Kragen

by Chloe Cox

  Focus.

  The first Dom she saw, and she was practically a puddle. Great start.

  He walked right up to the desk like he had a right to be there, like he had the right to crowd her space. Then his eyes locked on hers, and holy mother of God, but it was like he saw her entire life story.

  “Can I help you?” she breathed.

  He said nothing.

  How had she actually formed a sentence? But something about him demanded…demanded something. She didn’t know what. She just knew that she instinctively wanted to give it to him.

  What the actual hell?

  He hadn’t answered her. He was still just staring down at her from his Hulk-like height, which put the top of her head at the same level as his pectorals, eye-to-eye with the pair of tight, hard points poking against a faded black t-shirt that looked so thin and well-used, she wanted to rub her hand against it just to ground herself in something soft and comforting. The only thing that stopped her from doing just that was knowing that the man inside that shirt would be as hard as a rock, hot enough to burn, and she’d been burned enough to know it was time to back away.

  So she did just that. Took an uncertain step back. Only for him to match her one step with two strides, putting him so far into her space, a deep breath probably would’ve brought the tips of her breasts into contact with his muscled stomach. So it was a good thing she was incapable of more than fast, frantic sips of air. Or a bad thing. Better if her lungs stopped working altogether so she wouldn’t be overwhelmed by this scent rolling off of him, rich layers of spice and green things and rain. He smelled like photos of the mountains looked, and she swayed on her heels, feeling like she’d been drugged by the air around him.

  The mascara coating her eyelashes suddenly weighed four hundred pounds. That was the only explanation for why she found herself bowing her head, staring down at his large feet braced on either side of her smaller ones. The contrast between her patent pleather pink heels and his scuffed black leather shoes was…Jesus.

  She blinked and swallowed some more, trying to wrap her mind around how physically powerful he was. And how frighteningly, deliciously soft she felt, standing there in the eye of what she knew, just knew, had the potential to become a raging storm.

  Bette Liffey had never been more attracted to a man in her life.

  Then he opened his mouth and her insides buckled like a ruined old shack, run right over by the low, gravelly sound of his voice. The only thing that kept her upright was the single word he uttered:

  “Bullshit.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  “Excuse me?”

  She forced herself to muster some semblance of outrage, even though inside she was basically screaming and running around like a crazy person. He wasn’t wrong, whoever he was. She was here under false pretenses. But he couldn’t know that, could he? How the hell could he possibly know that?

  “I said, ‘bullshit,’” he said again. “Don’t make me say it again. Tonight is a night for people new to the club, not new to BDSM. Go home.”

  For a second, time stopped.

  Bette was frozen, terrified by the idea that someone had seen through her. This man — this Dom — whoever he was, he couldn’t know all the details. But he’d looked at her, and he’d seen she was lying. He’d seen that she was an impostor.

  And possibly her biggest fear was that she was an impostor, through and through, totally unable to care for her sister Lizzie, and undeserving of the right to try. And that someone, somewhere, would see it.

  No. That was her old life. Her new life began tonight, and Bette Liffey would make good.

  “No,” she said out loud, her voice soft. But she damn well meant it. She wasn’t going home.

  She heard the Dom inhale slowly, and felt his fingers brush against her chin as he lifted her face to his.

  And when he spoke, his voice had softened, like honey-covered gravel.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you, little sub.”

  What choice did she have?

  She met his eyes, and almost melted on the spot.

  He studied her like it was his job, like it was his right. Searching her eyes for so long they started to burn with the effort not to blink, and then her cheeks, her chin, the shape of her nose. Her lips with their slick wash of sparkly gloss, something that felt like armor when she was on stage, but suddenly felt about as insubstantial as tissue paper. No, thinner than that. She never licked her lips after she had her stage face in place, but she found herself giving her bottom lip a nervous swipe, and then his nostrils flared and dear God.

  He bent his head and she would swear he was smelling her the same way she’d sucked in the scent of him, and mortification burned her cheeks beneath the layers of foundation, concealer and powder because now her best thong was absolutely soaked.

  And suddenly, she was mad. This big self-important—sexy, damn him—giant of a Dom was up in her space, touching her face like he owned her, smelling her pussy like he owned that too, staring into her eyes like he had the right to pull her soul straight out of her body, and screw him.

  She was not going to let anyone get in the way of saving her family. And to save her family, she needed to get Spencer Cole. Everything else was just a distraction. Even this walking sex god.

  She jerked her head to the side, half-surprised he let her do it, and shoved one hand between them as she stepped backward.

  “I don’t know who you think you are,” she said, carefully, “but you are way too close, buddy.”

  “I’m a Dom,” he said. “And you’re a stranger here. Safety is my responsibility. Even yours. And I’m calling bullshit.”

  “I wouldn’t be a stranger if you’d get out of my way so I can get on with…whatever needs to happen.” She tried to look past him at Simone, but he was so freaking big, he blocked basically everything.

  “This is the first time you’ve been to a BDSM club.” He said it with such confidence and ringing authority that even if he’d been wrong, she probably would have believed him.

  Get it together. Lizzie is counting on you.

  “It’s first time I’ve been to this club, if that’s what you’re asking,” Bette said as she folded her arms beneath her breasts, which—mistake. His all-seeing eyes dragged right down to her assets, all but her nipples exposed by her demi-bra and deeply plunging neckline of the freaking corset she’d thought was appropriate.

  His mouth flattened out into a thin, hard line and his gaze raked back up to hers.

  “You’re a newbie and a liar. The fear is plain on your face. You have no idea what you’re doing. You’re not even dressed like a sub.”

  Her belly clenched, not in a good way. Because she’d thought the same thing when Simone had opened the door. Against all better judgement, she found herself asking, “Then what am I dressed like?”

  A small smile quirked his lips. When he spoke, he wasn’t mean about it. He was just telling the truth. And that made it worse.

  “A stripper,” he clipped.

  Her spine threatened to fold all over again. Bette wasn’t ashamed of what she did for a living, but she knew other people thought she should be. She’d made the best choices she knew how given the circumstances she’d been handed, and damn it, it was a job. A job that paid for the roof over her head and the legal case that had turned her world upside down, and the education that would one day provide for Lizzie, and…

  No.

  Bette wasn’t going to do this. She didn’t care if this Dom had seen right through her. She didn’t care if just being close to him made her wet. She didn’t even care that she wanted to know what else he saw in her — wanted to know, was scared to know, whatever. She wasn’t going to let anyone make her feel small. Not without her consent. Not ever again.

  “Once again, I don’t know who you think you are,” she said, as levelly as she could, “but unless you have the authority to kick me out, kindly get the hell out of my way so Simone can do her job and I can get o
n with my night.”

  The big Dom’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t say anything as Bette stepped around him to get the paperwork from Simone, who’d silently watched the entire thing. She couldn’t tell if he was pissed, intrigued, or amused.

  But he didn’t stop her.

  And as she read the house rules and release forms, Bette could have sworn she could feel his eyes on her. Could have sworn she could feel his voice still echoing around inside her head. His warnings about what kind of night this would be. It was some kind of special event, but her eyes just glazed over the fine print—she couldn’t focus on anything but him. It was maddening. Especially because he was right: Bette had no freaking idea what she was doing.

  What the hell was she walking into?

  She turned around, intent on asking him. But he was gone.

  Bette wished she wasn’t disappointed.

  She wished even more that she didn’t want to ask him for help, for some insane reason, because that was just downright stupid. How had one man gotten inside her head that quickly?

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter, whoever he was. The only thing that mattered was getting dirt on Spencer Cole, serving that dirt up to Bob Faulkner, and getting the recommendation she needed to get Lizzie back from foster care.

  “Put on your big girl panties, Bette,” she whispered to herself.

  And, trying not to think about what that Dom would have to say about those panties—and whether he would let her keep them, given half a chance—Bette Liffey walked through the doors of Club Volare.

  Spencer Cole kept a brooding eye on the doors to the main playroom at Club Volare, strangely unmoved by anything else he saw. There was a damn parade of subs on the floor tonight, but he was waiting for just one.

  He’d fucked up.

  He didn’t do it often, but when he did, he made it right. Point of pride. So he would find that lying newbie sub with the fake name and the lips that made him want to discover new ways to make a woman come, and he would fix it.

  Cole looked around the main floor one more time. Thing was, he’d been right when he told her she was dressed like a stripper. There was plenty of submissive skin on display in the Club Volare playroom, a cavernous space in an old mansion that had something for every kinky taste imaginable, but experienced submissives didn’t show skin just to show skin. They dressed for Doms, but they dressed for themselves, too. There was style, purpose. It was subtle, but an experienced Dom could pick up on it, and Cole was that.

  Take Simone Delavigne, working the front door. In some form fitting black thing that she knew her Dom, Holt, would want to peel off of her. It was part of their game.

  The newbie sub with the lips — with the eyes, the tits, the ass, if he was honest — was different. No expression. Nothing personal. Just skin, meant to appeal to the lowest common denominator while revealing nothing of value. It took real skill to wear that little clothing and still be guarded. Just like a stripper.

  But Cole was a hard man, and sometimes he forgot not everyone was made of hard edges. He’d gone ahead and scared a newbie sub who was already out of her depth. A sub who was lying about who she was—no way in hell her name was “Barbara Carrington” like it said on that fake ID she was carrying. A sub who tempted the shit out of him.

  So he would find her. He would figure her out. And he would fix it.

  “What the hell is wrong with you tonight?”

  Cole turned at the familiar voice to find Holt Manning smirking at him. Holt was an old friend, and it was Holt who had vouched for Club Volare when Cole was looking for some place new to settle down, after everything had gone to hell back in Chicago.

  “Long day of chasing leads that led nowhere,” Cole said. That was true, technically. He’d wasted the whole day chasing down information about Marco Duvall, the shady bastard who had been the money man behind a rival BDSM club that had caused trouble for Club Volare last year. Holt and Cole had handled that together, the FBI working with the prosecutor’s office, but in the meantime Duvall had been buying up every piece of property he could get his hands on in the adult entertainment sector. Adult toy stores, massage parlors, strip clubs—a whole string of them had switched hands in the year since Cole had left Chicago for NOLA and found a haven at Club Volare.

  They’d put the boot to the rival club, and taken out the blackmailing P.O.S. named Alan Crennel who had been the front man, and by all rights that should have been the end of it. Except Cole had made a career out of ferreting out the truth. If he wasn’t so good at it, he would have been drilled out of the agency a long time ago. And rule number one? Follow the money. Duvall had been the money behind that operation. And Cole had a feeling this Duvall, lording it over NOLA like some criminal King Midas, wasn’t snatching up law-abiding businesses out of the goodness of his heart. Something shady was going on.

  Plus, Cole had a special place in his heart for men who exploited women. A special place full of ass-kicking and utterly devoid of mercy. And Duvall qualified for both.

  So he’d spent his whole day going down dead-end roads, trying to find something solid on Duvall, but the son of a bitch had his security locked down like he was the love child of Fort Knox and the CIA. Everybody he’d cornered had lied right to his face. He couldn’t even find anything in public records. Even bluffing that it was an official FBI investigation got him nowhere. And he was real damn tired of it. Especially since it meant Duvall was burrowed in at all levels of government, and probably this close to hitting back at Cole. Hard.

  It was annoying.

  And that was why he’d been so hard with “Barbara Carrington.” After chasing a monster all day, he’d forgotten to put the kid gloves back on.

  No, that wasn’t the only reason. It was because he’d seen she was lying about who she was, and that…

  Silently, Cole cursed. It had reminded him of his ex-wife, and he’d reacted. But that was Cole’s shit to deal with, not this silly little lying sub’s. People lied about who they were all the time, and most of them weren’t malicious, like his ex. Most of them were just scared. Like the little sub who was taking her time filling out the requisite paperwork.

  Damn, he couldn’t get those lips out of his mind.

  “You know that case is technically closed, right?” Holt was saying. “You maybe need something else to occupy you? Plenty of subs here tonight.”

  Cole glared. Holt knew that Cole had rules about how he engaged with subs ever since his divorce. Point of fact, he didn’t do it privately anymore. Tonight should have been the perfect opportunity—everyone was here for the same reason. Special event.

  Too bad none of these subs interested him. There was a pretty red head eyeing him from across the room, a curvy blonde over by the bar—he didn’t give a shit. He checked the door again, still waiting for “Barbara.” Whatever else she was, she was a sexual submissive. You couldn’t fake a response like that. Flushed skin, dilated pupils, shallow breath. He’d felt it. And now she was a sub in need of reassurance, and a Dom didn’t walk away from that.

  It had nothing to do with the fact that he wanted her.

  But fuck, did he want her. First woman he’d wanted like that in a long time. The fire in her eyes, the sweetness underneath, all of it made his cock jump.

  “Stop thinking about the case,” Holt interrupted, “and start thinking about finding a sub.”

  Cole smiled. If his friend only knew.

  “I’ll handle my own subs, Manning.”

  “Just see that you do,” Holt said, finishing the rest of his beer. “Simone likes you for some mysterious reason.”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  “She sees the good in everyone,” Holt said, grinning. “And now she’s after me to see you happy and settled down. So don’t let your ex mess you up for too long, or I’m going to have an unhappy sub of my own.”

  Cole grunted. He loved this club, but damn did people get in each other’s business. Looking out for each other and all that was fine, but Cole liked
being a lone wolf. And he was about to remind Holt of that fact when the big red door opened.

  And she walked in.

  Cole’s wasn’t the only head that turned. Every male head in the place swiveled as if by instinct, and some of the female heads too. At the sight of those heavy brown eyes, those long, strong legs wrapped up in fishnets, those beautiful breasts stuffed into a corset that was defying the laws of physics to keep her in, every single Dominant in the place was suddenly on alert. The pheromones in the room surged and Doms began to twitch, like lions around the watering hole on a goddamn National Geographic special.

  His lip curled, a possessive snarl caught in his throat. He didn’t like it. But still he held back. You always learned more by watching, and Cole had the iron control of a Dom.

  So he watched.

  And he saw.

  The sub who called herself Barbara Carrington — for now, at least — was hiding more than just her name. There was something in the way she held herself, the way she pushed the hair back from her eyes: put herself forward, and held herself back, at the same time. The usual reasons to lie about your experience in a BDSM club were embarrassment or dumb pride, but Cole didn’t see that. He saw…

  Fuck that. Don’t get sucked in. You don’t need another lying sub in your life.

  He straightened up, let his gaze fall on her evenly. And just as quickly he exhaled in frustration. Whoever this woman was, she really wasn’t his ex-wife. She was lying, but it wasn’t because she wanted to get away with something. She was scared. She was curious, and turned on, and scared — and determined.

  He watched her take a deep breath, across the room, just inside the door, and for a second her fear and her need flashed across her face. She let her vulnerability show. And then she decided to be brave, and put on her damn face.