by Joey W. Hill
Ah, hell. He hadn't drunk enough to be getting this sloppy sentimental. Shifting his thoughts, he focused on the prospect of comfortably slaking his lust on a willing submissive. As Ben made another smartass comment and Jon came back with unruffled transcendentalism, Peter lifted the Macallan to his lips with a smile.
***
Dana stood in the shadows to the right of the bar as Maria returned. When she glanced at the waitress, Maria gave her a smile, following the direction of her interest. "They're something, aren't they? Every one of them handsome as sin. Flew in from Louisiana to give their buddy a send-off. He's going to Afghanistan next week."
"The one at the end." Dana noted the military hairstyle, the way the dark blond man held himself upright, even as he enjoyed the male companionship.
"Appears so." Maria gave her a considering look. "They're all Doms, sweet. If you're looking for a hookup, you could do a lot worse. They wouldn't be allowed in here if they weren't decent guys, but my impression is they're a cut above decent. The two on the inside are married. Wearing the rings and everything, and made it crystal clear they're just enjoying the view and here for their friend."
Dana nodded. The waitress's reassuring tone suggested she saw how nervous Dana was. But it was stupid, because she'd blown a wad of money on a temporary membership to The Zone for her two-week leave. She'd looked forward to this night for a while. It had been her decision to come alone. Not really the smartest idea, going to a new fetish club by yourself, but The Zone's rep was untarnished. Security inside and out, an intense vetting process that had taken the temp membership a couple months in advance to be approved, and she wore a slim bracelet that told staff she was new, so they'd keep an extra eye on her, help her know the ropes. Her lips curved. A good metaphor for a BDSM club. Her newness might be another reason Maria was giving her the pep talk.
She'd been a sexual submissive since her teens, but of course it had taken some mistakes and tears to figure it out. Once she did, she'd discovered the scene and never looked back. Though unfortunately, accepting and exploring her own sexual nature hadn't led to the immediate relief of frustration she'd hoped. It was a lot harder to find a compatible Dom worthy of her trust than she'd expected. Ironically, the same thing that made her crave a man's dominance was the same thing that made her keep them at arm's length. Most didn't put off the right vibe, or left her lukewarm. Subs at her club back home in Atlanta had told her it was like dating. You had to try on a few Doms, see what worked, what didn't. You couldn't keep holding out for the perfect one, the one that would take command of her senses from the very fi rst second. You had to work at it.
So she'd tried harder, with fairly disastrous consequences. The Doms close to what she wanted were rife with those who could take it too far. Not because they were bad men, but because what she wanted was a lot like Goldilocks--rough, but not too rough. Her wants and needs were a moving target. She'd know it was right when it felt right. She couldn't describe it. She wanted to be completely taken over, but she resisted it at the same time. While she knew that was unreasonable, it didn't make it any less true.
Well, this was the freaking best fetish club ever, from what she'd heard. She had nothing to lose tonight. Because she'd chosen to come alone, no one knew her. What happened here would stay here, so she should stop skulking and do something, right? So--deep breath. She'd let her inhibitions go and . . . retreat while she still had a scrap of personal dignity.
C'mon, Dana. Get your shit together.
Her eyes went back to the soldier. When his hair grew out, did the sun lighten that wheat color? His eyes, thanks to the angle of the club lighting, showed storm-cloud gray, which might could become steel, like the line of his jaw. He was on the end, probably not only because he was trained to be readily mobile, but because he had the widest shoulders and longest legs. Not one of her absolute requirements for a good Dom, but man, it sure added to the fantasy. The white shirt he wore with his jeans had to be tailored for those shoulders. As Maria had said, all of them reeked of money. And a man who sat like that had to be an officer. But she wasn't after the boy's cash. Just one night of his time. If she ever got up the courage to leave the corner.
"Are you having a good time?"
She started out of her mental struggle to find herself facing another tall and powerful man. He had dark, close-cropped hair and intense amber eyes that fairly screamed Dominant, causing a shiver to run over her skin. She could tell he noticed, but he remained smooth, professional. "I'm Tyler Winterman, one of the owners here. I wanted to make sure we were treating you right."
"Yes, sir." Only hours with a drill sergeant made Sergeant Dana Smith manage not to stutter the response. The "sir" was an instinctive deference to his status here that he seemed to take as his due, which everything about him said he should.
"Good." He ran a light, reassuring hand down her arm. "You look beautiful. A fortunate person should be very happy to meet you tonight. Would you like an introduction to someone?"
"I . . . um. Well, he might not . . . I don't know him." Her gaze flickered, a brief flash. Still, Tyler shifted and determined exactly whom she'd been looking at.
"Hmm. Why don't I leave it in his hands, then? You chose well, Dana. Let us know if you need anything."
He moved onward, leaving her gaping like a trout because he'd known her name. That surprise didn't keep her from noting he had a fine, fine walk. Slacks fitted right, shirt tucked in, thank you, Jesus. As a rep of the female gender, she was obligated to watch that tight ass, the predatory grace of a sex-on-Gucci-soles prowl.
***
Stopping at one booth, he stroked a proprietary hand over the moonlight-colored hair of a tall blue-eyed woman there. From the way her gaze warmed, whatever he said to her was obviously intimate. The amber eyes flamed in response. Giving a lock of her hair a tug, he moved away. Straight toward the table where Dana's blond soldier was sitting.
"Oh, no, don't. Don't you dare . . ." She stood, mesmerized, as he put a hand on her guy's shoulder, spoke low to him. If every man at that table turned around and stared at her, she was going to respond as if a grenade was hurled in her proximity. She'd dive behind the bar.
The blond stilled, glancing up at Tyler. Then he shifted his gaze right to her.
In those few milliseconds, Dana turned over thoughts of whether to meet his eyes, not meet his eyes. Smile, not smile. Oh, crap. This was what she always did. Worried about what she should or shouldn't do, when all she wanted was to be completely swept away, where no choices were hers, except the one where she needed to say good night at the end of the incredible experience and head back to her real life. Even if she found her fucking romance novel, she had no delusions that it could be more than a one-night-only engagement.
This guy was perfect, because he had nothing in common with her--white, wealthy, likely an officer--but there was that irresistible vibe coming off of him. Drawing her like a bug to a zapper, which meant she might get disastrously burned. She wasn't complaining--I promise, Grams--but nothing in her life had been a fairy tale. Was it too much to ask for one solitary night that was like one?
She got her answer when his eyes locked with hers. While she knew she was standing by the bar, people moving past her, music vibrating the floor beneath her feet, dim light strobing, it all disappeared. She'd had that spark of sexual connection with Masters before. It was always thrilling, a toe-curling, delicious shot of anticipation. But this . . . Her breath went short, and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to be near him. It was scary as hell. And yet she stood stock-still, like some dumbass golden-haired princess, waiting to see if the prince would take command, bring her out of stasis into full, vibrant life.
"There's someone worth your attention at your two o'clock."
When Tyler Winterman, part-owner of The Zone, put his hand on Peter's shoulder, bent, and murmured that statement into his ear, Peter blinked. There'd been plenty of available women hovering since they arrived, and of course Ben had hinted they h
ad someone special lined up for him. While Peter was down with that, he knew Tyler wouldn't draw his attention to just anyone. So he looked. And the second glass of Macallan he'd been lifting to his lips stopped halfway there.
Holy shit.
For a second, he thought he was looking at Ben's special arrangement, but because Ben knew Peter's tastes, he wouldn't have arranged for this girl. Not unless he'd reached ass deep inside of Peter and pulled out some unconscious dream he hadn't realized he had. All the attributes that Peter usually sought weren't obvious in this one. In fact, she wasn't anything like the women who usually attracted his attention. Yet here he was, unable to look away.
She was a black woman, for one thing. While the beauty of dark skin had teased his gaze before, he'd never felt pulled toward it as he did now. He had the taste of toffee on his tongue, making it easy to imagine her skin tasting like a complementary caramel, or a swirling chocolate. Or perhaps something spicy, exotic.
He liked his women tall and well endowed, with tits that he could fuck with his cock, lubricated with his pre-come. Or watch the curves move with generous abandon while he fucked her from behind, in front of a wide, well-lit mirror. This woman was petite, with an athlete's lean, hard muscle. The elegant slimness of her bearing made him wonder if there was Ethiopian in her background. She had a proud slope to her high forehead, the suggestion of sculpted cheekbones and a precise chin, though the rest was hidden beneath a mask. When light strobed over her face, he saw the mask was deep purple and green with dangles of amethyst and emerald beads framing the delicate jaw.
A simple, short sheath covered her body, the black fabric translucent, fluttering as she breathed. Despite the fabric and dim light, he could tell her breasts were a small but pretty set, the curves likely a good fit for his hands. She wore a jeweled harness that included nipple clamps, such that he could imagine those stimulated peaks pressing into his palms. A chain ran between the clamps, down to a navel glittering with a temporary catch bead that hooked another delicate chain low on her hips, traveling around to the back. The scrap of dark thong made her look almost naked until he took a closer look, and lingered in that tempting shadowy area.
When he eventually raised his gaze, he took it to her neck. All available subs wore a collar of some form, with an attached ring so that a Master might leash and claim them for the night, if both parties were willing. Hers was a high-neck ring collar, triple stacked, with a single steel diamond-shaped loop on it for the attachment.
As she waited, obviously knowing she was being evaluated, her eyes glittered behind the mask. Her lips parted. Slowly, she pivoted on one high heel. The five-inch stilettos made him bare his teeth in a feral smile at her clever attempt to add to her height. As she turned to face the wall, light shimmered across skin dusted with glitter powder. The sheath had an open back, draping down so he saw the delicate waist chain dropped a single teardrop pearl in the tender dimple of her tight, round ass. But it was what was tattooed across the small of her back, as precisely curved and sweet as a porcelain teapot, that got him to his feet. "Guys, I really appreciate the girl you got me, but there's been a change of plans."
As he moved across the room, he couldn't take his eyes from it. The boldness of the tat was too masculine for her feminine frame, but it showed well against her copper skin in the club's dim light. A twisted American flag, held in an eagle's talons, with a script beneath it.
Your freedom, my life. Armed services ink. When he reached her, he stepped in close. He could say it was because the music was loud, but he wanted to be damn sure that signal was for him. Keeping her cheek pressed to the wall, she left her lashes lowered in that shy invitation. As he moved in, she shifted her legs apart. Offering to be evaluated further. Peter suppressed a growl.
She had short, close-cropped hair, and that high ring collar went from the base of her neck to the point of her skull. It limited her head's mobility, requiring an upright posture and dependence on a Master's direction. That, and the automatic spread of her toned, lean legs, which tilted up her delectable backside, confirmed she was an extreme player, firing his blood further.
Peter knew a woman gave up a piece of her soul every time she gave her body. Usually he let them decide how much of a piece to give, because his desires ran toward the more hard-core, the ones who had it deeper in their nature than just adding kink to their lives. But getting into the mind of a full-natured sub meant tapping into more-than-inside-the-club-walls fantasies. So he usually settled for a club-only sub, had a good time fantasizing about the possibility of more, and then went on his way.
Until this moment. For some reason, this slim creature made him think of what really fired his blood--a woman that was all his, for always. A woman whose submissive nature was a match for his Dominant one.
Drawing a steadying breath, he touched her nape, drifted down her spine toward that marking that had called to him, though he noted she had a couple other tattoos as well, shadowed by the sheath. Trembling under his touch, she made a quiet noise. He leaned in, pressing his thigh against her ass, the sensitive crease, the hint of his knee finding treasure between her parted thighs. Her breath caught.
With that closely shorn hair, he could see the shape of her ears. Delicate and perfect, like the rest of her. "So what's your rank, sweetheart?"
"Sergeant."
He'd meant it as a jest, assuming the tattoo to be a leftover from an ex-boyfriend. At least he hoped so, because he didn't mess with a woman who was still attached. But as he glanced over her again, he registered that the body he was looking at wasn't aerobically fit. It was combat fit. "Well, seeing as I'm a captain, I outrank you."
A smile teased her soft, full mouth, so moist from a burgundy lip gloss it made him think of an entirely different set of lips. "Yes, sir," she murmured.
Unable to resist and wanting to test, he didn't ask. He slid a hand between her spread legs. Soaking wet against the panel of those nearly nonexistent thong panties. She let out a harsh gasp, and his eyes sharpened. "Not used to a man just taking you over, are you, sweetheart? But that's what you crave."
She closed her eyes, biting her lip. Nodded, and his blood went to full boil.
"I want you tonight." He usually had more finesse, but he made it a rough demand, no question, request or games. The urgency that gripped him now had nothing to do with the limits of time. "I want the collar and jewels off. They're not mine."
When she removed them, taking in a breath at the tug to the nipple clamps, she laid them on the bar for an efficient Maria to tag and place beneath it. Then she lifted her chin. Peter slid his fingers over the fragile network of arteries pumping at an accelerated rate and tightened slightly, creating a collar of flesh and bone. Her pulse elevated. "Good. Look at me."
She did, and he was caught by that gaze, a pale green like summer grass, quiet lagoons and women's springtime lawn dresses. Overwhelmed by dark, hungry pupils.
"Give me your hands." He took out the short tether he'd been given as a guest Dom at the club and unwound it.
She held them out, but as he looped the tether around her wrists, the slim fingers found him under his untucked shirt, hooked in the waistband of his jeans, knuckles brushing his abdomen intimately. His lips twisted. "Interpreted that order in your own way, didn't you? That'll earn you some disciplinary action."
When her eyes sparked, he knotted the tether to bind her to him. She kept her fingers where they were, and his aching cock was already chafing, straining toward that touch. Maybe she felt his heat, but her rising desire was as palpable as his own. He wasn't going to take her back by his table, but straight to a room where he could see how much of a fight she liked. If her need to make a man work to be her Master matched his desire to prove he could acquire that target, it was going to be a hell of an experience.
"Is this a first time for you, sweetheart?"
Her voice was throaty, velvet sin. "I sure hope so."
Keep reading for another preview of a sexy e-novella from Joey W. Hil
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CONTROLLED RESPONSE
Available now from Heat
Forty-five miles. God, the only thing better than this was sex. Sex done exceptionally well. As Lucas crested the hill, pushing the burn in his legs, he snagged his water bottle to take a measured draught. Releasing the bike handlebars to coast hands-free, he shifted his hips to negotiate the inevitable curve. No such thing as a straight line or a flat expanse this deep in the Berkshires. Every downward slope followed by a challenging upward one. Like the curves of a woman's body. Or her mind.
Ben had given him shit about hopping a charter here for the weekend when they were still figuring out how to make the numbers work for the Mancuso plant operation. But it was all bullshit, because Ben knew Lucas did his best problem solving while cycling, just as the legal advisor did it by finding the prettiest ass available and immersing himself in it. When they came back to the office Monday, Ben would fix the legal snarls, and Lucas would crunch the numbers into manageable pieces. Hell, Matt should save the money on their corner offices. Though Lucas had to admit he liked his Baton Rouge city view, with the backdrop of the Mississippi River.
It was time for a lunch break and a stretch, if he could find the spot his buddy Marcus had told him was right off the road around here. He was pretty deep in the Berkshire farm area, but tourists did have a way of finding the hot spots. Still, Marcus had stressed "hidden," even giving him GPS coordinates for the exact location, give or take ten feet.
There it was. As he rolled across the shoulder, he saw the narrow deer trail. A couple broken twigs and some spoor suggested the brown-eyed creatures had passed through recently.