by Tawny Taylor
Slave of Duty
Tawny Taylor
Detective Matt Deaton is hot on the trail of a sadistic serial killer. Convinced the murderer is a Dom, Matt goes to a bondage club to investigate D/s. But his interview of the sexy, commanding Master Stahl takes an unexpected turn, and before Matt realizes what’s happening, he’s agreed to one night of no-holds-barred bondage play at his lakeside cottage.
Things don’t go the way either Matt or his new Master expect. While the few hours of intense erotic pleasure they share give Matt a glimpse into the mind of the savage killer—whom he’s determined to stop, at all costs—the unfettered passion it unleashes exposes a danger far more treacherous…to them both.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Slave of Duty
ISBN 9781419933776
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Slave of Duty Copyright © 2011 Tawny Taylor
Edited by Grace Bradley
Cover art by Syneca
Electronic book publication April 2011
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Slave of Duty
Tawny Taylor
Chapter One
Matt Deaton had witnessed his share of death. He’d seen the end results of shooting, stabbing, beating, strangulation, drowning…just about any conceivable way a human being’s life could be violently ended. But this scene was, by far, the most horrific. He wasn’t surprised when yet another uniform staggered outside with a hand over his mouth. Between the stench, the blood coating almost every horizontal and vertical surface in the room and the sight of the freshly dismembered corpse—each piece positioned to create the most macabre effect—his stomach wasn’t okay either.
“Deaton, what the hell are you doing here?” Ann Rowley, one of Matt’s closest friends, and one of Ann Arbor PD’s most respected detectives, clapped Matt on the back. “You can’t stay away, can you?”
“No.” Matt squatted to get a closer look at the blood spatter on a wall behind the victim.
Rowley moved to the side to make room for a member of the crime scene unit to snap some shots of the victim. She pulled Matt back. “You know, I gotta tell you to leave.”
“Yeah.” Shrugging away from Rowley, Matt moved to the opposite side of the room. Thoughts were whirring through his mind as his eyes, ears and nose registered each miniscule detail. He was energized, his body pumped full of adrenaline, his senses sharp, his mind focused. Who? Where? When? Why? Those were the answers he needed to find. “The killer struck the victim from this position.”
“Yeah, okay. We know. It’s some sick sadistic sonofabitch.” Rowley stepped between Matt and the victim. “Deaton.”
“Come on, Row. You know why I’m here.” Matt tried to sidestep the other detective, a woman he’d worked with for over ten years. If anyone understood why he needed to get a good look at this scene, Rowley did. “It’s the same MO. The victim was killed by asphyxiation, the ligature marks on the neck indicate he used the same type of cording, and then there’s the dismemberment and placement of the body. Same victimology too. This victim was in his late twenties, possibly gay, and active in BDSM circles. This case is tied to mine. I think it’s a Dom—”
“Yeah, a Dom. Got that. But it isn’t your case anymore.” Rowley stood her ground, though her expression softened slightly. “It was reassigned. And you’re on leave.” She set a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Go home. Get some rest so you can come back in a couple of weeks and do your job as good as you have for the last twenty years. Before…” She didn’t finish the sentence.
Matt finished it for her. “Before I shot the FBI’s fucking undercover agent.” Matt was tired of this shit. Here he’d done his job, and he was being punished. Any cop would’ve done the same thing. “You know it was a good kill.”
“I know.” Rowley didn’t sound sure. She was doubting him?
“Fuck.” This was bullshit. Matt shoved past Rowley, his teeth clenched so tightly it felt as if his jaw might snap.
“Deaton,” Rowley called after him as he dodged around crime scene investigators, uniforms securing the scene and, outside, curious neighbors snapping pictures with their phones.
He wanted to say fuck it all to Rowley, to all of them, and walk away forever. After living this job for two fucking decades, giving them everything he was and everything he had, bringing down dozens of felons, this was the thanks he got?
He climbed into his truck and jerked the key in the ignition. The vehicle roared down the suburban street, the low rumble of its motor echoing off the modest brick and vinyl ranches lining the two-lane road. He turned onto Plymouth, heading west. But at the first driveway he jerked the wheel, sending his truck lurching into a small strip mall’s parking lot. His hand shook as he slammed the gearshift into park.
His head fell back against the headrest and he closed his eyes.
He’d been officially chased out of a crime scene.
He couldn’t work his case.
What the fuck was he going to do?
Immediately his mind went back to his case anyway. He’d been working this one for months, diligently, steadfastly, even though most of the leads had gone nowhere and the trail was getting cold, fast. There was a reason why the boys at the AAPD had called him Bulldog since he’d made detective.
But now he couldn’t follow a hot lead if it fell in his lap. And, in his opinion, one had.
He had no doubt that this latest killing was tied to the others. The sonofabitch was still on the hunt. And there was no way in hell he was going to be stopped if the AAPD didn’t put their best on the case.
He mentally ran through the facts. There’d now been three deaths, all men in their late twenties, all allegedly gay—there hadn’t been time to confirm the sexual orientation of the latest victim yet. All three were active in local BDSM and/or alternative lifestyle circles.
But that was where the similarities ended. The first victim had been the son of an affluent attorney, born with a silver spoon up his ass. The second had worked at a local Joe’s Quickie Oil Change, living in nearby Ypsilanti—home to a hospital, a topless bar and dozens of trailer parks bursting at the seams with neglected, sad-eyed kids. And the third had been a medical student at the University of Michigan who’d grown up in a middle-class suburb not far from Ann Arbor.
The common thread was the victims’ lifestyle. There could be no doubt anymore. His guess was that they’d all run across the same psychotic sadist, hiding behind the mask of a Dom.
He had to keep going. Keep searching for the pieces. But he had to do it without anyone noticing. How?
Glad he’d made a practice of making
copies of his case files, he reached back and scooped up the file, looking for something, anything, he could follow up without being noticed.
There was the club…The Den.
He’d joined The Den, a private bondage and fetish club, a few years ago while he’d been working another case. After he’d wrapped up that one, bringing down one of the most dangerous killers he’d ever come across, he renewed his membership. And he’d done so every October first since. But he hadn’t stepped foot in the place. Not once.
There’d been no reason to. Until now.
Matt checked the time. The Den didn’t open until six p.m. That left him just enough time to go home, get a shower, change his clothes and grab something to eat.
His mind set, his course selected, he motored home and followed through with his preparations. But as the time to go drew nearer, he became more uneasy. He didn’t know why.
Reminding himself why he was heading to The Den, he steered his car onto the freeway. He hit a few pockets of rush-hour traffic on the way over, arriving almost a quarter after six. Ignoring his twitchy nerves, he shoved a pen and small notebook in his pocket and headed inside.
At the front desk, he signed in and asked the receptionist, a well-dressed male in his early twenties, if Ben Amsler was in. Amsler was not just one of the club’s managers, but also a respected and longstanding member who valued the safety of the other members above all else. If it hadn’t been for his help on the Robinson case, his killer would still be walking the streets.
The receptionist gave Matt an appraising look. His lips curled up at the corners slightly. “Sure. He’s in the main dungeon.”
“Thanks.” Matt strolled through the door at the back of the reception area, stepping into the dimly lit, large, open dungeon.
It was set up similarly to Matt’s favorite gym, a variety of apparatuses dotting the landscape. The only difference—instead of weight benches, pulley machines and leg presses, there were benches, horses, crosses and cages scattered around the room. A walkway and area for bystanders circled the perimeter. Already, only a few minutes after the club had opened, a group had gathered at one end where a threesome of men was just getting started.
One of them was Amsler, who had been given the title Master Stahl by the membership many years ago. It was clear why he’d received such an honor.
After taking a brief glance around, hoping he wouldn’t find any familiar faces, Matt took a couple steps back and leaned against the wall to watch and wait.
Amsler was standing behind the two men. One of them, roughly mid-thirties, athletic with a crew cut, was bent over a kneeler, facing the wall. The other, slightly younger, maybe, with shaggy blond hair and a surfer’s tan, was at one side, watching as Amsler demonstrated the proper flogging technique on the sub.
The flogger struck the sub’s buttocks and Matt’s gaze locked in on his face.
There was the briefest expression of pain, followed by a look of utter rapture. At the sound of a second strike, a tiny rivulet of heat trickled through Matt’s body. Their gazes tangled. His breath caught in his throat. The submissive’s expression intensified as he was struck a third time and Matt’s chest warmed. His balls tightened. He shifted positions, noticing the submissive’s large erection pressing against a black G-string.
Matt’s cock hardened. His balls tightened more. He was getting hard watching this.
Unsure of how he felt about his reaction, he jerked his gaze away. But the heat burning in his blood only increased as the sound of the submissive’s moans of pleasure filled the room. Matt stuffed his hands in his pockets. He wanted to cup his balls, to wrap his fingers around his cock and stroke away the ache building between his legs. He wanted to, but he wouldn’t, couldn’t. Not here. Not now. He was on the job.
The sounds stopped. Breathless, he stole a glance at the scene and met Amsler’s gaze. Amsler acknowledged him with the slightest tip of the head. Matt returned the greeting in kind. Amsler spoke with the two men then started toward him.
An unexpected and unwelcome surge of sensual energy swept through Matt’s body.
Dammit, where was this coming from?
“Hey,” Amsler said, offering a hand. “Detective Deaton. Good to see you again.”
“Good to see you too.” Matt accepted the proffered hand, gave it a shake, then motioned toward the corridor leading to the private rooms at the rear of the building. “Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure.” Amsler indicated Matt should follow him. They went to the same room they’d last met in. Amsler closed the door, made himself comfortable on the large leather couch that stretched the length of one wall. “So, what’s up?”
“I’m working on another case.”
The Dom’s expression darkened for a fraction of a moment. “Damn, I thought you’d come for more personal reasons.”
Matt’s face became an instant inferno. “No, not this time. Sorry.”
Amsler merely nodded.
“It’s another murder case. Did you know Seth Wright?”
Amsler set an ankle on his opposite knee and flung an arm over the back of the couch. “Sure. I’ve scened with him once or twice. Is he your victim or your suspect?”
“Victim.”
“Damn. Good kid.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Not much. He hasn’t been coming here long. Came by himself every time. Never scened with the same Dom twice. Of course, we have paperwork on him, if you need. Sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“No apologies necessary. I appreciate anything you can give me. If you think of anything else—”
“I’ll give you a call,” Amsler finished for him as they walked out into the narrow corridor.
“Thank you.”
There was an awkward moment of silence.
“Anything else?” the Dom asked.
“No.” Matt offered Amsler a hand. “Thanks again.”
They shook hands. But the Dom held on a little longer than normal.
“Tell me the truth,” Amsler said.
“About what?” Matt’s body tightened. His breath hitched in his throat.
“Tell me why you keep renewing your membership.” Amsler stepped closer, too close. Not close enough. Matt swallowed a deep breath, drawing in the Dom’s scent. Spicy, masculine, intoxicating. “The truth.”
“The truth is, I don’t know why,” Matt admitted, intentionally standing his ground. Amsler had never been aggressive like this before. Matt’s first instinct was to shove him back and tell him to fuck off. For some reason, he didn’t do it. Instead he leveled his gaze at the Dom. “But that doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does.” Amsler thrust his arms forward, slamming his hands against the wall behind Matt and caging his head.
“What the hell?” Acting upon instinct, Matt shoved the Dom away. “I’m not one of your subs.”
Undeterred, and wearing a look of iron-will determination, Amsler moved closer again. “I think you might want to be.”
“Fuck off. You don’t know a damn thing about me.” There was no way in hell Matt was going to run from this man. Fuck that. He’d stand his ground and let the Dom know he’d overstepped the line. Once again, Matt lunged forward, this time using his shoulder to send Amsler sailing back into the opposite wall.
“Nice shot.” Amsler straightened up, smiled. “I’ll help you figure it out.”
“Figure what out?” Matt’s fingers curled into tight fists. His heart was thumping heavily in his chest. He was angry. Or was he? A steady throbbing heat was blazing through his groin. His cock was lengthening. The image of Amsler charging him, cupping the back of his head and kissing him sparked a blaze in his blood.
“Help you figure out if you’re really a submissive or just think you are.” As if Amsler had read his mind, he stormed forward, struck Matt hard. Matt stumbled backward against the wall. Amsler curled his fingers into Matt’s hair and before Matt could say or do a damn thing, the Dom’s mouth had captured his.
The air left Matt’s lungs. His head spun. His legs went soft. His heart rate notched up to a deadly speed. He’d known for a long time that he was bi, but since college he’d stuck with dating women. It was safer. Especially considering what he did for a living.
But holy hell. What had he been missing?
The kiss was raw and hard and his balls were so fucking tight. He grabbed fists full of shirt and hauled Amsler closer, but the Dom jerked back.
“I’m the Dom here,” Amsler said. “I’m the one in control.”
Still dizzy from the kiss, Matt straightened, pushing off the wall, which had been supporting him. “I gotta go. Have a case—”
Amsler caught his arm. “Last chance. Do you want to know? Or don’t you?”
Matt didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure what to say. Did he want to know more about D/s? Didn’t he?
Yes.
No. This was a complication he didn’t need.
And yet…how long had he been wondering?
“Maybe,” he said, still not sure if he could go through with it.
“Maybe isn’t a word in my vocabulary. Yes? Or no?”
“Okay…”
“You will call me Master Stahl.” Amsler tipped his head toward the room they’d just left. “This way.”
Matt didn’t move. He couldn’t. “No, not now. Not here.”
“When? Where?”
Matt thought for a moment. Should he? Shouldn’t he? What if he was wrong? What if he didn’t like D/s? Worse yet, what if he did? His gaze tangled with Amsler’s and a furious wave of carnal heat blasted through his body. Holy hell. What the fuck? “I know a place. But it’s a couple hours from here. Can you get away for one night?”
Chapter Two
“This property has been in our family for generations.” Matt’s gaze swept across the isolated stretch of heaven-on-earth. The lake’s water, at this late hour the shade of a stormy night sky, was as still and smooth as polished stone. The trees on the opposite shore appeared as an uneven line of black blades poking into the cloudless summer evening sky. “My father’s grandfather won it in a card game. He won a lot of things in card games. I think I would’ve liked him.” He didn’t know why he was telling Ben Amsler—Master Stahl—this. Stahl didn’t care. Not about his family’s history. Not about him. Only about the agreement they’d made.
