by January Rowe
Quinn Brothers
Miss You, Sir
They say that love hurts when it’s done right. Married D/s couple, Tern and Jill Quinn, didn’t count on the pain of separation. Jill is a devoted submissive to her Dominant. Their life together is perfect. They play, they love, and they travel the world. Their relationship is based on her anticipatory service rather than rules and punishments.
When Jill’s niece is abandoned at their doorstep, their hedonism abruptly ends. Jill is suddenly a mother. Tern now must provide—and that includes paying a lawyer to start adoption proceedings. He relocates a thousand miles away to take a well-paying job. Jill is terrified by the separation. They’ve never been apart for more than a few hours since they were married. She’s always relied on Tern to make the major decisions. Now she must make them on her own.
Tern discovers his easygoing nature is at odds with the control Jill now desperately needs. Will their relationship survive?
Genre: BDSM, Contemporary
Length: 27,271 words
MISS YOU, SIR
Quinn Brothers
January Rowe
EROTIC ROMANCE
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED: Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you to only ONE LEGAL copy for your own personal reading on your own personal computer or device. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden. If you do not want this book anymore, you must delete it from your computer.
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
If you find a Siren-BookStrand e-book being sold or shared illegally, please let us know at
[email protected]
A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
MISS YOU, SIR
Copyright © 2014 by January Rowe
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62741-238-4
First E-book Publication: February 2014
Cover design by Harris Channing
All art and logo copyright © 2014 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter to Readers
Dear Readers,
If you have purchased this copy of Miss You, Sir by January Rowe from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.
Regarding E-book Piracy
This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.
The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.
This is January Rowe’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Rowe’s right to earn a living from her work.
Amanda Hilton, Publisher
www.SirenPublishing.com
www.BookStrand.com
DEDICATION
To my village.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
About the Author
MISS YOU, SIR
Quinn Brothers
JANUARY ROWE
Copyright © 2014
Chapter One
Tern laid his big, work-roughened hand on Jill’s shoulder and squeezed. His touch always calmed her, especially before a demonstration. She wasn’t much of an exhibitionist. Even walking around Hell Mary’s BDSM club in a robe made her uncomfortable. But her man enjoyed putting on educational workshops, so she hid her anxiety.
About fifteen people had come to the club to see Tern’s demo. Some were actually interested in fire play, others just were just there to socialize. Most were personal friends.
Hell Mary’s was entirely different during the day. Quieter. No thumping background music, punctuated by sharp cries of pleasure and pain. The unoccupied dungeon furniture looked stark and raw. The smells were different, too. No perfumes, no aromas of fear and lust. Daylight stripped away the fantasy and glamour, leaving a shabby, wooden ghost town.
Jill took a deep breath, glancing up at Tern. His skin smelled of wood resin. It was her favorite fragrance. He was all seriousness and focus. Giving her arm another squeeze, he withdrew to prepare for the demonstration.
Jill’s best friend Cecilia walked over. Her face was round and perpetually cheerful. Anson, her Master and husband, kept a close, glowering watch. He rarely spoke, but he always gave the impression that he didn’t approve of anybody or anything. They were yin and yang personified. She was outgoing, he never spoke. CeCe was happy and nurturing, Anson was standoffish and cruel. They’d been married for eight years, nearly as long as Jill and Tern.
“How long you and Tern in town?” Cecelia asked.
“Just another couple of weeks,” Jill said. “Then we’re taking off for Morocco.”
“But you just got back from Brazil!”
“Not just,” Jill said. “We’ve been back for a month already, CeCe!”
“You two are like gypsies,” CeCe said.
“It’s a great life,” Jill said. “So when’s Anson Jr. expected to arrive?”
CeCe patted her burdened body. “Three more months to go. I can’t wait to fit into that fabulous green corset you made me.” She smirked. “Master can’t wait either.”
Anson scowled. He wasn’t what Jill would call a nice guy. The only time he eased up on his strict rules and correspondingly severe punishments was when CeCe was pregnant. Which was often. They had three kids already. All boys.
How did Anson and CeCe find the privacy and energy to make another baby in that full house of theirs? How could kinky parents ever manage to sneak in a quickie, let alone BDSM playtime? Of course Anson and CeCe did have Vanessa. Their third helped out with the child rearing and chores—and who knew what else.
Jill couldn’t imagine life with kids, even with an extra woman around. She and Tern were just too selfish.
“We’re ready to start the demo,” Tern announced from up on the dais.
The crowd converged around the platform. Tern had built it, along with most of Hell Mary’s dungeon furniture. The dais was pretty dramatic, a sort of faux Mayan setup with
lit tiki torches all about. A padded vinyl table sat in the middle.
It reminded her of a sacrificial altar.
Fresh anxiety surged through her. She loved fire play, just not in front of an audience.
“If you’re here for the knitting circle,” Tern said, “you might want to leave. This is a workshop on fire play.”
The audience chuckled.
“You’re all staying, then? Wonderful. Welcome. My wife Jill has agreed to be my bottom.”
He helped her up onto the platform. Chills ran up her arm as he touched her. He was so competent and skilled at fire play. Soon he’d make her forget about the people watching.
“Fire play involves fire,” Tern said. “It’s important that your bottom, or the flamee, lies on a nonflammable, nonabsorbent surface. Not a mattress. You could easily spill fuel without realizing it, and then accidentally set it aflame. Once an absorbent surface catches fire, it can be damn hard to put out.” He slapped the vinyl-covered table. “This is vinyl. Not absorbent. Spills are going to be obvious even in low light. And if drippage does catch fire, damage is unlikely.”
“How about using a leather-covered table?” someone asked.
“If you’ve got one, go for it. Make sure you have a fire extinguisher handy. You don’t want to catch your surroundings on fire. You might offer your bottom access to a wet washcloth as a safety precaution. It’s also good idea to have a wool blanket close by for you to smother flames.”
A few people in the crowd murmured, unnerved by the talk of safety. Jill had no fears about getting injured.
Tern gave her braid a gentle tug. “If the flamee has long hair, make sure it’s braided before fire play. It’s considered bad form to burn the hair off her head. I happen to adore my woman’s long red hair.”
He yanked her braid a little harder, signaling she was now in his strong, capable hands.
“Take off your robe,” he said.
She obeyed. She stood on the dais, naked and exposed. Several members of the audience whispered and sighed. They weren’t admiring her figure. They were impressed by the branding on her back.
Tern had been working on the tree for the last ten years. Every wedding anniversary, on the night of May 30, he gifted her with a session of strike branding. The boughs of the walnut tree now covered a good portion of her back. Beautiful and grand, the tree was a symbol of his promise to shelter and protect her.
Her husband’s artistry filled her with pride.
“Are you going to show us how you did that?” someone in the audience asked.
“No,” Tern said.
Tern stroked the scarification on her shoulder and upper back. His caress sent excitement thundering through her body. Her nipples pebbled. Mortified, she studied the floor of the dais. She was even more embarrassed by her public display of arousal than her nakedness.
“Up,” Tern said, helping Jill to lie on her stomach.
She settled onto the table, feeling self-conscious.
“Some folks think of fire play as ‘edge play,’ but with the proper precautions, it’s not dangerous at all. Fire play is designed to thrill the people who are watching.” He drew his hand down her back. “And thrill your bottom.” He gave her ass a slap.
She jerked. The audience tittered.
“Fire play isn’t about pain. It’s about drama. If you’re intent on hurting your bottom, do something else. If your bottom is new to fire play, she might be apprehensive,” he said. “So you’ll need to be sensitive to her emotions, perhaps you’ll need to encourage her to relax. Gently touch her. Speak to her softly.”
As he massaged her back, his lecture on the actions of various fuels and how to apply them drifted over her. She savored his light touch.
He asked someone to turn off the lights. The darkened room became library quiet. The tiki flames flickered.
“I would never actually use a tiki torch to ignite my bottom,” Tern said. “Too little control. The torches are supposed to set the mood, not the fire. I suggest starting with a lighter. Another option is to light the alcohol with a wand.”
As he described fire batons and how to make them, he swiped her ass with a rubbing-alcohol-soaked cotton ball. The sensation was cold, delicious, sending pleasure streaking though her. He made seductive S patterns on her skin. Taking his time, he described the most and least sensitive areas of the human body. He explained he would never ignite her tree, as scar tissue was the most vulnerable of all.
Tern’s lighter made a “shtick” sound.
The crowd pressed closer. He ignited her icy ass.
She was now on fire. The contrast between the cold and hot made her body sing with elation. Like a sensual rubdown. She loved fire play foreplay. The slightly sweet smell of the burning alcohol added to her sensations.
Next, he dabbed the bottoms of her feet with alcohol and lit them. Safe, relaxing, warm, and good. She sighed with contentment.
“I think she likes it,” he said.
After he fanned away the flames, he asked her to roll over. “I want to see your face when I ignite you, heart.”
She lay on her back. Seeing Tern above her, his eyes glinting in the torchlight, blasted her with need. She wanted him to fuck her, not flame her. Had they been alone on the dais, she would have begged him to pound into her. She squirmed, uncomfortable, weighed down by the erotic strain.
He tucked her braids above and behind her head. “The front of the female body has lovely lumps and bumps and super delicate areas. The nipples, for example, should not be flamed.”
He gave her erect nipples a tug. Lust boiled between her thighs. She nearly came. But she didn’t want to have an orgasm in front of all those people. Biting her lower lip, she whimpered.
Every once in a while it was hard to be Tern’s submissive.
“The body also has many cracks and crevasses. I suggest you don’t do fire play in the front, until you are more experienced. I’ll show you one reason why.”
With one hand on her naked hip, he poured alcohol on her stomach. He pointed out how the accelerant had pooled in her belly button, creating a dangerous situation if lit. He soaked away the excess with a dry cotton ball. Next, he dabbed her front with the accelerant, from collarbone to waist, concentrating on her heavy breasts but avoiding her nipples.
She shivered from the sudden cold, and shut her eyes.
“This time I’ll be using a fire baton,” he said to the crowd.
He brought the lit wand above her face. She could see the glow through her eyelids, feel the heat on her cheeks.
“Open your eyes and look at me,” he commanded.
She complied, hypnotized by the fire.
He waved the baton high above his head and then lowered it to ignite her belly. Waves of blue flames jumped and danced, cavorting up from her waist to her breasts. Her core was bathed in fire.
Her world narrowed.
There were now only three living entities in the room. Her man. Herself. And the fire. Tern controlled them all.
The kiss of flames was sensual and thrilling. Her pelvis thrummed with tension. Seeing his quietly sober face through the fire mesmerized her. She’d do anything to please him. Anything.
As the flames subsided on her skin, he abruptly shoved her legs apart, spreading her pussy lips open. He shoved the lit baton inside her. The baton sizzled, her juices snuffing out the fire.
A searing climax took her. Spasming around the wand, she cried out. Slowly, oh so slowly, Tern pulled out the baton, sending her into another series of convulsions.
He rested his rough hand on her chest, bending over to give her a soft kiss.
“Tern,” she whispered, overwhelmed.
The real world crowded into Jill’s consciousness. She was at Hell Mary’s. There were people there. An audience had watched her being ignited. She flinched from the sudden awareness. They’d even heard her announce her orgasm. Her face burned with embarrassment. She half swallowed a sob. She was a private player, not an attention whore.
Tern straightened. “Thank you for attending the demo. If you’ll show yourselves out, I’m going to focus on my wife.”
They were leaving now, shuffling away.
“Don’t cry, heart,” Tern said. “I know you don’t like to play in public. I know it costs you. And I appreciate it.” He helped her up to sit. “I’m so proud of the way you’re relaxed around fire. How you show me such trust. It’s important to let people see fire play done right. And you do it right.”
He opened a water bottle for her. As she sipped, he inspected every square inch of her body for injury. He continued to praise her.
The humiliation of public play slowly receded.
* * * *
It was dusk when Tern and Jill headed back home from the club. They strolled slowly, holding hands. A perfumed early summer breeze ruffled her braid. She always felt peaceful and depleted after a session with him.
Their life together was nearly perfect. When they weren’t living at their San Francisco home base, they traveled the world, fearless and open-minded—and still in love after ten years.
Home was a run-down Queen Anne Victorian in Lower Pacific Heights. Jill’s Aunt Alice had left it to her. Like Aunt Alice, the house was a bit shabby but had a remarkable and rich interior life.
Someone was outside their house.
A red Mercedes was parked in front. A gray-haired man paced beside the car, cell fixed to his ear. A real estate agent, probably. Agents were constantly knocking at their door, trying to get them to list the house. Properties in their neighborhood were going for a lot of money.
