What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 8)

by Sabrina York

  A soft knock at the door of her room signaled primping time over—show time. She sucked in a breath and followed Shannon out to the main room, forcing herself to recall the good memories and not let the one of Frank ruin it for her. Because a new reality hit then—she was big time, full-on, damp-pantied, hard-nippled, near-panting horny.

  Her autonomous nervous system took over, and she shivered in pleasant anticipation. She might get laid, after a bit of playtime, BDSM-style the likes of which she hated to admit—she missed. No one took security as seriously as Kyle. After the truth about Frank had finally emerged—that Kyle and his many layers of background checks and vetting had failed, letting a total faker into his club and into the life of one of his best customers—playing as a Dom at The Suite got harder than ever.

  She had registered under a pseudonym. Kyle honored her desire to remain completely anonymous, letting his manager, Shannon, handle the direct contact using the name she had provided without question. He trusted her motives, and she loved that about him. Even though she wanted to scope out potential new Doms for her stable at the Katrina loft not that far from this one.

  Shannon led her onto the stage and Sophie let her brain shut down, keeping her eyes downcast. She got to her knees when told to do so. Shoes appeared as the carefully chosen Doms presented themselves for the submissives to consider. The usual drill, and one that bored her some, gave her an inkling that the club scene might not be what she would do with Katrina’s. Her mind had already begun formulating different strategies, pondering a suburban location as a way to alleviate stress on her calendar and accommodate all the needy folks who wanted to be whipped, spanked, caned, shackled, and humiliated by total strangers in leather.

  A new set of shoes appeared and her neck moved of its own accord, earning her a swift yank of the chain attached to her collar. Her skin broke out in a cold sweat, then chills. Her poor, nearly-four-years-neglected body actually pulsed, throbbing as if being touched by the man looming over her, kissed by his lips, and bound by his hands. A tear slipped from under the mask when the men moved back. She crawled on all fours in one direction as if drawn by a homing device.

  When she stopped at his feet and he put a warm hand on her shoulder, she trembled, but this time with a jolt of desire that forced a groan from her, just under her breath. He helped her to her feet, frowning a little at the mask. But when he reached for it, to tug it off, she stopped him. Shannon appeared at his elbow and whispered in his ear, then shot her a sympathetic glance before disappearing into the gloom.

  His dark eyes narrowed, face clouded with a quick-tempered reaction she didn’t care for much. Then he nodded and led her out of the room, down the hall, and into a room lit with one candle. The St. Andrew’s Cross stood tall, beckoning her in ways she couldn’t comprehend.

  When he spoke, Brody’s words poured sweet, warm, Tennessee honey over her soul. “Now, let’s see what I can do for you, mystery woman….” He took off his coat and tie, standing there, perfect as ever, and studied her.

  Chapter Six

  Brody’s very brain burned. He was convinced that if he caught sight of a mirror, actual flames would be rising off his scalp. What a fan-fucking-tastic moment.

  The woman stood before him, face half covered by a mask he’d not liked at first, until he decided he did like it—because it gave her a mysterious aura, like a puzzle, his to solve. He sensed the lusty waves emanating from her as if he were a superhero, possessed of such ability. Lovely, creamy, rich-looking bare skin tempted him.

  He licked his lips, took a few steps toward her, and drew her hand to his mouth kissing it before leading her to the St. Andrew’s cross. Gently, he fastened her wrists, and let his fingertips trail down the underside of her arms, across the tops of her breasts, and to her waist. Then, lower, to her thighs, calves and ankles and finally he kissed the top of each of her feet that were encased in the best kind of fuck-me pumps—the shiny ones.

  He worked his slow, pleasant way back up, teasing the insides of her legs, just grazing the outside of a pair of black panties. He tingled from his head to his toes, but most especially right below his belt. Grinning, but holding back an odd sort of whooshing noise threatening to deafen him, he stepped away, loving how she writhed and tugged against her restraints.

  He’d never really taken time to observe a woman like this—a submissive who’d shown up at a club for this express purpose. Strange really, but the biggest turn-on he’d experienced in, well, his life, at least the part of it he remembered. He shook his head, not allowing any kind of stupid memory-witch—as he’d come to call the redhead who haunted him daily—ruin this for him. Nope. He wanted to go all out tonight and see how this Domination-thing really worked. No more spank-the-random-girl-while-he-fucked-her and Amber got to watch. He owned this shit.

  Mystery woman sighed, drawing attention back to his task. Forcing a go-slow approach in order to savor the sensation of her smooth, hot skin, he ran his fingers up her sides, across the tops of her breasts, her neck. Transfixed for a moment by the sight of the pulse beating in her long, lovely throat, he touched it. Leaned in and pressed his lips to it.

  The onrush of another memory almost left him collapsed in a heap at the bound woman’s feet. But he willed both of them to relax, stroking arms and shoulders while kissing his way up from where he’d started. When their mouths met and she allowed his tongue to probe and explore, his brain nearly exploded with a vision so clear and bright he whimpered. He cradled her face. Tasted the tang of her tears.

  Ripping his mouth from hers, he stepped away, unable to get his breath. Images rushed at him full force, blinding him even to the lovely woman in front of him. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, shivering uncontrollably.

  As quickly as they appeared, they vanished, snuffed out like a candle flame. His body roared into action, propelling him forward. He determined to do this, to be what the masked woman needed him to be. Not a weak, sniveling, whining, useless…

  No. Not tonight. He would not give in to her again.

  Dropping a hand onto the table that contained several instruments: a flogger, an alarming black leather bullwhip, clamps, a long stick, he gulped, finally choosing the only thing that seemed familiar. He trailed the flogger along her shoulders, breasts, smiling when she shivered, again, mesmerized by the pulse beat in her neck. She stayed quiet a long time—his mysterious treasure chest to unlock.

  Flicking her thighs and stomach with the soft leather, loving the small noises it drew from her throat, he watched as her creamy skin reddened under his attention. A raw, animal-like power rose in him and on its heels, lust so strong he wanted to come in his damn trousers. He touched his erection, pondering what in the hell he wanted anymore. What makes you think you can do this…thing?

  Clutching the flogger’s handle in a death grip while pain shot through him, he dropped to his heels against the wall. Pain bloomed in him, everywhere and nowhere. At once awful and wonderful, and on the heels of that, an anger so intense he gasped. Confusion warred with intent. Fury battled with remorse, all bracketed by a cavernous loneliness that made his chest ache.

  “Use it.”

  Brody looked up, startled by the sound of a female voice. The woman’s full lips parted, and she spoke again.

  “Use what you’re feeling right now. Don’t question it. Go with your gut.”

  He stepped up to his mystery woman, bound, spread, and at his mercy. Ran his hand up her arm to her neck, pondering how she understood his extreme tension. How her words prompted him to untie her and run away before he did something truly irreversible. Emotions he rejected burbled up to his surface, as he trembled with uncertainty, which pissed him off, and sent another shaft of strange pain and pleasure through his skull.

  “Who are you,” he whispered, licking his way up the long line of her neck. “I…I’m…not….” She exuded some sort of vibe that seemed to force him to his knees. To submit…to Her. The red headed devil woman—she was here in the room with
him.

  He touched a strand of her deep brown hair.

  No, not Her.

  He blinked as the anger he repressed daily colored his vision. This cunt who haunted his nightly attempts at sleep with her taunts and jabs and whips stood before him, at his fucking mercy.

  He tightened his hand on the bitch’s arm and grabbed the bullwhip from the table. Unfurling it with some kind of new-found skill, he grimaced as his body raced ahead while his mind resisted. He would be the boss in this room, and this bitch had to pay for making him so miserable. For using him and turning him into a whiny little boy when she…. The sound of the loud crack of the whip splitting the air frightened him…then spurred him forward.

  When her cry of pain ripped through his subconscious, he stopped. His vision blurred and returned to normal. He saw her then…his…submissive. The woman’s skin glowed red, bleeding in some places. He glimpsed his hand, white-knuckled on the whip’s handle. Sweat dripped into one eye.

  What just happened? He remembered nothing after picking up the whip and facing her, his enemy. His Mistress.

  He dropped the instrument with a cry, and stumbled back, tripping and falling to the floor. The horror of what he’d done to a complete stranger that his stupid, fucked-up brain convinced him to whip relentlessly hit him, bringing a rush of nausea. That woman, the redheaded bitch, held him hostage, body and soul when…. When?

  “Fuck! Shit. Goddamn it….” He pounded his forehead with a fist, as if that would force lurking, scrabbling memories just under the surface of his stubborn brain to the light of day. “Why can’t I remember anything?”

  A loud sob broke his concentration. He scrambled to his knees across from the bound, bleeding, and crying woman. Then half-crawled, half-ran to her, his fingers hovering over her damaged legs—damage he had caused in some kind of trance state. The word professor leapt to the forefront of his brain. Then the classroom appeared again as clear as day, her at the front, done up like a Dominatrix for a movie, all leather-clad, high-booted, masked, and sexy as hell. But for the words spilling from her bright red lips.

  You’re my bitch, Brody. My little toy. Mine. If I catch you ogling sorority sluts again, you will regret it for the rest of your stupid life, do you understand?

  He opened his mouth to speak to her, but before he uttered a word, she had him pinned beneath her. They were both naked. Except for a heavy leather collar that choked him every time he tried to take a full breath and a mask over his eyes. But he felt her, fucking him, taking what she wanted while he just…laid there and let her.

  She tugged the chain connecting the clamps to his nipples. “Oh baby! Now! Now, Brody!”

  He heard her yell as his cue. But for what?

  He tried to focus on the here and now. To help the poor, innocent person he’d whipped so hard, her ragged sobs filled their private room. He, Brody, had hurt her. He unlatched the wrist restraints, flipped open the ankle bonds.

  She collapsed into his arms calling him Robert over and over again. He went with his gut and picked her up, cradled her to his chest, making nonsense sounds he hoped were comforting.

  Phantom, long-forgotten pain, and a deep, toothache-like agony settled in his shoulder. The shoulder he had to have constantly manipulated by team therapists. She had done that. That bitch had restrained him for a day, a whole twenty-four-hour period, his arms yanked up over his head and fastened into cuffs that dangled from her ceiling. An entire day he hung there, punishment for flirting with a girl not His Mistress a hallway of…Vanderbilt. He gasped.

  The woman in his arms had her face buried in his neck, her arms around him. He held onto her, cursing his rock-hard cock, his stupid lizard brain that still wanted to fuck, even after all this. Something about the pain memory made him yearn for a connection. He glanced down at mystery woman’s legs, striped and horrible, thanks to him. He touched one of the ugly marks. She flinched but didn’t let him go.

  He tilted her face up, thumbed the mask, and pondered taking it off, but then she had her lips on his, kissing him so hard he lost track everything. He broke from her, puzzled but with a renewed focus, and reached for the bowl of condoms on the bedside table as she eased off her panties. She smiled, and took the foil packet from him, tossing it over his shoulder before leaning in to own his mouth again.

  Keeping their lips locked, he lifted her off his lap and down on to the soft, silky bed cover. “Who are you?” he asked when he was naked, between her legs, then inside her body.

  They cried out in unison when he stroked deep, as his entire existence coalesced around her. She shuddered and tightened around him, groaning as she climaxed.

  “Who are you,” he demanded again, propped up with one hand while reaching for her mask with the other. “Oh…” he sighed when she stopped him.

  “Come, Robert. Fill me…. Please…” she whispered.

  Her request triggered a reaction he’d never experienced. His face burned at a sudden bizarre flash of realization at who she must be. The release roared up from the depths of his soul, he moaned and obeyed her, tears dropping onto her skin. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sophie. I’m so, so sorry.” His voice rasped in his ears as he spoke, confusion and remorse and loss all forcing more tears. Sophie. Why had he used that name?

  “It’s okay.” She cradled him close, their bodies still connected, sweat slicking the space between them. “Robert.”

  She stroked his hair, and for the first time in his memory a one-hundred-percent sense of rightness suffused him. A sketchy thing, his memory, but he let it go and allowed it to just be.

  But she stirred, and he dropped down to his side just as she got up and retreated to the bathroom. “Don’t go. Please.”

  She shook her head, keeping her back to him then turned, and he saw a tear fall from under that stupid mask.

  And then she stood over him, re-dressed in dark jeans, black boots, and a silky blouse. His heart pounded. Something like abject terror made him want to run out of the room. But he stayed still, nothing he said or did mattering. Whoever she was, she’d come there to get what he gave her, nothing more or less. Embarrassment at his behavior rolled across him. He tried once more before he allowed the ugly side of him to rear up and take him over again.

  “Please?” he asked, holding out a hand.

  She hesitated, seemingly frozen at the sight of his outstretched palm. Then she shivered, and started to meet him halfway. Sick déjà vu washed over him—he’d seen her like this before.

  Their hands met. He tugged her, wanting her close, somehow knowing this as their move, their secret body language of…love? This was…them together. He wanted nothing so badly as to be with her.

  “Sophie,” he repeated.

  “No.” She yanked away. He stared at the door she slammed behind her then sat up, a nauseating pain holding his skull in a vise. He grabbed his phone still lying on top of the clothes in a heap at his feet. He didn’t even remember taking them off.

  “Come get me,” he groaned after hitting Amber’s speed dial.

  She appeared at the door in minutes, helped him get dressed, and led him out of the club. She’d accompanied him, agreeing to let him explore. All he wanted now was to sleep, perhaps never to wake again. A bone-deep loneliness suffused him. With something like desperation, he touched her arm, grateful, despite his overall misgivings about her as a person.

  “Thanks,” he muttered then remembered nothing else until she woke him and helped him upstairs to his bed.

  The balls came at him, the cleated players pounded around him, the crowd roared. Sweat blinded him. He was on a soccer pitch, no, the inside of a classroom, then in a random locker room familiar for so many years to him with its noise and stink. Then, the dark-paneled club, filled with attractive people seeking partners—strangers—to spank, and whip, and fuck in exchange for a few hundred bucks. Then…the game…the game…focus, you meathead.

  He flinched, his shoulder singing out in agony. The players rushed him, all wearing Her face,
her evil grin. That bitch of a professor at Vanderbilt who’d ruined him for anything like a normal relationship. Except for…Sophie. The name slammed him in the gut. She had been normal for him, special, wonderful. He had loved her.

  Blinking as the cool night breeze caressed his face and wound around his naked skin, he sensed his body’s readiness, the sharpness of his mind, as he crouched on the top of the balcony’s ledge. If he did not do this, he would go insane and take everything and everyone with him. The mostly deserted suburban street mocked him. His Mistress waited down there, smiling her horrible smile, her huge green eyes sharp with purpose.

  She unfurled her whip, the one he’d been a slave to for so long. Why? Why had he been drawn to such a manipulative person? Someone who hurt him then pleased him until he no longer understood how to experience pain or pleasure. Brody…Robert…Robert Joseph Vaughn.

  He shuddered. The mystery lady had called him that. Why had she and no one else called him by his true first name? He grimaced at the pain in his shoulder again. His arms were over his head. He clutched a metal railing, leaned out over the fancy landscaping, taking in the trees that would likely break his fall, along with his arms and legs. Pain blinded him—centered in his groin, his shoulder, and the back of his head. His dick was hard, in that sick correlation of pain/pleasure, driving him right around the bend. He did not understand. He hated it, hated himself and the girl sleeping in his bed. Right now, there seemed only one way to fix it.

  He put out a bare foot. Let it dangle in the air. He loosened his grip on the overhead railing, as gravity pulled him forward.

  The mystery woman had abandoned him, His Mistress had intervened and forced her away. He had nothing, wanted nothing, but an end to the round robin of sleepless nights, half memories of recent contentment tinged with older ones of abject misery disguised as happiness.