Dangerously Broken

by Eden Bradley

  Don’t think about that part.

  But now he’d seen her naked, and temptation was brought to a whole new level. Temptation and ideas about the possibility of them being together that made his chest ache.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his head again.

  He pressed his fingers against his temples and then his eyes, where a steady pressure was building.

  That wasn’t the only place pressure was building.

  How the hell could he be so damn mad and so turned on at the same time? He should be used to this by now—that was how things had always been with Summer Grace. He’d chased her out of his bed—his sleeping bag, his tent, off the Rae’s family room couch—at least a dozen times over the years. Every time he’d gotten angry. Every time he’d had to deal with the raging hard-on of his life. But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—do that with her. Not her.

  But now he knew she was exploring kink at his club. If this turned out to be more than a one-time thing he would see her there again and again. They’d run into each other and he’d be forced to watch other people have what he’d denied himself. Watch Summer Grace submit to someone else. See her naked body—her beautiful naked body and that perfect heart-shaped ass growing gorgeously pink as she was spanked, paddled.

  He groaned, pressed his hand against the hard bulge in his jeans.

  “Down boy,” he murmured, his throat raw with need.

  He started the truck and pulled onto Magazine Street, gunning the engine, then braking for the summertime tourist traffic.

  “Fuck.”

  He needed to get the hell home. Needed to either get into his ’Vette and drive off this tension, or get into his bed or the shower or just inside the damn door of his flat so he could work it off properly—with a good, hard orgasm and then some good, hard drinking and swearing until he inevitably got hard again and the cycle repeated.

  He came to a red light and waited impatiently, then switched on the radio.

  All along it was a fever, a cold sweat hot-headed believer, Rihanna sang.

  He sure as hell had a fever. For her. If he’d ever tried to deny it before, it was impossible after tonight, when she’d stepped into his world and given herself over to it. Without him. He might have been strong enough to shrug off her youthful attempts at seduction, but whether she knew it or not, she’d just starred in his own personal forbidden fantasy.

  He was so screwed.

  The lyrics took a heavy emotional turn and he impatiently switched off the radio. It only made him think of that moment when their eyes had met in the dim light of the club. The electricity that went way beyond mere recognition. That forced him to face head-on the fact that he’d always wanted her, wanted her to belong to him.

  The light changed and he moved through the sluggish traffic, finally hanging a left on Canal Street and driving through the French Quarter proper, drumming his fingertips on the steering wheel.

  “Take care of her. Take care of Summer Grace if I’m not here to do it, Jamie. You have to promise me.”

  He’d never forget Brandon’s words. Never forget the oath he’d sworn to his best friend that day as the stark white walls of the hospital room seemed to close in on him. He wasn’t forgetting it now. Desire was not the same as taking action. But who the hell was going to protect her from everything and everyone else at The Bastille if he didn’t do it himself? It was the same damn situation Allie had wrangled Mick into. With his help, he had to admit. But this was different. Wasn’t it? He had a feeling Summer Grace hadn’t done this because of him.

  He’d seen the languorous lines of her body under that Domme’s hands. Had seen the way she responded to being hit with the leather paddle. She was right there, her body, her mind, committed to the moment. Oh yeah, she was all in. That wasn’t something anyone could fake. Even if she knew he was into kink—and if Allie had brought her to the club, he was pretty sure she’d known before they’d seen each other tonight—she was obviously there because it was what she wanted.

  Summer Grace. With the same dark desires he had himself.

  Which could lead her into some dangerous territory.

  He tried to shake off the thoughts about her in some other man’s hands. Being spanked. Flogged. Taken into subspace, where she would be vulnerable. The glossy blue of her eyes.

  “Damn it! You’re not thinking about her safety—you’re just hot for her!”

  His stiffening cock confirmed it. So did his hands, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles hurt as he silently berated himself. He sighed in relief when he finally found a parking spot right in front of the three-story building he’d bought last year. Painted in muted tones of sage green, brick red and ivory, the building was one of the newly remodeled Victorians in this neighborhood that was still recovering from Katrina. He was always glad to get home—the first home he’d ever owned, which was a point of pride—and now maybe more than ever, with need still pumping through his system like rocket fuel.

  He adjusted the tight bulge under his jeans and took a moment to be sure there was no one else around before jumping out of the truck and striding toward the front door. He fumbled with his keys for a moment, swearing under his breath. Then he was up the stairs to the third floor and in his living room. He tore his shirt over his head as he moved down the narrow hall to the bathroom, kicked his boots off as he hit the light switch. His jeans were next, the zipper catching for a moment on the hard ridge of his erection.

  “Fucking Goddamn it,” he muttered, not really caring except that it meant another second of delay before he could get his cock in his hand.

  He twisted the handles in the shower and stepped in while the water was still cold. Not that it helped. Not that he cared. He leaned back into the cool, green slate tiles and closed his eyes as he fisted his cock with a sigh.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s better.” Only it wasn’t. It wasn’t her. But it would have to fucking do tonight.

  The water warmed against his skin, and his mind swirled with pictures and memories of the girl whose image he’d come to maybe hundreds of times.

  Summer Grace in those too-short shorts and tiny halter tops she wore all summer long, her bare feet and pink-painted toes making her seem even more naked somehow. Her pink mouth that was always a little soft and pouty, even when she laughed—and never more than when she’d kissed him out of a deep sleep that night in his tent on one of the Rae family camping trips in Colorado.

  Jamie groaned at the memory of those plush lips pressed against his, sliding and seeking. Soft and warm and knowing. Jesus, the girl could kiss like crazy, even when she was barely fifteen, hardly more than a kid. And if he was perfectly honest with himself, he’d let it go on a few moments even after he realized he wasn’t dreaming.

  “Summer Grace, stop it.”

  “Why? I can feel it, you know, Jamie,” she whispered in the dark. “I can feel it against me. You want me.”

  “I was . . . I was sleeping and . . .”

  “And you got hard as soon as I climbed on top of you,” she finished smugly.

  It was then he realized he had his hands on her waist. So slender. Without meaning to, he gave her a squeeze before yanking his hands away. “That doesn’t mean anything. Come on, now. Get off me.”

  The little minx leaned in then and brushed her lips over his again and his cock nearly burst.

  “You don’t really want me to. Tell me the truth, Jamie. You want to kiss me. I know you do.”

  “No.”

  Yes.

  He had wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her now. Now. He wanted to feel those lips under his as he pressed her back against the shower wall. As he stripped her naked, pulled her legs up around his waist and plowed into her, his fingers digging into the flesh of her fine, tight ass, bringing a little pain along with the pleasure. He wanted to fuck her right through the wall
, to make her scream his name, to make her beg for more.

  “Ah!”

  He pumped his hips into his tightly fisted hand, sensation coursing through him, a hard pulse-beat of endless need. He pulled in a breath, thought he caught her familiar scent, like violets and rain.

  “God. Fucking. Damn it,” he ground out as he started to come.

  Pleasure tore through him—into his gut, his balls, his mind, leaving him breathless. And still aching for her.

  He pushed off the tiles and into the stream of water, letting it pound against his head.

  “Fuck it.”

  Summer Grace may be the one woman he was not supposed to have, but enough was enough. Because no matter how many others he’d been with—and he’d had more than his share, even if he kept it a bit more under the radar than Mick had before he got back together with Allie—it had always been Summer Grace. It always would be. Even as he’d stood in front of a judge and married Traci, it was Summer Grace who’d been on his mind, and not only because he’d felt bad about not telling her he was getting hitched. No. There was always more to it with Brandon’s little sister. He’d denied himself for twelve long years. How much was one man supposed to take? He’d been Saint Jamie for long enough. And maybe he was going to hell for it—for breaking his promise—but he had to have her. He couldn’t go on like this. She’d sealed that bit of fate when she’d shown up at The Bastille tonight. And in the end, there was no other way he could protect her.

  The whole thing was making him feel a little crazy, and a lot more out of control than he cared for. The battle between doing what was best for her and the driving urge he felt to have her in his arms was pure torture. But he knew now what he needed to do. He had to find a way to keep her safe. From the world. From the inevitable predators she would come upon at the BDSM clubs. And from himself. But he had to try.

  He shut off the water and stepped onto the bath mat, looked at himself in the mirror as he grabbed a towel from the rack and roughly dried himself.

  “That’s right,” he told his reflection. “We are gonna do something about this insane situation. It’s past time. I’ll face the music on the other side when the time comes. But the time to be with her is now.”

  He’d give her a day or two to come down off the post-play high, give her time to recover in case she had any subdrop, the sometimes negative side effect of kink play that happened when all the lovely chemicals released in the brain suddenly went away. Oh yes, he’d respect that. Of course he would, as would any Dom worth their salt.

  He reached out and slowly but purposefully traced her initials in the steam that fogged the edges of the mirror.

  “But then . . . watch out, Summer Grace. Because this time I’m coming after you. And there’s no one left to say no.”

  * * *

  SUMMER STRETCHED AND inhaled the rich scent of coffee brewing in her kitchen. Her small blue and white cottage in New Orleans’s Gentilly district was a little on the funky side and in need of repair—the old floors creaked, the white tile on the counters was cracked in places—but she loved it. It was July and one of the warmest months of the year in the sub-tropical city, but since it was not quite nine o’clock yet, she had the windows open to catch the cool morning air. The cat that had come with the house—an enormous female with short white fur and blue eyes—was sitting on the counter, washing her paw in a pale ray of sunshine.

  “Good morning, Madame. Catch any mice last night? No? Still too slow? Good thing I decided to adopt you and keep that big belly full.” She stroked Madame’s fur and the cat narrowed one eye at her. She sighed. “Ungrateful wretch, as ever.”

  She was trying to pretend this was just another day. Not that it really was. She’d been processing her first real play at the club the other night. It had been amazing. But she’d been up half that night getting herself off over and over—with her hands, the showerhead, her toys—with Jamie’s face in her mind’s eye, making her come so damn hard she had to stifle her screams. She didn’t know how many times she’d come since. She swore she’d nearly come when she looked up to see him watching her at The Bastille. She’d dreamed of him as she slept a fitful four or five hours the last two nights, bringing herself to orgasm in the middle of the night and again each morning. Everything had been a sensual blur since her night at the club. Sensual. Sexual. When she squeezed her thighs she could still feel that jagged stab of desire along with the soreness from using herself again and again.

  The coffeepot beeped at her, and Summer poured the dark liquid into a large ceramic mug, adding a few drops of cream. Not that she needed the caffeine today, with her heart a small hammer in her chest. Desire. Confusion. Anxiety. What she needed was to calm the hell down. Moving to the window next to the kitchen table, she looked out at the small garden that was all hers. Well, almost. She was leasing with an option to buy, and she was hopeful things would work out. Her salary managing Luxe, one of the most expensive lingerie shops downtown, helped, but it was a struggle. Still, she’d spent a small portion of her “play money” on plants for her garden. Nothing made her feel as peaceful as working her hands into the earth, seeing her little garden flourish—and God knew she needed some peace this morning.

  She swung open the screen door and took her mug outside, Madame following her. The backyard had come with the two tall magnolia trees whose creamy white blossoms gave off a gorgeous perfume, but she’d added the small fig tree, the different varieties of lilies, the pink and red Rangoon Creeper—her favorite variety of honeysuckle—the rosemary that smelled almost as good to her. The scents of her garden were always present, like a subtle perfume, the humidity of New Orleans releasing the fragrance. She moved down the narrow brick path, reaching out to stroke her fingers over the leaves of a large fern that grew in the shade of one of the magnolias, and remembered the sensual touch of Maîtresse Renee from the other night.

  It had been a wonderful night—her first real foray into the BDSM scene, other than what she now knew was called “bedroom play.” She’d let a few guys tie her to their beds, had let one guy spank her. She’d asked a lot of them to pinch her, to bite her. But being with someone who actually knew what they were doing—and in that amazing environment—had been incredible. Like every dark fantasy she’d ever had come true. Well, almost. Because Jamie Stewart-Greer, who’d starred in nearly every fantasy that had ever tumbled through her head, hadn’t been a part of the real-life scenario. Other than that wide-eyed look he’d given her. Had he really been that surprised to see her there?

  “Good thing I’ve sworn off him,” she murmured to Madame, or maybe to herself. “He’s always underestimated me.”

  She’d chased Jamie most of her life, but finally about a year ago she’d come to her senses after yet another breakup with a guy who was nice and smart and seemed to really care about her, but . . . he wasn’t Jamie. She’d decided right then that she had to find a way to let go of her juvenile obsession with him or she’d spend the rest of her life alone. And the fact was, she’d had to start figuring out who she was besides Brandon’s little sister, the girl whose brother had died. The one who wanted what she couldn’t have.

  “Enough is enough,” she told the cat, who looked surprised at the emphasis in her tone. “I mean, if he doesn’t want me it’s stupid to keep chasing after him. I’ve never had to chase any other man. Ever.” Madame turned and sauntered into the garden. “I’m not chasing you, either,” Summer muttered.

  She blew on her coffee to cool it down. So what if she’d practically had to re-create the way she thought about men and sex and herself to get Jamie out of her head? She’d done it. And life was good. She had a great job, great friends. There was her darling Dennie, who she’d known since kindergarten—a girl couldn’t ask for a better best friend. Allie was back in town and they were closer than ever. And since Allie had taken her to get her tattoo a few months ago, she’d become friends with Rosie, the artist at Midni
ght Ink who’d done the beautiful phoenix in red and orange and gold—the color of flames—that now covered the left side of her ribs. An appropriate symbol for the changes she’d gone through.

  That had been the beginning of the discussion about getting into the kink scene. Rosie had revealed her involvement easily enough, and it hadn’t taken Summer long to put two and two together. When she’d asked Allie if she was involved in kink her friend had admitted it to her and agreed to help her learn what real BDSM was about. Allie and Rosie had both helped her, giving her reading to do, answering questions, taking her to BDSM 101 classes, and eventually taking her to a munch—an event where kinky folk met and talked. And now, finally, her first play party.

  Her body was still a little sore, and her bottom carried bruises from her play. She’d experienced what might have been a little subdrop on Saturday morning, but a workout at the gym followed by a hot shower and lunch with Rosie had cured that. Now she simply felt good. Amazing, really. Except for her agonizing obsession with the ridiculously sexy Jamie, brought back to life when their eyes met. While she’d been getting her first real kink play ever. She’d been enjoying herself, loving it. But then she saw Jamie watching her and every sensation she felt the rest of the night had been magnified times ten. Times a hundred. She’d been electrified by nothing more than knowing he’d seen her.

  Calm. The fuck. Down.

  She sipped her coffee carefully, testing the temperature, enjoying the acrid flavor on her tongue. She felt more alive since the other night. More acutely aware of the world around her, every sight and flavor, every texture and scent. More aware even of her own body.

  She’d watched herself getting off in the mirror over her dresser the other night, imagining it was Jamie who saw her. And it wasn’t only Jamie. She imagined Renee watching her, too—Renee watching Jamie watching her. It wasn’t that she wanted to sleep with the beautiful Domme who Allie and Rosie had referred her to for her first play. She felt some stirrings of attraction to Maîtresse Renee, but she wasn’t as sexually attracted to women as she was to men. It was more the kink play itself. Giving in to the taboo, giving in to the fantasies she’d had in her head for years. The whole new fetish she may have discovered knowing Jamie had been watching.