Maddy Mine

by Maren Smith

  Cecil jumped when Dominick caught his arm, abruptly taking back his whip. He had one moment, just one fragile sliver between ticking seconds as he turned around to face Mr. Ten Minutes, when he thought for sure his temper was going to hit the redline and he'd lose control of it. He made himself breathe in, holding on to both it and his anger as he beckoned the other man forward.

  "Come here," he ordered.

  Staring warily back at him, Ten Minutes didn't move. "Fuck you."

  Standing just inside the doorway, Rita drummed her fingers once upon the head of her cane.

  Forcing down the anger, stamping it down tight and cold deep inside himself, Dominick found his way back to calm. It was harder than anything he'd done in a long time, especially since he couldn't stop imagining every submissive he'd ever cared about trapped in one bad situation after another. One in particular refused to leave his thoughts: Sara, wife and submissive of Castle chief of security, Jackson; mother to their newborn daughter, the majority of her body mottled by scars from the fire that could have killed her had Jackson not got her out of her bonds in time. He remembered the first time she'd come into his dungeon, when a flashback had sent her scrambling wildly to cower in the men's bathroom.

  Hard on the heels of that memory came another: Kaylee, running to get away from him because she'd lied on her application, leaving Marshall to believe a match to hard-playing Dominick the best for someone of her experience. Experience, ha! All he'd done was threaten to use his whip and she'd run all the way out of the Castle, screaming 'onions' at the top of her lying little lungs.

  And then, in less time than it took him to blink, suddenly it was Maddy he could see, cowering in a corner of the men's room, so panicked that she could scarcely draw a breath… fleeing down dark hallways from a man who'd frightened her so badly that she was practically in tears… and then, for no reason whatsoever, Maddy tied to a cross, unable to break away and helpless to escape the partner who didn't care if she called 'red' or not. Because there were those Dominants out there, sadists fully deserving of the worst possible nuances of that word.

  He liked to think he wasn't one of them. Sometimes, like right now, he had to wonder.

  "What are you doing?" Ten Minutes backed up a step when Dominick let the length of his whip slither out across the tiled floor behind him.

  "Do you have a stopwatch, Cecil?" Dominick asked, his tone registering nothing but the calm of a dangerous approaching storm.

  "Uh…" Cecil looked at his wristwatch, then began poking buttons. "Yes."

  "Time me." The full darkness of Dominick's gaze locked on Ten Minutes. "Whenever you're ready," he told the man. "Call 'red'. Let's see what kind of damage I can do in three minutes. Then we'll try five. And then, if you're still feeling frisky, we'll go for ten, just so you can feel the difference."

  "You can't be serious." The pirate retreated, but the crowd of Masters he was trying to absorb himself into retreated even further. "I didn't agree to this."

  "Call 'red'," Dominick coaxed. "If it's good enough for a submissive, it's good enough for you. Come on, don't be a pussy."

  Ten Minutes pointed at him, eyes wide both with disbelief and impotent warning. "You're insane. I didn't consent to this."

  "Neither did she," Dominick growled.

  "She? What she? She who?"

  "The submissive you want to abandon to this—" Dominick threw the whip, snapping the tip just inches from his right boot, and sending the pirate leaping to avoid being hit. "—for another seven minutes. Three minutes is a lifetime. Ten…" Dominick struck again—once, twice!—each gunshot crack sending the pirate Dom scrambling over the top of the table, kicking abandoned protocol packets in his haste to get away. "Ten can leave trauma wounds not even the best Dom can undo."

  "You're fucking crazy!" the pirate shouted, face flushed with adrenaline, that momentary fear that he might get hurt giving way to confidence now with the table between them. Just as quickly, confidence gave way to anger. "You may be King Shit wherever the hell you're from, but you can't just hit someone here!"

  Another crack of the whip licked the edge of the table directly in front of Ten Minutes, making him jump. He yanked his hands up and nearly fell over a chair in his haste to get back even further.

  "Seven laps," Dominick ordered. "One for every extra minute of pain and terror you're content to put your submissive through."

  "Fuck you!" he lashed back. "I don't have to take this—"

  "You do if you want to work here," Rita softly said. Every pirate in that room looked at her, but it was Ten Minutes's angry gaze that she met without flinching. "Seven laps, or be packed and ready to board the morning flight back to the mainland."

  Cane held loosely between her hands, she held his stare with iron-clad blue eyes that did not waver. He blinked first.

  "This is bullshit," he said, but his tone had lost its confidence. It shook—but then, with as much adrenaline as Dominick knew from past experience was coursing through him right now, all the rest of him was likely shaking, too.

  "This is the way it is," Rita contradicted, raising her voice to address the whole of the now silent room. "Let there be no misunderstanding this, ladies and gentlemen. Master Dominick is here because of his experience as a founding Dominant in one of the most highly respected dungeon resorts in the world. Every word that comes out of his mouth is gospel to us. If he says the safeword should be changed, then we will put our heads together and come up with a better one. If he says five minutes is too long, then we do not—" She turned cool blue eyes back on the angry pirate beside her, "—suggest increasing it to ten. Rather, we find ways for Security to shave two minutes off their response time. And if you come crying to me because you've pissed him off to the extent that he gives you laps, like some recalcitrant student in high school gym class, then I will double what he gives you. Are we clear?"

  Ten Minutes seethed with every loud breath he took, glaring back and forth between her and Dominick until, without another word, he turned and marched out of the room. His only parting shot was the way he slammed the door behind him.

  Drawing the length of his bullwhip through his hand, Dominick recoiled it. "Well," he finally said, once he was sure the pirate would not be back, "I think I've done all the damage I can for one day."

  The door opened and Dominick stopped, ready for round two with Ten Minutes, but it was the now hot and sweaty female pirate returning from her disciplinary lap. She was carrying her captain's coat. Moisture stained nearly all of her white shirt, which she'd unbuttoned and tied in the front above her midriff. Breathing heavily, she glared at Dominick as she sank into the first empty chair she came to.

  He almost smiled at her. Almost.

  "Tomorrow morning," he told everyone instead. "This table, eight a.m. Bring coffee, because we're going to be here all day. In the meantime…" He turned to lock eyes on the still panting female pirate, "everyone gets a lap. Once around the compound, then you're dismissed."

  Her shoulders slumping, mouth agape, the woman stared at him. "You sick son of a bitch," she hissed.

  "Sadist," he reminded, letting her see his toothy grin.

  More than one Dominant groaned; most simply stood up. The female pirate was the only one who slammed her newly vacated chair back into the table before she stomped out. Cecil hesitated, lingering a moment before chickening out on whatever he seemed to want to say. He, too, joined the procession outside. Eventually, Rita was the only one left, still leaning up against the wall by the door, hands folded on her cane.

  "The bullwhip was a little much," she finally said.

  "Ah, I wasn't even close to hitting him." Clipping the whip back on his hip, Dominick walked around the table, gathering up info packets before he decided he wasn't here to be anybody's cleanup crew. He dropped them where he stood. "Those are some sorry excuses for Dominants, I have to say. Where'd you find them?"

  "Different ads in different places." Rita pushed away from the wall. "That's not my biggest problem
right now, however."

  "You've got problems bigger than opening a BDSM resort with Dominants who don't know what the hell they're doing?" he scoffed. "Do tell."

  "I just received a phone call from Winston Zanderson." Parking herself by the door, Rita waited for him to come and open it for her.

  Hand on the handle, Dominick stopped at the mention of Tessa's husband. His head fell back on his shoulders. He groaned. "Fuck. Me."

  "My thoughts exactly," the older woman said dryly. "I open in less than a month and he's threatening to yank my funding because his wife is less than happy with her experience. She's telling him—"

  "I can guess what she's telling him," Dominick said shortly. How was it that the most necessary people were either more trouble than they were worth, or married to someone who was? Ripping open the door, he allowed Rita to precede him.

  Except she didn't. She stepped in close instead, gazing up at him through eyes that didn't have the same piercing blue quality that Marshall's did, and yet which held all the power to command, even for someone like Dominick, who habitually obeyed no commands beyond his own.

  "I need that financing," she softly told him. "You make a living out of doing things for people you don't necessarily like. I need you to do that for me, right here and right now. Tonight. If you don't, this whole project is dead in the water by noon tomorrow."

  Holding his gaze a moment longer, Rita limped out into the hall, leaving Dominick to hold onto the door, his temper and more than one or two off-colored curses tightly locked behind gritted teeth. He thought about Maddy, tapping away on her laptop, nipples perking under the cool hum of the air conditioning, librarian's glasses slipping down her nose, maybe dressed in baggy sweats or maybe not. It would be just his luck if she was waiting in nothing but bra and panties.

  All those luscious curves…

  "Fuck," he breathed, freeing one curse before sucking the rest back down deep inside him. "Where is she?"

  "Sunning on the beach, last I knew." Waiting for him to fall into step beside her, knowing he would bend himself to getting her what she needed, Rita yielded to the smallest of smiles. "Are you going to take your whip?"

  Dominick snorted, a harsh expulsion of a laugh that held no sincere enjoyment. "Don't tempt me."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The tropical breeze brought cool salty air in off the ocean, but the low-setting sun still felt hot against Dominick's skin. Bakingly so against the black leather of his pants. He was glad he'd stopped by his apartment, not just to calm his temper, but to exchange his matching vest for one of the Island's flowing white pirate shirts. Open to the waist and tucked in at his belt, it left a lot of chest exposed. Unusual tan lines would be one of the souvenirs he took home with him once this trip was over. A lot of sand in his luggage would be another. He could already feel loose grains collecting in his shoes, and the heat of the shifting surface he walked on was already burning through the soles as he made his way down the beach toward the semi-private alcove where Tessa had set up her beach chair, just out of reach of the washing tide.

  Her umbrella was up, shading little more than her face as she lay on her back, one leg drawn up and lazily rocking back and forth while she ate the cherry off the pick in her half-empty Piña Colada. She'd tossed the pineapple wedge to the sand a short distance away; two sea birds took turns darting in to grab it, but neither was quite brave enough to risk her nearness. They kept trying, but each time she swung her leg, self-preservation sent them scurrying back again.

  Dominick didn't bother to quiet his approach toward her. He knew she'd heard him not because she'd turned around, but because a smug little curl pulled at the corners of her pink-painted mouth.

  "Where's your boyfriend?" he asked, once he was close enough not to have to shout.

  "Taking lessons from one of the Masters in the dungeon. He hit a little high the last time he caned me." Tipping back her head, Tessa looked up at him over the top of her chair and the rim of her flashy, silver-tinted sunglasses. "He's not very good at it yet. Not like others I could mention."

  Dominick wasn't flattered. Maybe he should have been. Tessa really was quite lovely, all lithesome limbs, pert breasts and slender hips. Her long red hair was pinned up in a bun that struck him as being both haphazard and neat, keeping what few stray wisps the breeze teased free out of her eyes. Tanning lotion made her skin glisten. She was the kind of woman who could go anywhere, get any man she liked with a look and a smile. Kade would have bedded her in an instant. He had, in fact. Her and her daughter both, which was why Dominick was here instead of him. Yeah, Tessa was the kind of woman most guys would salivate over getting to know better, but all Dominick saw when he looked at her was a spoiled rich woman who enjoyed making trouble wherever she went.

  "Want to sit down?" She had the only chair but she obligingly drew up her legs, offering him the lower portion to perch on, and a prime view of her nearly naked rump while he did it. It was a scrawny rump, sparsely covered by a peach-pink bikini thong, tied in little string bows at each hip. They were runway model hips. Slender. Attached to legs that ran the line between too thin and what all the grocery-register magazines seemed to think were every man's ideal. She sat up when he sat down. Now she looked like a wishbone, feet in the sand, hugging the lounge chair between her splayed knees. She was like a half-grown teenager. He wasn't even tempted.

  Tipping her sunglasses to the end of her nose, Tessa heaved a playful sigh. That, plus the way she was sitting now, made her breasts almost fall out of her peach bikini top; also little more than string, with just enough cup to keep her nipples concealed. A clever move on her part would solve that problem, and he could tell she was trying by the way she wiggled her shoulders as she squared off against him.

  "I'm very disappointed." She pouted.

  "In?" he asked, pretending he didn't already know what she was going to say. Let her play her game, and spell it all out for him. It gave him time to think about how he wanted to proceed. Not that he had a lot of options. That phone call to her husband had taken care of that.

  "You." She teasingly walked two fingers up his chest to give the collar of his shirt a light tug. "I thought you'd have been all over me by now, but you seem…" Her pout became a moue of distaste, "otherwise preoccupied. I understand you have to pay attention to everyone, even the wallflowers, but really, Master Dominick. The way you were acting in the dining hall, it almost makes one think you have a preference. Tell me honestly…" She kept her smile as she leaned towards him, but the wrinkle in her nose said everything about what she thought of his preferences. "Are you a chubby chaser?"

  For the first time since setting foot on the beach, or talking to Rita… hell, for the first time since he'd said goodbye to Maddy in that shadowy dining hall with the comely serving wench shrieking out her final pleas to at last be permitted to cum, Dominick smiled. Really smiled. He didn't answer Tessa's question. He had no intention of sharing anything so personal with her. Instead, he posed a question of his own. "What is it exactly that you want?"

  "I want what anyone who comes to a place like this—or the Castle, for that matter—wants." Her fingers drifted up from his shirt to toy in the coarse dark hair at the very end of his chin. He kept his beard trimmed too short for her to do more than pinch at it. If it were Maddy doing this, he'd have been all over her. With Tessa… nope, he still wasn't tempted. "I want an experience I'll never forget," she purred. "And I want you to give it to me."

  "I'd love nothing more than to give it to you," he lied with practiced ease. "Unfortunately, my dear, you've been drinking."

  She glanced sideways, casting the half-empty Piña Colada a startled look. "Only just the one. There was barely any rum in it."

  "Two Piña Coladas," he corrected. "Plus a sparkling Mojito and a Tiki cocktail. I checked with the bar before I came out here."

  Tessa laughed, a touch affronted. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Over a period of six hours. I'm not drunk."

  "I don't care if you're drunk
or not. You've got alcohol in your system and that means you are, legally, incapable of consent."

  Her eyes narrowed further. She stared at him as if she couldn't believe what he was saying. "Legally?" she finally echoed, her voice climbing. "Legally no one can give consent, and you ought to know that better than anybody!"

  "I will not touch you," he repeated firmly, "when you've been drinking. I'd hate for there to be a misunderstanding, especially now, when your husband has raised specified concerns over how this island is run. He's threatened to pull his funding, but you already know that."

  She laughed again, only this time it was barely more than a puff of air. Flopping back in her lounge chair, she glared. "Yeah, all right. So I'll call him. Tell him I was a little… over anxious. Will that help?"

  Dominick inclined his head. "Yes, it will."

  "Then you'll touch me?"

  "Sure." He stood up. "When you haven't been drinking."

  "Son of a bitch," she muttered, but by then Dominick had stood and was already walking away. It made him smile; his second genuine smile in less than ten minutes. As he hiked up the beach toward the well-manicured walkway that led a winding path up polished rock steps, through the palm and pouteria caimito trees and gardenia flowers, back toward the apartment complex, he found himself staring at Maddy's ground-level patio. He knew it was hers not because it was the only sliding glass door standing wide open, allowing in the ocean breeze, but because Maddy was standing right there at the rail.

  Despite all his imaginings throughout that long, arduous conference room meeting, she wasn't wearing baggy sweats or naughty librarian glasses. He almost felt a pang of regret about that.

  He felt an even bigger pang when he saw her face. She was staring right at him—when she wasn't looking past him, down toward Tessa, still sulking on her lounge chair. Or so he thought until he realized he'd stopped walking and, definitely Tessa was still sulking, because she flounced past him in way that shook his 'half-grown girl' image of her and cemented his 'rich bitch' one. Particularly when she turned mid-step, grabbed the top of her string bikini, and flashed him her bouncy tits.