by Kaliana Cole
Liberty Springs, Wyoming 2
Hook, Line and Sinker
Jory Raines is a legend within the D/s club scene. His voice alone can do more for a sub than two lesser men and a chest full of toys.
When Bailey Verne breezes back into his life, scarred from her efforts to embrace the submission he likes in a woman, his vaunted self-control is shot to hell.
With her gilded curls and siren's body, Bailey tempts him more sorely than any other woman ever has. Her sassy mouth and blatant sexuality may threaten his sanity, but her bravery and resilience captivate him as she openly embraces the parts of him kept ruthlessly restrained.
From Denver’s underground club scene to Jory’s own dungeon of depraved pleasures, just who is leading who down the devil’s path is in serious question.
Bailey embarks on a fishing trip to land the catch of her life, and take Jory Raines off the market for good.
Genre: Contemporary
Length: 59,410 words
HOOK, LINE AND SINKER
Liberty Springs, Wyoming 2
Kaliana Cole
EROTIC ROMANCE
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
HOOK, LINE AND SINKER
Copyright © 2011 by Kaliana Cole
E-book ISBN: 1-61034-910-5
First E-book Publication: October 2011
Cover design by Jinger Heaston
All cover art and logo copyright © 2011 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
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www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter to Readers
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DEDICATION
A lot of us go through that itinerant lounge/sofa/couch-dweller stage. I know I did. It wasn’t a case of being homeless. It was a need for more freedom than home afforded at the time. There were a few people I could depend on to put me up for the night… or week… or month…
This one’s for them, and anyone else who has been a lounge-dweller or a generous lounge owner.
K.J., I appreciate you buying that spare bed. It’s a definite step up from the lounge. (If only you had a Jory hiding in your closet!) As usual, this one’s for you.
And B., you’re still my everything…
HOOK, LINE AND SINKER
Liberty Springs, Wyoming 2
KALIANA COLE
Copyright © 2011
Chapter 1
Jory Raines checked his rearview mirror once more.
The headlights were still following obediently. Missy, the driver of the vehicle, promised to do everything obediently. She was the best the Kat had had to offer tonight, but Jory was thankful she had her own car. Conversation wasn’t high on her skill set, and the idea of facing her tomorrow across the breakfast table was downright cringe-worthy.
No, he’d find out just how far her supposed obedience stretched and then send her on her not-so-bright way.
He pulled up outside the overgrown log-and-stone cabin he called home and stepped out of the four-by-four. He could have sworn he’d left the garage door open this morning. It wouldn’t hurt the Jeep to spend one night outside, and it was a certainty that if he stepped out of sight for one minute Missy would get lost, so he left the vehicle where it was. Jory handed her from the impractical little sports car and led her up onto the porch.
He shushed her attempts at conversation sharply. “Enough, you will speak only when spoken to.”
“Yes, master.” Her cotton-candy voice was suitably subservient and slightly breathy. Experienced subs like her got off on even hearing the word “master.” It just failed to have the usual effect on him.
Jory took a deep breath. He must be getting jaded, not to mention forgetful. He slid his key in the lock, but it was already open.
What age did Alzheimer’s set in? Not forty-five, surely.
He took Missy’s coat as they entered the great room. Jory’s nostrils flared as a tantalizing fragrance tugged at his mind, searching for recognition, a memory to cling to. He brought her coat to his nose, but it wasn’t coming from there. He looked around the great room. Everything was in place except for the patchwork quilt that belonged on the back of the saddle leather couch.
“Stay right where you are, don’t move,” he ordered the dark-haired woman, knowing he could walk away for hours and she would still be where he left her. Her blind obedience made his cock stir lazily with anticipation. This one might go a long way before she broke.
He stalked obliquely toward the sofa, eyes focused on the rumple of earthen-tone quilt that was hanging over one end. On silent feet he circled to look along the old sofa. Light from the kitchen cast a shadow over the figure beneath the cover. A mass of variegated blonde curls spilled from beneath the other end.
Jory took a deep breath, unable to contain the smile that lifted his lips.
Goldilocks herself had taken up residence on his lounge.
He should have known. No one but Bailey Verne would be game enough to break into his house and stay there for him to find. Women either feared him or were in awe of him. Men knew better than to fuck with him. Only one person
had ever had the audacity to mosey in and out of his life as if she owned it.
Apparently his warning of three years ago hadn’t stuck. She was a married woman now, and a mother. Even if she had seen him as an older brother, it wasn’t appropriate for her to bunk down on his lounge whenever she felt like it. He knew he should wake her and get her to haul her ass back to her useless husband, but Jory had to be honest with himself—he wouldn’t kick Bailey out if his life depended on it.
A faint shiver traveled her covered form, and he went to turn up the heat. Missy entered his field of vision, still standing where he had left her. “Oh. Missy. Sorry, but tonight won’t be happening. Here, ring Callum. He’s your fail-safe tonight.” He waited while she spoke to her minder for the night. He took the phone back off her the moment she finished. “If you hurry back to the Kat you might find someone else to play with.” A wicked streak of inspiration struck. “I’ll tell you what. You drive yourself straight down to the police station and tell the man behind the desk you want to be locked up. Andy Calhoun is right up your alley. He hasn’t had anyone to play with for a long time.”
“Andy Calhoun? I’ve heard of him.” He could see calculated interest in her dark flashing eyes.
“The police station,” Jory confirmed, settling her coat around her shoulders and pointing her in the direction of her car.
He breathed a sigh of relief as she turned and headed back down his drive, but his dick complained. It, too, had known that Missy might have gone far enough to scratch the itch. She might just be enough to stir Andy from the funk he was in, anyway. The man would only be sitting behind that desk dealing with the red tape Emma soon-to-be-Whelan Duncan had laid on his doorstep.
Jory turned the lights down low and sat in the big armchair that matched the lounge. The riot of curls shone as if gilded where they hung over the arm. Bailey must have given up on taming them. The last time he had seen her, the blonde mess had been sleek and smooth. A stylish cap that had molded her skull, artfully streaked with myriad shades. A sophisticated facade that had almost masked the rough-around-the-edges hoyden beneath.
That lame-ass she married had never seen Bailey for the gem she was. Sure, she was decidedly rough-cut and streaked with minor flaws, but she was a priceless treasure. One he had spent more than half his life protecting, both from herself and the big bad world. And for the last decade or so, him.
He stood and looked down at her shrouded form for a long moment before heading upstairs to bed. She was buried down so far he couldn’t even kiss her temple. He settled for smoothing her hair back, letting the silken strands caress his hand before he turned away.
The feel of that chaste touch clung to his hand like molasses as he stripped off and slid into bed. He closed his eyes, knowing he would wake if Bailey so much as stirred.
Haunting dreams of gilded curls and breathy little voices crooning “yes, master” plagued his sleep. Dawn threatened the eastern sky before he was able to slumber peacefully.
* * * *
Bailey awoke slowly, before freezing until she realized where she was. Certain she was in the one place of refuge she could depend upon, she experimentally moved. A deep soreness rode her entire being and pain lanced deep in her body, but it was better than yesterday. She lifted a hand to her face. Her cheekbones were tender and puffy and the skin felt delicate, as if stretched too thin. Her lip was swollen and split anew when she opened her mouth. The trickle of blood was warm as it ran down the side of her chin.
Struggling upright, she blotted the blood with the long sleeve of the shirt she had borrowed. She would hate to stain Jory’s quilt. She perched painfully on one hip as her feet found the polished heartwood floor. Getting to the bathroom was going to be a nightmare. Shuffling along like an arthritic octogenarian, she made it to the slate-tiled bath beneath the stairs.
The mirror was studiously avoided as she washed. She needed a bath. A shower would even help, but the cuts and abrasions on her neck and wrists would sting beneath the water’s touch and only increase her pain. Not to mention the pain flinching would inflict upon the deep tissue damage.
Bailey heard floorboards creaking and running water overhead. Jory would be down soon and it would be time to face the music. She made her slow way to the kitchen. Everything was better with coffee.
Two steaming mugs sat safely on coasters on the lacquered slab bench when she heard Jory come down the stairs. Making them with her bandaged hands had been a challenge to say the least. She faced the window and flicked her hair forward to screen her face a little. It was delaying the inevitable, but she would love to hear Jory’s exasperated voice just once before he saw her.
It never failed to warm her from the inside out. Mellow and smooth, his voice was normally a touch reserved, almost menacing, except when he spoke to her. Then it swung between exasperation and loving warmth, with a whole lot of resignation thrown in, but he was never patronizing.
“Hey, brat. How was the couch?” Jory reached over and picked up the black coffee, dropping a kiss on top of her head. His clean, spicy scent enveloped Bailey as she closed her eyes to hold back the hot, bloated tears that welled at the warmth in his voice. He took a seat on the other side of the timber bar. “Nice timing, by the way. I had a likely prospect all panting for my old ass, and Goldilocks had taken up residence on my lounge.
“Bailey?” He reached across the bench and used one long finger to push her hair back. “Oh, baby, what the hell happened to you?”
Tears spilled at the raw compassion in his amazing voice. He came around the bench and enveloped her in his warmth, his hold gentle, tender. “Tell me Mark did this and he is dead.” There was cold fury in it now.
Bailey nearly laughed at the thought of Mark lifting a hand to her. The bastard wouldn’t have had the energy. “Wasn’t Mark.” Her throat was scratchy between sobs.
“Who’s done this to you, baby?” Jory held her head back from his chest, icy blue eyes searching her battered face for answers. “Who is responsible for this?” His finger traced over the purple lump that was once her cheekbone.
“It’s my fault,” Bailey admitted, closing her eyes when she was unable to watch the empathic pain in his.
“It is not your fault, Bailey. You didn’t ask for this.”
“But I did, Jory. I was fucking stupid, and I paid the price.” Self-loathing colored her words.
“I think we need to start at the beginning, babe. Come over here and sit on the lounge with me.” Bailey shuffled at his side, too blatantly in pain for Jory not to notice. “Christ, Bailey. What else happened to you?”
He went to lift her, but Bailey’s cry of pain stopped him. “Fucking hell. You’re tearing my heart out. Show me what’s wrong with you.”
Bailey shook her head, but Jory was having none of it. “It’s me or the hospital, Bailey. You make your mind up.” His glacial eyes were furiously adamant.
She lowered the hand that kept the top button of her shirt from his fingers. Long fingers flew down the row of buttons, his face reassuring, settling her with the gentle touch of his eyes.
She held her breath when he pushed the shirt back off her shoulders, unable to resist watching him. His blacker-than-black hair and the cut of his high cheekbones spoke of a Native American ancestry that his icy Nordic eyes did not match. He was stunningly handsome, but, right then, all she could see in his gaze was pain. For all the countless fantasies and dreams of Jory undressing her she had ever had, this look on his face had never featured. Tears actually welled in his eyes when he looked at what he had unveiled. His face showed sheer, unbridled anguish. She closed her eyes, unable to watch.
* * * *
Rage swelled in Jory’s chest. A red haze tinted his vision as he looked at Bailey clad only in white cotton panties. Her hands and wrists were bandaged. The discoloration around the bottom of the crepe attested to the severity of the damage. She was bruised and battered, but there were particular injuries that had his heart pounding in alarm. Her neck was abraded
and heavily bruised, just as he suspected her wrists were, and her nipples bore signs of trauma.
He knew all the marks. “Stocks or the cross?”
“Stocks.” The humiliation in her voice warred with the pain, both physical and mental.
The apparatus used to restrain her gave him other concerns. He walked around her, knowing any movement would cause her more hurt. Her back was a mess, but it was not the type of damage he had feared seeing. Small cuts and abrasions covered it. Bright patches of reddened flesh, tinged with orange salve, told the story of intense heat, but no telltale welts or stripes crossed it. He was confused.
His hands rested at her sides, on the only unmarked skin he could find. “There’s more, isn’t there?” His heart broke for her over what he knew he was going to find beneath the white cotton. She went to nod and then caught herself. Those abrasions would be pulling at her neck.
“Yes.” She sounded ashamed.
He blew out his breath, struggling to handle his rage. “Can I see, baby? The rest is bad, but it doesn’t need a doctor. I need to know if I have to call the doctor out.”
“Okay.” She sounded like a scared little girl as she reached for her panties.
“It’s okay, Bailey. I got it.” He kneeled and slid the cotton down her legs. The stains on the liner warned him what to expect, but as he lifted one of her feet and placed it on his leg, he fought back tears. Her buttocks were worse than her back, bleeding in places where the cotton had stuck to the wounds. But the more intimate damage was worse. Clamp marks covered every inch of her naked folds inside and out. It was a small measure of relief to see that she hadn’t been brutalized on top of the other damage.