’d captivated him to this sad creature. He’d give his left nut to make it better, a sentiment that disturbed him a little.

  Before their photo shoot on Christmas Eve, he hadn’t spent much time around the little cop. Bounty hunters and police might work together, but there were plenty of hard feelings there. He’d given her a wide berth. Until two weeks ago.

  He’d opened his mailbox and pulled out the latest issue of Inked magazine and recognized the model on the front by her tattoos alone. She’d faced away from the camera, but he’d seen her at the dungeon often enough in panties and little else to be familiar with the unique ink.

  Jacques had seen the little cop in a whole new light, and he’d known he had to photograph her. The rest was history. And now not a good one.

  He pulled out the chair next to hers and sat down, caging her legs between his knees. The chemistry between them was natural. He wondered how they’d missed it but probably because neither had looked for it. Even when she didn’t want it to, her body yielded to his. Odalia was hardwired to be a sexual submissive. He’d also seen her in uniform enough times to know that it was a side of her few saw.

  “Ça va? Talk to me, bébé. What were you doing with a police informant bound like that?” He knew, but he had to gauge Odalia’s character. He hadn’t anticipated the little cop going rogue, and he wasn’t about to help a dirty cop.

  She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and massaged her temples. Dark waves flowed over her shoulders, the kind of hair a man wanted to wrap around his fist for better leverage. He’d bound her with ropes in one pose and used her locks to both blindfold and disguise her face. He’d had to get creative to adhere to her rules, but they’d had fun. She’d even appeared to be aroused by some of the scenes they’d shot.

  “I need to get those pictures back, Jacques. You don’t understand.” Her voice was strained, pained even.

  “I know this. And, bébé, I do understand. But strappin’ a man down like that?” He shook his head. “It ain’t the answer.”

  She stood, shoving the chair back, and stalked across the kitchen. “I know that, but I had to do something.”

  He glimpsed torture in her gaze before she pivoted and paced into the living room of his loft. Her expression told the tale he needed to know. She was a desperate woman, pushed too far.

  Odalia bent and picked something off—

  Oh. That.

  She turned, holding up the glossy magazine, one brow arched.

  A woman, Odalia, sat on a white box, wearing a pair of lace panties. One arm was planted on the box while the other held her hair up. The way her back was arched, the camera caught a glimpse of her breast, but the eye was captured by a vivid black-and-gray tattoo stretching over her back and down her hip. It was a mural of New Orleans history, so detailed he expected the gator on her side to open its jaws and snap at him. One of the articles was about the rebound of the alternative lifestyle in the city after Hurricane Katrina.

  Odalia’s skin coloring was perfect for such a tattoo. Jacques had asked her outright about her lineage, and it turned out to be a fascinating mix that created the most beautiful canvas. Her mixed heritage of Spanish, French and Native American descent created a light, warm sienna tone for the art.

  The only thing about the photograph he hadn’t liked was that Odalia’s face was turned away. It was sexy, but he didn’t feel a connection to it without her eyes.

  “I told you I recognized you.” She was a hard person to miss at the dungeon. Attractive, physically fit and responsive, she drew men in like honey. He’d seen her with a variety of play partners but never collared. He could guess at her reasons. The job, her complicated lifestyle, stubborn nature—they were all matters that made the usual power exchange relationships difficult.

  “It’s a good shot,” she said.

  He glanced at the cover, and he wondered what she thought of it now.

  “Odalia?” Jacques rose and walked across the loft to her. He took the magazine from her and tossed it back onto the coffee table, next to all his other tattoo and gun magazine subscriptions.

  She dropped her chin, staring at his chest. He’d observed Odalia in many states and never had she seemed this disheartened or depressed. She was spitfire and gin, a Molotov cocktail in human form. He itched to shake some sense into her. The world wasn’t going to end because of a few pictures.

  Jacques reached around her, wrapped her long, glossy hair around his hand and yanked her head back. She gasped. He felt her switch into submissive mode as one might feel the change in air pressure before a storm. It was a palpable thing. Her body softened, bowing toward him, and her eyes dilated. She grasped the front of his shirt, fisting it in both hands.

  The sweet zing of chemistry flashed between them. He’d sensed it during the photo shoot as he’d bound her and positioned her body, and when she posed, she seemed to do so for him, not the camera. But now, outside the bounds of professionalism, he couldn’t help but stare at her lips and wonder, again, what did they feel like? How would she kiss?

  She licked her lips and shifted her weight forward.

  It would be so easy to take her mouth.

  “Bébé, I’m going to let go of you, and we’re going to talk about this for a minute, and then we’ll figure out how to find the camera. Feel me?”

  She flattened her hands against his chest. “Yup.”

  Sassy girl.

  Jacques released her and took a step back. She swayed but remained where she was. They stared at each other, breathing in time.

  Hell, he hadn’t dated a woman in an age. It was hard to find one who wanted more than the excitement of banging a bounty hunter, who was kinky but also wanted something serious. Casual relationships were a dime a dozen, but he wasn’t interested in the passing pleasures anymore. There was something about the little cop that got to him.

  “You said you wanted to talk about it.” Odalia shrugged out of her leather jacket and tossed it on the couch.

  “Seems like the right thing to do.” It was that or strip her, tie her up between the supporting beams in the loft, and flog her until she was as red as the mechanical Rudolph on his neighbor’s balcony.

  “What is there to say?” She peeled off her long-sleeved knit shirt, leaving her in a thin black camisole. Tattoos wound over her shoulders and down her arms. She had a sacred heart nestled between her breasts, like a good Catholic girl.

  “A lot.” And he wasn’t even referencing the theft of her pictures, some of which had her face in the frame.

  “We negotiated before the photo shoot.”

  “Not enough. I’m not going to play you tonight.” He shook his head. They had talked limits before the photo shoot so he’d known what to ask of her, what she was comfortable with on camera. He’d known then he wanted to play with her, but it hadn’t been the right time to discuss it. “Sit.”

  Odalia circled the coffee table and sprawled on the couch, glaring at him. Someone didn’t like it when she didn’t get her way. He’d remember that.

  Jacques dragged one of the kitchen chairs over and turned it around, straddling it so he could prop his arms on the back. “When you agreed to pose for me, I promised I would protect your privacy and modify the pictures where your face was visible. I failed to uphold that promise, and I take it personally.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “You got somethin’ you want to tell me?”

  “If you take responsibility for this, where were you yesterday? I haven’t heard from you for two fucking d
ays.” She kicked off her boots and curled her legs up under her, making herself at home on his couch.

  Jacques frowned. “I thought you’d be busy.”

  “Yeah, right.” She snorted and glanced away from him.

  “Bébé, I’m getting real tired of this snit you’re in. We don’t know each other well, so you got to use words. I can’t read your damn mind.”

  “I worked a double, went home and ate a frozen dinner with my dog.” She sounded defensive, as if there were something to find fault with in her story. He’d expected her to go home to a large Cajun family, fried turkey, gumbo, the whole nine yards. She seemed like the kind of girl who’d be surrounded by a whole clan.

  “I spent yesterday and today doing a little sleuthing.” Bounty hunters were police in a different uniform with a different set of duties. Jacques had a private investigator license and clocked as many hours in detective work as most cops. Besides, it had given him something to do on Christmas besides watch parades on TV.

  “What did you find?” Odalia perked up.

  “Now you want to hear what I have to say?” He chuckled at her frown. “The studio building I rented for the shoot doesn’t have security cameras, but there’s a place down the street that has one pointed out their front window.”

  “What did you get?” She leaned forward.

  “Male, dark-skinned, scaling the fence with Kenny’s jacket. It’s poor quality, but the man’s not white.” And Kenny was a white redneck from up the bayou.

  “Damn.” Odalia slumped back on the couch and blew out a breath. “That’s it?”

  “It’s enough of a reason to stop intimidating a snitch and risk losing your badge over it.”

  She didn’t respond for a moment, and he let her stew in her mess. This couldn’t have been her proudest moment, and he felt for her, but not enough to put up with crap.

  “How did you find me?” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

  The little lady was moving on. Good. He’d like to work with her on this, be there for her, and not just because it was partially his fault for not being more security-conscious. More thefts happened during the holiday season than any other.

  “I was looking for you.”

  “And you just happened to find me on Bourbon Street?”

  “What can I say? I’m good at what I do.”

  She didn’t chuckle as he’d hoped she might.

  “What do we do next?”

  Finally, thinking as a team.

  “If you were me interviewing a victim, what questions would you ask?”

  Odalia flinched at the word victim. Right. Removing from his vocabulary.

  She blew out a breath. “I’d ask if I have anyone who would want to hurt me. If I owed someone money. If I pissed anyone off.” She shrugged. “I’m a cop. I piss everyone off.”

  “But who would know you well enough to also know about your lifestyle?” That was the kicker, why he’d needed to circle back to Odalia. He hoped to tie up the whole mess so he could get on to what he wanted. Her.

  Her brows lifted, and she glanced at him, something close to excitement lighting her gaze. “What if it was the camera they’re after and not the pictures at all?”

  He nodded. “I thought of that too. We may be running around like chickens with our heads cut off for nothing. The SD card could be in a garbage can somewhere. Let’s go over everything from the beginning.”

  “You want to create a timeline?” Her brows rose.

  “I do.” They should have done this earlier.

  “Okay, you were first to arrive at the studio, at what time?” She grabbed a pad of paper and pen he’d left on the coffee table and started jotting it all down.

  “Three o’ clock.” He’d arrived excited and a tad bit nervous. Photography was a hobby he was getting serious about. The shoot with Odalia was one he’d been preparing for, waiting until he found the right model. And she’d been right under his nose all along.

  “I got there a little before three thirty. Nothing seemed odd.” She tapped the paper, her gaze going slightly unfocused. And with good reason.

  “I locked the doors behind us. From three thirty until about four fifteen, we negotiated the photo shoot.” Jacques’ blood stirred at the memory of such a frank conversation. You could tell a lot about a person by their limits. Odalia was tough, playful and not much intimidated her. She’d drawn him in from the moment they’d begun.

  She cleared her throat. “At four fifteen I went to do makeup, hair and undress.”

  “I finished setting up the equipment between four fifteen and five. I would have gone in and out of the studio.”

  “I went out to my Jeep once to grab a bag, not sure what time.”

  “It was early in that time block.” He’d remembered because, as time went on, she’d shed more clothing. He hadn’t been able to avoid noticing her tantalizing, slow process of preparation, going from no-nonsense cop to sultry vixen of submission.

  “Okay, so around five we started—ah—the shoot.” She shifted on the couch, studiously not looking in his direction now.

  Did she remember the way they’d laughed? How they’d discovered the chemistry between signing the release forms and the first snap of the camera?

  “We did about an hour of shooting, and I needed to run out to my Jeep for a new lens.” He’d been amused to find out they both drove the same model Jeep, only different colors. While hers was blue, he preferred the green.

  “Did you lock the door behind you? I’m still not sure how someone would have gone in and out right under our noses.”

  “What about at…when was it? Five forty-five?”

  “The guy delivered dinner. Did you lock the door after him?” Odalia’s brows rose. While he’d paid for food, she’d scrambled to grab a robe and hide in a little side room.

  “I thought I did, but that’s got to be our opening. I was juggling the box of food and two drinks. I must have not locked it, but that doesn’t sound right.” He’d been paranoid about locking the damn door, especially since the shots he’d just finished had all involved close proximity to a very naked woman.

  “Wait, I had problems with the door shutting all the way. So let’s say you did lock it, but it wasn’t shut all the way. We broke at five forty-five for dinner and went back to the office, where we closed the office door for the heater. That’s got to be it.”

  “The thief could have jumped the fence anytime before then. There’s at least three vantage points within the fence perimeter that would have allowed them to see the door and not be seen. The thief approaches after the delivery guy leaves, and the door is partially open. He enters and steals the camera sitting on top of the spanking bench.”

  Odalia shivered as she scribbled. The damn thief had destroyed a beautiful moment. Her bound on the bench with strips of lace. The juxtaposition of the rough furniture, the delicate lace and her soft skin was an unforgettable image. He’d had plans to print it in sepia, but now it was gone. Maybe forever.

  “Then what?” she asked.

  The truth was, he didn’t know. They were right back to where they’d begun. They could detail the rest of the evening spent scouring the premises or scouting the block, but it was pointless.

  They sat in contemplative silence for a few moments. Jacques was out of ideas, and Odalia was driving herself crazy if her best idea was to string up a petty criminal for information. They weren’t going to get anywhere tonight. He pushed to his feet.

  “Come on, we’ll think better in the morning.”

  “Huh?” Odalia blinked up at the hand he extended toward her.

  “You ain’t leaving tonight. I want you where I can keep an eye on you. Plus, you need a partner, and unless you’re going to turn in a police report, I’m all you’ve got.” And it would give him every opportunity to make it up to her. He owed her that much.

  “I have to work tomorrow.”

  “And I’ll take you to get your car.”

  She stared at him a
few moments longer before placing her hand in his. He hoisted her to her feet and guided her toward the sectioned-off area that served as his bedroom. He enjoyed the open flow to the loft, and it served his needs, but it wasn’t for everyone. His bed sat next to an exposed brick wall, behind a divider of oddly decorative screens and bookcases. Design wasn’t his strong point, but he’d studied photography enough on his own to appreciate a good layout.

  “You aren’t much for furniture, are you?” she asked, stopping in the makeshift entry between the bookcases.

  “Not really.” He pulled his shirt over his head and toed off his boots.

  “You expect me to sleep here, with you?” She frowned at him, and he paused.

  “You have a problem with it?” He could sleep on the couch, had many a time, but he wanted her close. Close enough to touch. To make sure she wasn’t out there doing something stupid.

  “Seems a little hypocritical. Earlier you wanted away from me. Now you want to sleep with me.”

  Jacques grabbed her chin and tipped her head back. “Emphasis on sleep, bébé. I didn’t spank your ass earlier because you’ve been high on stress for two days and a few hours ago you were waving an empty pistol at a man. Excuse me if I don’t think those are the best circumstances to invite someone to play.”

  He felt the heat rising on her cheeks more than he saw it in the dim light.

  “All right,” she mumbled and pulled out of his grasp.

  He gave her a moment to herself and turned the lights off before returning. In those few short moments, Odalia had shed her clothing and burrowed under the comforter, lying on her side, facing the wall.

  It was easy to think of her as a little thing, but compared to other women, she was tall. Athletic. Curvy as hell. She had enough gumption for a whole score of people. And she’d hit a rough patch this holiday season.

  Jacques stripped down to his boxers and slipped between the icy-cold sheets, scooting across the bed until he felt her heat soaking up the fabric. He wrapped an arm around her and tucked her head under his chin.

  “For the record, bébé,” he whispered next to her ear, “I’m going to play your ass in the morning. Don’t think for an instant there isn’t an inch of you I don’t want to touch or investigate for myself.”