by Chloe Cox
Sierra swallowed. That actually did sound like a threat.
“Understood.”
He was still looking at her, but suddenly Sierra felt like she needed privacy.
“Your safety is still my priority,” he said.
“I know,” she said, wriggling out from under him. It wasn’t until she was wrapping herself in a sheet, ready to head to the en-suite bathroom, that she realized what was bothering her.
And it was the picture that did it.
There was a picture on the writing desk on her side of the bed. A single framed photo of Conor with another man, smiling in a way she’d never seen Conor smile. They were somewhere rugged, with mountains in the background and dirt on their faces. She realized she didn’t know anything about Conor’s life. About his real life. And she probably never would, because…
Wait. The other man in the picture looked familiar.
“Is this where you’re living?” she asked, never taking her eyes off the framed picture. It was like she knew who that other man was, and it was on the tip of her tongue, but…
She felt Conor get off the bed, her eyes still fixed on the man in the picture.
And then fixed on Conor’s muscular ass, as he came between her and the desk. He closed the laptop that was next to the picture, which, fine. But he also flipped the picture frame down, which is how she knew he was hiding it from her.
And then he turned around and she was face to face with that magnificent cock, and all thought left her brain.
She needed to remember this wasn’t a real relationship. She really, really needed to remember. Because otherwise…
“Eyes up here,” Conor said. “Otherwise I’m going to take advantage of that mouth.”
“That might not be the threat you think it is,” she murmured.
He threaded his hand in her hair and tilted her face up to his in response. He was grinning down at her, with that single dimple again. The world’s cockiest dimple. It was so much worse now that she knew he was also the kind of Dom who could back up that arrogance.
“It is when you have to get up at four in the morning,” he said. “I will leave your ass bright red for that.”
Sierra blinked. She’d totally forgotten that she’d been booked on a morning show the next day as part of the publicity tour.
“Get dressed,” he ordered. “I’m escorting you home.”
“Ben the bodyguard is waiting for me outside,” she said.
“He’s not me.”
As it turned out, that would be kind of important.
Sixteen
Two hours with Sierra Fiore naked, in his bed, was not enough. Hell, a week straight wouldn’t be enough. Conor would fuck himself dehydrated before he decided he’d had his fill of Sierra Fiore. So two hours wasn’t going to cut it, not by a long shot.
But it was long enough for real life to intrude and remind him of the stakes.
Conor hadn’t given much thought to having Sierra in his quarters until he saw her staring at the picture of Conor and Mikey out on the Cape, the last summer before they joined up. It wasn’t like him to be caught off guard. But that did it.
He frowned now as he thought about it, watching Sierra get as dressed as she could, given what he’d done to her dress.
She’d recognized Mikey, or thought she did. She just didn’t know from where. That screwed up face with the head tilt was unmistakable. There was no indication Sierra had ever met Mikey — she’d been away at school when her father and Mikey were killed — but she would have seen the headlines. The photos on the front page.
It had almost been a serious mistake. Because now, when she was already freaked out, and before Conor had solid evidence, was not the time to tell her that her brother was trying to kill her.
Conor wouldn’t be careless with information like that. He remembered the face she’d made when she thought he wasn’t looking, talking about her brother in the back of the car. The hope she still carried that maybe, just maybe, her only remaining family member wasn’t an irredeemable monster was clear, and wrong, and Conor was going to have to break her heart with the truth eventually.
But not yet, and not like this.
Maybe that was why he was determined to see her home himself. Every time Conor thought about how he wouldn’t be able to protect her from that heartbreak, he got angry. One of the hardest lessons for a Dom to learn was that, no matter how good he was, he couldn’t control everything.
So maybe it was protectiveness.
Or maybe it was instinct.
“You ready?” he asked her.
Sierra looked over her shoulder and up at him, flipping her hair as she put her red-bottomed heels on. Fuck.
She laughed softly. “Almost certainly not.”
Conor felt his cock begin to twitch again. Damn thing couldn’t be put down when it came to her. What he wanted to do was cross the room, pull that dress down all over again, grab a fist of her hair, and drive into her as he bent her over that damn desk.
But he didn’t. Because he was her protector, first. Bodyguard didn’t really cover it anymore. That was fine.
But it meant that for the first time as a Dom with a sub he wasn’t going to be able to do whatever he wanted, when he wanted. He could feel the tension building already at the base of his cock, his chest getting tight. This would be an exercise in controlled release, that was for sure.
And in instinct.
Because as they approached the exit of the club, ignoring the prying eyes around them, Conor knew something was off. He knew it before he even opened the door.
He just didn’t want to be right.
They came out of the shadows on Beacon Street as soon as he opened the outer door, seven of them, maybe eight. Some turning where they stood with lit cigarettes in their mouths, spitting as they raised their cameras, others rushing in close. Sloppy men in sloppy clothes starting a frenzy.
Conor closed the door.
The flashes exploded outside the door, filtering through the stained glass at the top of the doorway. Conor growled. Sierra gripped his arm.
“Just photographers?” she said.
He looked back at her. She was afraid, pulse beating fast in her neck, pupils dilated—but she still had her head screwed on straight. Man, this was the fucking thing. He knew this scared her. This exact scenario. But she was brave anyway. And more worried about the actual threat at hand — the stalker. She was a good soldier.
Not something he thought he’d look for in a woman, but it wasn’t the first time Sierra surprised him.
“Don’t know,” he said, truthfully. “But I’ve got a plan.”
Took about ten seconds. He walked back, opened the inner door, leaving Sierra in the foyer behind the locked front door, and called to Kane. His face said it all. In a flash, he had Kane, Rourke, and a few Doms he didn’t know crowded into that stupid foyer, with Sierra at the center of them.
She was looking up like she was surrounded by giants.
“Phalanx formation,” Conor said. “Keep them at arm’s length. I’ve got her in the middle. We’re going to the silver beamer with the tinted windows across the street. We get her in the car, I drive away, you keep them from following. Clear?”
“What about Ben?” Sierra asked.
Conor frowned. He’d scanned the terrain automatically when he looked out. Ben wasn’t by the car, hadn’t responded when the paps swarmed, and he’d parked the car out front instead of the alley around back. Which meant Ben was most likely very far away by now.
“Who knew you were coming here tonight?” he said.
“No one,” she said. “It was an impulse thing.”
And then it dawned on her.
“Oh,” Sierra said. “Ben sold me out?”
The worst part was she just looked a little sad. Not surprised or outraged. Just sad. Conor looked at Kane, who looked like he could melt steel beams with his eyes.
“I will take care of this, Sierra,” Kane said.
“See
that you do,” Conor said. He kept it clipped and controlled for Sierra’s sake, but Kane would hear about this later. And Conor wasn’t going to rely on anyone else for Sierra’s security, not again.
He looked down at her, and fought the urge to kiss her. She looked back, those brown eyes warming him from the inside, and the thing in his chest burned.
Later.
“Keep close to me, Princess,” he said. She smiled. Like he’d let her do anything else.
He took off his jacket, the same sports coat he’d been wearing the previous day on the job, now just over his usual tank top and jeans. Now he covered Sierra’s head and shoulders with it.
“This is like a perp walk, only surrounded by Doms,” she murmured. “A kinky, kinky perp walk.”
Conor grinned. That gave him ideas for later.
“Ready?” Conor said. “On my mark.”
The Club Volare Doms moved with coordinated precision, and Sierra played her part. If he’d had time, Conor would have told them he was proud of them. But as it was, he was focused on other things.
As soon as Kane opened the door, the shouting started. Mostly just Sierra’s name, over and over again, trying to get her to look at them for a good pic. They didn’t get anything close. She had Conor’s jacket over her head, and his arm around her shoulders, and they were surrounded by a phalanx of Doms.
But Conor wasn’t worried about photographs.
His eyes scanned the scene, his whole body slipping into soldier mode. Scan, register, evaluate, act. He’d trained himself not to panic, not to be overly reactive. Turned out to be helpful when surrounded by a bunch of flashes going off while idiots shouted at you.
So he was the first to see it.
A medium build, medium height white guy in a dark hoodie, hanging towards the back of the throng. Holding a flower box.
“Move!” Conor ordered.
They were almost to the car. Conor couldn’t know what was in that fucking flower box. It could be a weapon, easily.
And then he watched the man in the hoodie make a split decision.
He threw it.
Conor watched the box arc up over the throng of photographers and the Doms surrounding him and Sierra. It moved slowly as his mind processed the threat. He had plenty of time to see how fast the box moved — nothing heavy in it, no weapon — to see how the man’s hoodie sleeves rode up as he threw the stupid thing, revealing coiled red tattoos on one wrist. A snake, or a dragon maybe. But a clue. An identifying clue.
And he had plenty of time to see the box begin to open in mid-air.
To see the roses falling out, over the photographers, the Doms.
To see that the roses were dead.
And, as he hustled Sierra into the back of the car, to see that those stupid dead roses were drenched in blood.
“You all right?” he asked as he got into the driver’s seat, the Club Volare Doms surrounding the car even as the photographers all freaked out about their dead blood rose shower.
“Fine,” Sierra said, crawling out from under his jacket.
Conor maneuvered the car through the narrow window the Doms gave him, then gunned it, watching a dead rose smear blood on the windshield.
Of all the lowlifes in Boston, Jared Fiore had to hire a drama queen.
“Ok, now that we’re fine,” Sierra said, carefully, “what on Earth is that?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” Conor said.
Sierra was quiet after that.
And it took him all the way back to her place to realize he was wrong.
Because in that elevator he was starting to get real familiar with, he could see that she was scared. Worse than scared. Her little hands balled up into fists at her side, her shoulders up, her neck tense, her eyes darting around. Looking at everything but him.
His sub was scared, and she was trying to hide it from him.
That wasn’t going to work.
This time, he hit the emergency stop button.
“Wait,” she said, looking up as the elevator came to a stop. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
“Relax, Princess,” Conor said. “Nothing’s wrong. Look at me.”
He saw her take in a deep breath, steeling herself to put on a mask like she did with the cameras. Hell no.
Conor cupped her chin in his hand and gently turned her to face him, and pinned her eyes with his own. He held her there like that, just breathing with her, until he saw her getting lost in it.
Then he pushed her up against the elevator door and kissed her like he fucking meant it, because it would be the first and last time he kissed her outside the club.
When he pulled away from her she was breathing fast, her chest rising high and falling deep with every breath, her lips parted, her eyes glassy. Good. Her defenses were down.
“Tell me why you’re scared, Princess,” he said.
Sierra blinked up at him.
“Not in general. Not today. Right now, this fucking moment,” he said.
That was when she started to tear up.
Conor watched the tears start to brim on her eyelashes, watched her fight them. And he fucking knew the answer. She was afraid, generally, and no matter how brave she acted in the moment, she was still aware that someone wanted to kill her. But she knew she felt safe with Conor around. She remembered the last time. She remembered him sleeping on the couch.
And she was afraid to ask for it again.
Conor recognized that too. How many times had people in her life turned away when she needed them before this moment? He bet it was a metric shit ton. And Conor knew from experience that after a while it got easier just to stop asking for help. Hurt a lot less than hearing a no, anyway.
Well not this fucking time.
“You want me to stay,” he said.
Sierra looked down, ashamed. Conor brought his fingers to her chin, lifted it back up.
“You’re going to learn to tell me the truth,” he said. “And in the meantime, here’s how this is going to work. I’m on you twenty-four fucking seven. I don’t leave your side. No one, and nothing, is going to get near you without my say so. Not until we nail this sonofabitch.”
Sierra blinked, a tear falling down her cheek. She rolled her eyes at herself, then smiled, then got real serious, real quick. The woman moved fast.
“Who’s ‘we’?” she said.
Conor grinned. Yeah, she was quick.
“I’ve got friends,” he said. “We’re going after this cowardly piece of shit. And we’re going to get him.”
“Promise?” Sierra said, smiling. She was joking, but Conor wasn’t.
“Yeah,” he said. “Only you’re not going to like it.”
“Why not?”
“For the same reason I don’t,” he said, slamming his hand into the big red button to get the elevator moving. “Because that was an exception. Now we play in the club only. Out here, I’m your protector. In there, I’m your Dom.”
He would have sworn he could hear the smile on Sierra’s lips as she followed him into her own apartment.
“Sounds like I’ll have plenty of opportunities to get into trouble, then,” she said.
Conor took a deep breath, and let his eyes linger as he looked his new sub up and down. She was almost put together, her dress covering everything important, her hair smoothed down. But her eyes told him she’d just been freshly fucked. And his cock wanted to do it again. Immediately.
“You’re off to a good start, Princess,” he said, and heard her laugh as she walked off towards her bedroom, her plump, round, very fuckable ass swishing side to side in a hypnotic rhythm the whole time.
Conor growled.
The situation had just escalated, even if Sierra didn’t know it. The boundaries were blurring all over the place in this goddamn case. But as long as Conor had to keep lying to her, he was going to keep it as professional as possible. Even if that meant sleeping on the couch.
The Club was only ten minutes away, after all.
> Seventeen
God, another dream.
Only this time, Sierra’s brain didn’t have to fill in the gaps. This time, she knew.
She knew what Conor’s big, rough hands felt like on her ass. She knew what his surprisingly soft lips tasted like on hers. And she knew — and would never forget — what his cock felt like driving into her.
It felt like fucking heaven, is what it felt like. And now when she dreamed she got to feel it all over again.
Which was why when her alarm woke her up at half past three in the morning — the morning, which, prior to this particular day, was not actually a time of day Sierra was totally sure she believed in — she groaned a little louder than she might have otherwise.
In her dream, anyway, they’d never had to stop.
And now, as she stared up at her ceiling, illuminated by the millions of little electronic lights she never noticed until the middle of the night, she got to remember that that had all been real. She’d really worked up the courage to go to Club Volare. She really had been recognized, and then she really had been sold out by a bodyguard and freaking outed to the world—and then Conor had made sure it wasn’t a problem. Because Conor was every inch the Dom that Sierra had thought he was.
And now he was her Dom.
She bit her lip and smiled into her pillow, remembering what he had smelled like. What his weight had felt like, on top of her.
And then, of course, she remembered that he wasn’t in the bed next to her.
Because this was very much not a relationship.
Conor was her Dom in the club sheets, protector in the streets. Which, now that her stalker knew she was a member of Club Volare, was maybe important. Sierra had no idea how that was going to work, but she trusted Conor to figure it out. That was his job, after all.
And her job was going to be making sure she didn’t do anything too stupid, like fall for her Dom protector.