A WILDer Kind Of Love

by Angel Payne

  The midday sun hit them at full blast. It wasn’t blistering hot but that didn’t make a difference at this end of town, with no skyscraper hotels or tourist monoliths to block the rays. If anything, the effect was intensified by the Cleveland Center across the street, its “collapsed” aluminum heights throwing back the light at crazy angles.

  Before Tess could shield her eyes, Dan yanked her back into the shade. Inside seconds, he had her pressed to the concrete wall, where he loomed with a stance as furious as his grip. Though she knew he’d let her up if she so much as whispered such a demand, her nervous system didn’t know the difference. He was huge and overpowering, even a little daunting. Maybe a lot daunting.

  Note to self: you really like daunting.

  For a moment, just one, she imagined they were in the shadows of a dungeon together, instead. Maybe she’d just mouthed off at him and he stared down, contemplating what discipline she deserved for it. Would he spank her bare ass? Flog her nude body? Oh God, would he whip her trembling thighs? How much would she take from him? How much could she take?

  Dammit, how she burned to know those answers.

  Dammit, how she wished he’d read her mind right now.

  Dammit, how it looked like he did.

  Her breath ached as their gazes locked. As he inhaled, his face hardened into new, beautiful angles. Even his scars were stunning, betraying the intense emotions that overtook him.

  But what emotions were they? Why had he hauled her out here?

  “New lecture,” he finally grated. “And this time, you will listen.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  She smiled, letting him know how freely she gave the words.

  Dan’s eyes slid shut. His lips flattened. Good things? Bad things? She’d clearly slammed on some trigger for him…

  “I value you,” he muttered at last. “I value…this. Us. I’ve never been able to have this with a woman, besides Devyn, in my entire life. I’m pretty sure she’s disqualified by default. So maybe…you came along to show me I could.” His breath left him in a significant rush. “I only know it’s too important to fuck up. If gaining you as a submissive meant losing you as a friend…” He shook his head just before Tess dipped hers. “I don’t know what I’d do, okay?”

  She jerked out a nod. And didn’t mean a damn moment of it. Not when her vision was consumed by the proximity of his legs to hers, braced and long and commanding. She wanted to slide her ankles up those legs—on her way to wrapping them around his waist. Begging him to fill her body with his…

  “Tess?”

  “Yeah,” she blurted. “Okay, okay.” But it wasn’t. He’d not only mushed her back into the friend zone like so much Playdoh in a can, but slammed the lid shut by notching her next to his sister on the priority list.

  His sister.

  Crap. Just crap.

  You really need to peel back the cloud, dammit. The silver lining here is pretty damn good. You’re practically on the same pedestal as Devyn.

  Comforting enough for her head.

  Shallow solace for her heart. Her body. Her soul. Which, she now realized, had been suspended in her version of a limbo…waiting for this day. Hoping Dan would be free to return to kink one day—and that she’d be by his side for that journey.

  Now, one look back up told her all she needed to know. The little smile on Dan’s face, tender and respectful, was a beacon of confirmation.

  She’d waited for nothing.

  The finality of it settled over her like mourning shrouds.

  They burned away the very next second. The flare of new realization could do that sometimes—thank God.

  She didn’t have to wait anymore.

  If Dan refused to take her down this path…she was now free to find someone who would.

  The epiphany twitched a grin across her own lips now. Dan’s peered at it with curiosity but clearly misinterpreted the end result. “So, we’re okay, then?”

  Tess pulled him into a tight hug. And this time, meant it. “Never been better, my friend. Never been better.”

  Chapter Three

  ‡

  Dan contemplated the pads of his fingertips through the dark amber liquid in his glass. The Scotch glimmered, reflecting the ambient lighting that made the huge bar he sat at appear a little more intimate.

  When a BDSM club was named Catacomb, it needed all the cozy touches it could get. Not that the name didn’t fit. The subterranean space, located half a mile off the highway between Vegas and Lake Mead, was originally hollowed out as a nuclear fallout shelter for a paranoid mob boss plus his wife, mistress, six kids, and four grandchildren. Half the rooms never made it to the steel reinforcement phase, leaving many of the bedrooms and common areas as rock-walled tributes to something between a Moroccan palace and a desert prison.

  Only a year ago, Max Brickham had scooped up the space for a song when visiting down here after the “mission from hell.” Dan remembered the day Brick practically danced into the burn center to tell all of them about his purchase, proclaiming he’d found the perfect place to open his second alternative lifestyle club. His first, The Bastille, was a daunting glam fortress in Seattle’s warehouse district, and was practically a second home for many of the guys on the team. Heading that list was John Franzen, the battalion’s CO, as equal a best buddy to Max as he was to Dan—which was why he led the group in calling Max a complete loon about the purchase.

  Funny thing about Brick. He had a lonnnng memory. Validation of that came from the man himself, folding his massive arms and surveying the bustling main room, cockier than Starlord with a new mix tape. “So what was that you all were saying…about renaming me Sir Loon and all that shit?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Franzen, seated next to Dan, muttered it into his own Scotch. “You want me to eat my hat or something? Because I’m sure as fuck not gonna kneel and kiss your feet.”

  “Hey.” The protest was as soft and sweet as the petite woman who nudged her ink-black hair against Max’s shoulder. “That’s my job, mister.”

  “Thank fuck,” Franz muttered.

  Max growled with pleasure, hooking a finger into the ring that dangled from the woman’s diamond-studded collar. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, tamago gata no kao.”

  The Japanese endearment was his way of honoring her heritage and submissiveness, as well as her official name as his collared submissive, declared during a formal ceremony at Bastille six months back. Dan had missed the occasion due to continued surgeries and healing, though he’d likely have concocted an excuse, anyway. Even being around Max and Megan now was difficult. They were the epitome of the D/s dream, an ideal he’d once looked forward to having too—a fantasy he’d only be experiencing from the outside now.

  “You two want to get a room?” Franz barked it when the pair behind the bar entered their second minute of making out like a pair of porn stars. “Like your private one at the end of the hall?”

  “Fuck off.” Max broke away from his girl long enough to laugh it out. Two seconds later, his mouth was jammed harder to hers, his hands sliding beneath her leather skirt, greedily cupping her ass.

  “Shit,” Franz groused.

  “They just want us to start throwing twenties,” Dan quipped.

  “Like you’d notice.” Franz glowered. “You seeing Jesus in the depths of that drink, ass munch? You’re the one who wanted the ‘Catacomb experience’ tonight, remember?”

  Dan hunched his shoulders. Yeah. He remembered. How could he forget? Same way he couldn’t forget much of anything about the last seven days. When the world hit midnight in an hour, it’d be the one week anniversary of the moment he’d marched into a Mexican Riviera luxury suite and gotten his hands on Cameron Stock again. There, with Stock’s terrified face filling his vision, he’d been truly complete—

  For ten seconds.

  After that, everything had reverted right back to normal. His scars were still there. The fury was still there. Frustration still clawed him like a demon spawn, leavin
g charred trails everywhere it went in his psyche. Not even driving the Bowie into Stock’s ball sack had relieved the agony.

  Only seeing Tess had done that.

  Until she’d brought a new torture of her own.

  Making that coy little statement about him dominating her…that had changed everything.

  For a few seconds, he’d actually thought she was kidding—until the glints in her eyes said she wasn’t. Fuck. How had he not seen it before then? How had he not realized that the little torch she’d carried for him before the mission had somehow kindled into something more?

  Easy answer.

  Because it was impossible. She just didn’t see it yet.

  She was Rita Hayworth. He was Lon Chaney. She was Emma Stone. He was the Phantom of the Opera—without the let-me-fuck-you-and-get-away-with-it voice. She turned every head in rooms she entered. He made people avert their eyes. He’d told her all of that, too—and meant every word. She deserved someone who could be with her anywhere, everywhere. A Dom who’d take her dancing in the sun as easily as he pulled her into the shadows. A man who’d never be ashamed to lead her anywhere.

  She’d finally understood, thank God. They’d hugged to affirm the new course of their friendship, righted on a fresh keel of honesty.

  Then why hadn’t his demon gone back into hibernation?

  Why was he taking four days of radio silence from Tess into something more than they were? Why didn’t he believe himself when rationalizing she’d likely just been thrown an intense case? Why was he so restless that he’d called Franz and suggested they go out?

  Why was he so messed up, he’d thought a few hours in Catacomb would calm him? That all this would help with the images she’d evoked the other day? That he’d be able to banish the dream of her nudity as she stripped for him…then the fantasy of her dark red curls beneath his fingers as she knelt at his side? And the imagining of her lips, so plump and red, wrapped around those same fingers as he slipped them inside her mouth. Then the words he’d murmur, telling her how good it would feel when he fed her his cock in the same way.

  Shit.

  No more thinking of your best friend’s mouth like that, dammit.

  Not even as Max slipped his fingers between his little tamago’s lips, damn near picking up where his fantasy left off.

  Dan grimaced. “Dude. Want to show some mercy to the hard-ups?”

  “Speak for yourself,” Franz snarled. “But you,”—he speared a finger Max’s way—“are still being cruel.”

  “Pssshhh,” Max volleyed. “Cruel would be neglecting to tell you who just walked in the door.” After Franz spun on his stool, eyed the cute blonde goth at the door then appeared to swallow his tongue, Max chuckled. “Yes, I called her when I knew you were coming. And yes, you’re welcome.”

  The half-Samoan swung his friend a pleading stare. “Tell me you reserved room five for us and I’m naming my firstborn after you.”

  Max barked a laugh. “The thought of your progeny bearing my name is a terror I’d never unleash on the world.”

  “Whatever. Room five?”

  “What’s in room five?” Dan cut in.

  “Not much.” Max smirked. “No carpet, pillows, or cushions on the rack. Fairly primeval.”

  “Exactly what she begged for the last time we scened,” Franz filled in.

  “Damn.” Dan smirked. “Dog face has found a soul mate.”

  “Right?”

  “Just give me some advance notice for the wedding date. I lost my social coordinator a few days ago.”

  Franz glowered. “Mention the w word again and you’re castrated.”

  Outwardly, Dan chuckled. Inwardly, a different growl echoed. Castration would be a mercy, my friend. At least my body won’t remember what I’m missing.

  Max held out his hand to Franz. A medieval-looking key hung from his finger, engraved with a fancy number 5. “All yours.”

  Franz’s lips burst into a grin. “You’re a god.”

  Tamago slapped his arm. “My line again!”

  “Easy, baby.” Brick’s words were cute but the tone was command. He stressed the point by tucking a hand beneath her corset and sharply pinching one nipple. After she grimaced, Tamago dipped her head Franz’s way.

  “Apologies for the outburst, Sir.”

  “Accepted, my girl.” Franz threw a grin at Max. “Guess we’ll both have our hands full tonight, buddy.”

  The pronouncement actually gusted Dan with relief. He’d bit off more than he could chew tonight. Mix, mingle, and make-nicey were normally smack-dab in his wheelhouse but that was in another life, a Dan with another face—a guy who’d walk into a club as incredible as this and barely pause at the bar, let alone think of camping out at it all night, nursing good Scotch and Shazzam-ing tunes from the stream of sensual EDM flowing from the speakers. By this point, he’d have a sweet subbie writhing under his ropes as he contemplated which flogger would make her screams the loudest, her pussy the wettest…

  Fuck.

  He was going to need a lot more Scotch.

  But wondered why Max contemplated the bottle with equal intensity. “Go have your fun, dude,” he told Franz. “I think I’ll be pulling public duty for a few more hours tonight, at least.”

  “Huh?” Franz volleyed. “Why?”

  “We have a new girl in the house.”

  He nodded toward the second living room area that the bar overlooked. Both spaces were crowded tonight, lots of people hanging out in couples or small groups, chatting or snacking before deciding what playrooms they’d be going to. In general, the crowd struck Dan as experienced and informed—not that newbs had the word stamped on their forehead—but there was a nervous energy that first-timers to the scene usually gave off, especially women. It made them as detectable as cheese to rats—a perfect comparison, since that was usually how the Doms in the room behaved once the chase was on.

  Dan gazed across both rooms again. No swarming rats yet though there was a lone figure, sitting in a wingback chair, at the back of the second room. From here, she could only be viewed from mid-torso down. And damn, what a torso it was. Even half her cleavage was a pleasure, imagining how high and pert her tits likely were, spilling from her red latex corset. Delicate tattoos feathered from her bare shoulders to just above her elbows. Her stiff forearms led to the tight clasp of her hands in her lap—perhaps because she knew that from there down, the ensemble needed an overhaul. As in, huge. Where the hell had she gotten that black lace skirt? Its layers looked more Dolly Parton than dolly kinky, stopping at the tops of lace-up boots that looked like she’d really tromped across the desert to get here tonight.

  “What the hell?” Dan groused.

  “Right?” It came from Tamago, who glanced up at Max for the clearance to say more. When he nodded, she went on, “After Master gave her the orientation three nights ago, I tried talking to her about the Little Match Girl look. She’s been too nervous to give it up.”

  “Too nervous?” Dan echoed.

  “She won’t come out and say it.” Tamago shrugged. “But a girl knows when another girl says she’s ‘fine’ and means it—and when she doesn’t.”

  “Is she in the right place?” he inquired. “She had orientation three nights ago?”

  “And keeps coming back,” Max filled in. “And just sitting in that same chair.”

  “And not a single Dom’s requested her?”

  Tamago offered, “Well, she also insists on the mask.”

  “The—” Dan couldn’t help his double-take. “There’s a mask involved, too?

  “Well, it’s a super pretty mask.”

  “Pretty or not, she’s a bank of virgin snow at this.” Which had its own set of plusses and minuses, though the mask clearly belonged in the latter column. “How’s a Dom supposed to read her if she’s wearing a damn mask?”

  Max spoke for everyone with his weighted exhalation. “Now you know why I’m a little uppity.”

  “Uppity?” Franz grunted. “You
did not just say ‘uppity.’”

  Max rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have a subbie to flog?”

  Franz’s lips lifted again. “Now that you mention it…” He shoved to his feet. “You all know where I’ll be. Knock on the door only if there’s really a nuclear apocalypse. Wait. No. Only if there’s a zombie apocalypse.”

  Apocalypses. Zombies. World destruction. All the connections were too easy—and cruel—to reach, as Franz stepped away, just as the woman across the room fully rose from her chair fortress.

  And the bottom fell out of Dan’s gut.

  Yep. There was the mask, easily covering half her face—its strings tied beneath a waterfall of brilliant red curls.

  Rose Temptation.

  The color he hadn’t been able to forget for four damn days.

  Framing the face that had clung even tighter to his mind.

  The proud carriage of her neck. The determination beneath her heart-shaped chin. The high, sweeping cheekbones. And damn—damn—that perfect pinup girl’s mouth, defined by her favorite cherry red lip stain, glistening anew as she swiped her tongue nervously between the curved surfaces…

  “Fuck,” Dan grated. He spun back around on his bar stool as her gaze circled toward them. Ducked his head, leaning it into his right hand.

  What the hell? Why was he hiding from her? Wouldn’t be like she’d be stunned to see him here. She knew all about his dark side. Probably too much.

  But you told her, anyway. You told her more because she always begged to know—and that felt good. Damn good. Better therapy than what the “assigned” shrinks had done for you. Because that was something you were ever going to bring up to a person who could decide if you got your job back, right?

  There was that.

  Which didn’t do shit for this. All the craziness in his nervous system, still breaking down the fact that Tess stood across the room, looking like that. That she was so determined to find a Dom, she’d come to the most hardcore club in the city by herself, for the third night in a row—

  Where she eventually would find that Dom.