Rowdy: A Scorched Souls Spinoff

by C. L. Riley

  Rowdy

  I fumble with the room’s card lock feature.

  Trina has me so fucking hard I can’t think straight, let alone get the door open.

  I made the mistake of putting her back on her feet after tossing her over my shoulder like some nefarious Neanderthal. Now she’s draped all over me, one leg latched around my legs, pulling me snug against her.

  And it’s not just her leg; her hands are busy too, forging a path from my abs to my chest, squeezing and kneading along the way.

  She’s not gentle either.

  Fuck. I need in the damn room now. I’m about to rip her clothes off, right here in the hallway. No doubt it’s happened before. It’s The Dungeon for fuck’s sake.

  And because it is The Dungeon, I thought she’d spend more time exploring the window-lined corridor. Apparently, she witnessed enough on the main stage to ignite her inner animal. The way she’s pawing at me is bordering on feral.

  “Break the window,” she hisses, shocking me further. Who is this woman...my wife?

  “Babe, Boone wouldn’t appreciate that,” I manage to croak, my voice strained.

  “Move!” She commands, bumping me aside with her hip.

  In seconds she accomplishes what I couldn’t seem to, flashing me a saucy, “and I told you so” smirk.

  With exaggerated boldness, she saunters into the room...and freezes.

  It’s my turn to grin.

  She wasn’t expecting the furnishings. The spanking bench; bondage bed, equipped with a caged area underneath; the sex swing, attached to gliding ceiling tracks; and the wall of whips and canes, have her gaping.

  I’m a little surprised myself. I knew my brother’s play area was well-equipped, but this is over the top. There is even a drain in the far corner that I don’t dare speculate on. I may be into kinky, rough sex, but I am not a true Dominant like Boone, and body fluid games are a definite no.

  There’s also a ton of leather, animal print, and sparkly lights, no doubt courtesy of Olympia, who has wholeheartedly embraced the lifestyle. I know for a fact, Boone wouldn’t be into the prints and excess bling. But Olympia is a bit of a diva, and glam and glitter, well, it’s her style.

  Overcoming my own shock, I shut the door behind us, engaging the lock. Movement draws my gaze to the window. There is a small crowd forming.

  I should have known.

  Boone and Olympia enjoy sharing their scenes with anyone brave enough to watch. I’m not sure Trina is ready for The Dungeon’s voyeurs. I’m not fucking sure I am. If it was some club whore from my past, I’d be more than happy to put on a show. But Trina is my wife. I like spanking her sweet ass and tying her up, but I don’t want some other asshole seeing what’s mine.

  Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all. “Babe? Is it too much? We can still take off.”

  Instead of answering, she turns to face me. Her eyes widen at the window. “Holy crap! Why are there so many people out there?”

  “How much did Olympia tell you?”

  “She mentioned Boone was pretty popular. I’m guessing no one but Boone has ever used this room?”

  “I think you’re right. They’re probably curious, and I’m sure they’ve caught wind I’m related to him. The big bad Dom is quite the star.” I chuckle. Picturing Boone with an audience is kind of funny.

  Trina meets my gaze, and we both bust up, laughing so hard we end up doubled over. By the time we’ve deescalated, we’ve lost half our crowd. A couple laughing like lunatics clearly isn’t a must-see event.

  “Well, that was a mood killer,” she says, swallowing a hiccup.

  “I’m sure the hiccups aren’t a big draw either.” Last time she laughed this hard she ended hiccupping for almost an hour after.

  She gives me a playful scowl, another hiccup on the tail of the first.

  “Do you mind if I say goodbye to our remaining ‘fans’?” I tilt my head toward the window, hoping she agrees.

  “Please,” she hiccups.

  I take a minute to scan the electronic panel. It’s another minute before I figure out how to operate things, finally hitting the right button and triggering a dark screen that slides down, bringing some much needed privacy with it.

  “Want something to drink?” I head to the mini bar I know Boone keeps fully stocked. He has to have his Jack Daniels on hand.

  “Something simple but buzz-worthy.” She moves to the bed and peers under it, looking through the bars below. “I’m not sure I’d want to be locked in here. Maybe if you were inside with me.”

  I chuckle again. “I’m pretty sure the point is for the submissive to feel isolated.”

  She hiccups and takes the double vodka tonic I made for her. I’m doing a Boone and drinking Jack on ice, one more similarity between us.

  Glass in hand, I join Trina on the bed, and in companionable silence we finish our drinks. Without asking, I make us a second. Her hiccupping has stopped, sooner than last time.

  “Do they use all this stuff?” She once again scans the room. “I think I might enjoy some of it, like that swing.” Cheeks flushing, she looks down, staring into her glass.

  “You weren’t embarrassed before we walked in here,” I tease, remembering how she’d mauled me outside the door.

  My cock swells in response to the memory. The whiskey has relaxed me, but her swing-suggestion kicks my imagination into overdrive, spiking my adrenaline.

  “Don’t dump that on me, Mister. You weren’t real thrilled with our followers either. Maybe you were embarrassed, too.”

  “Ah...so you admit you were embarrassed?” I taunt playfully.

  Ignoring my question, she takes her empty glass and sets on the table next to the bed that looks more like a pillar. She then grabs mine, doing the same with it.

  By the gleam in her eyes, it’s obvious any lingering uncertainty vanished right along with the consumed liquor and her hiccups.

  Before I can even decide on my next move, she tackles me, knocking me back against a pile of satin pillows.

  My hands are tangled in her hair at the same time her mouth crashes against mine; she is all tongue, teeth, and fury. She kisses me like she’s angry, and I battle back, seeking to dominate her.

  After a minute, she relaxes, allowing me to roll her onto her back, where I continue to plunder her mouth, wondering again how I survived on a diet of club girls and dancers for so long.

  Trina’s love and trust for me give her power like no woman before. She holds my heart, which is somehow connected to my cock. Our love enflames me, taking me to heights I never dreamed possible, especially after the explosion.

  My feelings for her make what I thought I felt for Olympia seem like a kindergarten crush.

  There is nothing at the moment I want more than to make my woman, my wife, shudder beneath my touch; call out my name when I thrust inside her; and scream so loud she breaks glass when I make her come.

  Eager for those first shudders, I palm her breast over her shirt. For some reason, she didn’t bother with a bra; all the better for my plans.

  Taking advantage of the missing lingerie, I find her nipple, rolling it between my thumb and finger. She arches, her back bowing off the bed. Separating my lips from hers, I kiss my way down her neck, breathing her in.

  That first shudder comes when glide my hand under her shirt, squeezing one perfect mound.

  “Rowdy,” she gasps. “Make love to me the old fashioned way.”

  I raise my head, staring into her glazed eyes. We’ve always added spice to our sex, so her request, especially considering our surroundings, stuns me.

  Tame sex? In the middle of a BDSM dungeon?

  My queen has spoken. It is my pleasure to deliver what she desires.

  Trina

  From the moment I entered The Dungeon, I had every intention of stretching my pain-to-pleasure threshold to new limits and was prepared to ask Rowdy to take our kink to the next level.

  I mean we’re in BDSM wonderland, with gadgets, toys, and even furni
ture equipped to encourage limitless experimentation while producing unparalleled satisfaction. Yet all I want is Rowdy to take me like I’m an old fashioned bride. For some inexplicable reason, I am desperate for a gentle, first time lover and whispered words of wifely worship.

  Initially, my request throws him off. His hand pauses, resting on my breast.

  I can tell by his familiar facial scrunch, the one that forms a few wrinkle lines between his brows, he’s attempting to puzzle out my request. The lines vanish when he raises his left brow and grins the same crooked grin that has lamentably melted more panties than mine.

  Not thinking about his old conquests...ancient history.

  His hungry gaze serves as a good reminder; I’m the only woman he has been intimate with since before the devastation at Rex’s.

  “So, my queen would like a traditional honeymoon,” he whispers, his words mirroring my thoughts. “You know that means more spankings later?”

  I gasp, tempted to change my mind and make good use of the apparatus used specifically for that purpose.

  He doesn’t give me a chance to speak, slanting his mouth over mine and picking up where we left off, one hand tunnelled in my hair, massaging my scalp, the other resuming its caresses under my shirt.

  After a lengthy time of tongue tangling, he once again releases my lips and trails hot kisses down my neck, stopping at my collarbone to nibble gently. Unlike his usual bites and nips, he takes great care to treat me like precious china, touching me as if I might break.

  With unusual tenderness, he helps me slip off my t-shirt, dropping his lips to one peaked bud before finding the other. I whimper and run my hands through his hair, my hips undulating against his muscular thigh.

  Despite my attempts to hurry him, he continues at the same leisurely pace.

  He moves his free hand over my abdomen, flowering kisses across my breasts and then giving my nipples just enough teeth to turn them to stone. I arch again, my whimpers turning more frantic.

  There is something to be said about this slow, torturous tempo. My clit pulses with every gentle lick. When he at last cups my mound over my jeans, I cry out, bucking against his palm.

  “I need to taste your wet pussy,” he growls, releasing my hair and leaving my breasts heaving.

  With his hands on my hips, he runs his tongue over my tummy, stopping to twirl it inside my belly button.

  “Yes,” I moan. “Please, taste me.”

  I’ve barely finished my plea before he’s between my legs, undoing my pants with expert efficiency. Lifting my ass, I wiggle, making their removal easier.

  “Fuck, your pussy is so sweet,” he whispers roughly, tugging the fabric aside. He blows down my crease.

  “Lick me,” I beg, reaching for his head.

  He counters by ripping my newest underwear right off and grabbing my wrists, trapping my arms against my sides. That doesn’t stop me from opening my legs wider, which elicits an appreciate groan.

  In a flash his mouth is on me. His tongue rolls over my hard nub, and every few seconds he sucks it fully into his mouth, his teeth teasing gently.

  I’m squirming, almost fighting to free my arms. Our traditional love making is becoming less traditional with every lash of his talented tongue.

  What did I get myself into?

  Ignoring my impatient struggles, he licks down my seam, plunging his tongue into my folds, using it to fuck me, slow and steady.

  “More, please...Rowdy.” I’m panting and writhing, so close to release, if only he’d give me more pressure, more pain.

  He doesn’t, keeping his rhythm until I I’ve soaked the sheet beneath me. I cry out, the sound is guttural and deep, almost wounded, like I’m in agony...a very gratified form of anguish.

  My orgasm mimics my cries, building and then blooming into wave after wave of deep pulsing pleasure. He hums against my center, the vibrations increasing the sensations. When he releases my wrists, I slam my pelvis up and grab his head, riding his face hard, utterly out of control.

  Before I finish, he moves over me, lifting one of my legs and pushing it back, plunging inside. Rotating his hips, he thrusts with smooth measured strokes that have me climbing toward a second explosion...or is it still the first?

  Unable to help myself, I dig my nails into his back. “Fuck me hard. Please, Rowdy. Harder.”

  Rising up on his palms, arms locked, he gazes down. “Eyes on me,” he commands, heeding my plea for more force.

  Teeth clenched, jaw tight, he rocks his hips faster, working me harder; I keep my eyes locked with his. I’m bucking beneath him, frantic to meet each crash of his body against mine. I feel his cock swell, a sure sign he’s at the tipping point.

  “Your fucking pussy,” he growls, losing control, finally, and pounding into me so hard my vision tunnels.

  When I come this time, it’s like a bomb has gone off inside my core. I latch my ankles around his firm ass and scream his name at the same time he groans mine. My cunt clamps down, clenching around him and strangling his cock. I moan incoherently as he empties himself, flooding me with liquid heat.

  “Fuck, I love you,” he hisses, kissing me hard, my essence still on his tongue.

  When he collapses on top of me, I find my own voice. “Love you more.”

  I’m surprised when I hear what sounds like a group of maybe five or six people, applauding outside our room.

  “Oh, shit.” Rowdy rolls off and stares at the ceiling.

  “What?”

  “I closed the window cover but left the fucking audio on.”

  After earlier, I didn’t think either of us had any laughter left. I was wrong.

  Rowdy

  After picking Trina up from her surprise visit with Cheryl, the evening following our dramatic Dungeon experience, we headed to our hotel in Seattle.

  The trendy location boasts a pineapple theme and furniture that looks like it belongs in Alice’s Wonderland. Yes, I read fairytales as a kid. Trina raved when she first glimpsed the decor.

  Now, sitting at our room’s desk, she taps away on her laptop, connecting with Olympia, no doubt to share her concerns, one of the bed’s pineapple pillows rests in her lap.

  “Something is wrong with Cheryl,” she repeats what she’s already told me five times since leaving her friend’s. I’m sure she’s been typing out the same complaint to Olympia. “I mean really wrong. She’s angry but won’t tell me why. We’ve always been upfront with each other.”

  I don’t tell her what I’m thinking.

  They haven’t always been upfront. At least Trina hasn’t. She failed to warn Cheryl about a dangerous rapist and killer.

  I’m guessing Cheryl is trying to come to terms with Trina’s reasons for not revealing the truth.

  Because this is supposed to be a good time, I’m keeping my opinion to myself, at least for now. My wife isn’t going to like what I have to say when I get around to saying it.

  I understand why she tried to keep the information to herself, but that doesn’t mean I agree with her choice. I’m certain she feels enough guilt over her decision, whether she’s ready to acknowledge it or not. For now, from what I see, she’s still fighting an internal battle.

  But more important than her conflict with Cheryl, is the errand I ran while she was in Gig Harbor. I’m not sure what I thought would happen, but nothing turned out the way I anticipated.

  The man I wanted to bury is still breathing.

  “Can you put the computer away for awhile? I wanna show you something.” God, I hope I’m doing the right thing.

  She spins the office chair to face me. “I thought this was supposed to be a second honeymoon, no depressing moments. You sound too serious.”

  Fuck. Maybe this isn’t a good time, but there needs to be closure before our next leg of the trip. What happens tomorrow will make more sense when she knows who I met today.

  “Do you trust me?” I ask, keeping my gaze locked on her face.

  She squeezes the pillow to her chest and nod
s, looking more like a scared little girl than a grown woman, which doesn’t bode well for what I have in my pocket.

  “I want you to read this letter. When you’re done, we’ll talk.”

  Her eyes widen and she nods.

  I hand over the confession and apology from her traitorous uncle, praying I made the right decision. She’s not the only one who struggles with tough choices.

  Trina

  Dear Trina,

  I somehow doubt I’m the person you want to hear from. I understand why, completely. What I did to you while you were in our care was despicable, atrocious, disgusting, and totally my fault. You were just a child.

  I tried to tell myself you weren’t, but that was some sick lie I allowed to overtake my normal reasoning. I have no excuses for what I did, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness.

  I’m not telling you this for you to feel sorry for me, but I’m dying. I have been for a long time. There is cosmic justice, I can promise you that. I continue to receive it every day.

  Again, I want to repeat. You did nothing wrong. Nothing. My behavior was all on me. I can’t blame your aunt, my job, my health, anything. My head was sick.

  Rowdy came here, probably to kill me, and I can understand why. And I would have let him without a fight. But when he saw how truly miserable I already am, he decided to leave me to my suffering.

  I’ve been in a state run care center for five years. After trying to drink away my guilt, I totalled my car. Both my legs had to be amputated and I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s around the same time. Your aunt had left me long before. We tried to reconcile, but after what we’d done to you and each other, reuniting was impossible. We didn’t deserve love. She died last year.

  I’m sorry. I’m going on and on, but I’ve wanted the chance to apologize for so long. Your husband gave me the opportunity. I want you to know. I learned my lesson. Unlike so many other abusers, I never touched another girl or woman.

  My shame made that impossible. For what I did to you, I’ll suffer the fires of hell willingly.