A Dead Man's Pulse

by Samantha A. Cole

  If you can wait a bit. It would look funny if I left five minutes after walking in.

  Seconds passed.

  I’d wait for you all night, my little subbie. BTW you look hot. Makes me wonder what you’re wearing under those tight jeans. Hopefully nothing.

  One beer and forty minutes of relatively boring conversations later, Dakota said good night to Ric and the other cops, and caught Master Shane’s gaze across the still crowded bar. She knew she didn’t have to worry about whether or not he’d had too much to drink to scene or drive because alcohol was something he avoided, preferring tonic and lime. He’d told her one night following a scene, while administering her aftercare, that alcoholism ran in his family, and he never wanted to fall into the same trap, having seen what it did to his parents and grandfather.

  When he stood and evidently told his buddies he was leaving, she headed for the door. After a quick negotiation in the parking lot, they got into their respective vehicles, and she followed him to a BDSM club about twenty minutes east of Tampa and forty minutes west of the Kissimmee suburb he lived in. She’d heard of the Pleasure Dome, but had never been to it before. Shane had told her that even though it was open to the public, it was one of the better non-exclusive clubs in the area. He was friends with the owner and, on the drive there, would be able to arrange a private play room for them. While she trusted the Dom, in more ways than one, having him back at her place was a hard limit for Dakota. She insisted on keeping her sexual lifestyle and her personal and professional lives as far apart as possible. Mixing them could be disastrous, and it wasn’t a risk she was willing to take.

  Pulling into the club lot, Dakota parked her SUV next to his truck, and before she had a chance to open her door, he’d done it for her. Holding out his hand, he helped her from the vehicle, and delicious chills went down her spine. This was the only time in her busy life she let a man take over and treat her as a submissive. All other times she spent proving to her co-workers, father, and everyone else that she was alpha enough to hold her own.

  Instead of using the front entrance, Shane led her to a side door and knocked. Dakota glanced up and noticed a security camera. The Dom at her side saw where she was looking and said, “No worries. Master Robert is very trustworthy. The cameras are for safety only, and as long as nothing is reported that would make a review necessary, the videos are erased after a week.”

  The door swung open and a huge bouncer held out a hand to Shane. “Hey, man. Been awhile.”

  The two men shook. “Yeah, it has. I called Rob on the way over. Said he’d hold a room for us.”

  “Yup. Room six is all yours.”

  “Thanks.” Without further conversation, Shane led Dakota down a dimly lit hallway. Loud club music filled the air, making the floor and walls vibrate around them. Opening a door labeled Room #6, he gestured for her to precede him into the dungeon-like space. Royal blue, black, and gold were the colors of the décor which was a mix of elegance and medieval—at least it appeared very tidy and hygienic. The familiar, citrus-scented cleaner used by many clubs tickled her nose. For some reason, it complimented the smell of sex. When the door closed behind her again, the volume of the music dropped dramatically, although they could still feel the bass thumping off the carpeted floor. “Strip and present, pet.”

  “Yes, Sir.” It didn’t take long for Dakota to shed her sneakers, jeans, shirt, bra, and panties, placing them on a chair next to the door. She then sank to her knees in the middle of the room, placed her upturned hands on her thighs, and bowed her head in submission, as Shane took off his tie, shirt, shoes, and socks, leaving his dress pants on. When they’d been negotiating the scene earlier, he’d mentioned he and his buddies had been at a christening earlier in the day for his college roommate’s son. It had been the first time she’d ever seen him out of the leathers he wore at Pandora’s Box.

  Placing the duffel bag he’d brought in with them on the bed, he began to rifle through it. She knew it was filled with an assortment of adult toys for play and felt herself growing more aroused as the sensual atmosphere took over her body and mind. And speaking of body, Shane Littleton had it in spades. With a face and physique that stopped traffic, he’d been featured twice in his department’s annual beefcake calendar which raised funds for the widows and children of fallen firemen.

  After gathering what he wanted from the bag, Shane placed the items on a small table and left the duffel underneath it. Since she was close to the table, Dakota could see what he’d chosen without lifting her head more than a scant inch. The items sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine and her pussy wept. It had been about six or seven weeks since she’d been at Pandora’s Box, the last time she’d played with Shane. Rarely did she go that long without sceneing with a Dom. But she’d taken a lot of overtime shifts lately, on top of packing and moving from her old apartment to the condo she’d bought last month. She was finally a homeowner—one more thing that fueled her independence in the world.

  “Stand and get on the spanking bench. I’ve been itching to get at that sweet ass ever since I saw you walk into Chasers tonight.”

  And she was itching to have his dominant hands on her ass. Dakota didn’t know why she was so drawn to the lifestyle she’d discovered with a friend about five years ago, and had no interest in analyzing things to figure it out. When Brenna had first mentioned she wanted to check out a munch, Dakota thought she was kidding. A munch was a gathering where those interested in finding out more about BDSM could speak to experienced subs and Doms to help decide if they wanted to try it. To her surprise, she’d been intrigued enough to investigate the lifestyle further. Brenna had also continued to explore her sexual submissiveness and recently moved in with the Dom she’d been collared by last year. Dakota knew an engagement ring was secretly being made for when he popped the question.

  Settling on the red, leather padding on the spanking bench, Dakota tried to relax and push everything out of her mind except what Shane was about to do. His hands trailed up the backs of her legs, over her ass, and lower back, rubbing and squeezing her flesh to bring the blood to the surface. “So, pet, what’s going on in that head of yours? You have a small tell when something’s bothering you and you don’t want to talk about it—you nibble on your bottom lip.”

  She’d never realized she did that, but now that it had been pointed out to her, she’d probably notice it from now on. Knowing the only way she could get out of answering the question now that they were in D/s mode was to say her safeword, she sighed. “I got passed over for Special Ops again, Sir.”

  Since Shane was a fireman, she’d found it comfortable to talk about “on the job” stuff with him. Firemen, cops, paramedics, EMTs, and ER nurses understood what each other dealt with on a regular basis. Even though there was usually a healthy rivalry between cops and firemen, there was also a strong camaraderie.

  His right hand left her skin and a split second later made contact again with a hard slap on her right ass cheek, eliciting a gasp and moan from her as the sting made her wetter. “That sucks. Did they give you a reason why?”

  “They never do, Sir.”

  Smack. That one landed on her left side of her ass. “You’d be good at it.” Smack. “What about the detective bureau or taking the supervisor’s test?” Smack.

  Goose bumps popped all over her body. This was what she’d needed . . . what she craved. A way to deal with the disappointment, the anger, and all the other negative emotions that came with her job. She couldn’t cry in front of her fellow officers, unless it was because of the death of one of their own, because it showed a weakness that could be used against her. Same went for her father—crying was for sissies, even coming from the female sex. Gavin “Iron Guts” Swift had been a highly decorated police officer who’d made it to the rank of sergeant before a back injury had ended his career fourteen months before he got his twenty years in. At least it had been an on-the-job car accident so all his medical expenses were paid for by workman’s compensati
on, and he received a disability pension which was roughly seventy-five percent of his active duty salary.

  Shane continued to pepper her ass and upper thighs with slaps that she felt deep in her core, until she was ready to beg him to fuck her senseless, escaping the outside world for a little while. Tomorrow, she would think about her future. Tonight, there was no room for her thoughts—all she had to do was feel.

  C

  HAPTER 3

  Thirteen Months Later . . .

  Sitting on the edge of a large planter filled with flowers, Ian Sawyer waited for his target to exit the building in front of him on the outskirts of Washington D.C. Logan Reese had been ignoring his phone calls and emails for the better part of two months, but Ian wasn’t one to give up easily. However, if today’s face-to-face meeting was a failure, then it would be time to move on and choose someone else.

  Some people might call him and his brother Devon crazy for wanting to hire a former POW for the new spec ops team for their business, Trident Security, but they could spot an intelligent and competent warrior a mile away. Considering they were both retired Navy SEALs, it was easy to recognize someone with the same training and mental capacity. Just prior to his capture in Afghanistan, Reese’s name had been thrown into the hat for consideration for the job by his uncle, a good friend and business associate of Ian’s. However, most would have tossed the man’s file in the garbage after what he’d gone through. But Ian was interested in seeing if the talent Reese had possessed before his ordeal still existed. If it did, and he was willing to agree to Ian’s terms, then the job would be his on a trial basis.

  Another five minutes passed, but Ian didn’t mind—it was a beautiful, sunny day, something he didn’t get to sit and enjoy often enough. Although, lately, he’d been taking more time off work just to enjoy days like this with his fiancée, Angie. The sixty-seven-degree weather in D.C. in February was a bit of an anomaly and would be disappearing again soon. Once more, he was glad they’d decided on Tampa for their home base. The average temperature down there now was between 70-76 degrees, and it would start climbing into the eighties in a few short weeks.

  A light breeze brought the aroma of dirty-dogs past his nose. The frankfurter and sausage stand half a block away was making him hungry, but he didn’t want to miss Reese walking out of the building. He knew the man was still inside, attending one of his two weekly sessions with a psychologist who specialized in veterans with PTSD. If his classified military file wasn’t fictitious—which it wasn’t—then Reese was worth the wait. Having a high military and federal security clearance, Ian had been able to read about many of the missions Reese and his teammates had been on, and the retired SEAL had been impressed with what he’d been privy to. It was the main reason Reese was still in the running for the new team. He was the only one of the six chosen who hadn’t signed on yet.

  Putting together the new team was taking longer than Ian had hoped, but to get the best possible candidates, he had to wait for a few of them to cycle out of their final military tours or resign from their law enforcement commitments. There had been other delays due to Trident’s own missions and obligations. So far, only two of the recruits had reported for their new jobs—the others would be joining them over the next six months.

  Tristan McCabe was retired from the Army Special Forces and Cain Foster had come to Tampa from the Secret Service. Both men excelled in their training and their leadership abilities shined through, and Devon and Ian were going to have a hard time choosing one of the two to lead the Omega Team. That was the name Ben “Boomer” Michaelson had dubbed the new team before deciding the original squad was the Alpha Team. Since those six men were all Dominants in the BDSM lifestyle, the names had stuck.

  The glass door of the main entrance swung open, and a six foot one man, whose call-sign in the Marines had been “Cowboy,” strode out, slamming his sunglasses over his brown eyes. But not before Ian had seen him assess every person within his sight. At thirty-two, a few years younger than Ian, he was still in excellent shape, moving like a panther, despite the weight he’d lost since Afghanistan. The way the tan cargo pants and red T-shirt he was wearing fit, told Ian the man had at least maintained some sort of workout regimen—it was probably therapeutic for him. His dirty-blond hair was longer than required in the military, but spec ops teams had a lot of leeway with it and their facial hair, needing to blend in for a mission.

  Standing, Ian stepped into Reese’s path with a non-threatening expression on his face. “First Sergeant Logan Reese.”

  The man stopped short, his hands clenched into fists as he glanced around to see if Ian had anyone else with him. There was no way he could miss the military demeanor and probably assumed there were others around—which there weren’t. His jaw ticked under the whiskers that were probably a few weeks old. “Who wants to know?”

  “Lieutenant Ian Sawyer—retired Navy. You’re a hard man to get ahold of.”

  Through his shades, Reese glared at him. “There’s a reason for that. Mainly, I didn’t need you to tell me in person that I was no longer on the list of candidates for your new team.”

  Ian crossed his arms over his chest and stepped to the left when Reese tried to walk around him. “Who says you’re no longer on the list? I’m here to discuss your coming to Tampa to see how you mesh with the other team members.”

  “Mesh? Are you fucking kidding me? I’ll tell you how I’ll mesh. I’ll be there half a day before you’ll be telling me to pack my shit. Look, just because you’re friends with Larry, doesn’t mean you have to go through the motions. Let’s just say we both agreed I’m not cut out for your company and leave it at that. You’re off the hook.”

  Reese moved to the right and Ian followed, again blocking his path and pissing him off further. “This has got nothing to do with Larry. If I didn’t think you were a good candidate, you could’ve been my own brother and I wouldn’t have offered you the tryout.” Larry Keon was Reese’s aunt’s ex-husband. He was also the number two man at the FBI. As Assistant Deputy Director, Keon was Trident Security’s main contact at the agency and the person who sent many of the private ops details their way, having dealt with SEAL Team Four on many occasions.

  “Back off, Sawyer. I don’t need your fucking pity.” He was gritting his teeth, the veins in his neck bulging with his restraint, and Ian had to give him credit for not taking a swing at him.

  “Good, because I don’t do pity. It’s a useless, piss-poor emotion. No one wants to be on the receiving end of it, so it’s a waste of fucking energy.” He glanced around, his sharp eyes taking in their surroundings. What he was about to say was going to be a bit of a bomb. “Look, between you, me, and the squirrel over there playing with his nuts, I’ve read the reports on your mission—the unredacted reports.” Reese removed his sunglasses, his eyes flaring in shock, and Ian shrugged a nonchalant shoulder. “It pays to have a high clearance, and before you say it, I didn’t get them from Larry. I saw them on a visit to the Pentagon.” Pain filled Reese’s eyes, as the memories haunting him bubbled to the surface, probably not for the first time today. “You survived, Marine, when your teammates didn’t. Had the situation been reversed and you were dead while one of them came home, would you want them sulking on your grave, or would you tell them to man the fuck up? There’s so much good you could be doing on my team. But if having your own pity party for the rest of your life is what you want to do, so be it.” It was time to give Reese some space, and Ian took a step backward. “Think about it. I’ll be at the Blarney Stone, until 1400 hours, having lunch. It’s a pub, two blocks that way.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “If you’re not there by fourteen oh one, I’ll throw your file in a dumpster and be done with you.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Ian turned on his heel and walked away, hoping the kid made the right decision for his own sake.

  Repeatedly clenching and releasing his fists, Logan glared at Sawyer’s retreating back, and then glanced around to see if anyone was watchin
g him. He wouldn’t put it past the retired SEAL to have someone observing from nearby. The man may not be a living legend, but he was damn, fucking close. He’d been highly respected in the spec ops community and that had rolled over to the security business he owned with his brother. Several former teammates of SEAL Team Four had faithfully followed him into the private sector and now worked for him. He had the best of the best—so what the fuck did he want with a broken-down has-been?

  Taking one more inventory of the surrounding area, Logan strode toward his truck that was parked at the curb. Climbing in, he started the engine, but didn’t put it in drive; he just stared out the window at nothing in particular. Today’s session with his shrink hadn’t gone well—he was almost ready to give up on the therapy—and he’d already been stressed out when Sawyer had walked up and introduced himself. Logan was sure his former uncle, Larry, had called in a favor and asked for Sawyer to take on the poor, useless, retired Marine. But then again, Sawyer’s words came back to him.

  “You survived, Marine, when your teammates didn’t. Had the situation been reversed, and you were dead, while one of them came home, would you want them sulking on your grave, or would you tell them to man the fuck up? There’s so much good you could be doing on my team. But if having your own fucking pity party for the rest of your life is what you want to do, so be it.”

  Logan’s jaw tightened as his anger level rose again. Who the fuck did Sawyer think he was? Yanking the gearshift, he threw the truck into drive, and with barely a glance over his shoulder to check the traffic, he peeled out of the spot with no idea where he was heading. Rolling the windows down, he breathed in the fresh air—well, as fresh as Washington D.C. air could be.

  He drove aimlessly for about twenty minutes, not wanting to go home to his empty, undecorated apartment. After staying with his folks in Virginia for six months after his release from the military hospital in Germany, he’d finally insisted it was best if he moved out. He hadn’t been able to go back to the condo he’d shared with Danny Coleman—there were too many memories of his best friend there. Besides, Clutch had owned it, and his family had decided to sell the unit. It’d taken Logan an entire day to pack up the shit from his room, and after he’d stored everything in his parent’s garage, he’d gone out and gotten rip-roaring drunk. When he’d sobered up again, the pain he saw in his parents’ eyes had registered. They’d been afraid. Not of him, but of what he was doing to himself. His life had become a cycle of restless sleep, eating out of necessity, attending his therapy sessions, running four miles a day, and getting shit-faced two or three times a week. While he hadn’t died in that shack in Afghanistan, he might as well have. Inside, he was just as dead as his buddies; only his heart hadn’t stopped beating yet.