by Angel Payne
“Meh. Who cares about him?” Mr. Lake Austin Eyes bent over, lifting her free hand in both of his. “Let’s get to the important part.” Brushed her knuckles with his lips. “It is a pleasure, darling kitten, to meet you at last.”
Darling kitten? At last? Tracy didn’t know whether to curtsy, giggle, or attempt a glib return—though the latter would be a challenge, considering the potency of this rogue’s flirtatious charm. His gaze was even more magnificent up close, and he smelled like cloves and bergamot.
Once again, not a lot of time for debate. Before her throat could fully function again, John jerked her back by the waist, rotating to loom protectively. “All right, scum chunk. Hands. Off.”
The guy spread up his hands as if those words had been “Stick ’em up”. “All right, all right. Got it loud and clear, honey. Untwist your panties.”
“Just keep your dick in yours.” Irritation all but shot out from Franz’s pores. “I mean it, man.”
Tracy glanced back to the rogue, hoping he’d have a decent zinger for that, though was immediately stabbed by guilt. John was sincerely agitated and all she could think was how much this beat old senators duking it out across shiny conference tables. But John and his fellow Dom—for that was the only certain conclusion she had about the guy so far—were only interested in battling over one thing.
Her.
Not as their vice president. Not even as Zeke’s odd, intrusive houseguest.
As the only role she was here to fulfill tonight.
A desirable woman.
It was pretty damn nice.
“Well,” Zeke butted in, laying on a layer of overly bright sarcasm. “Now that we have all the housekeeping notes taken care of, boys and girls…”
“There’s your girl.” Franz and the flirt stated it at once, trading pointing fingers. Tracy couldn’t abstain her giggle any longer. This really was better than any committee meeting on the Hill.
Oddly—or maybe not so much—her laughter incited the same from the men. As they mellowed, Franz slipped his hand down, securing her hand in his once again. “Popoki, it’s my honor to introduce you to the hugest asshole on the planet—and my dearest friend—Max Brickham.”
She actually felt her eyes widen as Max flourished a new bow, sans the finger kissing. “At your service, kitten.”
The words weren’t just lip service. They hinted at a second meaning—one the man clearly thought she knew. When her blank gaze answered his raised gaze, Max scooted a questioning glance to John, who flung back a quelling glare.
Time for apprehension to make an encore. “At my service…for what?” she charged.
Max straightened, trading a secretive look with Zeke.
Ohhhh no, they didn’t.
Tracy jolted forward by a step, brandishing her put-up-or-shut-up look. Just as swiftly, she was jerked back to Franz’s side, his grip possessive steel around her middle.
“Well,” Max finally murmured. “This just got a hell of a lot more fun.”
Tracy tossed an open fume at all three of them—but especially the tight-lipped hulk at her side. Okay, she was more at his side, but semantics weren’t key on the priorities list right now.
Addressing his imperious, but holy-effing-hell delicious, glower? Another story completely. But dammit, she’d addressed dour foreign leaders, self-important senators, and more ranting lobbyists than one person should in a lifetime. She had this.
“Fun?” she repeated, barely moving her lips. “Want to fill me in on what that’s all about?”
Franz’s gaze went heavy, sultry. His nostrils flared as his brood took on a new heat…sparking straight into the triangle between her thighs.
Shit, shit, shit.
Maybe she didn’t have this.
“In due time.”
Nope. Definitely not. How the man could turn three words into verbal arousal, she had no idea, nor was in any condition to ponder, as he pulled her toward a long hallway offering the same gray-walled bleakness as the elevator foyer. While his words had to be the most unacceptable basis for following him, Tracy did just that—battling a mix of dread and anticipation.
Why did this still feel like he led her for processing in a medieval prison? And why did that concept make her wetter in every intimate crevice? What the hell did that say about her? Was she out of her damn mind? Maybe it was best that Blake LeGrange just go on leading the free world. Maybe there was a serious crack in her psyche, and it was a better idea to—
“Tracy.”
Though his low dictate refused to be ignored, his grip was the leash on her focus. Her head snapped up. Her senses refunneled on him. “What?” she retorted.
“Stop thinking.”
“Excuse me?”
“Stop thinking.” His accentuation, sharp but sleek, matched the double doors they approached. The portals were made of black steel. They had no handles and were bound at the middle by a key card panel made to look like a big silver padlock. “And start trusting.”
She worked her hand tighter against his. “Trying, dammit.” Though her shaky tone hardly backed up the point, even as Franz bussed the top of her head. Adding insult to injury, she swung a nervous glance back at the dim hall they’d just traversed—wondering why she felt like it was about to disappear in some treacherous fog. “Wh-where are we?”
“We haven’t left the building.” He murmured it into her hair, spreading warmth across her scalp. Tenacious tendrils of the heat dripped down, past her neck, until pooling behind both her nipples. The man definitely noticed. Dammit, where was a padded bra when a girl needed one? “The complex has two parts,” he went on to explain. “Residential and commercial. This corridor is one of the bypasses.”
Max, sidling up to stand on the other side of his friend, “When one owns a kink club, it’s also nice to have a secret entrance for members who need discretion.”
Unbelievably, that part of the explanation cracked her lips open on a smile—as many other parts of her were showered in shards of anticipation. “Oh?” she returned, giving the look an impish edge. “Is that what I am, now? A ‘member’ of discretion?”
John’s chuckle was like island thunder, dominant but gentle. “Woman, you are more than a member tonight.”
She let him gather her fully against him. The broad expanse of his chest was such an ideal snuggling zone. “That so, my Sir?”
“Hmmm. Yes.”
“So what, exactly, am I?”
He didn’t hum that time—though both Max and Zeke did, ending with sounds she couldn’t identify. Were they snickering? Clearing their throats? Maybe both, but attempting to be discreet? And why did she care—despite how the rejoinders made her think an orange jumpsuit was in her near future?
Focus on your Sir.
Trust your Sir.
Remember what you promised.
“You’re the VIP attraction, kitten.”
“Huh?”
Again, no time to process any other reaction—not that she’d even be able to form it, as Zeke pressed a key card on a chain up to the shiny padlock. Instantly, the doors parted with ominous blasts.
Z flashed a grin at John. “If anyone’s checking, the log will tag my entrance, not yours.”
“Outstanding.”
Her Sir’s approving growl affected her bloodstream like solar flares. She had no idea why but simply flowed with the incredible sensation.
What was wrong with her?
Every neuron in her brain screamed she should be shivering in trepidation, not burning up with arousal. This wasn’t a fantasy novel or a scene in a play. This was real. She was letting a man pull her through those doors, into an oddly quiet hall now defined by leather-covered walls, dark-tiled floors, and air smelling of patchouli, smoke, latex—and sex.
She was turning, watching as Max wiggled his fingers at them, crooning “You kids have fun”—before the doors slammed back shut.
She was standing, still trying to summon even one shudder, as Franzen—no, as Sir—pivoted
so they again faced each other. Cupped her shoulders in his powerful, masterful hands. Tugged her so close, her aching nipples nearly brushed his wall of a chest. Summoned his voice in a rough, commanding inhalation.
“Kitten. Look at me.”
She tilted her head up. Got down a gulp like a wrecking ball, as his gaze affected her composure the same way. Her knees were dust. Her nerves were incinerated. Her pussy was a flooded, aching mess.
“You still trust me?”
Her senses surprised her with another smile. He was checking in, still conscious of her. Still caring about her. Still prioritizing her. Even if he handed her an orange jumpsuit right now, her response would be the same.
“Yes, Sir.” She finished the whisper by standing on tiptoes to kiss him. “I do. I truly do.”
He returned the pressure of her lips, though it was infused with fresh formality. The veneer toughened as he slid both hands beneath her short hemline—
Then encountered the barrier of her underwear. As his hand halted, she stiffened. In this new environment, with its new set of playing rules, what would ignoring his “request” mean for her?
To her shock, not much more than a mysterious hum.
At least at first.
“That means a lot to me, ku’uipo.” He pulled away—but as he went, smoothly scooping up both hands, gathering more and more of her dress. When he finally settled his stance again, he’d pulled the whole thing over her head, off her body. “Because it means you won’t have any trouble with me watching you strip the rest of the way.”
She forced down a deep breath—then on the exhalation, a dutiful “Yes, Sir.” What other choice was there? Rebellious brat was just stupid, after knowingly snubbing his direction. And no way was she chickening out of the adventure now, when it was getting pretty damn interesting.
More than any of that, she wanted this.
Wanted.
This.
How many times, over the last few days alone, had she blatantly fantasized about the chance to have this man drag her off into a place just like this? To brook no argument about his commands? To openly demand to have his way with her?
An equal number of times, she’d set aside the dream as just that. The logistical details of making something like this happen, even during this interim in which she was a non-person to the rest of the world, sent her head spinning. On top of that, it was a Friday night—likely one of the most popular periods for everyone to get out and “get their kink on” in a place as luxurious as this—blowing new depths of her gray matter apart in gratitude. He’d worked damn hard to make this all happen…all for her.
So yeah—it was time to strip.
The bra was the easy part. The little black demi-cups already exposed just about everything the man wanted to see about her peaks, which certainly weren’t anything special. Before Luke came along, they’d been…normal. Not too big, not too small. Now, they were normal but saggy—a truth not lending a shred of logic to the man’s starving beast snarl as she unclasped the bra. But if she’d learned anything about John Franzen over the last few days, it was the man’s insistence on enjoying what he referred to as her “juicy hua”.
His rasp of the syllables now, caressing the air so thick with sensual promise, turned her nipples into points of acute, aching need. She gasped as her areolas puckered, making the nipples stand out even harder. Dammit. Wouldn’t the man do anything more than stare at them?
No such luck. He had an agenda and was sticking to it. That much was obvious by the brace of his stance, hands fisted at his sides while air pumped his chest and a bulge strained the juncture of his thighs.
“Now the rest,” he finally ordered. “Let me see your hot kali, woman.”
Her blood raced as she bent over, hooking thumbs into the sides of the panties. She pushed them into a pool at her feet. As she rose back up, standing nude in the middle of the hallway, a shiver finally claimed her.
Why?
The man had seen every inch of her body, on a very intimate basis, many times over the last week—
Only right now, she was as nervous as a virgin.
In a kink play club.
In front of the most formidable, beautiful warriors she had ever met.
Looking across all his features, like the hardest, most delicious piece of human toffee, and knowing exactly what he planned for her naked body next.
Or…
Maybe not.
She’d expected him to reach for her once again—though not with anything in his hand as he did. Certainly not with a fistful of…what, exactly? She gawked at the formless black latex. Back up at Franzen. His expression was a dark, unreadable puzzle. His face had darkened and hardened after she took off her panties, though never fully returned to its original cliffs of dedicated dominance.
What the hell was he up to?
“Come here.” The bastard didn’t clear up anything with his thick growl—except her body’s overriding desire to obey him. As she inched closer to him, he raked her form with his ravenous eyes and stated, “It’s time for the kitten to get into her play clothes.”
Fresh scowl. Open confusion. “Kittens have play clothes?” And why did that make her think of nothing but those helpless felines on the internet, forced to wear dumb costumes for owners who thought “cowboy cat” and “super hero cat” were actually cute shit?
“Hmmm. This kitten does.”
Why didn’t that make her feel any better than cowboy cat?
Nevertheless, she stood patiently as he pulled the latex piece wider, stretching it between his hands. In a flash, recognition hit. The thing was a hood, made to go entirely over someone’s head, with almond-shaped holes for the eyes, along with spaces for the nose and mouth. A pair of molded cat ears sprouted off the top.
For a long second, she just stared at the thing. Back up to him. Back at the hood. Damn. He really wanted her to wear it. To let him put it on her, erasing every discernible aspect of her face. The idea didn’t bring on a ton of tranquility—though the alternative wasn’t exactly fear. It was trepidation, uneasiness…and ohhhh yes, a new gush of unstoppable arousal.
What would it be like…to not be her anymore?
To become, in so many ways, his sexy submissive kitten?
“Let’s try it on.” While his voice was low command, his gaze formed a gentler question. He wouldn’t do it without her consent.
Consent her lips couldn’t seem to give. Her throat felt like a vise. Her lungs worked harder and harder, for half as much air.
She prayed he’d get the message as she inched back toward him—then dipped her head forward, almost nudging the hood like a real kitten.
With a rumble of low satisfaction, John slid the latex over her.
As the cool, tight plastic adhered to her like heavy glue, a string of reactions hit in frenetic succession.
So this was why he asked for the severe hair style.
How long does he want me to wear this thing?
It’s kind of comfortable.
Oh my God, I must look fifteen kinds of silly.
My head must look smaller. That means my butt must seem huge.
What the hell am I doing this for?
“Holy. Fuck.”
That. Growl.
That was what she’d done it for.
That…and the rest of the electricity firing off Franzen from the moment the hood dropped completely into place.
Turning her breaths into fire, as his pumped harder in his wide chest.
Turning her skin into hot and cold fusion, as his gaze devoured her body.
Turning all those words in her head into nothing but needy mewls in her throat, as his posture became forceful lines. As hard as her mind clawed to maintain the hold, something about this new anonymity turned her into something else too. A creature, fully female. An animal, fully feral.
A submissive…fully his.
“Come here, kitten.”
Her blood, still just a mass of white-hot currents, someh
ow powered her limbs enough to take a step. Then another. Every inch she closed in on Franzen, a force field seemed to crackle around him as well, extending spindles of pure energy toward hers.
Once her body was nearly flush with his again, the man stunned her once more, suddenly dropping to a knee. Before she could determine his purpose, he supplied it—by holding open a pair of black latex booty shorts. “Step in,” he instructed, and she obeyed at once. If it occurred to her, for even half a second, to question why he’d made her strip before redressing her, the design of her new “outfit” provided that answer now. The shorts had no crotch panels. The center seams, right and left, were masterfully designed to overlap each other, but also to part ways from each other. There was a convenient fix for camel toe.
A fleeting human thought from her faraway human life.
The feral feline batted it away, especially as her Master began checking the fit of the shorts in all the key places. She whimpered louder with every stroke of his strong, hot touch, especially as he stood again. With their mouths just half a breath apart, she let out raw, rhythmic pleadings, shuttling her crotch against the blissful confidence of his fingers.
“Such a good little pussy.” As he gifted her with the praise, he flattened his hand against her entire mound. “So hot. So compliant. So ready for me.”
“Unnnnhh,” Tracy cried, high and strident. “Mmmm hmmm.”
He groaned, harsh and hard, before forming his lips to her slightly parted ones. The latex stretched, erotic and noisy, as he forced her to open wider, accepting the scalding flame of his tongue.
Several minutes later, when he pulled away, Franz’s breath had taken over his body with as much erratic violence as hers. He set her back as if having to order himself to do so, before whirling for the wall shelf where he’d gotten her hood and shorts. There was one more item up there, waiting for him to use on her.
A roll of black electrical tape.