“She begged me not to remove her collar, but, under the circumstances, it was unethical of me to keep it on her, so Thorne put a temporary Club collar on her. A Collar of Protection. As long as she wore it, she was safe from any unwanted advances from other Doms. She continued to live with me, mostly because she had nowhere else to go. She continued to cook and clean and anticipate my every need, continued to greet me naked at the door, continued to kneel silently at my feet when I had no practical use for her. But we no longer slept together. I no longer used her for sex or even touched her except to stroke her cheek or hair occasionally, as if she were a pet.
“Twice a week I took her to the Club where Thorne personally flogged or whipped or caned her. But nothing seemed to satisfy her and she became more and more despondent. More and more childlike and unable to make even the tiniest decision.
“She lived with me for two months, while I tried to find a reputable Dom who could give her the extreme pain she needed without being abusive or dangerous. I called in a psychiatrist, one familiar with the BDSM community, to see if he could help her. For the first three weeks, he came every day.”
Adam sucked in a huge breath, releasing it slowly. “I was coming to the end of my rope. The guilt was eating me alive. She needed a permanent Master, and soon, but no one I knew was willing to take her on. She was just too needy. Then one day I came home, and for the first time since we’d met, she wasn’t kneeling at the door to greet me. I was frantic. I searched the entire house, calling her name. Finally, I found her collar and wrist cuffs in the Play Room, along with a note thanking me for all I had done for her. Telling me she’d finally found a Master who could give her the discipline she craved. She’d gone to live with him.”
Sarah held her breath, not daring to move or speak. It was Adam’s story, and he needed to get it out without any interruption from her. When he continued, the pain in his voice nearly made her weep.
“His name was Isaac Kittredge and he was notorious in the local BDSM community for abusing his slaves, brutalizing them into submission. He fancied himself a Dom, but he was nothing more than a vicious bully, the kind of practitioner that gives even Sadism a bad name. He’d already been arrested once, years earlier, for domestic violence, but the woman refused to testify against him in court, so the charges were dropped. I drove over to Kittredge’s house to try and get Jill to come back, but he waved the contract she’d signed in my face and threatened to have me arrested for trespassing and assault.”
“Assault?”
“Caught that, did you?” he managed a sheepish grin. “I sort of…gave him a little love tap.”
“You punched him in the nose.”
“Broke it, too,” he said proudly before grimness recaptured his expression. “Bastard deserved it. Deserved a hell of a lot more, too. I just wish I could’ve given it to him.” He paused. “Do you know what breath play is, Sarah?”
“Um…I’m not sure.”
“It’s also known as erotic asphyxiation. It’s the intentional reduction of oxygen to the brain in order to heighten the pleasure from orgasm.”
She shivered. “Sounds dangerous.”
“It is dangerous. It was a favorite practice of Kittredge’s. It’s what killed Jill, three days after she became his slave. He literally choked the life out of her while having rough sex with her. After he’d already beaten her to a bloody pulp.”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” She practically choked on the tears constricting her throat. Her eyes stung. “How awful for her. How awful for you!”
“Fortunately, one of his other slaves grew a backbone. She managed to dial 9-1-1 and scream for help, before he could stop her. He beat her, too. Was still beating her when the cops finally arrived and arrested him. I—I had to identify Jill’s body.”
“Oh, Adam.” She looped her arms around his neck, burying her face against his warm, soft flesh. “What a terrible ordeal that must have been.”
He nodded. “When I left the morgue, I just got in my car and started driving. I didn’t even stop at the house to get my clothes. I knew I’d never go back there. For the next three months I just sort of…drifted, wandering aimlessly from one place to another, with no particular destination in mind. I was lost, eaten away with grief and guilt, questioning my judgment, my insight, and my faith in myself as an ethical Dom. Until I found myself in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, standing at John’s front door and I realized I’d been heading there all along.”
“John?” Sarah asked, puzzled.
Adam nodded. “John Davidson. My mentor. He taught me everything I know about BDSM. He’s ex-Navy, was an Underwater Demolitions expert in Vietnam and hard as nails. He’s also a psychiatrist.” He smiled down at her. “You’d like him. And he would totally approve of you.”
“How did you meet him?”
“My uncle Joe is a Dom. Aunt Carol is his lifetime submissive. When I was around fifteen, he recognized the signs in me and asked John to take me under his wing and teach me about BDSM, about how to be a safe, ethical, responsible Dom. Anyway, when John opened his door and saw me standing there, he took one look at me and said, ‘If I let you in, you must place yourself completely into my hands. You must become my slave for as long as I feel you need to be here. In return, I will help you get back what you’ve lost. But you must decide now if that’s what you want. Otherwise, turn around and never come back.’
“John became my Master that day, in every sense of the word. He controlled every aspect of my life, physically, mentally, sexually, punishing me severely when I didn’t measure up to his exacting standards.” His lips quirked. “Which was often.”
She stared up at him, shock widening her eyes. Adam, a slave? Adam, who was the most primal, masculine, Dominant man she’d ever met in her life? He was even more primal and masculine than Jesse, if that was even possible! She opened her mouth to say something, but he sealed her lips with his thumb. “I‘m almost done, sweet pea, let me finish, okay?”
“O–okay.” She just stared up at him, unable to rid her mind of the image of Adam—on his knees. Bound. Naked. Being beaten…being fucked…by another man. The very thought made her squirm. Holy Moley!
“I relished every one of those beatings. Because with every stroke of the lash or the cane I was able to release a little more of my guilt over failing Jill.”
“You didn’t fail her.” Sarah shook her head against his chest. “She failed you.”
“I know that now, love. Thanks to John. I served him for eleven months, not just as his slave, but also as his friend. We had a lot of long talks, and he eventually got me to realize that Jill and I were a mismatch from the get-go. That I had nothing to feel guilty about since I had done all the right things once I realized that I couldn‘t give her what she needed. That her decision to go to Isaac Kittredge was just that, her decision, and there was nothing I could have done to prevent her eventual death at his hands. That I could still be a Dom and have a loving D/s relationship without having to take on all the work and responsibilities of a twenty-four-seven Master/slave relationship.” He sighed. “As soon as I left John’s, I enlisted in the Navy, met Jess, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“What happened to Isaac Kittredge?” she asked.
“He was tried and convicted of first degree murder. He’s in San Quentin on death row. In a cell right next to Scott Peterson, I hear.”
“Thank God. They deserve each other.”
He loosened his arms and pulled back so he could look at her. “Now you know who and what I am. So if you don’t want me to be part of your life, Sarah, I’ll understand.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Adam, I love you. Nothing you’ve told me could ever change that.”
His eyes closed, and his neck muscles worked to relieve the sudden constriction in his throat. “Thank you, sweet pea, I love you, too. You’re the only woman I’ve ever said that to, the only one I ever will say it to. I cherish the gift of your submission and I will honor and protect you with my very l
ife.” His lips brushed against hers, lifted, then repeated the process again and again in a series of dragging, openmouthed kisses so carnal, so achingly raw, they sent a fresh torrent of hot cream gushing from her pussy.
When she realized through a sex-drugged haze that Jesse had entered the room and was standing behind the chair, she tried to pull free of Adam’s embrace, but he just tightened his arms around her and continued kissing her, savoring her as if he had all the time in the world.
Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, he released her mouth, but not the rest of her, forcing her to rest her chin on his shoulder to look up at Jesse. Even standing relaxed in his own living room, he exuded such a sense of raw power and authority, it made all her girly parts start to tingle. Dolores wanted to stand up and salute. Jesse gave Sarah a crooked smile, and her heart melted at the sheer sensual magic of it.
“Hey,” she said softly, giving him a shy smile of her own.
“Hey, sugar. I don’t mean to interrupt—”
“Then don’t,” Adam said brusquely, not bothering to lift his head as he turned to nuzzle his face against Sarah’s neck.
“Fine.” Jesse shrugged. “So when our company arrives, I’ll just let them in, then, shall I?”
“Company!” Sarah shrieked, jerking up into a sitting position, dislodging Adam’s arms and hands. “Oh, my God, Adam, let me go! Somebody’s coming! I can’t let them see me like this! I’m naked!”
“Well, of course you are.” He chuckled, helping her struggle to her feet. “He’s just playing with you, sweet pea.”
“Actually, I’m not,” Jesse countered. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“Oh, my God!” Sarah shrieked again, making a mad dash for the stairs, breasts and buttocks jiggling wildly. “Why didn’t you call ahead, at least give us a warning?”
“And miss seein’ this?” Jesse called after her.
“Who is it?” Adam asked, standing and looking down at the front of his jeans to see if he, too, needed to change. He decided he’d do. “Who’s coming?”
“The cavalry,” Jesse said succinctly.
Adam grunted. “About damn fucking time.”
* * * *
When Sarah came back downstairs, she was wearing one of the new sundresses Adam had selected for her. The bodice was black cotton with inch-wide straps, and the skirt was white, with a solid black hem around the bottom. Enormous poppies in varying shades of red, orange, coral, and salmon pink, with black stems and leaves, grew up the skirt in chaotic profusion. She wore red strappy sandals on her feet, a red, orange, and black beaded necklace around her neck, and a chunky red bangle bracelet on her right wrist.
Jesse and Adam were in the great room with six other men, all of whom were casually dressed in jeans and T-shirts, only two of whom she recognized—Nikolai Rostov and Jay Gillespie, the two ex-SEALs who had helped Jesse and Adam rescue her from Phillip Nugent. Nik, the giant, six-foot, eight-inch Russian whose bald head was covered with words and phrases, mostly curses, she now knew, written in the Cyrillic alphabet, and Jay, whose boyish looks and easygoing, aw-shucks manner belied a calm and deadly talent for Special Ops missions.
She hadn’t seen them in two weeks, not since they’d both come for dinner to celebrate her recovery from the wounds she’d sustained during Phillip’s assault. As soon as they saw her, they simultaneously exclaimed, “Sarah!” and started toward her, their faces wreathed in smiles. Conversation died as every man in the room stopped in mid-sentence and eight pairs of eyes turned to look in her direction.
Holy Moley! The wave of testosterone nearly bowled her over and she was, what, a good twenty feet away? Holy Moley, indeed.
Jay reached her first, taking both her hands in his and giving them a shake as he bent to give her a kiss on each cheek. “Hi, Sarah,” he murmured, his green eyes twinkling with mischief in his youthful face. “Don’t you look gorgeous! When are you gonna dump these two bozos and run away with me?”
“As soon as your Mom lets you stay out past midnight,” she teased, referring to the fact that the first time she’d seen him, she’d accused him of being twelve years old—until she’d seen him with a gun in his hands, aiming it with deadly intent at Phillip Nugent, the man holding her at knifepoint. She no longer thought of him as looking twelve years old.
“I can stay out past midnight,” Nik Rostov asserted with a grin, brushing Jay aside like a mosquito to span Sarah’s waist with hands that were larger than any hands she’d ever seen. “Run away with me.” With no effort at all, he lifted her straight up, up, up until her face was on the same level as his. Geez, where does he find clothes that fit him? At the Really, Really Big and Tall store? The thought made her smile. He was smiling, too, his wide mouth framed by his neat black mustache and goatee, quirked up at the corners, making his ice-blue eyes twinkle. “Privyet, devushka,” he said, placing a solemn kiss on each cheek before lowering her back down to the floor. “Jay is right. You do look gorgeous.” God, he was big.
When he released her, Jesse and Adam were there, Jesse on her right, Adam on her left, each taking one of her hands and lifting them to their lips. Then Jesse released the hand he was holding to put his arm around her waist, pulling her closely against his side. “C’mon, sugar,” he said in a low voice, “I want you to meet some friends of ours. Sarah, this is Bill Payton.”
An extremely handsome African-American man with skin and eyes the color and texture of fine milk chocolate stepped forward, his hand extended for Sarah to shake. A pair of mirrored aviators perched on top of his head.
“Hello, Bill.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sarah.” As the team’s communications specialist, Bill “Wildfire” Payton, six foot two, was one of the best damn computer geeks on the planet, able to hack into any network, anywhere. As a result, their SEAL Team had always had the most accurate and up-to-the-minute intel on every mission.
“Mark Austin.”
Built like a linebacker, Mark “Cowboy” Austin, six foot one, was an invaluable asset to any commando unit. Recon specialist, sharpshooter, and sniper par excellence, he had the ability to blend into his background so seamlessly he became nearly invisible. People could walk on him and swear he wasn‘t there.
“You look familiar, Mark.” Sarah looked up at him thoughtfully, taking in his bulging, body-builder’s muscles, brown hair, hazel eyes, snub nose, and the smile that revealed even, white teeth. “Have we met before?”
“Actually, I believe we have. I graduated from Marshall’s Creek High the year before you entered.”
Sarah’s face split in a grin. “Omigod, you’re Paul and Leah Austin’s son?”
His own grin widened. “Guilty. How do you know Mom and Dad? They aren’t in any legal trouble, are they?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I stop and get coffee from your mom’s coffee cart every morning before I go into work. Sometimes your dad’s there, too, helping out.” She gave him a sheepish look. “Can’t get through a day without your Mom’s coffee and raspberry Danish.”
“It’s the best,” he agreed. “Sure do miss it when I’m on an op. Ours tends to taste like alligator piss.”
Jesse nudged her over to the next man. “Sarah, this is Sam Olsen.”
Sam Olsen was a six-foot, two-inch Viking with hair so pale it was almost white, and eyes a shade of blue only found in glacial melt-water. His expression was solemn, almost grim. He took her hand but didn’t shake it. Instead, he lifted it to his mouth, brushing the backs of her knuckles with his lips. “Sarah,” he acknowledged in a deep, raspy voice. “I am honored to meet you.” Sam “Toolbox” Olsen, whose moniker had long-ago been truncated to “Tool”—usually because the speaker was either lazy, in a hurry, or making an editorial comment—was the team’s mechanic. He could fix any engine—hell, he could even build one, as long as he had enough paper clips, Popsicle sticks, and duct tape. He could also fly anything with wings or rotors. If he duct-taped wings to a car, he could probably fly that, too.
“S
am,” she acknowledged. “Do you smile?”
“Yeah, Sam, do you?” Adam chimed in. “We’ve all been wondering about that.”
Everyone turned to look at Sam.
“Nope,” he answered succinctly. “Never felt the need to.”
“And this is our chief, Pete Schaeffer,” Jesse continued, “but you can just call him “Bulldog.”
“Bulldog,” Sarah acknowledged as she shook his beefy hand. She could certainly see where he got his nickname. Shorter than all the others by several inches, not only did his scarred, jowly face and pugnacious expression resemble that of his namesake, but he was built like one, too, with a massive chest, thick neck, and short, muscular arms. His stocky legs were like tree trunks. His brown hair was buzz cut. His nose had been broken numerous times, making his black-rimmed glasses tilt slightly. His specialty was close fighting.
Every single one of the eight men in the room, including Jesse and Adam, was an expert in infiltration and hostage rescue, hand-to-hand combat, marksmanship, and a few dozen other skills, all of which required razor-sharp reflexes, nerves of steel, precision timing, and the fighting instincts of a natural predator. Skills that were vital to ensuring their own survival and the enemy’s defeat.
Jesse knew exactly how good they were, because five years ago, when Admiral John Harper had asked him to select, train, and lead SEAL Team Fury, a Black Ops team so deep undercover, not even other SEALs knew about them, he had handpicked every single one of these men, except for Nikolai Rostov.
Two years later, tasked by the president to form a top-secret covert ops department to help fight domestic terrorism under the aegis of the Department of Homeland Security, Admiral Harper had recruited ten SEALs, six of them from Jesse’s Team Fury, along with ten army Rangers, and ten Green Berets. These thirty men, along with two Delta Force, two former Mossad and two former British SAS, became the core of Alpha Command, a super-covert anti-terrorism task force fielding six six-man teams to hot spots all over the US.
Owning Sarah [Sequel to Loving Sarah] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Page 6
