Leave Me Breathless: The Black Rose Collection

by Dakota Willink

  “What’s your name?” Master A asks as he tests a pulley and chain hanging from the ceiling to ensure they support his weight. He has half a dozen lengths of black rope draped over a chair, and as I suck the last of the Orange Fizz through the straw—it’s basically nothing but soda water and juice—I lower my gaze to the floor.

  “Whatever you want it to be, Master A.”

  “I want it to be your actual name.” His reply carries a harsh, commanding tone, and my cheeks flush hot.

  “D-Deanna,” I say. It’s almost the truth. Tomorrow, I won’t be Dahlia Rose Ryan any more, I’ll be Deanna Raskins. Deanna Raskins of Seattle, Washington.

  He arches a brow, like he doesn’t believe me. Smart. But he doesn’t press. Also smart. “Come here, then, Deanna.”

  My core clenches, and I move towards him on unsteady feet. Stopping close enough to feel his body heat, I’m about to sink to my knees when he hooks a finger under my chin, forcing me to look up at him.

  “This is the only time you are to look me in the eyes, Deanna. I need to know your safe word.”

  “Red,” I whisper.

  “Red. And are you comfortable with red, yellow, and green as indicators?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good.” He traces his finger along my jaw. “What are you now, Deanna?”

  “Green, Master A.” In reality, I’m probably closer to yellow, because my heart is hammering in my chest so hard, I’m sure he can hear it, but I’m not losing out on this chance to know what it feels like to let myself surrender on my own terms.

  “Do you have any hard limits, Deanna? I require complete honesty from my submissives.”

  “N-no, Master A. None that I know of.”

  Curiosity creeps into his tone, and he tucks a lock of my dark brown hair behind my ear. “Have you done this before?”

  “No, Master A. I’ve only watched.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then sighs. “Very well. Once our scene begins, you are to speak only when spoken to unless you need to use your safe word. You will address me as Master A, and you will obey me completely. Do you have any questions?”

  “No, Master A.”

  “Our scene begins now. Kneel. Hands on your thighs.” The order is firm, yet tender, and I sink down onto the floor at his feet, placing my hands flat and keeping my eyes on my fingers.

  “Very good, Deanna.“ He kneels in front of me and takes my left hand, stroking up and down my arm before he uses the first length of rope to tie a fancy knot around my wrist. Repeating the process with my right hand, he covers my fingers with his own. “Still green?”

  “Yes, Master A.” I’m more than green. I’m emerald. This is nothing. I have cuffs in my nightstand I use when I get myself off, but I don’t tell him that.

  “Hands behind your back.”

  I obey, and he stands and circles me, then takes the loose ends of the ropes and starts to wind them around my arms. A loop, then a knot, another loop, and another knot. All the way up my arms until my shoulders are pulled back and my breasts thrust forward. The process is slow, and I savor the sensation of being unable to move, to brace myself. He keeps a hand on me almost the whole time, as if reassuring me he’s close, since I can’t see him.

  “You have beautiful skin, mon jouet. I’ll help you stand now.” Master A takes me by the upper arms and lifts me to my feet, and I shudder as the ropes pull tighter. “Your cheeks are red.” Master A trails one of his knuckles along my jaw. “The color of roses. Do you like roses?”

  “No, Master A.” Not anymore. Not when I have to give up my middle name—Rose—in favor of a new one.

  “Pity. Carnations, then?”

  “Yes, Master A. I love carnations.”

  I’ve never felt such a rush, and if he binds me further, I’m afraid the black thong under my skirt won’t be able to contain my arousal.

  He takes another rope and threads it around the knots, then my torso, and hooks it onto the pulley hanging from the ceiling. “This is so you won’t fall, mon jouet. You can let yourself hang if you need to. But if you feel any pain or discomfort in your shoulders, tell me. Or any tingling in your hands. Do you understand?” With gentle touches, he pokes at my arms and my fingers.

  “Yes, Master A.”

  The freedom of having to answer only yes or no, of having all of my movements carefully controlled, is exhilarating. When he starts further binding my arms to my torso, my breath catches in my throat. But that’s nothing compared to what I feel when he nudges my legs wide and attaches black cuffs and then a spreader bar to my ankles.

  I close my eyes. My position leaves my pussy freely accessible, and he skims his hand along my mound over the lace skirt. “You’re dripping, mon jouet.”

  Heat floods my cheeks. I need more. I need him to touch me. To make me come.

  “Time for the next step, Deanna. What color are you?”

  “Green. Very green, Master A.”

  “What would you like me to do to you?” He circles me, his strong hands at his sides, his chest glistening slightly with the effort he spent binding me.

  “Whatever pleases you, Master A.”

  He chuckles, then pulls a scrap of black material from his pocket. “Oh, you will please me very much tonight, mon jouet.”

  As the blindfold slips over my eyes, I suck in a breath. I can hear him moving around me, but I have no idea what’s coming next, and I love it. Every second.

  Master A flips up the lace on my skirt, and cool air kisses my bare ass cheeks. He palms first one, then the other. “I’m going to redden this bottom of yours, Deanna. But I will go slowly.”

  Pieces of leather slap against one another, and my heartbeat kicks up another notch. He’s going to flog me. God, I’ve fantasized about this for years. What it would be like to have someone spank me. Tie me up. Do…whatever they wanted to me.

  I need this. To get me out of my own head. To stop me from thinking about leaving everything I know and love—and everything I hate.

  The first hit shocks me, and I jerk. It doesn’t hurt. It’s exhilarating. As are the second, third, and fourth strikes. But then, heat spreads over my skin, and the next few strikes sting. I moan, swaying slightly, but the rope connecting me to the ceiling keeps me upright. He moves down to the midpoint of my thighs, then back up again.

  “That’s ten strikes, Deanna. Can you take twenty for me?” His voice is close to my ear, and he runs his hand over my tender ass.

  “Please, Master A. I’m yours. I need—” I didn’t mean to be so brazen, and I stop, biting my lip.

  “You need? This is about what I need, mon jouet. For that, perhaps I should give you thirty?”

  “As you wish, Master A.” The words escape on a whimper, the idea of thirty lashes sending arousal dripping down my thighs. I want it all. The pain. The helplessness. Everything. I want to come, so badly. My clit throbs with each strike, and he counts, his voice sending waves of need through me.

  By the time he reaches thirty, I’ve started to moan in earnest, and my knees have given out. Master A keeps one hand on my shoulder as he moves around to my front and trails the leather over my chest.

  “Do you want to come, Deanna?”

  “Y-yes!” He starts to growl, and I hastily add, “If it pleases you, Master A.”

  “Good. I want to hear you scream.” His lips skim my jaw. “I have to leave you for just a minute. But I’ll only be three feet away.”

  The loss of his touch leaves me desperate, but I can hear him moving around, opening a drawer, fiddling with something. Or multiple somethings.

  When he returns, he hooks his fingers into the black strings that hold the thong to my hips. “I’ll buy you another,” he growls as he rips the silk away, baring me to him.

  I don’t care about the thong. I just want him to touch me. To make me come. He spreads my lower lips, and I whimper. One finger slides deep inside me, and then something cool presses to my clit.

  The vibrations start slowly,
and I let the pleasure overtake me. Suddenly, I’m floating, higher and higher, almost outside of my body. Time doesn’t matter. My problems fade away. I’m free. Free and so very needy.

  His breath whispers over my lips, and…oh, God. I can smell my arousal on his lips. He…tasted me. “Not yet, mon jouet. Not yet.”

  I beg, the words dissolving into helpless mewls as Master A slides his free hand inside my corset and pinches my right nipple.

  I scream and writhe—as much as the ropes will let me—and my heartbeat roars in my ears until all I can sense is him. His need is a physical weight, pressing against me, and I need to come so badly, I fear I’ll explode if he doesn’t increase the pressure soon.

  “Come for me, Deanna,” he says sharply, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear, “Come for me, Dahlia.” And I do.

  2

  Aiden

  I watch Dahlia Ryan leave Whips and Chains, her scent and her taste fresh in my mind. She’s still a little unsteady on her feet. After our session, I held her for more than an hour—wrapped in a blanket—as she fought her way back from subspace.

  She babbled a bit, but when she turned her head to smile up at me, I was gone. But I can’t ever see her again. If I do, it’ll only end badly—for both of us.

  I’ll take these memories to my dreams though. The peaches and vanilla of her hair. The sweet scent of her arousal. Fuck. It was all I could do not to bury myself deep inside her after she screamed my name.

  “Master A!”

  She thought she was being careful. Wearing a mask. Dressing to the nines in that tight corset and heels. During the day, Dahlia’s casual. Jeans, sweaters, not much exposed skin. At least none that I’ve seen on the surveillance shots of her. But tonight…

  My dick strains against my black pants, and I stalk back to the Masters’ private lounge for an ice cold bottle of water. The club doesn’t allow alcohol anywhere on premises, but I really need a drink.

  “Aiden. The boss wants to see you,” Harv says as I pull a bottle from the fridge and crack the seal. “Now.”

  Great. I’m still hard as a rock, which means my thinking’s compromised. I try to send my thoughts to the most boring place possible, but reciting baseball stats only makes me wonder what Dahlia would look like wearing my old team shirt—and nothing else.

  By the time I’ve reached the top of the stairs outside Frank Ricci’s office, I’ve settled on a memory of slipping in a pile of dog shit outside my apartment and planting my hands in a second steaming pile inches away. Except now I want to vomit, and Frank won’t appreciate that either.

  Schooling my face into an unreadable mask, I rap twice on the door.

  “Enter!” he calls, his booming voice easy to hear, even over the club’s music.

  With one last deep breath, I slip inside.

  Frank Ricci is pushing two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, most of it gut and double chins. He takes a swig from a rocks glass filled with at least three fingers of amber liquid. “Mr. Cole. Take off that goddamn mask.”

  I scramble to yank the black silk from my head, then stand in front of him with my hands clasped behind my back. “Apologies, capo.”

  “That’s better. You’ve worked for me almost a year now. Tony says you’re doin’ good work. Keeping the ladies happy, bringin’ us new customers.” He waves his puffy fingers in the general direction of the door, and my stomach sours. While there’s no alcohol allowed at Whips and Chains—outside of what Ricci keeps in his bottom drawer—drugs are actively encouraged and sold in every private room on demand.

  And I’ve sold my share. Every time I lose another piece of my soul.

  “Thank you, capo.”

  He stares like he can’t figure me out. “You want a place in this organization, Mr. Cole? Long term?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After a nod, Ricci takes another swig of his drink. “Tomorrow, 9:00 a.m. at the house. If you’re one minute late, you’re out. Wear a suit.”

  This is it. I’ve watched, listened, and prepared every day, hoping to be invited into Ricci’s inner circle. And now...I have my shot. “I won’t be late, capo. Thank you.” I offer a stiff bow, then turn and head for the door.

  “Mr. Cole,” he says as my fingers curl around the knob.

  “Yes, sir?”

  His eyes are bloodshot, his nightly drinking habit taking a toll, but the look on his face is stone-cold sober. “Don’t fail your initiation. Otherwise...”

  He finishes his sentence with only arched brows, but I understand. Whatever’s asked of me tomorrow, I either do it or they’ll kill me.

  I nod once, then leave the room. This is going to be a long, sleepless night.

  Morning dawns crisp and cool, a layer of fog covering the city by the bay. After my morning ritual—wiping my apartment clean—I dress in a black suit, black shirt, and blue tie—the uniform I’ve seen Ricci’s other enforcers wear when they accompany him to Whips and Chains.

  I can’t bring anything with me besides my wallet, phone, and keys. Even my billfold is almost empty. Two hundred in cash, my driver’s license, and a single credit card. The GPS tracker woven into the leather sends out a pulse once every four hours, so if I go dark, it’s possible someone will find me—if Ricci’s men let me keep it. I fully expect it to be taken.

  Staring into the mirror of the small bathroom, I look at the man staring back at me. “God, forgive me. It’s for the greater good. I hope.”

  I use my handkerchief to wipe my prints from the sink where I just braced my hands and head for my doom. Or my salvation, I’m not sure which.

  Frank Ricci’s mansion is on the top of a hill that looks out over the bay. I park my old beater three long blocks away and approach on foot. At the gates, two of his enforcers stop me. It’s 8:56 a.m.

  “Frank told me to show up at nine,” I say as I keep my hands at my sides. “My billfold’s in my jacket pocket. Can I...?”

  “Do it. Slowly,” the one on the left warns. His partner has his hand resting on the butt of the gun strapped to his hip.

  Lefty examines my ID, then speaks into a small radio clipped to his collar. “Got an Aiden Cole here for the boss.”

  After a moment of what I’m assuming is someone talking into his earbud, he nods and passes my wallet back to me. “Head on up. But you’d better hurry. It’s a four minute walk to the front door.”

  Shit. I take off at a jog, only to find myself at the door in under sixty seconds. Bastards. Hazing the new guy. Ricci’s senior enforcer, a burly guy named Sylvio, leans against the door jamb with an amused half-grin. “Well, you’re on time. I’ll give you that.”

  He pats me down—thoroughly—and then steps back and ushers me inside the house.

  It’s like a different world in here. Expensive art on every wall, rich blood-red rugs tracing paths over pale marble. The remnants of high-end cigar smoke linger, along with the scent of lilies from vases on either side of the massive hearth in the parlor.

  “This way,” Sylvio says as he heads for the kitchen. I’ve studied blueprints of the house until I could find my way in my sleep, and he’s taking me down to the basement, where it’s always been assumed Ricci’s “war room” of sorts is located.

  After pressing his fingers to a scanning plate, Sylvio pulls out his phone, taps the screen a few times, and then nods at me. “Hand.”

  I do as ordered, and a warmth tingles along my skin as the device maps my fingerprints. “Where are we going?”

  He arches a dark brow at me. “I thought you were a smart guy?”

  Snapping my mouth closed, I wait for the security system to finish processing, and then the door opens with the click of a heavy lock. At least the stairs are lit. All those espionage movies I used to watch in college suddenly play on a loop through my memories, and I wonder if I’ll make it to the bottom.

  “Go on. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  I take a deep breath and make my way down the stairs, praying I’m not about to go to my death. But when I
reach the large room beneath the kitchen, I see exactly what I hoped.

  Two walls hold massive whiteboards, the other two, maps, photos, and tally sheets. A long table with five state-of-the-art computers and 40-inch widescreen monitors along one side is opposed by plush, black leather couches on the other. The room smells of coffee and pastries and sweat, and around the center table, all of Ricci’s enforcers—and the big guy himself—look at me expectantly.

  “About fuckin’ time,” Ricci says as he nods at the clock on the wall. I frown. It’s only 9:01 a.m., and if Sylvio hadn’t taken so long to pat me down…

  “Apologies—“

  “Part of the hazing, kid,” Sylvio says, and I try not to cringe at the nickname. I’m twenty-seven for fuck’s sake, and he’s only three years older than I am.

  Robbie, Ricci’s nephew, jerks his head to the empty spot next to him. “Get over here, newb.”

  “Enough!” Ricci snaps. “You can do whatever the hell you want to him after this job is done. But if we don’t get moving now, we’ll lose the best chance we’ve had in five years to take out the Irishman.”

  Oh, shit. My initiation? They’re going to make me kill the biggest mob boss in the city. Mickey Fucking Ryan.

  Dahlia Rose’s father.

  3

  Aiden

  It’s a good thing I’m wearing gloves. Otherwise, I’d have to wipe my palms on my pants every five minutes. The drive to Berkeley takes almost an hour, and from my seat in the back of the SUV, I can’t see much through the darkened windows.

  The Sig Sauer 228 Sylvio handed me feels bulky under my arm—so unlike my Glock—and I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable. We went over the plan for an hour, and unsurprisingly, I’m the one assigned to kill Mickey Ryan, with Sylvio as my backup. If I don’t fire a fatal shot, one of the other three men in the car, Sylvio, Robbie, or Wes, will kill me.