by His Slave
She was so soft, her cunt warm and inviting. The strength in her pussy muscles had surprised him, in part because from what he knew about her, she didn’t spend a lot of time training that part of her anatomy.
Was it possible she’d risked the equivalent of a torn muscle trying to keep him inside?
“Gotta stop thinking about her,” he told Rio, who’d settled into a tight ball and whose eyes were already closing. Instead of crawling under the sheets, he rested his head on Rio’s belly and listened to his dog breathe.
“She’s just another broad in a long line of broads. Granted, our relationship blurs the usual lines but—maybe that’s it. I’ve become a creature of habit. I want same old, same old from my subs, not whatever the hell she is.”
10
“Ten minutes are missing,” Robert told Atwood as he stepped into his partner’s office and closed the door behind him. “Mace said it’s happened before, some kind of short stopping the camera and then letting it start again, but I don’t buy it.”
Atwood minimized the financial report he’d been working on and waited for Robert to continue.
“You aren’t going to ask why this is something we should be interested in, are you?” Robert asked. “Going to make me spell it out, aren’t you?”
“You do a good job of it.” Atwood indicated the tape in Robert’s hand. “Why should I risk distracting you with irrelevant comments?”
Robert’s sigh was noncommittal, unlike his coolly glittering eyes. It occurred to Atwood, not for the first time, that their partnership had rough edges. But then, hell, life without edges wasn’t worth living.
“Maybe you’ll be more interested when I tell you what timeframe is unaccounted for,” Robert said.
Although he and Robert had every right to review Edge’s security tapes, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt a need to. Obviously Robert thought differently. Keeping his expression neutral, he watched as his partner settled himself in the handmade leather seat that had taken five damn months to get done.
“Saturday night. From a little before eleven until a good ten minutes later. The interesting thing is, just before the blackout, Mace and Cheyenne’s cars were in the parking lot. By the time things start rolling again, they’re gone.”
“There was something Mace didn’t want us seeing,” Atwood surmised. “A little hanky-panky perhaps?”
“You think? What gets me is this sudden attack of modesty. The man’s a player. Keeping his cock under wraps should be the least of his concerns.”
“Maybe his concern is with the lady’s modesty.”
Frowning, Robert looked around. “You want a drink?”
“Little early for that, isn’t it?”
Grumbling, Robert got to his feet and walked over to the built-in wine rack. He pulled out an imported burgundy and two glasses. Placing the glasses on Atwood’s desk, he began pouring.
“Careful,” Atwood warned. “That’s mahogany.”
“I know it is.” Robert handed him full glass. Then he held up his own. “Celebration time.”
“Already?”
“I think so.” Robert took a sip and sat back down. “Maybe it was just hormones getting the best of them, but I’m thinking he’s starting to care about her.”
Atwood took a slow sip. Making the drink last would keep the impact at a minimum and allow his head to remain clear. “That’s good?”
“It’s better than if he didn’t give a damn about her. Look, I had the man investigated. Having a sex slave at his feet turns the man’s crank. What’s better than one he cares about? He’s going to want her being part of his new role at the Blind Spot.”
“I don’t know.” Atwood started to shake his head, only to stop. His toupee didn’t feel as secure as he wanted it to. “Don’t we want him focusing on his duties there, not a particular woman? What if he objects to our plans for her?”
For the first time, Robert looked worried. “Then we make it worth his while not to object. Mace has his price. Everyone does.”
“Hmm.” Atwood was about to voice his concern that Mace’s price might be too steep when a cell phone in his bottom drawer chirped. He pulled it out, aware that Robert was watching. Only he and Robert knew that the phone wasn’t affiliated with any of the world’s cellular companies.
He read the displayed number, locked eyes with Robert, and punched the Send button. “Atwood here.”
“I thought you’d want to know that Fergo’s face-the-music date has been set. Wednesday. You and Robert are going to be here, aren’t you?”
“I can’t speak for my partner, but I intend to be. Does Fergo know?”
The man on the other end chuckled. “Just told him. I thought he’d try to bust out of his cell, but he’s curled up in a fetal position.”
“Because he can’t face the consequences of his crime.”
“He isn’t the same heartless bastard when the shoe’s on the other foot. He stopped demanding an attorney and is crying.”
“Damn, but I’d love it if the loved ones of those he killed could see and hear him now.”
Robert perked up at that. When he mouthed Fergo, Atwood nodded. Robert smiled and gave a thumbs-up. “Robert’s in my office,” Atwood told the unseen man. “From reading my partner’s body language, I’d say, yes, he’ll be there. What mode of execution has been decided?”
Another chuckle. “Fergo loved knives because they’re silent.”
Atwood mouthed knife, prompting Robert to hold up his glass in another salute. “We couldn’t be more pleased,” Atwood said. “Too damn bad Edge can’t run his obituary.”
“Those at the Blind Spot know. It’s enough.”
“Did you go into the back rooms?” Atwood asked Mace as soon as Mace stepped into the older man’s office.
Although Atwood had indicated he could sit in one of the expensive-as-sin leather chairs, Mace perched on the coffee table. According to what he’d been told, Cheyenne was expected to join them, but so far it was just him, Atwood, and Robert at this meeting. He’d seen her when she came to work, but neither of them had spoken, and, of course, he hadn’t called her over the weekend.
“She isn’t ready for that,” he said.
“When is she going to be?” Robert pressed. “She’s not going to be able to fulfill her assignment until—”
“This is a hell of a lot more than material for an article, and you know it,” he interrupted, then chided himself for his unexpected anger. “You can’t turn a non-swimmer into an Olympic finalist the first time she’s in the water.”
“Interesting analogy. Unfortunately, I fail to see what it has to do with this.”
Mace might have pointed out what he considered the obvious if the door hadn’t opened just then. Cheyenne was wearing a virgin white blouse and a skirt that was somewhere between red and brown. The blouse was sedate enough, complete with elbow-length sleeves, a collar, buttons. It was the buttons that got to him. Two seconds and he’d have them dispensed with and the blouse down around her waist.
Atwood and Robert seemed inordinately pleased to see her. Nothing would do except she sit between them. It occurred to him that they’d deliberately left that chair vacant, which shouldn’t bother him since he couldn’t see her joining him on the low table. She gave him maybe a second of her time, then split her attention between Atwood and Robert. Only then did he note the folder she’d brought in.
“Mostly notes.” She held up several pieces of computer paper. “I’ve made no attempt to start structuring my article, so I doubt if you’d get much out of what’s here. But of course you’re welcome to look.”
“It’s not necessary, Cheyenne,” Robert said, smiling one of his patented thick-lipped smiles. “In fact, we were just talking to Mace about the journey you’re on. My partner and I need to remind ourselves that immersing oneself in BDSM takes time. So, what did you think of you first experience?”
If Cheyenne was nervous, she gave no indication. From what he could tell, the n
otes came complete with numbered points, proof of her reporter training or an attempt to objectify what couldn’t be?
“I’d prefer not to say much about my experience,” she said, sounding as if they were discussing the weather. She crossed one long, slim leg over the other. Did she have a clue how much thigh he could see from here? Or know how close he was to an erection? “It has only been one time. I have no way of making comparisons.”
“We respect your privacy,” Atwood said. “We also know that you’re cognizant of our deadlines and Edge readers’ voracious appetites for the new and, shall we say, titillating.”
“What are you saying?” Mace asked, barely able to keep from demanding the men stop dancing around.
“That the four of us need to come to a meeting of the minds about what will take place this weekend.”
When Cheyenne nodded, Mace too easily envisioned his collar around her neck. “I take it you have something in mind,” she said.
“That’s what we were just starting to talk to Mace about,” Robert supplied. “Undoubtedly you’re aware that there is more than one level to Indulgences, specifically the back rooms.”
For the first time Cheyenne gave him a look that lasted. “I can’t remember if I heard—”
“She isn’t ready for that,” Mace interjected. “There’s no point in discussing it until she is.”
“Wait a minute.” Cheyenne held up a hand that had embraced his cock not enough long ago. “How can you say what I am or am not ready for? That’s my decision to make.”
“Based on not enough information,” he pointed out. “What you saw the other night was play. The other is the real deal.”
“The real deal?” For a heartbeat her eyes went dark. Then the bland expression she’d presented when she walked in the room returned. “Explain it to me.”
“Cheyenne,” Atwood interjected. “We have a pretty good idea which Internet sites you visit. Some are hardcore BDSM.”
She, reluctantly it seemed to him, turned her attention to Atwood. “How could I have forgotten about your investigation of me? Then I’m to surmise that the back rooms contain cells and cages, maybe a dungeon?”
“No cages.”
Making a note of what Robert knew, Mace concentrated on the unspoken messages flying between Robert and Atwood. At the same time, he acknowledged the desire to separate Cheyenne from them with orders for her to never get close to the pair again.
Where was the protective impulse coming from? It wasn’t in his makeup.
“I seriously doubt I’m going to see something this weekend that I haven’t before,” she said. “I’m pretty shock-proof.”
“Are you?” he challenged. “The Internet is shy a couple of senses, specifically smell and taste. The cells and dungeons you’ve visited digitally can’t prepare you for the full impact. Also, you’ve never been handled by a man who sees you as property, have you?”
Something in her fleeting expression said she wanted to repeat what had happened between them, but if she thought he’d viewed her as property the other night, she was wrong. Strangely wrong.
“I’m sure you’ll educate me about the whole property issue,” she said, and again faced Atwood. “So I understand the timetable, when do you want to see the article?”
“Articles,” Atwood corrected. “And as soon as possible.”
11
“You want me to what?” Cheyenne asked moments after Mace stepped into her cubicle.
“Come to my place tonight. I’m ratcheting up your education.”
“Your place, alone?” Mentally kicking herself for the uncertainty in her voice, she affected an interest in her keyboard she didn’t feel. The meeting with Robert and Atwood had ended less than fifteen minutes ago, hardly enough time for her to put it behind her.
“Are you afraid?”
“Don’t play that card! If you were a woman, you’d understand.”
“I’ve dealt with a lot of women.”
Her cubicle was too small to contain both of them. All right, so it had enough space for her desk, several filing cabinets, a bookshelf, and the plastic/metal chair he was bracing his arms against, but he—why did he have to wear a short-sleeved pullover shirt that showed off his biceps and buff chest?
“I’m sure you have,” she said noncommittally. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Look, you probably think I shoved you into the deep end the other night, but truth is, I took it easy on you.”
“I’m glad you told me.” Never a fan of verbal sparring, she contemplated ways of getting to the point. Obviously the direct approach made the most sense. “I thought you were an advocate of jumping into the deep end. So you pulled your punches?”
“To some extent, yes. The decision’s yours. However, I believe you need to experience at least a little of what you’ll see this weekend in advance.”
The man was making too much sense. “I want someone to know I’ll be at your place. I’m sorry if that offends you, but I insist.”
“Fine. Who’s it going to be? A boyfriend?”
“No,” she said, when the truth was, she hadn’t made time for a man in her life in more than a year.
“Girlfriend? Parents.”
“Not my parents,” she said sharper than she’d intended. “Ah, they live two thousand miles away. Besides, who I choose is none of your business.”
“Hmm. What’s your stand on anal?”
Whew! The man sure knew how to change topics. “In regards to what?”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
He was still bracing his body via his locked arms while staring steely-eyed at her, and she felt his gaze all the way to her toes. She wanted him gone. Wanted him looming over her as she lay sprawled on her desk.
“I’ve seen, never participated,” she admitted.
“Any legal, moral, or political objections?”
Grateful for the lighthearted question, she shrugged. “None of those. Mace, you’re asking me to make a decision about something I have no frame of reference for. Watching some porn star take an ass hook up her hole is hardly the same as experiencing it myself, if that’s what you’re talking about.”
His nod made him look wise and a little predatory. “Point taken. I’ll give you directions to my place. How about a little after seven? That’ll give you time to go home and change.”
“Change?” She worked at completing a swallow. “Into what?”
“As little as possible. I’ll take care of the rest.” That said, he straightened, turned graceful as a big cat, and walked out.
Nerves buzzing, she looked down at her desk where her folder with the notes on Indulgences lay. Shit. Holy shit.
Instead of the sleek, high-rise apartment or condo Cheyenne pictured Mace living in, the address he’d given her took her beyond the city limits. She couldn’t even call the area a suburb. At the moment she was about to turn off a country road that included everything from single-family homes to small farms or ranches, all with rural mailboxes she’d had to slow down to read. As her headlights caught his, she noted that it was flanked by other ranch homes, each with considerable land around it. The gravel circular driveway led to a large, covered porch decorated with bushes and flowers in clay pots. Only one chair, a large, white, wooden rocker, had been positioned so whoever was in it could easily see the road. Brickwork was on either side of the white front door, and several solar lights illuminated the three stairs leading to the porch. Otherwise, it was dark where she parked her car.
Because she had no desire to be pulled over by a cop while dressed in a bikini, she’d opted for a muumuu-style dress she’d picked up the only time she’d been to Hawaii. She hadn’t bothered with underwear, thinking that might be easier than having to strip for him.
After wiping her sweating hands on the cotton dress, she rang the doorbell. A dog started barking, the sound deep and strong.
Telling herself it made sense for him to have a guard dog considering how far he lived from the neare
st police station got her through the waiting. Then the door opened, and she knew absolutely that she hadn’t prepared herself for this moment. Her toes curled in her sandals.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt, damn him! No shoes either. And the faded and frayed jeans hung too damn low on his hips for any woman’s sanity.
A dog stood at his side, large and solid with a mouth full of white, potent teeth.
“What’s this?” Working at keeping the gulp she felt out of her voice, she indicated the staring dog.
“Rio.”
“He’s a pit bull, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And you trust him?”
“As much as he trusts me.”
Mace’s response so captured her attention that she was in the living room before she noted her surroundings. The most prominent feature was a brick fireplace with a wood-burning insert. The walls were painted a calming cream. Framed photographs of outdoor scenes were on every wall. Where were the artful nudes she’d expected, the stark skyscrapers against a dark sky?
Large windows were on either side of the front door, and half of the wall to her left was nearly all window. There weren’t any curtains. The furniture was leather and wood, old and well-used. She envisioned him haunting used furniture stores and then repairing what had appealed to him. A stack of hiking magazines rested on the solid-wood coffee table.
The way he was watching her, she expected him to ask what she thought, but maybe he didn’t care about her reaction and was deciding whether he really wanted her in his space.
Rio seemed to be having the same thoughts, but at least the dog wasn’t growling.
She swallowed, fighting the impulse to wipe her palms dry again. “What’s in the other rooms? Am I going to see a cage?”
“I don’t dom here.”
“Oh. Then the doming, if that’s what it’s called, always takes place at Indulgences?”
“There are other BDSM clubs. I’ve been to all of them, but these days ...”
