by Brynley Bush
“Um, I don’t know,” I admit. “This is my first time. But it looks interesting.”
He smiles at my admission and it lights up his entire face. He’s amazingly attractive. How did I get lucky enough to meet this gorgeous, nice guy right off the bat?
“Would you like to try it? Maybe pick out a flogger and see if you like the feel of it?”
When I hesitate, he adds encouragingly with the hint of a smile, “We’re in a room full of people. All you have to do is say ‘red’ and an army of monitors will be there faster than you can blink.” He cups my chin in his hand, bringing my gaze to his. “I promise I won’t hurt you.” His voice drops an octave. “That is, unless you want me to.”
I swallow hard as butterflies flutter tentatively in my belly. Do I? “Yes, I’d like to try it,” I whisper.
I follow him over to a wall where a variety of floggers are displayed, and he straightforwardly explains the differences between them—how the wider strands, called falls, feel more thuddy, and the narrower falls deliver more of a sting. Apparently, what the flogger is constructed of makes a difference as well, and I learn that suede is the least painful and oiled leather the most. At Michael’s suggestion, I choose a black and red suede one with a thick braided hilt, and with more than a little trepidation, I follow him to one of the padded benches.
“Is it okay if I restrain you?” he asks.
My stomach drops to my toes. My pulse is racing and my palms feel slightly sweaty, but this is what I came for. I nod.
“Say yes or no,” he instructs.
“Yes,” I say. It comes out louder than I intended and I flush with embarrassment.
Then his hand is on my upper back, pressing me forward until my chest is flush with the padded surface of the bench, my left cheek resting against the cool leather. He gently takes one of my wrists and fastens a leather cuff that’s attached to the bench around it, and then repeats the process with my other wrist. I pull against the restraints, testing them. My heart beats a little faster as I realize I can’t move my arms at all. Oh god.
I can feel Michael move behind me and then he flips the short skirt of my dress up, exposing my ass. Oh crap! I’m wearing nothing under the dress except a sexy, black scrap of a thong —it had seemed to fit the pirate theme when I put it on—and I feel utterly exposed. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying not to think about the fact that everyone who walks by can see my bare butt. I can feel the cool air of the room whisper across my skin and then Michael’s hands are on me, kneading and stroking each cheek until I feel myself begin to relax.
He removes his hand, and seconds later I feel the thud of leather against the warmed flesh of my buttocks. It’s pleasurably noticeable but not painful at all, and the rhythmic dull impact of the soft leather against my bare skin lulls me into a slightly foggy-headed stupor, like when I get a massage.
“Ah, there she is!”
Gavin’s distinct drawl yanks me straight out of my blissful state of relaxation. My eyes fly open. Two pairs of masculine legs fill my vision—one muscular pair clad in black with an unmistakably large bulge at the crotch and the other pair slimmer and ensconced in black leather boots. The boots disappear and Gavin’s face appears.
“Looks like you already found someone to show you a thing or two,” he says with an impish grin. He inclines his head toward my bare posterior. “Michael’s a good guy, but I wanted to introduce you to the Dom I was telling you about.”
Another face appears next to his and warm cognac eyes meet mine. I’d know those eyes anywhere. After all, they’ve haunted my dreams for the last ten years. I am totally fucked!
Chapter Two
Ariana
“Ariana, I’d like you to meet Marcus Dunn. He can show you around when you’re finished here.” Gavin winks at me, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m slowly dying inside.
Although one part of me had fervently hoped I’d never again lay eyes on the only man who’s ever broken my heart, another decidedly female part of me had fantasized about seeing him again one day. However, in my fantasies, I was looking drop-dead gorgeous with a gun trained on him as he begged for mercy, not bare-assed and tied to a table.
Marcus’ eyes widen slightly as recognition registers on his face. “Ari?”
“That’s Agent McKnight to you,” I snap, desperately trying to regain an iota of power in this uncompromising position.
“Is that so?” he says as a slow grin crosses his handsome features. “I’ll be damned. I didn’t think you’d make it a week.” He leans closer, his mesmerizing eyes holding my gaze. “But agent or not, here in the club you’ll call me ‘Sir,’” he adds softly.
Just like it did ten years ago, the authoritative tone of his voice reduces my insides to a puddle of liquid heat. There’s a little gray at the temples of his close-cropped dark hair and a few more laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, but otherwise he looks the same—reassuringly solid, confident, and sinfully gorgeous, with that same commanding but comforting presence that used to make me want to crawl into his arms and never leave.
His eyes darken as he takes in my compromising position. “Damn but you look good in cuffs,” he murmurs. His gaze turns to Gavin, and the younger man squirms under his scrutiny. “I thought you said it was her first time.”
“It is!” Gavin protests. “At least that’s what she told me.”
Those intense brown eyes focus on mine again as he arches a brow in silent question.
“It is my first time,” I manage.
Michael joins the other two men in my field of vision and my humiliation is officially complete.
“Please uncuff me,” I ask Michael with as much dignity as I can muster. He hesitates for a fraction of second, trying to figure out what’s going on.
“You heard her!” Marcus snaps, and Michael jumps into action, unbuckling the leather cuffs that had bound my wrists and helping me stand up. I adjust my skirt, my face flushed with heat.
“Thank you for giving Ari her first taste of BDSM,” Marcus says smoothly, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “But I’ll take it from here.”
Michael nods quickly at Marcus and disappears into the crowd, clearly unwilling to tangle with the older and more commanding Dom. I want to call to him to come back. He was so nice and considerate. Nothing like the intimidating man standing next to me who seems to own the very air around us and who’s staring at me with eyes that still have the power to undo me.
“What did you do that for?” I demand. “We were having a perfectly nice time.”
“I could tell,” he says dryly, but his eyes are sparkling with humor and I feel like I’m missing the joke.
“Who have we here?” An older man in his early forties with a neatly trimmed goatee joins us, and Gavin lets out a breath of relief. I can’t blame him. The man exudes a certain air of calm civility and decorum and you can’t help but feel like everything’s going to be okay with him around.
“You already know Marcus,” Gavin says to him. “This is Ariana McKnight. She’s a friend of Tori’s and completely new to the scene. I offered to pair her up with Marcus for the evening so he could show her around and make sure she was safe.”
I’m pretty sure Marcus is about as safe as a barracuda.
The man smiles and holds out his hand, taking mine in his warm clasp. “Welcome to Five Pines, Ariana. Any friend of the Blacks is a friend of mine. I’m Dominic Bonnaire. I own the Pinnacle Club in Houston, and I’m in charge of this little club of ours away from home this weekend.” He has a richly cultured voice with a faintly European accent that is oddly reassuring.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say.
“Do you two already know each other?” he asks, looking from Marcus to me.
“We do,” Marcus says evenly, daring me to challenge him.
Dominic turns to me for affirmation. I nod. I may be fearless, but I doubt there’s anyone on the planet brave enough, or stupid enough, to contradict Marcus Dunn in a bold-faced lie.
There’s a reason he’s one of the highest ranking Navy SEALS in the country. Of course when I first met him I hadn’t known that, any more than he’d known my father was the head of the FBI. We’d just been two Americans who became lovers in Italy.
“Yes. We were…friends many years ago.”
Marcus raises his eyebrow even higher at me, which I ignore.
“Excellent. So you are amenable to being Marcus’ submissive for the evening?”
I don’t want to spend a second longer with Marcus than I have to, but I also don’t want to make a scene in front of Tori’s friends, especially when they’re trying so hard to make me feel comfortable. I nod. “Yes, thank you.”
I have every intention of ditching him as soon as possible.
“Then I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted,” Dominic says to Marcus. He turns to me and adds, “Miss McKnight, please let me know if there’s anything you need. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
And then he’s gone, with Gavin scampering after him, and I’m alone with Marcus.
“What are you doing here, Ari?” he asks, turning to me.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I counter.
“Still feisty, I see,” he says, tracing my cheekbone with his finger. My breath catches. His touch still has the power to make me ache with need. He trails it lower, over the rapidly beating pulse in my neck, and then skims his knuckles across the tops of my breasts which are pushed up by the corset. This is what’s been missing with every other guy I’ve dated—the butterflies, the quickening pulse, that indescribable burst of chemistry that sets every nerve ending on fire.
“Stop,” I say, my voice strangled. “You don’t have the right to touch me.”
“Ah, but you’re wrong. As your Dom for the evening, I have every right to touch you however I want.”
No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. But my stomach has dropped to my toes and my insides are feeling all tingly.
He catches my chin in his strong fingers and forces my gaze to his. “Seriously, Ari. What are you doing here?”
“Exploring my sexuality,” I say flippantly. I try to move away but his grip is unyielding. “This weekend is my birthday gift to myself. Now leave me alone so I can enjoy it.”
“You’re out of your league here.”
Memories of Italy crowd my mind. Me pressed against the wall of the elevator in the Baglioni Hotel Luna in Venice, Marcus pinning my wrists over my head with one strong hand while he fingered me until I came. Marcus ordering me to strip for him and the hot lovemaking that had followed. His hands fisted in my hair, holding me still as he ravaged my mouth. The way he’d held my legs apart like he owned them as he brought me to the most mind-blowing orgasm of my life with nothing but his tongue. Although I hadn’t known the name for it at the time, he’d dominated and owned me as surely as any Dom here has ever dominated a submissive.
“It’s not that different from the things you did,” I retort.
He tilts his head toward a couple next to us. “I never spanked you.”
“Maybe you should have,” I taunt.
“Maybe I will,” he returns dangerously.
Oh god. Why does the thought of that make my stomach drop deliciously?
“Go home, Ari,” he says softly. “You don't belong here.”
“You don’t know me. You have no idea where I belong.”
I turn on my black stiletto heel and head toward a crowd that’s gathered by one of the demonstration stages. There are three people standing on the stage—two men and one woman—all of whom look the tiniest bit imposing, and Dominic.
“Next up is a spanking demonstration,” Dominic says. “Garrett will be using his hand, Cassandra has a paddle, and Thomas will be using his belt. However, we need a few subs who’re willing to be their victims, er, models.”
The crowd titters with laughter. A young man dressed like Peter Pan steps forward. “I’ll volunteer for Cassandra,” he says.
“Thank you,” Dominic says graciously as the young man steps onto the stage and kneels before the slightly scary looking woman dressed in black leather. “Who else?”
I’m desperate to prove to Marcus that I’m not out of my league and that I certainly don’t need his help to play here, but a belt on my ass? I involuntarily squeeze my cheeks together at the thought. The Dom named Garrett is tall and broad-shouldered, with a small scar on his cheek that makes him look like a real pirate who’s not above rape and pillage, but surely a hand spanking can’t be that bad. And a demonstration sounds safe enough. I take a deep breath and step forward.
Strong fingers grip my shoulders firmly and spin me around, and I find myself face to face with Marcus again. His face is implacable, his brown eyes glittering. “Are you looking for a spanking, little one?” he asks. “Is that what you want?”
Yes," I say defiantly. “That's exactly what I want. And don’t call me little one. Actually, what I really wanted was the flogger, but you interrupted that!”
"If a flogging’s what you want, I'll be glad to oblige you," he says, his voice menacingly soft. “You don’t need to go looking elsewhere. But it will be a real flogging, not some half-assed version that you top from the bottom. And I promise you won’t describe it as a ‘nice’ time.” Turning to a monitor walking by, he snaps, “Give me some cuffs, please.”
Before I can process what’s happening, my wrists are bound in front of me, wrapped in padded neoprene cuffs secured with Velcro and connected by two clips that are fastened together. Marcus grabs the clips that connect the cuffs and tugs me along after him. I follow him, slightly dazed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was mad, but I know from personal experience it’s practically impossible to make Marcus angry. He keeps his temper as firmly under control as everything else in his life. I study the set of his jaw. No, not mad. He looks more grimly determined than anything else.
He leads me over to a wall near a table that looks like someone stole it from my gyno’s office and points to an assortment of clamps.
“Let’s add some nipple clamps so you get the full experience, since that’s what you’re after.”
I open my mouth but no words come out.
There’s a startlingly wide variety of clamps—some look like tweezers, some like alligator clamps, some are industrial-looking, spring-loaded clamps shaped like a clover, and a few look like miniature versions of the vise my dad used when he painstakingly handmade a dollhouse for me when I was seven. My heart squeezes a little at the memory.
I look at Marcus and shrug. Without hesitation, he grabs a pair of the tweezer-looking ones and drags me over to a darkened alcove around the corner from the main room where there’s a small couch. He unclips the cuffs, but doesn’t remove them.
“Take off your clothes.”
“I, um,” I stammer. The reality of undressing here in front of everyone, particularly with Marcus’ gaze concentrated so fully on me, is more unnerving than I thought it would be. My fingers go to the laces at the front of my corset but I fumble at them, and Marcus brushes my hand away.
“Never mind. I’ll do it,” he says, his voice throaty.
He makes quick work of the laces and removes the corset, leaving me in only the white, lacy shirtdress and my killer boots. Unlike the corset, he takes his time with the dress, slowly easing the elastic neckline of the dress down until it rests at the top swell of my breasts. He gives me a slow, knowing smile and then lowers it further, exerting just enough pressure on the elastic so that it scrapes across my nipples, abrading them before they spring free from the elastic confines of the fabric. I can feel my breasts tighten, my nipples aching with a need that has lain dormant for far too long. He slowly eases the dress down over my hips until it pools on the floor, leaving me standing there naked except for the tiny black thong.
He strokes his hand reverently down my side. His touch is like fire, blazing its way straight to my core. “Your skin is just as soft as I remember,” he says.
I don’t want to rememb
er. “Should I, um, take my boots off?” I stammer.
He takes a step back and his gaze sweeps over me approvingly. “Hell no. You look absolutely perfect just like this.”
Suddenly embarrassed under his intense scrutiny, I self-consciously cover my breasts with my arm.
“I don’t think so,” he chastises reprovingly. He grabs my hands and clips the cuffs at my wrists together again. “Hold your hands above your head.” The authoritative tone of his voice has me lifting my arms before I realize what I’m doing. I can feel my nipples harden even more under his pointed stare and I lower my gaze. His finger under my chin forces me to look up again, and the world stands still as his eyes meet mine.
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he reminds me gently.
I know he’s right, but it somehow feels different. Before, we were lovers—tender, passionate, in love, and unable to get enough of each other. Now there’s an uneven exchange of power which is throwing me off balance. Plus, this time, I hate him. However, my body didn’t get the memo because it’s straining toward him, begging for his touch.
One strong, masculine hand cups my breast and his thumb brushes over my nipple deliberately. It puckers immediately. He scrapes his nail lightly over the hard little point and I moan softly. Why doesn’t any other man’s touch make me feel the way Marcus’ does? This is what I’ve been looking for. At least I’m finally on the right track and in the right place. I just need to find another man here willing to play. Which shouldn’t be a problem since they’re here for the same thing.
“Eyes on me, Ari,” he commands softly, bringing my focus back to him.
Holding my gaze with his, he grasps one nipple and twists it, gently at first, and then harder, his eyes never leaving my face. Determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing I still thrill at his touch, I keep my face impassive. Studying me carefully, he pulls up and out deliberately, tugging so hard I’m forced up onto my tiptoes. I’m biting my lip to keep from crying out when he lets go.
