No Limits

by Nicki Bennett

  “Let’s get him fed and take him to bed,” Jonathan answered with a waggle of his eyebrows and a leering smile. “Between the two of us, I think we can find some way to clear up his bad mood.” He rested his chin on Kit’s hip bone, his expression sobering. “And after that, we’ll talk.”

  His pulse slowing with relief, Devon couldn’t help but smile when he walked back into the parlor to see his lovers embracing. “Starting without me again?” he growled playfully, hoping the teasing would distract them from the near panic with which he’d run for the phone. “That was Niall. He wants me in early tomorrow for some reshoots of my scene with Guinevere with new and improved dialogue.”

  “We were just waiting for you.” Kit grinned, relieved to see the black cloud lifted, at least for the moment. “How does dinner sound? I bet we could convince Jonathan to cook if we asked him nicely.”

  Jonathan glanced up at Devon with a smile. They’d keep it light and playful for now; Devon needed relaxation, not confrontation. “And after that, we’ll see what else we can cook up,” he drawled, reaching out to invite Devon to rejoin them.

  COLD SWEAT trickled down his back as he fought to steady his breathing. He couldn’t fail again, that was why he was here in the first place, but he could feel the walls closing in on him with each shuddering breath. He twisted against the cramp in his shoulder blade—he’d wrenched it during his struggles, and the cruel pull of the restraints behind his raw back made it worse. The movement sent a shower of damp earth falling over his face, and he couldn’t hold back the moan of terror as his lungs seized and his limbs twitched in a futile need to break free, to claw his way out of here, to escape….

  Devon’s struggles and his sudden cry woke Jonathan with a start. His arms tightened instinctively around Devon’s thrashing limbs, but that only made him fight harder, his elbow striking Jonathan in the chest. “Devon!” He let go and raised his hands instead to hold the shaggy blond head still. “Devon, wake up. It’s okay. It’s me, Jonathan,” he murmured, trying to keep his own fear out of his voice.

  Jonathan’s cry woke Kit as well. Shit! he thought. Here we go again. He settled his hands on Devon’s shoulders, kneading soothingly as he added his own soft murmurs to Jonathan’s. He didn’t know how to get Devon to open up to them, but this had to stop.

  Devon’s eyes snapped open to meet Jonathan’s, his lover’s gaze wide with love and concern in the darkened bedroom. He drew a ragged breath and shook his head, the warmth of Jonathan’s hands at his temples and Kit’s on his shoulders grounding him from the last remnants of the nightmare’s terrors. He raised a palm to scrub at his face, horrified to discover his cheek damp with tears. “Fuck,” he whispered, wiping at the other cheek in turn. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Jonathan insisted, pulling Devon forward to rest their foreheads together. “But you have to tell us what’s doing this to you, babe. Let us help you.”

  Kit’s hands drifted lower over Devon’s back. “You’re covered in sweat!” he observed, surprised. This wasn’t just a bad dream. Devon was having night terrors! “Why don’t you go with Jonathan and have a quick shower while I get us all a drink, and then we’ll talk.”

  Still half caught in the submissive mind-set of the dream, Devon was unresisting as Jonathan helped him to his feet and led him toward the bathroom, murmuring soothing words and wrapping an arm around his trembling shoulders. “The water will make you feel better,” Jonathan promised.

  Jonathan’s eyes met Kit’s in concern before he and Devon disappeared into the bathroom. Kit scampered down the steps in search of the brandy and three glasses. He was putting them all on a tray to take back upstairs when the phone rang. Frowning as he glanced at the clock, he wondered who could be calling at such a late hour. Niall had phoned earlier, so surely it wasn’t him. He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  Silence stretched on the other end of the line as the caller processed the realization that Devon hadn’t answered the phone. So the big blond isn’t spending his nights alone! This could be even more intriguing than he’d hoped. “Have you worn Devon out?” he rumbled in amusement.

  “Who is this?” Kit demanded, not recognizing the voice but taking offense at the insinuating tone.

  “Tsk, tsk.” The caller chuckled softly. “You haven’t earned the right to ask any questions… yet.” The voice hardened into a tone of command. “Tell Devon I’ll be expecting an introduction.” Not bothering to wait for a reply, he severed the connection, his groin tightening in anticipation. Oh yes, this will be good, very good indeed.

  Kit frowned, looking down at the tray. Tea might well have been a better choice, but after that phone call, he needed a brandy. Picking up the platter, he headed back upstairs to see if Jonathan and Devon were finished and to join them if they were not.

  Chapter 2: Just Breathe

  DEVON STOOD beneath the cascading water, letting it wash away the taint of horror from his memories as its warmth soothed the chill of his clammy skin. Jonathan’s hands, strong and gentle, eased his head back to dampen his hair, but he couldn’t force himself to open his eyes. Not yet. He couldn’t bear to see Jonathan’s expression change to scorn for his weakness, or to pity, as he knew it would when the truth came out. He knew his lovers well enough to realize he’d have to give them a full explanation—but he still kept his eyes closed, delaying the inevitable a little longer.

  Devon’s continued silence and docility ate at Jonathan’s studied calm. He wanted to push Devon against the wall of the shower and hold him there with his body, wanted to demand that Devon tell them what the hell was going on and why the fuck he was keeping it from them. But however much better that would make him feel, it was the last thing Devon needed, especially in the state he was in after the nightmare. He’d have to wait for Kit to return before starting the discussion anyway. Holding back a frustrated sigh, Jonathan poured some shampoo into his palms and began to work it through Devon’s locks, trying to will away Devon’s tension.

  Kit set the tray down on the table next to the bed and walked into the bathroom, drawn by the sound of the running water. He pulled aside the curtain and stepped into the shower, immediately adding his hands to Jonathan’s on Devon’s body. “Feeling better, lover?” he asked.

  “Mmmnn,” Devon rumbled, but it was getting harder to keep his eyes closed with two sets of hands wandering over his body and stirring his cock to stiffness against his thigh.

  “Somebody’s waking up,” Jonathan observed wryly, though he didn’t move his hands toward Devon’s erection and did his best to keep his touches soothing. His own answering arousal was making itself known, but as wonderful as they could make one another feel, it would only distract them from the need to talk.

  “Good.” Kit smiled, knowing what both his lovers were surely feeling, for he was feeling it too. His passion, though, was tempered by the chilling call he had received. “You got a rather strange telephone call while I was downstairs,” he added, keeping the movement of his hands steady as he spoke.

  Jerking upright from beneath the shower’s spray so quickly that his head swam, Devon grasped Kit’s shoulders and turned to face him. “You answered the phone?” he demanded fiercely. “Who was it? What did he say?”

  “He wouldn’t give his name when I asked,” Kit replied, meeting Devon’s eyes. He didn’t want to add to Devon’s panic, but he needed Devon to understand that he—they—were serious about finding out what was going on. “He said to tell you he was expecting an introduction.”

  Devon’s muscles tensed at Kit’s response. “That bastard!” Devon cursed, tightening his grip on Kit’s shoulders, so enraged he didn’t notice the wince of pain. “That bloody, mother-sodding bastard! I’ll rip his head from his fucking body before I let him get anywhere near you!” He reached for the curtain, ready to charge out of the shower that very instant.

  Clutching at Devon in turn, Jonathan hauled him back, and this time he did pin him against the
wall. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell us what the fuck is going on,” he insisted, holding the fiery green gaze with his own implacable stare.

  “I agree, but I think this might be a conversation better suited to the bedroom than to the shower stall. Right, Jonathan?” Kit said firmly, turning off the water. “I brought some brandy up for all of us. We’ll go in, sit down, and talk. Then we can see about ripping someone’s head off his body.”

  Devon met Jonathan’s gaze a moment longer, then nodded, pushing a hand through his dripping hair. A tense silence held as each man dried off, with none of the teasing offers of assistance that would normally accompany the activity.

  Wrapping a towel around his hips, Jonathan nodded for Devon to precede them into the bedroom, squeezing Kit’s shoulder for reassurance as they followed.

  Devon stood awkwardly in the center of the room, as if he were still considering bolting. “Sit,” Jonathan insisted, pointing to the corner of the bed and taking a cross-legged position across from Devon.

  Kit settled right next to where Devon flopped on the bed, spooning up behind him. Jonathan’s intensity was so pointed, so focused, that Kit could only imagine how harried Devon was feeling. Deciding on a different tack, he wrapped his arms around Devon and nuzzled his neck. “Come on, Devon. Talk to us, please. We can’t help you if we don’t know what’s wrong. At least tell us who was on the phone.”

  Taking a sudden interest in the crumpled burgundy sheets beneath his knees, Devon shook his head. “Robert,” he said wearily, giving in to the inevitable with poor grace. “That were—that was Robert.”

  Shocked by Devon’s defeated tone and the lapse into broad Yorkshire—a sign of how deeply he was shaken—Jonathan tried to let go of his own fear and frustration. He reached forward to close a hand around the one of Devon’s that was picking nervously at the sheets. “He’s the one you told us about at the beach house?” he asked, his voice quiet.

  Jonathan’s question brought back to Kit the conversation they’d had with Devon where he’d revealed a little of his past involvement with a hard-core BDSM scene. Kit had all but put it from his mind, despite the games they’d played since then. Devon wasn’t like that, wasn’t a heartless, unfeeling Dom. He was a tender, creative lover, even when he was being commanding or fucking Kit over a porch rail. As rough as things had gotten between them at times, ever since that one time he and Jonathan had scared Kit inadvertently, Devon had been the model lover. “Is he the one who’s been calling you the last couple of days?”

  “Aye,” Devon admitted in answer to both questions. “He’s the one. Bastard’s been calling for the last week.”

  “You said—or at least, you implied—it was over between you,” Jonathan protested. His stomach roiled at the thought of the man who had abused Devon, badly enough to have caused the terrifying dreams that had tormented him the last few nights, trying to make contact again.

  “Hadn’t seen or thought of the bastard in years,” Devon rumbled, though only the first part of the statement was true.

  “Then why would he start calling you now?”

  “And why would he want to meet me?” Kit added. “You certainly made it sound like you didn’t part on very good terms.”

  “He’s here.” Devon couldn’t hide the shudder that shook him at the thought of even being on the same continent with his former master. “He’s managed to get an invitation to visit the set. And there is no way in bloody hell I’m introducing you to him!”

  “All right, wait a minute.” Jonathan took both Devon’s hands between his. “Even if he does manage to get on set, there’s nothing he can do, Devon. Between the crew and the cast and security, there’ll be dozens of people around. So you introduce us, we say hello”—I manage not to knock his teeth down his throat for what he did to you—“and then he’s gone. Don’t let it get to you this way.”

  “How’d he get permission to come on set?” Kit asked, rubbing his hands soothingly over Devon’s back. “I thought Niall was being really careful about who he allowed around.”

  “Professional courtesy,” Devon muttered, his voice dripping scorn. “He’s been gloating about how much he’s looking forward to it. He’d just better stay the fuck away from the two of you.” He growled, balling his hands into fists beneath Jonathan’s clasp.

  Unclenching Devon’s hands, Jonathan twined their fingers together and squeezed gently. “What exactly did he do to you, Devon?” he asked in a low voice. “Tell us about the dream.”

  “You know you can tell us anything, Devon,” Kit added. “Just don’t shut us out.”

  Drawing an unsteady breath, Devon tried to bring his anger under control, tried to find a dispassionate voice that would hide the shame he felt. “The first time I met him was on set,” he began. “I was a bit in awe—eager to work with him, anxious to make a good impression.” He snorted in disgust at the memory. “A bunch of us went out for drinks after the first week’s shooting—just getting to know each other, like. You know how it is after everyone’s been drinking for a while; the conversation started turning suggestive. I’d done a little experimenting with BDSM, not much really, but he made a comment, and I answered back, made it sound like I was more experienced than I was—trying to impress him, I suppose.” Devon gave another scornful laugh. “He called my bluff—invited me back to his place. I couldn’t back down, not if I didn’t want to look like a fool.”

  Kit winced. He’d been in situations like that before. They never ended well. While he was glad for the insight into Devon’s past, he didn’t see how it related to the present. “And the dream?” he prompted. “What does that have to do with your nightmare?”

  “That was when it started, that first night,” Devon replied, his voice lowering as he let himself remember what he’d spent the years since then trying to forget. “He told me afterward that he’d gone easy on me, but now that he knew how well I could take it, he wouldn’t hold back. Made me feel proud, strong. And at first it was good—more than good,” he admitted. He flushed at the memory of how willingly he’d gone under, how hungry he’d been for the older man’s approval. “I’d have done anything for him, and damn near did.”

  Devon’s words sent a double chill down Kit’s back, one for the thought of someone trying to break Devon, the other for how strongly the feelings Devon described resembled his own. Looking at Devon directly in front of him and Jonathan sitting there facing them, Kit knew that despite the surface similarities, this was different. Devon might give them orders from time to time, might push their limits, but he wasn’t looking for a slave, wasn’t trying to recreate them to fit his image of the perfect lover.

  Remembering how incredibly aroused he’d been that weekend at the beach, Jonathan nodded. He could understand how tempting it might be to submit to someone you trusted—and how dangerous it could be if that trust was misplaced. “What went wrong?” he asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

  “In the beginning, we stuck to pretty basic stuff—restraints, gagging….” Devon flushed again, his voice thickening. “Flogging. Then he—we—” He dropped his head, not wanting to see the expressions on Kit’s and Jonathan’s faces at his admission.

  Inwardly flinching, Kit tightened his embrace, wanting Devon to feel his support. He could see how much these memories upset him, and a part of him wanted to stop, to tell Devon that it didn’t matter, that he should just forget about it. He knew better, though. This was poisoning Devon from the inside, and if they didn’t get it out in the open and dealt with, it would start poisoning their relationship too. Kit loved Devon too much to let that happen. “Then?” he said softly, his lips against Devon’s nape as he spoke.

  “He said he wanted us to try something different, that I was the first partner he trusted enough to share it with—and I was daft enough to believe him. We’d already—” Devon swallowed, just the memory enough to make it hard to breathe. “He’d already fucked me once cuffed to the bed—I was so far under I couldn’t deny him anythi
ng. It was so good when he started, slow and more tender than he usually was. He was stroking my throat, wrapping his hands around my neck while he kissed me—he almost never kissed me—it was so good, so sweet, and when we both started to get close, he—he started to—to squeeze.” He shook his head, blind to anything but the memory. “Maybe I could have stopped him then, but I never even thought to try. I was so fuckin’ close, and all I could feel was him inside me, and my blood pounding in my ears, and it felt so fuckin’ incredible…. I’d never come that hard before.”

  Jonathan hated this, hated hearing Devon talk about it, hated the thought of his being hurt, but most of all hated the idea that this bastard had made Devon like it. He wanted to lean forward and kiss Devon’s neck, to wipe away the memory of the other man’s hands, but he knew he shouldn’t distract Devon from finishing his story. Tightening his grip on Devon’s fingers, he willed his voice to calmness. “Was that what the nightmare was about?”

  Kit bent his head, unable to meet either of their eyes as he struggled to deal with the myriad of emotions. Anger was starting to burn within him, low in his gut, at the thought of some freak doing these things to Devon, forcing him into such a situation. He knew Devon would say there had been no force, but Kit knew better, even if the force had not been physical. His resolve increased with the strength of his anger. This Robert—the name was a curse in his mind—would not be allowed to hurt Devon again.

  Daring a glance up, Devon was caught by the intensity of Jonathan’s gaze. In his eyes he saw unquestioning understanding and acceptance, not the condemnation he’d feared. A rush of emotion hit him so strongly that he blinked back sudden tears. “No.” He shook his head, holding on to the comfort of Jonathan’s gaze like a lifeline. “Not then; not at first. But every time after that, he’d start a little sooner, squeeze a little tighter—hold on after a little longer. One night—” He hesitated, but Jonathan’s nod encouraged him to go on. “One night he was upset about something—I don’t even remember what it was, something from the day’s filming, maybe. Anyway, he’d told me he didn’t want to hear anything out of me, warned me not to make a sound. He’d—”