Taming the Fire (3 page)

He lowered his gaze—his cock was bulging, begging for relief, the head red and angry as he began to touch himself.

“That's it, stroke yourself. Tell me how it feels.”

“Feels so good, Mistress.”

“I know you, boy. Know what you want—what you need.”

“Yes.” His breath was fast now, his hand moving quickly, and he'd burst the cock ring off of himself if she made him wait much longer.

With one flick of a finger, she unsnapped the leather restraint, freeing him. He shot his load almost instantly, creamy, thick ropes of come hit his chest as he closed his eyes briefly and prayed he'd done the right thing.

He licked his lips and his voice was hoarse when he spoke again. “Mistress, thank you for letting me come.”

“You were a good boy,” she whispered.

“I'll return. If you'll have me.”

There was a long pause, and he held his breath, kept his eyes to the ground, as she hadn't told him he could look up as of yet. This was a time to follow orders.

“I'll have you—any way I want you,” she said finally. “Tomorrow night. The room at the end of the hall.”

When he heard the door close behind her, only then did he let himself sag to the ground.

L
IKE ALL OF
The Dungeon's staff, Ulrika left through the back door. She hadn't finished her shift, and the beast was raging with need. It was probably a huge mistake to not give it sex tonight, but she just couldn't do it.

Something was wrong.

During her session with Trance, a mild buzz of electricity had vibrated through her collar, something that hadn't happened in the three months since escaping Itor. The only reason she hadn't bolted out of the club in a panic was that when Itor shocked her, there was nothing mild about it.

Chances were that the collar had developed a short or maybe someone nearby had a cell phone or MP3 player that operated on the same frequency. Still, the jolt had been enough to stun her right out of the play with Trance.

Which had sucked, because something about him made her all jittery and hot, as if she were coming down with the mother of all fevers. She'd even taken him into her mouth, something she
never
did with any sub. And when he'd stroked himself off, it had taken a lot of discipline to keep from touching herself as she watched.

Not all of her clients—males and females—were looking for an orgasm. Many desired only to be dominated, to give in to a part of themselves that needed to please. Others wanted to get off, and for the most part, she could make them climax without ever touching their genitals with her hands.

As for her own orgasms, often she achieved completion by doing no more than spanking a sub. Rarely did she allow her clients to pleasure her, either with their tongues or cocks, but when she did, it happened while they were bound and helpless.

Funny, because even when Trance had been stretched out and tied up like a hunter's deer, there hadn't been anything helpless about him. His gaze had seduced her, his voice, smooth as brandy and a hundred times stronger, had intoxicated her, and his body, all hard flesh and silky skin, had robbed her of breath.

He wore sensual promise like a glove. She'd make him live up to that promise tomorrow. Sure, she never played with a client twice, but they hadn't completed their session tonight, and she was dying to get her hands—and toys—on him again.

Lifting her face to the night air, she sniffed, an instinctive action that went back to her childhood living in the mountains, and then later to Itor, when scenting, and identifying, a person before they arrived at her cell had helped her mentally prepare for whatever horrible thing they were going to put her through.

Now she smelled nothing but the faint odor of old grease from a corner fish-and-chips shop and the usual stench of vomit and piss from the alley behind the club. She moved toward the street, which, at barely midnight, still ran loud with cars and pub-crawlers.

“Mistress?” A man stepped out in front of her from the shadowy recess of another building's doorway, blocking her.

She smiled tightly, recognizing him from the club. She'd played with him once, weeks ago, and he'd been back every night since, trying to get her to play with him again. He'd been a satisfying enough sub, had liked his fun on the rough, humiliating side, which got the animal inside her off as much as anything, but his scent had been wrong, sour. With him, she'd fed her need to dominate, but hadn't taken sex. This one had made her nervous in a way few people did.

“I don't socialize outside of the club,” she said, moving to the side with the intention of stalking past him.

He blocked her path again. “I've tried to talk to you inside. Please, Mistress. I need you.”

Cold dread settled over her like a shroud. She'd dealt with nuts before, and they were generally easy to handle as long as she stayed in Dom mode. But this man… Robert… he didn't strike her as a harmless nut as much as someone who was balancing on the edge of sanity.

“I'm sorry, Robert. But I can't help you.”

His hand closed on her upper arm, and in a flash of violence she was dragged behind the club and slammed against the side of the building. The back of her skull cracked against the brick, momentarily stunning her. Robert's heavy body held her in place, while one hand circled her throat. Panic welled up, her heart beating so hard she heard her pulse pounding in her ears. She could handle this, easily, if she allowed the beast out. She'd tear Robert apart, but it wouldn't end there. Who knew how many innocents she'd kill before she regained control?

“I love you, Mistress,” he purred, his teeth scraping her cheek. “I need you to punish me. I've been very, very bad.”

It took everything she had to keep from trembling. His hands… she couldn't bear them on her body. No man had touched her since
that day
.

The day she'd killed a man while in human form. The day that haunted her every night.

Now
she
did the touching. She had to do something, and fast, or the beast was going to rampage.

“Robert!” she snapped in her hardest Dom voice. “You will get down on your knees and bow your head to me while I consider how I'll punish you. Now.
Do it.”

His breath caught, just a little hitch that told her he wanted to follow her command. His erection slammed into her belly, and a low groan vibrated his chest. “Yes, Mistress,” he whispered, his eyes glazing over with anticipation.

Slowly, way too slowly, he went down to his knees before her, and bowed his head. This was good, but she couldn't get her hopes up. He'd be on his feet and on her before she could get out a scream.

Her mind worked quickly, measuring the distance to the street and the back door to the club. If she could knock him off balance, she had a shot at escaping.

“Kiss my shoe, worm. Lips only. No tongue.”

With a shiver of pleasure, Robert doubled over. The moment his mouth touched her foot, she brought it up, crunching the toe of her walking boot into his face. She whirled, dashed into the alley as his roar of rage and pain followed her.

Something that felt like a bus hit her from behind. Her skirt tripped her up, and a scream lodged in her throat. She hit the pavement hard, and even as she rolled and jammed her knee between Robert's legs, his fist caught her in the jaw. Stinging pain bit into her cheek, and she tasted blood.

“Cunt,” he spat through bloodied lips. “Who's getting punished now?”

Terror and too-fresh memories froze her muscles as he yanked up her skirt, but rage flew in on its heels. A curtain of red came down over her vision and her skin tightened as the beast clawed its way out. Oh, God… it was coming and she couldn't stop it—

An enraged snarl echoed in the alley. For a split second, she thought the sound had been hers, until suddenly, Robert jerked. A hand yanked him upward so hard his head snapped forward and cracked against her temple. In an instant, Robert was facefirst in the side of the building. Trance had him in a headlock, and Jesus, the bloodcurdling snarl had been his.

“You fucking piece of shit.” Trance's voice was a low, nasty drawl. “Come near her or this club again and I promise you, the cops will never find what's left of your body. Do you understand?”

Robert went deathly pale, and even more so when Trance jerked him back and then slammed him into the wall again.

“Do. You. Understand?”

“Y-yes.”

Panting, Rik scrambled backward until she hit the bricks. She couldn't control her trembling as she sat there, trying to keep the beast at bay while Trance sent Robert packing, more than a little worse for wear. Later, she'd appreciate his brutal competence, the controlled, lethal power in his muscular body, but right now she needed to keep it together. The scent of Robert's blood in the air and the taste of her own in her mouth weren't helping things.

“Rik?” Trance eased toward her, slowly, as if she were a feral cat he didn't want to frighten away. Too late she realized that her eyes had probably changed, but she couldn't look away. His gaze ripped into hers, holding her captive in a way no rope, chains or manacles had ever done. “He's gone. Are you okay?”

His voice soothed her, brought her down gently and easily, until she no longer felt the itch to turn inside out and into a monster. A few feet away, he crouched on his heels. She watched him warily, managed to drag her gaze away to eye his hands, which she'd seen handle Robert with efficient skill, but which now rested tamely on his knees.

“I'm not going to touch you,” he assured her, and she cursed herself for allowing her fear to show. “I just want to make sure you're all right.”

She scrambled to her feet. “I—I have to go.”

“I'll walk you.”

“No!” She sucked in a shaky breath. With the cool night air came Trance's scent, earthy and male. He smelled like strength and power… and safety.

She shook her head, because that was insane. There was no safe place for her on earth, and certainly no man could offer her that kind of haven. “Thank you. I'll take a cab.”

“I'm walking you to a cab, then. No arguments.”

She nodded, allowed him to walk her to the street, where he flagged a taxi that had been parked down the block. Only after she'd gotten in did she realize that he'd given her a command.

And she'd followed it.

Devlin O'Malley shut down the computer in his office and contemplated going home, where the constant needs of the agency weren't ringing his phone, beeping on his computer or slamming into his office.

He'd been contemplating this for the past four hours—now it was almost midnight. And still he knew that even in the silence at home the constant needs of the agency would be bouncing around in his head, because thinking about work was a hell of a lot easier than thinking about Oz.

Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his chair, let the squeak of the leather comfort him. He was as at home here as he was in his house, but at least here he had a shitload of distractions.

Like the latest status reports from the dozen operatives on missions around the globe. Or the request for rare supplies from the Mystic Research department in the Paranormal Division. Or the scores of other issues from ACRO's other thirteen divisions, and countless departments functioning under their umbrellas.

Fuck
.

He stood and stretched and grabbed a pile of folders to take home with him. The halls were cool and quiet—deserted save for security posted at every entrance and exit, a necessary means of keeping ACRO and her operatives safe. The men and women who kept him safe simply nodded as he walked past, knowing their boss didn't appreciate extraneous conversation—more often than not, Dev's head was too filled with plans and he found greetings to be a distraction.

His car was waiting for him at the entrance to the building, brought around and checked thoroughly by ACRO staff who'd been alerted by the push of a button on his desk before leaving his office.

He drove the black bulletproof Hummer home, well aware that security followed him. Since getting his sight back last year he sometimes refused a driver, forcing himself to enjoy all the things he'd wanted to do when he was blind. He parked the big car in the driveway and looked around before letting himself inside his big, empty house and closing the door, surveying it more out of habit than worry—the ACRO compound had fortress-tight security, but that didn't mean he could get sloppy.