Slave To Love (sizzling erotic thriller noir - full length)

by Black, Nikita

  Momentarily taken aback, she gaped. Then she frowned, unwilling to be side-tracked into that irrationally appealing thought. “You and I are not together,” she countered stiffly.

  Picking up the gym bag, he calmly walked toward the bedroom. “Okay, so what's the big problem, then?”

  Lord, he was exasperating. She let out a noise of frustration, following him down the hall. “You know damned well what I mean! We had sex together, Mick. Lots of sex. I did things with you I've—” She halted at the doorway. “Would it kill you to be civil to me during the day?”

  “I'm not the civil type, Caro. People would notice.” He stopped and looked at her with eyes narrowed. “Is that what you want? People to notice you're sleeping with your commanding officer?”

  “No,” she said. That was the very last complication she wanted. Their sleeping together was against department rules big-time. The chief would pull her off the task force and out of Homicide in a heartbeat if he thought they were sexually involved. “No, I don't want that,” she repeated. “In fact, I don’t want to sleep—”

  “All right, then,” he interrupted. “Come on, sugar. People will be talking enough as it is with me moving in here, I didn't—”

  “What?” She stared at him, the gym bag he was depositing on the bedroom floor finally registering. “You are not moving in—”

  “Agent Woodruff was right.” The zipper scraped along her nerves as he opened the bag and withdrew a small necessaire of toiletries and glanced up. “This killer is smart. Staying five minutes after I drop you off is not going to fool anyone. I'm going to need a key.”

  “No. No way.”

  Mick plopped the nécessaire onto the bathroom counter, and did a double-take in the mirror. “After last night I figured I was good for at least a couple more nights with you.” Taking a tissue, he wiped a smear of lipstick from his chin and looked at her searchingly. “Or maybe I'm wrong and you didn't like me being inside you as much as I liked being there.”

  She flushed, and her whole body hummed, remembering exactly how much she had loved the feel of him inside her. “That’s beside the point. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to—”

  “To what?” He walked over and touched his fingers to her cheek, trailed them slowly down her throat.

  She tipped her head back and looked up at him, soaking in the overwhelming power of his masculinity. He looked devastatingly sexy in his leather pants and harness, silver chains dangling from the latigo and a small multi-strand whip hanging down the side of his leg. He was so tall and his shoulders so broad she felt as though he could swallow her up completely if he had half a mind to. Her resistance started to melt.

  He traced a finger along her collarbone, absorbing her confusion through its heated caress. “Because I don't mind telling you, last night, you and me, it was the best it's ever been. I didn't know it could get that good.”

  At his murmured confession, her willpower took another nose dive. “We could both get into trouble—”

  “Only if someone finds out. I won’t tell if you don’t.” His hands glided onto her shoulders and gently tugged her closer. “Okay, so neither of us wants a relationship. But what's the harm in just...enjoying each other a little?”

  She knew the reasonable answer to that, but there in the circle of his arms, surrounded by the musky scent of leather and male, she was hard-pressed to say the words. He felt so good...

  Out in the living room the chirp of a cell phone sounded, startling her out of his sensual spell. Just in the nick of time.

  His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “Damn. That'll be Cody.”

  “Mick, I'm sorry. I’ve made up my mind,” she said in her most authoritative voice as he let her go. “You'll have to sleep on the couch.”

  He gave her a look that clearly said, “I don’t think so,” and went out to answer the phone.

  Oh, man. She was in big trouble. She felt her heart sink. This Mick was nothing like the cold, arrogant man from the station. The best it's ever been. How would she ever resist him when he said things like that? It was tempting, so tempting, to give in to his wishes. Because last night had been the best for her, too. A million times better than anything else she’d ever experienced.

  She groaned, and went to fix her lipstick, reminding herself of the hurt and fury he'd caused her all day. She had to be strong. Succumbing to his off-duty allure would do neither of them any good. She had her career to think of. And he had...well, he had whatever it was hidden in his past that had made him the Iceman.

  She slowly twisted the lipstick closed. She just didn’t dare get more involved with him.

  Did she...?

  There was no doubt if they were caught it would be a career-stopper. And his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality would drive her nuts in short order. But she’d been taken by surprise by those glimpses of his softer, more caring side. She had to be very careful. Those were the kinds of qualities in a man that could lead to foolishness on the part of a woman. Next thing she knew she'd be trying to help him, nurture him, draw him out of his icy shell. Change him.

  And if there was one thing she'd learned, it was that no matter what a woman did, men did not change.

  No, she’d made the right decision to put a stop to this thing before it went any further. As depressing as that decision was. Lord only knew why, but her heart had a weak spot for the man. If he’d been anyone but her commanding officer—

  But he was her commanding officer. So, somehow, she had to find the resources to resist him. Before it was too late.

  Bringing the leather slave collar she'd picked out at the fetish shop, she swooped into the living room.

  “Help me buckle this thing,” she said when he hung up the phone, lifting her hair off her neck and slapping the collar unceremoniously around her throat.

  He slid the collar from her fingers. “I have something better.” He handed her a largish flat box that looked suspiciously like it had come from a jeweler.

  She let go of her hair and took the box, but for some reason was reluctant to open it.

  “Go on. It won't bite.”

  Nerves shimmered over her body in a shower of goosebumps at the look on his face. “Sure about that?”

  She pried it open, and blinked in disbelief at the contents. It was a collar. Well, a choker really, consisting of three thick ropes of silver, linked together and fastened with a small silver padlock.

  A slave collar.

  “It's beautiful.” She looked up, uncertainty crashing through her.

  “A tradition,” he explained, watching her closely. “The Master is expected to give his slave a collar befitting her place in his favor.”

  He took the silver ropes from the box and carefully arranged them around her neck, closing the padlock at the base of her throat with a firm snap. In mute turmoil, she reached up with unsteady fingers to touch it.

  “I’m your Master now. You’re mine,” he said, echoing his claiming words from last night. He picked up his key ring and showed her a tiny matching silver key which dangled amongst the mundane house, office and car keys. “You belong to me. Until I decide to let you go.”

  Something in the way he said it made her pulse double. “Surely, you don't mean to leave it on me, beyond tonight?”

  What would they say at the station? How would she explain the collar's blatantly telling presence around her neck, as if she were some kind of modern-day odalisque, servicing the sensual whims and erotic appetites of the all-too-sexy Detective McGraw?

  Slowly, he trailed his fingers over the cool silver. Her breasts tingled at his elusive touch, pangs of want spiraling through their hardened tips. Suddenly, all that didn’t sound so bad.

  “Yes, as your Master, I believe I'll make you wear it all the time.”

  Her heartbeat quickened with inexplicable excitement. And a liberal stab of trepidation. “Listen Mick, about this Master/slave thing. No need to go overboard. Like Tim said, the couples were probably just role-playing, not
living the real lifestyle. I think I’ll just call you Sir for this gig. If it’s all the same.”

  “I’d really like you to call me Master.”

  “With Sir there’s less chance I’ll slip up. Since I’m kind of used to calling you sir, anyway. At the station.” The honest truth was, she wasn’t comfortable using such a powerful word as Master. Sir seemed polite, as opposed to the more autocratic indicator of outright ownership.

  “As you wish,” he said reluctantly, then smiled. “Come, my pleasure slave, it's time to serve your Master.”

  ***

  Caro fingered the metal ropes around her neck the whole way in to West L.A. The tiny padlock felt foreign, disturbing. A symbol of something she was unwilling to surrender, but felt strangely attracted to. Because of Mick.

  She had wanted her whole life to belong, to fit in, to be a cherished part of someone or something rather than just a place-holder. She had failed miserably with her dysfunctional parents and their rigid church, and had never really fit in at school. Ultimately, she'd run as far away as she could from her small-town, Midwest upbringing, deliberately flouting her father's strict rule and his stifling plans for her, seeking somewhere she could belong on equal footing. Now she daily faced the glass walls of a male-dominated police force. True, her colleagues respected her, but she'd never felt genuinely accepted into the fold as a complete equal. Well, except for Julio. But they were both outsiders.

  That Mick was offering her a chance to belong to him sexually, even if it was just pretend, held her in a strange kind of thrall. What would it be like? Scary? Thrilling? Oppressive? Cozy?

  And was it pretend, or did he mean it for real? At least for the duration of the case.

  If so, what kind of liaison did he have in mind? A man who sealed his commitment with a slave collar probably had vastly different ideas about relationships than she did. She had no interest in exchanging one controlling male for another.

  And yet... Why did she find Mick's potential sexual power over her arousing? It made no sense. No sense at all. Her heart pounded as she toyed with the lock. The whole thing felt extremely dangerous. And far too tempting.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  At Mick's words she jerked her hand away from the choker. “Nothing. The case. What we need to do.”

  He glanced over after changing lanes. “Nervous?”

  “Terrified,” she truthfully answered, pulling at the hem of her leather skirt.

  “I told you, you don't ever have to be afraid of me,” he said quietly.

  Too late, she recognized their conversation from the night before.

  “Don't be ridiculous. I'm thinking of the killer,” she lied, pulling herself together. “Did Tim get a chance to go over the club's employee files with you this afternoon?”

  “Yes. He agreed with Bobby's evaluation. None of them seem to fit the profile very well. He did pick out one guy to keep an eye on, though.” Mick pulled a file jacket from under the seat. “This one. Jakob Robbins.”

  “A dungeon master,” she read from the file. “Specializes in...” She looked up, aghast. “Bloodletting?”

  He nodded as if that weren't the most outrageous thing he'd ever heard of.

  “Bloodletting?”

  “There are a lot of strange people out there, Caro. I thought you knew what goes on at places like Brimstone.”

  She nibbled at her lower lip. “Apparently not.”

  She'd been thinking mostly in terms of fetishy costumes. Leather and latex. Chains. Maybe handcuffs. She'd noticed Mick had a pair of cuffs tucked at the back of his waistband, and she didn't think it was in case they made an arrest. The whip dangling at his side had given her pause, but when she'd spotted it she'd assumed it was just for effect. Now she wasn't so sure.

  The hairs at the back of her neck prickled. “Um, Mick?”

  The convertible glided off the freeway at the Westwood exit. She swallowed and told herself she could face whatever was ahead.

  “Yeah, babe?”

  But maybe it was time she found out just exactly what that would be.

  “What's the plan for tonight?”

  “Same as it's been all along.”

  “Humor me.”

  He darted her a look. “You wiggin' out on me, Palmer?”

  She gave him a weak smile. “No. Just need to hear it once more. All of it. Even the parts you're hiding from me.”

  He was silent for a moment, then said, “I'm not hiding anything, Caro. Just ignore everything else and concentrate on being my slave. Do whatever I say, and always keep your eyes and ears open. But for godsakes, don't do anything without me right there. We only want to get the killer's attention. That's all. Not provoke him.”

  Sounded reasonable, as always. She rolled her tight shoulders, telling herself she just had the jitters. Mick wouldn't make her do anything weird. “How would we provoke him?”

  Mick shrugged. “If I knew that, he’d already be in jail. What his exact trigger is, is anyone’s guess. Just remember what Tim said. He’s looking for women who are innocent and submissive.”

  She raised a brow at the apparent contradiction of an innocent woman in a place like Brimstone. On the other hand, look at her. Sure, she talked the talk, and routinely dressed like a street walker, but when it came right down to actual experience, last night with Mick had exceeded her 'wild' factor by about two billion percent.

  And she had the uneasy feeling he had barely scratched the surface of what he was capable of teaching her. Involuntarily, her gaze sought out the multi-strand whip lying at his side like a snake, ready to strike.

  Her heart stuttered and she felt her palms go damp. This assignment wasn't turning out at all as she had envisioned. Lord have mercy, what had she gotten herself into?

  She snapped to attention when he pulled into a murky parking lot in the middle of a block filled with narrow restaurants, bars and seedy-looking storefronts. L.A. wasn't an all-night kind of town, but at ten p.m., the Boulevard was still full of people. They were everywhere. Sitting at sidewalk bistro tables, lounging on the street corners, standing in a line of black-clad hopefuls waiting to get into Brimstone.

  She peered at the people milling in front of the club, mentally comparing her outfit to the ones she saw there, then let out a sigh of relief. Not too tame, not too outrageous. Right in-between. Though, she didn't see any other women on leashes. Or men either, for that matter.

  A couple of guys stared at them as Mick cruised the Z past a parked car. Cops. Despite casual garb their stances and haircuts were immediately recognizable.

  “There are Cody's men,” she remarked wryly. “Nothing like standing out like a sore thumb.”

  Mick shot her a grin. “Doesn't matter. Our guy thinks he's smarter than any cop alive. He'll walk right by them and tip his hat.”

  “Then how will we know he hasn't made us as cops?”

  “We won't.”

  Swell.

  “Remember, no last names once we're inside. I don’t want him knowing who you are.” Mick pulled into a vacant spot, then came around to open the door for her. “Don't worry. We play our parts right, he’ll play his. It's our relationship, our interaction that will draw the bastard out.”

  “Great. We're dogmeat.” Even she couldn’t figure out their relationship.

  Overcome by nerves, she leaned back against the side of his car while he uncoiled a length of silver chain from a loop on his harness.

  “You've been in love with me for a year, Caro. Just let it show and everything will go fine.”

  An indelicate snort escaped her throat. “You're crazy, you know that, McGraw?”

  He pierced her with a look, his eyes slicing sharply into hers. “Don't call me crazy, baby. Especially when I'm the one holding the leash.” He reached up and snapped one end of the chain to a small D-ring behind the padlock on her collar, giving it a sharp tug.

  His anger was sudden and unexpected. But before she could react, the tension around his eyes vanis
hed, and he asked, “So, you're clear on what to do in there, right?”

  Maybe she'd just imagined the whole thing. She pushed off the car and walked past him.

  “Yeah. I play your adoring pleasure slave, catch the interest of every unattached pervert in the place, and try not to look like a slut doing it. Piece of cake.”

  He chuckled. “If anyone can pull it off...” He paused to adjust her collar and his smile faded. “Caro...”

  If she didn't know better, she would swear he was nervous about something. Something other than using them both as bait for a vicious maniac.

  “What is it, Mick?”

  “I— Hell.” He gripped her shoulders. “Look, I'm the first to admit I'm a jealous lover. Real jealous. I don't like sharing my woman with anyone. Not with Julio, not with Woodruff, not with all the guys who are going to try and get close to you tonight.”

  Julio? Woodruff? Mick's fingers dug into her almost painfully. She shivered at the sheer strength she felt coursing through them, and at the guilty thrill of hearing him claim her as his woman.

  “I'm not your woman, Mick,” she felt compelled to point out. “And just to set the record straight, I have not been in love with you for a year.”

  Liar.

  For a second he looked like he might argue, but he only raked a hand through his hair and said, “Whatever. Anyway, I know some of the things I might have to do until this guy is behind bars will seem like—” His voice crackled with an intensity she'd never heard in him before. “For godsakes, Caro, I really need you to trust me. Trust what I do until then, even if you don’t think-— Shit. Just trust me, okay?”

  A tremor passed through her, and the warm night air chilled against her skin. “I’ll try,” she answered, knowing instinctively he'd keep her safe tonight, if for no other reason than the pure possessiveness she saw reflected in those ice blue eyes.

  “Good.” He shuddered out a sigh, apparently satisfied with her sincerity. “Good.”

  His iron grip loosened and he fished up the free end of her leash, clipping it onto one of the O-rings of his latigo harness with a quick snap.