Liz started awake, drenched in sweat and the sweet release of orgasm. Before she was fully awake, she was grabbing the pad and pen by her bed with one shaking hand and using the other to click on the light. She didn’t try to sort through the images or dissect the dream. She simply put pen to paper.
Write it down.
That was what the shrink had told her when she’d first gone to see him over a decade ago after moving out of her parents’ house. It was the coping mechanism he’d taught her to help her deal with the rage that had taken up residence inside her until it was all-consuming, to the point where she would pick a fight with someone—anyone—who happened to be close by.
So she didn’t analyze the mystery man who had been plaguing her dreams for weeks. Later, she could worry about what had put such ridiculous fantasies into her head, ones she knew she could never want in real life. Ones she would never act on. Instead, she wrote.
She wrote and wrote until her hand seized up. When she dropped the pen and the bright red words on the page swam before her eyes, she blinked hard to bring them into focus. Dawn was peeking into her window, and tension seized her. Digging her thumb into her other palm to massage the cramp, she stared at the pages of her notebook, unsure she could make out some of the furious scribbles she’d made.
Page after page of writing she couldn’t remember putting down flashed by as she flipped through. Holy crap. She hadn’t written like this in years. Hadn’t been so obsessed with an idea that it forced her awake in the middle of the night and was so urgent, so desperate to be put on the page that it wouldn’t wait until she scrambled down the hall and woke her computer. Scripturient indeed. The word encompassed her whole being—
having an overwhelming desire to write
.
The early-morning sunlight was pouring into her window now, and she knew she’d never get back to sleep. She swung her bare legs over the edge of the bed and slid her feet into slippers. Clutching the notebook and pen to her chest, she padded down the hall to the office and sat. After popping open the small fridge under the right side of her L-shaped desk, she grabbed an iced coffee. She closed the fridge with one hand and opened her laptop with the other.
Not reading the pages again—not allowing her mind to wander back to her dream—was the only way to ensure she didn’t lose the words before she got them down. The ideas would flit out of her brain faster than she could chug her iced coffee. And that was impressive. She took a big gulp and tried to hold her mind in that space of awake enough to function but not really fully aware yet. She set the plastic bottle down and yawned. Then her fingers flew over the keys as she transcribed the pages. Forcing herself to turn off her internal editor, she let creativity take hold.
When she finally reached the end of the scrawling notes, she kept typing, forming the scene, finishing the chapter, and then writing the next. Her stomach growled at the same time that she ran out of words, and she glanced at the clock. After nine a.m. already.
She saved, backed up, and closed the file, then shut her computer and wandered into the kitchen. As she rummaged in search of breakfast, she eventually let her mind revisit the dream. The mystery man from that dark purple boudoir had been taunting her for weeks. Maybe longer. She’d refused to acknowledge his presence in her subconscious mind.
Never before had she fought so hard against writing a book. Not even when she first realized she wanted to write erotic romance, knowing how displeased her father would be. At eighteen, though, she’d been used to that reaction from him. Reveled in causing it, actually.
That had been the push she’d needed to put pen to paper that first time, knowing how pissed off he would be with her for writing anything that didn’t fit into his narrow worldview. She put a pan down on the stove and turned it on, then poured a bit of olive oil into it. Somewhere in her fridge were the remains of the skillet she’d had for breakfast at the diner yesterday. She found them and tossed the onions, peppers, potatoes, and garlic into the pan, jerking back when the oil spit at her.
“Screw you too,” she said, the venom in her voice harsh even to her own ears.
Images from her dream flashed in her head, spliced with the image of her fingers as they skittered across the keys. She’d written it. Damn it! She’d done the one freaking thing she’d vowed she would never do. That sick part of her brain that had been so indoctrinated by her parents, the one that said she was supposed to do everything she was told, threatened to overwhelm her. As the rush of desire warmed her, shame was quick on its heels.
She knew there wasn’t anything
wrong
with people whose sexual proclivities were of the kinky persuasion; it had just never been her cup of tea, so to speak. BDSM was no longer considered a sexual deviance, but she was still too damned freaked out by it. She didn’t examine the whys.
Liz pulled her focus back to cooking breakfast, but her brain insisted on mocking her with all the ways she’d failed her one goal—to live her life independently of her past. It seemed she couldn’t do anything as an adult that wasn’t tainted by her crappy childhood. As she ate breakfast, she kept telling herself one thing—she was
not
going to write this book. It could plague her dreams and her waking hours all it wanted, but she wouldn’t let it out.
When she was sitting at her computer again, staring at the four thousand words she’d written in a single sitting, one word taunted her.
Liar.
* * * *
Chase Masters sat facing Sandy, feeling like shit. The club around them was silent, since it was still hours until they officially opened.
“This isn’t going to work out, honey,” he said, stroking the back of her hand gently.
Her dark eyes widened, but she didn’t protest. And that was the problem. Sandy had no backbone, and for a Dom who was in the market for a new sub, that shouldn’t be an issue for him. Yet it was. She looked destroyed but then lowered her head.
“Yes, Sir.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her there. “You’re a good sub, Sandy. But you’re not the one for me.” The first two sessions had probably been enough to tell him that, but he’d stubbornly pushed forward another couple of weeks, determined to give them a shot. She was the third sub he’d dismissed this year, and it was only June. So much for the third one being the charm.
Chase released Sandy’s hand. This had been their sixth and final playtime together. She’d been so sweet to him—too good for him, certainly—but it wasn’t enough. He was starting to fear there wouldn’t ever be enough.
“Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to try.” Sandy raised her gaze to his, and he saw a deep well of sadness there.
“You might, perhaps, be a good fit for Michel.” As the owner of the K Club, Chase knew many of the members, their strengths and their weaknesses. He could pick successful pairs 90 percent of the time, except for himself, apparently.
Sandy nodded, and he stood, reaching down to help her up. A slight tremor still ran the length of her body, but she took a few deep breaths, and he could see her mentally sliding from subspace back into the real world. She didn’t say much to him as she donned her street clothes and he walked her downstairs to the front door of his club. She left in the glaring brightness of the midafternoon sun, and he locked the door behind her.
“Another one, huh?” Dusty said from behind the bar where he was cleaning.
Chase turned, his leather boots squeaking against the cement floor. “Yeah.” He sat hard on a bar stool, and Dusty put a half-empty bottle of their private stash on the bar in front of him. Chase grabbed a glass and poured three fingers of Scotch. They didn’t have a liquor license, and simply having the booze in the club was a risk, but Dusty kept it under lock and key, and they were the only two who knew it existed.
Chase took a healthy swig, and Dusty clapped him on the bare shoulder. “Sorry, man.”
Chase could hear the true concern in his friend’s voice. Many a night had he suffered through a lecture from Dusty on how he needed to find the right fit, to get over Suzanna. He’d been trying, really.
“This sucks,” he said, taking another gulp of the dark liquid. It burned its way down his throat, and he tried to clear his head. Suzanna had left him over five years ago, and he still hadn’t managed to find a permanent sub. A few women had been good fits for a couple of months, but no one long-term. He’d started to give up hope, taking any new sub in the area up to the “light” section of his club, the one members had dubbed
heaven
quite some time ago.
Dusty shook his head, his long straight hair swishing around his face. Chase had heard many a Dom gush about Dusty’s tuggable hair. “I know, dude, but don’t worry about it. You’ll find her.”
The confidence in Dusty’s eyes gave Chase a glimmer of hope. “You sound so sure.”
Dusty came around the bar to sit on the stool next to him. “I
am
sure. But enough of this crap.” He yanked the glass away from Chase. Only his old friend would risk the wrath of the Master, as they called him around here. “We need to talk shop, so nut up and put your girlie problems aside for a while.” Dusty was almost as good a business partner as he was a friend.
Chase groaned, running a hand through his short hair. He didn’t want to deal with the business. The fucking bureaucracy was killing him. That senator had Chase in his sights, along with the entire BDSM community. The man clearly believed it was 1950 and sexual deviance was to be run out of town by any means necessary. According to the latest letter, Chase was the root of all the evils in town, and the success of the club, along with its growing membership, was Chase’s fault and the result of his brainwashing the good people of Spartan, Nevada.
“What now?”
Dusty sighed, and Chase knew it couldn’t be good news. “They’re trying to file an injunction against the club to cease and desist any and all activities on the grounds of ‘sexual and physical abuse’ on the premises.” The line was delivered without emotion, but it was like a blow to the gut for Chase. How could his friend be so fucking calm with this shit?
Chase was ready to explode. No wonder Dusty had moved the Scotch glass well out of his reach. This club was his life. If they took it, he didn’t know what he would do with himself. His hands balled into fists, and his nails bit into his skin. The pain gave him something to focus his rage on. He wanted to strangle that damned senator.
* * * *
The dream was back. Liz clenched her thighs together, heat surging through her body. With her eyes closed in ecstasy, she waited, holding her breath for what he would do next. She knew she was dreaming of her fantasy man again, and she didn’t care. She was tired of fighting the wickedness inside her. She wanted to give herself over to the darkness. Here in her mind, where it was safe, where she could be sheltered and loved by the man who tormented her, she could let down her guard and allow the sinful desire to consume her.
Please
, she begged herself, willing her thoughts to settle. She would let herself go. She had to. Or she risked losing her mind.
He ran a feather down the length of her body, from the tips of her fingers to the bottoms of her bound feet. Soft leather bindings stretched each limb tight as she stood with her back to the wall. He circled her nipple with the feather, and she shivered, desperate to rub her legs together and bring some sensation to the apex of her thighs. Anything to push her over the edge and end this unbearable pleasure. He palmed her breast, plumping it, massaging and torturing it.
He flicked the nipple with the tip of his finger, sending a jolt of sensation to her core. It wasn’t pain, exactly, but that zap of intense pleasure/pain almost brought her to orgasm. But she held it off. He pinched her nipple next, twisted it between his expert fingers, and then swiped his wet tongue over her peak. Every tug shot heat to her sex.
His mouth latched on to her nipple, pulling strongly, and she gasped.
Yes!
This was what she needed. What she’d been denying herself, fighting against. And for what? Because of some screwed-up sense of right and wrong?
The heat of his mouth disappeared, and a second later, cold metal encircled her nipple. She screamed, yanking against the restraints as he slowly tightened the clamp around her nub. Her body bucked, begging for release as her mind finally surrendered. She would have her release when he allowed it and not a moment before. A strange sense of freedom suffused her, and she let herself relax.
“Silence,” he ordered.
He closed another clamp over her second nipple. Pain wrapped around her, slight but amazing in its intensity. She bit her bottom lip, silencing her protests, her moans, her screams.
The feather returned to her collarbone, trailing light tickles along her skin, across her chest, between her tingling breasts. He circled the outside of each areola with the feather, the tickling caress contrasting with the tightness of the clamps. Her knees threatened to give out, but her bound arms kept her body stretched open, leaving all her skin bare for him to tease, to torture.
He blew warm air over her nipples, the feather trailing down her abdomen to tantalize the spot just north of where she needed his touch the most.
“You’ve been naughty, haven’t you, Lizzie?”
She nodded.
“Answer me!”
“Yes, Sir,” she squealed. God, she loved when he punished her. She was naughty on purpose so she could receive his special reprimands. He loved to punish her almost as she loved his harsh discipline.
She heard the feather whip back and tensed. It swished at her sex, a light tap of pressure against her sensitized flesh. He’d shaved her bare there only yesterday, and the skin was so fresh, so raw that the slightest touch made her quiver. The nipple clamps tightened, and she cried out.
“Are you sorry?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Surrender. Abandon. Freedom.
His hand cupped her sex, and she flexed her hips. He smacked her clit with the tips of his fingers, fire spreading in their wake. Liquid heat pulsed through her channel, trickling down her leg. “Bad girl. Don’t move.”