Black Light: Roulette War

by Grant, Livia

  He took her breath again. Felt muscles squeeze down inside her. Saw her belly flex when he dared a look down to watch his latex-coated cock disappearing into her body.

  Her hips jerked, along with her face as best it could above the collar. He gave her air. Fucked her while she panted. Threw up the wall again.

  Miss Pain watched him, blue eyes tearing, chest reddening, her entire existence belonging to him just then. She let a hand drift up, not to pry his fingers from over her nose or to claw while she struggled long into a single held breath. No, only to brush knuckles alongside his face. Down the forearm with which he held himself upright.

  Absolutely a sucker.

  The woman shrieked out air as soon as his hand went elsewhere.

  One-handed was not the easiest way to unbuckle her collar, but Anson hilted himself while he fumbled at it. There was too much, and he tried not to look any of it right in the eye. Not the drawing of a prime number, not the tattoo, not even drawing breath play of all the fuck-damned things.

  There was no way he was going to even think the word.

  If he did, it might go away.

  He had the collar off and tossed it above his sub’s head on the table. She followed his every movement, throat bobbing, face flushed. Her lips parted, pink and wet.

  Bad idea, Anson.

  But he was feeling … something tonight.

  He leaned lower, elbow on the table.

  “Deep breath, Miss Pain.”

  There were so many reactions on her face. The Dom exhaled while his sub filled her lungs.

  He covered her mouth with his.

  His hips snapped to life again, and her groan came deep from beneath her ribs, even as she didn’t try to let go her air into him yet. He still had to hold her nose, which he learned he hated from this position because it meant he had to cover too much of her face, but the way she jerked her pussy against him at the edge of the table … The way she did claw now at his sleeves and at the back of his shirt in what seemed only an effort to drag him closer …

  But Anson needed air this way, too. It almost made him forget the knuckle-tightening co-mingling of fluids he’d brought upon himself. As he pumped into her, the woman lost control and released her held breath the only place it could go: into him. And a body couldn’t last on recycled air—not for long.

  When he lifted his face and dragged his hand away, Miss Pain rasped in breath only to cry out.

  “Sir!”

  Far, far too much. He plowed into her, heedless of what he might look like. Wet tracks streaked from the outer corners of her eyes down to the leather of the table. Between them, she clutched tight to the ball.

  “Now.”

  Out. In. What was the stuff of life without another to share?

  He took her lips. Sealed off her nose. Drove himself up into where she was hot and tight without mercy until she’d handed over her breath, her squeals, her perfect trust.

  Anson only backed off for a second. Miss Pain screamed for air, but then he was kissing her. Beyond all reason, for him to be doing such a thing, but she could just breathe through her nose.

  He could just keep fucking her on this table in front of all these people while her little feet bobbed in the air on both sides of him, and he could keep trying not to short-circuit at the feeling of her tongue sliding over his in a way he hadn’t allowed in an appalling number of years.

  The woman was trying to eat him alive from below; his cock and mouth at once! She was grinding her cunt at his base, her kisses, still a novelty, growing sloppy. Her little grunts became pained.

  “Sir, can I—nnh!” She hissed and their teeth clacked. “Sir, please!”

  Anson was delirious.

  “Come.”

  He’d barely smeared the word over her open mouth when Miss Pain let out a wild noise. His hips worked to give her what she wanted, but even that didn’t slow her from trying to gyrate from below and consume every available scrap.

  And, just like in the pillory, there was no way he could watch this woman orgasm. Not while he was inside her. Not while her eyes rolled back and she lost herself.

  It tore out of him, and he barely bit off a yell. Semen thundered into the condom. Her body gripped him from all sides even while his flesh kicked and his fingers made dents in the side of the table.

  Long, heaving seconds passed before the neon of the club filtered back into his vision. Before he saw the limp woman beneath him twitching an exhausted smile.

  “H-happy Valentine’s Day?” she said.

  Whatever look was on Anson’s face made her smile grow and her body shake with weak laughter. The clutch of her had him grunting in a final jolt of sensation.

  “I, um…” It wasn’t like him to stumble over words. “I don’t think we’ll have time for a third scene tonight.”

  “No.” She shook her head, features warm and relaxed. “I don’t think we will.”

  “I’ll uh”—he cleared his throat—“I’ll deal with the tape. One moment.”

  Anson pushed himself up on his arms. Stepped back while Miss Pain lay there on display. What else could she do, with her legs bound like that? Someone gave a low hoot of approval from behind him, but he didn’t look. And tried not to smirk, as well. It wasn’t a noise he would have made, himself, but he could admit it mirrored his current mood.

  As he was sliding off the condom, Anson saw some stealthy person had, at some point, slid a medical wastebasket below the head of the massage table. Probably one of the DMs, but they had to have been in an out like a ninja. It didn’t matter—it meant he didn’t have to go far.

  And while large parts of his psyche cringed for a wet wipe, if not a full-on shower, other parts—the ones that had overruled all caution and decided trading saliva was an acceptable risk—had him tucking himself away for now, sticky skin be damned.

  Miss Pain lolled on the table. He moved to an ankle and felt around for the end of the tape. It came away easy when he peeled, and he had the first leg free in under a minute. She hummed when he made a slow show of unbending her knee to drape it over the padded edge. With the second leg undone, he stuffed the used tape into the wastebasket. In theory it could be used again, but that was for private settings.

  Anson kept moving and took up a dangling calf. He began to knead at the muscle, gloves still on out of habit, and the woman groaned. There was a thigh to work, as well, and an ankle. A foot. And then the other side.

  When he slowed and gave the back of her knee a light squeeze, the woman pushed herself up on her arms. She gave him a lopsided grin and held a hand out. He took the red ball.

  They’d made it.

  “Are you able to dress yourself, Miss Pain?”

  The sub watched him, features dreamy in a way that might have irritated him before. It didn’t, now.

  “I think so,” she said.

  He leaned down to pull her dress and bra from the crossbar of the table and hand them over. The clubgoers who’d been circling around to watch their scene were already drifting elsewhere to find more excitement. She was tugging the black fabric down past her hips when she turned to look at him over a shoulder.

  “I get the feeling you don’t kiss a lot,” she said. It wasn’t snide. More… hopeful?

  Anson peeled the gloves off, at last. “I don’t.”

  What did you do? You don’t even know this woman!

  “My real name’s Violet,” she said, turning to face him. “Payne.”

  She looked so tiny, one hand clasping the other in front of where panties would be if she’d worn any. Above a canyon of thumping music and strangers, offering him this.

  “So, the nickname…” His brows rose, but he stepped closer to hear.

  “Yeah,” she said, “P-a-y-n-e. Payne.”

  He cracked half a smile and reached a hand to bring her braid over the front of her shoulder. There were two people not interested in silly nicknames, he’d just taken all night to catch up. But tonight felt like the right kind of night for taking ri
sks.

  He just wasn’t going to put a name on it.

  “I’m Anson. Morrow.”

  Her smile was genuine. Violet’s smile was genuine. “Mister M.” Mischief glittered in blue eyes and she shifted weight onto a hip.

  “ ‘Mister Morrow’ is fine,” he said, closing to loom over her in a way they both wanted. “Or ‘Sir.’ ” Her lips parted while he fished in a pocket. “You can earn ‘Anson’ some other night. If that interests you.”

  A white rectangle appeared between them, and the woman blinked.

  “Did you just hand me an actual business card?” She looked at him like he was a time traveler.

  “Our phones are out in the lockers.”

  She pulled the card from between his first two fingers. He wanted to hear his phone ring already. Her bare knees would press Zen-like little valleys into the white carpet of his living room.

  “Mr. Morrow.” She let her hand fall to her side. “Can I kiss you again?”

  It was his turn to try breathing.

  Just let her. You’ve done it once and you’re not dead.

  And he wanted it. The rest was just fear talking.

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes closed and they tilted in, but she only pressed him with soft lips. No tongue, no nipping teeth. Violet saw his boundaries, too.

  His shoulders eased. Patience. Respect. Maybe they could get there.

  She tapped a button on the front of his shirt once she stood back. “You know, seven is my lucky number,” said Violet.

  Anson controlled his face because that was his job as her Dom.

  She put up with your nonsense, didn’t she?

  “I don’t know much about luck,” he said, “But I’d like to know about you. Something to drink?” He would still only get water, but he didn’t think Violet would care.

  She slid her fingers into his bare hand and smiled.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The End

  About the Author

  Eris writes dark, escape-from-reality romance full of criminals and outcasts. Her stories are the stomping grounds for bada** heroines, untameable alphas, a spectrum of sexuality, and a serious disregard for convention. Expect the decadent and filthy, the crude and sublime, sometimes all at once. Pick a safeword and grab a towel before reading. She is a complete nerd and possible crazy cat lady. She will annoy you with puns.

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  Burn

  A Black Light: Roulette War Novella

  By

  Kay Elle Parker

  Chapter 1

  Finn

  City life would never appeal to him.

  Tapping his fingers on a broad thigh encased in black jeans, Finnegan McLeod watched Washington D.C. stream past outside the tinted window of his hired car and dreamed of home.

  Grass, mountains, and the sight of his herd on his own land.

  All eighty-thousand acres.

  Finn had left the comfort of home to attend several necessary business meetings, but anticipation of tonight’s event had made the trip somewhat more bearable. In his world, connections were everything, and he’d lucked out with an old friend who remembered Finn’s… proclivities, from years gone by. Joshua had extended an invitation before Christmas which Finn curiously accepted, taking time out of his busy schedule to fly to D.C. to check out what Joshua referred to as the best goddamn kink club going.

  Apparently, Valentine’s Day in Washington D.C. meant one thing: Valentine Roulette at Black Light, the most exclusive BDSM club on the east coast, and one Finn considered himself lucky to be able to attend for the evening.

  One intriguing visit in December and Finn found himself not only with a membership but applying for Roulette as soon as sign-ups opened in January and—God help him—looking forward to it.

  Finn smiled to himself in the warmth of the car as it cruised toward his destination. He recognized the street they were on, estimated another five minutes before arrival. The balls started spinning at seven-fifteen and he had no intention of arriving late.

  It had been six months since he’d held the softness of a woman in his hands. Far too fucking long for his sanity. He had a craving to bring blood rushing to smooth skin, mark firm flesh with the tools at his disposal, and make a pretty little subbie sing.

  At forty-two, he was in his prime. Physically, he’d never been fitter—ranching was a 24/7 job—and Finn didn’t shirk his duties when he was home. The people he employed, the animals under his care, deserved the best he could give them, and that meant not sitting on his ass while his staff did the grafting.

  Finn was aware he made an imposing figure—three inches over six feet, one-hundred-and-ninety pounds of muscle, and shoulders that earned him the nickname, ‘Bull.’ He might use that to his advantage a time or two, but it wasn’t his physical strength that kept an errant subbie in line.

  Voice and eyes; the best weapons in his arsenal.

  The car pulled up smoothly around the corner from his destination, engine idling as the driver called out, “Are you sure this is where you need to be, Mr. McLeod?”

  “It sure is,” he drawled, shifting to the edge of his seat. “If I don’t text you beforehand, James, I’ll be ready around eleven-thirty. Here, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll be here, Sir. You have a good evening.”

  He sure as hell would, Finn decided. No matter the spin of the wheel or the submissive caught up in the whirl, he was going to enjoy every moment of his three hours. God only knew when he’d get another chance to play like this.

  He stepped out of the limo, watching it pull away into the city traffic a second after he closed the door. Give him a strong-minded quarter horse any damn day; he’d go crazy dealing with the cacophony of cars and pedestrians surrounding him from one journey to the next.

  Thinking of a currently nameless, faceless woman he could ride hard and put away wet, Finn strolled along with his hands in the pockets of his long coat, shielding them against the chill. He thought he detected a hint of snow in the air, prayed fervently it would hold off until he was safely on his way home in the morning.

  Humming under his breath, stepping lightly for such a big man, he rounded the corner toward the Psychic shop. A thrum of excitement bubbled in his blood when he saw the light in the window; some of the weight resting on his broad shoulders started to fall away.

  When a man strapped down his dominant side for weeks, months at a time, he could create a monster. Sometimes even exhausting himself couldn’t contain the demands of the Dom and he had to listen to that part of himself lecture him on the merits of taking a permanent submissive under their wing. One of their very own. To keep and treasure, train and fuck.

  The answer was simple—No. Few women were capable of handling the sheer exclusion of living in the middle of a vast wilderness with a handful of cattle workers and several thousand cows for company. It would take a special kind of submissive to take her place at his feet with those conditions placed on her.

  The bell jingled above the door as Finn pushed into the shop, his gut twisting. With a nod to the woman manning the counter, he walked past her toward the curtain in the corner.

  Never had he found a sub he’d even contemplated asking to live with him; he had a feeling the few women he’d been tempted to invite would have laughed at him.

  He’d rather live the rest of his life working his ranch by day and listening to his dominant side bitch by night than have his affection thrown back in his face. Is
olation he could deal with. Humiliation was a hard, no-fucking-go limit.

  Nudging the curtain to one side, he acknowledged the security guard stationed behind it. Big, burly, Hispanic, even Finn might’ve thought twice about tackling him in a fight. He wondered if that was where the man had gotten the scar marring one cheek. “Luís, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” The smallest glimmer of a smile accompanied the reply. “Membership card or invite?”

  Finn pulled his wallet from his coat, flipped it open and flashed the glossy black membership card worth a small fortune. He put his wallet away but kept the card in his hand; he’d need it soon enough.

  “Thank you. Hope you enjoy your evening.” Luís stepped aside to give him access to a set of steps leading to Black Light.

  “You too.” Hearing voices enter the shop behind him, Finn jogged down the steps and marched along the neon-lit concrete tunnel. He quite enjoyed the secrecy surrounding the club, not to mention the quality of discretion. More steps greeted him at the end of the tunnel, and a security door.

  It was what waited behind it that had his cock paying attention.

  He walked into the dimly lit room that posed as both the security and locker room after the locks buzzed clear. He remembered the man sitting behind the desk, inclined his head. “Been a while, Danny.”

  He got a grin in return. “Master Finnegan. You picked a good night to come back to Black Light.”

  Finn produced his card again. His own grin flashed wickedly. “Thought I’d better make an appearance. Wouldn’t want to leave one of those lovely subs you’ve signed up standing on that stage all on her lonesome now, would we?”

  Danny laughed. “Definitely not. We’ve got a sub for every taste tonight.” He tapped quickly on his tablet and a locker popped open. “All valuables and electronics in your assigned locker please.”