Make Me, Sir
Doms of Decadence
Laylah Roberts
Copyright
Laylah Roberts
Make Me, Sir.
© 2017, Laylah Roberts
[email protected]
laylahroberts.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
This story contains explicit sex scenes and light BDSM. R18
Cover Design by: Erin Dameron-Hill
Editor: Hourglass Editing
Let’s keep in touch!
Sign up to my newsletter here: http://eepurl.com/bxulmn
Books by Laylah Roberts
Doms of Decadence
Just for You, Sir
Forever Yours, Sir
For the Love of Sir
Sinfully Yours, Sir
Make me, Sir
Men of Orion
Worlds Apart
Cavan Gang
Rectify
Redemption
Redemption Valley
Audra’s Awakening
Old-Fashioned Series
An Old-Fashioned Man
Two Old-Fashioned Men
Her Old-Fashioned Husband
Her Old-Fashioned Boss
His Old-Fashioned Love
Haven, Texas Series
Lila’s Loves
Laken’s Surrender
Saving Savannah (coming August/Sept 2017)
WildeSide
Wilde
Sinclair
Luke
Chapter One
Someone had been in her apartment.
There were no obvious signs. It looked as spotless as ever. Nothing appeared to be out of place. The door had been locked. The alarm set. No one else would be able to tell.
But someone had been in her apartment.
The forks were in the wrong spot. All of her cups were turned around, so the handles faced to the left instead of the right. Reagan opened the fridge, her breathing too fast as she saw the contents had been rearranged. The butter was on the top shelf instead of the bottom. The lettuce wasn’t in the veggie crisper. And her hummus was in the shelving on the door.
She shut the fridge door, stepping back slowly until she bumped into the counter behind her. Sliding to the floor, her legs too weak to hold her anymore, she dragged her knees up to her chest.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
What was she going to do?
Dots danced in front of her eyes and she rested her forehead on her upturned knees, trying to calm herself.
No. No, I can’t fall apart.
She couldn’t afford to lose it now. She needed to keep her shit together. She needed a plan. She was always in control. Even when she was playing at Club Decadence, she never truly let go. She pretended to, pretended to fully submit. But completely trust someone else with her safety?
Never.
The only person she could truly rely on was herself. She had to protect herself.
Doing a damn good job of it right now, wasn’t she? She felt about as weak as a babe and just as vulnerable.
She didn’t understand any of this. Who would do this to her? And why? She had to figure this out before she went totally insane.
They’d been in her space.
Reagan bit back the cry that threatened to escape. Crying wasn’t going to help.
One breath. Two. She had to think. Three times. Three times someone had been in her apartment. The first time, she’d done the sensible thing and called the police.
They didn’t believe her.
She supposed she couldn’t blame them. Oh, they hadn’t said it to her face, but she’d heard them when they thought she wasn’t near. They thought she was crazy.
And they were right. Reagan wasn’t like other people. She was a bit OCD. In her space, everything had its own place. Everything had to be a certain way. She had problems with social interactions. She often misread situations or said the wrong thing. But she wasn’t stupid, in fact, she was damn intelligent. She knew her flaws.
No one lived here but her, so what did it matter if everything had to be just so?
This was her space, damn it.
Anger stirred. Someone was trying to screw with her mind. And they knew exactly how to mess with her without it being obvious to anyone else.
So, she couldn’t go to the police. What could she do? She’d installed an alarm. Next step was cameras. Reagan leaned her forehead against her knees.
It was all too much.
A noise made her raise her head, and she suddenly realized she hadn’t reset the alarm. Idiot. As soon as she’d entered the apartment, she’d known something was wrong. She’d flung her shoes off and raced from room to room checking everything. But had she remembered to lock the door? Hastily, she stood and raced into the living area. There was a knock on the door. Her heart beat too loudly, drowning out all other noise as she grabbed a vase and waited. No way was this bastard going to get away with terrorizing her.
If she’d been thinking clearly, she might have recognized the voices. Might have heard her name being called out.
That might have saved her from totally embarrassing herself as Tara pushed open the door, calling out her name.
Reagan let out a screech as she threw the vase. She cried out in horror as, too late, she realized who was walking into her apartment. Alex grasped his wife around the waist and turned, so his body shielded her from the bright blue glass vase.
Reagan just stood there, her hand over her mouth.
The vase smashed to the floor, and she closed her eyes with a flinch.
Crap, crap, crap.
Reagan opened her eyes, letting out a long breath as she saw that the vase hadn’t landed a few feet away from Alex and Tara.
“You were right,” Tara told Alex as they turned to face Reagan. “We should have waited for Reagan to open the door.”
“I am so sorry. Are you okay?”
Alex kept his arm tight around Tara’s waist as he scowled at Reagan.
She gulped. What had she been thinking?
“Ahh, yeah, luckily you’ve got a crap arm.” Tara watched her with wide eyes. “What’s going on? Didn’t you hear me knock? Calling out?”
Reagan shook her head, still too shaken to think clearly. Her stomach was so knotted it ached.
“I, ahh, umm…sorry. I…I’ll go get something to clean this with.” She just stared down at the mess of glass and flowers. What had she been thinking? Her intruder was hardly going to knock on the door. But she hadn’t been operating on nerves and instinct. Her only thought had been to defend herself.
“Both of you sit,” Alex ordered, guiding Tara around the glass toward the cream sofa. “Tell me where the pan and broom are. I’ll clean it up.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“Sit,” Alex said in a hard voice.
Reagan found herself sitting on the sofa next to Tara before she’d even thought about it. Alex paused, looking down at her with a confused frown.
“That was easier than usual.”
“What do you mean?”
“He means you just obeyed him without argument,” Tara told her.
“Oh…” Having them both stare at her was making it even harder for her to think properly.
“Broom and pan?” Alex reminded her.
“I’l
l get them.” She jumped to her feet.
“Sit.” Alex pointed a finger for emphasis. “You’re white as a sheet, you’re trembling, and you just hurled a vase at my wife’s head. I’m not going to tell you again.”
She sat. Emotions were a storm battering her to pieces. Fear, horror, confusion. She tried to focus on controlling them. She would not fall apart.
“Broom and pan?” Alex snapped.
“In the hall closet.”
Tara gaped at her. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”
“What?”
“You’re really worrying me.” Tara reached over and grasped her hand. “You’re freezing. Alex is right, you’re very pale. Like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
“Of course I haven’t seen a ghost. Ghosts aren’t real.”
Although they moved like a ghost. It was almost like they could move through walls. How else had they gotten into her apartment without breaking in or setting off the alarm?
Alex walked back in and started to clean up the glass. She itched to take over, she didn’t like having someone else touch her stuff.
“I can do that.”
“You can sit right there,” he countered.
“Is Alex mad at me?” she whispered to Tara. He seemed mad, but sometimes she misread these things. “I almost hit you with that vase.”
Tara snorted. “You didn’t even come close to hitting me. You were about three feet short and too far to the right.”
“And Alex is right here,” he said dryly. “You can ask me yourself.”
“Are you angry? You sound angry.”
Alex sighed. “I’m not angry. But I don’t want you stepping on a piece of glass.”
She’d taken her shoes off at the door like she always did. She stared down at her stockinged feet with a frown. “There’s a hole in my stocking.”
How long had that been there? “I need to change.” She stood.
“Reagan, sit still.”
Tara grabbed her arm, tugging her down. “Best to obey him. That’s his Dom voice.”
Reagan frowned, but nodded anyway. She didn’t think she had to obey Alex. After all, she wasn’t his submissive, and they weren’t at the club. But he was Tara’s husband, and Tara was her best friend.
Her only friend.
Making friends wasn’t easy for her. So she wasn’t about to ruin the first real friendship she’d ever had. Well, provided throwing a vase at someone wasn’t cause to break off a friendship. She bit her lip, staring at Tara worriedly.
“What is it?” Tara asked. “What’s going on, Reagan?”
“Are we still friends?”
Alex stood and studied the floor, searching for more glass. Reagan watched him rather than Tara.
“Why would you ask that? Why wouldn’t we still be friends?”
“I threw a vase at you.”
“Well, it was an interesting way to be greeted, for sure. But I’ve had friends who’ve done worse. When I was in first grade, Emily Perkins pulled my braid and then hugged me when I cried, we were best friends until she moved away.”
Reagan frowned. She didn’t understand. “As a child, you made friends with someone who pulled your hair?”
“All I meant is, well, I’m not sure what I meant.” She glanced over at Alex who stared at his wife and shook his head.
“What Tara really wants to know is why you threw the vase,” he told her. “And do you have somewhere I can put this?” He nodded down at the pan full of glass.
“I’ll get a trash bag.” She jumped to her feet. Then she glanced down at Tara. “And I threw the vase because I thought you were the intruder. I’ll be back in a minute.” Suddenly she stopped and turned. “I apologize. I forgot my manners. Can I make you some tea or coffee?”
She couldn’t understand why Tara and Alex were gaping at her.
“Did I say something wrong?”
***
Tiny Lowe could be a real son of a bitch when he was pissed off. And right now, he was furious.
“Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it.” He smashed his fist against the punching bag, his muscles burning, sweat coating his body. All he could see was the bastard’s smug face. And Harley’s bruised one, so swollen she was almost unrecognizable.
“Motherfucking son of a bitch. Asshole. Bastard. Jerkwad.”
A soft whistle had him turning. Shit. He hadn’t even heard Gray approach. Not good.
“Glad I’m not that punching bag.”
Tiny just glared at him. Gray held up his hands and moved to the other side of the bag. He held it still. Tiny started to pummel it again.
One. Two.
One. Two. Three.
His muscles ached, strained, but he ignored the pain. This was the only way he knew to safely work through the fury pumping through his veins.
Unfortunately, the surefire way to put an end to the raging anger holding him hostage would also land him in a jail cell.
Damn, might just be worth it to wipe the smile off that bastard’s face.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” Gray told him.
Tiny snorted. If it wasn’t his fucking fault, then whose was it?
“The cops caught him. You protected her and the child. They had him. You weren’t to know they wouldn’t hold onto him. Your job was over.”
His job. This had been more than a fucking job. He was supposed to protect them, and he’d failed.
Jab. Jab.
Jab. Punch. Jab.
“You can’t beat yourself up like this. You’ll tear yourself in two.”
“Yeah? You volunteering?” he asked. Anger swirled inside him. Bubbling and boiling. Vicious. Soul-destroying.
“To be your punching bag?” Gray shifted his hold on the bag as Tiny continued to smack it. “I’m not that stupid.”
Gray wasn’t stupid at all. Not like him. Stupid fucking idiot. Wasn’t that his father’s favorite insult? Oh, and clumsy fucking dickhead. Couldn’t forget that gem.
His father hadn’t been too clever with his insults. Didn’t mean they hadn’t had a damaging impact. Wasn’t until Tiny had grown bigger than his asshole old man that he’d gotten the upper hand.
“I was supposed to protect them.” And he hadn’t. He’d failed. And now Harley was fighting for her life after being beaten half to death. And Alice… God, Alice had lived through what a child should never have to live through.
“We were hired to protect them—”
“And I didn’t.”
Gray sighed and walked over to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. Black-Gray Investigations had a well-stocked gym. No expense spared. People practically begged to work here. The benefits were great. They paid better than most. Hunter and Gray only hired the best of the best.
But they’d made a mistake with him.
When Gray held out the bottle of water, Tiny knew it was a silent demand to stop. Fuck. He didn’t want to stop, but Gray was his boss. He took one last jab at the punching bag then took the water, gulping it down. He grabbed a towel, wiping his face.
“When the police arrested the bastard, we all thought it was over. Harley ended our contract. She told us to go. No one expected him to get out on a technicality.”
But Ashford St. James had money and connections. Tiny should have foreseen this. He should have known.
“Should have known.”
“Yes, we should have,” Gray said grimly. “That was my fault. You want to blame anyone, blame me.”
Tiny raised his eyebrows, waiting.
“I should never have listened to her when she told me they were leaving town. I knew she was struggling for money—”
“I’d have fucking done it for free,” Tiny bit out.
“Yeah, I know. But Harley had her pride.”
“She was nearly killed.”
Gray wiped his hand down his face, and Tiny saw he was taking this just as hard as Tiny was. And he hardly knew Harley or Alice. Tiny was the one who’d been there throughout the whole fucking mess. He’d
guarded Harley and Alice. Watched over them. They’d been his responsibility.
And he’d failed them.
“You didn’t fail them. I did. She told me she was leaving.”
She should have been safe.
“Maybe you should take a break,” Gray suggested. “Go sit on a beach somewhere.”
Tiny let out a bark of laughter. “What would I do on a fucking beach?”
“That’s the point. You don’t do anything. You just lie around and sun bathe, watch pretty girls, drink those fruity drinks with the little umbrella.”
Gray’s lips were twitching. Bastard. Tiny rolled his eyes.
“You want him to get sunburned, drunk, and perv at chicks?” Hunter strode across the room. “That’s your great suggestion to get him to unwind?”
Gray shrugged.
He scowled, not appreciating the way they tried to coddle him. Did they seriously think alcohol and bikini-clad women would make him forget the hell Harley and Alice had been through? A hell he should have prevented?
“It was more than a job,” he told Hunter and Gray.
Hunter took a step back, looking slightly alarmed. He usually left the human management stuff to Gray. It was a good thing, too, because he sucked at it.
“Maybe you should talk to someone,” Gray suggested. “A counsellor?”
Tiny looked over at him incredulously. Talk to a stranger?
“Tiny? Talk to a counsellor?” Hunter asked. “He barely talks to us.”
Gray glared at Hunter. “This would be a professional. We really should have one on staff.”
“I’m not having a fucking shrink try to get inside my head,” Hunter grumbled.
Gray rolled his eyes. “We’d have to give them hazard pay. There are times when talking to a professional can help. If we found the right person, they might be able to help with profiling.”
“Don’t believe in that froufrou shit,” Hunter grumbled, placing his hand on his hips. “Next you’ll try to tell me we need a damn psychic.”
“Wasn’t Cady seeing a counsellor?” Gray asked.
“That’s different. She’s a woman.”
Tiny shook his head as Gray groaned. “How you ever found a woman to love you, I’ll never know. You can’t say that sort of shit.”
Make Me, Sir (Doms of Decadence Book 5) Page 1
