by Jane Henry
He'd promised to hook her up with a dom!
His brother would kick his ass. Or, at least he'd cause severe pain while trying.
What had he been fucking thinking?
Matteo sighed as they pulled into the parking lot of Inked.
When he'd come home from his last deployment, he'd been invited to temp at a tattoo parlor with his friend, Slay. Slay and Matteo had shared certain... tastes, they liked to say. The same taste in women. Same tastes in how they spent their free time when they were deployed. And Slay knew from the ample time they'd shared with one another that Matteo was an artist, gifted in graphic design. One night, when the two of them were grabbing a few cold ones at a small pub in Germany, Matteo had been doodling on a napkin.
"This shit's amazing," Slay said. "Matt, when you come back home with me, I'm bringing you to my brother. He's got a place near Boston. Tattoo joint. He's leasing private chairs and we can get in."
Six months later, on American soil, Matteo had needed little persuasion. Slay's brother helped him earn his spurs. Three years after arriving home, Matteo had an impressive portfolio, an apprenticeship under his belt, then a license, and one year after that, he'd spread his wings and rented out a private section of the studio with Slay. Slay worked a few nights a week as a bouncer at Black Box in the evening, his shift starting at ten, and though Matteo rarely saw him much in the club scene, they still ran into each other often during the day and managed to keep in touch.
Slay was the one who'd help him extract Hillary. Six foot four inches of pure, solid muscle, he was a force to be reckoned with, and though Black Box was known for deviant acts and drawing a seriously kinky crowd, Slay only worked there professionally, keeping his own personal life impeccable. Matteo knew he took his job as a sort of act of duty; his job as bouncer kept Black Box cleaner.
"You comin' in?" he asked Dom. Dom shook his head, his fingers flashing on his phone.
"Nah," he said. "Gotta send a few work emails. You gonna be long? We have an appointment at the tux place at six."
Matteo shook his head. "Five minutes," he said.
He left Dom in the car and entered Inked. Slay was intent on finishing a shoulder tat on a middle-aged guy with a beer gut and a sleeveless shirt. The guy's face was impassive, as he stared straight ahead, the only sound in the studio the steady buzz of Slay's tool. Slay's eyes met Matteo's as the door jangled, and Slay gave the slightest chin lift in greeting, not moving his hand as he put the finishing touches on his work.
"Be right with ya, Matt," Slay said, his deep, raspy voice carrying across the quiet room. Slay was taller than Matteo, heavier, having gained some weight after returning home from his deployment. He was bald, clean-shaven, had a chiseled jaw that was often clenched, and heavy, dark brows over dark eyes, and silver rings in his ears. He'd grown up on the streets of New York City, and was the toughest guy in a street brawl Matteo had ever met. He was also a dominant, though he never mixed business with pleasure and always met his submissives outside of Black Box.
Slay sat up. "You're all done," he said, wiping an alcohol swab over the man's arm and holding up a mirror for him to see. "You like it?"
The man nodded and grunted. "The Old Lady picked it out," he said. "She'll like it."
Slay nodded, not smiling, but Matteo knew him well enough he could tell he was pleased. Slay took pride in his work.
The man stood and shoved cash in Slay's hand before he shook it, and headed out of the shop, giving Matteo a chin lift on his way out.
"I've got your stuff," Slay said to Matteo, standing and stretching. Matteo followed him to the small break room in the back, a room so tiny it was almost a closet, complete with a small round table, a coffeemaker, and little else. He picked up a small, black plastic bag and handed it to Matteo.
"Thanks, man," Matteo said. As an employee of Black Box, Slay had the opportunity to order equipment wholesale, so Matteo had placed an order. He wanted his own tools and equipment when he went to The Club tonight. Opening the bag, Matteo pulled out a small, silky mask—that would do perfectly—and a stout, burgundy leather strap. There were other tools he'd have at his disposal—paddles, cuffs, whips and canes—but he liked the strap. It was easy to hold, folded under his arm, or looped on his belt, and a quick snap of it could be used to garner attention when necessary.
It was also fucking sexy.
"You working tonight?" he asked Slay. Slay shook his head.
"Nah, I've got the weekend shift," he said. "Got tonight off, so I might see you at The Club." Unlike Black Box, The Club—simply named just that, The Club—was where doms like Slay liked to meet women. The Club was gentler, though still heavily invested in BDSM, with stricter rules, and tended to draw a younger, less experienced crowd than Black Box.
Matteo would be on as substitute Dungeon Master. Thursday evening's Dungeon Master injured himself, and Matteo was the one who filled in when a Dungeon Master called in sick.
"Yeah, I'm subbing for the DM tonight," Matteo said. "Broke his arm in a biking accident."
Slay shook his head with a slight twitch of the lips. "Shame," he growled. "But a dom needs his fucking arm."
Matteo snickered. "Damn right."
On his way out, he thought about where he was going, and who he'd see. He groaned. He couldn't avoid Hillary anymore, and what if she asked him about finding her a dom?
He'd promised her. And he always kept his word. He looked through the glass door to where Dom sat waiting in the car. He sighed. Damn it. It wouldn't be exactly going behind Dom's back. It wasn't even really wrong. Not like he was getting in bed with her.
He'd put it off long enough, and couldn't put it off much longer.
And who would be better to dom Hillary than Slay, the man Matteo worked with, military brother? Matteo had been with Slay long enough to know he knew his shit and he wouldn't hurt her.
"Hey, man," he said to Slay. "I gotta talk to you before I run. You got a minute?"
* * *
Cruel and unusual punishment.
Somewhere up there, someone had it in for him. It was really the only plausible explanation.
First, the discussion about introducing Slay to Hillary. He'd wanted to bite his own fucking tongue off, but he'd told her he would help her out, and he had to do something to get her to stop wanting to be with him. Maybe if Slay gave her what she needed, he and Hillary could go back to being... friends.
Had they ever just been friends?
Then, the tux gig. God, he hated trying on formal attire, and Heidi had given Dom some suggestions. Dom didn't know his ass from his elbow when it came to picking out tuxes, and the best Matteo could offer was a jeering recommendation that they go with the old-fashioned ones with top hats and tails, because the accessories with that ensemble included a cane. The accessories appealed to Matteo, for obvious reasons.
Dom nixed that idea.
"Heidi would blush the entire time, and we'd never get anything done," he said, shaking his head with a wicked gleam in his eye.
Matteo could only imagine what it was about a cane that would make her blush, but whatever. He was useless in the tux department. So they were dressed up, and the sales person, an older, matronly lady with graying hair and bushy eyebrows, fussed and primped, murmuring how handsome they looked in gray and how nice their trim waists looked with these cummerbunds or vests.
Torture. Pure torture. And it only got worse.
After that particular form of torture, Heidi had texted Dom and Dom had dragged him to the other end of the mall where, unbeknownst to him, Hillary was trying on dresses. There was a small, privately-owned dress shop that specialized in one-of-a-kind formal gowns. Dom told Matteo that Heidi and Hillary's mom had given Heidi a blank check and told her she would buy both Heidi's gown and Hillary's. The girls wanted Dom and Matteo's opinions.
So there he stood when Hillary walked out of the dressing room.
When her eyes met his, he expected her to look angry, as she'd grown withdrawn the
past few months, and who could blame her if she was pissed off at him now? He'd be pissed off with himself. He'd made her a promise, then completely ignored her. But she didn't look angry. She looked... apologetic?
And fucking gorgeous.
She stepped out to where there were benches in the waiting area outside the dressing room in the little shop. The dress looked somehow soft and shimmery, and though he didn't know the material, he did know it begged to be touched. The color of spun gold, strapless, banded around her small but curvy torso, with an accent band around her slim waist, the hem hitting just above her knees.
Heidi had taken Dom to the other side of the store to see a tiara that she loved, and Matteo and Hillary stood silently, gazing at one another. She took a step toward him, shyly tucking her hands behind her back, one foot behind the other as if she were prepared to curtsy.
"Do you like it?" she murmured, her eyes focused steadily on him, pleading.
Like it?
He could not stop himself. How could he? He wanted to gather her in his arms and kiss the flush of her cheeks, feel the softness of her dress as he stripped it away...
Smiling softly, he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She bit her lip and her breath caught as he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.
"Gorgeous," he murmured, intentionally making sure she didn't know if he referred to the dress or to her.
The dress was nice, of course.
But she was gorgeous.
They heard Heidi and Dom approaching, and both immediately pulled away and stood straighter, Hillary pretending to look at the shoes lined up on shelves on the wall behind her.
"Hey, Hill, that's a pretty dress!" Dom said, and Matteo wanted to deck him.
Pretty?
Dress?
"I totally think you should get it!" Heidi said, clapping her hands together, and as they discussed shoes and accessories and all that shit, the moment was gone, whisked away by frivolities and duty.
Thank God.
She bought the dress, and Dom drove them all to Roadhouse, their favorite burger joint, Heidi sitting shotgun, Hillary and Matteo sitting in the backseat, so far apart from one another they were each flush against the doors on either side.
Matteo picked up his phone and texted her.
Her phone beeped and when she read it was from him, she stifled a giggle.
What's up? She texted.
Remember I made you a promise at Cara?
Yeah. I remember. I thought you were the one who hadn't.
Well, that stung, but he deserved it.
Nah, babe. I've been working on it. Working on it. Yeah, he'd been working on it, going through every single dom he knew, every single dom possibility, and systematically discarding each one in turn as wrong for Hillary.
And the next words he typed just about killed him, but he had to. For her. He inhaled.
So, I found you a dom.
He expected her eyes to light up, or at least a smile to flit across her face, but she remained impassive. What the hell?
Yeah?
Yeah. Guy named Slay. You met him the night I got you out of Black Box. Served in the Marines with me. Experienced. Tough, big guy, but a good one.
She put her phone down and her eyes met his across the car. They didn't speak for a minute and he raised his eyebrows. He'd rather cut off his left nut than let her be dommed by some other guy, and this was killing him. Didn't she know this was killing him? Then why was her chin thrust in the air and her eyes flashing at him? Jesus. She looked back at her phone and her fingers flew.
He jumped as his phone buzzed. That was quick. He read her message.
Thanks. Think he can handle me?
Handle her? He pursed his lips. He'd done his job, gotten her a dom, and now he was done.
Yeah. He's got experience handling fairies, Tink.
He stifled a groan as her leg shot out and she kicked his shin. He glared at her and typed so fast, he had to erase and rewrite his message four times.
You are SO LUCKY you are not mine or you wouldn't sit FOR A WEEK!
She looked smug, the little brat. His phone buzzed one more time.
Well, then. Since you can't SPANK my ass you can KISS my ass.
He looked at her through eyes so narrow they were little more than slits as he shut his phone off and shoved it in his pocket.
He'd give her Slay's number, and be done with it, but she'd have to behave herself first.
Chapter Three
Hillary hitched her purse strap higher on her shoulder. She quickly looked down at the text message on her phone and then back up at the nondescript brownstone with its sedate-looking first floor bar. 826 Queensborough. This was the place. "The Club." Supposedly. She wasn't sure exactly what she had expected a BDSM club to look like, but her imagination probably would've run more to neon signs and black leather, rather than a quiet, upscale neighborhood of homes and restaurants.
She frowned, wishing for the first time that she had agreed to let Slay pick her up at her place. It had been clear from his texts that he hadn't been keen on the idea of meeting her here, of letting her arrive here alone, but it had been weirdly important to her to get here under her own power. Proof that she was a big girl, capable of handling her dates on her own, even if she had agreed to let Matt set her up. Proof that she was a competent, independent woman, albeit one who happened to be here to meet a dominant and maybe become his submissive.
Plus, letting him come to her apartment presented other logistical challenges, like fact that her super-protective big sister and almost-brother-in-law lived practically next door, in Dom's apartment, while she lived just across the alley, in Heidi's old place.
Reason 477,522 that I need to finish writing my damn novel and move out of Heidi's apartment, she reminded herself.
So, what now? Text Slay? Head into the bar? Either was preferable to standing on the sidewalk propping up the streetlight for the rest of the night.
As Hillary bit her lip in indecision, the door to the bar opened, spilling out a low stream of rock music and a pair of patrons. The woman of the pair was already leaning against the man drunkenly, despite the fact that it wasn't quite 7:00 PM and the sun hadn't fully set. Hillary gave the woman a polite smile, and the woman winked and grinned lasciviously, earning her a frown from her companion. As they passed Hillary, the man reached down and smacked the woman's bottom firmly.
"Behave," he commanded her in a low voice.
Oh.
Well, then.
This was the place.
Without giving herself a chance to think about it further, she walked down the three stone steps to the entrance, and pulled open the door.
It was much smaller than she had imagined. A bar bordered by leather stools ran along the entire front wall of the narrow space, and there were a few round tables and chairs against the back wall, but all were unoccupied. Two men talking in low voices flanked a doorway at the back corner of the room, while a pretty bartender wiped the gleaming bar top.
No Slay anywhere.
This was The Club? The place where Matteo spent all his free time? For God's sake, why?
Hillary hitched her purse strap up again, fighting the urge to just walk out and go home. This was all Matteo's fault. She hadn't spoken to him since the day they'd met at the mall and he'd finally, grudgingly, given her Slay's number. If he hadn't forced her hand the other day by bringing up this stupid matchmaking business when she'd thought they were having a moment, if he hadn't been all charming and heartbreakingly kind to her the night of the engagement party, if he had just wanted her the way she wanted him….
But he didn't.
And she had to stop thinking about this shit.
So… Okay, fine. She was going to respect his wishes. She was going to give this date a serious shot. She'd wait for Slay.
"Uh, hi," she said to the bartender. "Could I please have a beer? Sam Adams?"
The bartender, who seemed barely old enou
gh to drink, flicked her long, blonde ponytail and looked at Hillary curiously. "Uh… Sure, I guess. Yeah. ID?"
Hillary dug through her purse and produced her license, while the bartender grabbed a beer from the cooler behind her.
"So," she said, nodding at Hillary's license as she set the bottle on a small white napkin. "You're waiting for someone?"
Wow. Was it that obvious?
"Yeah. A… guy," Hillary said. She forced herself to stop fidgeting with her stupid purse strap.
The bartender smiled and nodded again, like this was to be expected. "He know you're here?"
"Who, the guy? No. Not yet. I mean, Slay knows he's meeting me, but I didn't text him when I got here. Maybe I should?"
"S-Slay? You're meeting Slay?" The blonde's smile fell.
"Yeah?" Hillary agreed, confused. "You know him?"
"Oh. No. Nope. I mean…" She looked flustered and Hillary felt a pang of sympathy. "Yeah, but not really. Just… you know, from when he comes in. I, uh, I've just never seen him bring in a guest before. Until you."
She appraised Hillary over the top of the bar, taking in everything from the pastel-colored tips of Hillary's hair to the short, clingy purple dress that cinched at Hillary's waist. The woman frowned, glancing down at her own plain t-shirt and skirt. Then she seemed to remember herself.
"Oh, I'm Alice," she told Hillary, offering her hand.
"Hillary," Hillary said, clasping her hand firmly.
Alice nodded and smiled in a half-hearted way. "Well, Slay's already here. I-I mean, I think I might have seen him come in," she said. And Hillary could swear she saw the other woman blush.
"Hey, Donnie!" Alice called. The taller of the two men in the back looked up. "Tell Slay his guest is here?" The man nodded and disappeared through the door.
"They can't let you into The Club on your own if you're not a member, but he'll find Slay for you," she explained to Hillary.
