Conviction

by Jane Henry

  “Oh yeah?” I ask, my voice lower and husky. Maybe if I pretend to be overpowered he’ll let me go. “You’re the bondage king?”

  He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, as if pretending to be modest. “Something like that.” He sobers. “Now answer the question.”

  “Fine.”

  I’m not sure if I’ve managed to convince him or to trick him into believing that it’s that easy to subdue me, but finally he gives an almost imperceptible nod, and he lets go of my wrists before he slides off me to the side. I wait until I have my bearings, then I shove him the rest of the way off me, taking advantage of his momentary shock before he springs into action. I wriggle out from beneath him, pivot and lunge. I’ve done this so many times I could do it in my sleep, besting a man twice my size by being lithe and fast, and all I need to do is pin him down beneath me to make my point. My heart surges with pride now that he’s pinned beneath me, and there’s nothing but grunts and curse words in the kitchen as I make sure to subdue him without smashing his head on the tiled floor. Then he twists, heaves, and now I find myself sprawling.

  Shit.

  I scramble but it’s no use. I can’t get my bearings, can’t get away.

  “You asshole,” I grind out, but his hands are on me now, firmer than before.

  “Can’t believe you just played me for a fool,” I hear him. He looks at me once, shakes his head, then flips me so I’m belly down on the floor and he’s behind me, and he’s got the upper hand again.

  There comes a point in any combat scenario where you know you’re losing. You know your only chance of overcoming your opponent is gone. In a staged scenario, like the training sessions at the academy, you might get hit a few times but admitting defeat will usually end the session, unless you’re at the mercy of an asshole who has a bone to pick with you. In a real-life situation, you know you’re going down. It’s rare that someone will actually take a fight to the death. Even the most hardened criminals often have trouble pulling the trigger, finishing the job. Most of the time it just means you’re getting a beating.

  Fuck it.

  I have no idea what Brax will do. All I know is he restrained me once and that didn’t end up so well for him, so the likelihood of him upping his game is pretty damn strong. He’s gonna win this one. There’s no denying that, but I’m not going down without a fight.

  I struggle and try to push away, but I find that he’s taking a weird position. He’s like kneeling or something instead of trying to pin me down again. He lifts me straight up in the air like I’m a rag doll and hauls me straight across his knees. It takes me a second to register the position I’m in before his palm smacks against my ass. I don’t even react at first, I’m so shocked at what he’s doing.

  I’ve been wrestled and beaten and subdued. But hell. This is different.

  “What the fuck!” I protest, as a second vicious smack of his palm on my ass pushes the breath right out of me. “What the hell are you doing?

  He doesn’t say anything. He just sorta shifts his position so that now my head is lower on the floor and my ass is higher up in the air, giving him what I’d imagine is a very clear target.

  “Brax!”

  In silence, he pins me down and gives me two, three, four wicked spanks.

  This feels weird. I’m not sure what to do. It hurts, I can’t deny it, and I would have expected I’d feel like a kid or something, being spanked like this. He spanks me again, and again, and I can’t even fight him now. I’ve tried that, and it got me nowhere. I’ve got to try another tactic.

  “I’m sorry!” I manage to squeak out in between whacks of his brutal palm. “Ok, I’m sorry!”

  He pauses and rests his hand on my scorched ass. He’s heaving with the effort of restraining and spanking me, and for a moment the only sound in the kitchen is both of us panting.

  “Seriously. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” I say. Weirdly, the desire to beat him has fled, and I have to admit I’m actually feeling pretty subdued. What the hell happened there? “Please let me up and we can talk.”

  To my surprise, I feel his hand fisting my hair at the nape of my neck, it’s all tangled up in his fingers. He pulls my head back and his mouth is at my ear. Warm breath tickles my skin, but it’s what he says that makes me tingle. “You ever fucking pull something like that again, I’ll bare your ass before I spank you. You understand me?”

  “Yes,” I agree, just needing him to release me now. But he doesn’t, not yet. He lets go of his grip in my hair, but still holds me firmly over his lap. Now his hand rests on my scorched skin, and he’s speaking calmly, as if he’s in complete control. I’m not sure what he’s doing, but then I realize he’s rubbing out the sting on my ass.

  “You sure you’re gonna behave now?”

  I swallow and nod. The feel of his hand on my ass is turning me the hell on, but I don’t want him to know that. Now that things are calm, and he isn’t spanking my ass any longer, a part of me has to admit… even though he’s a jerk, that was really fucking hot. Just like the night before when he went all dom on me, I find myself needing to be taken to another place. My skin’s on fire, and I feel a low pulse of arousal between my legs as he continues to massage my ass while talking to me in low, soothing tones.

  “Swear to God, I’ve never spanked a woman like that before,” he says. “I’ve only ever done it when we agree at the club.” He pauses, and there’s either humor or anger in his voice when he speaks again. Maybe both. “You deserved it, though.”

  “I’m not sure if there’s such a thing as any grown, mature woman who deserves a spanking, Braxton,” I say, attempting to hold onto a shred of my dignity.

  He releases me and pulls me up so I’m sitting on his lap. Leaning back, he’s now got his back to the wall as he pulls me tight against his chest. “We’re gonna have to agree to disagree on that point.” Despite my earlier anger, I’m feeling like a subdued little kitten with a bellyful of milk now. He’s right there, strong and stern and reassuring. “And answer the question honestly,” he says, one massive hand reaching out to cup my cheek. “You aren’t turned on at all?”

  Damn him and his clairvoyant ways. Without waiting for a response, his hand moves from my jaw to my neck, he tips my head back, and he kisses my neck. I shiver when his lips touch the sensitive skin. His tongue flicks out and traces a path along the sensitive skin. “Not even a little?”

  Of course I’m turned on. Who wouldn’t be after that?

  “Maybe a little,” I whisper but my voice trails off to a groan as his teeth sink into my neck before he kisses there once again.

  He pulls away, removing his hands and his mouth, and gets to his feet. “We need to get out of here,” he says.

  I’m still momentarily stunned by the kiss, but then I realize, as if waking up from a dream, that my arm is sore, and my torso is bruised, and we’re still sprawled on my kitchen floor. I scramble to my feet as he does.

  “Pack a bag,” he says. “I’m taking you to Verge. It’s the safest place we can go, with 24/7 surveillance and close to Myers. I can be in touch with him, and we can track down whoever the fuck is on your tail.”

  Leave my apartment?

  “Why the fuck would I do that?” I ask, frowning at him. “I can defend myself.”

  He’s halfway across the tiny dining area when he turns, frowning. “You can defend yourself,” he says, and he’s actually agreeing, not contradicting me. “Clearly. But this isn’t just about defending yourself. As much as I hate the idea of you being alone in this place and maybe more than one of them coming after you, let’s put two and two together here. They obviously know where you live, yeah. But did you or did you not come to me because you want to find out who’s after you and how we bring them down?”

  He turns and crosses his arms on his chest, biceps bulging as he fixes me with a stern glare.

  God, I hate this feeling of helplessness.

  I swallow. “I did. But I don’t want to give up my privacy.” O
r my independence or autonomy. Jesus, I fought tooth and nail for this and it didn’t come easy.

  He works his jaw, staring at me for a moment, then shrugs. “I didn’t say you had to give up your privacy. I’ll get you a private room and we’ll make sure you’re under an assumed name temporarily. It won’t be for long.”

  How does he know that?

  “I’m not sure why your club is any safer than my apartment,” I protest, even though I do know. My place is a rental, as is the case with most homes in NYC, and I’ve barely outfitted it with safety locks. He raises his brows and looks at the enormous sliding glass doors that lead to my balcony.

  “Second floor balcony, with…” his voice trails off as he walks over shaking his head, fingering the flimsy lock, “a lock that doesn’t look like it can keep a toddler out?” Then he walks over to the entryway door. “You have one lock on this door. No deadbolt.” He leans back against the door, his eyes roaming heavenward as if he’s contemplating something, and he ticks off his points on his fingers as he continues. “Verge has one main entrance, not including the emergency exits which are, as you might guess, alarmed, and only used in case of emergency and never for entry to the club. There’s at least one trained bouncer at the door every night, and many times, that bouncer is me. Once we get past the main entrance, the only people allowed in are vetted, with the exception of guests who are there by invitation only. People mingle on the main floors, except in the private rooms, which are only occupied by long-term members. Zack Williams, who as you know is an NYPD detective and fully trained in all manner of defense, comes frequently. You’ve got a fucking barricade of men and women ready to take down assailants at a moment’s notice, and as I said before, a short distance away you have Myers and his men.” He pauses. “You don’t even have a dog.”

  “I don’t need your protection,” I protest. I can handle myself, and I half expect him to railroad me and toss me over his shoulder like he did the first night we met. Though I have to admit the idea of being manhandled is theoretically hot, and a small, teensy little part of me sorta wishes he’d do it again, I’m serious. I truly don’t want to give up my freedom and hand it all to him. I’ve never needed a man to protect me and I don’t need one now.

  Men have only ever fucked me over. Although Brax seems nice and all, I don’t know him well enough to know if he’s different. I respect that some women like being protected by the big, strong, manly man or whatever the fuck. But that isn’t me.

  I didn’t join the police force only to surrender myself to someone with a dick.

  My heartbeat is ratcheting up as I wonder if he’ll react, and my ass still tingles from the spanking he gave me in the kitchen. I swallow, wondering how he’ll respond, and how hard I need to push this issue. Even though I don’t want someone to protect me, I have to admit I’m not thrilled about staying here alone right now.

  “I didn’t say you need my protection,” he says with infuriating calm. “What I’m doing is offering you a safer place to stay while we figure shit out.”

  Huh.

  He continues. “You wear a seat belt when you’re driving?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “You wear protective gear when you’re at the shooting range?”

  “Yes,” I say warily.

  “You ever take safety precautions when you’re responding to a call.”

  “Yes,” I say, getting angry now, my voice tight. “God, I get your point.”

  “You don’t do any of that shit because you’re expecting danger to happen, or because you can’t handle it if you do. You do that as safety precautions. Something to make sure that if anything goes wrong, you don’t end up caught with your pants down.”

  A nervous giggle bubbles up and I barely suppress it, letting out a little huff of a laugh. It’s a super common expression, caught with your pants down, one my supervisor favors, and I’ve heard a million times, but somehow hearing Brax say it makes the reality of my situation so much more real. He, however, doesn’t seem amused at all.

  “You gonna do what I say, or do I need to call Zack?”

  Wait. What? “Brax, we’re not getting Zack in on this. No way. Are you out of your mind?”

  His eyes narrow. “I’m about done with you questioning my sanity.” The stern tone of his voice makes my tummy flutter a little. I like it when he goes all serious and dom on me. Hell, my panties are damp from what just happened in the kitchen.

  Oh, God. What the hell is he doing to me?

  He inhales, squares his shoulders, and places both hands on his hips.

  “I trust Zack with my life,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say, turning away. I do, too. But somehow, changing the way things are—telling Zack about what’s going on, moving temporarily to Verge, even hiring these P.I. guys, feels more dangerous. But why did I go to them in the first place? Really, what was I hoping to accomplish? I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then close my eyes as I process through everything.

  I know information that could get me killed. It’s not an exaggeration or dramatized in any way. I hate drama. But this is reality.

  I went to Myers because I’d heard Zack mention Myers as head of one of the best private investigation team he’d known, even though they worked outside of law enforcement.

  I had to go outside of law enforcement since there was no doubt in my mind that there was corruption in the very place I worked, where my friends were, where I’d put my trust.

  Today, I was attacked in the safety of my own home, and the asshole who attacked me still roams free.

  I’m one person against… how many?

  I take in a deep breath and open my eyes. “You’re right,” I say with a sigh. “This is beyond my power and I came for help because I need it.” It pains me to admit that. “I’ll go with you to Verge. But only temporarily.”

  He gives one quick, short nod. “Good,” he says. “Pack your bags and I’ll call Zack.” He gives me a once over, pushes away from the door, and walks over to me. When he reaches me, his eyes gentle and he tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear, the tender gesture making me melt just a little. “You’re not weak to take precautions, Zoe. Do you understand that?”

  “Of course I do,” I lie. No. No, I don’t understand that. I want to protect myself. I want to protect others. I wouldn’t have joined the NYPD otherwise. I’m fueled with a burning need to put assholes who hurt other people behind bars, to see justice served, to guard those who can’t protect themselves. I go to bed every night after a long shift knowing I did my duty, that I made the world a better place for just one day. It seems a sort of betrayal to admit I need help, but I also don’t want to let my stupid pride fuck this up.

  He’s taller than I am, and strong. When he reaches his hand out to me, I can see the ripples of his muscles beneath his shirt, the strength in his shoulders and arms as he leans in to me. “You could kick my ass, baby,” he murmurs, his lips quirking.

  Oh no he doesn’t. That baby is the beginning of my unraveling.

  “I can,” I say, already playing the scene out with the mere suggestion. Arm up, pivot hips, knock his arm away from me. He’d bend over, and I’d elbow him, bringing him to the floor. I don’t want to hurt him, though. I don’t want to fight him. Just knowing I can is good enough.

  “Then let’s get you out of here, so you don’t have to. Because if you don’t move, I will, and I see now the only way I got you over my shoulder and into Verge to begin with was because you were plastered and likely horny as hell.”

  “Hey!” I protest, smacking his big barrel of a chest. He nabs my wrist and firmly moves my arm down by my side.

  “Am I not telling the truth?”

  “Fine,” I huff out. “Maybe it’s true.”

  “Zoe,” he says, his voice low and corrective, a tone I’m not familiar with. He’s being patient and calm, but it seems he’s had enough. “There’s no need to get defensive.” Is this a dom thing or something? It feels weird to be spo
ken to like this, and I don’t really understand why I feel a low thrum of need low in my belly at his tone.

  “Let’s go then,” I say, trying to pull away from him, but he holds me fast and with a quick tug, pulls me up against his chest. Damn, he smells good, and seeing him here like this puts me right in the mindset of the night before.

  Part of me wants to forget who I am and what I need to do, to have my mind quieted for just a little while. I live in a perpetual state of defense. I guess that’s what happens to a girl when the people who were supposed to protect her were the ones who hurt her most. You learn to take care of yourself. You learn never to rest, even in sleep.

  He’s still holding my wrists pinned to my side. I could get out of this if I wanted to. One knee to his groin and he’d be done.

  But I’m not sure I want to.

  “I don’t want you to boss me around,” I lie.

  “Don’t you?” he asks, a brow rising even as one of his dimples makes his appearance. I’m so close I can feel when he inhales, and the whisper of his breath graces the bare skin at my neck.

  “No,” I insist, though my voice is breathier now, my protest weaker.

  Then his gaze hardens, and he sobers, and to my disappointment, he releases my wrists. “Need to get you out of here,” he says. “I’m calling Zack. You go pack a bag. Take only the bare essentials and move. You’re also taking a leave of absence from work.”

  “What?” I blink in shock, but he’s already got his phone up to his ear. He points to the bedroom and whisks his finger as if to remind me to move my ass.

  I open my mouth and his eyes narrow, then he turns his back to me.

  “Arrgh!” I huff in indignant anger. Who the hell does he think he is? I’d have better luck talking to a brick wall, so in a huff of anger I turn away from him and march toward my room.

  “Not the boss of me,” I mutter, grabbing a duffle bag out of my closet. It’s not until I’m tossing my panties in the zippered mesh portion of my bag that I realize something isn’t right. I’m a tidy person and everything has a place, but the little ceramic jewelry box where I keep my meager possessions is turned over, chains and bracelets and earrings spilled all atop my dresser. My computer desk is a fucking mess, papers and pens scattered to the floor, and my computer isn’t where I left it. I look to my bedroom door. He scanned this place, but didn’t notice what a mess it was? Maybe he thinks I’m always a mess or something.