by Susan Arden
SILVER SPROCKET PUBLISHING
Sweet & Spicy Tales
Nashville
Bad Boys Best Selling Series
Tempted by Trouble (Book 1 e-book & Print)
Tempted Twice (Book 2)
The Cowboy Rode a Harley (Book 3)
Girls’ Night Out (Book 4 eBook & Print)
COLLARED BY THE COWBOY © Susan Arden
February 28, 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published: March 2014
Acknowledgements
Thank you so much! You all rock in reading, proofing and polishing this story.
Barbara Gibbs.
D.S. Williams - The Pedantic Punctuator
Missing Period Editing for Indies (ebook & print)
Cover Created by: Cover Art Tart
Cover Image © Shutterstock, Inc. Ollyy
SWEET-N-SPICY TALES
A Division of SILVER SPROCKET PUBLISHING
The published and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.
The following story is intended for an adult audience. Beyond this page you will find mature themes, strong language including graphically detailed sex, violence, and drug use portrayed in a fictional setting.
Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at
Twitter: @romancebysusan
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Blog: http://susanardenbooks.blogspot.com
To those who have survived abuse and to the many still silently suffering.
To my husband. My rock. You never let me back away from the edge.
At the brink, I found the courage to leap
and crafted wings for the stories that fill my mind, heart, and dreams.
Kink: “unconventional sexual taste or behavior”—Merriam-Webster
“I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.” ~~Anais Nin
Chapter One
ICE CRUNCHED UNDER Brandon’s boots as he headed for the back door of his club. On a jaunt from his pickup truck through the freezing weather, he glanced up and did a double take. His entire focus trained on the woman walking around the corner of his building, talking on her cell phone—so engrossed she almost missed her step. Acutely aware of her, he stopped and watched her over the top of his sunglasses. To his astonishment, she sauntered up to one of the blacked-out windows and tried to peer inside.
What the hell? She’d better not be another reporter. He’d give her a memorable tongue lashing she wouldn’t soon forget.
After the last hassle that came from his partner speaking to the press, he’d had his fill of nosy people and their equally asinine questions. The explosive interest in BDSM hot spots was great for business, if his mission was to make a ton of cash. More often than not, people wanted to sample the lifestyle in some fast-food manner—drive-thru sex on the way to their next adventure.
Not him—this life was etched into his genes.
He stared at the woman for a couple of beats as his annoyance unraveled into curiosity. She laughed at some exchange on her phone, and the velvety rasp spilling from her lips equated to a chemical explosion to his senses. Gracefully, she pivoted, peering upward and stretching her hand above her head.
He sucked in a lungful of cold air at the sight of her jaw-dropping silhouette. A rush of adrenaline fired across his nerve endings and just about short-circuited his brain.
“Sweet surrender,” he murmured, surprised by the rush of blood heating and heading way, way down south. It had been a long while since he felt this type of charge. Months, in fact, since he’d considered a rough ride in the sack. But something about this filly’s exotic features and bowing body tore into him—a key in a carnal lock that unleashed a fiery message that roused his every male instinct.
The woman wore black boots and a tight, slim skirt, drawing his attention to a pair of curvy hips. She had not yet turned, but he had a strong inkling that she’d be just what the doctor ordered to get over his slump in the saddle.
She stopped talking on her cell and went beyond gazing upward at the building to snapping several photographs with her phone, unaware of him watching nearby. He decided they might be in a position to help each other, if she was interested in getting the goods on a club that delivered more than a few flavors of kink.
“Excuse me,” he called to her, intent on uncovering who she was and why she was intrigued with the exterior of Spurs and Leather. Sure, the club sat in a historic building on the edge of Paris, but chipping stucco and aged brick weren’t that interesting. Not when he could offer her a preview of the club’s interior.
She spun toward the sound of his voice, and he was unprepared for the impact of her captivating, dark eyes. For an instant their gazes connected, sending his desire into overdrive. Instead of wearing a provocative smile—as he was accustomed to receiving from the women who frequented his club—this little filly remained pensively poised as though considering her options.
“Are you a reporter?” he asked, not certain if it even mattered at this point.
“No,” she said quietly. She stared back at him, drawing her arms in front of her body, and giving off a vibe that she was startled. His Dom curiosity was more than pricked by her submissive posture.
“Would you like to see inside?” He motioned to the back door. Removing his sunglasses, Brandon began walking toward her. “The place used to be part of a large rectory.”
“Uh…I was just admiring the architecture.” As she spoke, she slid one booted foot backward. Her dark eyes widened, shifting nervously around the parking lot, and the cords in his neck tightened. Jesus, it was early afternoon in the city, but she reacted like his invitation included riding bareback on a bucking bronco. Well, shit…maybe it did.
He clenched his jaw, recognizing this hot pepper’s skittish moves. Something akin to a filly feeling trapped. He didn’t try to stall her as she backed away, her body tense and ready to bolt at his slightest move. Instinctively, he slowed his pace and whispered words, or rather, low, husky sounds designed to soothe her and keep her from turning tail and running.
Flinching, she tugged on the dark red cap on her head. He couldn’t get a fix on her, other than an urge to stop her from leaving. His long-dormant desire for female company awoke, hungry. Moreover, watching this little lady backtrack…well damn, his hunger spiked.
It had been a stretch since any type of desire, other than getting through the day, did more than tempt him. The only jagged craving he got when taming fillies back on the ranch was a reminder to temper his recklessness. A wrong move equated to a kick in the head. Yet, in a flash, he understood that this woman presented a risk of another shade. Still, being near her ignited a sharp craving for skin-on-skin that roared to life in his core, impossible to ignore. A craving, he realized, had been sleeping for far too long.
Only ten feet separated them, and the closer he got, the more alluring she appeared. “The inside has some interesting features as well. Would you like a drink, or a cup of coffee?” Damn, what else could he offer her that didn’t sound like a blatant invitation to his bedroom?
“That’s all right.” She shook her head and bit her lip. “I have to get going.”
A white sports car halted in front of him. “Dammit,” he growled under his breath. “Hey, wait up!”
He made his move to head around the car, but the driver stepped on the gas and pulled forward, stopping him in his tracks. Lifting his head, Brandon
watched over the roof as the mysterious woman almost sprinted toward her own car, climbed in, and started the engine. He noticed her rear bumper had a few stickers, mostly from the University of Texas.
Was she some type of sorority girl, looking for a way to spice up a party? Wouldn’t be the first time a bunch of college students had wanted to storm the club; she’d be sorely disappointed to find that Spurs and Leather didn’t offer off-the-cuff parties, even to a strikingly exotic woman with a body that just wouldn’t quit. Too soon the brakes flashed, and temptation in female form drove away, leaving him with the distinct impression that breaking a few rules was seriously overdue.
Shaking his head, he scowled at the car in front of him. The driver’s window smoothly lowered and he clenched his jaw in vexation at the interruption. Sunglasses tilted in tandem, twin blonde heads nodded to him from inside. Both women licked their lips, and he decided there was no time like the present to back the hell away from this type of nonsense: the Jamison twins in all their glory, and what a mess.
“Hey, sugar,” one of them called. “We gonna see you later?”
A round of giggles, and then the other one hollered, “Or you could let us in for a sneak peek now.”
“What is it about bothering me that you enjoy so much?” He snapped, and regarded the two pairs of cornflower blue eyes and the grinning mouths of Esme and Selma Jamison warily, then he frowned. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Come on, Brandon. Don’t be like that.” The one in the passenger seat shook her head. “Please. Just give us a second.”
They looked so much alike he couldn’t tell them apart, not that he was interested. The farther he could stay away from these two, the better. They’d gone so far as to describe in detail what they wanted to do with him, even when he gave them an ultimatum to stop or he’d talk to their father. Then when he thought they’d moved on to another unsuspecting target, they’d gotten his cell phone number, sexting him until he had their numbers blocked.
“I’m busy,” he said between gritted teeth, and looked away as whichever Jamison sister seated behind the wheel started to lift her skirt.
Brandon backed away from the car, the muscles along his neck pulled taut, and he pushed his hat up off his brow. Even in the fast-falling snow, he felt his face heat. These girls were way out of control and had been on his tail back in Annona for a couple of years now. Somehow, they’d found out that Spurs and Leather was his club. He didn’t know how much they knew, and so far, he’d refused to discuss the club with girls, who were not much older than his younger sister.
“Don’t you have church?” he snarled.
“Done hours ago. We attend the sunrise service. You ought to come by someday. We’d love to show you the chapel. Up close and personal.”
They were the proverbial preacher’s daughters, and without a mother figure, they’d torn up their hometown, hitting the local watering holes in Annona when they were barely out of high school, and now, it seemed, had graduated to a larger city and much more racy establishments. These two women were all grades of off-the-chart trouble. Two times the temptation for most men, but not him. Overindulged chicks didn’t interest him. He sought real life encounters with full-bodied lovers, nothing short of hot-blooded women who wanted to take what he had to give.
“Girls.” He tipped his hat. “Gotta run.”
“We’re not fibbing, Brandon. We’ll be back. See you later. All of you.”
He couldn’t imagine what they meant, or the part about seeing him later. Not likely. With bouncers on the club doors, only members were admitted, and those two were a no-go when it came to gaining entrance to any club he owned. But there wasn’t much logic in pressing that point. They’d just beg louder than normal, and he already had a ton of work waiting for him inside the club.
“Enjoy the day.” He walked around the front of the low-lying roadster, and didn’t turn when they honked the horn before peeling out of the parking lot.
It was barely two in the afternoon, and hours before his clientele showed up. Hours or not, he still needed to get the club set up and ready to roll during his stint from Sunday to Tuesday. The S & L—short for Spurs and Leather—was a private establishment he owned and ran in addition to his work back on the ranch. Scaling the back steps, he pressed his lips together from the burn scalding the muscles along his back and running down his upper arm. His thoughts returned to Evermore and the stallion he’d worked with all week. Rebellion. A blue roan, specially bred for racing and jumping, as well as testing his patience. Brandon sported a sore shoulder due to the tumble he’d taken on account of that stubborn horse from hell.
His phone buzzed with a text message. Under the overhang and out of the falling snow, he checked his cell and read the message from his partner, Phil Penrose. Special member coming in tonight. I’ll be there to explain.
He shot back. New members—we don’t need.
It was true. They had a waitlist for membership to the S & L from the crowd around Paris and beyond. Requests came from all over Texas, and had started to appear in weekly emails from as far away as Washington D.C. and New York City. Well, from the submissive crowd at least. He refused to accept more business than they could handle. The club was maxed out in nightly room requests, and he’d given the staff strict instructions not to book a party without his or Penrose’s okay. He understood all too well that keeping up with the demands without another full-time Dom prevented them from accepting more members. Only a few new members had gotten in over the last three months, when he’d unofficially stepped down from offering his services, and only because his partner had a soft spot for a pretty face. The club could hire another Dom and he’d toyed with the idea, but where to put the man? And who would oversee him? More questions, more demands, and he needed more time to sort it all out.
Unlocking the rear door, he paused to shake the snow from his sheepskin coat and stomp his feet before stepping into the back hall.
His phone buzzed again. Worth the work. Might get you to reconsider your hiatus.
He shot back, Shit. This better not be double trouble. As in twins.
His partner went mute. The muscles over Brandon’s shoulders knotted with that strange apprehension he got around a horse about to kick him in the gut if he wasn’t careful. It boiled down to gut instinct. That’s how he trained horses and ran this club. But at this moment, he lacked time to think about anything besides a mountain of bookkeeping. This irritating instinct would just have to wait until later to be addressed. Grimacing, he wasn’t about to buy into problems that had yet to materialize, not with enough to keep him busy right here and right now.
Shoving his phone into his pocket, he walked out into the main section of the club, completely dark without the lamps on overhead. Most of the lower level windows were sealed shut and painted black. When he claimed his club was private, that’s just what he meant. He moved through the space from memory, down from the front doors and into the bar area, skirting around tables and chairs arranged in the middle, and crossed around the back of the long bar. He flipped on the stereo and the under-the-counter lighting, then lifted a bag of coffee and poured grounds into the filter basket of the machine. While the coffee brewed, he checked out the main floor, turning on the hallway lights and inspecting the rooms. Everything looked ready for their busiest night. Sunday was like Friday around here.
He returned to the main bar, leaned against the counter, and surveyed the bar area in the dim light. Gleaming mahogany paneled walls lined the place, and the splash of crimson from the glass fixtures, along with refurbished wooden floors and all new furniture, amped up the usual level of décor for a bondage club. He’d sunk more than a few pretty pennies into the place since last year. The entire downstairs had been redone to function as a main bar, surrounded by private rooms on the perimeter where members could meet. The rooms were housed within three select hallways, and each hall had a single theme. To the south: the typical S & M dungeon rooms. Another hall contained semi-private rooms
complete with viewing windows. The last corridor was strictly private, housing one large, well-stocked suite within the long hall, and offered a private entrance. His domain and as the head house Dom, and it was his prerogative to decide who entered. He hadn’t serviced a sub in months and no one else, not even his partner, had the key to that room.
Grabbing a cup of coffee, he trounced up the back stairs toward his office. At almost thirty years old and after working for more than ten years on his family’s ranch, he’d learned a thing or two about running a profitable business. But he preferred to stay in the field, working with horses and cattle, when it came to ranching. He left the paperwork to his brothers Matt and Miller. Not that he didn’t understand how to balance the books; he just preferred anything that required sitting to be done as infrequently as possible.
Today he had an appointment with his digital ledger, having pushed dealing with the routine bookkeeping to the last weekend of the month. He opened the door to his makeshift office just down from his lonely apartment and glared at the offending computer.
“Now or never,” he muttered, thinking about untangling red from black as he shrugged out of his coat.
For the last six months straight, he came up from Annona to Paris, staying at the apartment above the club and working from Sunday to Tuesday morning, before he headed back to Evermore. Not easy, but he’d established the S & L as high class. There were strict rules as to what was tolerated in the club, and no one stepped out of bounds, except on his authorization. He was already acquainted with enough rule-breaking badasses beginning with his brothers back home.
Brandon settled down in his wooden swivel chair, the feeling of being seated behind a desk foreign to him, and sorted through the pile of paperwork. The club was open Thursday to Tuesday, and Penrose took over for the days when he was back in Annona. Pen dealt with the ordering and inventory, as long as Brandon agreed to do the books. He picked up a note scratched out by Pen and narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the man’s hieroglyphic handwriting. Something about the payroll. His attention snagged on a crimson costume hanging behind the door and he closed his eyes for a moment.