This Just In [Internet Bonds Series Book 6]

by Christy Poff

  The medical examiner counted numerous lash marks and open wounds and her preliminary cause of death went down as blunt force trauma with complications.

  "What do you think, Doc?"

  "Could have been rough sex, though the way her hand is positioned on the bush ... I'll know more when I get back in the office."

  "Give me a call when you find something."

  "You got it, Harry."

  Detective Harry Stone made some notes then shook his head. He noticed their victim wore expensive jewelry ruling out robbery as a motive but the fact she had no clothes on led him to agree with the M.E.—sex had definitely been a factor. Something bothered the veteran detective.

  "Lieutenant, we found this,” a patrolman said, handing him the woman's purse.

  "Oh, my God,” Stone muttered.

  "What's up?” Dave Malden, his partner asked.

  "We've got a problem—our vic's father is the city treasurer."

  "Shit!"

  When the autopsy came back, they learned the medical examiner had been correct in his prelim of the cause of death. He noted he had found evidence of a similar type of beating anywhere from twelve to eighteen months prior to her murder.

  Stone rolled his eyes at the prospect of the upcoming investigation.

  "God, I hate high profile cases."

  Chapter 3

  All Brett's research told him Second Sight was an extremely upscale place like the rest of Beverly Hills. They had a dress code, meaning the clothes he'd brought with him wouldn't pass muster. He rued the fact he'd packed his tux and his Armani and Prada suits to be shipped. He knew the box was somewhere in the house but he didn't have the time to go find it and get the suit he wanted cleaned before he met Mistress Anya.

  He went to several men's stores trying to find the right suit but couldn't find what he wanted. On a whim, he called the club and asked for an explanation of the dress requirements. He ended the call, grinning. Had he gone with his first idea, the club would have had him leave. Anya, you are sneaky and I love it!

  Brett came home with a leather suit—grateful for the comfortable fit—with the shirt and tie and boots. He'd found a western wear place where he bought a pair of black Lucchese boots to finish out the look. I'm ready for this.

  "Okay, I've got the clothes, the medical information and ... Am I forgetting anything?"

  Saturday afternoon, Brett Quincannon groaned. Two days—actually fifty-four hours but who was counting?—before he'd meet a woman he had already sworn he'd protect. His cock swelled thinking of her. He wanted her body riding his. I want her!

  "I hope my mistress will have mercy on me,” he said to himself, looking at the new clothes waiting to be worn for her. Where the hell did that come from?

  In all his years in New York after Miami, Brett Quincannon played hard and had the reputation to match. He'd had one or two relationships and a slew of one-night stands but never had he ever felt this way about any woman. Anya—or whatever her name was—tore at him, caressed him and sent heat through him. The mere thought of her sent his cock into overdrive and throbbing for relief, Brett constantly aroused. He didn't understand what was going on with him but deep down, he wanted more and would do anything for her and to keep her in his life.

  He dove into the pool, the only relief he'd found since the first time he'd IMed her. And to think, I almost took the house without one.

  * * * *

  Ainsley settled in at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills. Diego had booked her into the penthouse where she'd have the utmost privacy. She'd argued with him over the extravagance but Diego wouldn't listen. He felt at fault for her need to be in Beverly Hills in the first place and he insisted on taking care of the bills—and her.

  Sunday night, she went to an exclusive club she'd been a member of since her days with her master. No applications after a certain date had been accepted as members giving her the security she needed right now. The fact that all the wait staff had been strictly checked out and auditioned added to her comfort. At Onyx and Lace, she'd be able to relax.

  She walked in, wearing a tight black leather miniskirt with zippers up each side and a white lacy camisole. Because of the darkness of the club, she felt able to wear the outfit without her scars being readily noticed. Once she had a slave for the evening, she wouldn't have to answer questions since it would be a punishable offense to the slave who asked.

  Once inside, a topless beauty led her to her table, the same one she sat at every time she visited the nightclub. A waiter in tight leather chaps and nothing else took her drink order and returned a few moments later with it. She noticed his attributes, her body aching for release.

  "Would you like to order, Mistress?"

  "I'd like you for the evening."

  "Yes, Mistress, I'll take care of it."

  The nice thing about the club had always been the intimacy of it. As members retired or passed on—lifetime the keyword here—everyone relaxed and let their inhibitions go while knowing no new members would ever join their ranks. Once the last one left, the club would close forever, one aspect that saddened Ainsley. She loved this club and didn't want to see it close.

  Her waiter returned then presented himself to her.

  "How may I serve you, Mistress?"

  "I want you to drink from me."

  "Here or your private suite, Mistress?"

  "The suite will be fine,” she said, gazing at his waiting shaft. “Come let me take you there."

  "Yes, Mistress,” he said, his breath catching when she took his cock and led him to her private world. Once inside the room, she released him so he could obey her commands.

  He removed her skirt followed by the cami leaving her in nothing but stilettos. She had wanted a wild night, needing one after the last few months. He parted her legs then gently parted her nether lips before stroking her clit with his tongue.

  Ainsley grabbed his hair, needing something to support her. Ronda sure knows how to hire good help.

  "Mistress needs to sit down. May I help you?"

  "Yes,” she said, waiting to see what his next move would be. “Your name, slave?"

  The tall blonde-haired blue-eyed man looked up at her and grinned.

  "Dolph, Mistress Anya."

  "Dolph, tend to my needs."

  "Yes, Mistress."

  He carried her to a chair in the corner, one she had designed herself. He gently placed her in it then fastened the wristlets around her hands. He spread her legs wide placing her ankles where they could not move and would not be in his way.

  "I read your file, Mistress. Am I..."

  "Yes, Dolph, you are doing extremely well."

  "Thank you, Mistress,” he said, kneeling in front of her. He continued teasing her clit, her moans of pleasure his reward. “If I may speak freely, I have had a crush on Mistress since I first saw you a year ago."

  "Play with my nipples, Dolph. I want to be at your mercy."

  "Yes, Mistress."

  He took her to the edge, her body sated but somehow, as much as he tried, Dolph hadn't caused the feelings Quincannon had over the phone. God, Internet and phone sex—who would have thought?

  * * * *

  She woke the next morning, showered and prepared to see Doctor Cosby. Nervous, she waited until she met the man who'd do wonders to help heal her physically and emotionally. She refused to let some sadistic maniac take her life away. She'd passed her first test with Dolph and felt even more ready to take on Quincannon.

  Seeing Doctor Cosby gave her more hope. After examining her body and the imperfections he needed to fix, he met with her in his office.

  "Miss Reynolds, first off, I'd like to extend my sympathies for the suffering I'm sure you've experienced. I'd like you to know how glad I am that you're seeing me about this."

  "Diego recommended you highly."

  "We've been friends for years."

  "Tell me what you plan to do."

  * * * *

  Ainsley returned to her hotel room,
happy and relieved. Cosby would take care of fixing Holmes’ work with minimal scarring, if any. He assured her the surgery would be easy with gorgeous results, Ainsley pleased.

  She showered then changed into the gown she'd had Diego pack for her. Strapless and very classic, the lightweight leather flared from the tight bodice into a full skirt with a white lace petticoat. Classic yet a little wild, perfect for her evening at Second Sight.

  She loved the club—its exclusivity, the atmosphere—everything. The previous evening at the other club had been heaven, her slave perfect. What will tonight at Second Sight bring?

  Dressed, she checked her appearance in the full-length mirror. She loved her reflection, smiling. Slipping into stiletto pumps, she grabbed a black lace shawl then left. She settled into a waiting limo then gazed out the window as they drove. She liked Beverly Hills but she loved San Francisco wanting to get home but, with the surgery in a few days followed by recovery, it would be some time before she saw her Victorian house again.

  "We're here, ma'am."

  "Thank you,” she said. “Enjoy your evening."

  "Will you need me later?"

  "I'll call you."

  "Yes, ma'am, thank you,” he said after helping her from the car.

  Ainsley entered the lobby of the club where a man, elegant in a black tuxedo, met her.

  "Mistress Anya, it's been too long. When I saw your name on the reservations list, my heart raced."

  "Thank you,” she said quietly.

  "Your guest is waiting for you."

  "Your take on him?"

  "I don't..."

  "I've asked. I'd like to know what to expect and I value your opinion."

  "Well, he is respectful of our dress code and we now have his medical information on file—by the way, he's fine."

  "Interesting,” she said, smiling. “Anything else?"

  "He seems interested in what we do here."

  "He's asked me some questions—yes. Why?"

  "Be cautious, Mistress. He reminds me of a reporter I've seen in New York. He did the exposé..."

  "Hmmm,” she said. “Thank you for telling me. I'll try to be careful."

  Ainsley felt queasy. What am I opening myself up to? What if he has lied to me, using me for a ... Damn it!

  "Mistress, are you all right?"

  "I'm fine.” I hope...

  * * * *

  Brett Quincannon walked into Second Sight, taking in his surroundings and making mental notes.

  "May I help you, sir?"

  "I'm here to meet Mistress Anya. Quincannon's the name."

  "Ah, yes. Very nice suit. You'll fit in well here."

  "Thank you,” Brett said, somewhat relieved. He didn't want to get off on the wrong foot with either her or the club.

  "There is one request we have here which is nonnegotiable even for the guests of our best Dominants. We require—for obvious reasons—that our guests provide us with..."

  Brett removed an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to the man who opened it and smiled.

  "Is that what you're referring to?"

  "Yes, sir, it is. Thank you. Now that we'll have it on file, you are welcome here whenever you decide to return. We do ask for you to update the results as necessary."

  "Understandable."

  "This way, sir."

  Brett followed him to a private table in the rear of the room. While the entire room could be viewed from where he would be sitting, the rest of the dining area could not see it—all part of the unique floor plan of Second Sight. Brett liked it and looked forward to a very interesting evening.

  "Can I get you anything, sir?"

  "Not yet. I'll wait for..."

  "Very good, sir. She should be here soon."

  "Thank you."

  Brett sat back and watched what went on around him with interest. Couples enjoyed each other almost as much as if they were home while those around them did the same, all of them ignoring the rest of the room. Around the corner from where he sat, he saw a woman disappear underneath a table and not reappear until she satisfied the man she was with. At another table, the woman had pulled her skirt above her hips and sat with her naked ass against the leather seat next to a man who openly cupped her breast while he fed her with his free hand.

  What the hell did I miss in New York?

  He felt his cock straining against the tight leather of his pants and moved a little in order to ease the tension—both in his pants and his body. He cursed to himself, berating himself for unwittingly enjoying his voyeurism.

  "Mister Quincannon?"

  "Yes? Forgive me,” he said, standing to meet the beautiful blonde in front of him. “Brett Quincannon."

  "I'm Mistress Anya,” she said, the club's host holding her chair for her. “I'm happy to finally meet you."

  Brett held her hand, shock overwhelming him. Never had he felt a strong connection with anyone as he did now. Heat coursed through him as if they were in a sauna instead of an elite club.

  "Forgive me,” he repeated, letting her hand go. She smiled as if the feelings were mutual.

  "I understand you want to know more about this life but I wonder if there isn't an ulterior motive,” she began.

  "I've made some harsh judgments and would like to learn the truth."

  "Guilty conscience?"

  "You might say that."

  "And if you don't like what you learn?” she asked.

  "I haven't thought that far ahead."

  "I see."

  "Tell me something."

  "If I can."

  "How can couples come here and..."

  "...Have sex in the open?” she finished.

  "Basically."

  "It's part of the lifestyle. A submissive trusts the Dominant to not embarrass them or harm them. Here—and clubs like this one—allows them to enjoy a nightlife with no one commenting on what is going on between them."

  "I see,” he said, watching the girl with her breasts exposed to her Dominant. “What do the cops think about this?"

  "Nothing. The clubs make sure what happens here stays here. The clientele's elite,” she explained. “Those who enjoy this keep quiet and to themselves. Relationships are extremely private."

  "But I've seen the slaves on leashes on the street..."

  "More than likely, they practice sadomasochism along with bondage and Dom/sub."

  "Amazing."

  "Every couple is different and it depends on where they live. What can be gotten away with, say, in Los Angeles, New York or San Francisco may not be acceptable in a place like San Antonio."

  "And the cops look the other way."

  "It's not a crime, Mister Quincannon."

  "Brett, please."

  "Brett, it's not illegal until it becomes illegal."

  "You talk in riddles—why?"

  "Until I get to know someone, I use it as a protection device."

  "May I ask why?"

  "No."

  Brett fell silent. One two-letter word with a slight command in her tone when she spoke stopped him from probing further, unusual for an investigative reporter. Why am I obeying something unsaid?

  "I'm sorry. Maybe this is wrong. I should leave,” he began, getting up from his chair.

  "Leave and you'll never know the answer to your question."

  "What question?” he asked, annoyed.

  "Why is it you desire to obey me?"

  "Get over yourself, lady! I'm not some slave boy."

  "How do you know? Have you tried it?"

  "I'm outta here,” Brett declared, before he started to leave.

  "Mister Quincannon, you've undressed me several times already. You can't deny the heat coursing through you when we touched or the sexual tension around us. You're scared of something you absolutely do not understand."

  "Lady..."

  "Mistress Anya to you,” she shot back.

  "You are no mistress of mine."

  "Then maybe you should leave and take your cl
osed little mind with you. Good evening, Mister Quincannon."

  Brett left, furious with himself and the fact a complete stranger had instantly read him like a book. He went to the lobby and stopped, angrier with himself than Mistress Anya. He paced, unable to understand his feelings or what had just taken place. Half of him wanted to leave and walk away from his project while the rest wanted to go back to the woman who set him on fire to beg her forgiveness.

  His body ached for her touch feeling empty from losing the heat between them earlier, a sensation totally mind-blowing if only momentarily. Always sure of himself, he had trouble dealing with the insecurity he discovered in his personality. His mind raced, confusing him. He looked back to where he'd left the mysterious Anya and saw her with another man.

  Jealously coursed through him when the man lightly touched her neck. Brett watched for a few moments then stormed out to his Monte Carlo. Slipping behind the wheel, he inserted the key into the ignition and stopped. What the hell is going on?

  He sat back, settling in after deciding to follow her home. He didn't have long to wait before the man escorted her to a waiting limo, though he did not join her inside. Instead, he watched it drive away before reentering the club. Brett started the car then followed the limo at a safe distance, ending up at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills.

  Quickly he parked the rental then nonchalantly followed her into the hotel. He watched her enter a private elevator to the penthouse then slipped into the stair tower and took the steps two at a time, grateful for being in good physical shape. When he made it to the top floor, he waited until his body calmed then entered the hallway.

  Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door to the huge suite. He waited for her to answer having absolutely no clue what he would say to her.

  "What do you think you're doing here?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "You'd better figure something out or I'll call security to come up here and take you away."

  "No, don't,” he begged, “I'm having trouble with this."

  "I'm not your..."

  "I know. I need to understand what it is that you do to me. I'm experiencing things I've never felt before."

  She stepped aside to let him enter.

  "I hope I'm not making a huge mistake."