"You have to catch me in the right mood. I'm going to touch you now." His whole body looked rubbed raw. Flushed red and glowing with heat, as if from a bad sunburn. But his cock was the worst, and she almost feared to lay her hand on it. What if she hurt him? What if she hurt herself? Okay, that's just stupid. But he was stunning, with his black-stubbled jaw and the all-over blush and the slick sweatiness. And those nicely defined muscles—not too big, not too small. Not even the dried blood-spatters on his skin could make her think otherwise. Stunning and about to be slowly tortured to death for the Madre's amusement, if she didn't get down to business.
She reached out and took him in hand, listened to his rough groan, and notedagain how his cock fit so well in her palm. Another part of him that wasn't too big or too small, like some fucked-up version of Goldilocks where the three bears preferred ball-gags and extra-large, studded butt plugs to porridge. And speaking of the three bears...Skinny Brunette and Pixie Cut had said they'd be back in two hours. It'd been at least forty-five minutes and probably closer to sixty. Time to get this show on the road.
She laid a steadying hand on his shoulder and collected some of the slippery moisture at the head of his erection to ease the way as she stroked. She'd need more finesse this time—a story about a subservient woman dropping her veils and a quick, two-fisted jerk wouldn't do it. Luckily, she'd been a pro at working men into a sexual frenzy once upon a time. Back then, she'd been fearless about searching out a man's hidden kinks and exploiting them 'til he was...well...porridge in her hands. She and Goldilocks had a lot more in common than the average guy on the street might guess.
She leaned in closer and murmured in his ear, "You know what I think, Detective? I think you like being chained. I think it turns you on, just a little."
The entire line of his body stiffened at her words. His mouth, which had fallen open just a bit, snapped shut. He turned his head to glare up at her, his pupils dilated with emotion—a brew of rage and lust she could almost taste. "You're full of shit, lady."
"Call me Leah. And you think so?" She tightened her grip and leaned still closer. "I think I'm right on the money. But let's see, shall we?"
She couldn't afford to be kind. Couldn't afford to avoid embarrassing him. He might not have been ready to admit how much he liked feeling helpless, but that was the least of his problems. She needed to find those kink buttons and press them, and she needed to do it fast.
Her gaze strayed to his hand, trapped inside the shackle. It flexed, the fingers stretching and curling in time to her strokes. If she took a step in that direction...bent over just a bit...she could keep her grip on his cock and touch her mouth to the first knuckle.
She made contact. He grunted. She ran the tip of her tongue up and down the crevice between his fingers. His whole hand convulsed, twisting in the shackle. "Fuck." His hoarse voice cracked between them like a gunshot. She pulled away, but not before noticing the scar, thick and pale and crescent-shaped, on the back of his hand. Identical to the mark on the man in her dream...was it last night? It seemed like weeks ago.
She shook her head. No time now to consider what it might mean— she'd think about it later. She moved to stand over him again. "Close your eyes. Listen carefully and let the story make a picture in your head."
She waited for acknowledgment. Finally, he jerked his head in what might've been agreement, reluctance in every strained line of his body.
It was enough. She leaned in close once more and whispered, "You're a member of the Sultan's household—a princeling or the son of a trusted advisor. You were caught committing a grave crime—spying on the Sultan's favorite concubine in her bath. You've been arrested and chained here to await execution."
He sucked in a noisy breath and swayed in the shackles. His head dropped back against the bricks. He said, "Go on."
She lowered her voice further and spoke slowly, drawing out the words. Using formal language to weave the fantasy. "I am the concubine. I've slipped away from the harem to see you before you're put to death. Your boldness has intrigued me, and I want to know this man who would die for a glimpse of me." She gripped his cock with her four fingers and let her thumb wander where it would, tracing the pulsing vein on the underside of the shaft. "When I see you bound and helpless, my mouth waters. I am powerless over any man, save you. With you, I can do anything I choose."
She felt a tremor work its way through him. Sweat saturated his hair and ran down his neck and chest. When he opened his eyes and looked at her, she saw defiance at war with surrender in his eyes. She knew what he saw—the concubine.
She ghosted her thumb over the head of his cock, the lightest touch she could manage. His breath caught, hitching in his chest. He jerked his hips back and away, trying to get free of her grasp. She held on and dug her fingernails into the shaft 'til he froze. "I can give you pain," she murmured, directing her voice down the column of his neck. "Or I can give you pleasure."
There was a long pause. The air around them seemed to churn with emotion—fear, lust, anger, frustration.
Then he canted his hips forward and up, offering himself to her. It was all she needed to get the job done. She pulled and twisted, speaking low into his ear about all the ways the concubine would torment the doomed prisoner. Her hands. Her mouth. The length of her smooth, soft body rubbing against him like a cat in heat. Delight that never satisfied. Bliss that only prolonged his agony.
Without warning, Colton made a low, urgent sound and went taut from the ground up, his body a pained line of need. A beat...two beats...and then his cock spat a stream of white in a high arc that landed three feet away, over the place where the redhead bled out.
Leah didn't step back this time, or break physical contact as he jerked through the aftershocks. No time for niceties now. She gave him thirty seconds, then she slid her hand under his chin and wrenched his face up to look at her. His eyes were bloodshot and shadowed, but his skin was hot and buzzing with electricity beneath her fingertips. His cock never softened against her palm. "Again," she said. He flinched. Then he nodded and gritted his teeth, plainly preparing
for imminent discomfort. "Shh." She moved her hand from his chin to his brow and brushed back the salty-wet hair. "Shh...it's okay." Then she dropped into a low crouch before him.
This was going to be tricky. She hadn't been forced to contort herself in the service of sexual satisfaction in a decade, and it showed in the way the muscles in her back protested.
"You don't have to do that." His voice sounded creaky, like an unused garden gate. "Just use your hand again."
She looked up at him through her hair and said, "Won't work this time. You're over-stimulated." "But—" "Shh. I know what I'm doing. Just...kneel up." He raised himself high on his knees with a grimace of obvious pain. The floor must've been killing him, but she couldn't do this alone—he'd have to meet her halfway. She licked her lips, preparing herself. It had been a long, long time, and this was different than a handjob. Less clinical, more intimate.
She let her hand drift over the cut of his hip, tracing the line of muscle and feeling the sweat that pooled in the curve. When she let her mouth follow in the shadow of her fingers, Colton groaned and rocked forward, as if he could already feel her lips on him where it mattered most. She shifted her grip on his cock, leaned in and ran her tongue over the leaking slit. Back and forth, lapping like that same cat in heat.
He jerked away with a muttered curse, leaving a smear of slippery wet across her lips. She followed him with a gust of breath over his cock, then steadied it again within her fingers. When she spoke again, she let her lips brush the head. "You can't get away. Surrender is your only option."
She felt a jolt go through him as he let the back of his head fall against the bricks, once...twice...then a steady, reckless rhythm that spoke more of his frustration than any words. Literally pounding his head against a brick wall.
"Stop that." She flickered her tongue up and down the shaft, pausing to give special attention to that t
ender spot just under the crown, where all the nerves converged. "We don't have time for a tantrum."
He glared down at her. "Fair warning—if we get out of this alive, I'm gonna track you down and fuck you stupid." "I bet you say that to all the girls." She moved in for the kill, going at him with the flat of her tongue, long Popsicle licks and swirls. He muttered a string of curses, which she cut off mid-obscenity by catching him in her mouth, sucking him down to the halfway point. His hips flexed once, and then stilled on a shudder as if he'd exerted some supreme act of will over his own response. She pulled off to whisper, "Go ahead. Do it." He didn't seem to hear her. She glanced up and saw the rigid line of his jaw, and how he chest heaved with constrained gasps. Not good. He had to let go and let himself take what he needed, because this release had to count. Had to quell the craving. They didn't have time for another round of storytelling and happy endings. She leaned in and drew hard on the very tip of his cock to get his attention. "I said, go ahead. Fuck my mouth." She looked up again and he was staring at her. The expression on his face—desperation underlined by uncertainty and maybe a little hope—made her smile. "Don't want to hurt you," he whispered. "I'll let you know if you do anything I don't like." She used her teeth
then, ever so lightly. He seemed to get her point. Then it was all she could do to keep up as he snapped his hips in a quick staccato, pushing past her lips for all he was worth. She relaxed her jaw and did her best to take it. Called on every trick she'd ever learned, and a few she made up on the spot. Closed her eyes and let instinct take over, tongue and teeth and hollow-cheeked sucking.
She glanced up when he made a ragged, broken sound. His face had gone a dark red that bled over his neck and chest. She could hear the low keening build in this throat. She grabbed his hip with her free hand and pushed back, letting him slide from her mouth just as the muscles in his thighs and belly bunched, and he came, warm and wet across her lips and chin. He held the arch in his spine another second or two, then fell forward, swinging in the chains.
She rubbed at his hip, as one might caress a horse that had won a hard race. With her other hand, she swiped at her chin. "Well done, Detective."
"I think that's my line. And for God's sake, call me Marcus." His voice was quiet and thready, as if he'd finally run out of steam. His gaze played over her face. "Christ, your mouth."
She licked at her lower lip and tasted blood where it had split. "The hazards of friction. It'll be all right." "Sorry." "Don't be. I'm not." She pulled away and stood, stretching her back. She'd be sore in the morning, but not as sore as he'd be, so she didn't bother feeling sorry for herself. "You should try to sleep before—"
The sound of voices and footsteps beyond the door made her jump and stumble backward. Early...no way had it been two hours. "They're coming. Get out of here," Marcus said, low and urgent. "I can't just leave you—" "Go, God damn it. Just remember to call Sanchez." The voices came closer—near enough that she could make out the Madre's accent. The sound of it made her stomach curl in on itself with fear. She turned to look at Marcus, and all at once he seemed far away. Smaller too, as if she were looking at him through the wrong end of a telescope. Quickly she reached for the cell phone where she'd left it on the pile of clothes. She clutched it hard in her hand and looked once more over her shoulder at Marcus's slumped, exhausted form. The brick walls surrounding her warped and grew fuzzy, then began to fade into a black void that stretched...and echoed...and stretched...
Chapter Six
Marcus watched Leah grab his phone and turn back to look at him. He wanted to speak, to say "Thanks for trying, babe, you did your best," but he could barely muster the energy to lift his head, much less coordinate his brain with his mouth. And as he watched her dissolve into the thick, sex-soaked air—first growing translucent, then disappearing entirely—he had to wonder if she'd been real in the first place, or just another cruel, fucked up feature of the Madre's little game.
He let his head hang low and listened. He heard the door bang open, and the shuffle of feet on cement, then two voices—Shannon the barmaid, and the Madre Donnatella DeTagliera.
"Tell me, cara," Donnatella said, "how does our guest fare this evening?"
Through slitted eyes, Marcus watched Shannon's boot-encased feet approach. He fought to stay motionless as she pressed cold fingers into the pulse-point on his neck and said, "Someone's interfered with him, Madre. He's alive, but barely conscious."
"What else?" Donnatella's words were like a whip-crack over his head.
Shannon stepped back, as if to survey him. "Clarice's blood is smeared on his chest and face, as if someone has run their hands over him. And his..." She cleared her throat. "...his male member is limp and wet. There's evidence of recent release."
When the old woman spoke again, her voice settled like frost over the room. "You will find the responsible parties and bring them to me for punishment,sí?" "Yes, Madre. Belinda and Kathie were with him last." "Then we shall begin with Belinda and Kathie." The hem of Donnatella's long red skirt hissed against the floor as she moved toward him. "But first, let us see if we cannot revive our guest. I hear his breathing, so shallow and quick. I suspect he's not as sleepy as he seems." * * * * Leah opened her eyes. The room was dim, but not dark. Cold. She took a breath and smelled fresh linen...her own perfume...the litter box in the bathroom, in need of a change. Familiar. Home.
She shifted on the mattress, lifting her hands to her face, and nearly screamed when the cell phone fell out of her open palm and onto her chest. Real, then. She turned her head and looked at the clock. It read six AM. Real, and happening in real time. She rolled over to face the window, stared out at the breaking light of dawn, and tried to reason her way through the situation. It didn't do her much good. Panic kept getting in the way of linear thought. Get him out. Save him. Do it now, don't waste time, do something. She reached for the cell phone, where it lay on the bedspread. Turned it on and played with it for a few seconds, figuring out how to scroll through the programmed numbers. There—Gus Sanchez. Thank God.
She dialed and waited. Somewhere in the small city of Santa Rosa, she knew anothercell phone was ringing. Three times...four...
The voice that answered was deep and gruff with sleep. "Sanchez here, and the fuckin' mayor better be dead if you're calling me at this hour, Colton."
Leah squeezed the phone tight in her hand and prayed her voice didn't squeak. "Uh, hello. This isn't Detective Colton, but he asked me to call you and—"
"Jesus Christ, did Colton leave his phone with one of his Goddamn groupies again? You tell that bastard he can—"
"Please listen, Chief Sanchez. Detective Colton's been kidnapped. He's being held..." Son of a bitch. She had no idea where he was being held. None. "He's in a basement, in a club owned by a woman named Donnatella DeTagliera. He asked me to call you—"
"Let me get this straight. Colton's been kidnapped, but you've got his cell phone? Why didn't he use it himself, if he could give it to you? And who the hell is this, anyway?" "My name's not important. You just need to—" "Listen, lady, this isn't funny. You can tell Colton that if he wants to talk to me, he can come to the Goddamn station tomorrow morning at nine. Until then, fuck the hell off. And don't call this number again, or I'll have the GPS on the phone traced and you'll be arrested for falsely reporting a crime." "No, don't—" But Chief Sanchez had departed with a final click in her ear. Leah turned off the phone and tossed it onto the bed. Then she slumped, letting her head rest in her hands. Groupies? What the hell does that mean?
Okay, time for Plan B. She glanced at the clock again. Six AM in California meant nine AM in Massachusetts. Plenty late enough. She reached for her own phone and dialed. It didn't ring on the other side— not even once—before a chipper, if decidedly elderly, feminine voice answered. "And a very good morning to you, Leah." "Hi, Gram. What's new?" Her grandmother snorted into the phone. "Cut to the chase, dear.
What's the trouble?" Leah sighed. "Right. Well, there's this man—" "I'
m delighted to hear it. It's been far too long for you, and it's never good to go without. Oh my. He's a handsome one, isn't he? And so popular with the ladies. But..." Concern crept into her grandmother's tone. "Oh dear, he's got himself in a bit of a pickle, hasn't he? And you...oh, Leah. You cut it far too close there, at the end. You should be more careful."
This time, Leah's sigh was huge. And irritated. "If you already know what's going on, why did you bother to ask?"
"Forgive me, dear. I'm not as quick as I used to be. But why are you calling me? You know what you have to do."
"Well, I know I have to help him, but I'm not sure how. I don't really have a handle on this whole teleportation thing. Not sure I can make it work a second time, since I wasn't trying the first time."
"You know, Leah, if you'd ever taken even a little time to develop your gift, or study the underpinnings of some of the more basic mystical concepts, you might not have this problem. For example, did you know that accounts of teleportation occur in several major religious traditions, including Islam, Judaism, Buddhism and Christianity? It's really quite—"
"Gram, please." Leah sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. She looked down and saw where her knees were dusty from kneeling on the Madre's cement floor. When she licked her bottom lip, it felt swollen and tender against her tongue. "Can we save the lecture? I need actual solutions. Should I try the teleportation once more? Maybe take a weapon with me this time?"
There was silence at the other end of the line for several moments. When her grandmother spoke again, her voice was as somber as Leah had ever heard it. "You can't count on it working, Leah. Not with your lack of experience. You could end up anywhere—or nowhere. You could lie down for what turns out to be nothing more than a refreshing nap, and leave that poor man to suffer and die an agonizing, bloody death." "Thanks for the imagery." "Watch your mouth. I could be napping myself, instead of talking to
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