EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2017 Winter Sloane
ISBN: 978-1-77339-303-2
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: CA Clauson
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To my readers, I hope you enjoy reading about Sarah, Damon and Jared’s journey as much as I loved writing it.
To Evernight, who gave this stranded book a new home.
BOUND TO TWO
Winter Sloane
Copyright © 2017
Prologue
Past
It took one look from a chiseled face in a designer suit to unmake her. It was cliché, but true. Sarah Evans halted playing for a few seconds, her fingertips hovering over the piano keys. She pursed her lips uncertainly, hoping the elegant stranger would turn his attention elsewhere, but he didn’t. He continued staring at her, gaze burning like a brand on her skin. Sarah shivered for an unexplainable reason, and heard the sound of his deep masculine laugh cut across the chattering people at the tables.
He looked out of place in Randy’s bar—refined, polished, and impeccably dressed in his designer suit. He was so unlike the roughnecks that frequented the place. What was a man like him doing in a place like this?
As a pianist barely scraping by through gigs, Sarah had become used to being unnoticed. She rather liked being a pale ghost in the background, unseen and unremarkable, making music capable of drawing couples to the dance floor. Watching the world come to life behind the screen of her piano had been her dream. Something she could be content with, because she could make a living doing what she loved. What else could she ask for?
“Something wrong, sugar?” asked Randy, the bar owner.
Sarah shook her head and continued to play, although goose bumps rose on either side of her arms. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt the weight of the man’s gaze, latching onto her figure. He didn’t approach her until the end of her last set. By then, the crowd had thinned. Waitresses yawned, tossing aprons down, and the bartender began cleaning up.
“Good evening, Sarah.”
Startled he knew her name, she looked up, shocked when he tilted her chin, keeping her in place.
“Do I know you?” Sarah’s skin prickled with unease, with unexplainable excitement. The vibe this stranger sent out had been the same kind of energy the Doms at the local BDSM club she frequented exhibited.
“You don’t know me yet, but you will soon. I’m Michael Rivers.” He smiled, showing perfect white teeth. Michael released her chin and offered his hand.
A handshake. Simple. Sarah took his hand, surprised by the strength of his fingers.
“You play quite beautifully. You possess a rare talent, if I might add. Have you had any formal training?”
Sarah shook her head. She had been saving up to apply to the best music school in the city. Sad to say, it took longer than expected, even though she had two jobs. Piano gigs were good and all, but waitressing paid her rent, bills, and food.
If her mother saw her now, Lorreta Evans would’ve laughed in her face, told her she left home for nothing. Nothing but her pride intact maybe, but pride could easily be eroded away when desperation took its place. Sarah refused to take the fall, though. Hell would freeze over before she became a mirror image of her mother.
“Such a waste.” Michael took her hand off the keys, thumbing each finger.
She bit her lip when he began squeezing skin and bone. Sarah didn’t know what to say, or why she allowed a complete stranger to touch her. She’d always had a weakness for powerful men, but Michael seemed like a different league altogether. Lorreta always told her there were just some men a woman couldn’t say no to. Men she had to be careful with, or risk getting burned. Michael was one of them.
Sarah hadn’t been born naïve. She’d learned early to fend for herself, especially when her father left, and Loretta started bringing back customers to their one-room apartment.
“I need to go.” Sarah stood from her seat, began to pull away, but Michael’s hand closed on her wrist. He tightened his grip, and she let out a protesting sound. Thank God she wasn’t alone.
“Sarah, is this guy bothering you?” Randy demanded. He edged closer to them, an unfriendly expression on his face.
“I’m afraid I’ve lied to you, Sarah. I have seen you before, down at the club. You’re friends with James and Bobby, yes?”
The alarm bells beginning to ring in her head quieted. Sarah let out a sound of relief.
“It’s cool, Randy.”
Randy nodded curtly.
Sarah turned back to Michael. “You know James and Bobby?”
Michael studied her carefully, if a little sharply. “We’re acquainted, or rather, our families know each other. Are they your Doms?”
Sarah let out a laugh. She’d known Bobby and James a few months now, met them after her first master uncollared her. They took her under their wing, helped eased her into new scenes she’d never tried before, but they were more her mentors and occasional playmates than anything else.
Michael’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, fingernails digging into her skin. His handsome features seemed to contort, too, and he looked a lot less charming when anger crept in. If Sarah had been wise—wiser than all her eighteen years combined, she would’ve seen the signs.
“No, they aren’t. I currently don’t have a Dom. Not rushing to look for one either.”
Seemingly satisfied by her answer, Michael released her wrist. “Maybe you haven’t found the right one. Perhaps all you need is the right guidance, a real Dom to lead you to the right path.” Michael smiled and looked polished and perfect again. “Would you allow me to take you out to dinner sometime?”
Dinner sounded safe, Sarah decided. Michael hadn’t asked about playing at the club, although he made it clear he was interested in that, too. Bobby and James had been in the lifestyle for decades. Sarah usually asked them about potential tops who wanted to play with her before agreeing to a proposal. She might be young, but she wasn’t exactly a newbie. Maybe she could handle this one on her own.
Okay, maybe Michael was older, about Bobby and James’ age. He was also somewhat out of her league, but he seemed decent enough and, more importantly, safe if he ran in the same circles as Bobby and James.
“Dinner would be lovely.”
She squeaked when he gripped her face and brought her in to a kiss. When he released her, she was panting, and her heart threatened to explode inside her chest.
Jesus. Sarah couldn’t remember the last time any man ignited such a reaction from her. A little presumptuous of him to kiss her like that, but it was also dangerously exciting. His unpredictability could grow addictive, Sarah realized.
“Shall we then?” Not a suggestion, but a command. Michael offered his arm—quite the gentleman again.
Sarah admired his ability to switch roles, but, as she would soon find out, some of the best actors are monsters underneath.
Chapter One
Present
Damon Bentley checked his watch after he set a tall glass of beer in front of a customer. His brother and co-club owner, Jared, caught his eye from across the room. Jared shook his head in warning, but Damon had never really been the careful Bentley brother. He didn't plan his next moves, or bother with a
game plan.
Although he didn’t possess his brother’s polished looks or manners, Damon saw what he wanted. Took what he wanted. Period.
Right on cue, Sarah Evans walked into the club's private lounge. Her tense leather-clad shoulders relaxed at the club’s familiar atmosphere. Her eyes looked less guarded compared to the rare moments Damon spotted her outside the club from the security camera feed in the parking lot.
A tempting smile settled on her generous lips—an open invitation to any top that she wanted to play.
Young and jaded, damaged and mysterious, Sarah cast a pretty picture.
Entry into the Lance, the exclusive BDSM club owned and run by a group of self-made entrepreneurs and billionaires including the Bentley brothers and two other friends and shareholders, was by invitation only.
Legally, Sarah checked out. She had references from Bobby and James, a couple and long-time patrons of Lance, but something felt off about Sarah the moment Damon and Jared first saw her. Those eyes looked far too haunted for her young body—jaded, wary, and watchful. Sarah reminded Damon of an animal that had been injured before and was reluctant to trust again.
Was Sarah Evans even her real name, or a pseudonym she used? If she had secrets, Damon had every intention of unearthing them over time.
Most of the tops who had done public scenes with her over the past weeks confirmed Damon's suspicions. Her age made her practically a kid by community standards, but she was no virgin, not a wide-eyed sub new to the scene. Mere observation made it hard to narrow down what kind of play she favored.
The first time she came to the club, she let Bobby and James top her in a public, but low-key rigging scene. For her second visit, Sarah went with Mistress Jane, a Domme in Bobby and James’ circle, and took a number of hard implements in an intense scene most new subs wouldn’t do—her stamina impressive. An enigma with a hundred complicated layers Damon and Jared couldn’t wait to peel away.
“What will it be?” Damon asked, feigning indifference as she found a seat at the bar. On the way to him, Damon noted she had already politely refused two offers.
“The usual, please.”
“You got to give me more than that, sweetheart.”
This time, one dark eyebrow rose. Damon, in fact, knew her usual. She ordered the same thing over the past few weeks, or had tops pay for her drink. Damon had to admit Sarah knew how to play her cards. How to look at tops underneath lowered lashes, to appear vulnerable and desirable, and to speak softly, while occasionally biting down on her lower lip. A woman who knew the power of the illusion she cast. Whoever trained her, trained her well, but Damon saw right through the second skin she wore.
“Guinness, please.” Please.
Damon found himself intrigued by her manners. How at odds it was with her outside appearance—tight skinny jeans, boots, worn leather jacket, piercings, and ink.
Her attention moved elsewhere again, eyeing the other people in the lounge while she drummed her fingers on the counter. Bobby and James usually hovered protectively by Sarah, acting as back up, but tonight, Damon noticed Sarah came alone. Perfect.
“I need to see some ID,” Damon said in a firm voice.
Annoyance flashed across her face, but she kept her voice cool and polite. “I thought this part had been approved through the initial screening process.”
All true—the Lance employed stringent checks before letting anyone become a member—but Damon wanted to see what she would do. Sarah knew his brother Jared, since Bobby and James did the introductions weeks ago, but she didn’t know him. Bentley Industries might be a formidable heavyweight in the business sector, but Damon and Jared valued their privacy. Keeping a low profile from the media ensured they could fully enjoy their dark pleasures.
Would Sarah pick a fight and finally let Damon see some flicker of real emotion she hid so cleverly under her pretty mask?
“If you insist.” She sighed, conceding, and pulled out her wallet from her jeans.
Not looking at her, Damon picked up the driver’s license she placed on the counter. It looked genuine enough, and her birth date did place her at twenty-one. The young woman in the tiny picture looked distant, faraway.
Jesus. Twenty-one.
Damon hadn’t been this together when he was twenty-one. Didn’t know the first thing about the kind of desires he had fantasized about in the privacy of his bedroom. He had been a mess, would have still been a mess if Jared hadn’t offered him a partnership in his Internet start-up.
Jared had second thoughts about taking a young and obviously damaged sub like Sarah, but Damon hardly cared about their enormous age gap.
“If you insist, Sir,” he corrected. “All subs are supposed to call Doms by their proper titles while inside club walls.”
A quick flash of anger crossed her features. Damon barely caught it, but he did. He saw how easily she snuffed it out with a discipline of steel. What could possess a young woman to erect so many walls?
She tilted her head, looking at him curiously now. “Then I apologize, Sir.” She added the ‘sir’ like an afterthought. “I wasn’t aware you were also into the lifestyle.”
“Why would you presume that, sweet little sub?” Damon pulled out a Guinness for her, not bothering with a glass. He knew she drank it straight from the bottle.
She tipped the bottle back, took a sip before answering him. “James mentioned the club owners preferred hiring staff who weren’t into the lifestyle. It’s easier for them to focus on their jobs.”
“James is right, but bartending is sort of a hobby for me. It makes me less intimidating and more approachable compared to my brother Jared or Master Kent and Anthony.” Damon named the other club owners.
Sarah’s eyes widened slightly as the implication sunk in. He didn’t blame her. Once out of his designer suit, Damon looked more like an illegal cage fighter than the co-CEO of Bentley Industries. Well, he could never quite hide the old scars or bullet wounds he sustained in his past.
Damon handed back her ID. Felt her sudden change in breathing when he closed his fingers over hers to the point of pain. She flinched, as if steeling herself for a blow. The simple action told Damon volumes. Whoever hurt her before had hurt her bad. Damon didn’t know where all the anger came from, but it rushed over him like a wave, tinting his vision momentarily crimson.
Why the fuck am I acting so overprotective over a sub that isn’t even Jared’s or mine?
But, fuck, aside from Lisa, the live-in sub he shared with Jared before, no other woman had this effect on him. To avoid causing her distress, Damon loosened his grip, but didn’t let her hand go.
“What are you doing, Sir?” she asked hesitantly, her control unraveling slightly.
“Hush, little sub. The last thing I wish to do is hurt you,” he murmured.
Damon thumbed the fragile thread of black ivy climbing up each finger. He noticed she kept her fingernails trimmed and neat. More ink peered beneath her wrist, but Damon’s attention focused on her fingers. Slender and long, they reminded Damon of an artist’s fingers, or perhaps a musician, except…Damon frowned.
She tried pulling her hand back, but he spread out each digit, so every bend and crooked line stood out against the light. Damon let out a hiss under his breath.
Before being co-founder of Bentley Industries and the club, Damon had seen his fair share of shit and violence—out on the streets when he started as an illegal cage fighter, when he did serious time for five years, and finally in the middle of a war zone, where the rules that made up the civilized world became irrelevant.
Damon knew exactly what happened to her fingers. Someone had taken the time to break each one.
Come to think of it, he’d never seen her naked before. During play in public areas, she’d wear sexy lingerie or sexy leather corsets with matching stockings, but Damon knew, buried under her impressive ink, were old scars. This, though. Why hadn’t he noticed her hands before?
“Who did this to you?” he asked, voice low. S
he pulled her hand back successfully, looking shaken. Worse, she kept her lashes lowered, seemingly terrified of looking him in the eye again.
“I’m sorry. This is a bad idea.” Sensing her instinct for flight being triggered, Sarah practically leapt out of her seat.
Catching sight of Jared’s frown and approaching figure, Damon called out. “Jared, help me catch the fleeing sub.”
She bumped right into Jared’s broad chest, entire body tensing when he firmly caught her wrist.
“Easy there, little one. No harm will come to you, I promise,” Jared said in soothing tones. He gently banded one hand over her waist and began stroking her back up and down with lazy circles until she relaxed.
“Barrett, take over for me,” Damon told the dungeon monitor by the wall.
He threaded his way out from behind the bar and made his way to his brother. Jared gave him a questioning look, but Damon knew Jared trusted him enough to have his reasons. Certain Sarah retained her calm, Jared tilted her head upwards and then kissed her—slowly, deeply, and taking his time. The sight of them made Damon’s cock twitch in his jeans.
“You taste wonderfully sweet, little one. Take deep breaths. Good. Now could you tell me what triggered your panic, Sarah?” Jared asked, gently parting Sarah from him.
She blinked, flushed quite prettily, and then glanced at Jared then Damon. She took a hesitant, if polite step away from them. At least she didn’t run away.
“It’s nothing, Sir. A misunderstanding. I think I’ll head home,” she said, regaining composure.
Damon tipped her chin upwards. Genuine fire lit her vivid green eyes. “Don’t lie to us, Sarah. Didn’t you come to the club this evening looking for a playmate?”
“I’m afraid I changed my mind, Sir.”
Damon didn’t miss the petulant way she said ‘sir.’ He grinned. She bit her lower lip. Her slight flare of rebellion made her appear younger. Rendered her much easier to read and gave Damon some solace the bastard who abused her in the past hadn’t completely killed off her defiance.
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