Cuffed

by Angel Payne

  Wolf Man inclined his head. “You’re not looking for it anymore.” He crisscrossed the air with his finger. “X marks the spot. Why don’t you come inside, beautiful? It’s getting cold.”

  She shrugged off the hand he cupped on her shoulder. “Who are you?”

  The guy laughed. Damn, could his dimples get any deeper? “Shit,” he mumbled, “where are my manners?” He dipped his lips over one of her hands. “Max Brickham. Bastille is my castle, and I am your servant. Perhaps you’ll return the pleasure of knowing your name now, Miss—”

  “In the wrong place.” She swallowed and tried to slide free from his grip. Her resolve deepened when a long male moan punched the air from somewhere in the club. She couldn’t tell if the instigation was pleasure or pain. Did it matter? “Uh, yeah,” she stammered. “That’s me. Wrong place. Really wrong time. I’m so sorry.”

  What had she been thinking? Hadn’t Zeke reminded her yesterday, in damn clear terms, what he did with his Saturday nights? Had she really gotten all the way inside the door of this place before that memory slapped her like one of the paddles mounted on the lobby’s wall? Each of the boards had a number on it, along with club members’ signatures that relayed its correspondence to another year Bastille had been open. There were seven paddles in all. It was weirdly sweet. She wondered if Max put up a Christmas tree each year too, decorated with kinked-out customizations of Hallmark collectibles.

  The man chuckled as if the nonsensical image hit him as well. “It’s not that bad, Red. You haven’t dropped your basket…yet.”

  Great. Wolfie was on an innuendo roll. Rayna tried pulling from him again. No dice. Though the man’s hands were as big as paws, his hold was that of a practiced paladin. He clamped her fingers tight but stroked her palm with a thumb that was all feathery seduction.

  “Th-thank you for your time, Mr. Brickham. It’s been nice to meet you, but I think I’ll just—”

  “Tell me your name?” He tugged in his bottom lip with the grin this time. He knew the boyish charm angle, too? She wondered why there wasn’t a woman or ten draped on his arm.

  Despite her nerves, Rayna laughed. “Good heavens.”

  “We can certainly make time for that. But I need to know your name first.”

  “Rayna!”

  Max dropped her hand like he’d gotten caught in the cookie jar. The voice clearly wasn’t new for him—nor was it for Rayna either. For a year of her life, when the world was nothing but African jungles and the tribes who would enslave her there, her only friend was the diminutive blonde who stopped about six feet away, rocking a pair of black stilt heels, pink fishnet stockings, and a rose-hued minidress with black corset ties up the back. Her face, framed by her glamorously curled hair, was frozen in a gape.

  “Well, well, well.” Max folded his arms as those ocean blues danced with amusement. “You’re a friend of Sage, huh?”

  “She’s my best friend, Brick.” Sage rushed forward. “I’m just wondering what the hell she’s doing here.”

  Rayna seized the opportunity to scoot back. “Zeke,” she blurted. “I was looking—well, I was hoping—”

  “Zeke?” Max’s brows jumped with new interest. “You know him, too?”

  Rayna disregarded that. She looked to Sage. Just saying Z’s name again, along with her friend’s arrival, reignited the determination that had gotten her here to begin with. “I need to talk to him, Sage. He’s here, right?”

  Sage took her hand. “He is,” she gently confirmed. “But this may not be the right time—”

  “Then I’ll wait until it is right.” When her friend winced, she persisted, “Do you know what it took for me to find this place, let alone the personal psych-out just to knock on the door? So do you think I’m here just to ask him about catching the Star Wars marathon downtown next week?”

  Max’s jaw dropped. “There’s a Star Wars marathon? And you’re going?”

  Sage rolled her eyes. “Don’t get her started, Brickham. Do you know how many times I’ve had to listen to the ‘Han gets frozen in carbonite’ scene, word for word?”

  Max dropped to a knee and took her hand again. “Marry me.”

  Sage rolled her eyes. After yanking Rayna from him, Sage gathered both her hands up. “Listen…Ray…” Her eyes, normally bright as spring, were a somber celadon. “Z could be a while.”

  “Because he’s with a submissive?” She smiled a little when Sage gaped. “I know all about it. And I’m still choosing to wait.”

  Max growled while getting back to his feet. “Damn that fucker! Back in the country less than three days and he has a waiting line.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Sage pulled her deeper into the club, past a red velvet curtain and into a shallow alcove. “I love you,” she said, “so I say this with love. You don’t want to see Z tonight, Ray. It’s complicated for him right now, and—”

  “Sage!”

  The bellow came from fifteen feet down the same hallway. Rayna turned with her friend as a familiar face emerged from the shadows: the golden, chiseled features of Garrett Hawkins. “Shit!” Sage exclaimed before rushing to her towering, black-clad fiancé. With equal alacrity, she bowed her head into his chest.

  “Sorry, my Sir. I was on my way to get Z’s beer, and—”

  “Screw the beer,” Garrett interjected. “That’s why I came to find you. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s gonna need something stronger.”

  Rayna swallowed, unable to move again. Garrett’s syllables were rolled in gravel and finished with doom. She’d never heard him sound that way before. Or any of the guys on the squad. They didn’t talk to each other or about each other like that.

  An anvil dropped in her stomach. Garrett was worried? About Zeke?

  She mentally peeled the glue off her feet and stepped out. “What is it?” she demanded from Garrett. “What’s wrong with Z?”

  The guy’s tawny brows descended over his eyes. “Fuck.” He glowered at Sage. “What the hell?”

  “Don’t look at me! I only went for beer.”

  Garrett hissed and raked a hand through his hair. “Rayna, this isn’t a great time for—”

  “She wants to wait,” Sage cut in.

  “You can’t wait.” Garrett’s lips flattened. “You don’t want to wait. Rayna—Rayna!”

  His yell consumed the hall, even making her ears ring, but she almost told the guy to save his breath. Vocalizing her resolve and then hearing it reiterated from Sage fused new girders into her resolve to see Zeke, no matter how long it took. What she’d learned in the session with Sally…it was remarkable. Uncontainable. In a way, it was perfect that she was here to tell him about it. This dungeon was no less foreign and daunting than the cave where he’d been her hero for the first time. The thought poured cement into her drive.

  Funny thing about cement, though. The stuff took time to harden. And in that period, images were pressed into it that would last a lifetime.

  Like the moment she saw Zeke again.

  She turned the corner and came across an area with couches that were centered on a sprawling fireplace. There were a lot of plush blankets and big velvet pillows. If a few bowls of popcorn got thrown into the scene, it would’ve been an idyllic slumber party setting.

  With the exception of the naked woman who got carried into the area by Tait Bommer.

  They were followed by a person who vaguely reminded her of Zeke—if she could use the term “person” for him right now. The shirtless, sweat-covered creature in front of her was someone who looked like him but barely seemed him. His steps were bestial tromps. His breaths were harsh heaves. He didn’t just occupy the air. He wrestled it from the universe and claimed it—and wasn’t nice about it, either.

  Rayna couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  “Shit,” she whispered. Hell was certainly preparing a place for her right now, because her eyes weren’t the only body part obsessed with him. Every one of the nerve endings between her thighs came alive in need, making her clench b
ack a gasp. She watched him cross in front of the fire and fantasized about tackling him right there, in front of everyone.

  The tension got worse the next second.

  Tait laid the woman on her side along one of the couches. He settled at her feet. There was room for Zeke on the cushions near her head, but Z didn’t sit. He kept lapping the circle of ottomans in front of the fire, eating up the space like a dynamite fuse that wouldn’t blow.

  Tait threw a questioning look at Garrett.

  “Let him burn through it,” Garrett murmured to the guy. To Sage and Rayna, he added, “Holy fuck, I hope he burns through it.” A scowl creased his brow. “On the other hand, that means he’s gonna drop hard.”

  Rayna looked to Sage. “He’s going to what?”

  Sage tugged her closer so she could speak softly. “After an intense Dominance and submission scene, when the adrenaline and endorphins fall, the participants often take a physical or emotional tumble. Sometimes it’s both.” She nodded toward the couch. “Tait’s made sure that Luna’s got a shitload of aftercare: Gatorade, ointment, blankets. It’s Z we’re all worried about.”

  Sage’s confession made Rayna gape back at Z. She couldn’t fathom him dropping from anything, especially knowing what he’d been like as far as fifteen years back. But before fifteen minutes ago, she couldn’t imagine confronting the man in this state. His frenetic energy stirred the flames beyond the grate every time he passed.

  One thing finally halted him. Luna herself. Her eyes, half-closed and unfocused until now, opened a little wider. She sobbed and reached for Zeke. He crouched to her side in a second, running a long, gentle thumb along her forehead. Even from where she stood, Rayna saw the dark concern in his eyes, the silent questions across his face.

  When the woman shifted a little, Rayna understood why.

  She stifled another gasp. Luna’s back, butt, and upper thighs were twelve shades of red. Dark slashes formed a sadistic crossword puzzle in her alabaster skin, with bruises and whip marks taking the place of consonants and vowels. It was all so ugly, it was beautiful.

  But Luna’s face riveted the eye more. By anyone’s ranking, the woman was already stunning, with a full mouth, thick eyelashes, and high cheekbones. She became awe-striking when she opened her huge lavender eyes, tears glittering, and stared at Zeke with open adoration. His reaction wasn’t so gooey. His jaw and shoulders tightened. Still, he spoke to Luna with measured care.

  “You did real good, little girl. You were great.”

  “Zeke.” Luna’s sigh was soft as a prayer. Her smile made her look like she’d dragged on the best doobie ever rolled. “Thank you. Oh, God—”

  “Ssshh. Rest.”

  “But I need to tell you—”

  “Rest. I won’t ask again.”

  Zeke exchanged a glance with Tait, who nodded reassurance that he’d stay with Luna. That seemed a really good thing, because Z gained his feet again like an untamed animal. He skipped the circuit around the ottomans to stalk down another dark hallway. Rayna rushed to watch his silhouette in that corridor. His arms were coiled, his hands turning to fists. He slammed the wall twice before careening to the opposite side of the hall, yanking open a door, and staggering into the room beyond.

  Garrett lunged to follow him. Rayna did the same. At the guy’s threatening glare, she squared her shoulders and pointed at Sage. “Save it for her, Hawkins. Do not try to stop me.”

  With a dark glower, Garrett stepped back. Rayna sprinted down the hall. By the time she got into the room, Z had sagged against a large steel cage there, gripping its bars like he was already locked inside. The chamber was outfitted like the Taj Mahal in satin drapes and a giant round bed, but it could’ve been the damn Four Seasons and she wouldn’t care. Her only focus was the man she rushed to, pressing herself against his massive, heaving back. When Zeke flinched, she pulled out the perfect words to whisper. Things a teenage hero had used to soothe her fifteen years ago.

  “It’s okay. I just want to help. I’m here, and it’s going to be okay.”

  A weighted moment passed. Another.

  Of all the reactions she finally expected from him, his outraged snarl definitely wasn’t on the list.

  Chapter Six

  Anger. Confusion. Torment. Guilt. Shit, the guilt. This was what it must feel like to be the Incredible Hulk, only there was nothing incredible about it. Not a single fucking thing.

  Things went even worse when a bird got into the dungeon. Not just any bird. His bird. Z thought he’d imagined it at first, somehow summoned Rayna’s scent and presence through the force of his imagination, considering how many thoughts had been filled with her since the beast had completely taken over.

  He tore through his brain, trying to reassemble what had happened. It’d been sometime after he spiraled Luna through her third climax. Her sobs had filled the room as he traced her whip marks with one hand and cupped her mound with the other. He’d crooned his approval and actually meant every note of it, for both her and him. He’d given her what she needed yet kept his head screwed on straight. The debt had been paid, and Psycho Zsycho was nowhere in sight. Thank fucking God.

  Yeah…there. It was that moment, letting those words intrude, that started his supersized mistake. He’d dropped the mental defenses without considering how high his senses were really revved, how it could all sneak up on him in one dumbshit second and fill his imagination with the sole face he was struggling to block from this night he’d been duty-bound to live.

  Inside a second, Rayna was everywhere. Blown up in his mind to the size of a goddamn megaplex screen. Not just any picture, either. He saw her gasping into her pillow as he possessed her body with his. He heard her screaming with ecstasy in the orgasm he gave her. And when Luna had moaned, wordlessly begging for more, he’d only heard Rayna’s husky alto beneath the sound.

  The same voice that vibrated in the air now, so real and terrifying. With every word, she reminded him of the leash he’d let the monster have—of exactly what he’d done to take Luna to her fourth climax. The strikes. The welts. The lashes. Her sobbing need for all of it. His hunger to give it to her. And the dark, savoring pleasure he’d gotten from every twisted second of it.

  Psycho Zsycho hadn’t just come out to play. He’d nuked the whole goddamn playground.

  He roared at the fucker now. The effort spiked him with enough adrenaline to push from Rayna. He staggered a few steps and fell onto a little bench that Max surely must’ve gotten from Liberace’s estate sale. He would’ve laughed at the gold velvet cushion if he wasn’t so afraid of what might spew from him along with it. Tears or puke; they were equally humiliating.

  To be sure he did neither, Z forced words out. “What…the fuck…are you doing here?”

  For a long second, she was silent and fidgety. She was so gorgeously out of place in her pink hoodie, white sweats, and cushy winter boots. He didn’t have the strength to go subtle with the stare he swooped over her. Fuck, what he’d give to get her inside those bars, cuffed and stripped, awaiting his pleasure.

  Luckily, she grabbed that gist loud and clear, too. Her fingers were tense as they worked her sleeve ends against her palms. “I—I had to talk to you.”

  “Now?”

  Emerald fire flared in her eyes. “Yes, damn it.”

  She darted a glance around the room. Summoning a moment of lucidity, he wondered what her impressions were, of what she must think of the ornate spanking benches with their red wrist cuffs, the round bed with the spreader bars and chains, the small stage that was preset with a submissive’s V chair and a St. Andrews cross. All of it was so much his normality, of the planet he lived on. It was so different from hers. Did it horrify her, as it had the few vanilla women he’d dared bring here? He couldn’t remember their names now, let alone the disappointment he’d felt in their disdain, if any. But having to think about Rayna fleeing in shock and disgust…

  A barb lodged in the lining of his gut.

  Fuck. This was so much easier
when he’d been dictating the terms, when he called the shots. When he left her, not when she stood appraising a room in the club that was like his second home, and thinking—

  What?

  Well, she wasn’t hyperventilating. But a longer scrutiny told him she wasn’t truly seeing everything, either. That was the furthest he dared go in the effort. Staring at her more meant she’d captivate him more. Which would lead to him getting her onto the bed with him. Or better yet, into that cage.

  Christ. The things he could do with her in that cage…

  He barely held back a groan. Just when he thought his erection had found its manners, the fucker pounded at his pants, cheered by the chemicals left over from the insanity that’d gone down with Luna. Mentally, he was a mess. Physically, he was a machine primed for anything. A goddamn lethal combination.

  He breathed hard, trying to summon words again. “Rayna, I’m working at the nice-guy thing here, okay? It’s not a good time.”

  She twisted the zipper of her jacket. When she took a breath, her breasts strained at the T-shirt beneath, as perfect and round as he remembered. Shit. He closed his eyes. Like that was going to help—especially as she shifted even closer, filling his senses with her warm cinnamon scent.

  “Are—are you okay?”

  He lurched off the bench. “No, damn it.” Fuck, she smelled so good. “You really need to—” He flung an arm up, muscles coiling, fingers trembling. “Stay there. I mean it!”

  Another wrong move. If he was rational right now, he would’ve realized that. The woman gravitated to suffering and a need to eliminate it, like Mother Teresa poured into Aphrodite’s body. Instead of backing off, she picked up speed.

  “Zeke—”

  “It’s not a goddamn request!”

  Desperation was an ugly CO. The bastard guided his arm to the whip rack before he could summon a shred of restraint. An Axel El Diablo ended up in his grip. Under normal circumstances, the whip would’ve felt incredible, a piece of high craftsmanship in his hand. He didn’t waste time on that now. He flicked the thing with vicious speed, making the triple tails singe the air like a blow torch through rice paper.