Damn it, she was getting to him.
He understood the agreement they shared. Hell, he'd set a couple of the rules himself. So why, then, did he want to toss every fucking word of it to the curb?
The need to tell her how beautiful she was, the desire to call out her name every time he came inside her, neared the point of torture. Why the hell did he agree to silence? If he could speak it'd be so different. Their time together wouldn't have become the sweet agony it was turning out to be.
He straightened and ran a hand through his hair. Standing in the hall would solve nothing. The urge to turn around and go back into the room, rip off the godforsaken blindfold and force her to see him, kept him rooted in place.
But no, he wouldn't do that. Not yet, anyway. He needed a little space and time to consider the direction he wanted to go with her, and, more important, decide how to get there. One thing for certain, he wanted more, and he wanted it outside this club.
He forced himself to move, to place one foot in front of the other and head down the wood-paneled hallway. She'd never taken more than twenty minutes to leave his room. He'd spend that time in quiet shadows, on the last stool at the far end of the bar. During this time of night, the second-floor lounge—the platinum members private area—radiated a dark and sultry mood, which, right now, suited him just fine. Most other members had retreated to their personal rooms or congregated in the more public bottom level, cavorting and dancing to the thundering music that played there.
He slumped against the wall and hitched his foot on the barstool next to him.
"What can I get for you, Mr. Lucas?” the bartender asked, setting a cocktail napkin in front of him.
"Tequila."
He downed the shot in one quick gulp and motioned to the bartender for another round as he bit into a wedge of lime.
God, how had it all come to this? Time and again she'd writhed beneath him, hissed out her pleasure, as if she was desperate for ... what?
Could this be a game to her? An experiment in the bondage scene? A chance to test the waters and see if the lifestyle interested her? That particular kink had long been his favorite, but in his experience, a desire to be tied up and restrained, to give up total control, spoke of deeper issues. Sometimes, but not always.
It made him curious about her particular reasons.
Then again, maybe there weren't any. Chances were she simply liked a good tie-down and fucking.
Either way, he intended to find out. And to do that, he needed to speak at some point. He'd always been a verbal lover, and to take away that aspect was proving more difficult to deal with than he'd originally thought. With no sort of oral communication being number one on her list of requirements, he knew for certain that removal of that rule would be a sticky issue with her.
Why, though? What reasons did she have for demanding silence?
He supposed he could just do it. Come right out and talk to her, whisper sexy little heated comments in her ear. It would have to happen at the perfect time, though. Which, of course, would preferably be when he had her tied to the bed, secure under him, on the verge of coming.
Then again, that would only make her angry. He instinctively knew she'd end their encounters, and he definitely didn't want that to happen.
Shit.
He tapped the bar, an unspoken call for a third shot in just as many minutes.
"Better slow down there, handsome."
He glanced up at the wicked smiling face of Entice's owner, a pretty woman who went by the name of Miss C. Nobody knew what the initial stood for, and around here, nobody ever asked.
"Hey, Cee."
She slid onto the stool next to the one his foot rested on and lifted her chin to the shot glass in front of him. “Got troubles you're trying to drown?"
He tossed back the drink, bit into a fresh lime and sucked the juices from the rind. Things could get dicey if he said too much to her. She ran a tight ship and didn't take kindly to mutual pacts being broken in her club. “Troubles don't exist that I can't handle, darlin',” he said, flicking the spent fruit into the empty shot glass.
The bartender placed a glass of red wine in front of her and she picked it up without acknowledgement, sipping it slowly. After a moment, she cocked her head at him. “Hmm. Taking the roundabout answer route? Come on. I know you. Mr. Calm-Cool-S.W.A.T.-Commander. You don't slam shots like that without reason. Whatever it is, if I can help, you know I will."
He folded his arms over his bare chest. The music from the lower level changed and the vibrations from the heavy bass rose through the floor and penetrated his barstool. He threw her a sideways grin. “Mother Hen doesn't suit you, Cee."
"Funny.” She lifted a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “So, how're things with your mysterious partner?"
Unbelievable. She'd hit the nail on the fucking head and knew it too.
Cee flipped her long black hair over her shoulder with a natural casualness, her grin victorious. “Thought so. You have a shitty poker face, Dean. It's that telltale little clench of your jaw. Sexy as hell and oh so manly, but honey, it gives you away every time."
He relaxed his jaw and attempted to school his tight features. But with her, he doubted he'd succeed. Little witch.
"You know, Dean, when she came to me and explained what she wanted, it didn't take more than a second to consider you. Her request of exclusivity sealed the deal. Everyone around here knows you don't see more than one person at a time.” Cee's features turned serious then. “You need to tell me, though, if the rest is more than you want. I may be able to read facial expressions, but Lord knows I can't read your mind. If you have issues with the pact you two struck, you need to let me know."
Underneath all that bravado, this five-foot-three, take-no-shit firecracker knew compassion. In the dim glow of the lounge's lights, her skin took on the hue of porcelain and her red-painted lips contrasted with her dark hair. But her eyes made all the difference. They were soft, in a wise way. Without a doubt she'd been through more than anyone he knew, yet somehow she kept the harshness from taking over her eyes.
"Nope, no issues. I got it covered.” Not a lie, exactly. But not really the truth, either.
He needed to sort through his rampant thoughts, deal with them the only way he knew how. One at a time. Then he'd plan and execute his seduction and succeed in making that gorgeous, puzzling woman his.
If she didn't want to talk, he'd figure out another way. Simple as that.
Through all the muddled ideas that raged in his head, one cut loose and sprang to the forefront. He dropped his foot to the barstool rung and leaned closer to Cee. “Tell me, in the agreement I have with...” Shit, he didn't even know what to call her. “...your client, there weren't any rules against written communication, right?"
Her eyebrows shot up. “Written? For example?"
"You know, notes. Something simple. Since I can't say anything to her, I could write something."
She stared at him for a moment and took another long sip. “Neither of you ever mentioned it, Dean, but I don't know. She came across very adamant—"
"Ask her."
"What?"
"Ask her. It won't be anything major. Just little things. If she says no, I'll back off."
Cee narrowed her eyes at him. “No means no, Dean. I have your promise that if she doesn't want to do this, I won't hear another word out of you, right?"
"Sure thing, darlin'."
She shook her head, said “Damn it,” and let out a sigh. “Okay. I can ask and will let you know next week before you meet with her.” She patted his knee in a rough, motherly sort of way and got up from the stool. “I hope you know what you're doing, honey.” She gave him a quick, exasperated wink and left the lounge.
He rested against the wall again, this time grinning. This could be it, his way in. The wheels in his mind turned and touched on every question he wanted an answer to. But before he asked the hard ones, he needed to find a way to get her to trust him.
And
he knew exactly how to do that.
* * * *
The following Saturday night, Dean lurked in the corner of the lower-level bar where he had a clear view of the front entrance, nursing a glass of twelve-year-old scotch. He'd stood in this exact spot many times waiting for her to arrive, but tonight his restlessness ran rampant. As keyed up as he'd been all those other times, nothing came close to the anticipation running through him tonight.
Lord, the woman had him spinning.
She drifted through the front doors at five minutes to ten. Dean smiled at the effortless way she captivated those near her. Simply put, she personified beauty. Her olive skin glowed and her dark hair shone with an unnatural tint of red, the color close to the darkest rust in maple leaves during the fall. How he'd love to lay her down in a bed of those, the cold fall air making her nipples pucker as he drove hard into her....
Christ. Get a grip, man.
She showed Kurt, the bouncer, her member card and tucked it back into the tiny black purse she carried. He touched her arm, leaning closer to whisper in her ear. She nodded and flashed a heavenly smile. God, how Dean wished that smile had been for him.
But he stomped down the flare of jealousy, simply because he knew Kurt had said Miss C. wanted to speak with her.
Tonight, Dean would have his answer.
She turned the corner to the stairway and headed to the upper rooms. The crotch of his pants tightened as his gaze followed every step she took. Just the sight of that amazing ass as it swayed up the stairs made him rock hard.
He couldn't head to his room until ten-thirty, so he killed time, sipped on his drink, people-watched, and fought to ignore the impatient hum taking over his body.
Saturday night at Entice usually brought out the largest crowd, a vast assortment from all walks of life. The full-time Doms and their subs hung out right along with the ones who only played the parts on weekends and in their bedrooms. Many, like him, came because they liked the idea of a private club where they could be themselves. Whatever their kinks, orientations or preferences, they'd be among others like themselves. That's what he loved about Entice. People could be who they really were on the inside, with none of the harsh judgment most received outside these walls.
A few moments later Cee sashayed across the packed dance floor and headed his way, her expression bland. He chuckled at her poker face. Absolutely perfect. Figures.
She stopped in front of him, took the glass from his hand and tossed back a large gulp of his scotch.
"She said yes. But,” she threw up a hand when he smiled—"I'd go easy on her. It took some finagling just to get her to agree. She likes what you two have right now and doesn't want to screw it up. I don't know what her deeper issues are and I didn't ask, but if you want my opinion, I wouldn't push her. If you do, you might just end up pushing her so far she won't come back. She's not one of those hard-ass guys under your S.W.A.T. command. You can't force into doing whatever you want. Understand?"
He grinned at her warning, shrugged away her idle threat, and concentrated on the positive. What he was about to do, what he wanted, was right. He felt it in his bones.
He flashed his most charming smile. “No problem, Cee. I told you, I'll keep it simple. I meant what I said. If it gets to be too much for her, I'll back off."
Cee eyed him with suspicion. “I swear to God, Dean, you fuck this up or hurt her in any way—big tough guy or not—I'll hurt you more, and in ways you won't like. Got it?"
He snaked an arm around the petite woman's shoulder and squeezed as he laughed at her protective threat. “Nobody's going to be hurt, especially not her, darlin'. Not if I have anything to say about it."
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Nameless Surrender: Chapter 3
Well past two a.m., Zoe lounged on the leather couch in her living room with her feet tucked under her. She stared at the seemingly innocuous envelope and small box she'd placed on the coffee table.
Lord, what did she agree to?
When Miss C. asked her if notes from him were acceptable, her subconscious answered for her. All the unknowns—his identity, what he would write, what he might want to know—got the better of her. Not to mention what those steamy images of him that popped into her mind at odd times did to her. She could no longer deny the intrigue he stirred inside her.
But now, in the privacy of her home, in the middle of the night, the envelope and box taunted her. Had she made a mistake?
What if he wanted more? She couldn't handle another relationship. After her divorce from Stephen, it took more than six months to finally feel human again. What she had at the club for the last three months filled all her needs.
Besides, relationships only harbored chances of heartbreak—a risk too great for her to take again. No way could she live through another, not with memories of the last one so fresh in her mind.
She pushed the questions out of her mind and picked up the small box. Wrapped with a gold ribbon, the gift seemed harmless enough. But if she considered his usual wicked nature, she had good reason to doubt its innocence. Her womb clenched and her pussy throbbed all over again at the sinfully delicious ways he'd made her come mere hours ago. She glanced at her wrists and smiled at the pink hue that circled them. That physical reminder would be gone by the time she awoke tomorrow, unlike the bite marks she suspected now covered a good portion of her shoulder blade.
God, what the man could do....
She placed the box beside her on the sofa and picked up the envelope. She held it tight for a moment, contemplating.
What the hell, why not?
She ripped it open and withdrew a piece of plain white paper. Her heart fluttered a bit as she unfolded and read the short note.
Want to play a game?
What? Play a game? Her mind invented all sorts of ideas about the kinds of games he meant. She grabbed the box and tugged on the ribbon. It floated into her lap as she lifted the small square lid. Gold tissue paper covered the treasure inside. She pulled it away and furrowed her brows at the contents.
A sex toy?
Yep, a small silver bullet. She picked it up and examined it. No wires or controls were attached. Folded underneath it lay another note. Excitement spiraled inside her as she read it.
Go to The Haze Bar on Friday night, 9 p.m. with this deep inside your pussy. Request the corner booth reserved under the name Destiny.
As she read further, her panties dampened at the heated implications of his instructions. She shivered while her imagination conjured up what the low timbre of his voice might sound like as he growled out each command.
Wear a short skirt, no panties. Order a drink. Once you feel the vibrations, sneak your hand under the table and touch yourself. Come for me, baby. I'll be watching.
Then it hit her. A remote-control bullet.
She let out a breath she didn't know she held. Oh, God, could she? The note alone got her hot. To know he'd watch her in a public place where others could see....
Play a game? Play with fire sounded more like it. She held the shiny toy in her fingers and rubbed its sleekness, practically willing it to buzz.
Even after all the orgasms he'd given her tonight, she wanted more. That could only spell trouble. Big trouble. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. Damn, this really is so not good.
The shrill chirp of her cell phone startled her out of her lust-induced stupor. She checked the display and suddenly grew weary. Stephen. Ugh.
She attempted to steady her now lust-induced raspy breaths. “Hello?"
"You're up. I figured I'd have to leave you a message."
She leaned back on the couch and rolled the toy in the palm of her hand. “Yeah, I'm up. I stayed after my shift tonight to help out with a bad accident that came in.” And then stopped off on my way home...
Stephen's voice came across irreverent. “Dr. Grant to the rescue, huh?"
Zoe sighed, not in the mood to once again defend her position at County Hospital. He never understood
why she chose to practice at a state-funded hospital when she could have been on staff at any number of prestigious, private ones. Just another example of how differently they viewed things, how wrong they were for each other. “What do you want, Stephen?"
If he sensed her irritation, he hid it well. “You. Friday night. I reserved a table at that little Italian place downtown, the one across from the stadium. I've been working on the CEO from The Frazier Group. We've got him this close to keeping us on retainer. It'd certainly help my—that is, the firm's image if you came along. Tom Frazier's huge on family values. With you and your dad there, we can show him we're a family-oriented firm, despite our divorce. That could really push us over the edge, get him to sign on that dotted line."
She laughed at his audacity. “I don't think so."
Her refusal didn't deter him in the least. “Zoe, this is important. Not just to me, but to your father as well. I need you there."
"What you want is for me to play along with your charade. I'm sorry, Stephen. I can't do it. I'm sure you and Daddy can portray the picture of a happy father and ex-son-in-law. It won't matter whether I'm there or not."
"Zoe, please. I need you to do this for us."
"No. I know what you're up to. It won't work. I'm not coming back to you, Stephen. Not after..."
Christ, she didn't want to relive all this right now.
She sighed heavily. “I can't do this with you again. Not now."
"Wait—"
She ignored the plea. “I'm exhausted and going to bed. Good night, Stephen.” She flipped the phone shut, held it to her forehead and closed her eyes.
She should never have answered his call. Lately he always had some sort of desperate reason to see her. She'd fallen for it once, two months ago. He pleaded his case the entire time, trying to get her to come back to him. She sure as hell wouldn't fall for that again.
If any divorce could have an upside, hers would be that she'd come out the other side a stronger person. She wouldn't allow anyone to intimidate her now. The manipulation her father relied so heavily upon when she was younger no longer held any bearing. Life was too damn short to acquiesce to anyone. She'd finally learned to stand up for herself and what she wanted.
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