Dangerous Games

by Lora Leigh

  "Come for me, baby," he whispered, dying to feel her convulse around his fingers, to taste the pleasure he could hear echoing in her cries. "I want to feel you come for me."

  His lips moved over her clit, catching it in the gentle suction of his mouth as his tongue began to flicker over her. His fingers moved inside her, stretching her, filling her completely, before bending and finding the sensitive spot inside, just behind her clit.

  The pads of his fingers rubbed gently as he increased the friction on her clit. She was close. So close her hands were tangled in his hair, pulling at it as her body began to tighten.

  She was going to come. Morganna fought to breathe as the pleasure overwhelmed her, stole her sense of self, and merged her with Clint. Whatever the hell he was doing with his fingers was destroying her. They didn't just stretch her, didn't just fill her with pulses of fiery sensation. But he was rubbing against something, making her clit pulse in warning, swell, and demand relief.

  She fought against his hold, desperate to feel his fingers pumping inside her, but the arm wrapped around her hips held her carefully in place. She wasn't moving, but she was getting ready to fly. She could feel it building, tightening in her womb, in the ecstatic pulses pounding in her clitoris.

  She arched tighter to him, feeling the pressure from his mouth increase, feeling the sizzle of impending orgasm rush along her spine. So close. Her fingers dug into his hair as he suckled at her clit, harder, faster, his tongue massaging her with fast, rapid strokes until she splintered.

  Her own screams echoed in her head as the orgasm slammed through her, rocking through her system, jerking her with hard, brutal spasms as her sex convulsed around his fingers and tightened almost painfully before releasing again, jerking the strength from her legs and leaving her helpless in his grip.

  Stars exploded through her head as space and time warped around her. Clint was wringing every last ounce of pleasure from her helpless body and stealing her breath, her reality, with his touch.

  When she finally slumped against the wall, he began to release her. Slowly. His head lifted from her oversensitive flesh as his fingers eased slowly from her vagina, pulling back as the muscles protested with a last, violent spasm that sent shudders slamming through her.

  His hands were gentle as he pulled her pajamas back into place, sat her in the chair he had vacated earlier, and pulled her top over her naked breasts.

  It was over. She could see it in the tight lines of his face, the raging, unquenched lust in his eyes. He wouldn't go any further, despite his own need. And his need raged. She could see it. Feel it.

  "It won't go away," she whispered tearfully as he squatted in front of her. "It will only get worse now, Clint."

  His fingertips touched her cheek as a grimace contorted his face.

  "Stay out of the clubs," he ordered hoarsely. "Stay away from me, Morganna. For both our sakes."

  He leaned forward, kissed her lips with such tenderness she felt the first tear fall from her eyes as he stood to his feet.

  "Don't make me do something we'll both regret. If you do nothing else to save yourself, baby, do that."

  Morganna kept her head down, hid her tears, and fought the anger rising hot and deep inside her. Her fists clenched against the need to scream, to rail, to beg. And she swore she would never do that. She was a fighter, but she wouldn't fight for pity.

  She stayed silent until the door closed behind him, until she heard the truck start up in the back driveway with a powerful throb.

  Then the tears fell. And she swore she would never cry for him again. Just as she had the last time.

  Chapter 7

  HE WAS DOWN, BUT SHE wasn't beaten. Morganna dressed carefully for the night, beginning late in the afternoon to prepare to make her own stand. She couldn't have Clint and she knew it now, but she would die and go to hell before she obeyed him. She had a job to do, and she was determined to finish it.

  She wasn't officially off this assignment until her commander gave the order. She had begun working with Joe Merino's team first as a watcher. That was something Morganna had always been good at. She knew how to watch, how to pay attention to body language and pinpoint the women who were acting out of character.

  She was well-known in the club scene, so she wasn't a suspected agent. Despite the arrest last week, her cover was still solid. No one knew who had witnessed the three men drugging that woman. And despite the attempted hit the night before, Morganna wasn't convinced her cover was blown. And if it was, then it could work more in the team's favor than against it.

  But until she was told differently, she was still an agent here, and her job was still to show up and watch the action playing out.

  Drugs worked differently from person to person, as did alcohol. She had been a part of the club scene since she was twenty-one, five years ago. Boredom, disinterest in a permanent relationship with anyone but Clint, and her own curiosity about people in general had drawn her to the pseudo-bondage atmosphere she found at these particular clubs.

  They weren't true bondage clubs. At least not the upstairs portions. She had never been invited into the lower rooms.

  She remembered the hue and cry, though, when Drage Masters opened his first club seven years ago.

  It had been raided monthly when it first opened, the owner arrested just as often, but the club had never lost its license.

  The Roundtable catered to alternative lifestyles and was as far removed from the honky-tonks and bars as one could get. It drew in the Goth crowd, the techno, and the extreme sensualists.

  And that was the reason the drug was being tested here, the DEA believed. Here the easy camaraderie and familiarity of the honky-tonks weren't present. The crowd could change from night to night, from club to club, with only a few of the regulars remaining at any given hour.

  Morganna stared around the interior of the Roundtable now, and she knew why Masters clubs had survived the outcry. The governor's son was a regular there, as were several city and state officials. The private rooms in the back afforded them a certain anonymity in their sexual excesses. If the bar area was raided, for some reason, the police never bothered with the back rooms. And never, at any time, had the basement portion of the club been invaded.

  Not that one of the clubs had been raided in years. The influx of differing lifestyles and cultures into Atlanta, and the metropolis atmosphere, had eased the controversy over them. There were more extreme bondage clubs in the area, but Drage's ability to provide a club for the more extreme as well as those wanting to play along the periphery had drawn in all types.

  Now the three clubs, Diva's, the Roundtable, and Merlin's, could be some of the most popular clubs in the state.

  She moved through the Saturday night crowd slowly, feeling the hard pulse of the music thrumming around her as her gaze probed the crowd.

  The slow, sensual beat of Gavin Froome's "Plane Jane" met her, but Morganna knew the house mix could swing just as quickly into, the Cure, Depeche Mode, or any of the hard Goth, techno, or tribal beats.

  It raged from current to classic at the drop of a hat and filled her blood with the need to dance. She loved dancing, moving, feeling her body come alive to the music. As did most of the other women and a few of the men who moved between the three clubs like a wave, the faces changing through the night as the club-hopping thrill took them over, though there were regular all-nighters specific to each club.

  And there were new faces nightly. Plenty of them. Women dipping their toes into the open sexuality afforded them. Men playing at being Doms, finding a vicarious thrill in the openness of the women they found there.

  Alcohol flowed like water, and drugs were the dirty little under-the-table side benefit. There was no evidence that the owner supplied the drugs or condoned them. Bouncers made a habit of throwing out the less secretive dealers and users, but for the most part, drugs were easy to come by.

  Dressed now in snug leather pants and a half corset with black thin leather cups that covere
d her breasts, and high-heeled black leather boots, Morganna swayed sensually to the music.

  Cinched low on her hips, nearly to her thighs, was her favorite wide black leather belt. She hooked her thumbs into it as she made her way to the bar and her first drink of the night before she let her body go, her gaze staying centered on the crowd.

  She had perfected the ability to dance, letting the pulse of the music pound through her, as she watched the crowd and picked up probable victims of the drug she and her team were searching for.

  "Morganna, darling. Gorgeous outfit." One of the younger regulars stopped her as she made her way to the bar. Cletus Tomas was a quarterback for the university. A gentle giant with a taste for female Dommes.

  "Thanks, Clete." She reached up and patted his cheek, smacking a kiss toward him for the boost in confidence.

  "You gonna dance with me, baby?" His wide face creased into a smile, his black eyes dancing with good humor as he stared down at her from his near-seven-foot height with a reverence that never failed to make her laugh.

  "Maybe later, sweetie," she yelled over the music. "I need a drink and a chance to settle in first."

  He winked as his gaze went over the black leather pants and half corset. At the side of her belt she wore a pair of silver handcuffs and the small leather pouch that carried her essentials.

  "Save me a dance then, beautiful." He winked at her slowly. "I could let you learn to use those handcuffs if you like. Just say when."

  "They wouldn't fit you," she laughed back. "Go play, Clete. I'll catch up with you later."

  He threw his hand up in a farewell as he moved through the crowd, his wide body parting the ocean of humanity like an unerodible boulder.

  She shook her head before moving to the bar, sliding in quickly as a barstool was vacated before smiling in triumph at the line waiting to do the same thing.

  "Lawry, I need a drink," she called to the bartender. "The good stuff."

  Kentucky whiskey. Something to calm the pulse of fury moving through her blood as she felt the absence of the receiver that Joe hadn't replaced.

  The fact that Craig hadn't stopped by the house or been waiting in the parking lot to check her in was telling. The team's black van was in place, though, which meant they were watching something.

  She took a hard sip of the glass Lawry set in front of her, then breathed deep against the fire burning to her stomach. That easy, she had been dumped. Because of Clint.

  She turned on the stool, holding the glass in one hand as she leaned back against the hardwood bar behind her and stared out over the heads of the crowd packed into the cavernous room. The raised bar floor allowed those at the bar to survey most of the room.

  She found Craig first, staring back at her from a slouch against one of the large pillars placed strategically to bear the weight of the roof in such a large area. She followed his gaze then to a table set back from the dance floor but not quite in the shadows.

  Clint was impossible to miss. As was the redhead sitting on his knee as he socialized with several of the hard-core Dommes who were a part of the clubs. Men and women Morganna had only watched, never spoken to. Clint obviously knew them well.

  She ignored the wave of jealousy that ripped through her at the sight of the woman. Damn him to hell. Morganna couldn't bear the thought of another man touching her now and there he was with a redheaded bimbo perched on his knee like a well-trained bird.

  Morganna took another fortifying sip of the whiskey as she pulled her eyes from him. She wasn't here to watch Clint.

  "Girlfriend, there you are." Jenna Lancaster hopped onto the stool beside her, her heavy breasts bouncing beneath the silk camisole she wore as her heavily lined eyes stared back at Morganna with rabid curiosity. "Man, did you lose out last night or what? That big bad Dom we've all lusted after that jerked you to the back rooms pulled in a newbie tonight."

  Morganna breathed in carefully. "That bad-assed Dom you're talking about is an asshole," she snorted. "She's welcome to him."

  Jenna laughed at the description. "Those are the best kind, honey. You sure you don't just have those Domme tendencies Cletus keeps swearing you have?"

  Morganna rolled her eyes. "I just like the clothes," she retorted.

  "They say he likes full subs, girlfriend." Jenna shook her head. "I think if I were you, I could pretend for a night with a man like that. I hear he can fuck for hours. Have you ever been fucked for hours?"

  Only with her vibrator. And what he could do with his lips and tongue alone in five minutes had it beat to hell and back.

  "She's welcome to him." Morganna lifted her glass to her lips; her gaze caught when Clint gripped the redhead's hair and held her in place a§ she started to move.

  The woman settled "back on his lap, her eyes closing in obvious pleasure. Jealousy struck Morganna in a wave of white-hot hunger, ripping through her chest and tearing into her heart swifter than the sharpest blade.

  She pulled her gaze away again, looking for the suspects Joe had on his list, as well as the women they were with. She had a job to finish; if the only part she played was in helping to find the supplier drugging those women, then so be it. At least he was off the streets.

  "At least Craig still looks interested," Jenna pointed out, glancing over at him.

  Yep, Craig was still watching Morganna, but the bastard hadn't returned her receiver. With it, she could have heard whatever Clint was saying to the passive little sub he had with him.

  God, she hated both of them.

  She turned from Craig's gaze, deliberately snubbing the questioning look he was giving her.

  "Oh, girlfriend, that was cold." Jenna laughed, her expression calculating as she watched the exchange. "I'm telling you, Clete is right. You'd make a much better Domme than you do a sub."

  "Jenna, is there a point to this discussion?" Morganna finally asked, turning to the other girl as she lifted her brow coolly.

  Jenna giggled, her brown eyes twinkling in fun. "Oh, girlfriend, come spank me. That's such a cool look."

  Morganna sighed roughly before finishing the whiskey and turning back to gesture to Lawry for another. It was obviously going to be a trying night.

  Jenna sighed gustily as Morganna turned back. "I was so hoping you would know if Mr. Badass could really last for hours. His subs don't talk."

  "I have no idea," Morganna revealed drolly. "Craig wasn't too pleased to find out where I was. He dragged me out."

  "Straight into a drive-by shooting, too!" Jenna suddenly exclaimed. "I almost forgot about that."

  There was something wrong with the world when the subject of a man's stamina was more important than a supposed friend's near murder.

  When this operation was over, it might be time to find a new haunt. These clubs were just getting on Morganna's nerves. Hell, they had been getting on her nerves before Cindy was killed. Morganna loved the dance, but she hated the feeling of being hunted, a slab of meat on the table of sensuality. She sighed at the thought.

  "It's nice to know my near demise blipped your radar, Jenna," she laughed. "Why don't you go play? I need to chill out for a while. It's been a killer week."

  As Morganna watched the crowd, she was aware of Jenna's probing look.

  "You're looking for a new Dom," Jenna piped up. "You've dropped Craig then?"

  "Craig never had me; he was just in the running. That's all." "Who else was in the running?"

  Morganna turned back to her, aware that the "mouth of the South" title hadn't been given to Jenna without reason. Her lips quirked. "At the moment, no one. Go play, girlfriend, and let me finish my drink."

  Jenna giggled, a sound that really didn't suit the thirty-something legal secretary. She hopped off her bar stool, though, and with a little wiggle of her hips headed back into the throng.

  Morganna's gaze slid back to Clint and his little redheaded sub. He was currently caressing her arm absently, running his fingers up and down the slender limb as she clearly telegraphed her arousal, her read
iness to fuck.

  The perfect little sub. There wasn't a chance she was going to convince a dealer she had to be drugged to accept Clint.

  Morganna sighed. There was no way she could sit there so passively beneath his touch. She watched the girl's body language, the obvious sense of waiting, of anticipation. It was completely opposite Clint's. He looked almost bored as he glanced around.

  His gaze roved over the dance floor, the crowd, then lifted to the bar. Morganna knew the moment he saw her. His hand paused on the other woman's arm, his eyes narrowing as his jaw clenched.

  Morganna lifted her drink mockingly in recognition of his awareness of her and tilted her head in acknowledgment before she turned away from him again. As luck would have it, her gaze locked on a shadowy corner and the couple there.

  The guy was big, tall, and broad; his companion, what you could see of her, was short, full-bodied. Her head was thrown back in pleasure as the man bent to her breasts. Morganna could see very little, but she saw enough to know what was going on.

  She swirled the liquor in her glass as she watched with open curiosity. Could she do that? It was damned arousing to watch, to see the sexual act playing out, the way the male lifted the woman, aligning his hips with hers, and moved.

  The long skirt of the woman's dress hid anything from view, but it was more than obvious what he was doing. For a moment, just a moment, Morganna felt Clint's touch again, his lips at her nipple, his tongue lashing it. His hips between

  hers, the thick length of his erection grinding against her. The image was broken as someone moved in front of her, then stopped.

  She lifted her eyes slowly, amused curiosity filling her as she met the frowning, disapproving gaze of the club's owner.

  He was nearly as tall as Reno, classically lean, but there was muscle beneath that white silk shirt and black European trousers. His black hair was pulled back from an aristocratic face, tied at his nape, and fell below his shoulder blades. Green eyes, as dark as moss, were cool, cynical, as they watched her.