A WILDer Kind of Love (8 page)

He walked into the storage area to find his friend wearing a cocky smile. Hanging from one of Max’s massive hands was a half-face mask, decorated with very little except some silver filigree at the outside edges. In the palm of his other hand was a black disk about the size of a quarter.

Before Dan could say anything, Max drawled, “If you can’t beat her, join her, buddy.”

“The hell?”

Max shoved the mask at him. “Try it on.”

He stepped back. “No.”

“Shut up and try it on, you wuss.” He slammed the thing into Dan’s chest. “It got the Phantom of the Opera some tail, right?”

“The fuck it did.”

“You want to tell me he took that hot chorus girl down to his grotto and didn’t take advantage of the setting?” Brick leaned against the cooler door. “We’ve even got a grotto here, you know. It’s fed by underground hot springs. Ideal for aftercare…and other things.”

With visions of “other things” parading through his head, Dan growled at his friend—and tied the damn thing on.

Hmmm. Not bad. Actually…kind of cool. The mask was made out of reinforced velvet, making it form to his face without constricting too much. The cover extended all the way over his nose, and also shielded a lot of his cheeks.

Max pointed to a small mirror mounted on the back of the stock room’s door. Dan peeked cautiously—then grunted in shock. Because he hadn’t shaved in the last four days, the bottom half of his face was transformed, too. A person would have to be looking really hard to discern his scars…

A person would be looking even less if she was blindfolded.

Just the thought of cinching a blindfold over Tess’s face made his dick jump to life again. He jerked back from the force of it, shaking his head. This was
still
a crazy—

“Now stick this against the base of your throat.” Max jammed the small disk at him. Dan shot another glare but complied, peeling back the coating on the disk’s strip of sticky tape. No use protesting at this point.

He pushed the circle to his skin, just beneath his Adams apple, and huffed. At least that was his intention. What the hell?

“Brickham.” He stopped, too astounded to punch his friend for snickering at him. “What the fuck have you done to my voice?”

People always told him he sounded like Clint Eastwood crossed with a good-ol’ Atlanta boy. Now, his voice was like Vin Diesel after a pack of smokes—and a good-ol’ Atlanta boy. It was fucking freaky but kind of cool.

“Pretty dope, eh? We offer it as part of a few role-playing kits. Subbies love it because it turns their Top into any number of slathering beasts. The disk is like a high-end voice box. It adds artificial resonance to your throat. If you want, we can go deeper with the tone.”

“No.” Damn.
Weird
. “Not sure I’ll get used to
this
.”

“Sure you will.” Max raised a hand, his
voilà
implied. “Good thing is, between this and the mask, she’ll never know it’s you.”

It came around to this again.

Another moment of truth.

Another invitation to forge trails he hadn’t traversed in a long damn time. A
long
damn time. Since before the fire…

“Max. I appreciate this, I really do.” The voice discrepancy was a little less unsettling. “But the last time you saw me scene up at Bastille was the last time I scened, period. That was over a year ago. I don’t know—”

Max dug both hands into his shoulders. They felt like eagle talons. “Colton, I’ve seen a lot of Dominants in my time. Some have been coerced into it. Some have been lured into it. Some have been attracted to it, and can learn it. But the good ones…they’re born for it. And that’s you, man.”

Dan grunted. “You’re not going to give me a Mr. Miyagi speech, are you?”

“Shut up.” He gave a hard jerk. “And listen. You were made for this, dammit. You
get
this. The exchange…taking what a submissive gives you, and processing it into all the things she not only wants but needs…it’s not something you get an instruction sheet for. But a Dominant with his—or her—heart in the right place, who intrinsically realizes dominance is just as much about service as submissiveness…well, that’s exceptional. And rare.”

Dan stepped back. Rolled his shoulders. “You ever consider that the mask and magic voice box were already enough for the ol’ self-consciousness meter?”

“Fine, fine.” Brick pulled his hands back. “I get it. Getting back on the bike is hard, even if you were an expert rider. Don’t stress. Like I said, it’s Friday. I’m sure somebody will come in who’s just right for our little red rose.”

Max pegged the color right. It was the perfect theme for the moment, considering how it blazed through Dan’s vision. The rage even blasted in beneath the mask, making him burn to rip the thing off—while vowing to keep it on. Some crazy logic dictated that if the cover stayed, he could ward off the images, so vivid and merciless, of Tess giving her submission to another man.

Just what you told her to do, asshole.

Kneeling for him. Undressing for him.

Because that’s better than her doing it for you, right? You’re still too fucked up to handle it. To even
consider
handling it
.

Wrapping her full ruby lips around his fingers…

The sound that emanated up his gut and out his throat seemed more beast than man, even pushing Max back by two steps. That was just fucking fine. Took away the hassle of having to slam Brick against the employee lockers as he retied the mask, double-knotting it this time, then whipped off his leather jacket and T-shirt.

“The rose is going to be fine.” He embedded his ownership on every word. As each syllable growled out of him, he wasn’t surprised to watch a slow, knowing grin grew across Max’s lips. Or to receive his buddy’s respectful utterance in response.

“Understood completely, Sir Daniel.”

‡

“L
ittle rose.”

Tess jumped out of her chair. Literally. Not that it had been a particularly comfortable chair. She’d found another wingback in the second of Catacomb’s living room areas, hoping she’d have better results in here with the whole calm-down-and-talk-to-somebody-dammit efforts.

And how did all that go for you, missie? Did changing rooms help you escape one drop of the feeling that you’ve showed up at Prom without a date, three damn nights in a row
?

She’d given herself until eleven o’clock to get the stick out of her ass and strike up a conversation with somebody, or just leave. No use sticking around until midnight when she didn’t even have mice, a pumpkin, and glass slippers to worry about.

All of a sudden, her fairy godmother of BDSM got a huge damn clue.

And delivered a prince who defied her wildest, kinkiest dreams.

And
not
because he instantly reminded her of Dan.

Get off the Colton crazy train! Especially now
!

It was his hair. It looked so much like Dan’s dark blond waves, she was initially captivated—though her perception was undoubtedly hindered by the thick velvet strings from his mask, tossing all kinds of shadows through his thick style.

About that mask…

Dear God
.

Sometimes great minds really did think alike. Though it covered half his face and transformed his eyes into daunting mysteries, she tilted a little smile. She was
looking
for daunting, right?

She’d just had no idea how much. And one look at this man, powerful and beautiful and looming before her in nothing but his huge black boots, faded jeans, and that mask, revealed he probably had a doctorate in daunting.

She’d only concentrated on his covered parts so far, too. The face she couldn’t quite decipher. The legs, endless and powerful, converging at a bulge beneath his zipper that stripped the moisture from her throat. But everything else was…

Dear God
.

It bore repeating. Probably out loud. If she could only figure where the hell all her air had gone.

He was beautiful. Almost unreal. She’d only had this sensation a few times in her whole life, like the moment she’d gazed at her first Michelangelo statue in Rome, or gasped at a
Cirque
performer who supported three others in his palm. His lean but rock-hard build emphasized every captivating striation of his muscles: the hard ropes of his neck, the shoulders and arms that rivalled Red Rock for ridges, the abdomen that was another mountain range all on its own, as well. He moved closer to her with grace that reminded her of an eagle’s flight, deadly force honed for efficiency and grace.

Was he even real?

She yearned to reach out and learn that answer for herself.

She’d never been more afraid to move in her life.

She cleared her throat. Tried to straighten her stance, but wondered if she should lower her head, instead. Or bow. Or curtsy? Or shake his hand?
Hell
. She was the girl who’d read every research book on dungeon etiquette, right? But now she really did feel like the girl at the prom with toilet paper attached to her heel.

“Hi,” she finally managed. “I—I mean hello. Hello,
Sir
. I—I mean—”

If she really had something to say after that, it would’ve disappeared as soon as he lifted her hand between both of his.
Shivers
. Everywhere. Her blood. Her skin. And yes, even in the deepest parts of her most intimate tunnel. His skin was so firm and warm, his grip a steady command, his eyes still impossible to read. That fact alone brought even more of the illicit tremors…

He stepped closer, peering at her harder, as if trying to figure her out more fully. “Ssshhh. Breathe, red.”

Red.
Though she liked playing up the unique color of her hair, she always cringed when someone used the too-typical nickname. But on his lips, it was transformed into something new. Magical.

“Breathe. Right. Okay…
right.
God. I am so sorry. You must think I’m so—” She injected a weak laugh. “I’m normally better at the whole stringing-a-sentence-together thing, I promise.”

Why was she blowing this so badly? And why did he make it worse with his disarming grin and his tightening hold? And the intensity of his nearness. And the potency of his scent. How could the combination of Scotch and dust suddenly smell so incredible?

“Why are you sorry? I’m the one who intruded.”

“Oh, yeah. ‘Intruded.’” She blew a pseudo raspberry. “Because there was
so
much going on here in my corner to intrude on.”

“There would’ve been.”

His mutter edged so close to an animal’s timbre, she shivered a little. Tess had heard enough radio spy chatter over the years to know the small disc on his neck was a voice distorter of some sort—but instead of raising her wariness, it only added to his allure. A lot.

Too much.

Her pulse thrummed, a current strange yet wonderful.

Too fast
.

The conflict hastened to her reckless heartbeat, especially as he repeated, “Oh, yeah. You were going to have a waiting line tonight, I can guarantee it. Then I would’ve had to bounce a few skulls together.”

“Why?” She knew how stupid it sounded. The possessive snarl beneath his words spoke enough meaning for anyone to figure out—except, perhaps, her. The “protective” thing was usually
her
gig, a default when one was looking out for sisters who were “the pretty one” and “the smart ass.” Grasping the concept that anyone wanted to look after her in the same way…

Weird. Very weird.

But so nice.

Really
nice.

Still, she braced herself for his teasing chuckle. Maybe some sarcastic quip at what a “silly subbie” she was for not comprehending his intent.

Once more, the man turned her expectations sideways. No. Fully upside down. Her senses careened as he released a hand, lifting it to her jaw, yanking up her face to the focus of his fathomless gaze. “Why?” he repeated. “Because I’m pretty well set on having you all to myself tonight, rose.” His fingers pressed in. “Unless you aren’t interested in what you see?”

She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “You’re kidding, right?”

“At the risk of being trite, do I look like I’m kidding?”

“At the risk of being obnoxious, do I look like a nun? Because that’s the only situation where I can imagine you being turned down, Sir Sexy.”

Air pushed past his smirk. His thick stubble disguised the exact edges of his lips but the flash of his teeth briefly showed her they were curved and lush…and maybe a little wicked.

Wicked. Right behind daunting on what she’d come here looking for.

“I ought to stamp your ass with my palm for that cheek, little rose. But I don’t even know your name yet.”

She couldn’t help grinning. If “cheek” earned her comments like that, she was tempted to change her name to
Cheeky
.

“Odette.” She supplied the name she’d used with Master Max when turning in her application. If Sir Sexy had asked about her before coming over here—and something told her he had—then it was best to be consistent. “And
you
are…?”

“Interested.” His lips tugged up again. “And intrigued. And fully cleared by Max, if you’d like to ask him about me. He and I have been friends for a while.”