Pleasure Bound (Hard to Get 2)

by Anne Rainey

  Deanna lifted her head and looked at him. “Cade is getting his life straightened out and Ray got the minimum sentence of three years. Those are good things, Jonas. So why did you seem angry?”

  “Are you kidding me, Deanna?” he growled. “Ray nearly shot you!”

  She laid her back down on his chest. “He was out of his mind with pain. We need to try to forgive him, Jonas.”

  Jonas coasted his hands down to her ass and squeezed. “I understand the reason behind Ray’s rampage, but I’ll never forget seeing that pool of blood on the porch. I’ll never forget how close you came to dying.”

  “Neither will I,” she said as she kissed his chest. “I’m very glad you saved me.”

  Jonas knew now was the time. He loved her, would always love her. And the time had come for him to do something about that. Suddenly, his palms grew damp and he felt as if he were going to be sick. Christ, he was nervous! He’d laugh later at the absurdity of that. Much later.

  “I love you, kitten.”

  She lifted her head and smiled up at him. “And I love you.”

  He took a deep breath, then let it out. “I want to spend my life making you happy, Deanna.”

  She kissed him. “I like the sound of that,” she breathed against his lips.

  “I think I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at your family’s picnic. I just didn’t know it then.” He leaned down and softly kissed her warm cheek.

  “Jonas?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you marry me?”

  Jonas jerked. “Damn it, girl, that’s supposed to be my line.”

  She laughed and reached down to cup his dick in her palm. “I was afraid you’d take all day. And I have other plans for you.”

  At once, Jonas was vibrating with sexual awareness. “Plans?”

  “Mmm,” she murmured as she rubbed her thumb over the tip of his cock.

  “Remember in Miami, when you said I could tie you up and tickle-torture you?”

  “Uh, Deanna—”

  She shook her head. “Uh-uh, no chickening out.”

  Jonas smiled and spread his arms out to the sides. “I’m all yours, kitten.”

  Deanna sat up, then reached across the bed to the nightstand and grabbed the handcuffs. She snapped one around his wrist, then the other. Now he was bound and at her mercy.

  “Oh, yeah,” she murmured. “This is going to be so much fun.”

  Jonas groaned. “I’ve created a monster.”

  Turn the page for a sizzling preview of Tawny Taylor’s

  DANGEROUS MASTER

  An Aphrodisia trade paperback coming November 2011

  1

  It was heaven. Glorious, nude male bodies as far as the eye could see. Limbs entwined; muscles stretching and flexing; hard, thick cocks gliding in and out of pussies, mouths, asses.

  Mandy Thompson’s job had taken her to all sorts of places, from the presidential suites of Michigan’s finest five-star hotels to rat-infested hellholes in the most dangerous pockets of Detroit. But never a place like this.

  Until tonight.

  A tray of full champagne glasses balanced on one hand, Mandy stood in the doorway, her gaze meandering around the space, sliding from one beautiful male body to the next. A sigh slipped from between her lips. “Damn, I love my job. I am so glad I took this case.”

  “I told you, you wouldn’t regret it.” Sarah Gray, her best friend, adjusted her corset before leading her down a narrow walkway that skirted the perimeter of the room. “Just remember, you can’t get so carried away that you forget everything I taught you.”

  Easier said than done. Although Mandy was professional enough to realize the danger of forgetting where she was, why she was here, and what could happen if anyone made her.

  To everyone but Sarah, Mandy was a waitress, paid to tote around trays of champagne.

  To Sarah, and to her client, Allison Clark, wife of Mr. Andrew Clark—two-timing trust-fund baby—she was one of the best private detectives in Metro Detroit. Discreet. Thorough. And as tenacious as a bulldog.

  Sarah and Mandy made a full circle of the room. Only twice was she stopped by thirsty guests. Then they headed outside, down the main corridor, and into a second spacious room, this one set up as a bondage dungeon.

  Sarah stopped in front of a scene featuring a gorgeous man, nude with the exception of an itty-bitty G-string that strained at the seams. He was strapped spread-eagle to a wooden cross. But it wasn’t the rippling muscles, pulled taut beneath oil-slicked skin, or the hard penis testing the construction of his G-string that made Mandy feel warm between the legs. It was the look of rapture on his tanned face. It was sexy beyond imagining. It was enough to make her cream her panties.

  “Now that’s how you tell if you’re doing things right,” Sarah said, her voice a little on the breathy side.

  Her own voice husky, Mandy said, “It’s no wonder you spend practically every free minute at places like this.” Shifting the tray to hold it in front of her body, she leaned back, letting the wall support her. The drywall felt cool against her burning skin. It was a very welcome sensation.

  Sarah gave Mandy a little nudge. “I have a feeling you will, too, even after you’re done with your case.”

  “Maybe. Speaking of the case ...” Mandy pushed off the wall, forcing her gaze from the man on the cross. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to visualize the man she had been hired to watch. It wasn’t easy shoving aside the memory of the man on the cross, but she did it.

  Late thirties. Blond hair, wavy and cut about collar length.

  Andrew Clark, one of Metro Detroit’s richest men, was said to be submissive and prefer male doms and sex partners. He had talked his wife, Allison, a former topless dancer, into signing a prenup. She wouldn’t get more than ten thousand dollars in the event of a divorce, unless she could prove infidelity.

  Why a gay man who’d married a woman to pacify his father would think a document would be enough to protect him was beyond Mandy. But it was good for his soon-to-be ex.

  And good for Mandy’s bank account, too. Despite having steady work that paid well, it was getting lean. Lately, she was shelling out hefty money for her grandmother’s care. Her maternal grandmother, a woman who wore the “feisty Irish” tag with pride, Grandma Dougherty was the only family she had left, and Grandma Dougherty was the most important person in the world to her. Mandy would live in a cardboard box to keep that woman in the home she loved.

  “Do you see Mr. Jones?” Sarah asked, using the code name they’d agreed upon before leaving her apartment.

  “Not yet.”

  “If he isn’t in one of these two rooms, he’s probably in one of the private suites upstairs.” Sarah gave Mandy’s arm a tap. “Let’s go around to the other side to make sure.”

  “There are private suites?” Hefting the tray, Mandy sighed. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

  “Like I told you, Mr. Jones isn’t much of an exhibitionist. You’re probably not going to catch him bent over a horse, a sweet boy fucking him in the ass.”

  Mandy had seen a picture of Andrew Clark, aka Mr. Jones. Seeing a hot guy fuck him in the ass would be a sight to behold. “Now, that was fodder for one hell of a dream.” Fanning her face with her free hand, Mandy motioned with a tip of the head, indicating a nearby scene. The dom was drop-dead, traffic-stopping, panty-dropping gorgeous, and the sub, a man who was younger than him, maybe in his midtwenties, wasn’t far behind him in the looks department. “What is it with this party? Every single male is beautiful. I’ve never seen so many good-looking men in one place in my life.”

  Sarah shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. But it’s one of the things I find most appealing about Zane’s parties.” She nudged Mandy in the side. “Finally.”

  “Is it Mr. Jones?” Mandy followed the direction of Sarah’s gaze.

  “No, it’s my subs.”

  “Did you say ‘subs’? As in, plural?” Mandy located a pair of men in their late-twent
ies, both wearing jeans that fit them like second skins and tank tops that did a lot of good things for their pecs, shoulders, and arms. “Those two?”

  “Uh-huh.” Sarah gave Mandy a grin, then turned on the charm as the pair sauntered up to them. “You’re late.” She was still smiling, but there was an evil glimmer in her eyes. Mandy had a feeling those two were going to regret being late. Then again, maybe not. “I have a suite. Let’s head back.”

  “Ladies first,” one of the two men said as he gave Mandy the once-over.

  Mandy raised her tray. “I’m not playing today. I’m working.”

  “Too bad.”

  She was almost sharing that sentiment. Almost.

  Keenly aware of the man’s lust-filled eyes on her, Mandy gave Sarah a little wave. Sarah and her wonder twins headed in one direction while Mandy headed in another. In the congested main hallway, someone tapped her on the back. She carefully turned to face the back-tapper.

  Ohmygod.

  The man was too freaking beautiful to be real. His face was the stuff of dreams. His body, of wet dreams.

  “Hi.” Mandy swung the tray around, assuming he wanted a glass of champagne.

  “No thanks.” His voice was a deep baritone. It made her nerves prickle, in a good way.

  “Okay.” Confused now, she gave him one of her brightest smiles. “Can I help you?”

  “I guess that depends.” His gaze meandered up and down her body. If she wasn’t so incredibly attracted to this man, she might’ve been irritated by his obvious staring, or embarrassed. As it was, she was getting warmer, particularly between her legs.

  Aware of how damp her panties were becoming, she tightened her thighs, pressing them together. She reminded herself she wasn’t at this party to make new friends. She was there to collect proof of her client’s husband’s infidelity. “Depends on what?” she asked, infusing her voice with a more professional tone.

  His perfectly arched brows lifted slightly. He extended a hand. “I’m Zane Griffin.”

  She knew that name.

  He was, essentially, her boss. She’d been hired by an agency to work at this party, at his party. And if she wanted to make sure she was hired to work future parties, she had better make a good impression.

  She placed her hand in his. “Amanda Thompson.” His grip was firm. He didn’t let her hand go. Now more nervous than turned on, she slightly shifted the tray balanced on her other hand. “You said I could help you?”

  Something she couldn’t quite read flashed in his eyes. “Yes.” He finally released her hand. She placed it under the tray, which was getting a little heavy. He took the champagne from her and set it on a nearby table. “I saw you. In the dungeon.”

  Immediately, Mandy recalled what the agency representative had told them when she’d first arrived. There was to be no alcohol served in the dungeon. And there she was, toting champagne into the dungeon. Her face burned. “Ohmygosh, I’m sorry. I totally forgot. My friend, who is a guest, was showing me—”

  “It’s okay,” he interrupted. “I’m not making myself clear.” He straightened ever so slightly, which made him look that much more intimidating. “It’s true—there should be no alcohol served in the dungeon. But that’s not why I wished to talk to you.”

  “Oh, okay.” Mandy tucked her now-empty hands behind her back.

  “I need someone to work in my private suite. To serve some very special guests there. I wanted to ask if you’d like to be that someone.”

  This was exactly the opportunity she needed. With any luck, Andrew Clark would be one of those “special guests,” and she’d have her evidence by the end of the night. All she needed was one photograph of him either being penetrated or penetrating another person, male or female, to collect her paycheck.

  “I would be honored.”

  “Excellent. This way.” Zane Griffin, aka Master Zane, as Sarah called him, placed a hand at the small of Mandy’s back and steered her toward the sweeping staircase in the front foyer. Up she went, propelled by his touch, aware every second of the heat of his hand, even through the material of her white cotton blouse. At the top of the stairs, he turned her into the first room. They entered through a pair of French doors into one of the most opulent master suites she’d ever seen.

  Immediately inside the French doors was a lounge area, with several cozy couches. A porn film played on a huge flat-screen television hung on one wall, the sound replaced with some sultry jazz playing over unseen speakers. Here and there, flickering candles created soft ambient lighting. On the floor lay a thick rug. It looked like some kind of animal fur. Mandy could imagine lying on that rug, nude.

  Zane stopped in the center of the room.

  Mandy hung back, closer to the door. “This room is gorgeous.”

  “Thank you.” His gaze locked on Mandy’s face, Zane slowly circled the perimeter. “I designed this space.” He stopped in front of a painting of a nude woman, hanging over a deep mahogany dresser. He looked at it, and his features softened slightly. “Every piece has a special meaning to me.”

  “I can tell.” Something pulled her deeper into the room. One moment she was standing just inside the door, and the next she was beside Zane, looking up at the painting. The artist had used oils. Mandy could tell by the layered shading and texture. “This painting is very nice. I tried my hand at painting figures in college. It’s definitely not my forte.”

  Zane turned, facing Mandy. Now she felt small and vulnerable and uncomfortable. He was big. Really big. And his body was powerful, his arms thick, his shoulders heavily muscled. If he wanted, he could easily swoop her off her feet, cart her to the nearest bedroom, and ... do whatever he wanted.

  She almost wondered what that might be like.

  He leaned close enough for her to catch the slightest scent of cologne, trapping her between his body and the dresser. “Amanda, you know what will be happening in this suite, don’t you?”

  “I have some idea.” The image of this man nude flashed through Mandy’s mind. She shifted back, putting as much space between her body and his as she could. It wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot.

  “You won’t be bothered by what you’ll see, will you?” He caged her body between his arms, his hands resting on the dresser’s top.

  “No.” But she sure as heck was bothered now. She’d figured this case would be a little awkward, maybe a bit uncomfortable, but she hadn’t seen this coming. “I’ll be okay.” Her voice sounded so small. There could be no way he’d believe her.

  Mandy wouldn’t have believed it was possible, but Zane leaned closer still. If she inhaled too deeply, her tits would probably touch him. She didn’t inhale ... at all.

  “My guests, particularly in my personal suite, must have absolute privacy. You may not tell anyone who you’ve seen here. Nor are you permitted to take any photographs or recordings. As if he knew she had a hidden camera in her skirt pocket, he slid a hand over her hip. It stopped right on the spot.

  Mandy swallowed. She’d been made. Already.

  Zane was holding her gaze hostage. That wasn’t making her feel any better about being caught red-handed with a camera. “What’s this?” His hand slipped into her pocket. But instead of going right for the camera, he let his fingertips graze her leg through the thin fabric of the pocket’s lining. The intimate touch made her quake. She wanted to shove him away. She wanted to smack him across the face. She wanted to run out of this place and never come back.

  She didn’t do any of those things.

  But neither did she answer his question. She figured he already knew what it was. And even if he didn’t, he would soon enough.

  Who the hell was this little chit, bringing a camera to his party? The agency had promised to do a background check on every person they’d sent. This little minx with the tumble of brown waves cascading over her shoulders, the cool gray eyes, and the lush lips had been cleared. But it seemed she shouldn’t have been.

  What was she up to?

  Zane knew he
should throw her out on her ass. Should. So why couldn’t he get himself to do it?

  He inhaled deeply, thinking the lungful of air would help him gather the strength to show her the door. Or at least release her and take a step back. It didn’t. Instead, that inhalation carried her scent deep into his nostrils, deeper still, until he could practically taste her.

  She was scared.

  But that wasn’t all she was feeling.

  Thanks to his heightened senses, he could tell she was ready. To fuck.

  Her pussy was wet for him. And damn if he didn’t want to shove his cock inside her slick heat and find out how tight and hot she was.

  He slid his hand, still deep inside her skirt pocket, around to the back of her thigh and pulled her hips flush to him. He checked her eyes. The pupils were dilated, but her lids were narrowed in defiance.

  Damn, she was fun.

  “Sir, I’m here to do a job. Not to be a ... participant.”

  Her voice lacked conviction. She wanted this, wanted his touch. Wanted his cock. She wouldn’t admit it, not with words. But her body couldn’t lie.

  He curled his fingers around the camera.

  Her eyes widened.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  She lifted her chin. “I told you my name.”

  “Yes, I know. But who are you?”

  Those pretty eyes narrowed again. “I’m the waitress you hired, that’s who.”

  “Sneaking around with a camera.” He pressed the object against her thigh. “Are you a reporter?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He pulled the device out of her pocket and, backing away slightly to eliminate the distraction of her intoxicating scent, took a look at it. It was tiny, just under three inches by one inch. If not for the person who’d reported seeing her holding something suspicious, he might never have known she’d carried it in. Somehow she’d made it past his security team. They’d been trained to detect stuff like this.