by Sidney Bell
“Still better not come,” Sullivan warned him, sliding between his thighs.
“Not gonna.”
“You sure?”
Tobias shook his head, swallowing hard, his stomach clenching pleasantly at the low chuckle Sullivan gave.
“Better figure it out. If you come before I give you permission, I’ll take a belt to your ass until you can’t think.”
For a split second Tobias craved the sharp, impossible fire of the belt, lusted for the crack of it against his skin. There were days when the idea of pain was unattractive to the point of being a turnoff, but there were other days, days like today when he wanted the pain more than he wanted the pleasure. He wanted it badly enough that he debated coming early just so Sullivan would do it.
He felt an instant flush of shame and guilt that he’d considered it, that he’d almost subverted the trust between them with manipulation to get what he wanted, and he glanced up, mouth opening to beg forgiveness and do as he should’ve done in the first place—explained what he felt.
But Sullivan’s eyes were narrowed and keen, and Tobias didn’t have to say anything after all.
“Later, if you want me to, I’ll cane you until you beg me to stop,” Sullivan said quietly. “You don’t have to disobey to get what you need, sweetheart.”
Tobias exhaled, both relieved and terrified, because the cane was so much better and worse than the belt, and he closed his eyes, nodding furiously. This, this was why he could give everything, could put Sullivan’s needs first. Because Sullivan gave back, and so much more fittingly than Tobias could’ve dreamed was possible.
“Don’t come until I say or I won’t let you get off for a month,” Sullivan warned, a far more effective threat of punishment, and sank into him.
Tobias threw his head back and held on for dear life.
* * *
Later, as promised, Sullivan cuffed Tobias’s wrists and ankles, and caned lines of agony into his skin and muscles until Tobias begged, and then he came with furious, painful jerks of his hips at a single stroke of Sullivan’s hand. And later still, Sullivan rubbed lotion into the marks on Tobias’s ass and thighs, soothing the burn with light, tender touches and soft, devoted kisses along the curve of his spine.
“That’s my good boy,” Sullivan whispered and Tobias smiled dozily at his leather cuff and felt hugely, impossibly loved. “You’re so sweet for me. How’s the pain?”
“Perfect,” he murmured.
He surfaced slowly over the next hour, rolling so that he could slide a thigh over Sullivan’s hip, and he was both wonderfully, delightfully sore, and thunderously, ridiculously content. They talked about school and work and the arcane, ordinary details of grocery shopping and laundry that made up a shared life, and gradually the conversation tapered toward sleep.
On Tobias’s side, at least. Turned out Sullivan wasn’t sleepy at all, because Tobias felt Sullivan take a deep breath before he murmured, “Eske ou ta vle marye avèk mwen?”
Tobias’s head jerked up so fast it almost hurt.
Sullivan was pale, but his eyes were as steady as ever. He meant it. Not that Sullivan would ask Tobias that and not mean it, but it was...Bondye, this was really happening. There’d been a few dropped hints from Sullivan over the past six months that this might be their eventual destination, but Tobias hadn’t given it too much thought. He knew where they stood, he knew how they loved. The collar and cuff told him everything he needed to know.
Turned out he’d been cavalier about how grateful he would feel when they got here.
“In Kreyòl no less,” he managed.
Sullivan’s lips twisted up into a self-conscious smile. “Mirlande helped me with my pronunciation.”
“Remind me to thank her.”
“Sure thing.” Sullivan chuckled, laughing at Tobias probably, but he didn’t care. He was dumbstruck, and when his brain stopped working, it fell back on the default, and as far as defaults went, manners wasn’t a bad one. But it also meant that once he’d gotten the polite thing out of the way, he could only stare at this beautiful, whip-smart, sly man who was staring back with growing expectation.
Finally, Sullivan said, “Seriously? You’re killing me here.”
Tobias laughed, low and—he could be honest—a little damply. Right. It hadn’t occurred to him that he would need to say the word—sometimes it felt like Sullivan was in his brain with him, like he knew what Tobias was thinking almost before he thought it—but for some things, words were priceless. “Yes.”
Sullivan’s grin was slow and wide and so very warm. “Yeah? You’re saying yes?”
“Yes,” Tobias whispered. “Of course, yes.” He pushed Sullivan on his back and sprawled over him so they could kiss. Tobias couldn’t breathe, couldn’t imagine how this could possibly be his life. He kissed Sullivan again and again, eager, bruising kisses because he’d lost all semblance of propriety and all he could think was that this man was his, his to kiss and talk to and touch and laugh with and have, forever.
“You want a ring?” Sullivan asked.
“What do I need a ring for? I have a cuff.”
“What am I supposed to wear?” Sullivan’s grin was audible.
“We’ll get you a cuff too.”
“Oh, really?”
“You belong to me as much as I belong to you.” Tobias twisted in Sullivan’s arms so he could peer at his face. “Don’t you?”
Sullivan’s expression softened. “Oh, yeah, sweetheart. I’m all yours. Do with me as you will.”
Tobias smiled and sank back down into his arms. “I think I’ll start with making you the happiest man alive.”
“Too late,” Sullivan whispered, nosing at his ear. “Been that for a long while now.”
“Can’t be. I am.”
Sullivan snorted. “We’re so fucking sappy. It’s embarrassing. I’m profoundly embarrassed on behalf of both of us. But I guess that’s how engagement goes, yeah? Like, if you can’t get sappy when you make a promise like this, when can you? Hey, you know what I read the other day? Apparently in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries there were these interlocking engagement rings called Gimmal rings, and they would be worn separately during the engagement and then linked during the wedding. Kinda romantic, huh? And Gimmal rings likely led to the development of puzzle rings, which are cool, you’d like ’em...”
Sullivan rambled on, segueing from betrothal rings to diamond rings to the four Cs of diamond shopping, and Tobias closed his eyes and held on tightly, unwilling to miss a single word.
* * * * *
To purchase and read more books by Sidney Bell, please visit Sidney’s website at www.sidneybell.com/read
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Embry was sure nothing but vengeance would satisfy him—until Brogan offers him something far more tempting.
Read on for an excerpt from
BAD JUDGMENT
Chapter One
“There are men you wouldn’t mind dying for, Brogan,” Timmerson said, his gaze distant, as if he were daydreaming about one of the good presidents. Lincoln, maybe. “Then there are men like Joel Henniton.”
Brogan Smith sighed. He’d been working for Security Division for three years now and this was the first time he’d heard his boss—polite, reserved Pete Timmerson—willing to bad-mouth a client.
“By that you mean...”
Timmerson reluctantly admitted, “He’s a dick.”
“And I’ve worked with dicks before,” Brogan said, resigning himself to another detail of annoying client behavior. Then he realized exactly what he’d said and added, “That’s not how I should have phrased that. Sorry.”
Timmerson’s lips twitched. He was tall and dark-skinned, with ears that stuck out and a low, soothing voice that he put to good use calming down people on the verge of violence. H
e could make joining the circus seem rational, which might be why Brogan kept showing up for work even though he spent most of his time following around assholes. Predictably, Timmerson was using that voice now.
“Joel Henniton is the COO here at Touring Industries.” Timmerson gestured to the room—and the building—at large. They were sitting in one of the tastefully appointed offices that Touring had set aside for Security Division’s temporary use—large windows, expensive mahogany furniture, fresh-cut roses in a glass vase resting on top of the low bookcase that housed thick tomes of classic literature that no one would ever read. Beyond the closed door, Brogan could hear the bustle of his colleagues in the big conference room they used as a base of operations.
Timmerson continued, “Henniton’s responsible for the day to day operation of the entire company, which manufactures armament. Mostly light arms for the military, until recently. Touring’s trying to grow their customer base, but they’re competing with defense contractors that’ve been around for decades and have way more money.”
“So they’re playing rough to catch up,” Brogan inferred, and Timmerson nodded.
“Henniton’s made some enemies in the process, and a few months ago, he received some death threats. That’s when Oriole Touring—the CEO—contacted me. Technically, the company is the client, but the threats target Henniton alone, so he’s the only one getting protection for now.”
“Sounds straightforward,” Brogan said, frowning. “On the surface, anyway.”
“The problem is that Henniton’s made very few concessions with his schedule and he refuses to call the cops.”
Brogan’s eyebrows flew up. “No cops? Oh, that’s not suspicious at all.”
“I’ve been told that they’re working on a project that’s vulnerable to industrial espionage and they’re unwilling to take the risk of leaks. We’re a precautionary measure only, and Touring Industries expects this situation to resolve itself as the project progresses.”
“I can’t decide if that’s naive or shady.”
Timmerson’s exhale seemed equally unsure. “Henniton’s given me next to no information, so I can’t even have my own investigators look into who’s behind the threats. Henniton hit the roof when he realized I was having the standard background research done into the employees here to find likely suspects, so that got nipped in the bud. He wants to be safe and he wants his secrecy, which is making my life hell, as you can probably imagine.”
“What about the CEO—Touring? He’s going along with this?” Brogan asked, shifting to sit up straight without thinking about it.
“So far. There’s been no violence and no signs that Henniton’s being followed, which leaves me without a leg to stand on. So right now we’re remaining vigilant while respecting his wishes. But that could change at any time, and I don’t expect that Henniton will handle the shift with any aplomb.”
“Ah. That’s where I come in,” Brogan said. “Okay.”
“I trust your judgment, Brogan.” Timmerson leaned forward, adding some heavy eye contact to his weighty tone of voice. Touring was a big client for Timmerson’s company—there was a lot of money at stake, in addition to the lives of the men and women on the detail. “I know you won’t let Henniton bully you into taking unnecessary risks. The fact that you won’t punch him in the face for trying is also a plus.”
Which explained why Brogan had been transferred from his post in Portland down to Salem.
The shift in location wasn’t an inconvenience—since Security Division had offices in both cities, Brogan had bought a house in Woodburn, roughly halfway in between. He liked Salem more, anyway.
That didn’t mean he was looking forward to the assignment. While the confidence his boss had in him was nice, Brogan couldn’t help thinking it might be time to start throwing some tantrums just to get an easy case for once.
Without any intention of doing so, Brogan had gotten a reputation for being drama-free and hard to rattle. A deserved reputation, if he was honest—after the way he’d been raised and six years of military service, petty concerns about clients rolling their eyes at him or who drank the last of the coffee seemed awfully...well, petty. However, that usually stuck Brogan with the nightmarish clients. His boss really needed a better reward system.
“If they want everything done their way,” Brogan asked, “why don’t they have us train their current security staff in personal protection techniques? I mean, I saw plenty of armed guys on the drive in, and they aren’t amateurs.”
“I suggested that. Mr. Touring repeated that this situation is temporary. He doesn’t feel it’s necessary for the company to develop a permanent protection department.”
“So...money.”
“Money,” Timmerson agreed.
“Makes sense, assuming he’s right about that whole ‘temporary’ thing.” Brogan lifted his eyebrows. “Is he right?”
“God, I hope so,” Timmerson said heavily. “Henniton’s only part of my headache. Ford’s...well, he’s his own brand of challenging.”
“Who?”
“Henniton’s executive assistant. I kind of like the guy, actually—he’s exacting, and he’s extremely good at his job. But Ford’s also very sharp-tongued and he doesn’t suffer fools. There have already been several altercations with Ark.”
Brogan made a face. George Ark was not his favorite coworker—the guy was eighty percent ego, and a raving homophobe to boot. “What happened?”
Timmerson smirked—it wasn’t an expression Brogan had ever seen him make before. “Let’s just say Ford has a deft hand when it comes to criticism.”
“Made Ark see stars, did he?” Brogan asked, trying not to sound like he wished he could’ve been there to see it.
Timmerson would never talk shit about employees, but he couldn’t hide the twinkle in his eye as he said, “Ark will be taking over your old post in Portland.”
Timmerson rummaged through a drawer. “Look, Henniton’s going to treat you like furniture unless you annoy him. Ford, on the other hand, will notice every single thing you do. Neither one of them is easily appeased. Watch your step and don’t take anything personally.”
“Sure,” Brogan said, resigned. Laid-back or not, he suspected he’d be spending the next few months trying not to punch people. Hell of a way to kick off the new year.
“I’ve got you scheduled as backup escort for this first week so you can get used to everything without having to take lead. You’ll be shadowing Mario today, but this afternoon I want you to familiarize yourself with the layouts of both of Henniton’s properties.”
Timmerson handed Brogan a ring of keys and a thick sheaf of paper held together with a large binder clip. “Client packet. It’s got the usual—addresses, floor plans, and what little info on Henniton’s staff, family, friends, competitors, and suspects I was able to scrape together before he shut that down. The Touring NDA is a bit draconian—I’ll give you a few minutes to read and sign it. Join us in the morning briefing next door when you’re done. You can leave the form on the desk.”
“Okay,” Brogan said. Timmerson clapped a hand on his shoulder as he headed out, and then Brogan was alone. He took a minute to halfheartedly consider the pros and cons of getting a job at Best Buy or something, but as much as Brogan disliked drama, he loved his job—and the all-important feeling of being needed that he got when he did it well. He resigned himself to a few shitty months, and flipped back the cover of the packet to find a series of photographs of the client.
Joel Henniton was in his mid-forties, fit and good-looking in a slick, capped sort of way, but in most of the photos he was either glaring or wearing a sharp-toothed smile. With his golden tan, confrontational blue eyes, and red-blond hair, he looked like one of those pompous rich guys who lounged around country clubs playing tennis and bullying the wait staff. Not that Brogan had ever been to a country club.
Brogan turne
d the page and began reading about all the awful things Touring would do to him if he shared company secrets. It didn’t faze him. Non-disclosure agreements were very common. Bodyguards saw a lot of shit that clients wouldn’t want shared, and whether it was personal, embarrassing, or downright illegal, if it was covered by the NDA, it was one hundred percent confidential. Brogan signed it without thinking twice.
It was part of the job.
* * *
When the morning meeting broke, Brogan headed for the equipment cage. He swapped his personal firearm—a Colt 1911 A1, a .45 that he had a permit to carry concealed—for an M9 Beretta registered to Security Division. He preferred his own weapon, but if he had to shoot someone, it would make his life a lot easier if he was using one of Timmerson’s. He knew the M9 from his time in the army, so it was no hardship. He grabbed an earpiece and radio, too. There was a button on the cord that could be toggled to activate the mic clipped to his lapel, allowing for constant hands free use, or so it only picked up what he said while he was pressing the switch.
He depressed the switch. “Buenos dias, Mario,” he said, which was officially all the Spanish he knew.
“You’re supposed to say ‘testing,’ idiot,” Mario said into his own mic from across the room. Brogan was unconcerned by Mario’s complaints. Their conversations often had an air of Mario playing the exasperated older brother, even though Brogan was only a year younger—something he rubbed in with pleasure now that Mario had hit thirty—but Brogan liked it. Brogan had spent his childhood raising his younger siblings, so it was nice having someone boss him around for a change.
Mario was a mixed bag of genetics. He said that if you went back far enough he had a relative from every country in Europe and more than a few in South America as well. He wasn’t exactly handsome—his chin and cheeks were a little too round—but women loved him anyway. Mario said it was because the blood of a thousand sexy conquistadors thundered through his veins. Brogan said it was because he looked like a chump.