Owned [Club Pleasure 6] (Siren Publishing Classic)

by Allyson Young

  “So it’s a service. Or do you get the pain sluts?”

  Fuck. The asshole probably took all those psych classes in that military work he did. Maurice wasn’t averse to giving pain—he was good at it—but he didn’t want a true pain slut. He wanted what Master Damon had, with or without the administered punishment.

  Pulling his T-shirt over his head to hide any expression his stance might show, and to muffle his response, he said, “I work the door and the hard dungeon when necessary. I play sometimes.”

  After stepping into his jeans and buttoning them, he stuffed everything else into his duffle. Hefting it, he prepared to leave. Rees was looking at him, an unreadable look on his handsome face. “Me and Owyn fucked up, too. Worse than Griffin. Meghan ain’t never coming back. We’ll do what we can for him and Keira. So thanks.”

  Maurice took the proffered hand and cautiously accepted he had just made a friend. Then he nodded and headed out without another word before there were hugs involved. Acting like a girl. Fuck. Still, it didn’t feel half-bad.

  Picking up another protein shake on his way out, he strode to his truck and climbed inside. While he waited for the vehicle to idle down, making a mental note to get it into the garage for the warranty check, he drank the shake. He felt mellow and relaxed and hadn’t thought about wanting a sub of his own for at least three minutes. He’d place an ad in that online paper and keep an eye out for any newbie subs coming to audition at Pleasure. He was only thirty-six and still had lots of time.

  As he approached his neighborhood, he idly wondered why he’d chosen to live so far out in the suburbs. Maybe it was because he got a freaking big space for his money, the large yard notwithstanding. Mowing lawns was one thing—flower beds were another. But women tended to like yards and shit, at least the women back home did, and he actually knew why he’d bought where he did. He’d always been thinking ahead. He wanted a stay-at-home woman—didn’t give a shit about how that reeked of chauvinism. He firmly believed men were hardwired to be dominant and women in need of care and protection. He was also of the opinion women were intrinsically stronger than men, and the trusting surrender of the perfect woman…He smiled to himself as his imagination soared.

  Money wasn’t an issue. He had his trust fund, and there would be more to come when his parents passed, something that wouldn’t happen in forever, he hoped. His wife wouldn’t have to work outside their home.

  The day was still cool, although it would warm up soon enough. The streets were nearly deserted, kids probably gone to school and no sign of the early morning commute he’d battled on the way to the gym. The only other vehicle on the tree-lined road was a bus pulling away from the curb maybe three blocks ahead, heading in his direction. Despite the paucity of traffic, Maurice didn’t rush—the exercise and maybe the little talk with Rees had settled him for now.

  * * * *

  I need to get to work. I need to get to work. To work. The litany repeated itself over and over in her head, but thinking it didn’t mean her body responded. Slumping against the corner of the bus shelter, Susan Peterson watched through bleary eyes as the behemoth’s doors hissed shut and the vehicle slowly powered away, belching diesel fumes—without her. She was unable to even lift a hand to dissuade its departure.

  She supposed she was at the end of her endurance. The last several months had sucked her dry, working two and sometimes three jobs to pay off the enormous debt her mother’s illness had racked up, not to mention the funeral. The insurance had helped, but there were still a significant number of bills to deal with, and she desperately wanted to hang on to the house. Having given up her apartment to move back home and care for her mom in the months before she passed, Susan had no other place to go. She’d already gone through her savings.

  Wearily digging her cell from her pocket, hoping there were enough minutes left on her paid card, she punched in her boss and very good friend’s number.

  “Floral Fashions!” Great, it was Little Miss Bubbly, the latest hire, someone who gave blondes all over the world a bad name. Susan was blond, too, but Missy was all tits and ass and not a lot of anything else. Her interest in men and sex was a tangible thing. Susan decided not to confuse the girl.

  “I’d like to speak to Felicity, please,” she said, not identifying herself and creating a conundrum for Missy to sort out.

  Even so, there was a marked hesitation on the other end and she surmised Missy was struggling to remember who Felicity was. “Oh, just a minute,” her sweet voice finally caroled.

  “Hello?” Her boss’s no nonsense voice gave Susan something to focus on.

  “It’s Susan. I need that day off you’ve been urging me to take.”

  “Are you okay?” Felicity’s tone was tinged with concern, and Susan supposed she couldn’t blame her. She well knew how she looked after working sixteen hours a day, six and seven days a week, for such an extended period of time, not to mention the travel time between jobs on public transit.

  “I couldn’t make myself walk to the bus. I’m still propped up in a corner of the shelter.” She forced a laugh, but in truth she wondered if she could even walk back home.

  “Call a cab,” Felicity urged. Her boss clearly had no idea how close Susan was to her house, making the idea of a cab ridiculous.

  With compunction, she lied. “I’ll do that. And thanks, Felicity.”

  After a few more solicitous comments about Susan getting some rest and not coming in tomorrow either if she wasn’t feeling up to it, the other woman hung up, leaving Susan to contemplate the long walk home. Well, it was only a block and two houses, but she wasn’t sure she could make it. Maybe if she crawled…Lord, how did a person feel this freaking exhausted?

  A longing for her mom—no, a longing for someone, anyone to materialize, show up, and just take care of her caused some serious tears to squeeze past her closed eyelids and track down her face. Without the energy to even brush the moisture away, Susan dug deep, gritted her teeth, and pushed off of the bus shelter wall. She’d get home somehow on her own two feet. Spending cash on a cab was something she didn’t have to waste. And for a measly long block…

  Head down, she slowly navigated the narrow grass strip separating the sidewalk from the curb and stepped down into the street in front of a van parked too close to the bus stop. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. She couldn’t even imagine walking to the corner to take the crosswalk. Adding one extra step onto her path home was beyond the pale, so she decided to cut across kitty corner. Her belly rumbled distantly, and it vaguely registered somewhere in her brain that she hadn’t eaten breakfast. Trusting to her ears to alert her of oncoming traffic, something that had dwindled to a trickle in suburbia now the children were away to school and the commuters well on their way to work, she shuffled forward.

  The rumble of a big engine pulled her head up, and the massive grill of a black truck bore down on her in her peripheral as she somehow turned her head toward the threat. Susan’s sluggish brain desperately tried to electrify her body into action, and a trickle of adrenalin permeated enough to urge her heavy limbs into some kind of weirdly orchestrated dance. She noted the unhinging of her knees, a flail of one arm, and the belated pounding of her heart before the grill nuzzled her abdomen amidst the shriek and drag of tires against the pavement. A pair of shockingly dark eyes peered at her from behind the windshield.

  It didn’t hurt. She could have perhaps rested against the unyielding steel, but enough was enough and she folded up like a piece of origami without enough left in her to break her fall. Darkness shrouded her.

  * * * *

  Holy mother of anything holy! Maurice slammed the shifter into Park and managed to get his seat belt unbuckled and the door open all in one movement before alighting from his vehicle. He thought he’d stopped in time—there’d been no telltale thump, at least none he’d been able to discern, and his eyes had locked with hers just as she went down. Trained as he was in noting any expression and skilled at in
terpreting them, he’d seen no shock, no hint of pain, but rather a kind of exhausted acceptance projected clearly into his mind. He was around the front of the truck and crouched by her side in a heartbeat, cell open in his hand as he punched the button to connect him with emergency services.

  She was a crumpled bundle of dark fabric, and he marked that neither arm was outstretched in an attempt to cushion her fall. With infinite care he lifted a sheaf of heavy, dark-gold hair away from her cheek. Her eyes were closed, her pallor obvious, and she breathed with slow, heavy breaths through barely parted lips. And he found himself falling, mesmerized and locked solid in his crouch while his soul soared.

  The squawk of the phone pulled him from his reverie as he continued to look for any obvious signs of injury and found none. He told the operator their location and agreed to stay on the line until the EMTs arrived.

  As he drifted a finger across the curve of her cheek, he felt the faint wetness of tears, and an instant feeling of rage swept through him, towards whomever or whatever had made this woman cry, followed by a surge of possessiveness. He didn’t question it. He simply knew this woman had been placed in his path, literally, like the answer to all of his hopes, and he was going to embrace the portent.

  Gently tapping her cheek, he asked, “Sweetheart? Can you hear me? C’mon, honey, you need to wake up. I need to know if you’re hurt anywhere.”

  Her breath hitched, and those long, dark lashes fluttered up—and back down before he could register anything other than a dark, gentian blue.

  Gut clenching, he spoke again, a little louder, “Sweetheart! Can you open your eyes?”

  “No. Go away.” Very faint, but he heard it, and he ran his finger over her cheek again. He wasn’t used to being denied, and it pricked his dominance, no matter the situation. Pushing the inappropriate reaction away, he made himself wait.

  Sirens heralded the arrival of the ambulance, and his woman stirred. This time both eyes opened, at first just to half-mast, and then flew wide. Pools of that deepest purple-blue, the whites marred by a web of fine red lines, met his, and before his fascinated gaze a flush of color slashed across her cheeks. As she began to struggle to move—away from him—he instantly leaned to invade her space, soothing her with a murmur while speaking to her with his eyes. She almost instantly subsided, her body relaxing, eyes dilating before his unspoken command. Submissive. His cock celebrated right alongside his heart, both swelling in confirmation of his One.

  The first EMT shouldered past him, and he immediately gave ground, deferring to the medical skill. The other attendant followed, and he could hear her responding in quiet, dulcet tones.

  “I’m fine. I actually don’t hurt anywhere.”

  Watching as another man ran expert hands over her extremities and checked for broken bones highly provoked Maurice. He wanted to be the one to care for her.

  “Susan Peterson. 157 Douglas Street. It’s Tuesday—I’m quite aware!” His woman’s voice was now pinched with annoyance and exhaustion but still low and rich in timbre.

  The second EMT helped her to a sitting position and slipped the buttons on her loose black coat, easing her arm from the sleeve. He manipulated a blood pressure cuff while his buddy shone a light in her eyes. Susan. Maurice tasted her name. Susan Peterson. And she lived maybe two blocks from him. He noted the smock she wore, bagging around her torso, nearly hiding the thrust of her breasts. Maybe a little more than a handful—his handful—but the rest of her was too thin.

  “Sir?” A burly cop approached. Shit. He’d almost forgotten the circumstances of this accidental meeting.

  “She stepped off the curb from behind a parked car, and I nearly hit her,” he admitted instantly.

  “You sure you didn’t?” The officer squinted in his direction, hand going to his pocket to fish out a small notebook. His leather weapons’ belt creaked, and Maurice reveled in the sound.

  “I’m sure. She just kinda folded to the ground. I’ll get my registration.” He hated to leave her vicinity and worked hard at not casting his glance back at her like some love struck puppy. Except he was—maybe not love struck, but something struck. There was something pure about how he felt.

  Returning with his paperwork, Maurice watched the EMTs finish with Susan, who was now sitting without support and clearly avoiding his eyes. He repeated his version of events to the cop, who laboriously wrote it down and then approached her. Maurice watched as the officious officer softened and spoke quietly to whom he obviously perceived as the victim. The other man crouched at her side solicitously.

  If she’d been his before today, Maurice would have taught Susan to take her safety far more seriously, but she hadn’t stumbled off that curb into the path of his truck in anything other than the gait of someone intoxicated—or in a marked degree of somnolence. He knew it was the latter. There was no smell of alcohol, and her eyes weren’t dilated from drug use.

  The cop straightened and turned to Maurice. “Seems she was tired and tried to cross the road without looking, jaywalking. There’s no evidence you hit her, thank god, and you were obviously driving defensively, slowly.”

  His gut clenched again at the memory of how he sometimes powered down this street. Nodding, he jerked his head in Susan’s direction. “I’ll take her home.”

  “Well now, that would be up to the lady.”

  Maurice swiveled and went down on one knee beside Susan, who was still studiously avoiding casting a glance in his direction. “Susan? Miss Peterson?” In a moment of panic, he sought out her left hand and involuntarily sucked in a bigger breath of air—no ring. One less hurdle to jump. He believed in the sanctity of marriage but couldn’t believe he would have been shown this woman if she belonged to another man.

  Head slowly turning in his direction, that bounty of hair swinging in a mass of waves and tendrils, she finally looked at him. The fine, pale skin stretched tautly over her features, and her purple-hued eyes were enormous. Maurice fought against the allure long enough to speak.

  “I’m Maurice Alain. I live two blocks from you. Almost your neighbor. I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Her full lips parted, and he knew she was going to refuse. “I’m fine. I can walk. It’s a lovely day.” Once again she cast her eyes down.

  Stubborn and defiant, but ultimately submissive—such a dichotomy, so he knew she’d be strong. Joy and desire flowed through his veins, a potent cocktail that made his cock hard and aching.

  “You’re obviously exhausted and you scared the shit out of me. I’ll drive you home. Allow me to make amends.”

  Casting a beseeching look at the cop didn’t do her any good because Maurice shifted his body to block it. The EMTs were packing up and clearly no longer interested in the tableau unfolding not three feet from them. It was even headier than when he forced his will on a submissive in the Club, knowing what she needed and what was in her best interest.

  “All right.” It wasn’t gratitude and barely above a mutter, but he instantly capitalized on it, sliding an arm around her to help her to her feet. Her coat slipped off, and he grabbed it with his free hand, handing it to the cop. She felt fragile and far too light, despite her height—he figured she’d be maybe four inches shorter than him, on eye level in stilettos. He preferred his women in bare feet, but the thought of Susan in heels to match him in height intrigued him. And she’d need to gain some weight. He wouldn’t want to break her.

  Feeling her intense determination to make it to his truck under her own steam falter, Maurice swept her up and cradled her against his chest for the short distance. She lacked even the strength to hold herself rigid in a stranger’s arms, her softness a sweet weight against him. The cop hustled to open the door, and Maurice deposited his precious burden on the leather seat. She flinched away from his hands as he secured the seat belt around her, and he found himself murmuring, a low, soothing drone, and rejoiced when she again relaxed.

  Draping the coat over her lap, tucking the folds in so as not to catch it in the door, t
he cop stepped back and nodded to him, bestowing a look of authority, that “don’t fuck with me” expression some persons wearing a mantle of authority came by so easily. Maurice gave it back and nearly laughed when the cop winked. Had he seen the man at Pleasure? Memory sparked. People tended to look different in street clothes—or uniforms that differed from the clothing worn at the Club. If they wore anything at all. Yup, the other man was a member.

  Quickly shutting the door, he took a precious moment to pass his card to the officer and make a request the other man immediately agreed to, Doms United, then walked quickly to climb into the driver’s seat before Susan changed her mind about the present mode of transportation and the driver. He checked his mirrors and signaled before sedately pulling ahead, keeping his attention on the road and away from his One—for now. The squad car and the cop filled his rearview as the other man approached the emergency vehicle. Susan wouldn’t have to worry about an emergency medical bill.

  “Thank you.” Her voice was stronger, although there was little inflection coloring it.

  “Least I could do, sweetheart.” You have no idea of what I plan to do when you’re mine. “Especially when I could have done you very real injury.”

  “I shouldn’t have crossed there. I should have used the crosswalk.”

  “You’re exhausted.” He watched the house numbers as he said it, but hoped she’d give him a clue as to why she was so very tired.

  “I am. It’s been a long journey—”

  He glanced her way as she abruptly ceased speaking. She was staring out the side window, that wealth of hair spilling around her shoulders and hiding her face.

  “Pardon?”

  She shrugged, a movement he’d normally never allow, finding it disrespectful and withholding. But it wasn’t the time. And they were at her home, a small dwelling in need of some TLC, although the yard was neatly mowed and the flowerbeds tended.