“Trent, you are my Anam Cara, a word I’d never heard of until recently, but one which perfectly describes our connection. I was lost till you found me. Your guiding hand and strong belief in me have transcended every obstacle I’ve thrown in the way of our happiness. You are my lover, mentor, and true soul mate. I vow to continue to give you my best, pledging my love and loyalty till death do us part.”
We kissed and held each other for a few more minutes. “Let’s dance,” Trent whispered. I realized there was music playing in the background, but everything had faded out as I listened to Trent dedicating his life to me. The sultry voices of Ricky Martin and Meja singing “Private Emotion” penetrated the pink glow, and I sighed with happiness when he pulled me closer and began to sway to the catchy melody.
The euphoria continued late into the night as we had our fill of steak and lobster. We ate off each other’s plate, licking juices off our fingers and sharing buttery kisses. We were high on love and several glasses of champagne. It was like a fairytale: one I’d always dreamed about during my darker days.
We dismissed the crew around one in the morning, asking them not to wake us even when we got to port. Everything could wait until we were good and ready, another benefit of being a pseudo billionaire. We floated back to our stateroom and peeled off our clothes, taking special care to fold and hang each item so they’d be in perfect condition for the wedding. Our world narrowed to skin and smell and touch. I couldn’t wait to climb into bed and feel him inside me, but he had a request I hadn’t been expecting.
“Fuck me,” he said seriously.
“What?”
“I’ve been preparing for this.”
“Are you sure?” I said, stumbling over the words. My brain was screaming OMG, OMG, but out loud, I stated calmly, “I’d hate to ruin this perfect evening.”
“I trust you.”
Dear God… talk about performance anxiety. “Master, this can wait for another time.”
“No, babe, it’s my wedding present for you.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, humbled by his generosity. This was more than a gift; it was a symbol of trust I wasn’t sure I deserved. He was not only giving me his heart, he was asking me to help him overcome his deepest fear. I prayed I’d live up to his expectations, not just tonight but every day from now until forever. “Before we get started, I need to know your safe word.”
“Masters don’t need a safe word.”
“Oh, yes they do. You told me once that everyone needs a safe word, and I won’t touch you unless you give me yours and you swear to use it if necessary.”
“You’re the bossiest sub in the world.”
“True, but you did say you love me just the way I am. Now, stop waffling and give me that safe word.”
“Wilbur.”
“Huh?”
“That’s my safe word.”
“Wilbur the pig?”
“As you know, I’m not very fond of those creatures.”
I had to chuckle, despite the gravity of the moment. “You’d probably endure excruciating pain before using that word.”
“I won’t need it.”
I stepped closer and embraced him. I could feel his heart beating rapidly, evidence of his mounting anxiety. I began kissing him, intent on moving beyond this freaky anticipation phase. Biting his ear gently, I lamented, “Tonight, I wish I had a pencil dick.”
“Fuck that!”
I giggled. “You always were a size queen.”
“Did you think your eyes were the only draw?”
“Ah… the truth finally comes out. You’re shallow and have fantasies of being plowed by my battering ram.”
“Got that right,” Trent growled. “Let’s get this show on the road, babe. I want to see those stars you’re always talking about.”
“I love you, Master.”
“I know you do, Sloan, and now’s your chance to show me how much.”
I decided to turn the tables on him and use one of his relaxation techniques to calm him down. Jokes aside, I could tell he was dreading this. I wanted to erase the other memories that had clouded his perception of anal sex. It could be just as earthshaking as my first venture into subspace, and I was positive I could do it, if he would only relax.
“Hold that thought,” I said after feeling his mounting urgency pressing against my stomach, excellent proof that the kissing and foreplay were working. I dashed into the bathroom and grabbed the bottle of Kama Sutra Massage Oil I’d seen earlier. If it was here, in this monument of decadent wealth, it had to be the best.
I rolled him over onto his stomach and poured the oil liberally. My hands were gliding easily over the taut muscles that gradually relaxed as I kneaded and rubbed. I made sure my cock was glistening with the stuff as well. Better to play slip and slide than get stuck halfway home.
He was starting to moan and rub against the mattress. I knew we were close, but I kept on massaging, wanting to bring him to the very brink. My hands were all over the place, and the noises coming out of his throat seemed to escalate when my fingers worked his thighs, inching toward the sensitive area between his balls and his asshole. I stroked him leisurely, loving it when he spread a little wider, giving me full access. I parted his ass cheeks with my thumbs and touched his quivering hole with my tongue, waiting to see how he’d react. He moaned louder and lifted his ass slightly, giving me the signal to go ahead. I was rock hard, aroused by his compliance and the beautiful body parts I was working with my mouth.
“Babe, please….”
I’d been waiting for him to ask. Assuming the position, I began to push before he could change his mind. The hardest part was getting past that ring of muscle barring my entry as effectively as a lock on a gate. Fuck it, I wasn’t about to be stymied by spastic muscles that needed to chill out.
“Stop clenching, sir… please, let me in.”
Whether it was my polite request or his body’s natural response, I felt the give. I thrust forcefully and stopped as soon as my cock head popped through his pearly gates. My heart was thudding, and I swore I saw fucking stars because he was so tight. “Oh, hell….”
He groaned in response to my breathy expletive. “God, you’re big.”
“Are you okay?”
“I think so… fuck me.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, grinning, pushing in a little farther. He must have practiced for weeks with a monster dildo because he didn’t flinch when I sank in to the hilt. A little adjustment in my angulations, and he was begging like a sub.
“Sloan….”
My eyes practically rolled back in my head as I listened to him calling out my name in throaty gasps. It was the most erotic thing I’d ever heard, and I did see the fireworks, exploding in Technicolor all around us as I poured into him, seconds after he came in my hand.
“Oh my fucking God.”
Trent chuckled and caressed my face as I flopped down on the pillow beside him. “Was it that good, babe?”
“Way better… how about you?”
“Incredible….”
“For sure?”
“Stop being insecure.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I love you, Sloan.”
“Me too… can we do this again sometime?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Just asking,” I said, smiling at his weak attempt to be masterful.
“Get over here, you brat.”
He cocooned me, keeping me close and trailing light kisses down my neck and shoulder. I was so happy I wanted to cry. But I didn’t; I fell asleep instead.
Cutting Out
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)
Acknowledgments
WRITERS CREATE, and a select group can actually produce a flawless sentence from the start, but the majority of us need the eagle eye of a trained line editor to get it right. Thanking mine for lending their expertise seems so inadequate when the truth is I’d be just another hack with
out them. I’d like to acknowledge two special ladies for helping me produce a story I can present to you with pride. Jeannie, my dearest friend and constant source of support, sees my manuscript at its worst. By the time she’s done waving her punctuation wand, it’s ready to go on to the next step. Erika Orrick, my senior Dreamspinner editor, is actually a psychologist in disguise. She manages to get inside my head and drag out the necessary elements I’d intended to include all along. This is my second collaboration with Erika, and I can’t say enough good things about her patience, talent, and work ethic. I’m thankful for the opportunity to work with both of these fine ladies on Cutting Out, book 4 of the Cutting Cords series.
To my tiny group of beta readers, thank you for your invaluable feedback.
Lastly, a heartfelt thanks to all the readers who have invested a little bit of themselves in my Cutting Cords universe. I thought we’d seen the last of this series with Cleave, but my characters had another agenda. The men in this universe are complex, challenging, and often infuriating, but they’re never boring. I hope you’ll agree this has been an interesting journey from the first moment you were introduced to Sloan. He continues to keep me guessing.
—Mickie
Chapter 1
THE MINUTE I saw the furrow between Trent’s eyebrows, I knew there was a problem. When we’d left for P-town four days ago, most of the details of our over-the-top ceremony had been worked out to everyone’s satisfaction. Trent had grumbled throughout the negotiation but was convinced to allow the extravagant affair when Max showed him the staggering amount the paparazzi were willing to pay for this once-in-a-lifetime photo op. After all, we were the first celebrity couple to hop on the new right-to-marry train that had gay New Yorkers standing outside city hall in a frenzied need to join the mainstream. Now Max wanted to change everything.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Trent snorted disapprovingly, having taken one look at the Regency wear Max had conjured up at the last minute. “There’s no way in fucking hell I’m wearing tights on my wedding day,” he continued, following up his defiant proclamation with a loud slam. He’d barricaded himself in his study and wouldn’t unlock the door despite my best imitation of Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory.
“Trent,” I begged, knocking like a demented woodpecker. “Let me in. Please? Trent… will you open the fucking door!”
After five minutes, the lock turned and the door swung open, revealing one pissed-off Dom. He’d changed into his club leathers while I was trying to get his attention and looked more formidable than ever. Before I could protest, he cut me off. “Not another word! Max isn’t subjecting us to more ridicule than necessary, Sloan. It’s bad enough you’ve agreed to be Little Lord Fauntleroy, but I absolutely refuse to look like some foppish duke to appease this sudden surge of Britishmania that’s swept the country since the royal wedding. NO. FUCKING. WAY!”
He punctuated every word with a finger poke to my chest, but I remained undeterred. “It could mean a condo overlooking Central Park.”
Trent scowled. “Since when has money been so important to you?”
“Honestly? I couldn’t give a rat’s ass, but I owe Max big-time and he’s pushing for this.”
“You’ve made him a bloody fortune over the years. Why do you think you owe him?” Trent demanded. “And while we’re on the subject of modeling, you should be the first to know I’ve about had it with the whole experience.”
“Wait—what?”
“Max can take his agency and shove it.”
“Come on, Trent. Be reasonable.” How could I explain my complex relationship with a man who’d taken me under his wing over eight years ago and turned me into a household name? I’d been nothing but an insecure cutter, underweight and miserably confused, until Max showed me that underneath the bones was a beautiful person. America had fallen in love with me, and in the process, so had Max. He’d been my lover for a very brief time, but beyond that, he’d been the mentor I’d never had, the brother Junior could never be, and the best friend anyone could ask for. I would have done anything for him, which included facing the wrath of my soon-to-be-legal husband.
“Reason has nothing to do with it!” he snapped. “I’m tired of catering to the high-and-mighty Max.”
“I know you don’t understand why I feel the way I do when it comes to Max, but it is what it is. Consider this your wedding present to me if nothing else. I would be eternally grateful.”
“No,” Trent said adamantly. “I won’t put on a powdered wig or one of those repulsive beauty marks. I’d do almost anything for you, Sloan, you know that, but don’t ask me to look like a fool on the most important day of my life.”
“Even if I lick your boots and promise a long session of bondage as your reward?”
Trent paused, appearing to consider my offer, then shook his head. “No, I’m sorry.” He brushed past me and headed toward the front door.
“Where are you going?”
“I need some time at the club to cool down.”
I turned away and let him walk out the door. There was still a part of me that hated the idea of Trent continuing his role as Dom at Wilde, the BDSM club where he and Max had first met. We’d argued about it on the yacht on our way to Provincetown, and it had almost ruined our expedition, but he’d convinced me that his need to dominate and inflict pain on a willing sub was an integral part of his makeup, and at the time, I’d accepted that as gospel, especially when he swore that sex wasn’t involved. So long as he didn’t fuck any of his subs, we were good. Still, the vision of him in black leather wielding a whip and getting turned on by a stranger made me clench my teeth and want to scratch the eyes out of his submissive-for-the-hour without an ounce of remorse. Then again, I took comfort in the fact that he would come home to me, randy and ready for a good, long session of rough pounding. It would be my reward for allowing him to have his own space.
I shrugged in resignation, hoping his time at the club would put Max’s request into perspective. Why was Trent making such a big deal over this anyway? We’d already had our private commitment ceremony, exchanging the most meaningful vows meant only for our ears. They were too personal to share with the world, and I wouldn’t have wanted to, even if Trent had insisted we reenact that special hour. Why not give the onlookers the circus instead?
After being a model for so long, I’d learned to tune out the looky-loos and get into my zone. One or one hundred people in the wings made no difference to me, but if it made Max happy and kept the bling flowing, why not? Where was the harm in it? Surely Trent could see the economic benefits: he was a financial planner. The additional zeroes might also allow me to cut back on my work and devote more time to him. It could be a win-win if he’d only listen to reason.
I threw a load of laundry into the washing machine and sorted through the usual pile of junk mail before retrieving my phone messages. I rarely gave out my mobile number, for the obvious reason: I didn’t want to fend calls all day long. The only ones privy to my iPhone were family and close friends. Staring at the blank screen reminded me to turn it back on. Trent and I had sworn to remain incommunicado for our impromptu weekend, and it had paid off. We’d had the most romantic four days of our lives, but now, reality came crashing in. I saw with a growing sense of alarm that there were over a dozen missed calls from Cole. Christ, now what? I thought the guy was settled in his new relationship with Bryce and resigned to my upcoming nuptials. Trust him to fuck this up at the last minute. He was good at shaking me up without even trying.
I listened to the first few voice mails. Most of them were a terse “Call me.” Then his voice changed, going from reasonable to quietly desperate. By the tenth message, he could barely talk. It was so creepy it made my skin crawl. What could have frightened him so badly? I prayed that he wasn’t spiraling again. There was no way I’d find the strength to talk Cole off the ledge a second time if this was another suicide attempt.
Bracing for the worst, I tapped in his number. He answered on the
first ring and broke down when he heard my voice. I was frozen as I listened to the strangled sobs coming through the line. Cole was exceedingly reserved and proud to the point of haughtiness. He despised public displays of emotion and had always criticized my lack of restraint in that regard, so this unprecedented breakdown was so shocking I didn’t know how to respond.
“They’re gone,” he said, trying to get the words out between each stuttering breath.
“Sorry?” I had no idea who or what he was talking about.
“The twins are gone,” he said brokenly.
“Cole, try to calm down,” I soothed, even though I was starting to freak out. “Did Noriko take them on a trip without telling you?”
Clearing his throat, he said, “I can’t discuss this over the phone. Please come over as soon as possible.”
He hung up before I could respond, and I stared at my phone for several minutes. This didn’t sound like another ploy to grab my attention. Cole was obviously frightened and at his wits’ end. He would have never called me if he could handle the situation on his own. Respecting our boundaries had been his top priority since our last discussion. This call was a serious breach, so I had to go and find out what in the hell had happened in the last four days.
Everything had been working out so beautifully since that horrible suicide attempt over a year and a half ago. He’d come to terms with our breakup, done the right thing by divorcing his wife, and had even begun seeing someone. His future was certainly much brighter than it had been for a long time, and now this. Christ, would he ever find peace?
I tried calling Trent, but it went to voice mail. I gave him an abridged version of the last fifteen minutes and hoped he’d listen to his messages before rushing home to fuck the lights out of me. Finding me gone might set him off again, and I wanted to warn him so he wouldn’t be disappointed.
Opting for a cab instead of the subway, I stewed in traffic far longer than necessary. The underground would have been a better choice, but it was too late to do anything about it. By the time the cabbie delivered me to Cole’s apartment, I was a wreck. My imagination was doing a number on me, and I envisioned blood and entrails everywhere. It was easy because I’d seen it once before—the blood that is, minus the slimy guts. Cole had tried to commit seppuku during some pretty tough times. It had been a really close call, but thankfully, he’d made a full recovery mentally as well as physically. Nonetheless, it didn’t stop me from picturing the worst.
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