by Mari Carr
“I should leave.”
He twisted to face her once more. “You’re shivering. You’ve caught a nasty chill and it’ll be a miracle if you don’t wind up with pneumonia. I’m giving you five minutes to put your pajamas on and get in that bed or I’ll do it for you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Angel, I work in a sex club. Believe me, you don’t have anything I haven’t seen a million times before. What’s it going to be?”
“Turn around.”
He resumed his previous position, facing away from her. He listened to her progress for several minutes before she softly said, “Okay.”
He faced her and his breath caught. His assurances had been a lie. He’d seen countless women in various states of undress, but none of them held a candle to Shea Landon in her far-too-practical, not-the-least-bit revealing pajamas. She was a petite thing, the top of her head barely coming to his shoulders. Her pencil-thin shape told him she hadn’t had a proper meal in far too long. He’d take care of that issue in the morning.
For now, he needed to get her warm. There was a blue tinge around her lips and her trembling grew worse by the minute. Drawing down the sheets and comforter on the bed, he instructed her to get in.
The moment her body hit the mattress, it seemed to give out. It was then he realized how weak her illness had made her and how strong her will was. She’d remained on her feet this long by sheer, unshakable determination.
“Wait here.”
He quickly ran up to his office for some medicine. He kept Nyquil on hand, less for the cold relief and more for the sleep aid.
When he returned, he found her trying to set the alarm on her little travel clock. “What are you doing?”
“I need to g-get up b-before eleven. That’s when the c-cleaning lady c-comes in.”
He’d watched her cleverly dodge the cleaning lady last Sunday, amused by her secret-agent-style maneuvering. She’d spent nearly three hours hiding in the costume closet while the other woman worked. He’d been amused when she’d reemerged looking as if she’d just awoken from a nap—then touched up a few places around the club she clearly didn’t consider clean enough. “You aren’t getting out of this bed until you’re well. Cleaning lady be damned.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
Her words took him aback. Hadn’t anyone ever been kind to her? He suspected there was more to her clichéd upbringing than she’d told him, but that story would have to wait for another day. He poured some medicine into the tiny cup and held her head as she drank it. Then he retrieved two more blankets from the linen hutch.
She closed her eyes. She’d be asleep within moments. Her trembling continued and he was concerned by her pale face.
Fuck it. He’d never be able to sleep in his office, worrying about her. He grabbed her flashlight, returning to the hallway to turn off the lights. Using the tiny beam, he made his way back to the stage, dragging a chair with him. He sat down next to the bed and placed his hand on Shea’s forehead, checking for fever.
She startled but didn’t speak.
“Go to sleep, Shea. I just want to stay close in case you need anything.”
She sighed and, just like that, she was asleep.
Travis sat awake for hours as he considered what he’d done. When he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, he moved from the chair to the bed, careful to remain above the covers in case Shea woke up. He didn’t want to scare her, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep upstairs alone.
Shea rolled over and placed her head on his shoulder. He froze. Her hand rested on his chest and, for the briefest moment, he wondered how he could move away without waking her.
He closed his eyes as a surprising realization dawned. He didn’t want to leave the bed. She was touching him and, rather than feeling the usual revulsion, Travis felt warm, relaxed.
He looked down at Shea’s peaceful face. He wasn’t sure what it was about her, but she’d caught his attention and held it. For years he’d existed in a solitary world, careful to keep everyone around him at arm’s length. He didn’t feel the need to maintain that same distance with Shea—which was ridiculous considering the fact she was a stranger.
He suspected in the morning she’d try to leave again. Offer her silly apologies with the intention of walking away. He put his arm around her shoulders and held her tighter to him.
She was staying here until he figured out what the hell was going on—with her and with him.
She wasn’t going anywhere.
Not yet.
* * * *
Shea had considered her proposition carefully before coming to see Travis. She’d heard the rumors surrounding his so-called war madness all the way back in London. She’d struggled not to let him see her shock at his appearance. The slim, boisterous, cocky boy she’d grown up with had definitely changed. In his place was a quieter, sadder, less trusting Travis. He’d lost too much weight and she didn’t like the dark circles under his eyes. He was hurting—anyone could see that—and she was quite resolved to help him.
Despite the new scar and weariness on his face, he still managed to take her breath away. Not that she’d ever let him know of her attraction to him. Travis had never lacked in female companionship, widows and housemaids all lining up for his affections. That was why she’d come up with her proposition. He needed a distraction. She wanted his experience.
“Sex?” Travis rose from his desk, leaning forward slightly. “Have you gone mad? Get married. Your husband will teach you about that.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I told you. I don’t intend to marry.”
“Then I suppose you’ll simply have to forget about—”
“I won’t forget about it.” She raised her voice, pretending to be angry. Travis never failed to rise to the occasion of a good fight and she was anxious to produce some sort of emotion in him. She didn’t like the distant man standing before her. “I can see you won’t even consider the thought and that I’ve wasted your time.”
“Shea. Please be reasonable.”
She walked to the other side of his desk, leaning toward him with her hands pressed flat across the top. How many times had they faced off in exactly this manner in the past?
“Reasonable? Is it reasonable for society to draw impenetrable lines around women? Is it reasonable to trap us in boxes under the pretense of protection? Why does this male-dominated society assume single women don’t have brains…or needs?”
Travis sighed. “I’ve heard your opinions about the supposed mistreatment of women in society since you were old enough to speak, Shea. We really don’t need to go over them once more.”
She studied his weary face. In the past, Travis used to love to debate. They’d spent hours, nay days, locked in intellectual discourse over a variety of topics. “What happened to you?”
Travis scowled. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
Yes he did. “What happened to you in the war? How did you get that scar?”
He stood straighter then took a step back, trying to distance himself. She didn’t like it. Travis had never allowed anything to come between them, but there was definitely a wall surrounding him now. “It was a war. Lots of killing, senseless death. I failed to dodge a sergeant’s swing and his sword altered my appearance.”
“I understand you were bedridden upon arriving home.”
“I suffered some injuries. There were others who fared much worse. I can assure you of that.”
She wanted to ask more but Travis’ stance, his entire disposition warned her further questions would go unanswered. “I was sorry to hear about your parents.”
The elder Knights had contracted a fever during the winter, passing away before Travis could be summoned home from war.
He nodded, accepting her condolences in silence. How much loss and pain could one person be expected to endure in a single year? Concern for his mental well-being was one of the main things prompting her
request. Travis needed something to take his mind off his woes.
The corners of her mouth tipped up in a small grin. What better distraction than sexual pleasure? She’d read everything she could get her hands on about the act of coupling and she was fascinated, enthralled.
Unfortunately, countless now-wed friends seemed to find the marriage bed a cold comfort. Shea had long ago given up hope of finding a husband. She was too outspoken for most men of her acquaintance. Travis was the only man she’d ever met who didn’t consider her intelligence a major flaw in her character.
“So you won’t even consider my request?” she asked.
“To bed you?” He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
Shea took a deep breath, refusing to give up the fight just yet. Time to advance to the next level. “Very well. Good day, Travis.”
He narrowed his eyes. “That’s it?”
She nodded. “There seems to be nothing left to discuss.”
“So you will forget this harebrained scheme?”
She gave him a mischievous grin, shook her head and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Travis said. “You’re not going anywhere. Not yet.”
Note from Mari
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About Mari
Virginia native Mari Carr is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestseller of contemporary erotic romance novels. With over one million copies of her books sold, Mari was the winner of the Romance Writers of America’s Passionate Plume award for her novella, Erotic Research.
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eBooks by Mari Carr
Visit Mari’s Website: www.maricarr.com
Love Lessons, a Contemporary Erotic Romance series
1. Happy Hour
June Girls, a Time Travel/Historical Romance series
1. No Recourse
2. No Regrets
Farpoint Creek Cattle Station, a Contemporary BDSM Erotic Romance series
1. Outback Princess
2. Outback Cowboy
3. Outback Master
4. Outback Lovers
Madison Girls, a Contemporary Erotic Romance series
1. Kiss Me Kate
2. Three Reasons Why
Stand Alone Titles
Bound By the Past
Covert Affairs
Mari recommends … Lila Dubois
Red Ribbon
Bound In Red, Book 1
Lila Dubois
Chapter 1
What the hell was she doing here?
Swirling the alcohol-enhanced punch in its small plastic cup, Elizabeth Brown surveyed the room despairingly. The occupants had broken off into pairings or groups of three. For the most part the women were seated on chairs and couches placed against the walls while the men stood over them. In another setting this might be taken for consideration, the gentlemen having kindly allowed the ladies to sit while they stood, but in this room, in this situation, that was not the case.
Liz eyed the other women with mild distaste. Everything about them was sending off waves of submission—their posture, the gentle murmur of their voices, the soft, easily removed clothing they wore.
Liz was the only woman in pants.
Shoulders curled forward, chins tilted down, words soft and hesitant, they were exactly what the men in the room were looking for. She was not.
Fingering the red ribbon around her neck that marked her as a submissive, Liz took one more look at the potentially partnerless men in the room, those who stood in groupings of two or more men to one woman. Strangely, she had assumed that there would be more women than men. Perhaps that view was shaped by BDSM literature she had read, which always had Dominants with multiple lovely young submissives, making it seem that beautiful, naturally submissive women were as thick on the ground as leaves in fall.
In one corner, two men lounged in arrogant splendor, their eyes fixed on the large breasts of the woman sitting between them. Their body language was relaxed, confident—their postures said that if they wanted the girl, they could have her.
Liz shuddered at the thought of allowing either of them to kiss her cheek let alone stick his dick in her. Both men looked weak in both body and spirit. One had a beer gut and love handles, his clothes poorly fitted and wrinkled. The other was rail-thin and gangly, like a bean sprout, his hooknose and squinty eyes adding to his overall air of unattractiveness.
The conversation between the couple next to her caught her attention. Shifting in her pumps, Liz leaned against the wall, watching them out of the corner of her eye.
The man was older than many in the room—early to mid-sixties. He wore a simple black sweater with a V-neck that allowed curling white chest hairs to escape. He had an older-man paunch, accentuated by his pants—belted tightly below his belly. She couldn’t begrudge him his homely face but he had obviously let himself go. How could the woman sitting so quietly in front of him hope to be mastered by this man who clearly could not take care to master himself? How could she expect to feel captured, captivated by his arms when they contained no muscle, only soft flabby flesh? For a moment Liz pictured herself on her knees before the man, his—old, wrinkly—cock pressed to her lips demanding entrance, her lips parting, his cock forcing its way deeper into her mouth…until her forehead came up against his flabby belly, the insertion of his cock into her mouth stopped by the paunch.
Repressing a gag, Liz pretended to sip her revolting punch as the fantasy she had been trying to build shattered. With a shiver she went back to eavesdropping on the paunchy man’s conversation.
“You will be a good slut for me, won’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. Robert.” Ugh. His name is Bob.
“What if you are a bad girl, slut?”
There was a slight hesitation before, “You will punish me, Mr. Robert.”
Liz heard the tremble of arousal in the girl’s voice now, the words broken by soft huffs of air as her breathing quickened.
“That is right, slut.” The girl flinched slightly as “Mr. Robert” called her “slut,” but he didn’t seem to notice and barreled on, saying, “I will punish you, nice and hard, just like you need it.”
“Thank you, Mr.—”
The idiot cut her off, clearly not hearing her, not caring what she’d been trying to say, the obedience she had been trying to show. His eyes were fixed on the plump brunette’s cleavage, visible above the plunging neckline of a purple wrap dress that showed the top of a lacy bra in addition to all that creamy skin. He rambled as he built his fantasies around his own pleasure.
“You will always be kept naked in my presence, and always on your knees. Whenever I want, you will suck my cock and anyone else’s cock. You will become a little cum-bucket. Don’t worry, my pretty slut, I will teach you to take my cock so deep in your throat that it feels like it is a part of you. I will train you so that you will feel like something is wrong if you don’t have a cock in your mouth.”
The girl’s features tensed, her body drawing away from him as the arrogant prick rambled on about his toy cocksucker fantasies. Liz couldn’t blame her. Never once did the man mention pleasure for the girl, or how he would cherish the gift of her submission.
When the man’s eyes glaz
ed over in lust at his own fantasies and he stopped talking, the timid young woman gamely tried to salvage the conversation and the fantasy she was trying to live.
“What would you do to punish me, Mr. Robert?” There was a hopeful note in her voice. Undoubtedly she was waiting, praying for him to describe how he would pull her firmly over his knee and spank her, deny her orgasm while keeping her highly aroused, or put her in tight bondage.
“Why, my pretty slut, I would deny you my cock in your mouth. The denial of her Master’s cock is the ultimate punishment for a slut.”
Liz watched the girl crumble, the last of her fantasy shattered. Her vision of a Dominant as a sexually powerful and knowledgeable man who would demand her obedience but treasure her, and pleasure her, replaced by the reality of an all-too-human man who only wanted to stick his dick in her mouth. Mr. Robert thought his prick was God’s gift to women.
Well that’s done it, Liz thought, I’ve truly had enough.
Reaching up, Liz yanked at the red ribbon around her neck, jerking it free. Some of the men glanced up at her, frowning, but none approached her. That, more than anything, solidified Liz’s belief that these men were nothing but posers, playing Dominant when in reality they were users and losers. Setting her cup down on the nearest table with a loud snap, Elizabeth strode proudly from the room. Some eyes were on her, watching the sway of her hips and breasts, focusing on the parts of her that they could understand and control. These oh-so-powerful men shied away from her as a whole—the sexual, powerful woman who did not need losers like them to give meaning to her life.
Liz slid into the hallway of the community center. The host organization had rented out the one-story building for the evening. The event, called The Gathering, was an invitation-only affair held four times a year. Liz received her invitation upon her completion of a BDSM 101 class.
She had stumbled onto an advertisement for the class buried deep in one of her favorite erotic stories websites. The class had claimed to be an introduction to living a BDSM lifestyle in the real world, the perfect bridge for people who wanted to make their fantasies a reality.
