by Maren Smith
Kade didn’t know anyone named Drake. Drake wasn’t a friend, so that made the blonde fair game. Doms who let their submissives run wild in the Castle deserved what they got anyway.
Kade swiveled in his seat, facing her fully now. “What’s your name?”
“Mischief.” Her eyes were alight with it, too. Biting her bottom lip, she trailed her fingers lightly back down his arm. “Did you make this?”
She tried to touch the unfinished paddle he was working on, but Kade got to it first. He pushed it and the restraints well out of her reach. He’d bind her, if that’s what she wanted. Bind her, gag her, paddle her curvaceous little ass until she was begging him to stop—stress relief was stress relief, after all—but not with these. These were for Red and Red alone. No one else would touch them.
“What can I do for you, Mischief?” He stood up and if she was still focusing on the paddle he’d taken from her, that got her attention fixed back where it needed to be: on him. On the threat to her personal, sexual safety and all the satisfaction that such a threat would bring her.
“It’s not what you can do for me.” The plump blonde slipped closer. “I much prefer to think about what you can do to me.”
Another color-by-numbers Castle submissive in search of the perfect dom and the perfect fantasy. He locked his smile in place before it could fade. “What specifically would that be?”
“Anything you want, Master Kade.”
Why did his thoughts immediately go to Red?
Deliberately, Kade forced her from his mind. He focused instead on Mischief and on bending himself into being her perfect fantasy. He looked her over, letting her feel every long second of his appraisal—plump, curvy, winsome…here, something Red wasn’t, he reminded himself. So, stop thinking about her already.
He reached for Mischief fisting a great handful of hair that was too curly and entirely the wrong color, setting passion afire in eyes that were blue instead of green. No, she wasn’t Red.
But, for tonight at least, she’d do.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He stood in the shower, hands pressed flat to the wall while the hot spray ran over him. He let it soak his hair, his face, then bowed his head and let it run like a river down his spine. Mischief…the heat of her body should have been a mind-numbing distraction for him, but Kade felt even more conflicted now than when he’d first reached for her.
Beth.
He couldn’t understand it. Mischief had done everything right. She had known how to touch him, when, where, how hard…hell, that woman could suck the chrome off a ball hitch, but when she’d looked up at him with those blue eyes, opening her mouth so he could fucking own it, all he could think was that her face was wrong. Her moans were wrong. Her hair—when he’d dragged her by it, letting her crawl at his feet the way she seemed to want until at last he threw her down over the foot of the bed and pinned her there—those golden tresses twisting around his fingers were wrong. Her legs when he grabbed and spread them weren’t long and thin and they didn’t go all the way up. Her ass when he slapped and squeezed…just wasn’t Beth’s. Her gasps weren’t Beth’s. Her cries weren’t the right pitch, and they didn’t fire him. For the first time in years, he hadn’t been able to lose himself in the act, not even long enough for him to feel human again. For the first time, he had almost not been able to perform—like a well-trained monkey, at a snap of those plump little fingers.
He snorted. Like Beth’s fingers would be any different.
Except that, she wasn’t snapping them at him. She wasn’t looking for a performance, from him or anyone else. Hell, she barely seemed to know what she was doing here at all, and yet, here she was. So some part of her had to want something from this lifestyle. That meant some part of her had to want him on some level. But what would make the fire come to life in her eyes? What would make her his, if just for an hour or two?
She was a mystery.
He wanted to explore her…probably only because she refused to let him. So which of them did that make the contrary one? Kade washed his hair under the pelting spray.
There had been desire in Beth’s eyes when she’d looked at him—first in the garden bushes and then again at dinner last night. Oh yes, he’d seen her lust, naked and raw, written in bold lines all over her face…right before she’d torn herself from his arms and run the other way.
Red…Chelsea…Beth. Tall, beautiful, enigmatic Beth.
He raised his face back into the showering rain. He wanted her. Her body was a playground, waiting for him to explore, play, burn, and forget.
Not that he wouldn’t be good to her—he went out of his way to be good to every woman he bedded. He’d show her more pleasure than she knew how to handle, and in turn, she’d be what he needed: another mountain to climb. Just once and never again. Because he could.
He let the water wash him clean.
At least, he let it try.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Chelsea sat in the garden with the noon sun beating down on her shoulders, trying her best to get through the book she had bought at the gift shop. It had been a good morning so far. She had sent out three resumes, filled out an online application for a retail position and hadn’t bumped into anyone familiar yet. Hoping to keep it that way, she’d found her way to the gift shop, browsed its incredibly diverse and kinky wares before picking a book, and then found this nice, secluded spot in the garden maze in which to hide.
Apparently, the garden was a busy recreation spot. Shortly after arriving, from just over the tall hedge wall to her left, an orgy began to take place. A woman was moaning, wet flesh was slapping. One guy was not-so softly whispering, “Yeah, baby. Take it. Take it all,” while another moaned, “Oh God, yeah. Fuck me like that.”
It fell strangely in sync with a lot of what she was reading. Considering the other titles she had seen at the gift shop, Chelsea would have thought a romance about Sleeping Beauty fairly benign. Needless to say, it had not turned out that way. Disney would be appalled. Hell, she was appalled.
Squirming where she sat, Chelsea stubbornly dedicated herself to her reading. It was too nice a day to be cooped up in her room where there was, literally, nothing for her to do but stare at the restraint rings on her bed. Wandering the Castle halls was too dangerous to even consider. What if she ran into Kade? Worse, what if she ran into Selena? God only knew what she’d end up doing then!
No. No, this was much safer. Just a quiet spot in a…well, mostly quiet garden, with a book to help pass the time. Unfortunately, between the sound effects to her left and the scenes being spelled out in ink on the hardbound pages before her, Chelsea was struggling to keep her breathing soft and steady. Would it really be so bad to be controlled like this? Maybe not all the time, but what about only now and then for fun? For play. What would it feel like to have to be reminded to speak with respect and only when allowed, or to hear the low voice of her prince threaten her with punishment for disobeying? She tried not to imagine it that way, but in her mind she kept hearing Kade’s voice. What would it feel like to have him spank her, like poor Beauty was being spanked now—just a little punishment to match the offense—and yet, Chelsea could almost feel each sharp impact of Ka—no, the prince’s strong right hand as it came smacking down again and again. Treating her like the naughty, spoiled, thoroughly treasured princess that she was. She didn’t know which was hotter: the heat of the sun burning across her back and shoulders, or the images this book evoked, burning at her stomach and her face. She kept reading. Like many things here, she couldn’t stop herself from turning the page just to see what happened next.
He was touching her softly now. Chelsea shivered, feeling nothing but the phantom caresses of Kade’s fingers, gliding down her stomach to her sex, circling her clit before slipping deep inside her. Her chest felt tight. She locked her lips to stifle the moan that kept trying to work its way up her throat and escape.
“Good morning, I said.”
Chelsea jumped with a gasp, her suddenly clum
sy hands dropping her book. She fumbled, tried to catch it, but it fell anyway. Mortified at having been caught reading a sex book, never mind that this was the Castle, or that sex was taking place practically right beside her, or that reading anything—including this incredibly perverse version of Sleeping Beauty—was probably the most trivial vice anyone could practice here—Chelsea didn’t bother picking it up again. She gave it a kick with her heel instead, tucking it out of the sun, out of Jackson’s sight, into the darkness under her full skirts.
Yeah, that didn’t look guilty at all.
She wanted to hide her burning face behind her hands. She waved instead. “Good morning.”
Dressed in the Castle’s standard Security uniform—jeans, black t-shirt with those white letters “Chief of Security” emblazoned across his broad chest and back—Jackson left the main maze path and came into her tiny, semi-private alcove. He sat down on the marble bench beside her, bracing his arms upon his knees, his smile a little lopsided, a mix of amusement and mild confusion. “Hi,” he said softly.
She tried to stare straight ahead, but couldn’t even manage that. She gripped her knees, the heat of her suddenly sweaty palms burning into her skin through the thin barrier of her skirt. “Hello.”
“You dropped your book,” he pointed out.
“Yes, thank you. I see that.”
“Aren’t you going to pick it up?”
“No.” Her voice was too high-pitched, strained in its bid for normalcy. “No, I think I’m done.”
He arched one eyebrow. Staring at her a moment, he bent down, hiked the hem of her skirt halfway to her knees, and reached under in search of the book. Straightening, he handed it back to her. “The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty. I tried it once, but I guess I’m not much of an Anne Rice fan.”
“She’s one twisted puppy, all right.” Considering she had enjoyed more than one or two of the scenes she’d read, what did that make her? Chelsea buried the book in her lap, turning the cover facedown against her legs and covering the words on the back with both hands.
If he noticed, and she knew he probably had, he didn’t comment on it. “I’m sorry if I upset you yesterday.”
It took Chelsea a moment to remember what he was referencing. “Oh.”
“I jumped on you when I shouldn’t have,” Jackson said, rubbing his big hands together. “Sara told me you were only concerned for her. She’s not been sleeping well. I saw her leave in tears and I assumed it was because of something you said, and for that I apologize.”
“Oh.” It was the safest thing she could think to say. Feeling a little like she was trespassing in dangerous territory, she tried to be polite. “Is she feeling better now?”
“I don’t know. Sara tends to keep the things that bother her bottled up. She hasn’t shared this with me yet, and I haven’t pushed. Yet. But, it occurred to me this morning that you might actually know something.” He looked from his hands to her, that gentle smile pinned into place as he point-blank asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know what’s going on with my Sara, would you, Beth?”
She wasn’t just in dangerous territory now; it was riddled with land mines. She avoided Jackson’s unwavering stare. “I, uh…I think this is something you should talk to her about.”
Jackson kept his smile, but it must have taken some effort. “You’re probably right. But if you know something, I’d appreciate you telling me what it is.”
“Please don’t make me lie to you.” Chelsea rubbed her forehead. “I’m not very good at it and I don’t like the way it makes me feel.”
“How sick is she?” Jackson pressed. “Is it serious? I suggested going to the doctor this morning; you’d have thought I suggested mutual suicide. How hard should I be pressing this?”
“It isn’t my place to—”
“Is it more than just the pregnancy?” Jackson finally snapped, showing his aggravation.
Sitting back, Chelsea covered her mouth, certain Sara would think she’d betrayed her. How had she got involved in this mess in the first place? “You know?”
“You don’t live with a woman for two months and not notice she hasn’t menstruated. She throws up until three o’clock each day and then it’s like a magic ‘hungry’ switch gets thrown. She cries and won’t tell me why.” Jackson narrowed his eyes. Although he was looking at her, it wasn’t her he seemed to be seeing. “Is that it? Is the pregnancy the only problem?”
Chelsea scrubbed at her face with both hands. “You really need to talk to her, not me.”
“What, is it someone else’s?” There was no trace of a smile about him now. “She was with another guy when she first came here. Does she think I’d hold that against her? That I wouldn’t love any child of hers as if it were my own?”
“Oh my God, it’s not you at all, all right? It’s this place!” Chelsea snapped, throwing out her hands to encompass the whole of the little alcove. It took her a moment to realize the sex sounds from next door had gone silent. Rolling her eyes, more than just a little aggravated now herself, she lowered her voice. “She thinks this is a horrible place to raise children and she thinks she’s ruined your life because you’re both going to have to leave it in order to raise this child that she’s doesn’t know if you want because—and here’s the kicker—you don’t talk to each other! Seriously? Why are you prying this all out of me? Get off your ass, get back in there and talk—” She quacked her hands at him. “—to her!” She gestured emphatically back at the Castle. “If only you’d thought of this before, then you’d know all this by now! Jesus!”
Grabbing up her book, her face flushed hot now with anger rather than embarrassment, Chelsea tried to leave. The marble bench caught her skirt and she nearly tore it trying to yank free.
Nothing ruined a good stomping pissed-off exit like getting your clothes caught on your chair. She grabbed her skirt with both hands, yanking and jerking to get off the corner that had her, promptly dropped her book and, when she ducked to grab it up again, cracked foreheads with Jackson, who had bent to retrieve it for her. She grabbed her head with both hands and flopped flat on her butt right there at Jackson’s feet.
Chuckling, he grabbed his head too and her elbow, which was the only thing that kept her from cracking into him again when she grabbed after that cussed book a second time.
“Stop laughing at me,” she hissed, her mortification growing with every chortle that rumbled out of him.
“I’m sorry.” His laughing eyes showed absolutely no trace of apology. “Here, sit.” He pointed at her with one stern finger. “Stay.”
“Woof,” she muttered, thoroughly resenting everything about her life for the few seconds it took him to retrieve her book. Chelsea took it from him and stubbornly didn’t even thank him for it. Frustrated, she glared at his outstretched hand first, but eventually took that too, letting him haul her back to her feet. As soon as she was standing, however, she reclaimed her hand and tried to stomp away. It was too late for a good pissed-off exit now; this felt more like slinking, and Jackson didn’t even let her have that.
“Hold it.”
She kept walking, but he caught up to her easily.
“I said, hold it,” he said, in a slightly singsong, warning tone.
“I heard you,” she grumbled, and kept walking.
He took her elbow, pulling her left when she would have turned right and navigating her out of the maze. “You’re lucky I like fire, Beth. You might want to keep in mind, however, there aren’t a lot of Masters here who’d take this kind of sass without giving back one or two hundred swatting consequences of their own. Come on, the way out is this way.”
Once they were free of the hedge maze, he still didn’t let her go.
“What?” she said, after trying and failing to extricate her arm. “What? I don’t have any more secrets for you to drag out of me.”
Except that she did have one more secret. A pretty big one, too—one that could not only get her thrown out of here, but thrown into jail and possibly sue
d.
“Is that a challenge?” Jackson countered.
She locked her lips and cast her glare across the lawn. “What do you want?”
“Not a thing.” He waited until she looked at him and then thumbed to the Castle, that suddenly ominous fortress of old grey stone rising up across this well-manicured lawn. “He wants to talk to you.”
He didn’t have to elaborate. She knew exactly whom he meant. The Master of the Castle.
Could this day get any worse?
* * * * *
The door to his office was closed by the time Jackson delivered her to the benches that lined the section of the hall that served as the Master’s waiting area. No one was there, but someone must have been inside because there were strange, ominous sounds coming from behind that closed door. Muffled ‘whupping’ noises that, even though she’d never heard the like before, were impossible to mistake.
Jackson deposited her on one of the benches to wait, but no sooner had he sat down beside her than did his pager start humming.
“Stay right here,” he said, glancing at it. “I’m not going to have to chase you down again, am I?”
If she thought for a second she could hide from him for the next seven days, she might be tempted to try.
“No,” she grumbled, and made herself grudgingly comfortable. It was hard, especially when that next ‘thh-whup!’ fell, followed by a soft yelp. She squirmed, trying to tell herself that it wasn’t her getting spanked in there, she hadn’t done anything to get spanked over, she probably wouldn’t get spanked at all, and therefore, her bottom had no business crawling the way it currently was.
Jackson hesitated only long enough to point his finger at her. “I will come after you,” he warned. “I will find you, and I don’t care if I’m assigned to you or not, you will feel my hand and it will not feel good.”
She waited until he had turned and was walking away before sticking her tongue out after him. It was a level of childishness she knew she’d be ashamed of later on, but for now, it was the only expression of frustration she had.
