by Trisha Wolfe
All my thoughts cease as the scene on stage begins. The music dies down, and in the sudden, stark silence, a low and melodic beat starts. The dungeon master walks a blindfolded woman onto the stage and commences strapping her to a St. Andrew’s cross. It’s a classic scene, one that the sub requests each week. She likes to be flogged while a Dom frees her from her daily monotony as a CEO of some company. Then she prefers her master to go down on her as she climaxes.
But it’s the first time she’s been witness to it. And I move a bit closer, needing a clear view of her face as she watches. My breath moves past my lips, slow and measured, as I spy her vivid eyes trained on the scene. Her lips parted, black dress clinging to the curves of her slim body.
Her chest rises with her sudden and deep inhale. The V of her dress teasing me; the creamy skin of her chest hidden beneath a scarf, the round swells of her breasts just below, inviting. From the corner of my vision, I see the flogger make contact across the sub’s tits, and my pants tighten painfully as my target’s hand goes to her chest. She caresses her smooth skin beneath that infuriating scarf as if she’s been struck.
I slide my tongue over my lips as she crosses her legs. I imagine her thighs pressing together tightly, putting needed pressure against her clit, her panties wet. Fuck. I reach down and adjust myself. This is getting ridiculous, how much I crave this stranger. But she’s not like the others.
So many tempting beauties occupy this scene, and though I’ve played with my fair share, and it was satisfying on a carnal level—I’ve never been entranced the way I am when I watch her.
What would it feel like to tie her down, discover what she desires? For her to let me in and reveal her darkest fantasies? Extract her fears and inflict them on her, making her tremble, scream, ache. Then fall to my knees and gratify her as I worship my goddess.
The muffled cry from on stage cracks into my musings with the strike of the flogger, and I’m awoken from my trance, only to fall into my own form of torment. I watch as my goddess becomes bold as the other members play around her. She snakes her hand up her parted thighs…under the hem of her dress. Her eyes shut against the scene as she touches herself.
Fucking hell. I’m going to come undone. Yes, beauty. Rub that slick, swollen clit. I reach down and run my palm over the rock-hard bulge pressing against my jeans. I feel the connection to her as she pushes her hem up enough for me to witness her sliding her underwear aside, then I envision her trembling finger sliding into her warm flesh. Her eyes are clamped closed against the darkness, her breasts straining against the taut fabric, her nipples peaked.
I want to be there with her. Right there, when she comes. I’m tempted to yank my cock out this instant and beat the fucker off.
But my hand stills, my breathing catches in my throat, as a guy moves in front of my line of vision. Dammit. I’m already stepping closer to get around him when my feet stop. He lays his hand on her shoulder, then bends over to whisper in her ear.
My hands curl into fists.
If she welcomes his advance, I’m going to lose my shit. I won’t be able to stand here and watch someone else give her what I know she needs. Fuck him. He hasn’t watched her for months; he hasn’t logged away countless hours discovering what she yearns for.
And he sure as shit doesn’t know that she doesn’t want to be touched. But I do—and I’m two seconds away from breaking his hand.
But I keep watching, regardless. If she’s ready to play, finally, I’ll make sure she’s safe…
She’s shaking her head, trying to get away from him. She’s rattled. He’s not what she wants. She’s here to watch, not play. She’s not ready.
Relieved, I slowly back away. I’m pissed hot that he interrupted our moment, but there will be another. There’s always another. She’s getting bolder. And so am I. Only when I glimpse the distress on her face, her panic mounting, I immediately stop.
The guy touches her again, this time on her waist. He’s leaning over her, trying to persuade her to join him. He grips her around one thin wrist and forcefully pulls her against him.
That’s breaking the rules, fucker.
I’m storming toward him before Onyx can alert the bouncer.
His hand slides around her stomach as she pushes away from him, fear marring her gorgeous face.
“She said no,” I blurt. Towering over the guy, I bring all of my six-foot self forward, a dominant shadow cast over him. I haven’t touched him. Yet. But my fists are locked, every muscle corded tight.
The guy—who’s wearing a dark gray business suit—straightens his back to bring himself fully before me. “She wants it. She’s just shy.” He glances down at her. “Needs a little persuading.”
Hot breaths saw in and out of my nose. “The lady wants to watch. No means no, asshole. In any establishment, but especially here.” Hiking my thumb over my shoulder, I say, “I think you’ve played enough for tonight.”
His eyes narrow, but he shrugs, deciding it’s not worth the consequences if he wants to take this matter further. He gives me a once over, sizing me up, before he walks around and leaves.
Releasing a strained breath, I let the adrenaline ebb. Gain my composure before I look down at her. When I finally do, my muscles go lax. She’s mortified. I can see it painted clearly all over her beautiful face, splashed with red, even in the darkness.
I kneel down, my whole body strung tight with the need to touch her. I’ve anticipated this moment—when we’d first look at one another; when I’d hear her voice—but I hate that it’s like this. With fear in her deep green eyes. At least, fear that I didn’t put there.
“He’s a douchebag. But are you okay?” I ask.
Her burgundy layers fall to conceal her face, and I want so badly to push them aside. It’s a wig—I realized this before now. I’ve imagined what her real hair looks like; dark, to match her eyebrows. Soft, silky, long. I want to strip her of the fakeness and curl my fingers around a thick hank of her real hair. Pull her head back; look down into her eyes. I push the enticing thought away.
She nods a couple times, her movements jerky. “I’m fine. Just embarrassed, I guess.” Lifting her chin, she fixes her penetrating gaze on me. All logic flees my brain. “But what did I expect? I mean, look at where I am. I overreacted, that’s all.”
Blinking hard, I break the hold she has over me, searching for the right words. I need to please her in this moment. But I’m already so lost to her. “You should expect members to behave appropriately. At the very least. You’re not doing anything wrong by being here, watching. That’s what this room is all about. He knows the rules.” I nod my head toward the black wall, where submissives are lined up in knelt positions. “You’re not on your knees. You’re not asking to be dominated. There’s always a bad apple, and it just looks like one found you.”
Long eyelashes frame widening eyes. She’s staring right into the depths of me. “Don’t blame the victim,” she says, her voice throaty. “I know that by heart. You’d think I’d believe it by now.”
I feel my brows furrow slightly. It’s as if she’s talking more to herself than me, but I tuck this interesting morsel of information away. “That’s right. Now,” I say, moving a fraction closer. “I’m technically off work. So I’d like to help you get back to enjoying yourself.”
The thin column of her throat bobs on a swallow. “I’m not into…”
“Shh,” I say. “I won’t lay a hand on you. I won’t touch you. And I can leave…if that makes you more comfortable.” I pause, praying that my goddess doesn’t send me away. When she doesn’t speak up immediately, I push on. “I only want to see that look in your eyes, that passion on your face—the one you wore just moments before that rude interruption.”
I watch as her breathing quickens. The tremble of her red, red lips. “No touching?” she questions.
My pulse speeds. “Only if you ask. Always, only if you ask.”
She continues to stare at me in guarded fascination, the seconds suspending us
in our own sphere of heat and caution. And when she gives a sure nod, I’m lit with fire.
As she swivels on the stool to face the stage, I peer down at her. Amazed at this stunning creature I’ve somehow discovered. I pull another stool up close behind her, take my seat. Her shoulders tense as my thighs and body cage her in from behind. I can feel her body heat radiating off her, caressing me, beckoning me. Her fragrance of sweet-scented shampoo and body lotion fills my senses, tantalizing.
Slowly, carefully, I lower my head next to hers. As close to her as I can get without touching. With difficulty, I aim my attention toward the stage. The Dom is placing nipple clamps on the sub, her high-pitched moans piercing the charged air between us.
“Do you know why he connects the chain to her mouth gag?” My words slip past my lips in a whispered plea.
She remains silent, her gaze steady on the scene. A slight shake of her head invites me to continue, and my dick swells.
“It heightens her desire. Her awareness.” I breathe her in, a glutton, needing to satisfy my senses. “It also heightens her suffering, increasing his pleasure.” As the flogger makes contact against the sub’s stomach, she jerks her head, pulling the chain taut. “He’s punishing her for moving, but that sharp spike of pain gives her so much pleasure…that she can’t help but be disobedient. She needs the punishment almost as much as she needs the release—the gratification.”
My gaze flicks lower as my goddess clamps her thighs together. I bite down on my bottom lip, inducing a slight pain to keep my emotions in check, my head clear. The need to slip my arms around her and hike up that damn dress…spread those legs wide…is almost unbearable. I grip my jeans near my knees, clenching the rough material, to keep my hands from roaming.
This—it’s not nearly enough. But as the wisps of her hair caress my cheek, hinting at her trembling body, I revel in this profound moment my goddess is gifting me. To indulge in her—to enter into her sanctity. She’s my temple and I’m her slave, willing to kneel before her on command.
And as she tentatively runs a finger along her thigh, drawing up the hem of her dress, sliding her hand between her thighs…God. The anguish is pure hell. A torment so divine I nearly come loose at the threads.
I will beg for more.
I’m not ashamed to own it—to confess what I’ve been craving for months.
“Can you feel what she feels?” I ask, my voice husky with restrained want.
I watch her tongue slip out to wet her lips as she gazes at the scene, and I grit my teeth. The sub—now sated from her penance—throws her head back in bliss. The Dom hikes one of her legs over his shoulder as he kneels before her, devouring her. Taking her into his mouth with unguarded vigor.
“She’s stripped raw, laid bare…” I whisper. “She’s utterly vulnerable to him. Having submitted her whole being over to him, she’s now free to indulge in the ecstasy that comes from that liberating release of control.”
She shudders next to me, and my eyes follow the trail of her hand upward. Farther and farther—so painstakingly slow—until she’s there. Her head lolls to the side, her eyes close, and we’re lost together as she caresses herself through the thin barrier of her black underwear.
“I wish I could have that…” she admits, so low. And my whole body is piqued, awaiting her next admission.
“What do you need?” I ask, my fingers curled so tightly around my jeans they ache, could shred the fuckers. My dick is so hard I swear it’s going to rip straight through my jeans.
“To be free,” she whispers.
I squeeze my eyes closed against the severe quake that her softly spoken words elicit. “Slide your panties aside.”
I’m just in control enough to open my eyes and witness her obeying my order. A primal need to throw her down and ravish her—right here; right now—barrels through me.
“Push inside. Deep. Until it aches.” God, but she does. Holy hell she spreads those sweet thighs and sinks her finger inside until I hear her desperate moan. “Fucking move your hips. Go deeper…”
A shrill moan resounds around us, and the spell is broken. Her eyes fly open and she stares at the stage, to where the sub is coming with a fierce and quivering pleasure as she pulls at her restraints.
“Relax,” I say, restraining from touching her. “Let me be the one to take you there. Just like that. Let me…”
She sits forward. Pushes her dress back down her legs. “Shit. I need to go.”
“Wait.” I almost reach out for her, but I stop mid-air. My hand balling into a tight fist. “Don’t run. This is what comes next. Let yourself experience it.”
She shakes her head, shame creasing the tight corners of her eyes. “It always pulls me under,” she says. At my confused expression, she clarifies, “The darkness. It’s always there…with the cries. I don’t deserve the freedom you’re offering. That’s not why I’m here.”
Then she’s gone before I can demand to know more, my beautiful goddess vanishing as quickly as she appeared. And, oh—I’m so tempted to give chase and beg her to welcome me into her darkness.
I close my eyes, slip my hand into my pocket, and caress the rough cord to drive away the coldness encasing me in my own dark, hollow space.
She will understand that there’s no reason to hide from me, no reason to be ashamed—I appreciate her fear more than any other soul. Soothed, I open my eyes. I won’t be able to wait until she appears next in my world before I see her again.
The desire to follow her thrums through me with vicious abandon.
3
Lovers’ Waltz
Sadie
The camphor ointment under my nose does little to mask the smell of burning flesh. I’ve gotten used to the awful scents of the M.E.’s lab over the years, but Avery was just in the middle of cauterizing a body when I entered through the double doors.
That’s a tasty smell no one can get used to.
“Piper McKenna,” Avery says, securing her hairband tighter around her thick blond ponytail as she delves into the facts about the victim. “Twenty-six. Healthy and in excellent shape, except for some unsightly mucus on the lungs, denoting she was a recovering smoker. But otherwise, no real vices.”
I twist my lips, trying to keep from scratching at the itch on my nose. “Sexual assault?”
She lifts a shoulder. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but I can’t confirm. She did have sex prior to her death, only it could’ve been consensual…or forced.”
“You’re right, that’s not what I want to hear.” I sigh. I spent most of Sunday researching the victim so that I’d have a head start when I heard from Avery—but I’m still waiting for something to connect.
The vic kept to herself. She was new to the city. No family in the area. She once went out with a couple of co-workers from her place of employment—a local gym—to catch a movie, and she’d recently started dating the guy who called in her murder. The reason he was there Saturday morning, according to Quinn’s interview, was that they’d had plans to work out together.
She could’ve been sleeping with him…or not. Based on her rigorous schedule and almost OCD-like qualities, she didn’t leave much room for a social life. Her daily routine was mapped out like clockwork. Like my life, really.
I suppress the desire to think about him. Burying myself in work yesterday didn’t help. Nor did the trip to The Lair help to sate my thirst—but hearing his voice, his tempting words… A pang hits my chest and hitches my breathing. I push the unwanted thoughts deeper, past my subconscious where they belong.
“Nothing more specific?” I ask, hoping the M.E. can help me link the pieces.
“Sorry. I can only say for sure that there was no sexual trauma.”
“So what’s our proof that she had sex, then?”
Avery holds my gaze. “Trace evidence. He used a condom. Which means no seminal fluids for a DNA test, obviously. But like I said, no trauma means the sex could’ve been consensual prior to the attack.” She pulls the wh
ite sheet back to reveal the victim’s torso. “Cause of death was exsanguination due to a deep laceration to her neck. The carotid artery, more precisely.”
I nod. “Blood loss. Any idea as to what kind of weapon that was used?”
At this, Avery presses her pink lips into a hard line. Using a gloved hand, she points along the victim’s neck. “A very large knife,” she states. I raise my eyebrows, prompting her on. “At first, I was leaning toward some kind of hunting knife as opposed to an ordinary straight blade.”
“But now…?”
“Now, I’m not confident in that theory. See here”—she applies light pressure to the neck, opening up the clean wound. “Most hunting knifes have a serrated edge that would have torn the skin. Though one would be sharp enough and have no problem cutting this deeply, this is too clean a laceration. The blade that was used was blunt and almost…waved. The pattern has a curvature to it…it’s odd, I know. And the perpetrator would’ve had to use a lot of force to cut this deeply.” She frowns. “A thick, blunt blade that hit bone.”
Not a difficult feat for someone with enough sadistic rage, though. I tap out a note on my tablet. “Strength was definitely needed, then. So the UNSUB was most likely a man.” I glance up. “Just to confirm.”
Her deep brown gaze holds mine a moment before she says, “Between you and me, this is the first time I’ve seen any kind of weapon like this. But yes, I’d say your UNSUB is most likely male.”
The fact that the best M.E. I know—a woman who’s seen everything—is shocked by this kill doesn’t bode well for us. But maybe it’s a lead for our victim. If the perpetrator used a rare weapon, maybe he’s used it or one like it before. It could show up on another radar out there. I make a quick note on my tablet before Avery continues.
“I’ll work up the best sketch I can for the weapon based on the pattern.”
Nodding, I say, “Thanks. That will help.”
She offers a slight smile and continues. “Ligature marks around the ankles and wrists confirm she was bound for hours.” She holds the victim’s arm above the steel table and points out the darkened skin. “The different variations in bruising suggest she was conscious and struggled for some time before her death. And her tox screen was clear. No alcohol or drugs used to sedate her.”
