by Nia Farrell
“If I am looking for more,” he asked her, rolling his r’s, his voice a deep vibration that resonated in her core, “might ye be interested?”
Rowena couldn’t resist teasing him. “Aren’t you the bold one! Scottish?” she asked, pretending to place his accent.
He nodded. “Aye. Highland born and bred. Micheil MacDonald’s the name. And are ye—”
“Interested?” she interjected. MacDonald’s mouth stiffened. His jaw tightened. She swore she felt those electric blue eyes flash lightning. Oh. God. He was a Dom. A Dom, and she was topping from the bottom.
Rowena smiled softly and became a clueless kitten.
“Maybe,” she purred, angling her head coyly and daring to meet his gaze. She could play the blonde card when needed. “Available? Sadly, no,” she pouted, hugging her basket and making her bosom swell above it. “But I’m sure a man like you will have no problem finding…something…to help pass the time. Maybe this?”
She pulled the sci-fi novel from the bottom of her basket. “Critics are calling it his best yet. It’s got to be better than the last one. What I can’t figure is how Sangraria earned a movie option when Betony Bay was so much better.”
MacDonald’s shoulders visibly relaxed. His gaze grew inexplicably, visibly warm. Warm enough, she felt the heat down in her core. He rubbed his beard-stubbled jaw and grimaced, as if only now realizing he’d forgotten to shave. When he put the erotic novel back in her basket, his outdoors scent was like a pagan grove at Lunasda—earthy, warm, inviting.
“It’s nice tae meet another Arthur Grey fan,” he said, sounding sincere. “Unlike some writers, he’s an excellent speaker. His last lecture I attended was on world building in his Zandor series.”
“I’m jealous,” she admitted, knowing she needed to go. Now. MacDonald was getting too interesting. He was also cranking up the heat. With that combination, staying this close was playing with fire. “Jealous, and running late. Horse book,” she told him. “She’ll love it.”
“Wait,” he said, but she was already flying to the front. She thrust her basket at the cashier, told her to hold them, and escaped out the door before he could stop her.
Micheil MacDonald bought the horse book plus the other two children’s books and the latest Arthur Grey that the blonde beauty had left behind. The shopkeep was too loyal to reveal her name, but he promised that he’d find her again.
And the next time, she wouldnae get away so easily.
Chapter Five
The concert was Rowena’s bribe for Elly, who was intrigued by the opportunity to go to Replay and had readily agreed to share an evening in Wonderland (purely professional curiosity, she assured her). But between now and then, Rowena had the Chicago scene and the Roman orgy to get through.
She didn’t know if she’d made it easier or harder, now that she’d met Micheil MacDonald.
She remembered him. Every glorious detail. His memory encroached on her waking moments and mercilessly haunted her dreams. No more hunky cowboys for her. Her fantasies had a different face, a different scent and sound, a voice that echoed their shared Scottish heritage. She hoped they could let the distant past lie, but her clansmen had massacred his in Glencoe, and she wondered what he’d do when he learned she was a Campbell.
Friday’s limo picked her up early, at her request. She’d already pinned her red wig into place—a classic chignon with a cluster of curls spilling down her back. Her trip to wardrobe completed her transformation into a Vestal Virgin.
Her sister Breanna came in as she was leaving. Rowena warned her that she’d met Micheil, just in case he got the two of them confused. Which is exactly what happened.
“Regina” was talking with her literary agent Nathan Roth, a man with a foot fetish who was already eyeing the sandals. On her other side was her bisexual, shaved head talent agent Stephen Howard, portraying a Roman general, and his switch assistant Trent Blackwell, playing his Briton captive. Guarding her back was Marcus.
And standing over her sister was Gunnar, decked out like a Praetorian Guard, trading cutting glances with Micheil MacDonald, who’d mistaken her twin for her. When he’d had enough, the alpha male Viking Dom swooped Breanna up in his arms and left the hall, no doubt headed for the janitor’s closet, while Micheil MacDonald did a slow burn.
He was proving himself to be a dangerous man. Not an assassin, like a certain favorite book boyfriend, but a lethal threat to her celibacy nonetheless. She shouldn’t want him, dammit. And he shouldn’t want Breanna.
Enough.
“I’m going over,” she warned Marcus. “Keep an eye?”
When she reached him, Micheil was still staring at her sister’s lyre, as if he could use it to summon her back. “Ten minutes,” she told him. “Maybe twenty.”
He shot her a look of pure distaste. How sick was it that she was flattered she’d made such an impression on him and he still had no clue who she was? Was it her fault he’d baited the bear?
Yes, it actually was. Time to come clean.
She offered a smile and asked how he liked Grey’s book. “Melody told me you’d bought it. I picked up another copy today. I’m barely into the second chapter. So far, it’s better than Sangaria, but I think I’ll still prefer Betony Bay.”
Oh, the look on his face. Shock. Disbelief. Discomfort. Anger.
Priceless.
“Sabrina’s my twin.”
He was still staring at her Liz Taylor purple eyes.
“Contacts,” she explained. “And a wig. One of many. This way, I can leave Regina Wright behind at the end of the night. She’s a little too hot to take home.”
He angled his head, his eyes narrowed slightly. “At the bookstore. Ye knew.”
“Yes,” she admitted, grateful he wasn’t overly upset. “I recognized you from the internet and wanted to meet you outside all of this.”
He was quiet for a moment, considering. “Why the horse book?”
“It’s what I would have wanted when I was her age. What is she, five?”
“In December. Alexis was a New Year’s Eve baby.”
Rowena smiled. “Almost the exception to the rule, when an addition is a deduction.” She bit her lip and waved at Marcus, who maintained his watchful stance.
“Bodyguard?” he guessed.
“Yes.”
“And the others?”
“My entourage? Let’s see. The noble Roman with the chestnut head, neatly trimmed beard, and excessive body hair sucking toes is my literary agent. The shaved head Roman general interrogating his Briton captive? My talent agent and his personal assistant.”
“And those two?”
He nodded to the Nubians guarding the musician’s corner.
“Disgruntled because I’m here instead of there. Normally, Sabrina and I play music at these things.”
“Disgruntled?” He mmfph’d and crossed his arms. “I dinnae think so. Try again.”
“I don’t know what else to call it. Jealous, maybe? Possessive goes a little too far. They don’t have a claim on me.”
“But they think they do. Why is that?” he demanded.
Here it was. The truth. Obliged by contract to confess. She blew out softly and told him her best guess. “Because they had me. Once. My rule is one time. No strings. No repeats. They knew it before we spent the night together. They’ve been a bit surly ever since.”
“How long?”
She felt her cheeks warm. If she thought she was beyond blushing, she was wrong. “All night.”
“How long ago?” he growled, displeased that he’d had to repeat the question.
She swallowed hard. “Six plus months ago. Just before the Viking raid.”
“Ah,” he said, rubbing his chin. He’d obviously heard of the Viking raid, but from the evenness of his tone, she had no clue what he thought of it.
“The stuff of legends.” She laughed, but there was no humor in her voice.
“And since then,” he wondered, “what hae ye done? Sexually,” he clari
fied, just to make certain she understood.
The truth. He’d asked for it. Demanded it. And she’d signed a contract, agreeing to it.
Damn it. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her, was he?
“Mostly without,” she answered honestly. “I woke up in bed with three of the six men I’d done the scene with. It was the worst walk of shame ever, and I realized I had a problem. I found help. It’s not been easy, but I’m working on it.”
The look that he gave her was as nonjudgmental as Elly’s during a counseling session, as if he wanted to listen, and preferred to not cast stones. “Nymphomania—”
“Sexual addiction,” she stated flatly. “Although one might be mistaken for the other, there is a difference.”
He had the good grace to acknowledge his mistake. “I stand corrected.” The billionaire studied her for a long, discomfiting moment, like a chess master considering his next move. “So,” he said slowly, “when was the last time ye were with multiple partners?”
“Six months ago.” The night of the Viking raid.
“When was the last time ye had sex? With someone else?”
“Three months ago.”
“And how was it?”
She looked away, remembering. “Desperate. Hurried. Unfulfilling. I had to go home and get myself off.”
“When did ye last hae an orgasm?”
The truth? “Prior to coming here. For me, attending an orgy without taking the edge off would not be wise.”
“Because ye might want something ye cannae hae,” he asked, “or because ye’ll do something ye shouldnae?”
Refusing to be cowed, she met and held his enigmatic gaze. “Another time, I’d say either, or both. This weekend, I’ll stick with the first. Our contract. No kink. No sex,” she reminded him. “Knowing I’d sit on the side and do a slow burn, I bought extra batteries today. The hardware store clerk couldn’t decide if I was a hoarder or a prepper.”
Micheil MacDonald chuckled. It was a nice sound. A nice laugh. With her, not at her. She relaxed just a bit.
“May I ask you something, Sir?”
The Dom in him responded to that, and she wondered when he’d gotten into BDSM—before, during, or after his tragically short marriage. She swore his electric blue eyes just got a shade darker.
“Aye.”
“Why me?”
One corner of his mouth curved upwards. “Yer book,” he said. “I wanted tae meet ye and was willing tae pay for the privilege.”
“Um. Thank you. I think.” She wondered if he had a sub who’d benefitted from the experiences and research that she shared online. She had let her followers know that a book was coming, had kept them updated on her progress. The manuscript was done, but only her literary agent and publisher had seen it.
Micheil dipped his head at the Replay owner, who was ordering punishment for a slave girl. “St. Leger told me that ye command a hefty appearance fee. My offer was purely a guess. Since ye agreed tae the terms, I take it that the contract met yer expectations.”
“Yes,” she said simply, following his gaze when it failed to return. The slave was stripped and bound to a column. Tiberius Piers snapped his fingers and a tray of floggers appeared. He picked one of softest leather and introduced her to it, stroking her sides, rubbing her back, tracing her cheek, then stepping back and laying on the first set of stripes.
Rowena clamped her thighs together, cursing her traitorous body, feeling the telltale moisture between her legs.
He must have heard her breath catch. “Ye like it.”
“Yes.”
“Do ye wish it for yerself?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “And no.”
His blue eyes considered her, a lambency in their depths that she could not fail to recognize. “Explain.”
“I wish it were me,” she admitted, “but not with Sir Piers.”
Don’t make me say it. Don’t.
He stepped closer, not touching except for the breath that fanned her hair and bathed her in his heat. “If nae St. Leger, lass, with whom?”
“You, Sir.” Her voice was the barest whisper. “But we can’t. I can’t.”
The Dom came out, full force, and he was not happy. “And why is that?” he demanded, his voice rolling like thunder while his eyes sparked St. Elmo’s fire.
“The contract?” She lowered her gaze, fighting the urge to drop to her knees in a submissive’s pose.
He blew out harshly. “And if I said, damn the contract. Tear it up and I’ll give ye half a million anyway?”
Her chin came up as she threw her head back far enough to meet his gaze. Humorless. Not even a hint of irony.
“You’d do that?” she asked. “Seriously? For one night of play without sex? Remember, my rule is one time. You punish me tonight, and you won’t touch me for the rest of the weekend.” Why was that so hard to say? Damn him. Damn her body, begging her to reconsider.
He smiled darkly. “Make an exception,” he said. “Ye tried tae top me in the bookstore. Ye kent exactly what ye’d done and pretended ye didnae understand. For that alone, ye need a spanking. Two spankings. I should be the one tae give them. It’s only fair.”
If she wore panties, they’d be sopping wet. The Vestal Virgin was yearning for the path to ruination.
“It would be fair,” she agreed, “but it can also wait. I gave my word. Three nights. No kink. No sex. I’m not a liar. Don’t try to make me one.”
“Exceptions tae the rule,” he reminded her. “Ye said ye would observe the scenes. Nothing was said aboot wha’ happens outside them. When the play winds down and they shuffle us out in the wee hours of the morning, what happens next is up tae us, aye?”
Tempting. My God, he was so tempting.
And he was right. Outside Replay, anything goes. Except…
“Then we’re back to one time. Once. No repeats. Is that what you want?”
She thought she sounded unshakeable. He smiled as if she’d just agreed to his terms. “I want tae feel that fine arse of yers under my hand. Forget yer rules. Do what’s right.”
His voice had dropped to a rumble that pushed every button she had. She whimpered, as if she could already feel herself bent over his lap, panties around her knees, his large hand exploring the landscape of her posterior as he familiarized himself with the terrain, deciding how he wanted to change it for his pleasure.
“I could tie ye up. Ye’d be beautiful, bound tae my bed. I might just hae tae keep ye there.”
“Once,” she said weakly.
“Lass,” he murmured, his Scottish burr thickening. “Ye ken ye owe me times three. Once for trying tae top me. Once for playing innocent aboot it. Once for nae letting me ken who ye were. We hae three nights of scenes tae get through. I’ll give ye time tae consider yer sins against me. At the end of each night, ye will present yerself tae me. Ye will submit. Ye will suffer, but I’ll give ye what ye need. Three punishments and aftercare. I promise ye, I am verra good at both.”
Oh God. He wasn’t going to go away.
“I am,” he said, “the exception tae yer rule. I shall make ye cry. I shall make ye beg. If I’m feeling verra generous, I shall make ye scream. Any way I choose tae do it, ye willnae regret it.”
The trouble was, she already did.
Chapter Six
Breanna came back from her “break” with a telling flush on her face and a decidedly more mellow Gunnar. Having marked his territory, he threw a gloating glance at Micheil, who merely smiled and nodded, conceding victory to the newest member of the Praetorian Guard.
“Twenty minutes.” Rowena smiled at Micheil and nodded at Gunnar. “Can I call it or what?”
Micheil actually chuckled. “Aye. They look…happy.”
“They are,” she told him. “You know the legendary Viking raid?” The night she’d done six Northmen while Breanna was across the room, getting deflowered by Gunnar. “That’s him,” she said. “The legend. Gunnar was—and is—the number one Viking Dom. Until that nig
ht, he only directed and disciplined. He never had sex with anyone here, until he took my sister. Now he can’t get enough of her. It’s really rather sweet.”
A snapshot of emotion flashed in MacDonald’s eyes, as if he was remembering how that felt.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly. “I’ve been told I’m a good listener. And I keep secrets. More than you know.”
Her offer dissipated whatever cloud of melancholy had drifted over him. He leaned closer. “Really?” he murmured. “Sounds like we may need more than three nights.”
Those pesky butterflies were back with a vengeance. “I never agreed to three!” she insisted, pressing a hand to her stomach.
Rowena realized she must have looked panicked. Marcus was headed over.
Micheil didn’t look worried. He should be. Even with his left hand missing, Marcus could have him beaten and bloody on the floor before he knew what hit him.
“Please, Sir,” she begged. “He’s just looking out for me. Doing his job. I hired him to see that I wasn’t bothered here and that I get safely home.”
Micheil lowered his voice to a husky growl. “Do I bother ye, lassie?”
Rowena caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “Yes, Sir.”
“In a good way or a bad way?”
“Marcus!” she blurted, grateful for the interruption. “This is Micheil MacDonald.” If looks could kill, the ex-Navy SEAL would have spontaneously combusted. Hoping to diffuse the situation, she explained that they both volunteered at the veterans’ center.
Crap.
As soon as she spoke, she knew she’d said too much. It would be nothing to find her now. Where MacDonald was concerned, she’d just kissed her anonymity goodbye.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
MacDonald was smiling like a fox in a hen house. His eyes lost their humor when she switched to perfect Scots Gaelic, after making certain no other ears were near.
