Spiked Roses: The Complete Top Shelf Series

by Alta Hensley

  I took his hand in mine and shook it, trying hard not to focus on how his simplest touch sent tingles through me as they swirled around each bone in my spine. “Nice to meet you, Harley Crow.”

  Harley leaned in toward me, pressing his upper body weight against his forearms resting on the table. “I will let you in on a little secret, however.”

  “Oh?” I leaned in as well, now being able to smell the rich earthy smell of the sexiest man alive. I’d always known he would smell this good. Inhaling deeply, I tried not to moan in satisfaction on how my first fantasy—how good the man would smell—did not disappoint.

  “I’ve never been to one of these Tastings before,” he confessed.

  I didn’t want to reveal the fact that I already knew this, so I remained silent and just showed interest by leaning a little closer and tilting my head to appear as if I was listening.

  “So what happens next?” he asked.

  “Depends on what you want,” I said.

  “What if I want you?”

  I tried to not explode right then and there and bit my lower lip to try to keep myself grounded in reality. “Well then,” I said as calmly and coolly as I could, “we negotiate.”

  “Then let’s negotiate,” he said in the smoothest, richest voice I had ever heard.

  With butterflies beating against my sternum, I looked over at Tennessee who sat in a large leather chair in a far off corner. I signaled for him to come over which meant we were ready for one of the standard contracts for the night to arrive.

  “Did you already read the contract for this evening?” I asked.

  “I did. Did you?”

  I nodded. “I did.”

  “Do you agree with everything in it?” he asked.

  I nodded again. “I do.”

  “Any hard limits?”

  I paused, wondering if he would take it to a point I was not comfortable with. Maybe I was dumb, but I really didn’t get the weird kink vibe from Harley. I didn’t think I had to tell him not to piss or shit on me. I didn’t think I had to tell him what I would or wouldn’t enjoy. I had a feeling he knew exactly what I would like and exactly how to deliver it.

  “I can always say the safe word if there is,” I said softly. “But like I said, I’m not afraid.”

  The terms of the contract were simple. One weekend with the ‘buyer’ at his location of choice. Sexual play could include but was not limited to: knife play, breath play, bondage, anal play, corporal punishment, kidnap and rape fantasy, Master/slave and any other play that could push the boundaries of fear. All play could be terminated with the single word ‘RED’. At which time participants could part ways and money would be returned to the ‘buyer’. The standard price was $25,000 for the weekend, but most girls negotiated it up from there. I had no intention of doing so. The truth of the matter was that I would have done it for free. Hell, I would pay the $25,000 myself for one weekend with the man I had been lusting after for so long.

  I had seen this contract in some variation many times. It was fairly black and white. This contract also had a box that could be marked upon negotiation. It was agreeing whether sexual intercourse was permissible or not. I had never marked the box before. I’d always wanted to keep the play non-sexual. I had lost many contracts due to that fact, but I was not going to give up my pussy for anyone. But when Tennessee laid the contract in front of us, and had both of us initial the spots we were supposed to, he paused at the box for sex and looked at me and then Harley.

  Harley read the words and then looked up at me. “Sex. Yes? No?”

  I got the feeling he didn’t care either way, which slightly disappointed me. I wanted to scream “Hell yes!” but also wasn’t sure how desperate that would make me look to be willing to have sex with a man I’d just met. I was trying so hard to play it cool.

  Rather than answering or overthinking it any further, I went ahead and marked the box with a ‘yes’, and turned the page as if it were something as simple as that. I didn’t look up to see what expression Harley had on his face, but since he said nothing more, Tennessee continued on with getting the rest of our initials and then finally our signatures. He then pulled out a dagger that was used to pierce both of our fingers so we could seal the contract with a drop of each of our blood. Spiked Roses liked a little bit of theatrics with the Tastings, and this little element of sealing the deal with blood did just that.

  Harley pushed the dagger away and pulled out his own knife. It had a deep burgundy handle that reminded me of the richest wine. “I prefer to use my own,” he said as he ran it along the edge of his thumb, drawing his own blood. When he stamped his thumb on the contract, he reached out for my hand and handed the knife to Tennessee so he could wipe the knife off with disinfectant.

  I placed my hand in his and felt a sense of warmth and security wash over me. A complete polar opposite of what I should have been feeling at a Tasting called Who’s Afraid of the Dark? When Tennessee handed the knife back to Harley, he took the blade and sliced my thumb as softly and gently as he could. I could barely feel the sting. He then placed my bleeding thumb to the contract himself. It was so fucking hot. I have no idea why. But I was so incredibly turned on with the way he handled my hand. If this was even the slightest peek at how he would handle my body… I would be ruined and forever be under the spell of Harley Crow.

  “Shall we leave?” he asked as he handed Tennessee the contract. “Or would you like to stay for a drink?”

  Not in the mood to stay in The Tasting Room any longer, I said, “Let me get my stuff for the weekend out of the staff room. I’ll meet you up front.”

  He nodded as he took my hand he was still holding to his lips and kissed it softly. “All you have to do is say RED. I will stop immediately. But if I don’t hear that word this weekend, then whatever I do, however I do it, is fair game. Understood?”

  I nodded and swallowed hard. His lips were so soft. His eyes were so hard. The combination of the two almost stole my rapid breath from me. “Deal.”

  “Let’s see, Miss Masters, if you truly are not afraid of the dark.”

  Chapter Five

  Marlowe

  We sat in the back of a town car in near silence. Harley hadn’t said much other than that we were heading to the docks. He had a boat waiting there to get us to his house. He said the only way to get to his home was via boat through the swampy channels of the bayou. The idea of living out in the swamps of New Orleans intrigued me, though it also seemed like a long way to commute every day for work.

  And the bugs.

  I bet there was a shitload of bugs.

  Oh and the alligators.

  Yeah… on second thought, maybe living in the bayou wasn’t as intriguing as I’d first thought.

  Staring out the window into the blackness of New Orleans scattered with city lights, I tried to calm my nerves. I had played with other partners before, done a few Tastings, but this time was different. It felt different. The energy between Harley and me seemed unlike all the others. In the past, I was in control. Yes, the man technically ‘owned’ me for whatever period we had agreed upon, but I was truly the one in the driver’s seat. We could only do what I agreed to, and I could stop the play at any time. The man was at my mercy.

  But with Harley, I felt like the rules had changed. He was in control. I couldn’t exactly pinpoint why I felt that way, but I was now at his mercy.

  When the car stopped at the docks, Harley got out, walked around the car, and opened the door for me. The driver was already getting my bag and carrying it down the dock.

  Harley placed his hand on my lower back and guided me down the wooden planks. His touch against my spine reminded me of a branding iron. I could focus on very little other than the heat of his large fingers splayed against my exposed flesh. We were connected… touching.

  The night was warm, but not terribly muggy like it had been over the past few days. It was clear and the stars, as well as the nearly full moon, shone brightly. Though the walkway lea
ding to the boats was illuminated by tiny lights, we would have been able to see just fine without them.

  This was the time that warning bells should have been pealing crazily inside my very being. I walked toward the unknown. I had no idea where I was going, and knew very little about the man I was walking with. In fact, all I knew about this man was that he killed people for a living. He was the bad guy. The criminal. The one I was supposed to be afraid of. But I heard nothing. No warning bells. No inner voice screaming at me for being a stupid girl. Did I not possess the voice of reason? The voice of sanity? Why was nothing but excitement knocking on my door?

  I saw Harley’s driver place my bag in a speedboat up ahead. It was a simple boat. There was nothing flashy or anything that screamed a billionaire owned it. It was like many of the other boats at the dock. Plain. It was silver with a white stripe down the side. The interior leather was white, and it could maybe seat five people comfortably. It wasn’t like I was expecting to be taken to his house in the thick of the bayou on a yacht or anything, but I was surprised by the average mode of transportation Harley had chosen. The boat was something that I could have owned.

  Like the gentleman I was finding Harley to be, he helped me onto the boat by holding my hands and practically lifting me down. He didn’t let go of me until I was seated in the chair next to the driver’s seat. He then pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket and handed it to the driver with a handshake.

  “Have a nice evening, Mr. Crow,” the driver said as he turned and walked back toward the car.

  We were alone.

  We were finally alone.

  “You ready?” Harley asked after he prepared the boat to leave.

  I nodded, not really sure if I truly was. I swallowed hard as I watched Harley’s tattooed hand turn the key in the ignition to start the boat. The low rumble as the engine revved up vibrated beneath me, only adding to the building nerves attacking my body.

  Was I scared?

  No.

  But what?

  I think it was the silence. We were too quiet.

  “How far do we have to go?” I asked.

  “A couple of miles. Not too far, but far enough.”

  “Far enough?”

  Harley stared ahead, standing with his feet spread apart and his broad shoulders held back as he drove the boat away from the dock. The water splashed up behind us, leaving a small wake of waves as we slowly drove away. There was a seat behind him, but it appeared he was more comfortable towering over the steering wheel instead.

  “Far enough from… everything.”

  I hadn’t pictured Harley as a hermit, but considering his closed, introverted behavior at Spiked Roses, I guess it did make some sense.

  After we’d motored far enough away from the dock and the other boats, Harley stopped and removed his jacket, revealing a long sleeve shirt beneath it. I could still only see the tattoos on his hands and the ones peeking out from his collar. I couldn’t wait to see more. I was curious to see what painted each inch of his skin.

  Placing his coat over my shoulders, he said, “It gets a little chilly on the water with the wind whipping past us.”

  I wasn’t cold, and didn’t really believe I would need his jacket, but I wasn’t going to argue. I liked seeing that, though Harley Crow was anything but soft, he had been taught manners and how to treat a lady.

  “Thank you,” I said, noticing that he took the time to make sure it was secured around me. He even delicately swooped my long hair out from underneath it. As he walked over to the steering wheel and started the boat again, I asked, “Do you like living out here? In the bayou?”

  “I wouldn’t live here otherwise,” he answered, still staring ahead. “I don’t do things I don’t like.”

  “Seems like a lot of effort to go home every night.”

  He shrugged. “I enjoy the boat ride. It settles my mind.”

  I looked around and saw how that could happen. The only sounds were those of nature and the low rumble of the boat as it sliced through the calm waters.

  “Do you always drive the boat this slow?”

  “I’m carrying precious cargo,” he quipped.

  I liked how simply he had answered my question. He cared about my comfort and safety, and a warm rush filled my belly as I couldn’t help but smile.

  “Have you always lived in Louisiana?” I asked.

  “No.” He continued to stare ahead.

  Jesus, small talk with this man was near impossible.

  He glanced over at me and watched as I pulled my hair to one side to try to keep it from flying around all over the place. “Do you want me to slow down even more?”

  I shook my head. “It’s okay. My hair just has a mind of its own sometimes.”

  “I like your hair,” he complimented as he looked back ahead of him. “So many women don’t allow their hair to grow long and flow like it’s meant to be. They restrict it from its natural beauty. You don’t. I like that.”

  I may have melted right there in the white leather seat of that boat with his words. Harley Crow was giving me praise. He liked my hair. He was complimenting me!

  “You can thank my mother for that,” I somehow managed to say between all the giddy feelings flooding over me. “She had long black hair that flowed to her waist. It wasn’t straight like mine, but had curls. She used to tell me that a good Mexican woman never cuts her hair. Her grandmother had told her that. It was a belief passed down to me, and though I don’t embrace everything about my heritage, that one seemed to stick.”

  “Mexican huh?” Harley looked at me quickly. “I didn’t guess that about you. I would have said Italian or something. Your skin is fair.”

  “I know. I was the only one in my family without rich caramel-colored skin. But everyone in my family tree was full Mexican as far as I know. Both my parents were born in Mexico City.” I pulled the coat up around my shoulders as it started to fall off. Harley had been right; it was a little chilly riding the boat through the bayou. “Who knows? Maybe I was the milkman’s baby.”

  “Do you speak Spanish?”

  “I haven’t in a very long time. Not since I left home. But, yes, I can. My mother never really learned to speak English. I guess she didn’t feel she had to. She would watch hours of those Spanish telenovelas that were on television. She also had a small parrot with a missing eye that spoke Spanish as well. My home was not your typical American type home.”

  “Where was home?”

  “Oregon. The drier, boring part.”

  “Not a fan, huh?” he asked.

  “Not a fan at all,” I replied. “I left at seventeen. I had graduated early with the one intent of leaving as fast as I could.”

  “Why?”

  “Big dreams, shitty past. Isn’t that why everyone leaves everything they ever knew?”

  It dawned on me that Harley had successfully changed the direction of the conversation to where it concentrated fully on me.

  “What about you?” I asked, trying again. “You never said where you lived before moving to New Orleans.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Not one to talk?” I asked as I watched the way his eyes studied the landscape before us. There was always so much focus on how he watched things. His eyes were like magnets, drawing everything into their depths. So serious, so dark.

  “I talk. I just like to talk about things that matter. My past doesn’t matter.”

  “What types of things matter to you?”

  He paused for a couple of minutes, looked at me briefly, and then straight ahead again. “Things that make us who we are. Who we are right now, this very minute. Like the tattoo on your back,” he said. “That is not a small piece of ink. It took a huge commitment. It clearly means something. It matters. So tell me the story of your tattoo.”

  It was funny how I often forgot I even had the tattoo on my back. Maybe because I never saw it, or maybe because when I’d gotten it done, it was my closure for a time I never wanted to relive again.
No one had really asked me why I’d gotten the tattoo or what it really meant. I got compliments or questions about if it hurt getting it, especially since it covered most of my back. But I was never asked about it in the manner that Harley just did.

  I shrugged. “It’s just a tree.”

  “A large tree. And it’s dead. Why do you have a large dead tree on your back?”

  “It’s not really dead. Just dying.”

  “It’s black and white. Is there a reason you chose no color?”

  I shrugged again. “Seemed right.”

  Harley looked at me and smirked. “Not one to talk?”

  “Like you said, I talk. Just about things that matter.”

  “Well, I like it,” he said simply as he turned the boat to the right, going down a different channel of the bayou. “I’ve seen a lot of tattoos, and yours is captivating. I can tell there is a deep story behind it. Even if you don’t want to tell me what that story is.”

  “Do all your tattoos tell a story?”

  “Yes. Some stories are better than others. Maybe I’ll tell you someday. The day you feel comfortable enough to tell me your story.”

  I already knew that day would never come, but I did like the idea that Harley actually thought there would be a time when he and I may be close enough to share past cobwebs. A butterfly fluttering in my stomach sent a shiver down my spine. I liked this man. I mean, yeah, I knew I already lusted after him, but I actually liked how easy it was to simply banter. It wasn’t cheesy or forced. And it didn’t feel fake. In fact, even though we both were avoiding going down paths we were uncomfortable trekking, it was, by far, one of the most genuine conversations I remembered having.

  We sat in silence for a while, taking in the song of the swamp with the undertone of the boat announcing its presence. It truly was beautiful in an eerie, almost haunting way. There was not much civilization other than a few shacks or fishing huts along the banks, and we hadn’t crossed another boat during our voyage to Harley’s isolated house.

  “Do you live in one of these shacks?” I asked.