by Maren Smith
Sinclair didn’t think her body would ever feel the same again, and tonight, after her shop closed for the day, she would be going back to the Castle. Back to him. It was Wednesday. She had 900 entry gifts to pack, only two days left before the party, and the only thought in her head right now had less to do with candy or catering and everything to do with how much she wished the wet warmth flowing over her still oh-so swollen nipples was from Parker’s mouth moving down her breast in preparation for his next suckling kiss significantly further south. She wanted that tickling wetness she could feel flowing down into the crevice of her buttocks to be his hands following the curve down and under before he cupped, and squeezed, and did that thing that he had done last night when he gripped each cheek and simply opened her up in every possible way a woman could lie open for a man.
Sinclair shivered and shut the water off. She toweled quickly, dressed even more so, and because she was out of time, poured all the coffee into a thermos and ran for the car.
She opened the front doors two minutes late, not that there was a line of customers waiting on the sidewalk. Still, punctuality was good business sense and she was determined not to make being late a habit.
She threw together four different flavors of fudge to replace what she’d left on the patio break tables with a little note to the kitchen staff that said, “Eat me.” Then, because she was suddenly struck by inspiration (and perhaps the coffee had finally kicked in), she robbed her barrels of licorice strings and wove the long thin ropes together to make red and black bullwhips to use as table decorations. She had enough licorice for three of them, and each looked so good when she was done that she actually found herself wondering, as the weighted handle dangled from her palm, if it would make an impressive cracking sound when she tried to snap it or just fall to pieces.
She was so preoccupied, her own perverted musing having reawakened the tingling and throbbing in all her nether regions, that she never heard the bell of the front door chime when it was opened.
“Are you out of your mind?”
Sinclair jumped, guiltily trying to tuck and hide the whip behind her back as she whirled to face her old college roommate, already standing at the glass counter where she had obviously gotten more than an eyeful.
“You went to the Castle,” Casey guessed, her face strangely both flushed and pale, giving it a blotchy half-appalled and half-delighted sheen. The malice in her eyes made Sinclair’s stomach tighten so hard and fast that for a second she thought she might actually throw up.
“What do you want, Casey?” she asked, deadpanned.
Ignoring the question, Casey came all the way around the counter. She looked from the two bullwhips on the candy counter and then at the tail of the one dangling to the ground behind her legs. She looked at Sinclair again. “Oh, baby,” she breathed, then laughed. “You have balls I never gave you credit for. That’s who’s been picking you up at nights. You’re going to the Castle. Are you a customer, Maybe, or are you doing a job for them?” She covered her mouth, deviously excited about what the answers would mean either way. “Do you have any idea what this town will do to you when they find out?”
The knots tangling in her stomach reached up to engulf her heart, putting it in a stranglehold she just couldn’t seem to breathe around. “Go away, and leave me alone.”
“Oh, baby,” Casey breathed, the endearment at complete odds with the calculating malice filling the icy blue depths of her eyes. “This isn’t personal. You know that, right? It’s all business. You’d do the same to me if you could.”
Sinclair began to shake. “I’m not doing anything wrong.” She lifted her chin, trying to make her voice strong enough to be convincing. “It’s just a party. They wanted a caterer.”
“And you agreed?” They were the only two people in the store and yet Casey was whispering, as if so scandalized that she just couldn’t risk speaking any louder. “What were you thinking?”
She was thinking she didn’t want to lose her business! Sinclair didn’t say that though. Her mouth tightened, flattened, locking those words away where Casey couldn’t reach them to whittle them into knives.
She backed from Sinclair. “Oh baby,” she said again, shaking her head. She left, practically fleeing from the store and back across the quiet street to her car. Dread filled Sinclair as she watched Casey pull out her cellphone. She was talking on it even before she drove away.
She hadn’t done anything wrong, Sinclair reminded herself. Casey was just trying to stir up trouble. And what could she do, really, besides whisper and gossip and poke fun behind Sinclair’s back? Sinclair grew up in this town. People knew her, knew she was a good person. Casey couldn’t hurt her or her business. Maybe’s Candy wasn’t going anywhere.
Drawing herself stubbornly upright, Sinclair packed the bullwhips carefully in plastic and then began to design the best damn gift packages to give away at the door of the party—Jordan Almonds, champagne truffles, dark chocolate hearts with raspberry or caramel centers—all neatly contained in crisp cellophane baggies and wrapped with bright red, heart-decorated ribbons. Velvet ribbons. She’d seen tons of those at the Hobby Lobby. Everything else she’d need, she had right here. When she was done, her gifts were going to look as expensive as they tasted. And later this year, when Casey’s Sinful Desserts was struggling and Maybe’s Candy was inundated with requests for a candy caterer, then it would be Sinclair’s turn to laugh and tsk and say, “Oh, baby” in that mockingly sympathetic tone.
All the way to the bank, baby. So there.
* * * * *
The licorice whips were coiled and wrapped in plastic, nine rack towers (ten industrial trays a piece) of freshly-filled truffles and chocolate hearts were resting in the walk-in to set up overnight, and Sinclair had just stacked the last of seven huge plastic storage bins full of candy and candy wrapping supplies by the door when she saw Jackson’s unmarked van pull up to the curb. Clicking off the neon sign and flipping the one on the door from Open to Sorry, We’re Closed; Sinclair unlocked the door for him.
“Evening,” Jackson said, handing her an anonymous-looking paper lunch sack.
“What’s this?” She side-stepped, holding the door well open while he picked up the first two bins at once.
“No idea.” Jackson started back out the door, but then stopped, stepped back and looked down at her. “Actually, that was a lie. I have a very good idea, but I haven’t confirmed it by peeking. I was told to tell you, if you don’t want a repeat of last night, then come to the Castle however you are. If, on the other hand, you would like a second experience, then you are to put on whatever is in the bag and he’ll take care of the rest. You are to be wearing it from the moment you step out of the car, or he won’t play.” Jackson looked from her, to the bag, and back again. “Spoiler alert: I rather suspect it’s a collar.”
Electrified thrills sparked through every nerve ending as Sinclair clutched the bag a little closer. Her face—heck, her whole body burned, and it was such a stupid thing to be embarrassed over. Jackson almost certainly had to know what their “play” had consisted of. But then, he’d probably seen, passed out and played with hundreds of collars himself. Maybe even thousands, she honestly didn’t know. Either way, he hardly seemed scandalized by the thought of his friend playing kinky games with her. Still, she kept the collar in the paper bag, hidden from everyone’s view, including her own, until all the candies were packed into the back of the van and they were safely on their way.
Holding the bag in her lap, Sinclair sat in the front passenger seat, staring out the window at absolutely nothing, her mind bouncing wildly between memories of last night and all the possible things that Parker might want to do to her tonight. She didn’t open the bag. She wanted to. She badly wanted to. There was no way in hell when she got to the Castle that she would not leave this vehicle without first donning whatever this bag contained, but at the same time she was afraid to open it. She was afraid someone here in town might see whatever lay inside or m
ight somehow just magically know. Then everyone in Granger would just know. Casey, in particular. She couldn’t have that. She didn’t think she could handle another visit from her frenemy/candy shop competitor. So, she waited, until the sparse buildings of town faded into a backdrop of wheat, then soy, then corn fields, surrounded in the distance by the dense growth of trees that would eventually give way to grey-stone turrets.
Tonight, her first sight of the Castle was just like two days ago, only now her nervousness stemmed from other reasons. She waited while Jackson turned off the main road, driving slowly up the long and winding gravel drive. She actually hid the bag so the security guard wouldn’t see it when Jackson paused at the checkpoint to check her in and request that kitchen bitches (that’s what he said—Sinclair was a little offended) be present with a dolly to help bring her bins into the Castle. By the time they reached the hidden employee parking lot, her hands were sweating and shaking and she felt a little sick to her stomach from nerves alone.
Parking under the shade of a sprawling Walnut tree, Jackson climbed out of the car. He waved to the line of costumed servants heading their way and shut the door, leaving her alone for the first time. Almost afraid of what she might find, Sinclair opened the bag.
It was a collar, just like Jackson said, but not the same collar she had bought and worn the night before. This one was heavier, stark black but with soft velvet padding on the inside rim. The rings on the front were thicker and more sturdy than on the one she had bought, as was the buckle. While she would have thought the collar she’d bought the real deal, it took seeing this one to realize Crystal Dolphin’s had sold her a toy. This—she pulled the collar out of the lunch sack, her fingertips running appreciatively along the soft inner padding—was a real collar. It even had a tag on it, a heart-shaped gold-colored locket engraved with two simple words: His Sweetness.
The whole van jostled when Jackson jerked open the rear doors and the heavy bins were heaved out onto the dollies.
“Are you coming?” Jackson called up to her.
“Just a minute.” Her voice was trembling as badly as her hands as she unbuckled the collar and fit it around her neck. Her hair tangled, getting in the way and her fingers felt so damned foreign that she had trouble putting it on. She couldn’t find the hole. She felt and felt along the collar’s tail. She even flipped the visor down, but there was no makeup mirror on the reverse side. The engraved heart rested cold in the tiny dip between her collarbones and she was so rattled by the sudden fear of what it would mean if she was such a newbie that she couldn’t even put her own collar on, that she nearly jumped out of her skin when the door beside her abruptly swung open.
Jackson leaned in.
“I-I can’t—” she stammered, suddenly, inexplicably on the verge of tears. Of all the things she had to cry over, this had to be the most ridiculous reason ever. And yet, Jackson took one look at her fumbling hands and, without cracking a smile, reached in to help.
“Give it to me,” he said, his deep voice soft and soothing. “No, I’ve got it. Turn around, give me your back and hold up your hair. No, all the way up. There’s a good girl.”
Good girl. There it was, that same silly, practically juvenile endearment Parker had used last night. She didn’t know if it was his tone or the words themselves, but funny how something that misogynistic could hold the power to calm her down like this.
“There you go,” Jackson declared after only a second or two. When she shifted back around on the seat, he held out his hand to help her down out of the van. “Come along, little submissive. Master Parker is waiting for you.”
Chapter EIGHT
From the very first day that Parker had moved into his suite on the third floor of the Castle, he’d hated the view. Some Masters had fabulous views: Marshall, for instance, had private rooms overlooking the gardens, while Jackson had gorgeous sunrises over the fields every morning and Kade, the lucky bastard, lived right smack over the Roman baths where suits were always optional and the slave assistants were ready, willing and eager to please. Every window Parker owned looked straight down over the kitchen receiving area, a nice concrete slab where the smokers hung out on their breaks and the food trucks unloaded their wares, usually at some ungodly hour while he was trying to sleep. Those windows that did not overlook the kitchen had prime views of the employee parking lot. Yeah, up until this very moment, Parker hated his view.
Running his hands through his light brown locks, he shoved his hair back, smoothing it down again and again, trusting repetition and gel to tame the beast. He wasn’t nervous, per se, but this felt like nerves. He was in full-on Dom mode and had been practically from the moment he’d rolled out of bed, looked at the clock and set that instant mental countdown of how many minutes separated him from getting his hands on his sweet, sexy Sinclair all over again. His body hummed, every inch of him so damned aware of her. The next town over was at once too far and yet the distance so easily closed. All he had to do was get in his car and go, but unfortunately, he had a day job too. He took a shift in the dungeon with a wallflower submissive who had whisperingly asked if he was familiar with rope bondage. The hours he had spent with her, painstakingly binding her into a corset of ropework was time spent wishing it was Sinclair that he could feel trembling with excitement and pleasure while he wrapped, cinched, tightened and wove those two-tone ropes into a tightly constricting work of art.
“Thank you, Master,” the wallflower had whispered as the dungeon photographer came to take pictures of the final effect, a memento of the experience she could later take home with her.
“Not at all, little one,” Parker had replied. He’d even given her hair a seemingly fond stroke, but at the same time, all he could think about was how the dark strands running through his fingers should have been red and the quivering young woman waiting for him to undo the ropes should have been Sinclair.
Would she come to the Castle wearing his collar tonight? His cock was so damned hard just thinking about how she had lain on that table, her knees drawn up close to her chest and her legs spread wide apart, opening herself to the strokes of his fingers and the lash of his tongue. Sweet Sinclair, and she honestly had been. Salty and sweet, a heavenly combination that had literally haunted him all day long.
The sun was setting but the sky not yet dark when he finally spied the Castle’s unmarked van coming up the winding unpaved road. A near-electric jolt shivered him. So, so near and yet so far out of his reach. She’d be wearing his collar, he assured himself. She had to be. The wait was nothing shy of sheer agony.
The van parked, and a line of kitchen submissives trailed out with dollies to help unpack bin after plastic storage bin. He had no idea what Sinclair had planned to accomplish tonight, and although he had every intention of meeting whatever working needs she had, he had plans of his own. Not all of which involved work, by any means. Some would very pleasurable indeed.
He saw Jackson, but not Sinclair. Not for a long time. Where was she?
He didn’t realize how tensely he was holding himself—Christ, he was even holding his breath—until, with the van finally unloaded, Jackson shut the back doors. He waved the kitchen staff to start on back without him and vanished around the side of the vehicle to the front passenger door. He watched the van jostle. What, did he have Sinclair tied up on the front seat? It was a totally ridiculous thought and even more absurd that he should feel such a stab of jealousy. If Sinclair was going to be tied up for anyone, it was definitely going to be for him, not Jackson, who was already emotionally attached to a submissive of his own, Parker knew, and who had shown absolutely no interest in straying from Sara’s affections.
No, of all the Masters, Parker knew Sinclair was safe with Jackson. Still, threads of jealousy laced through him. They seemed to come with a mouthy little devil, who took up firm residence on his shoulder to give obnoxious voice to every doubt Parker couldn’t believe he was harboring. Maybe Sinclair had changed her mind. Maybe he had moved too fast yesterday. M
aybe he hadn’t moved fast enough. Towards the end there when she had been so wanton and wild, thrusting her hips up into his mouth, grinding and groaning and clutching at his hair in an effort to keep his mouth there, yes there, oh God yes, right fucking there, the way she had looked at him had screamed, “Take me!”
He almost had, too. If not for that damn vow he’d made, he would have. But he knew, even if in that raw sensual moment she hadn’t, that sex would have been the wrong thing. Yesterday had been, in effect, their first date. He wanted her. He wanted her to come back, to keep coming back. He wanted her to want him as he was, the Master when the job required it, the dominant that he was at all other times, and the simple man who wanted the woman he saw in Sinclair every time he walked into her candy shop and she smiled that shy, sexy smile over the counter at him. He really didn’t want to mess this up.
The van jostled again. His chest began to ache and his head to pound. He was holding his breath again, but he couldn’t stop himself. He stared fixedly through the cool glass pane until his eyes burned he hadn’t blinked in so long. Was she coming? What was delaying her? Maybe she really had changed her mind. Maybe she had put his collar on and now she was taking it off. He couldn’t take this. Every passing second felt like needles, jabbing at him. Maybe he should stop standing here like a love-struck idiot and get his ass down there, talk to her before she could convince Jackson that this was all some horrible mistake and to please just take her—
Everything stopped a half second later when both Jackson and Sinclair came walking around the back of the van, heading together toward the Castle’s kitchen entrance. She had her hands tightly clutched together but she was smiling, and even from here he could see that nervous/excited/apprehensive play of emotions dancing inside her. But that wasn’t all he could see. She was wearing his collar.