by Leah Braemel
“And the singles, well, it gets all that will-she-or-won’t-she out of the way. When a member walks in those big red front doors, it’s a given they’re looking for a partner for the night. They can hook up at the public areas just like any bar in D.C.” He paused and she got the feeling he was censoring himself. So what wasn’t he telling her this time? “There are a few rules but mainly as long as it follows the Safe, Sane and Consensual rule, anything goes.”
“So there’s all sorts of kinky stuff going on. Fetish stuff? Like guys who want to lick your feet? Or drip hot wax on you so they can get off?”
He nodded.
Images of Sam wearing the black leather chaps she’d seen him wearing when riding his motorcycle haunted her. What she’d give to see him wear them and nothing else. To feel the cool leather against the back of her thighs while he bent her over a table in front of Thalia or Cooper or… She exhaled slowly, pressing her thighs together to ease the throb in her pussy.
“How does someone even start a club like that? Do you put an ad in the paper or post something on the net saying ‘Hey I like threesomes, let’s meet, we’ll do lunch then we can fuck each other senseless?’ ”
He snorted. “Not exactly.”
Her curiosity got the better of her. “So how did you end up being a founding member?”
“Shit, you want the whole story?”
She nodded and rolled off him, snuggling under his arm.
“Okay.” He scrubbed his hands across his face. “A little over eight years ago, while I was still with the FBI, the Bureau had been tracking a serial killer who targeted members of the scene. It started with two separate incidents in California. The killer shot his victims then ritually mutilated their bodies. When it made the news, police departments in Miami and Chicago realized they’d had similar cases over the previous couple of years. A couple months later, a group were killed in a dungeon scene in Houston that had the same markers. They had a general description of the suspect, and a credible tip that he’d headed here to D.C. The Porte didn’t exist at that time, but there was a fairly active Dungeon scene. Back then there was no membership vetting as such. Anyone could show up at a couple of munches, talk the talk, get an invite to the scene and they’d be let in. No one knew your background or if you were there for the scene or to blackmail someone.
“I remember reading about it in the news. I was in college at the time so I didn’t pay much attention, but I remember being surprised that someone hadn’t been hurt before.”
“These groups are usually pretty good at sniffing out anyone who might cause problems, and they let other groups know of any nutjobs to be wary of. Anyway, Chad was the Supervisory Special Agent in Charge; he decided to send a team in undercover in hopes that we’d find the killer before he struck again.”
“How did they choose you? Or were you already part of the scene?”
“I wasn’t into the scene at the time, but when you apply to the FBI they do a full background check and I guess they learned a few things from a couple old girlfriends. As you’ve already figured out, I was—am—more liberal about sex than most.”
“I imagine going to a place where women are required to treat you like you’re their lord and master was a huge sacrifice,” she said drily.
Irritation radiated off him as he shoved himself off the bed and began pacing. “When you start off in the scene, even if you’re a Dominant, especially if you’re a Dominant, you undergo training to learn how to properly handle a sub. Not all clubs work that way, but this one did.”
“Let me guess, Leash Handling 101? How about Flogging for Dummies?” He’d stopped pacing, his back turned to her, the muscles on his arms bulging as he tensed. She shook her head, “It was a joke. I’m sorry. I’ll stop being such a smart ass. Go on.”
“In order to be a good Master, you have to learn what you’re asking of your slaves. So you start off as a sub.”
She couldn’t stop her laughter and quickly clamped her hand over her mouth at the mental picture of Sam wearing a leather dog collar while meekly being led around on a leash. More likely he’d rip the leash out of the person’s hands and drag them behind him. “I’m sorry. I just can’t picture you submitting to anyone.”
After he’d shot her another look sideways, he continued, “I had to serve a mistress who acted as my mentor and taught me techniques that would help me be a good Dominant while—” he hesitated, swallowing hard, “—the other agent who volunteered pretended to be my girlfriend who wanted to learn how to be a good sub.”
“And this was with the FBI’s blessing?” What the hell type of report would have to be filed?
“We had to give reports to our supervisor regularly, yes.”
“But no one in the club knew you were there as spies though?”
He scratched the long scar down the middle of his chest. “Cooper was in charge of the scene even back then, so he knew who we were, but he thought it best if no one else knew. Thalia is Chad’s sister. At the time she knew he was sending someone in, but not exactly who. Since she was the most experienced Domme, we were assigned her as our trainer. I guess she suspected that we weren’t who we said we were, but since there’d been a lot of emails flying around the scene about the murders, she wasn’t sure if we were the killers or her brother’s agents. So she questioned us.”
Something about the way he said it told her the questioning was more than a standard interrogation. “What happened?”
There was a long silence but whether he was lost in his memories or trying to decide just how much information she could handle, she couldn’t tell. He finally settled for “Unless you’ve been part of the scene, you couldn’t understand, but there are techniques a Dom can use to scramble a sub’s circuits so they’ll not be able to dissemble. Neither of us broke cover but Thalia deduced enough to realize we’re the good guys.”
There was more to the story, but she didn’t want him to lose momentum, so she decided to jump ahead. “Did you ever catch the killer?”
His hand drifted to the star-shaped bullet wound and his expression hardened. “Eventually.”
Her breath drew in sharply. “Is that how you got shot?”
“Yeah.” His pacing started again. “We’d met the guy before; he didn’t set off any alarms with either of us. He was just a guy you’d wave to if you saw him washing his car in his driveway down the street. The other members said he’d been there quite a few times before we’d joined and taken part in a couple scenes. We figured that’s when he was scoping out the place, picking his targets. Then when he felt secure that no one was suspicious of him, he came back.”
“Makes sense. That’s how I’d do it.”
He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Jill wasn’t feeling good so we’d stopped in to beg out of a scene. We were leaving when he came in. I saw him raise his gun and went for my weapon but he shot me before I could get a round off.” He took a deep breath, his eyes unfocusing as his memories took him back to that night. “Then he…” He cleared his throat. “He shot Jill.”
Jill! The girl in the picture on his mantel.
His fingers curled into fists, the skin white over the knuckles before he stared at them and consciously flexed them. His voice hardened. “I got lucky. I walked out of the hospital with this.” He gestured to his chest. “Jill died in my arms just as the paramedics arrived. And Thalia…well, I didn’t shoot him fast enough to help her. She was already paralyzed by the time I killed the bastard.”
Oh, Lord, so much pain he was carrying, so much guilt.
His eyes were bleak, his voice flat. “I failed them, Rosie. I was sent in to stop the killer, to protect them, and I failed.”
She reached out then, stopping him mid-pace and dragged him toward her, then knelt on the bed and cupped his face in her hands. “It’s not your fault, Sam.”
“Yeah, it is.” A dark look flickered behind his eyes. He rested his forehead against hers and swallowed hard. “Anyway, the other members kept me from goi
ng to pieces after Jill died. They visited me in the hospital, and when I got out, they phoned me if no one heard from me for a couple of days. Even though most of them were being harassed by the media and nutjobs that came out of the woodwork telling them they deserved to die. They looked after me, especially during the internal inquiry that ended up with Chad being fired. They were there when no one else was. Even Thalia kept in touch.”
She patted the bed beside her. When he’d stretched out beside her, she lay her head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Once his breathing slowed, she asked, “So how’d La Porte Rouge get started?”
“After the media finally got tired of their exposés of the group, and ruined more than one career, Cooper got together with some of the more influential club members . They decided to create an elite club. Somewhere they could feel safe from looky-loos and potential blackmailers, or whackjobs who wanted to cleanse the world of sinners like the guy who killed Jill. By that time I’d left the FBI, so Coop approached me about designing a proper security system for them. They made me a founding partner, which gave me enough money to start Hauberk. And it gave me access to influential clients who needed personal protection.”
After a few minutes, Rosie shifted so she could look him in the eye. As much as she wanted to discuss the past, she knew she had to concentrate on protecting Sam in the here and now. “I know you trust the founding members, but isn’t it possible that your stalker is one of the other members?”
“That was one of the first things I thought of. I went through the membership list, but frankly, there are days I trust most of the Rouge’s members more than I do some of my own operatives.”
Strange how he could find people into BDSM more trustworthy than her co-workers. But she supposed there had to be an incredible amount of trust to allow someone such power over your body and soul.
“How can you be sure?”
“The only way you can become a member of the Rouge is to be sponsored by a member who has been acquainted with you for at least two years. All initiates have to undergo a thorough psychological, medical and security screening before they’re admitted. We don’t allow anyone with a record, especially of drug use. We have to use a bit more leeway when it comes to abuse charges since sometimes society doesn’t understand the games between scene players. Even once you’re a member, we do regular background checks on everyone and all members have to pass semi-annual medical and psychological assessments to make sure no one’s put at risk. And you have to sign a contract stating what your preferences are and agreeing to respect other members’ choices.”
“But surely there are personality clashes. People who object to something or other—either another member or perhaps a rule being enforced, or not being enforced?”
“The public areas are filmed so we can go back to the tapes to make an independent assessment. If the complaint occurs in a private area, then both the complainant and the accused must submit to another psychological assessment. And they’ll have a hearing in front of the Board where they’re required to answer any questions put to them. They fail any of the tests, they’re out. No appeals.”
“Sounds like it’s tougher to be a member of the club than it is to be hired by Hauberk.”
“It is.”
She leaned back against him once more, and pondered the newly lit avenues of possibilities. “Has anyone been kicked out lately?”
“No. And there haven’t been any complaints either.”
She frowned. Damn it. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. “How many members are there?”
“Just over a hundred. But some of them don’t live on the east coast, they keep a membership for when they’re visiting.”
Expensive if membership was a million bucks a pop. “How many founding members are there?”
“Ten now.”
“Now?”
“There were twelve of us originally—but we’ve lost two in the last couple years.”
She went still. “Lost? As in died?”
“You’re thinking this may be related?” Sam shook his head. “It’s not. Josh died in a plane crash about seven months ago, and Deidre died a couple years ago when some drunk ran a red light and T-boned her.” He twined his fingers with hers, lifting them to his lips. “The stalker isn’t a club member, Rosie. And even if they were, why stalk only me, why not Coop or one of the others?”
She huffed and untangled her fingers from his hold. “Even so, there could be a connection that you can’t see because you’re too close to the picture. I want to see the member files—I may be able to see something because I’m not familiar with them.” Other than the ones she watched on the evening news or considered giving her vote. Ay bendito! No wonder they were so rabid about security.
He shook his head. “I don’t want you at the club and Coop won’t let the files leave. Send Andy to look at them. Please.”
“I thought you said you trusted the members.”
He sighed. “I do. But…I don’t want you there.”
She wanted to ask why, but considering the way she’d reacted about his membership, about the club’s very existence, she could hardly fault him. He probably figured she’d freak out. But strangely, she found herself wanting an inside look—because that would allow her a peek into Sam Watson himself. A part she’d sensed he’d kept private, hidden, all along. And maybe she’d find out more about herself.
His cell phone chirruped and with a curse, he checked the caller ID and answered it. From his clipped speech and intense focus, it was important. Three minutes later he ended the call and cursed again.
“Colombia?”
“Yeah. Troy got word that the hostages have been moved again and we’ve lost track of them.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “Look, don’t tell Scott, all right? He’s still blaming himself because he got out and they didn’t.”
They discussed the options for freeing the remaining hostages late into the night before she finally felt confident in returning to the original subject.
“I want to go to the club in the morning and see the files for myself, Sam.”
He groaned. “No, Rosie. That’s not gonna happen.”
“It’s a viable lead and as your team leader I have to check it out.”
His hold on her tightened and his voice came out as a growl, “Then send Andy and Scott or Kris or someone. I don’t want you there.”
“Sam…either you trust these people or you don’t. You can’t have it both ways. And either way, I’m going to the club and take a look at those files.”
“Has anyone ever told you, you’re like a hound dog on a hare’s trail?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right, I’ll take you over there in the morning myself and let you satisfy your curiosity about the place. But you’re taking Andy as your own personal bodyguard and you do not leave the office area, you hear me?”
“All right, I’ll take Andy with me, but will you please stop treating me like I’m breakable?”
How could she not realize that she wasn’t immortal? He’d already lost one woman he loved, he couldn’t bear to lose Rosie too.
He rested his forehead against the top of her head, pulling her against him. Somehow, when he wasn’t looking, their relationship had become about more than just sex, more than just kink. She’d wrapped herself about his heart and he found himself enjoying being bound.
Ever since he’d lost Jill, he’d been careful in his choice of dates. They had to be someone he couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life with, women who wanted him for his looks, his money, or simply for a good fuck. Women he could keep at a distance. Yet he’d totally ignored that rule with Rosie from the get-go.
Rosie was someone he could picture marrying, having kids with, taking home to his momma who would adore her almost as much as he…oh shit. As much as he loved her. He hadn’t felt that way about anyone in years. Eight years.
She looked up at him, her eyes dark and promising in the dim light, her lips slightly pa
rted in an open invitation to kiss her. Unable to pull away, he accepted her invitation. Her mouth was soft, her breath warm on his cheek, her body so tiny compared to his. His little rose, so beautiful, so fragrant, who opened only for him.
He was already hard when he tossed the sheet off her and rolled her onto her back. Her hair draped wildly over the pillow, a thundercloud around her creamy skin. Dipping his head, he took one puckered nipple into his mouth, reveling in the breathless gasp as she arched beneath him. He stole a look at her—her eyes were closed, her fingers clutching the pillow on either side of her head. If he were a painter, he’d paint her just like this and entitle it “Ecstasy Encaptured”.
Releasing her breast, he laid a trail of kisses over her belly, then slid his hands beneath her hips and lifted her. She was already glistening as he dropped his head and tasted her again, reveled in her. Her hands clutched his head, holding him in place as she lifted higher, an attempt to control where and what his tongue touched. When she was swollen and gasping for breath, his cock harder than granite, his balls aching, he grabbed a condom he’d dropped on the night table and sheathed himself. Then he planted his arms on either side of her head, his cock nudging her entrance, and she smiled at him, her eyes luminous, filled with such tenderness it sucked his breath from him.
She wrapped her legs about his waist as he entered her. He’d intended to make love to her slowly, gently, but as soon as her heat enveloped him he couldn’t hold back and buried himself to the hilt. His hips pistoned, pounding into her until they were both gasping for air.
Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, her nails digging in as if she were holding onto him like a life preserver, half her body lifted off the mattress, clenching around him.
He dipped his head, caught her mouth with his, capturing her scream as she climaxed around him. The heat surrounding him, the pulses of her orgasm sent him over the edge.
Late in the night, as Rosie lay nestled against him, Sam smoothed her hair away from face, and wondered just how she’d managed to worm her way not only into his life, but into his heart.