by Joey W. Hill
“All the criminals decided not to commit any crimes today, in honor of your upcoming birthday. Wasn’t that nice of them? And you can wipe that ‘You look like Tinkerbell in uniform’ smirk off your face. I have a Taser and a gun. As well as a baton I won’t hesitate to telescope up your ass.”
“You can’t prove I was thinking that and, despite your threat of police brutality, the justice system is still ‘innocent until proven guilty’.”
“Boy, are you behind the times. It’s innocent as long as you get a stupid jury or a high priced attorney. And you have enough to buy both.” Violet unsnapped her handcuffs and shook them out with a metallic click. “I’m here to take you in.”
Tyler blinked. “The last time I had a woman in uniform say that to me, she started stripping. It was at my bachelor party.” Straightening, he picked up his Heineken, took a swallow and leaned his hips against the brick retaining wall, finding a small bare patch where his yellow climbing rose wasn’t sprawling, bursting with blooms.
“I brought reinforcement, though I don’t really think I’m going to need him.” She nodded, and he saw Mac coming around the corner. The homicide detective was built like a brick house, his relaxed stride emanating easy power. The jeans and T-shirt he wore obviously came from the same store where the Tampa Buccaneers shopped for clothes, needing a special fit for broad shoulders and powerful thighs. But it was the anticipatory grin playing around his features as he met Tyler’s gaze that gave Tyler fair warning he was in serious trouble.
“This is about my birthday, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Not a surprise party. Marguerite knows I hate surprise parties.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s not our place to explain the charges against you. We just cuff ‘em and deliver ‘em.”
“I’ll go along quietly,” Tyler decided with a resigned sigh, though he was puzzled. Marguerite had infallible intuition with respect to his desires. While she might plan a get-together with their closest friends at the Tea Room to quietly celebrate his birthday, he doubted she’d go all out like this. “I don’t need the cuffs.”
“I don’t recall making that a choice.” Violet’s eyes sparkled. “Are we going to have to take you to the ground, or are you going to turn around and put your hands on your head, fingers laced?”
Tyler glanced between the two of them. Mac had come to a halt, one hip cocked, fingers hooked in his armpits, the smile settling into a faint curve on his firm mouth. Damn if the bastard didn’t look ready and willing for a sparring match. At the very sweaty, testosterone-laden gym they both frequented, eschewing the brightly lit yuppie co-ed workout hangouts, they were pretty even, but they knew if Violet jumped into it, it was game over. No way was Tyler going to wrestle her. He didn’t care how accomplished she was; he didn’t fight with girls. The last time he’d told her that, he’d earned a nice uppercut that had rocked him on his heels, but he’d taken the blow and held to his guns. A Southern gentleman did not raise a hand to a woman.
“I think this is why you like being in law enforcement. It’s the chance to restrain men and order them around.”
“Makes my nipples hard, baby. Now turn around, lace your fingers on your head, and let me see that fine, fine ass.”
Tyler choked on a laugh and his beer, but the gleam in Violet’s eyes still gave him a ripple of unease. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her. Until his marriage to Marguerite, he counted Violet his best friend. He’d helped her embrace her Dominant nature as a Mistress, and had enjoyed a front row seat when she met Mac Nighthorse and discovered the tough detective was the ultimate paradox. A strong alpha who needed a Mistress’s firm hand in the bedroom.
But precisely because of what she was, a smart man would think twice before being cuffed by her. Particularly when he had no idea what she was up to. However, given that Marguerite was behind this, he could do nothing more than give in. For the time being.
Because as strong a Mistress as Violet was, he was a stronger Master, and he knew it would take more than a set of cuffs to make him relinquish control.
Part Two
He’d have been surprised to know how closely Violet’s thoughts reflected his own on the matter. Even with all her experience in controlling males, professional and personal, her lower belly still did an amusing little flutter when Tyler put down his clippers, slowly pivoted and brought his hands up, lacing them behind his head. It emphasized the width of his shoulders, the beautiful play of muscle, obvious even under the storm gray T-shirt he wore. And she hadn’t been kidding about his ass. She wondered if Marguerite would mind if she got a little enthusiastic with the role and frisked him thoroughly. Tucking her tongue in her cheek, Violet figured what Marguerite didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, but Mac, who could be a tad on the possessive side about his own Mistress, might have a few issues.
Plus, Tyler would tattle, and she’d have to worry about Marguerite asking for quid pro quo next time they were at the club. Whatever Marguerite’s boundaries might be about Tyler’s body, Violet knew exactly how she felt about another woman fondling Mac’s fine ass.
Still, she was too much of a Mistress not to feel physical pleasure when she clipped the cuff on his left wrist, and guided his hands down behind his back to secure them both, his knuckles resting on the rise of his buttocks. When he gave her a sidelong glance, he was too much of a Master not to register her reaction. His lips quirked, and she arched a brow at him in return.
“Don’t get cute, or I’ll use that Taser after all.”
Tyler grinned. “You’re just looking for any excuse.”
Mac had stayed at the corner of the house. As Violet guided Tyler around the large stand of oleanders, he could see why. Mac needed to keep a clear line of sight to the circular driveway and the transportation that was parked there, because the vehicle had a very important occupant. The hum of the running engine, underscored by the blowing sound of air conditioning, confirmed it.
“I’m being kidnapped and transported in a mini-van with infant sunscreens in the windows,” Tyler observed dryly. “I wonder why the CIA hasn’t thought of that. Perfect cover.”
“Welcome to where the D/s lifestyle meets the reality of transporting tiny people,” Violet agreed, unperturbed. As she took him to the van, Mac fell in behind them, lifting his hand in a farewell to someone inside the house, probably looking through the tall living room picture window.
“I assume you informed my housekeeper that you were doing this?”
“Actually, Sarah’s been in on it for some time. She asked me if I’d blindfold you so she could come out and beat you like a rug, anonymously. You know, payback for every time you left your dirty boxers on the floor. I would have agreed, but I promised Marguerite I’d deliver you in pristine condition.”
“You know, speaking of payback—”
“I’m just following orders, sir,” Violet said in her official cop voice. “Take it up with your legal counsel.”
“I get legal counsel?”
“No,” Mac said amiably, sliding open the door for him.
Tyler had a suitable and colorful response to that. Violet punched his arm, hard enough he was pretty sure it would bruise.
“Language,” she said. Her tone had changed again, this time to the “mother” voice, a new dialect that had amused Tyler as it developed without any plan or effort, apparently something that attached itself to her DNA once she’d conceived. “There is a child in the car.”
At that, his tingling apprehension about their destination temporarily dissipated, pure affection taking over. Daisy was in her car seat, the five-month-old infant playing unperturbedly with a soft fabric mobile of flowers dancing over her head. She didn’t appear the least concerned about being left in the car alone, but she’d emerged from the womb remarkably self-assured. Mac thought it was because she’d inherited her mother’s terrifying fearless streak. Tyler was pretty sure it was also because Daisy knew she had an indomitable father who would move Heaven and
Hell if necessary to keep a moment of distress from touching her.
Even now, having been in the vehicle ostensibly by herself, she looked like a tiny princess welcoming them into her throne room. Her violet-blue eyes turned toward them in calm curiosity. One curlicue of her fine dark hair sat up, tied with a pink ribbon.
Mac guided him onto the seat beside her, cupping Tyler’s head to protect it as he ducked in. It was an easier feat for him than Violet, since Mac was closer to Tyler’s height.
“Daisy was very excited about coming along for this.” Violet slid into the front passenger seat. “She even had me dress her up special for the occasion.”
For Violet’s baby shower, Chloe—Marguerite’s irrepressible baker and hostess at the Tea Room—had provided Daisy an applicable, if somewhat inappropriate, gift. It was a pajama set, a pretty pink and white thing that depicted a small female devil with flirtatious lashes and a pitchfork laced with flowers. Beneath the cartoon were printed the words: “I like spankings.” Dressed in that, Daisy also had Chloe’s other impudent gift, a rattle shaped like a tiny flogger. Attached to her wrist, she was vigorously shaking it even now, the rattler in the handle making a pleasant bell noise while the straps slapped together.
“I think her participation in this is illegal,” Tyler noted.
“She’s only assisting in transport.” Violet cooed at her daughter and touched the little fist as she leaned through the opening between the seats. Mac came around to take the driver’s side. “She gets to go to bed when she gets home, so the pajamas made sense.”
“She still appears better dressed for the occasion than I am,” Tyler responded.
“I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about that for long,” Mac observed, with far too damn much smugness for Tyler’s peace of mind.
Even so, he couldn’t resist leaning over, despite his restrained hands, to tease his goddaughter’s perfect nose with a puff of air. She gurgled at him, smiling, then kicked her arms and legs vigorously, whapping him several times with the flogger.
“That’s my girl.” Violet laughed. “Take us back to the highway, Mac. As happy as Daisy is to see Tyler, there’s another woman who’s even more eager to get her hands on him.”
Part Three
They didn’t take him into Tampa as he expected. Before they got started, after he’d said his hellos to Daisy, Violet pulled a blindfold out of the glove compartment and turned around in the seat, balancing on the center console with the long practice of a woman used to wiping a nose or handing out a cookie. Or to check on a suspect and threaten his life with a mere pointed look.
“Marguerite doesn’t want you to know where you’re going,” she explained. “If you start to feel car sick, though, let me know. I don’t want you to get there and throw up on her shoes.” She gave him a steady look. “But if you’d rather just close your eyes, I think I can accept your word that you won’t peek.
He had been a CIA operative, not a cop, but Violet understood that all those in law enforcement had difficulties with being rendered helpless, even in the company of trusted friends. Ironically, though, it was that sensitivity that helped.
“No, I should be fine. You’re not driving, so I feel reasonably comfortable.”
“Wise guy. Daisy, we might just stick your pacifier in his mouth before this ride is over.” But Violet was still pretty gentle as she guided the blindfold over his face, adjusting the strap behind his ears and making sure it was comfortable.
He inhaled, and a faint smile touched his lips. “Marguerite gave you this.”
“Yeah. Don’t tell me what you’re smelling. I’m sure I don’t want to know where that’s been.”
“I wouldn’t mind hearing a little bit more about it,” Mac offered.
Tyler heard the grunt as she punched her husband in the arm. Giving Mac a hand, he shoved his knee against the back of her seat, hearing a satisfying thud as it moved on its track. “It’s the fragrance she puts on her wrists. Gutter-mind.”
It was something he’d bought her, one of those customized scents that cost a ridiculous amount of money but was supposed to be aligned with the woman’s body chemistry to make it uniquely hers. She’d smiled at the notion, indulging him, but they’d both been surprised by how tantalizing a touch of the oil on her pulse points had been to his nose. Not that it took much to tease his senses where Marguerite was concerned.
“Are Daisy and I going to have to separate you two?” Mac quipped, and then they were on their way.
By instinct, Tyler tried to keep track of the number of turns, the distance between them. Violet kept up an easy flow of conversation, with the obligatory interruptions to respond to Daisy’s spontaneous gurgles, coos and various baby noises. He figured out they’d gotten onto some type of rural road, headed in a westerly direction, which would take them to the Keys if they stayed on it way longer than he assumed they would be. He found he was correct, because after about twenty minutes, Mac turned off and they were bumping up a gravel road.
Violet had opened one of the windows, and he smelled cut grass, distant marsh. Something else, musky, animal-like. Horses. They were somewhere that had horses. Confirming it, he heard a distant whinny and snort, the thud of hooves as they found some energy to play, despite the late afternoon Florida heat.
But something else was in the air as well. When Mac braked, a sudden still readiness settled over Tyler. Marguerite was nearby. He could sense her, waiting for him. Despite his banter with Violet, and the seemingly entertaining nature of what Marguerite had asked them to do, all that changed in this moment. That strong current of need and want that could rise up and take him over when he needed to let her know exactly how much she meant to him, surged forward now, making him as focused as he’d ever been before a mission.
Being with her defined everything he was, underscoring what he’d always been, as well as creating something new and stronger. Whenever they came together like this, Master against Mistress, it was as if both the predator and mate in him awoke, ready to do battle and seduce at once. Marguerite Perruquet Winterman was many things, but few of them were easy. Whatever it was she had planned, preparation for it coiled in his lower belly, making his cock harden and all his other senses go on alert.
Though she was a female Dominant, she’d surrendered to him, a unique scenario even in the unpredictable world of Domination and submission. She wasn’t just any Mistress, but a living legend at their preferred club, The Zone. Since being a Mistress was in her blood, situations like this were intended to challenge him. She needed to be a submissive with him, to find that emotional balance her very difficult childhood had almost stolen from her permanently. However, it took both a strong and delicate hand to hold the reins on her. His lips twitched, wondering if the choice of a stable had been intended or unconscious. Either way, his blood stirred, ready for both the gauntlet and the gift she’d prepared for him. It was a fair description of the woman herself.
His wife. Something he never got tired of saying, thinking, or murmuring in the shell of her ear. Particularly after a hard climax, when he was holding her shuddering body and knowing that, by some miracle, she was all his.
§
Violet was the one who took him out of the van. As if sensing the change in his mood, she said little, merely guiding him along a gravel path. When he realized they’d stepped inside a building, he recognized it as a barn, the smell of hay and old wood filling his nostrils.
“I’m uncuffing your right wrist. I want you to move your hands in front of you, and then I’m going to recuff them.”
He complied without a word, and her small fingers tightened over the bracelets, binding him again. Her knuckles brushed his groin, inadvertently he was certain, because Violet didn’t play with him like that. But he was sure she couldn’t help but notice he was getting hard.
“We can’t help it, can we?” she murmured. “Like pit bulls getting ready to go into the ring. Good luck, champ. Kick her ass.” Then, in her cop voice, she add
ed, “Stand right here.”
She left him, her shoes crunching on the stone. The haze in the air was disturbed by a fan mounted somewhere on the wall, so that the sweat that had collected on his shirt when he was gardening cooled. Despite the pleasurable tension he was feeling about what might be ahead, it was peaceful here, quiet. Earthy. Marguerite chose her settings quite deliberately, and so had known this would be a good balance for him, too.
“Lift your hands over your head.”
Had she been standing downwind from him, remaining completely still so that he couldn’t detect her? Since he was already expecting her arrival, she’d managed to cloak her presence cleverly in that anticipation.
As a Dom, he knew that sensory deprivation, anticipation and denial were the three potent ways to drive up desire and need, heighten all other sensations. So he shouldn’t have been surprised that those few syllables, said in the unconsciously sultry voice he most wanted to hear, could tighten his lower abdomen muscles as if he’d just driven himself into her. His cock responded accordingly with a hard jerk that made him wince, because he was definitely in need of adjustment. He hadn’t thought it appropriate to ask Violet for help with that, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Mac.
“Don’t make me tell you twice.” That core of authority that made so many submissive males cream themselves, slid into her tone. In his case it stimulated more than that, an urge as primal as that which drove the first male wolf to follow an elusive female scent.
Baring his teeth in a smile, he lifted his hands and felt the hook waiting there, just within reach of his wrists.
“Thread the cuffs over it.”
“Whose gift is this, angel? Yours or mine?”
“You won’t have to ask that when I’m done.”
“Come here.”
Her breathy soft laugh made him want to lunge at her, but he held his position, knowing she was circling him now. Her feet were bare, because he knew the sound of her smooth, slender soles padding against the wood of their bedroom floor. “You shouldn’t be barefoot in here. You could cut those pretty feet. The ones that belong to me.”
