“I don’t know if what you’re suggesting is doable.”
“Sure, you do. I know because, when Chris asked you what came first, your revenge or Marcia’s safety, you didn’t hesitate. Did you lie?”
“No.” Estévez exhaled heavily. “No, I didn’t lie. Meeting Marcia has done something to me. I still want to find the man responsible for my sister’s death. And I will. But that need doesn’t have the chokehold on me it had just a couple of months ago.” Then he met Clint’s gaze. “You and Chris both seem certain that I’m a Dom, but I don’t know what that means.”
“It means, at its core, that you’ve a dominant personality,” Clint said. Estévez was way too serious all the time. It wouldn’t hurt to mess with him just a little bit.
“Really? Thanks, Einstein, for that definition. I suppose I should have said, I don’t know how to behave as a Dom, toward a submissive.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that part.” Christopher Lyons stood at the entrance to the room, and then he stepped back, holding the door. Daisy came into the room, and if he didn’t know better, Clint would swear she looked like she was going to burst out laughing.
She took a step to the side and then stood quietly, her gaze directed to the floor.
“Daisy and I are going to give you a crash course in how to behave like a Dom. Aren’t we, Daisy?”
The redhead looked up but only to meet Christopher’s gaze. “Yes, Master.”
Clint looked from Chris’s grin to Ramón’s scowl and figured his new friend and now new brother was in for an interesting evening…or three.
* * * *
There’s no time like the present.
Marcia had spent the evening reading through one of the books Daisy had given her, as well as going online and checking out the sites she’d suggested. The more she read, the more she learned. The more she thought about what she read and learned in relation to her and Ramón, the more settled, the more certain, she became.
Marcia Crane really was a submissive. Not only that, she believed with all her heart she was meant to be Ramón Estévez’s submissive.
What about that other cop? The one whose voice had the same effect on you as Ramón’s, the one who also got your juices flowing? The one you sat with at that party in Lusty and spent the evening talking with. Maybe you’re meant to be his sub instead. Or maybe you can be anyone’s or everyone’s. Just like old times, isn’t it, girlie?
Marcia hated that voice, the one that sounded so much like her Uncle Howard at his drunken worst. She pushed the last of those words down deep. They had no relevance for her anymore. She was no longer a too-young girl being preyed upon by grown men who should never have touched her.
Marcia reminded herself that she’d decided, going forward, to be honest with herself no matter what. She had felt a similar reaction to Clint Parrish, but she wouldn’t think about that right now. She chalked her reaction to him up to the trauma she’d been through so recently before he’d questioned her and a reaction to his kindness at that party. Yes, she’d felt that same way all these days later whenever she thought of him, which was, she admitted now, often. But again, she had still been processing everything that had happened to her in recent memory.
Marcia had no doubt that Sergeant Parrish was a Dom, but she didn’t think that was why she’d reacted that way to him. Marcia certainly hadn’t felt any kind of emotional or physical attraction toward Christopher Lyons or Dr. Robert Jessop, and both those men were Doms. She hadn’t felt that way toward anyone else at that engagement party she’d attended with the men, either.
Marcia rubbed her arms and let her gaze wander out the window of Ramón’s apartment. Because Houston was such a flat city, she could see for miles. The window offered a view of the downtown, and she could make out the lights of various, now familiar landmarks.
It was just after ten-thirty. Marcia didn’t expect Ramón until at least midnight. She knew he’d gone to the Lyon’s Den tonight. He’d told her that, but little else. She didn’t believe he was being deliberately difficult. She sensed that, somehow, he was conflicted, not so much because of the favor she’d asked of him but by whatever it was his boss had told him at that meeting earlier.
Ramón had said he would text her when he was on his way home, so she still had time to settle herself and time to decide what to do.
How would she greet him when he got home?
Yes, she was a submissive, and he was a Dom. He was spending the evening at the Lyon’s Den. But what was he actually doing there?
She understood, because he’d been candid with her, that his presence at his friend’s club was a part of his cover. He’d been undercover when he’d rescued her from Sérgio Torres’s grasp, too.
Marcia knew one thing without a doubt. If not for Ramón Estévez, she would be dead.
She hadn’t told him, but when she’d awakened in that cage, when the reality of what her future was to be had sunk in, she’d given up on life. She’d made the decision and promised herself that, at the first possible opportunity, she was going to kill herself.
Having reached that point of hopelessness and made that decision was part of the reason she wasn’t fully recovered, mentally or emotionally. She’d been at the mental brink of self-destruction and had been yanked back unexpectedly and at the last minute.
She wasn’t fully herself yet. If she wasn’t fully herself, could she make this life-altering decision now?
Yes. Marcia couldn’t completely explain it, but she had the feeling that taking this step, offering herself as a submissive to Ramón, would settle her as nothing else could. It would be making a new beginning, taking a fitting next step. Perhaps she hadn’t physically ended her life, but maybe she’d emotionally ended a chapter of it. That didn’t completely explain this sense of desperation inside her, but it was a start.
The truth hit her as she stared out at the pretty night lights of Houston. Not only was she a submissive. She was a submissive who desperately needed a Dom.
She thought of Daisy Lyons, and all that woman had revealed about the importance of not only Christopher, but Rory in her life. She recalled meeting Jillian Jessop, the last time her husband had come to check on Marcia, just before she moved from the Lyonses’ apartment to Ramón’s and, then again, at that party. Mostly, it was the way Jillian had looked at Robert, as if he held the key to everything. His adoration of her, his and his brother’s, in turn, was just as obvious and illuminating.
She wouldn’t classify either woman as a door mat, and neither did she think for one moment that their husbands—their Doms—thought of them as such. Two different women, two submissives, each with two Doms.
As she gazed at the lights, as she let her mind wander, her emotions did settle. All her life, she’d reacted to what was happening around and to her. She’d thought she’d taken control and taken a positive step when she’d applied for that scholarship. But the truth was, even that had ended up being another instance where, in order to survive, she’d reacted.
This decision was her own. She wasn’t reacting in the same way she always had. This would be on her, one hundred percent. So, yes, there really was no time like the present—if she had the guts to seize the moment.
Her phone chimed, and she looked down at the text. Though it was barely eleven, the simple message read, On my way. As was her custom, she answered him even more simply, with one letter—the letter K.
It wouldn’t take very long for him to get there. That door would open within the next few minutes.
Time to make that decision.
Her mind went blank, and time slowed. Then she heard the sound of a key in the lock and knew the moment had come.
In one fluid movement, she slipped to her knees. Still fully clothed, she nonetheless assumed the position Daisy had shown her. Then she lowered her head and waited.
The door opened, and she realized Ramón wasn’t alone, but she didn’t move, she didn’t change her mind, because, somehow, she knew who was with him. Male
conversation stopped, and the door closed quietly. She heard the extra lock being shot.
Then they approached, two men who knew how to walk like the predators they could sometimes be.
“Eyes on me.” Ramón’s command elicited her body’s immediate response.
Marcia looked up and met his gaze.
“Be sure, little one. And understand it’s not only me you’re submitting to.”
She hadn’t been certain he’d understand what she offered. Relief filled her. She didn’t meet Clint Parrish’s gaze but saw him clearly enough in her peripheral vision. “I am sure, and I do understand, Sir.”
Ramón nodded once. “Stand up, take off your clothes, and get back into that position, please.”
It wasn’t the response she’d expected. Before she could consider whether or not his direction was a test to her resolve, she got to her feet and her hands went to work, obeying his command.
Chapter 4
Sérgio Torres entered the room, his senses on alert, his gaze taking in those gathered for the evening’s business. He’d deliberately arrived late and now stood off to the side, alone. He didn’t need to worry that anyone would intrude upon his solitude. Such was his reputation that no one would dare approach him. His staff all knew their place, and that was seeing to the comfort of the guests even as they monitored them carefully, for the most part serving drinks and recording as many conversations as possible.
His invited guests held him in just enough fear that they kept their distance. Instead, they gathered in clusters, drank his expensive liquor, and ogled the goods he had for sale. Tonight’s auction featured an even dozen women, each one naked, drugged, and ready for whatever the successful bidder had in mind.
He looked down at his glass of water, doctored only with lemon and ice. He would indulge himself with the best Scotch money could buy—once he was back in his penthouse and alone.
For now, he was working, and he never fed any of his hungers while working. That was a lesson learned near the beginning of his career. He’d given in to his prurient desires, gotten carried away, and had nearly ended his career before it had truly begun. Fortunately, he’d quickly come up with a replacement girl for the one he’d killed, a girl needed to fill a very special order, and his boss at the time had been none the wiser.
Once Sérgio Torres learned a lesson, it stayed learned.
Aware of his surroundings, he scanned the crowd but couldn’t prevent his gaze from returning, time and again, to the merchandise. The woman in the third cage put him in mind of Marcia Crane. Now, that one had been an interesting diversion, for a time. It had pleased him to play a game with her, to make her believe he wanted more than the use of her body. He’d wooed her, and won her, and she’d come to him willingly and offered herself to him completely. That had been a very sweet moment—the moment when he ripped off his mask and let her see who he truly was.
Her naïveté, all things considered, had really been quite astonishing. But as naïve as she’d been, she’d exhibited extreme pride—believing a man of his stature, of his wealth and importance, could ever bless her with his name and the title of Señora Torres. He already had a wife, one who was currently in Europe visiting her family. Marrying Sofia had been a business move, one that had proven profitable. He would never divorce his wife and marry a whore like the Crane woman.
At odd times, though, he found himself missing her. He pushed away the thought. She’d treated him with a quiet respect, which to him had been far more to his tastes than if she’d claimed to love him, as so many other whores had done in the past. Torres pushed his uncharacteristically fanciful thoughts aside. Women were all the same, really. They were nothing but a body, whether one to give pleasure or one to give sons. He’d had his pleasure with the Crane woman, and he had four strong sons from Sofia.
Torres imagined Ramón Estévez was being kept busy training that one. If he was curious how the man was making out, it was only a casual sort of curiosity, a momentary thought to amuse himself.
Having brought the Crane woman to mind, he couldn’t help but let his thoughts stray to that idiot, Victor Swift. The man had been murdered by a woman, one who was supposed to have been his tool. It was a shame Torres now had to search for another supplier. The young pieces smuggled across the border were all well and good and the demand for them would never go out of style.
But there was a very good price that could be demanded for young, somewhat headstrong, American women. He had many clients, foreign and domestic, who paid a great deal of money to own them. Perhaps Estévez has connections I can use.
It had been a month since he’d met the man. The report Torres had received back indicated Ramón Estévez was successful, connected—and very discreet. There were whispers, his man Lance Kramer had said, that the man could be even more ruthless than Torres himself, if he were crossed.
Torres approved. He had forged such a reputation, which had been an invaluable tool.
That Estévez had been able to mask his true self, and hidden his probably crime-ridden past from modern scrutiny, was a testimony to exactly how discreet and clever the man truly was. Torres owned another tool, one who, for a price, would conduct a deeper background search. He’d make the call tonight. In the meantime, he’d begin the process of courting Estévez.
He’s definitely a man to know better, one way or another.
Kramer was making the rounds. Torres caught his eye, and his man headed right for him.
“Sir?”
“Does Estévez still visit Leathers?” Torres owned the fetish bar but never went there. To all appearances, the bar belonged to Kramer.
“About once a week, usually on a Thursday.”
“I would like to meet with him. I think dinner next Friday at Par Excellence.” It was his favorite restaurant in the city, and that would give his other tool a week to dig deeper into the background of Ramón Estévez.
Torres didn’t eat out a lot. He preferred having his chef prepare his meals at home, where he could dine quietly, behind his own very good security.
But for meetings—and especially for this particular meeting—he wanted the right setting. If all went well, he would have a business proposal for Ramón Estévez. One he hoped the man wouldn’t be able to refuse.
If things didn’t go well, Estévez would die that night. It was as simple as that.
* * * *
Marcia hadn’t expected to be told to get naked, but her fingers obeyed Ramón’s command even before her brain fully assimilated it. She quickly stripped, folded her clothes, and set them aside. Then she slipped to her knees once more.
It proved a bit more mentally challenging, getting into the right position. She couldn’t control the fine tremors that overtook her. Having an intellectual resolve was all well and good. The reality clearly would take some getting used to.
Yet, despite the fear that spilled out of her, a wretched black miasma born from the past several years of her life, she found that position again. She found it and held it and waited. Naked now, with her knees spread, she felt a draft against her pussy. Shock washed through her. She was wet!
How can arousal and stark terror live side by side?
Ramón leaned forward, and she felt the light pressure of a hand on the right side of her head. Then Clint moved and mimicked Ramón’s action on the left.
Your master will show you his acceptance of and appreciation for your gift in any number of ways—by his words or even by simply laying his hand on your head.
Marcia blinked back tears. They knew the worst of her and accepted her anyway. She didn’t think she had words to describe how knowing these two men accepted her made her feel.
Lighter. Freer. Full of hope. Yes, all that, and more. Even though she couldn’t stop the trembling, even though the fear worked hard to come to the surface, she held it back with every bit of will she possessed.
Their hands remained on her head for one moment more, and then they withdrew. Clint took a small step back while
Ramón held his ground. He reached down and tilted her chin up. She understood he saw her tears, but it wasn’t disappointment in his eyes that met her gaze. She saw pride—and tenderness.
“I know that was very difficult for you, little one. Thank you for that gift. Now, go get my robe off the back of my bathroom door, put it on, and return to us. We have much to discuss.” He held his hand to assist her off the floor, and she took it.
On her feet, she dared a look at Clint and saw mirrored on his face the same emotions she’d seen on Ramón’s. She thought once released from her pose, once she began to move, that the urge to run, to escape, would overwhelm her.
Instead, she was able to walk calmly and do her Dom’s bidding.
Ramón had shown her the entire apartment the day he’d moved her in, so she had no trouble walking through the open door of his bedroom and on into the master bath. The robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door was plush, made of a soft terry of deep blue. She reached for it, and her fingers sank into the material. Marcia eased it off the hook and slipped it on. Immediately, Ramón’s scent enveloped her. A shiver ran through her body, her nipples contracted, and she felt a new dampness between her legs. She took one moment to close her eyes and inhale deeply. This must be the next best thing to being held in his arms.
Mindful of the instructions she’d been given, Marcia used the belt to close the robe and then returned, barefoot, to the living room.
Ramón’s living room was furnished simply with a sofa, a love seat, and a single large chair. It gave her just a moment’s pause that both men were seated on the love seat. Before she could wonder about that, Ramón held out his hand, a silent command for her to go to him.
She obeyed, not at all surprised when he eased her down onto his lap.
“Swing around and put your legs right here, Marcia.” Clint patted his lap.
Ramón helped her, seeming to understand that his large, very comfy robe didn’t give her much maneuverability. His hand caressing her hair and exuding a slight pressure let her know he wanted her to lay her head on his chest. Surrounded by their heat and their scent, she relaxed as she hadn’t done in a long time.
Avenging Angel [Tales from the Lyon's Den 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 4