Dark Horses: (Blood Brothers #5)

by Manda Mellett

  And me? I’m not quite sure what I’m feeling.

  Chapter 9

  Jasim

  As the middle of three brothers, I often believe I’m comprised of traits from them both; my elder brother’s considered and measured way of approaching the world, and my younger brother’s more relaxed slant. Usually able to apply the relevant aspect of my personality to situations as required, I focus on my work and on my diplomatic duties, keeping my private life, those times when I can relax and metaphorically let down my hair, separate from the everyday grind. My life is partitioned into neat little boxes, my work and my play. And I never have them open at the same time.

  I’ve become expert at keeping the two halves of me apart. Never have I let thoughts of a sub intrude into my working day, but by night Club Tiacapan is my luxury, my escape from the responsibilities of the job I do on behalf of Amahad.

  Segregating my life means I have no distractions and that allows me to concentrate when making multi-billion pound deals. And rarely, if ever, do I make an error.

  Until now.

  Why is it I feel like I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life? As the day draws closer when I’ll be returned to the land of my birth, why is it at times my heart beats faster in equal measures of anticipation and dread? I’m a Dom and a sheikh, in both roles known for having strict control over myself. But over the past weeks, my power to exercise that hegemony has been shredded to pieces. And the source of this perplexing state of affairs is really no mystery.

  My concentration has drifted during important business meetings, my thoughts interrupted as the vision of Janna dressed as a Domme and commanding the stage comes into my head. Acting completely out of character, more than once I’ve had to ask for someone to repeat a question and then had difficulty forming the answer as I dream about divesting her of those deceiving clothes, stripping her naked and bringing her submissive side to the fore. Despite my best intentions and my expectation I’d simply forget her, she seems to have taken up residence in my mind, and try as I might, I can’t get her out.

  What seemed like a sensible offer to make, now seems a miscalculation. My own thoughts on the woman, consolidated by my discussion with the drummer, only confirmed what I’d originally surmised. She’s attractive and alluring, but so wrong for me. I’d assumed time and play with faceless subs would clear her from my thoughts. That when I saw her again, she’d make no further impact on me. But what do they say? That absence makes the heart grow fonder? Not only am I unable to forget her, I’m eager to see her again.

  Disturbed and disgusted with myself, there have even been times when I’ve had to stop myself picking up the phone to contact her, just to hear her soft voice. The small hours of the morning are the worst, those moments between sleep and wakefulness when my weakness summons her to my mind. Once, at three am I weakened, resolving to call her the very next day, unable to go any longer without making contact. I’d even concocted some excuse I’d use, something about making arrangements for the flight.

  But fate stepped in and saved me early the next day, in the form of a phone call from my baby sister Aiza, reminding me all over again that Janna’s her equal in age, and just as innocent. A mental rap around my head to bring me back to my senses and stop me making such an ill-advised call.

  I’m a Dom, an owner of a BDSM club. I shouldn’t be getting myself riled about one woman, and particularly one I can’t have. Maybe that’s the attraction? That she’s out of my reach? I feel like a dirty old man lusting over a girl so much younger.

  By day I manage the oil business on behalf of Amahad, involved in matters of diplomacy spending my time working out of the embassy, or my offices in the Docklands. My nights are spent at Club Tiacapan, but even there it seems I’m almost forcing myself to go through the motions. Finding when I play, although I give one hundred percent attention to the fulfilment of the sub I’m with for the evening, often I’ve been coming away unable to find satisfaction myself. Most telling, I’ve had no inclination to make use of the private rooms for quite a while, my cock not interested in anyone else. That little girl has got me twisted up. That I constantly remind myself to remember what I am, and how far removed that is from the man someone like her needs and deserves, seems to have negligible effect.

  Tomorrow I leave for Amahad. Tomorrow’s the day I’ll see her again. Looking down at my hands, I’m surprised to see they’re shaking with barely suppressed excitement at the thought of seeing her again. A desire to know whether my memory is deceiving me, hoping time apart will make me view her with fresh eyes and divest myself of the thrall she holds over me. And the dread that it won’t.

  Tonight, like almost every night, I enter the club and head for the VIP area. Jon’s there, with his wife Mia. On the outside, it appears that I act as normal, successfully hiding the confusion that’s buried inside. I greet my friends warmly, making a polite enquiry about their baby which causes Mia to launch into glowing reports of how she’s thriving, while her husband looks fondly on, his head nodding in agreement. I’m pleased for the pair, at one time having a child seemed an impossibility for them. Their life might not be the one I hanker after, but it seems to work for them.

  It’s not long before Mia leaves us, asking permission from her Dom when she sees a member who’s a Crown Court Judge at the bar. Jon laughs as he sends her off, supplying an explanation, “Mia wants to get some details correct about court procedures for her new book.” He points his hand, “Master Simon agreed to talk to her.”

  I smile, “She’s asked me about the oil business before.” Even an erotic fiction writer likes to get her background facts right.

  With an indulgent smile toward his wife, then a more critical one for me, Jon picks up his whisky and takes a sip. Noticing I’m keeping to water for now, he asks, “You playing tonight?”

  I shrug, not having made up my mind, but wanting to keep my options open, “I’m not sure yet.”

  He replaces his glass on the table, and then looks up. “What’s on your mind, Jasim? You’ve been out of sorts for a while. It’s not like you. When was the last time you did a demonstration?” When I don’t immediately respond, he continues, “We’ve a few new members, some aspiring Doms and Dommes. They could do with you watching you.”

  Annoyed that he’s noticed, my mouth turns down in a frown. I’m one of the club’s sadists, my tendencies as a Dom are toward more extreme play with one of the more masochistic subs. While not inclined to wield my whip to inflict lasting injury, leaving marks with the lash or cane which will remain for a few days gives me the satisfaction I crave. And my expertise lies in knowing when to stop before it goes too far, reading the reactions of, and the tiniest signs of discomfort from a submissive’s body, and putting that above anything they might have agreed to in the prior negotiation. Even a sadist Dom holds onto the overriding aim of making the experience fulfilling for their play partner, giving them just what they need, rather than what they think they want. It takes experience and practice, and having been on the receiving end of any implement used.

  BDSM attracts all sorts, many people come to the club believing they’ll be wielding a crop or flogger as soon as they start, not realising they need instruction as to how to use the implements properly, including an education on what body parts to avoid. I usually don’t mind an audience when I take a sub for the night, or object to taking the time to explain what I’m doing, and the various signs I’m watching out for. And, of course, we have sessions where our wannabe Doms or Dommes go under the whip themselves. Which can weed the real ones out from the sheep.

  Jon’s got a point. I haven’t done any displays for a while, I seem to have lost the inclination. Not that it matters, each of the Master Doms are more than happy to take turns mentoring new members—which is what I’d been trying to explain to Bates when I’d gone to his place. But asking myself why I’ve lost interest is a completely different question, and one I’m currently unable to answer. I own the fucking club, surely I can get all my n
eeds catered to here? Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m lying to myself. I know the truth, and that there’s one unsatisfied desire that will never step through the doors of Tiacapan. And that’s the real reason she’s so wrong for me. A sadist and a virgin? That sounds like the start of an extremely bad joke.

  Jon’s still waiting for a response. I take another sip of my water, and before I answer, wave to Diamond, one of our most experienced subs, and ask if she could bring me a brandy. When she brings it, I follow the rules and hand over one of my two wristbands. I might be the club owner, but I do the same as everyone else. Drinks are limited when playing, and if I use up both bands, I won’t be allowed to take part in a scene.

  Jon’s eyebrow has risen, I usually play sober.

  “I’m not feeling it, Jon.”

  An intense look, and he widens his eyes, then barks a laugh. “Bit of a sorry state of affairs, if the owner of a kink club has lost his appetite for kink.”

  One corner of my mouth turns up, “I’m sure it’s not permanent, but I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Going back to Amahad,” he nods, “I know you must have mixed feelings about that. And it’s tomorrow you leave.” Brushing his hand across his face, his mouth purses, “I’m not surprised your head’s not in the game tonight.”

  He’s given me an easy out, and in fact, one which is valid. I’d left Amahad before my father died, my last official act in that country to take part in an abduction as punishment for a crime, retribution swift and brutal. An innocent woman, stripped of life as she’d known it. That Nijad and Cara’s marriage had turned out a success was a miracle. That I’d been part of what could have been disastrous, unbearable. I’d left my country and its primitive views on vengeance behind and had never looked back.

  And now I was to return. Not just for a flying visit of a few hours like last time. I’d promised a number of weeks.

  I lift my chin toward Jon, “You know how I feel about the country.” Before he gave up working in the field, he’d been my bodyguard for some time, and knows at first-hand how brutal some of the Amahadian customs can be.

  “Now your brother is the emir, he’s made a lot of changes. It’s not as bad as it was in your father’s day.”

  At his offered reassurance, I nod and agree, “But how far have those changes seeped through to the tribes?”

  “Abdul-Muhsi is dead. He was a root cause of many of the problems.”

  I spare a brief thought for the man who’d almost caused the death of Zoe, now Kadar’s wife and mother of his son. “I’d spit on his grave if he had one.” He’d been buried in the desert, where he’d fallen, only a shallow smattering of sand and stones covering a rotting body, which by now had probably fallen victim to vultures. A fitting end for such an iniquitous man.

  A jerk of his chin shows his accord with my statement, then he makes a swift change back to the current situation. “I’ve assigned your protection. He’s already in place.”

  “Sean?” Thinking of the errant sheikh had made me remember the close protection officer who’d almost fallen at Abdul-Muhsi’s hands.”

  “No,” Jon shakes his head adamantly. “He’s no longer on active service. He’s going to be working with Devil.”

  Now it’s my turn to raise a brow, “Jason? I heard he’s back.” Jason Deville is Club Tiacapan’s silent partner, and he also part-owns Grade A. But it’s been years since he returned to the UK.

  “Yeah, he’s setting up a new team. Don’t ask me what he’s up to, he always plays his cards close to his chest.”

  “Will we see him here?” I’ve always thought it strange he bought in, but has never come to the club to play. Mind you, it’s been a solid investment. Despite our sky-high membership fees, we’re always having to turn people away.

  Jon lifts his shoulders, “Perhaps. It depends how long he stays.”

  “Tell him to get in touch.” I’ve always liked Jason, or Devil, as he likes to be known. He’s a man who prefers living on the edge. A distinctive looking man with a scar splitting his face.

  “I will do. Anyway, it’s Ryan I’ve sent out. He’s familiar with Amahad, having worked there a few times, and was getting itchy feet in the office.” Looking up he grins, “He jumped at the chance.”

  Ryan’s a tall muscular ex-Special Forces man who doesn’t have a lot to say for himself, but when he does, you listen. Like many of Grade A, he’s a Dom and a member of this club, taking advantage of the reduced membership fees. Yeah, he’ll do fine. I tell Jon so, and for a moment we discuss the arrangements he’s made. My bodyguard has gone ahead to get the lay of the land, and will be there to meet me tomorrow when I land.

  Mia returns and kneels at Jon’s feet, a smooth and practiced move as she folds her limbs and bows her head. Her master reaches out his hand and smooths her hair, and she rests her cheek against his leg. Total trust and devotion, the love between them almost palpable. My gut clenches, realising I’ve never known anything like that. Oh, I can always find an anonymous sub who will kneel for me, but that emotional connection is always missing.

  But, I remind myself, such devotion comes with ties and responsibilities. And those ties are things I’ve never desired or needed.

  “Well, we’re going to go now. Need to get home to relieve the babysitter.”

  And that’s it right there. That’s the very reason I don’t. How could anyone want so much commitment? Such loss of freedom? The answer is far beyond my comprehension.

  I stand as they leave, but then retake my seat. There’s a restlessness inside me, which makes it impossible to relax. Knowing it wouldn’t be right to find a sub when I’m unable to focus, I partake of my second drink, and then a third, putting my disquiet down to the impending return to the country of my birth. And then I leave and go home. Alone. And attempt to shrug off the strange feeling of emptiness as I walk through the front door. It’s the impending return to my home country that’s got me tied up in knots. Not anything else.

  Like most things in my life, international travel is made easy by my position and my wealth. Being able to use the family’s private jet makes getting through security is a doddle, likewise I don’t really notice as my baggage is whipped out of the boot of the car and into the airport to be taken to and loaded on the plane without me lifting a finger. Being so used to the ease afforded to me by my position in life, I’m aware of the delays and long queues at baggage drop off other travellers’ face, and know how lucky it is that I’ve never had to experience them.

  Making my way to the executive lounge I again question the wisdom of sharing the plane with Anarchy Rules. At the time it seemed expedient, why not bring them along when there was the room? But that was before I’d been plagued with thoughts of their guitarist, and had hoped I would have had more success in putting the girl out of my mind. Now I wish I’d never invited them. Part of me is longing to see her again, and the rest of me is hoping she’ll be less than I remember. If she isn’t, all I’ll end up doing is torturing myself with something I can never have.

  Oh man up, for fuck’s sake. You’re a Dom, you should have more control that this. Walking into the lounge, I see my guests have arrived. I tell myself it’s a good thing I don’t immediately see Janna, but the pang of disappointment betrays me when I observe she’s not with the rest of the group. As I stride over to them, I curb my impulse to ask where she is. And then give myself a mental slap. It’s better to believe I don’t care.

  “Mickey.” I greet the drummer with a nod. “You made it okay?”

  “Yeah, no problem, man. Must say, I could get used to this.” He waves a glass of the free champagne in toast.

  “Everyone here?”

  He looks around him, and nods. “Yeah, we’re all here. That’s our film crew,” He points with his glass, “Blake Hawkin’s the gaffer, that man with a clipboard is the grip, Eli Marshall. And that’s Sally Cartwell who works the camera. Travis and Tim, here, they’re our roadies. You met them at the gig.”

  Politely I shake eve
ryone’s hand, trying to remember everyone’s names while attempting to stop myself from looking around for the missing band member. I’m trying hard to resist but’s on the tip of my tongue to ask whether she’s not coming, and attempting to convince myself I’ll be relieved if she doesn’t, when out of the corner of my eye, I see the door to the Ladies opening, and Janna steps out. She’s dressed for the climate of my country, in a long flowing pale pink dress that reaches just below her knees. It makes her look so feminine and beautiful as it swirls around her. Her hair is captured in a plait down her back, and my cock starts to swell at the notion of holding onto it as she’s on her knees in front of me and my cock is entering her from behind. For fuck’s sake!

  “Now we’re all here, let’s get to the plane.” My voice is sharper than it should be, my impatience aimed at myself, rather than the ones who’ll be my travelling companions today. Immediately, I berate myself and bite my tongue, I shouldn’t have spoken so sharply, but my diplomacy seems to have fled.

  As Janna approaches, I turn my back on her, unable to prevent myself being so rude, knowing my expression would betray my true yearnings should I meet her face to face. And there is no way I can trust myself to speak to her without my voice giving me away. Leaving them to follow on, I stride toward the walkway that will take us to the jet, my arousal tenting the front of my trousers. Keeping my distance will be the only remedy to the immediate and unwanted reaction just the sight of her has caused. My mind knows she’s not for me, my body hasn’t gotten the memo.

  As we ascend the stairs to the plane, I make the only resolution available to me. If I unable to control myself and fight this highly inappropriate reaction, I’ll spend as little time as possible in the capital city where Anarchy Rules will be filming. As soon as I can, I’ll take myself off to the desert city of Z̧almā, a two-hour helicopter journey away.

  Yes, hundreds of miles of desert should be enough distance between us. Surely it should.