Hard Wood (Hard n' Dirty Book 3)

by Tara Crescent

  And everywhere I look, there’s a contraption of some kind.

  “How much do you know of BDSM?” Dom’s watching me carefully, as if he’s half-expecting me to freak out and run outside, screaming at the top of my lungs. “Do you recognize anything?”

  “Not much.” I take in the X-shaped device attached to a wall. The chains that hang down from the ceiling. The bolts on the floor. The Y-shaped wooden bench. The steel cage in the corner. “I can guess the purpose though.”

  I’m not as shocked as I expected to be. Probably because the room is empty. I’d be far less detached if naked people were being tied down and whipped in front of me.

  Right now, I’m far more curious about Dominic Wilde. “What’s your favorite gadget?”

  He looks around. “I built that bench,” he says, pointing to the waist-high Y-shaped device that caught my eye. “I’m rather fond of it.”

  One wall is covered with whips and thin, bamboo canes. It looks scary. Intimidating. I turn away from it. “You never built yourself one?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t need the props, Cat.”

  There’s no judgment in his voice. He knows the code on the door. He said he has a standing invitation to use the playroom. “What does that mean?”

  He runs his fingers through his hair. “Let me use coffee as an analogy.”

  “Coffee. Of course. That makes perfect sense.”

  His eyebrow rises. “There are a million ways I can tie you down and spank you in this room,” he says, his voice soft as silk and hard as steel. “Are you sure you want to sass me?”

  His tone might be serious, but he’s biting back a smile, and his eyes are amused, and I feel safe with him. I give him an unconcerned shrug. “I like to live dangerously,” I lie.

  “Is that so?” His smile widens, and there’s a wicked, dangerous gleam in his eyes. “In that case, take off your jacket.”

  My heartbeat stutters. “What?”

  He doesn’t back down. “You heard me, spitfire. Are you going to do as you’re told?”

  9

  Cat

  Those words hang in the air. Neither of us moves for a long time. A thousand thoughts buzz around in my mind like a swarm of angry bees. It feels like a fog has surrounded my brain.

  And then, a thought pierces the fog, as clean as a stream of sunlight. Dom’s words from this morning. The weight is like a backpack. You can set it down for a while. You can take a break from it.

  I’m not saying I’m convinced. I will always feel naked and bereft without my to-do list. I’m just saying I’m willing to test his theory for a few minutes.

  Holding his eyes in mine, I unzip my jacket and shrug it off my shoulders.

  He takes it from me. “Now the sweater.”

  This command I’m prepared for. First the jacket. Then the sweater. Then my long-sleeved shirt, and the t-shirt underneath. Getting naked is a multi-step process when it’s cold outside.

  I pull my navy-blue sweater over my head. “Let me guess. Now the shirt.”

  “Nope. Take off your boots and your socks.”

  I jerk my head up to look at him. He takes the sweater from me and waits, calm and implacable, for me to obey.

  It’s strange. I was fully prepared to get naked. But he’s flipped the script, and for some reason, taking off my socks and shoes, and standing next to him in my bare feet, my toenails covered with chipped polish, feels far more vulnerable. It makes me feel unbalanced.

  Which was probably the intention.

  I unlace my boots. Take off my socks with shaking fingers. In this room, the floor is hardwood, and it’s surprisingly warm. Probably some kind of sub-floor heating. No cold feet for tech billionaires.

  “Good girl.”

  He rests his hand in the small of my back again and steers me to a spot on the floor. “Spread your legs apart.”

  I’m still fully clothed. I quirk an eyebrow at him, confused. “I only own two pairs of jeans that fit right. If you tear this pair, I’m going to be exceedingly irritated.”

  The warmth of his chuckle caresses me, washes over me. “Your clothes are safe.” His expression turns serious again, intent and piercing through my soul. “Spread your legs, kitty cat. I don’t like repeating myself.”

  Somebody’s bossy. I lift my chin up and glare at him and shuffle my feet apart a few inches. “There. Done.”

  He chuckles, the dark sound twisting in my core. “We could have done this the easy way,” he says. “Now we’re going to do this the hard way. Stay where you are.”

  Okay. Maybe defiance wasn’t the wisest idea.

  He walks out of the room. I hear him rummage in the bar, and then he comes back with a bottle of beer in his hands. “You’re a brewer, Cat,” he says. “You probably recognize this.”

  There is a species of cactus—the Queen of the Night—that only blooms once a year. What Dom is holding in his hand is the beer-world equivalent of that. He’s holding a bottle of Pliny the Younger. Arguably, the best triple IPA in the world.

  My eyes widen. This is the once-a-year cactus. This is finding the Loch Ness Monster on your first day in Scotland. This is impossible. “I didn’t think they bottled that.”

  His lips curl up in in a truly evil grin. “They don’t. Not typically. So, Cat. I can either pour this beer into a glass for you or…”

  I swear I’m drooling. Pliny the Younger. This is the Holy Grail of beers. In its own way, this is as rare and precious as any of the Belgian Trappist Quads.

  “Or what?”

  He shrugs. “I could drink it myself. Or, I could pour it down the drain as you watch. Penny might be a little unhappy, but she’ll live.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” The words leave my mouth in a shocked whisper.

  “Wouldn’t I?” He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know me very well, Catherine Milnick. So, what’s it going to be? Are you going to spread your legs, or are you going to defy me?”

  Holy crap, he’s good. He hasn’t threatened me with a beating. He hasn’t forced me to comply. He’s just… offered the right incentives.

  “I am going to spread my legs,” I tell him fervently, moving my feet apart shoulder-width. “I am going to be the most obedient person this room has ever seen.”

  He laughs out loud. “I very much doubt that, spitfire. There’s far too much spark in you.” He sets the still unopened bottle of beer down on a nearby bench and pushes a button on the wall. A pair of ropes drops from the ceiling, with metal rings attached to their ends. Kinda looks like the rings in gymnastics—large enough for me to grip. “Hold onto them. Don’t let go.”

  I grab them, and he raises the contraption until I’m fully stretched out.

  I’m still clothed. I’m not tied down. I’m free to let go of the rings any time I want and stop this crazy, insane, heart-pounding, toe-curling game.

  I don’t want to stop. And the bottle of beer that’s just out of sight has nothing to do with it. No. It’s the guy. It’s definitely the guy and this crazy, combustible chemistry between us.

  “Good girl.”

  His big, callused, hand cups my cheek, and he stares into my eyes. Kiss me, I want to whisper. Kiss me now. I strain toward him, awkwardly balanced, eager, my pussy slick with heat, my nipples hard as diamonds underneath my clothing.

  He doesn’t kiss me. His thumb grazes my lower lip, a feather-light touch that just leaves me aching for more. “Let me tell you about coffee.”

  Huh? It takes me several seconds to remember our lost train of conversation. I asked him a question about his relationship with BDSM. He was starting to answer it, using coffee as an analogy for something, when I sassed him.

  He’s stepped out of my limited reach, so I can’t even lean forward and kiss him myself. I want to scream in frustration, and the smug jerk knows it. Cocky asshole. I give him my best innocent, wide-eyed look. “Please do.”

  “More sass.” He shakes his head and walks away. An instant later, he reappears in front of me with a
now-open bottle of beer in his hand. “This could have been you, Cat.”

  I roll my eyes. “I doubt it. I would have the good sense to pour that beer into a glass.”

  He laughs out loud. He takes a sip of the Pliny—straight from the bottle, the sacrilege—and then he kisses me.

  I can taste the beer on him. That’s the first thing I think when his lips brush over mine. Then I stop thinking, and I kiss him back.

  First kisses are everything. When I was eighteen, I went on a date with Ken Jacobs. It was going okay—not great, not bad—until he kissed me in a clattering of teeth and slobber. Ugh. Then there was Jake Ledger, who looked like a Greek God, stabbed his tongue into my mouth, and wriggled it around like a dying fish.

  My ex, Will, wasn’t Mr. Teeth, and he wasn’t Mr. Dead-Fish either. His kisses were nice. Pleasant.

  Dom’s kiss is not nice, and it’s not pleasant. There’s nothing tentative about it. His fingers snake in my hair, and he sucks in my lower lip between his, nibbling it in a way that’s liquefying the bones in my body. His tongue swipes at the seam of my mouth, teasing yet confident, and I have to work very hard at not whimpering.

  It’s slow and seductive. It’s hungry and persuasive. Not that I need persuading. I stand on tiptoe and return his kiss with reckless abandon. Shivers of desire race through me.

  He smells like sawdust and soap and man. He tastes like mouthwash and coffee and hops. Blood pounds in my brain, and my focus narrows. To our lips. To this point of contact. To the feeling of his hands in my hair.

  I’m still clinging to the hoops. My legs are still spread. As precariously balanced as I am, I can’t deepen the kiss. He’s completely in charge.

  I’m not thinking clearly. That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it. I ache for more. I want him to press me against a wall, hold my wrists over my head, and kiss me as if he owns me. I have no idea where this need is coming from, but the moment I picture it, a gush of heat floods through me. I let go of the rings and wrap my arms around him.

  “Bad girl.” I feel his words more than I hear them. The vibrations purr through my overheated body. He gives me one last kiss, and then he pulls away. “Did I give you permission to let go?”

  I stare at him, lust battling with outrage. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  He smirks in response and takes another sip of the Pliny the Younger.

  Asshole. Ridiculous, controlling, asshole. I give him my dirtiest look and stand on tiptoe to grab the hoops again. “You were telling me a story about coffee.”

  “I was answering your question about BDSM,” he corrects. “Using coffee as an example.” His eyes linger on my swollen lips. He’s turned on—he’s hard, and it’s obvious, and I lick my lower lip, trying not to drool openly at the bulge—but, unfortunately for me, he’s got Ninja-level control. It’s enough to make me want to stamp my leg and throw a tantrum.

  Hang on. I never throw tantrums. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I never even raise my voice. Dominic Wilde is bringing out a whole new side of me.

  “As you probably found out this morning, I’m very particular about my coffee. I know exactly what I want, and I’m willing to do the hard work to get it.”

  He’s talking about coffee, right? Because the way he’s looking at me, heated and intense, I’m not really sure.

  “Then there’s beer.” He lifts the bottle of Pliny the Younger in salute and brings it to my lips. I take one sip of the magical elixir and sigh in pleasure at the smooth, balanced bitterness of the triple IPA. For more than ten years, this beer has been at the top of every beer list in the world, and now that I taste it, I see why.

  “I like this IPA,” he says. “But I’m willing to wager that you appreciate it on a different level. To you, drinking this is a transcendental experience. To me, it’s a nice IPA.”

  “Okay.”

  “And that’s the relationship I have with BDSM. For some people, dominance and submission are transcendental. It is who they are. Me?” He shrugs. “I’m kink-friendly. You ask me to spank your ass, and I’ll be more than happy to.” He winks at me and adjusts himself, absolutely unselfconscious about his erection. “But I don’t need it. I don’t crave it. It’s not an essential part of me.”

  That’s actually a really good analogy. My sass was probably undeserved.

  “Then again…” Dom’s voice lowers, and he moves closer to me, close enough that I can feel the heat emanating from him. “Now that I have the beer opened, it would be a shame to waste it…”

  His forehead touches mine. “Cat?” There’s a question in his dark eyes.

  My body is on fire. This is the craziest thing I’ve done. I’m going to say yes. I open my mouth…

  That’s when the door opens, and a man walks into the room.

  10

  Dom

  Zach Janssen is a motherfucking cock blocker.

  Cat drops the rings with a yelp, her entire face going as pink as her hair. The instant Zach takes in the two of us, he grimaces. He knows exactly what he interrupted. “I’m sorry, Dom,” he says apologetically. “I didn’t check the feed. I had no idea someone was here.”

  “No worries.” He must have been pretty distracted if he didn’t notice my truck outside. “Cat Milnick, meet Zach Janssen. Zach owns this farm. Cat’s opening the brewpub in Madison. She’s the brewer.”

  “You are?” Zach’s face brightens. “I grew up in Madison. It was a beer wasteland. I can’t wait. When do you open?”

  She’s off-balance for an instant, and then she pulls herself together and shakes his hand. I watch the stress flood back into her face. “We’re targeting Victoria Day weekend.”

  “Oh good.” Zach is typically a pretty observant guy. Today though, he misses the change in her expression and keeps talking. “Penny and I will be in town for the long weekend. We’ll be there.”

  Every time she talks about her pub, she gets edgy. Remembering the state of the place yesterday, I don’t blame her. I open my mouth, ready to jump to the rescue by changing the subject, but before I do, Cat handles the situation. “I’m a little intimidated,” she says with a laugh. “You had a bottle of Pliny the Younger in your beer fridge.”

  Zach notices the open bottle of beer for the first time. He looks at it, and then at me. His eyebrow rises by a hair, and his expression is knowing. Then he turns back to Cat. “I can’t believe you’re drinking it out of the bottle.”

  She laughs again. “See?” she says to me. “Told you.”

  The two of them start talking about beer. I listen to them geeking out, but my attention is elsewhere. What the hell just happened here? I hadn’t intended to push Cat.

  I never push. I never chase. Chasing implies a degree of caring that I just don’t have. When I’m interested in sleeping with a woman, I communicate that, and then I wait for them to come to me.

  Don’t get me wrong, I like women. I treat them with respect. I don’t slut-shame them for sleeping with me. But I’ve never needed anyone to the point where I make an effort. As Dakota has pointed out over and over again, that makes me sound like a dick. I prefer to think of it as honest.

  What happened here was not normal. Teasing Cat, kissing her soft, lush lips, I’d wanted her with an intensity that shook me to the core. I’d wanted to strip her naked and sink into her. Even more terrifying, I’d wanted to hang out with her tonight, after I installed her counter, and drink beer with her.

  She’d moaned, soft and low, when she’d taken a sip of the beer I was teasing her with. I want her to make that sound again. For me. Because of me.

  This is not good.

  The two of them are staring at me. I snap my attention back to the present, to see Zach watching me with his too-keen eyes. “What do you think, Dom?” Zach asks, deliberately needling me, his voice amused. The fucker knows damn well I haven’t been paying attention.

  I need to get my head straight. I can’t let Cat shake my equilibrium. I like my life exactly the way it is. Easy and uncomplicated. Th
at’s my motto. “About what?”

  “Why don’t we adjourn to the front, find three glasses, and drink the rest of this bottle?”

  “I wasn’t planning on dropping by,” I tell Zach once we’re settled. “But my delivery guy mixed up a couple of orders.”

  “I figured as much when I checked the feed.” He chuckles. “I thought you’d just bring the chair up this weekend.”

  I glare at my so-called friend. Zach’s a bright guy. He built a billion-dollar business in ten years. Nothing he does is by accident. Including this mention of his stupid BDSM party.

  “Checked the feed?” Cat flashes me a sidelong look, and I wince inwardly. “This weekend?”

  “I’m having a small party here,” Zach says, his smile widening at the expression of thunder on my face. “Less than fifty people. You should come.” He points to the corner of the room. “Camera feeds. The entire barn has them.” He looks amused. “I’m assuming that’s why both of you kept your clothes on.”

  Cat gives me another look. I’m sure we’ll be talking about camera feeds on the drive back home. I suppress my desire to strangle my suddenly-chatty friend. “What are you doing here, Zach? I didn’t think you’d be back here until Friday.”

  He shrugs. “Plans change. Penny’s been working too hard. She needed to take a break.”

  “Is she here?” I ask him, surprised. Over the years, I’ve met all kinds of dominants. Some of them like to keep their submissives on a fairly tight leash. But that’s not Zach and Penny’s relationship.

  He shakes his head. “No, she drove to the grocery store. I’ll tell her you said hi.”

  I drain the last of my beer and get to my feet. “That’s my cue.” I turn to Cat with a smile. God, she’s beautiful. There’s a flush on her cheeks from the beer, and she looks relaxed and content. Sated. Is this how she’d look after sex? After she comes, screaming my name? “Coming?”