by Lynda Aicher
A muscle twitched in his thigh, a phantom pain zinging to his groin in a teasing arc. His gaze wandered over his shoulder to the hallway so many guys had gone down—including Asher. Asher who had an appointment.
For what? With whom?
He closed his eyes, cutting off his thoughts. The probability of Asher being able to give him the level of pain he required was a long shot. It took a true, pure sadist to satisfy his ache, and finding the nonpsychotic ones had become too much like spinning a roulette wheel. He either landed on the posers or the ones who grew up torturing animals. And the second set were the only ones who’d go as far as Sawyer could—and then further.
Who’d keep going if there wasn’t a Dungeon Master around.
“Sawyer?”
He turned around, mentally scrambling to pick up the conversation. Grady’s partner exuded a casual strength that blended into the background in a nonthreatening way. He’d obviously witnessed much and could assimilate more, and he was putting together some conclusions regarding Sawyer that were most likely correct.
“Are the bathrooms down the hall?” he asked. He didn’t have to go, but it was an easy exit.
“Yes.” Micah answered, his smile friendly instead of knowing. “Look around if you want. The dungeon’s at the end. Private rooms line the hallway. There’s a locker room attached to the restroom as well.” He set a bar rag down and leaned in. “Most here are open to questions. We have a pretty tight crowd, but they’ll point you in a direction if you’re looking for something specific. The fact that you’re here means a member got you in.”
The bouncer had checked his name off on a list before he’d been allowed in the door. A system like that kept the curious out and made the clientele accountable for each other. In other words, fuck up and it reflects back on that member. In his case, Grady and Micah.
Sawyer slid from the stool, muscles tightening as his senses kicked in. He’d blocked them earlier, when his visit was nothing more than a social call with Grady. The sight of partially clothed subs bound and kneeling at their Dom’s feet did nothing for him. Neither did the deep, red blush covering the ass of one blissed-out sub who was bent over his Dom’s knees.
He’d graduated from impact play years ago. That was a simple warm-up for him.
The low chatter of the bar faded the farther he went down the hallway. A cry reached him first, followed by the thud of a paddle and the crack of a hand on skin. Each was distinctive and sparked visions of the activities taking place.
His blood warmed, anticipation sparking over his nerve endings. He inhaled, the dungeon scents flooding him. It didn’t matter where he went or how sanitary the dungeon was, they all carried the underpinnings of sweat, come, fear, and excitement. The blended aroma triggered a longing he’d given up trying to contain.
It was futile to even try anymore.
He bypassed the restroom, ignored the doors that lined the hall, focus narrowed on his intent. The hallway opened into exactly what he’d expected. The dungeon at Dane’s featured the standard equipment: a St. Andrews cross, benches, horses, chains, tables, chairs—everything a person could be strapped to and teased or tortured on. There were a few unique pieces, but nothing he hadn’t seen in some variation.
He glanced over them, noting and dismissing each one. It didn’t matter to him what he was tied to or how, a fact that often irritated a Dom. His lack of fear never equated to submission, and a good Dom figured that out quickly.
A leather-clad man gave him a nod as he entered the room, his armband distinguishing him as a Dungeon Master. The power came in his demeanor, not his muscle. Authority rolled off his straight spine and intent gaze. One that looked him over in a calculating sweep.
Sawyer turned away, searching for…
He swallowed, nostrils flaring on his inhale.
Asher leaned against the wall not far from where Sawyer stood. He was focused on a scene taking place on a medical table about ten feet in front of him. Head tilted, eyes narrowed behind the dark frames of his glasses. His arms were crossed, the portrait of a man in deep concentration.
So damn focused.
He skimmed his gaze down Asher, noting the lack of an obvious erection. Not unique, but telling.
Asher turned his head at that moment, gaze locking with his. The intensity rammed into him, the look dissecting him without a touch. The cuts sank beneath his skin to leave a festering want behind. Fuck.
Sawyer moved forward, each step a dangerous act that teased his need. The complete lack of dominance in Asher’s scrutiny lured him in better than any command. He stopped next to him, letting his eyes communicate for him. Curiosity. Interest. Possibilities.
Potentially damaging to him. Too alluring to back down.
The corner of Asher’s lips quirked up. A quick flash before he refocused on the scene before them.
Sawyer studied his profile a moment longer. There was nothing to indicate Asher was distracted even slightly from what he was studying. Focused intent. Firm concentration. Direct. His air of intelligence was enhanced by his preppy attire, the nerd-boy image only a few notches removed. But it was the constant calculation that seemed to whirl behind his eyes that kept Sawyer there.
He turned to watch the scene, keenly aware of the guy beside him. Of the dangers and the building anticipation. Of the dance with a partner he couldn’t let himself want, yet had traveled a thousand miles to meet.
Which only enticed him more.
Chapter 4
The submissive cringed, face tightening into a clench of pain that vibrated through his tense muscles. His spread legs were strapped into the stirrups on the medical table, arms bound to his sides. His shaved genitals were a deep red, almost purple, and matched the shade of his erect dick. His bound state ensured he wouldn’t come until the Dom allowed it and had sensitized the genitals. The Dom alternated between stroking the dick and attaching weighted clips to the scrotum and crown of the penis.
Cock and ball torture. Common, varied, and open to endless possibilities if the top had any imagination at all.
This one didn’t.
The scene appeared to be following the script of a popular Internet video. The Dom had sworn his sub could handle anything Ash dished out. He’d insisted his sub needed more pain.
Ash snorted. It didn’t matter if it was true or not, the couple wasn’t getting anything from him. He had nothing to prove, and pushing the limits on some random guy had lost its appeal.
He’d been ready to leave, certain after ten short minutes that the sub wouldn’t work for him and that training the Dom on torture techniques would be equally unappealing.
Now Sawyer stood next to him, and any thought of leaving had vanished.
“What do you like, Sawyer?” Ash asked without turning his head. The guy wouldn’t be standing unfazed in the dungeon if this was new to him.
“Pain.”
That one simple word struck close to his heart. He inhaled, breath rushing through his nostrils. His pulse thumped too hard, too fast. The sub released a moaned whimper that teased his inner need. That quickly, an image of Sawyer spread-eagled, sweating, and covered in welts from his cane erased the one before him. His sweet calls of suffering would build Ash higher—or would Sawyer grunt through the agony? Did he fight or flow with the pain?
“What kind of pain?” His question came out lower than he’d intended, and probably revealed more too.
Sawyer shifted, the material of his shorts rasping on the cement wall. How Ash heard it over the general noise of the dungeon was a mystery. But it taunted him with more ideas, of stripping the damn things off and turning that hard ass a blistering red.
“A lot.”
The gravel in his voice rumbled over Ash. Would it be there when he begged for mercy—or more? “Limits?”
Another shift. Each move brought Sawyer closer without being obvious. Casual, if it weren’t for the tension that slithered up Ash’s nape to tingle over his scalp. A whip cracked, precise and sharp. A grunt. A whine. A slap. D
esire coiled deep within his chest, dark and slow and lined with barbs.
“None.”
Ash whipped his head around, scowl slamming down. Anger burst out in a protective rush. “Don’t say that,” he admonished, jaw tight. “Ever. There are always limits.” Unless you have a death wish.
Sawyer didn’t flinch or respond for several long moments. A flatness fell over his expression, a blankness that hid everything behind a wall of indifference. Gone was the dimple, along with any hint of levity. His eyes narrowed, chin lifting. The subtle defiance almost begged to be challenged, yet refused to be broken.
How much would it take to shatter that reserve?
“I know my limits,” Sawyer stated with the same cold flatness. “I know that few can reach them. I know when to stop and I know what I need.” He shoved away from the wall, gaze scanning the dungeon before it landed back on him. “What do you know…Asher?”
That fucker. The darkness within him morphed to red and tainted his calm. He turned to Sawyer, hands fisted at his sides, breaths slowing to long pulls as he stared into those damn golden brown eyes.
Sawyer arched a brow, his cool too calculated. This was his game. He’d push until he got the reaction he wanted, or at least some reaction. Most likely, it was how he manipulated Doms to get what he wanted.
Ash puffed out a disgusted laugh and leaned in until his lips hovered over Sawyer’s ear. Sawyer didn’t back away, which only intrigued him. His strength and power was more alluring than any complacent submissive. They didn’t touch, not a single brush of skin or material, yet the impression of Sawyer’s form layered over Ash’s chest in a silent taunt.
“I know you’d break before me.” He stated the truth with a firmness meant to entice. He nipped at Sawyer’s earlobe, striking sharp and fast before he pulled away.
Sawyer’s surprised grunt ignited a quiet purr of satisfaction within him. The glare was another front, one that failed to camouflage the golden flash of want. Damn how he longed to play with that want, to test it, drive it, and see precisely how far he could go.
Sawyer chuckled, a low rumble that matched the crook of his lips. That dimple cut into his cheek beneath the scruff of beard stubble, a pop of boyish charm that’d been erased by something dark. Something…sad.
“Is that an offer?”
“No.” He couldn’t follow through on his challenge no matter how badly he ached to do so. “I don’t play with employees.”
“What if I quit?”
“There are other guys to play with. I can refer you to someone.” He had to force the last sentence out.
Sawyer gave another lazy glance around the room, his head barely turning before he focused back on Ash. His eyes had flattened out, the heat gone, along with the interest that’d been simmering there only a moment ago. “I’ll let you know.”
He turned and strode from the room without a backward glance, his stride confident like his posture. Like the man. More than one guy watched him leave, interest and speculation in every expression.
Ash clamped his jaw tight to hold back his objections, but it didn’t quell the possessive desire that boiled beneath his skin. Fuck me.
He inhaled, the dungeon scents tripping old switches and controlled urges. His pulse slowly decreased with each long breath, his craving reined in until it nestled near his heart.
He forced himself to turn back to the scene before him. He took in the tear-streaked cheeks, panting whines, tight grimace, and got nothing. No residual pleasure or urge to partake.
The sub was an unknown to him. A stranger whose suffering didn’t touch him.
Not as deeply as someone he knew.
Someone he wanted.
Sawyer Stevens was a known unknown. A mystery he longed to solve despite the reasons why he shouldn’t. His inner sadist gnawed at the danger signs and spit them back out.
Two months—less than two months—and Sawyer would be long gone from here. It was doubtful he’d even look back when he left, let alone return. Was he really an employee, then, or just a temporary replacement?
Did it matter?
Not to that dark desire wedged near his heart.
That nasty little kernel of wrong that set him apart from so many. That’d festered within him for as long as he could remember. That’d picked and nibbled and grown until he found a safe release. An out in a community that didn’t question, but didn’t always understand either.
Hell, he didn’t get it, not all of it, and it was a part of him.
A part his family could never know about. Not if he wanted their love and acceptance. His sharp scoff cut over his dry throat. There was so much of him his family didn’t know about. So many years of lies and façades, of presented images. Of hiding his truths behind what they wanted him to be.
He couldn’t hurt them. Couldn’t let them down.
Yet the longer he pretended the harder it was to breathe.
Chapter 5
The water rushed by on a deceptive current, quick but calm with no hint of the dangers ahead. The gurgle of the small rapids in the middle of the river set a relaxing tone to the tranquil setting. Surrounded by the rocky shoreline and towering trees that bordered the river’s edge, Sawyer could almost believe in the peace it projected. Almost.
He savored the moment, each shallow inhale sinking deep. The damp musty scent of rot and clean was distinct and different from the dry arid landscape of home. Instead of dusty red and gold rock, he was cocooned in green and brown life. Slightly claustrophobic in its closeness, yet somehow settling.
Could he hide in those woods? Hunker down where no one would ever find him? The Utah landscape was too open to hide within, but it was vast and huge and he’d been able to hide in plain sight for the last fourteen years.
“Hey, Sawyer,” Grady called out. “Are you ready to go?”
He turned back to the group of rafters. The party was almost set to begin their day trip down the White Salmon. He’d received the rundown on process and logistics back at the Kick outpost before the tourists had arrived.
“I’ll be right there.” A flash of guilt had him leaving the riverbank. He wasn’t a lazy fuck who let others do the work. He’d just needed a second to center himself.
Grady waved in acknowledgment before refocusing on his job of strapping down the waterproof dry bags. The Kick crew was organized and efficient, every member working in sync with each other. It was impressive, and Sawyer’s respect for the company went up yet another notch.
Mick would approve. Sawyer had learned the art of whitewater rafting at the hip of his surrogate uncle after his family had died. Mick’s company, Outsider Whitewater, had a thirty-year history in the Moab area and the river had been Sawyer’s salvation after his devastating loss. Mick had offered him a home and a life when he’d wished his had ended.
He sucked in a breath, a waft of pungent smoke piercing him. He gagged. The retching urge to vomit flew up his throat fast and reflexive. Fuck. He swallowed hard, throat aching with the willpower it took to keep his breakfast down. The acidic burn inflamed his esophagus and he focused on that, pulling the pain in.
The forest fire was a hundred miles to the east and nowhere near them—him. The wind had shifted that morning, bringing the smoke westward, but it wasn’t a threat. They weren’t in danger. The rundown of facts replayed in his mind in War’s steady voice. They’d been updated on it before they’d departed Kick’s White Salmon base.
His hands shook, mind flaring with images from his past. Of flames and heat. Of panicked need and sooty residue. No. He systematically shut down each thought, each destructive memory forced back and locked away until he was once again in control of his emotions. His thoughts.
He breathed through his mouth, the quick puffs slowing with his pulse. His hand was wrapped around the folding knife in his pocket before he’d consciously thought about it. The dull edge of the blade back smooth over the pad of his thumb where he caressed it, the strokes hard enough to dent his skin.
His blood pumped, anticipation singing through him with its whisper of euphoria. The high would be shallow, nowhere close to what he could get from another person. Did he have time?
“Here’s the tracker.”
The deep voice cut through the cool morning air and general chatter to spear Sawyer. His head jerked up, gaze hunting for the source. There. Next to a black truck that’d just pulled up. Asher was here. He was talking to War, both of them focused on a piece of equipment in Asher’s hand.
His heart hitched along with his breath. Mr. Preppy had taunted him last night at the dungeon, led him on, then cut him loose with a quip about not playing with employees. Chickenshit. If Asher had any balls at all, rules wouldn’t matter. Not in the dungeon at least.
He was moving toward the pair before he’d consciously thought about it. Asher wore jeans today, which did nothing to roughen up the crisp efficiency he projected. The navy polo with the white and green Kick logo on the breast hugged his chest and emphasized his biceps. Out here in a sea of royal blue splash jackets, helmets, and bright yellow PFDs, he stood out like the yuppie boy he was.
“I thought you didn’t leave the office,” Sawyer said, the antagonism flying out in part to distract himself but also to incite. Could he goad Asher into responding? Crack his cool calm like that moment in the dungeon when Asher had chastised him about limits like he was a newbie?
His eyes had flashed then, dark and intense with his admonishment. But within them had been the passionate focus Sawyer craved. The brazen fierceness that could brand Sawyer’s skin and deliver on every promise he made.
War chuckled, but Asher only lifted that sculpted brow of his. The look he shot Sawyer from behind his glasses was glacier cool and blazing hot at the same time.
“I’m working.” Asher made a pointed glance at the other guides, who were busy getting the rafts into the river. “And you?”
Dick. A jittery agitation dug under Sawyer’s skin, biting over his forearms and down his nape. It creeped along his spine, and he resisted the urge to stretch his neck and shake the sensation off. Asher would be merciless in a scene—if he actually was a sadist.