Beneath the Scars

by Cherise Sinclair

  Her gaze dropped. His forearms were thick with muscle and lightly dusted with golden hair. Strong hands, corded wrists. A shiver shook her, and she saw her wine start to splash in the glass.

  No. Stop it. She didn’t want a man. Stop, stop, stop.

  “Josie.”

  She looked up and met amused winter-blue eyes.

  “Relax, pet.” He studied her for a long moment. “What’s going through that head of yours?”

  “Ah…” She gave him a rueful smile. “I’m feeling awkward, I guess. I can’t recall the last time I entertained a man.”

  “I see. I’m assuming that’s lack of desire and not opportunity? I did get the impression Peter would’ve been happy to break the dry spell.”

  Oh, God, Holt had watched her scene with Peter, hadn’t he? As her face turned hot—again—she wondered how many times a person could flush in one evening before dropping dead of cardiac shock? “Aside from the fact that I’m not interested in Peter, I simply don’t date.”

  “I see.” Holt twisted to face her, leaned forward, and grasped her ankles. Pulling firmly, he set her feet onto his lap.

  “What are you—” When he closed his hands around one foot, and his strong thumbs pressed against the aching spot under the arch, her eyes almost rolled back in her head. She waved a hand at him. “Never mind. Carry on.”

  He grinned. “Are you worried about introducing a date to your son? How Carson would react?”

  His hands massaged her foot in slow, rhythmic strokes, pressing deep enough to release tension she hadn’t even realized was there. Leaning her head against the back of the couch, she closed her eyes to savor the sensation. What had he asked? As he pulled, then rolled each toe, she quivered with the pleasure.

  Oh, Carson and men. “Exactly. Avoiding dating saves me all sorts of worries.”

  The hands on her feet stilled for a second, then resumed. “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “Uh-huh. What about you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Girlfriend? Fiancée? Wife?”

  “None of the above.”

  Shame on her for feeling pleased. “I’m sorry.”

  “So what did you think of your scene with Peter in the Shadowlands?”

  Dragged into reality, she opened her eyes and glared. “You’re ruining my massage, Master Holt.”

  His grin was a quick flash of white. “Sorry, baby. Guess you’ll have to learn to multitask. Tell me about the scene.”

  She studied him. All his laid-back friendliness wasn’t a…lie. He really was easygoing and sociable; however, at his core, he was as much a Dominant as Master Z. No wonder he’d taken charge of finding Carson last night.

  Now he wanted an answer and wouldn’t be deflected with a pout. “I suppose you won’t do my other foot until I answer?”

  He pinned her with a level gaze. “Josie, I asked because I want to know. I hope you’ll answer for that reason alone.”

  She put her hand over her stomach, which felt quivery or something. She didn’t want to discuss the scene with Peter—and yet the thought of disappointing Holt was equally uncomfortable. “The scene was…all right.”

  His gaze kept hers trapped. “Sweetheart, in my opinion, an evasive answer is worse than none.”

  She flinched. That’s how she felt when Carson played games with her.

  “Let’s try this—did you expect more from the session? Want to…feel more?”

  How did he know? “I…yes. It was kind of a let-down.” She shook her head. “I didn’t want him to hurt me, but it just… Something wasn’t there.”

  As if rewarding her for speaking, Holt massaged her other leg. His strong, warm hands surrounded her foot. “You’re submissive, Josie, at least in some respects. With Peter, you experienced no loss of control, and I’d say that was what you missed.”

  Holt thought she’d wanted to give up control? The idea was wrong—and so appealing her mouth went dry. What would it be like to let someone else take charge? Peter had tried during the scene. “Maybe.”

  Holt’s eyes crinkled as if he knew she was bullshitting him.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” she said hastily. “It’s not like I’ll participate in a scene again. It didn’t work for me—probably because I’m not submissive.”

  “Oh, you are, pet,” Holt said softly. “However, playing in BDSM is a lot like dating. A failure could be the guy or woman’s fault. It could be there’s no chemistry between them. Or it could be the venue or choice of equipment—like taking a cowboy to a chick-flick.”

  She laughed. “I’m not going to—”

  “You never did tell me what you thought of working in a terrifying BDSM club.” Holt tilted his head. “I know all of us Masters are pleased to have you there.”

  “That’s what your Master Z said. He talked with me before I left on Saturday.” She laughed. “Working at the Shadowlands is a bit frightening but exciting, too. And everyone”—almost everyone—“has been very welcoming.”

  “Good to hear.” He pressed her toes upward, stretching the muscles on the bottom of her foot. “You found watching the scenes exciting?”

  “Uh.” She felt warmth rising upward again. “I meant exciting like interesting, not exciting like…like sex-exciting.”

  “Mmmhmm.” His hum was one of disbelief.

  She scowled down at her wine because he had read her well, and her correction had been a token protest. In all reality, she’d found the atmosphere totally erotic. “Fine. Yes. It’s exciting in all shades of the words.”

  “I like when you’re honest, Josie.” He leaned forward and cupped her cheek. “Good girl.”

  At the warmth of his hand and the approval in his low voice, she stilled, her insides melting like butter in a hot sun.

  “I’ll see if Z will let you off early at 1 a.m. on Saturday so you can do a scene with me.” His steel-gray gaze held hers, holding her protest in check. “If nothing else, when we’re done, you’ll know more about BDSM and what you want and need.”

  When he moved his hand, her cheek felt cold.

  Swallowing hard, she stared at him. A scene with him? The thought was terrifying. And the interest she saw in his eyes was purely electrifying. “I-I’m not sure that’s a good—”

  “You don’t know me well enough to trust me completely, and that’s all right. But can you trust me with this one scene in a public place?”

  He’d touch her. Maybe tie her up. Use a flogger on her. And it would be Holt holding the flogger. Quivers of desire ran across her nerves, and she dampened between her legs. Oh, God, this would be such a bad idea. “I don’t know.” Her voice came out disconcertingly husky.

  “Josie, if you don’t like how it’s going, one word will stop everything.”

  “Just say no, huh?”

  His laugh rolled out, wickedly sexy. “Actually, the word is red, not no.”

  Right, a safeword. She’d read about them. “I never quite understood why y’all don’t use no.”

  She was beginning to wonder if she could refuse Holt…anything…and she shivered.

  His eyes narrowed. “I think you need to be closer when we talk about this. Come here, sweetheart.”

  Moving to the middle of the couch, he settled her in his lap.

  She smacked his shoulder. “No, dammit, you had surgery. You’re not supposed to be lifting or putting people on your lap or—”

  “Guess you better sit still then,” he murmured. He positioned her so her legs were on the couch, and she sat sideways, leaning against his chest. “I enjoy holding you, Josie, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  She caught her breath at his words, and his arms came around her, holding her firmly against him. As she felt the thick erection pressing against her hip, she felt herself melting. Because she’d wanted to be here—right here—all night.

  “To continue our discussion,” he said. “Some Doms do allow the use of no. I don’t—for two reasons.”

  Feeling daring and absurdly ha
ppy, she put her arm around his shoulders. A deep breath brought her the fragrance of his soap and freshly laundered shirt. So clean and masculine and perfect. “Why wouldn’t someone prefer a clear no instead of a safeword?”

  “One is due to our society. Even now, too many females are raised believing respectable women shouldn’t want sex. If she doesn’t make at least a token protest, she doesn’t feel as if she’s a good girl. That kind of idiotic pressure on women means it’s difficult for a guy to know if a no is a symbolic protest or a definite, absolutely not. A distinct safeword lets her use no as a token protest and ensures there’s no confusion as to when she really does want to stop.”

  He stroked his hand up and down her back. It should be comforting…except her nipples bunched into hard throbbing peaks.

  Her palm against his chest, Josie could feel the slow lub-dub of his heart. “I’d like to say your reasoning is wrong…except that’s how I was raised too. I tell myself women deserve sexual freedom, and I should be able to jump into bed with no worries—but part of me feels it’s wrong.”

  “Yeah.” Holt sighed. “Society doesn’t do right by the female gender.”

  “What’s the second reason?”

  “Ah, now, that one’s more fun.” Holt nuzzled her hair, sending a tremor from her head to her toes at that sign of his interest. His voice was husky. “Some women enjoy rough—forced—sex. They don’t need to be relieved of the guilt; they simply get off on being physically dominated. Yelling no, no, no is part of that roleplay, and—again—the aggressor needs to know when she truly wants to stop.”

  A frisson of interest went through Josie, and when she heard Holt’s low chuckle, she realized she’d squirmed.

  Oh God. When she tried to slide off his lap, his arms tightened and trapped her against his chest.

  “You’re not ready to go that far yet, pet. We’re going to keep things simple on Saturday.” His firm statement swept her objections away.

  She was committed to a scene with him. As anticipation roared through her, her heart set up a hard, fast thumping like every bottle in the whisky bar was falling off the shelves. Thud-thud-thud-thud.

  Chapter Eight

  On Saturday night, near midnight, Holt crossed the Shadowlands toward the bar and damn, he was looking forward to seeing Josie. It’d been far too long.

  On Wednesday and Thursday, he’d returned to work at the hospital, which had been a relief. He’d missed the bustle and camaraderie of the pediatric ICU unit. Unfortunately, working again had kicked his ass, and he hadn’t made it into the Shadowlands last night.

  Tonight, he’d planned to arrive early and treat himself to watching Josie at work. Raoul had screwed up that plan. Having volunteered to teach sailing to some of Marcus’s high-risk boys, the Dom asked for help. Holt enjoyed working with the kids and loved to sail. The damn cruise had gone longer than anticipated or he’d have been in a fuck-of-a-lot earlier.

  As he headed for the bar and Josie, he had to shake his head at the scenery. Z had chosen a Cops and Robbers theme for tonight, and yellow-and-black crime scene tape now marked off the scene areas.

  The costumes were a bit confusing. Either side of the power exchange could be a good or bad guy. “Cops” could be any form of law enforcement. “Robbers” were anyone who veered toward the wrong side of the law.

  Holt had already planned out the scene for tonight. Depending on the negotiation he and Josie would conduct, he’d incorporate a bit of tonight’s theme. Josie might enjoy—

  “Good evening, Holt.” Olivia wore a sleeveless, blue latex “uniform” top with a silver badge. Shiny black boots covered her black leggings to above her knees. A black duty belt held a long baton on one side and a golf-ball-sized gold bag on the other. A conical custodian helmet with a London Metropolitan Police badge covered her spiked hair.

  “Mistress Olivia, you look sexy as hell,” Holt said, surprising a smile out of her.

  “Thank you, love.” She gave him a slow perusal. “You’re finally looking back to normal. All trimmed up and everything.”

  “The long hair got annoying.” He ran his hand over his bare jaw. “But the shave is due to firefighting regulations. I gotta say, after a month of being bearded, I feel naked without it.” At least the wounds on his face were closed up enough he could wield a razor around them.

  Would Josie be bothered at the sight? The scars were still fucking red and visible.

  An outraged shout drew his attention to the center of the room. An agile submissive in skimpy shorts and a ragged top dodged around chairs waving a gold bag and laughing maniacally. A Dom in a sheriff’s khaki shirt and badge pursued. Catching her, he took her to the floor—carefully—and applied handcuffs. Her struggles earned her a noisy slap to the back of one thigh.

  “Police brutality! Someone call the papers. Police brutality. I’ll sue!” A second later, the sheriff shoved a ball gag in her mouth, and then all that escaped was “Mmmph, mmmph, mmmph!”

  The observers roared with laughter.

  When the sheriff picked up the bag of gold and attached it to his belt, Holt noticed other gold bags. “What’s with the pouches?”

  “Z filled a table in the munchie corner with extra props, including these coin bags.” When Olivia shook the gold pouch, it clinked. “He handed me one and ordered me to wear it.”

  “You specifically?”

  She snorted. “He thinks I intimidate the submissives. That they don’t know how to catch my attention. The man’s barmy.”

  “Sorry, sweetie. The shrink is right.” Holt studied her. Olivia wasn’t fashion plate beautiful, yet was too striking to be merely pretty. With a well-padded, sturdy body, short spiked hair, diamond stud in one ear, and an assessing look in her brown eyes, she was a total submissive magnet. And yet… “To a timid subbie, you look as attainable as Mount Everest.”

  “I never noticed.”

  “Because you simply pick who you want out of the masses.” Holt smiled. “The way Z set this up, the ones you’ve overlooked get a chance to catch your attention.”

  “He’s quite the sneaky bastard, isn’t he? Fine. I’ll wander about and see if someone bites.”

  As she sauntered away, Holt spotted a tiny Hispanic submissive wearing a ripped-off prison-stripe T-shirt that exposed her belly. Long dark hair, huge brown eyes. Quite pretty. When Olivia walked the other way, she wilted as if the sun had set on her hopes.

  Too cute. Holt caught her eye and nodded encouragingly toward the Mistress, mouthing, go for it.

  The submissive hauled in a visible breath, tensed, and dashed after Olivia. She grabbed the golden pouch, yanked, and lifting it over her head, ran away.

  “Bloody hell!” Olivia gave chase.

  As the submissive’s terrified giggles trailed behind her, Holt grinned and murmured, “Good luck, little one.” He continued across the room.

  Yes, Josie was there behind the bar. Through the crowd, he caught a tiny glimpse of her…and heard his name called again. Dammit.

  “Holt, good to see you.” In a torn T-shirt, ripped jeans, and full sleeves of gang-related temporary tats, Vance Buchanan was sitting on a couch, feet up on an ottoman. “I heard you’ve returned to your hospital job.”

  Of course he’d heard. The Shadowkittens knew—and spread—all the gossip in all the world, and Buchanan’s Sally was one of the worst offenders. “Yeah. It was good to be back.”

  “Being laid up can drive a man stir-crazy.” The FBI agent had taken a bullet in the leg a year and a half ago.

  “It did. So how is married life?” Holt’s train of thought left the station as the people around the bar parted enough he could see Josie. Well now… “I see the new bartender decided to join in the roleplay fun.”

  A police hat covered Josie’s short hair. She had on a short-sleeved blue uniform shirt with a badge, and her gun belt held a tiny plastic pistol and baton. Holt’s smile grew. No police officer had ever enjoyed herself so thoroughly. Hands a blur as she mixed drinks, Josie was
laughing and chatting with the members around the bar…and bouncing with the beat of the music. She was adorable.

  “Ayuh. She’s having a good time.” Also dressed like a gang member, Galen walked over. He had an arm wrapped around his and Vance’s submissive, Sally, pinning her to his front. Leaning down, he handed Vance one of the two beers he carried in one hand.

  “Evening, Galen.” Holt’s lips quirked. “Gotta say, your patrol officer there looks somewhat the worse for wear.”

  The short brunette wore an over-sized, long-sleeved uniform shirt. One of the Doms had pulled her sleeve cuffs past her hands and knotted a rope around the wristbands, effectively restraining her. Tears had streaked dark mascara down her cheeks, and she had the unmistakable glassy-eyed appearance of someone who’d enjoyed a long, painful—and pleasurable—session.

  “Ah, well, she’s new to law enforcement and didn’t check she had backup before chasing a suspect.” Galen shot Vance a look. “Rather like someone I know.”

  The two men had been partners in the FBI before Galen quit and started a business. Vance smiled. “She’ll be more careful, I’m sure.”

  “Next time, I’ll shoot first,” the irrepressible brat muttered under her breath.

  Holt winked at her before asking his fellow Masters, “When I checked the schedule yesterday, I saw I’d been taken off DM duty tonight.” It was why he’d gone on the boat when Raoul had asked for help. “Was there a reason?”

  “Z knew you returned to work at the hospital this week and would be dragging.” Vance took a good swallow of his beer and sighed appreciatively.

  “Mother Z.” Holt shook his head ruefully. He was fine. In fact, anticipation rolled through his veins at the thought of the scene with Josie. “Is Z around?” He should take care of the protocols first.

  “Yeah. Anne volunteered to babysit Sophia, so he’s brought Jessica for a scene.” Galen grinned. “Poor subbie. She turned bright red when he said they’d be playing in the dungeon.”

  Holt laughed. The curvy blonde both hated and loved doing scenes in public.