by Maren Smith
Holly nodded and said, “Where can I leave Sprout? He’s not quite housebroken.”
Smiling, he leaned down to scratch the puppy’s ears. “Just bring him along, honey. This is a working ranch and he seems friendly enough.”
Mrs. Turner was as lovely as her picture and treated Holly like a long-lost friend. Her lilting Caribbean accent charmed and soothed Holly as they chatted over tea and cookies. It was hard to answer Lietta’s questions about how she and Flint had met. Holly wasn’t about to tell Flint’s mother the circumstances of their meeting. Either of them. Neither Carmen nor the Castle were appropriate topics of conversation with a lover’s parent.
Lietta got up from her chair at the scrubbed kitchen table. “I need to start supper, but we can chat while I work.”
“Can I help?” Holly asked.
Locks waving around her face, she shook her head. “No, you just sit there. There’s a powder room down the hall if you want to go freshen up. Flint should be along shortly.”
Lietta pulled out a cutting board as the screen door banged open. Flint, in all his handsome glory, stood in the doorway, his mouth falling open when he saw Holly.
The man she’d known when he was with Carmen was gone. That man always wore perfectly tailored suits and got manicures. This man was filthy, burnished by the sun and work, and he looked fucking edible. The sexy cowboy come to life. His golden skin gleamed with sweat and his t-shirt was damp, sticking to the contours of his chest above dusty jeans that looked painted on his strong thighs. His beard had grown, concealing his jaw with wiry salt and pepper curls.
“Holly? What the fuck?”
His mother was deadly fast with a wooden spoon. Why did he always forget that?
“Language, boy,” she snapped. “We have a guest.”
Rubbing his ass where his mother’s spoon had connected, he stared at Holly and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I came to find you.” She stood up, patting her thigh. The puppy Carmen had used to question the Littles in the pet adoption room at the Castle appeared at her side, baring his teeth at Flint.
“Outside. Now,” he hissed. He opened the door, allowing Holly and her dog to precede him. Damn, she looked pretty. A soft blue sundress swirled around her knees as she walked outside, baring her incredible legs. The dye in her hair had faded, leaving a muted strawberry blonde. There was no trace of the ugly bruises Carmen had left on her perfect face.
Flint took off his hat, cursing the fact that he hadn’t had a haircut in weeks. His hair stood out from his head, curling into a bushy afro. He’d considered letting it grow out into locks like his mother’s, but it was at the awkward stage—too short for locks, too long for anything remotely presentable. And he was filthy. After riding fence all day, he needed a shower in the worst way. Which was, of course, when the girl of his dreams presented herself.
“What are you doing here?” he asked once more.
Holly walked toward the garden, settling herself on a wooden bench near the birdbath. “I came to find you,” she said, stroking her dog’s head as she glanced around at the ranch. “I assume your presence here means you’ve resigned from your job?”
Flint sat next to her, his elbows resting on his knees. “Yeah.”
“Good.” She was silent as she watched a few sparrows play in the birdbath.
“Why are you here, Holly? And how did you find me?”
She stood up and walked toward a rosebush. Leaning down, she touched one of the blooms. “This is a great place. Are you happy, Flint?”
“More or less. I’ve always loved this ranch.”
Straightening, she patted her thigh to call her dog. “Okay. I mean, that’s good.” Biting her lip, she looked away as she searched for the puppy. “I’d better take off and leave you in peace.”
“You didn’t drive two days to check on the state of my job, kajira.” She stiffened as he grabbed her hand. He pulled her into his lap, keeping hold of her wrist. “You can forget about leaving until I get some answers.”
And maybe not after that. Now that he had her, he wasn’t going to let her go. She squirmed and he tightened his grip on her waist. “First, tell me how you found me.”
She huffed out a breath and relaxed against him. “I found your parents, actually. You told me where you grew up, and I started looking there.”
“There are lots of Turners in Alva, honey.”
“Yes, but none with a Jamaican mother who’s also a schoolteacher,” she countered. “It wasn’t that hard.”
Her hair brushed his face and he inhaled the sweet scent of flowers. She was so soft and warm against him that he never wanted to let her go. “Okay, fair enough. Why are you here? And how did you figure out I wasn’t dead? You weren’t supposed to know.”
Shrugging, she said, “I took a guess. It didn’t seem logical that you were the only one who died in that explosion, and it would have made a perfect cover for your disappearance.” Shifting in his arms, she faced him and touched his cheek. “Especially when you probably watched Carmen set the explosives.”
Flint barked out a laugh and tucked a piece of hair behind Holly’s ear. “Smart lady. Now, tell me why you’re here.”
“Sprout wanted to see you.” She looked away and pointed at the puppy and Flint had to hold back a laugh as the dog growled, baring his teeth in a show of protective aggression, although he didn’t approach.
“Why you adopted him will be a question for later.” He pinched her chin between two fingers, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Why are you here? Last chance before I take you out to the barn and introduce your ass to a piece of leather tack strap.”
Holly flushed and her eyes dilated with what he hoped was arousal. “I wanted to see you, okay? I probably shouldn’t have come, but I wanted to tell you…” Her voice trailed off as she bit her lip and tried to look away.
Gentling his tone, he asked, “What did you want to tell me?”
“I missed you,” she whispered. “When I thought you’d died, it broke my heart. And then I got mad and quit my job because I never said the things I wanted to say. When I realized that you probably hadn’t died, I found your family and drove here, hoping I was right.”
His chest felt like he’d been kicked by his daddy’s old mule, but it was a good hurt. “Oh, honey.” Lowering his head, he kissed her, tasting the sweet gloss on her lush mouth. When she sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck, he pulled away and asked, “What did you want to tell me?”
Her cheeks turned pink and she looked down, a soft smile on her swollen lips. “I think I’d rather show you. May I stand, Master Flint?”
Letting her up, he crossed his arms over his chest and tried to give her a stern glare. He wasn’t sure if he was successful, though. He was too happy to hear his name from her. “All right. Show me.”
Turning to the side, she lifted the hem of her dress. He leaned forward to stop her, knowing his mother was probably watching from the kitchen window. But the breath stalled in his throat and his heart stuttered when she bared her upper thigh.
A freshly inked kef, still swollen and pink, rested on her lush flesh. The sight dropped him to his knees at her feet and he wrapped his arms around her hips as he tried to hold back the tears clogging his sinuses.
“My God, Holly! Why did you do this?”
Lowering herself to her knees, she cupped her hands around his face. “Because I wanted to show you what you mean to me. I want to be your kajira, Master.”
Sinking his fists into her hair, he kissed her again, pouring every bit of passion and love he could into her parted lips. Their teeth clicked as he plundered her, and he relished her whimpers as he nipped her lower lip. “Jesus, Holly,” he whispered against her mouth. “You fucking slay me.”
“Does that mean you’ll accept me as yours, Master?”
He stood, pressing down on her shoulder when she tried to join him. “That depends.”
Her lower lip trembled as she looked up at him. “Do you want
me to be branded, Master?”
“No!” He shuddered. Though he couldn’t help a spark of arousal at the thought, he would never ask her to submit to such a thing. The tattoo was more than enough for them both. “No,” he said, gentling his tone. “I’m thinking a different kind of permanent mark. You’re going to wear my wedding ring and my collar, kajira.” Helping her to her feet, he wrapped a hand around her throat. “Do you know why?”
She shook her head, her eyes wide.
“Because I’ve loved you since the first time I looked into your pretty eyes. And now that I’ve got you, the only answer you’re allowed to give to my proposal is yes.”
Her smile was like a sunrise. She threw herself into his arms, knocking him backward a few steps. “Just try to get rid of me,” she whispered. “Can we get married in this garden?”
“Sure. My parents would love that.” He gave her a wicked smile and squeezed her generous ass. “And we’ll honeymoon in Ohio. I never did get to take you down into the Dungeon.”
The End
Raisa Greywood
Raisa is an up and coming author of romance with a dark and naughty twist. Her heroes are sometimes flawed but always the alpha in the room, while her heroines are atypical and can take anything those bossy alphas dish out.
The one thing that Raisa most loves is tipping tropes on their ears and making fun of them. She also adores alliteration. She is the 2017 winner of Central Ohio Fiction Writer’s Ignite the Flame contest in the paranormal category.
She’s lived all over the world but currently resides in the Midwestern United States with her husband, two irascible cats, and a rescue horse named Marley – after the singer, not the dog.
Visit her website here: www.raisagreywood.com
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Don’t miss these exciting titles by Raisa Greywood and Blushing Books!
Masters of the Castle
Witness Protection Program
(Harboring Holly)
Capturing Cassandra
Piper Stone
Chapter 1
“Please. Please don’t kill me!” His deep baritone voice, strangled by terrified sobs, filtered into the almost empty warehouse. Positioned on his knees on the broken concrete floor, blood dripped from his mouth and nose, products of an earlier beating.
“Mr. Timmons, it seems we have a problem,” Sebastian Roberts stated, enunciating his words. He glanced across the perimeter of the shadowed space, eyeing the row of oil drums lining the long wall. “You seem to have forgotten that you owe money, a hefty amount I might add, to the Sanduchi family.”
“I’m trying to pay what I owe. I swear to God, I’ll have something next week,” Mr. Timmons blubbered, gasping for air.
“Shut the fuck up!” The soldier issued a series of hard kicks across the face and into the man’s gut, laughing before jerking Mr. Timmons’ head into an awkward position.
“Enough!” Sebastian abhorred this kind of Neanderthal violence, preferring a clean kill, but his boss subscribed to the old school methods of torture. Crouching down only two feet from the weasel, he inhaled, resisting gagging from the stench of piss. He gave the goon a single look, one that made certain his orders were followed, before turning his attention to the twitching ball of flesh. “Unfortunately, Mr. Timmons, you’ve been given three extensions, at least one too many in my humble opinion.”
Mr. Timmons sniffed, his eyes growing wide. “But I have money coming in next week. I promise. I swear to God on my mother’s grave.”
Sebastian had heard every excuse during his tenure, growing weary of the constant overhaul of those seeking salvation from the most ruthless crime family in New York. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” He moved to a standing position, giving another one of the hired guns a nod.
“Anything. I’ll do anything,” Mr. Timmons squawked.
“I know that you will.” He watched as the second goon removed the lid from one of the barrels, clanging his gun against the side in order to garner a reaction from the soon to be dead man.
“Oh!” Mr. Timmons whimpered, his body crumpling.
Rubbing his palms together, Sebastian gently guided Mr. Timmons to his feet, wrapping his arm around the man’s shoulders as he walked him in a wide arc before heading to the open barrel. “You said you anticipate money coming in next week. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Yes, sir. Top of the week. I swear on my mother’s grave.” Mr. Timmons’ eyes enlarged, his jaw falling slack as he glared at the barrel.
“Well, then you might have a chance, especially if we’re talking early in the week,” Sebastian half whispered, keeping his tone of voice nice and even, almost sweet. When they were within a foot of the oil drum, he gave Mr. Timmons a squeeze on his shoulder. A single authoritative glance was all he needed, and the two goons snagged the smaller man from the floor, shoving him feet first into the barrel.
“No! No!” The screams echoed in the wide-open space. Mr. Timmons struggled, but was no match for the power of the two men.
The soles of his shoes clicking on the concrete as he walked, Sebastian paced an area in front of the drum, rubbing his index finger across his lips. “I’m no expert with regard to suffocation, but I suspect that if you take very shallow breaths during the course of the next several days, it’s possible—granted, a minute chance—but possible that you could survive. I’ll make certain that I have someone come and check on you.” Grinning, he cocked his head as he gave Mr. Timmons a solid smile. “Nice doing business with you.”
He didn’t wait until the deed was finished. He simply walked toward the exit, whistling when the screams were muffled as the lid was pounded into place. “Goodbye, Mr. Timmons.”
God, he loathed this shit, no matter his appearance to everyone else. He liked to think he was an ethical killer, eliminating only those who were already horrible human beings. How many times had he thought about leaving the organization, finding work anywhere else in the world? The truth was ugly. If he even considered breaking his contract with the Sanduchis, he’d end up tortured, his body washed up on the Jersey shore. He was locked in for the time being.
Less than twenty minutes later, he’d parked his car in his usual spot, far removed from any of the other customers. He needed a little R & R after getting his hands dirty. Knowing the owner of the posh club certainly had its perks. He was in the mood for entertainment, as well as a tall Canadian whiskey, and not for interference from anyone, including patrons of a kink club.
Sebastian breezed past the bulking doormen, heading straight for his usual table. Within thirty seconds, a drink was placed in front of him, the demure waitress his favorite. The exclusive and very private club allowed him continued anonymity, a requirement in his business. Only three of Mr. Sanduchi’s employees knew of his existence and they would be erased if Sebastian’s privacy was so much as disturbed. He chuckled at the thought, bringing the thick crystal glass to his lips. The taste was magnificent after the rough night.
This was his one free evening to himself. The next assignment was taking him out of town, to a castle no less. Well, what the hell. He was in the mood for escaping the dark and ugly streets of New York, if only for a little while. Tonight, perhaps he’d indulge in carnal activities. Yes, the thought brought a quiver to his balls.
Sebastian had particular tastes and the majority of women would find them unappealing, if not downright disgusting. His tastes were considered sadistic, far too dominating, even in certain BDSM circles, making him careful about his choices, or trusting anyone. He sipped his drink, enjoying the atmosphere until a vibrant crimson dress caught his attention. The exquisite piece was body hugging, accentuating full breasts, a thin waist and long legs, the kind of legs meant
to wrap around a man’s waist.
“Fascinating,” he said under his breath, watching her almost glide through the room. He’d never seen her before, which made the mystery a wonderful aphrodisiac.
The collar around her neck indicated she was ready for playtime, submission, to be exact, and he could tell every red-blooded man in the room was hungry for what she had to offer. He studied her for almost ten minutes, the way she mingled, respectful in her actions yet in control of herself. She was, by far, the best looking submissive in the room, her eyes shimmering from the metal flakes clinging to her porcelain skin, her long eyelashes and scarlet lipstick, the color accentuating full lips. Even her dazzling copper colored hair, pinned in a tight bun, was desirable. She was beautiful.
She was also out of place, unescorted. Club Noire was known for catering to the upper echelon of society, but experienced participants only. The guests were all hand selected by the owner, a discerning and influential New Yorker. The lovely woman was obviously searching for someone, if not to break free of her confining mask, hence the garish makeup. He snickered and fingered the rim of his glass, rubbing the tip around in lazy circles. An ingénue to consider playing with, teaching, training.
Capturing.
The thought was delicious indeed. One night would be enough. At least for now. He’d never fallen for anyone, submissive or otherwise. He enjoyed taking and tasting but refused any entanglements. The bitter involuntary sigh reminded him that he was also hungry for a change in life. Given the abusive requirements laid out by the Sanduchi family, he refused to bring a woman, or anyone, for that matter, he cared about into the mix. They’d become an immediate target, the attachment a known weakness to exploit for any reason.
When she disappeared into the crowd, he was unable to resist, taking his drink and following her, his cock now throbbing, aching. He hadn’t experienced this reaction in quite some time. Remaining in the shadows, he trailed behind her as she moved from room to room, her eyes wide with delight. When she slipped inside the pony play area, he was forced to admit he was intrigued. He studied her for some time, the way her hand brushed across her neck, an obvious nervous habit. She remained in the back of the room, her eyes fixed on the Dom centered in the middle of the room. A flogger in one hand, he was parading his pony around the room proudly, whipping her naked ass for the slightest infraction.
