MARRIED TO MY MASTER

by Nicole Fox

  Now, Dane stood there, his hands folded in front of him, Benton on his left as his best man. Both men faced the backside of the house as the string quartet began to play, “Here Comes the Bride.”

  Dane realized he was grinning so widely that his face had begun to hurt. His heart felt full, like it would burst from his chest at any moment and try to dance a jig down the street. But, even as he watched her approach, he could feel the world swimming in front of him, his eyes already watering at just how wonderful this moment felt.

  Benton nudged Dane as Emily, even more beautiful than the first time he'd seen her on TV, came down the grass towards them. Dane glanced to him, grinning like a lovesick idiot, then went back to watching his lovely bride.

  Rather than an obnoxiously long train, or too many ruffles and lace, she'd opted for a simple ivory dress. Nothing too ostentatious or extravagant, but just graceful and lovely. It was the perfect match to their perfect wedding.

  Emily walked slowly down the aisle, veil over her face, the bouquet she clutched made from the flowers she'd started to grow with the advice Dane had given her last year. She smiled at him from beneath the simple material, her crimson red lips lovely and inviting, her perfect teeth pearly and straight.

  Across from Dane, Jas grinned at them both as Emily handed off the bouquet and turned back to Dane. Together, they lifted her veil, and the whole world seemed to brighten like a second sun had just been born in the backyard.

  “You look beautiful,” Dane whispered, still in a daze.

  “You don't look half bad yourself, sir,” she said with a sly wink.

  He grinned back at her as the officiant began the short ceremony. As he looked deeply into her eyes, he saw their dark past, the things he had done to her, and those he had done for her. He saw Emily strapped to the dining room chair, the belt around her neck as he gave her their first orgasm, his stripping of her ego, as well as her clothes. Their beginning had been dark, that was true. But it had been passionate.

  Dane also saw the future in her clear, blue eyes, watched it unspool before him. He saw their future children, their friends and family, the holidays together, travel, and gardening. They would have all the simple parts of life. He envisioned her smiling face as she came home from work or her holding their child. He would wake up next to her each morning and go to sleep beside her each night. These would be the simple moments that, when piled together one upon another, would jumble together into the mess of life.

  “Dane? Your vows?” the officiant asked.

  Dane glanced to the man, nodding.

  “The bride and groom decided to write their own vows. Dane, please?”

  He swallowed, let out a nervous breath, and took her hands in his. “Emily,” he began, licking his lips nervously as he gently squeezed her hands, “I promise to you that I will keep you in my heart, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer. I promise I will stand beside you, prop up your spirits when you need help, and build you higher, for however long we may be together.”

  Her face radiant and otherworldly in its beauty, she squeezed his hands tightly as he came to a finish, a single tear escaping from her eyes and running down her cheek.

  The officiant turned to the bride. “Emily?” he asked, with a slight incline of his head. “Your vows?”

  # # #

  Emily

  Emily took a deep breath, returning Dane's warm smile.

  She wasn't the neglected girl she'd been before she met him. She wasn't fighting the same way for her place in a man's world. She'd gotten there, now. She was who she had always hoped she would be. She didn't have to act superior, or try to lord her success over anyone, especially not Dane. But, at the same time, she still didn't need to be forced into submission with him, either. She knew she could willingly submit to him anytime she wanted, and that he'd reward it with his own tenderly painful caress.

  This man clinging to her hands just as tightly as she clung to his was her perfect match. A man strong enough to be his own person, and strong enough to bend her to his will. He was strong enough to deal with her when she needed to exert her own independence. He knew her own actions didn't lessen his, and that her own accomplishment didn’t lessen his self-worth.

  “I promise, Dane, to be with you through thick and thin, richer and poorer. To love you, and hold you, and to always come home to you. To build you up, to never tear you down, and to always trust that you know what is right. You were my guiding light once, and my conscience when I needed one. And you always will be.”

  “Do you have the rings?”

  Emily and Dane turned to their respective escorts and took the wedding rings from them as the officiant went through his little speech on the importance of their symbolism. Then, they exchanged their rings and said their, “I dos.”

  “Then, by the power vested in me,” the officiant said, “I now pronounce you man and wife. Dane, you may kiss the bride.”

  Dane took her into his strong, warm, supportive arms and pulled her close to his body. They kissed, holding each other upright in this crazy world. As they broke apart, they grinned at each other like lovesick idiots. But they were happy lovesick idiots.

  Chapter Forty

  Dane

  Emily lay on the giant bed in the honeymoon suite they'd rented for that evening. She'd purchased some special black lingerie, and her big blue eyes were just as seductive as the first time she'd given herself to him.

  In Dane's hand was the vibrator he'd first found in her bedroom. In his other, the belt he'd worn.

  His wife raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow questioningly as she gracefully shifted onto all four and began to crawl across the bed to him. “Forget the collar, sir?” she purred, as she came to a stop in front of him, her lust-filled eyes lifted to his.

  He halved the belt into a loop in his hand, stroking the bulging side of the makeshift leather down her cheek.

  She shivered, a delicious sight for her husband as the involuntary reaction trembled through her whole body, and closed her eyes, her lips parting slightly in anticipation of the fun about to come.

  “Figured we had to save some fun for at home,” he growled back.

  She shivered again. Dane just smiled. This was the happiest ending he could have ever hoped for.

  # # #

  Emily

  The sun crept up over the horizon as she lay in bed, her body covered in new bruises and painful swat marks in the shape of her husband's hand. Dane was big spoon to her little, and he cradled her more tenderly than their earlier play had indicated was possible. She knew that, despite what they did to each other, rough sex was one thing, and abuse was another. He'd do anything to protect her, and would never hurt her unless she wanted it.

  He was her husband, after all, not just her master in bed.

  She licked her lips and closed her eyes, savoring the feel of that word on her mind's tongue. Husband. She trembled as she pushed back into him, snuggling into his warm embrace. Unconsciously, his arms tightened around her and pulled her closer.

  “Husband,” she purred softly, before drifting off to well-deserved sleep.

  This was the beginning of a happy, loving life for the two of them. She just knew it.

  THE END

  ***

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  MOB BOSS’S BABY: The MacKay Family Mafia By Nicole Fox

  I NEED TO OWN HER FOREVER.

  It’s not easy being the son of the Don.

  Especially not with an FBI agent sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.

  I’ll ravage her once, just to show her who’s boss.

  And if that’s not enough, I’ll have to make her mine forever – with my baby in her belly.

  I was born into this underworld.

>   I’m a prince here.

  Woman fall to their knees for me at the snap of my fingers.

  But I’ve never wanted anyone like I want Agent Scarlet O’Bannon.

  It’s not just that she’s sexy as hell.

  It’s not just the look of lust in her eye.

  It’s the fact that she’s utterly forbidden.

  Sleeping with the Fed investigating my family is probably a bad idea.

  But I just don’t give a damn.

  I’m gonna have the prissy little princess.

  However I want.

  Whenever I want.

  But no sooner have I stripped her down than I get the worst call of my life.

  My father is dead.

  The Mob is in chaos.

  And our enemies want my head on a platter.

  Suddenly, the stakes are a million times higher.

  And Scarlet is about to find out how real things can get on this side of the law.

  Especially because she can’t turn back now.

  Not with my baby in her belly.

  Chapter One Scarlet

  “Cormac Mackay ... hasn’t he given us information in the past? It could be useful.”

  My boss, Max Smithson, leans back in his oversized chair and drums his fingers against his desk. Outside, the sun is glaring, and I can’t help but notice the way it glints off his shiny cufflinks. He’s a big man, with a big jowly face and serious dark eyes. When he sighs, the whole room seems to rumble. I sit with my back straight, exuding an aura of professionalism I’ve spent years cultivating. Finally, Max leans forward and smiles at me in that odd way he has. It’s the sort of smile that makes a woman wonder whether or not pepper spray is a sound investment. I realize he’s waiting for my answer.

  “Yes, well, sort of.”

  “Sort of?” He raises a bushy grey eyebrow. I wish they’d close the curtains in here. My head is throbbing from an overnight session combing CCTV tapes for a drug deal. I should’ve let one of the new agents do that, I was told by half a dozen of my colleagues. But if the devil is in the detail, it’s only fair I go after him myself. Plus, other people might miss something. “What do you mean by sort of?”

  “He’s never testified. He’s loyal to his family. He just sometimes nudges me in the right direction.”

  “And in return, you don’t arrest his sorry ass. He sounds like a confidential informant to me.”

  Max hooks his thumbs through his waistband and stands up, causing his chair to whine painfully. He goes to the window and looks down upon the city. Boats and ships leave and enter New York Harbor. Somewhere faraway a car backfires. A New Yorker screams at another New Yorker in the street below. Birds call out. I close my eyes and breathe steadily as Max gazes out of the window, as he always does before issuing an order. It’s not that he gets to order me around; it’s the pleasure he takes in it which annoys me. Everybody knows my father is a skilled FBI agent. And everybody thinks they know that’s why I’m even here. Never mind that I do good work and make good arrests.

  He turns to me. There’s a light dusting of donut icing on his lapel, but now doesn’t seem like the right time to bring it up. “What is this, Scarlet?”

  I swallow. Scarlet. Like we’re friends at a barbeque. “I don’t follow, sir.”

  “If he has requested a meeting, surely you should jump at the opportunity. Maybe he has something important to tell us.” He returns to his chair, but doesn’t sit. Instead, he leans forward and places his hands on the desk. When he looks at me, it’s like he’s trying to look inside me. For a few moments worms crawl up my spine, oozing onto my flesh. Then he laughs, a throaty chuckle and drops into his seat. “You’re cold as ice, O’Bannon. Look, maybe you’ve got a crush on this kid. Maybe you’ve let him get to you. But if we stopped meeting with every confidential informant we wanted to bone, we’d hardly meet with anyone. Okay? Right. Thank you, O’Bannon.”

  I stand up, outwardly calm, but inwardly wondering if it’s that obvious or if Smithson was just guessing. As I walk through the office, nodding to people here and there, I think about Cormac Mackay. I don’t have a crush on him. I’m not attracted to him. I’m not invested in him. It’s nothing like that. Cormac Mackay is an Irish mobster, a killer, and a criminal. Every now and then he tells me about some of his rivals and, instead of dying, they get jailed. But he never gives up his own people. Perhaps I should’ve taken him in by now. Perhaps I’m letting something get in the ...

  My cell buzzes. I’m searching my bag with my phone in my hand before I realize it’s my second cell, buzzing from a separate compartment. My non-work cell. I check the display and see that it’s Cormac.

  I go into the stairwell and answer it.

  “O’Bannon,” I say. I’m careful to keep my voice as honed and unemotional as a diamond: a glinting series of jagged edges. No softening for Cormac. I can’t let him get to me.

  “That’s a pretty goddamn fancy way to greet me,” Cormac says. His accent is New York intermingled with Irish, a smooth, deep voice that makes me think of sloping green hills and endless expanses of grass and mountains. I force those images down and wait for him to go on. It’s my own Irish blood, I tell myself. It’s betraying me. “I’m at The Leprechaun and there’s no sight of you. I’m starting to think you’re going to stand me up, Scar.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I snap. “My name is Agent O’Bannon.”

  “Can’t exactly say that in here, can I, Scar? Are you on your way, or shall I order some whisky and go and talk to the leggy blonde who’s been eyeing me all afternoon?”

  I think about a long-legged, youthful blonde with red flushed cheeks and a fuck-me gaze staring at Cormac across the bar. I think about her wrapping her legs around him and running painted fingernails down his bare chest. Then I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and tell myself to stop this, stop this now. This is no way for a federal agent to behave, even if it’s only in my head.

  “Your love life is none of my concern, Mr. MacKay.”

  “Mr. MacKay.” Cormac laughs. It’s carefree, as though he’d never consider letting a problem enter his field of vision, let alone bother him. Cormac is wind, I reflect. Cormac is nature. Cormac is a wave that rolls across the ocean and laps over anything that gets in its way. And what does that make me? A gnarled tree root unwilling to move, maybe. “Listen.” He lowers his voice. “We both know you are obligated to come here, by your job, so why don’t we just move this thing along to the part where you tell me you’ll be here in five? You can sound unhappy about it, if it makes you feel better.”

  I hang up the phone without replying. Let him stew for a while.

  But half an hour later, after changing into something less FBI-like, I’m approaching The Leprechaun. Outside, there’s a giant model of a leprechaun, the green of his outfit turned to grey where wind and sun and rain have battered it over the years. But the sign is brand new, green and flashing. When I push on the door, the atmosphere inside washes over me, the same way another climate will wash over you upon stepping out of an airplane. Whisky, fried meat, more whisky, cigarette smoke drifting in from the outside smoking area, sweat from the working men in the corner, and perfume from the girls giggling at the bar. I find Cormac sitting at a booth, one foot in the aisle, forefinger stroking around the edge of his glass.

  This would be a hell of a lot easier if he wasn’t so attractive.

  He’s a year older than me, twenty-eight, with thick, dark-red hair, and a short brown-and-red beard. His eyes are the most devastating part of his face: they’re wolf-blue, ice-blue, a blue that makes me think of frost and winter and secrets. He is well-built, six-foot-one with wide shoulders. Today he’s wearing a checked green shirt and jeans, his body looking comfortably powerful. He hasn’t got those showy bodybuilder muscles; Cormac is built like a soldier, a man accustomed to violence. And his smile always makes me wonder what joke I’m missing.

  “Wow,” he says. “You look incredible, Scar.”

  I can’t help but sm
ile at the compliment, but even as I do, I tell myself it’s not me smiling—not Agent O’Bannon. It’s the character I play whilst meeting with Cormac. That’s all. I’m wearing a sea-green dress the same color as my eyes, and dark-red heels the same color as my hair, which is tussled around my shoulders instead of tied up in a ponytail like it is when I’m working. I’m tall, at around five-foot-nine, and thin from all my running and swimming. I’ve seen Cormac looking at me plenty of times during meetings like this, especially at my legs. Once or twice I’ve even let my mind wonder what he might be thinking. I wonder if my thighs would feel good squeezed around his hips, wonder if—

  I kill the thought.

  “Let’s keep this professional,” I say.