Chapter 2
Chapter Two
At the end of his three miles, Ben slowed to a jog and then walked the final block. Not that he’d cool down much in the humid Florida morning. It was only March, but the heat had already moved in. Growing up in New York, he’d often frozen his ass off in the mornings. At times, he missed those days.
Didn’t particularly miss the snow, though.
Once inside his warehouse, he pulled off his tank top, using it to wipe himself down as he trotted up the stairs to his living quarters and hit the fridge for a bottle of vitamin water. Designer shit but didn’t taste too bad.
After an hour of weights in his home gym and a shower, he grabbed a fast-food breakfast in the car. He reached Sawgrass Lake Park as the afternoon sunlight slanted through the incoming storm clouds over the swamp.
Perfect.
Once his tripod was set up, he snapped a few shots of a graceful Little Blue Heron. Amazing how it managed to be both small and dignified—a lot like Anne.
All too soon the pelting rain began. Ben edged into a picnic shelter and took a final picture.
Something, some movement, sparked a memory of peering through a scope, taking up the slack in the trigger, the world fading as he became hyperaware of the winds and light.
Slow, steady pressure on the trigger, releasing a breath and pausing at the bottom of the exhale. Kill shot.
No.
As Z had taught him, he breathed through the flashback and let it dissipate.
Gone.
Thank you, Z. He owed the man more than he could say.
After tucking his camera in its waterproof bag, he settled down on the concrete bench in the shelter.
Owed the man for the treat last night as well.
Fuck, but the woman had a beauty like the morning after a New York blizzard. Hair the color of dark walnut, eyes the gray-blue of a winter sky. Stark and striking enough to stop a man’s heart.
Her smallest smile would delineate her sharp cheekbones, but her real smile showed her dimples and changed her entire appearance. Made her human. A woman. And one he wanted so bad he could taste it.
Wind gusted into the shelter, whipping his hair around his face.
The world flashed with a lightning strike.
Five seconds later, he heard the crack of thunder announcing an approaching storm cell filled with fury.
He loved Florida thunderstorms, even if they occasionally set off the messed-up storage program in his head.
PTSD—and what idiot psych-tender came up with that phrase?
The lightning reminded him of the first time he’d heard Anne’s low laugh. It’d been the night of the bachelorette party when he’d actually seen her without her Mistress armor. When everything that was her had sizzled into him and stopped his heart.
Not an hour later, she’d seen one of her friends being harassed and had been willing to step up to the plate and take on the assholes.
That’s when he’d known he was in serious trouble.
Anne. She had a pretty name. Short. Terse.
Much like the woman herself. She was completely different from the last woman he’d dated, who babbled at the drop of a hat.
Or if a hat didn’t drop. Or if the sun rose.
Or set. Or if she was breathing. Jesus. Wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d been interested in anything besides what she was babbling.
But the Mistress didn’t babble. And she not only listened, she listened with all her attention.
That, right there, could steal a man’s breath.
But.
She was a Mistress. There was where the problem came in.
The woman had a rep. Not only was she a Domme, but also a fucking sadist. And although she played with quite a variety of submissives, the ones she kept around tended to be a type: mid-twenties, slender, model gorgeous.
The club members called them Anne’s “pretty boys.”
Settling down with his back against a shelter post, he put a boot on the bench and propped his arm on his knee. Scars ran down his muscular forearm, more across his thick knuckles. Even as a teen, he hadn’t been “pretty.”
Lotta hard miles since then. In fact, he’d scared more than a few females.
But he hadn’t scared Anne.
He grinned. She was a take-no-prisoners, never-back-down, bossy woman. And fuck, he got off on that. Before last night, he’d hoped that if he had a taste of her, got a little closer, his curiosity would be satisfied. Instead, like the first shot of a fine whiskey, she’d teased his appetite.
Now he’d set his sights on the woman.
And—as his team in the Rangers had witnessed—he never missed.
“…a cane works well for that,” Anne said to Olivia as she walked into the Shadowlands. They’d been arguing over their favorite discipline methods on the walk in from the parking lot. “Check this one out.” Anne held up the extra-long black cane which she’d chosen to embellish her Maleficent costume.
“Jesus, woman, I thought I told you to stay in bed.” The growling voice came from her left.
The other Domme’s eyes widened.
Anne’s spine snapped straight, and she turned to look at Z’s security guard.
Rising from his seat, Ben scowled at her. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re—”
She lifted her chin.
He stared at her, muttered, “Fuck,” and dropped into his chair. Still scowling, but silent.
Interesting.
She was even more intrigued at his, “Sorry, Mistress.”
He didn’t know better, didn’t know that he should call her Mistress Anne, rather than Mistress, as if he belonged to her.
She wasn’t finding herself annoyed.
Unable to resist, she pushed back her black cape, walked behind the oversized desk, and stopped in front of him. When he tried to stand, she set her hand on his shoulder to halt him. She took a second to appreciate the bunching muscles before resting her fingertips on his cheek.
He was so tall his gaze didn’t have far to lift to meet hers.
“Benjamin. I value your concern, but if you speak so disrespectfully to me again, I’ll put you in the stocks and whip your ass.”
Emotion imbued his dark tan with a lovely reddish tone. His golden-brown eyes studied her a careful minute, and then, to her surprise, he rumbled out, emphasizing each word, “Jesus, woman, I thought I told you to stay in bed.”
As she stared at him, his head cocked slightly to one side. The gauntlet had been thrown.
Her first reaction was anger—but she wasn’t a baby Domme to let a subbie unsettle her emotions. She studied his eyes, his expression. He wasn’t being defiant as much as…challenging.
In fact, he’d asked for what he wanted in the only way that someone like him would. He wasn’t an insecure submissive who’d beg.
A spark of interest flamed. Not a boy. Under her fingers, his jaw was scratchy with a heavy five-o’clock shadow. He was a man. And a challenge. She felt her lips tilting up and enjoyed the way his gaze shifted to take that in.
“Benjamin,” she said, “you’re just full of surprises.” She held his eyes. “If I ask Z to take you off the door for an hour, what would you say?”
A corner of his mouth twitched up. “Thank you, Mistress?”
Amusement slid in to mix with her interest. “Good answer.” She squeezed his shoulder—it was like patting a brick wall. “I’ll see you later.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Mistress, I look forward to that.”
The look in his eyes, assessing and intrigued, sent a trickle of heat to her nether regions. Enough that second thoughts would be wise.
She didn’t feel like being wise.
When she rejoined Olivia, the other Domme was frowning.
As the door to the main room closed behind Anne, all that was the Shadowlands washed across her. The scents of sex and leather with a hint of citrus cleanser. Perfume. The sharp tang of alcohol wipes indicating someone doing needle play.
On the dance floor to the right, submissives in school costumes danced with ghoulish figures to Athamay’s “Restrict and Obey.” Master Z had told the submissives to wear “student” clothing and that any not attired properly would be caned.
Then he’d instructed the Dominants that they were to dress as monsters—he didn’t care what kind.
Two newer subs entered behind Anne and Olivia. Pigtails, short plaid skirts, knee-highs. Just inside the door, they came to a sudden halt. Obviously, the young women had expected to see professor-attired Doms who would match their schoolgirl outfits.
What they got were nightmares. One made an “eeping” sound.
Anne glanced around the room. Holt was attired as Freddy Krueger.
Master Raoul as King Kong had his hands all over his slave Kim.
Seated at the bar was Marcus—an elegant Imhotep from the Mummy—being served by Wolfman Cullen. What looked like blood stained Cullen’s ripped shirt.
Worried whispers came from the submissives.
Lovely effect, Z. Anne exchanged a smile with Olivia.
Cullen noticed Anne and Olivia at the entrance and lifted a bottle in an acknowledgment and welcome.
God, she loved this place. Here, the Mistresses were considered equal to the Masters. Competence, skill, power—those qualities were required for the Shadowlands title. Genitalia weren’t a factor.
As she started forward, Olivia grasped her arm. “Did I seriously hear you say you’ll punish Ben? Have you gone stark-raving bonkers?”
Everyone loved Z’s guard dog.
Anne pursed her lips. “Possibly. But life’s been boring lately.”
“Boring?” Olivia’s disapproving look could have been patented by Anne’s mother. “I’d say you’ve had enough fun recently since you’re moving like my aged grandmother. You have a limp—and a bruise on your face.”
Well, hell, she’d thought she was walking quite nicely. Then again, an experienced Domme’s powers of observation matched a superhero’s, and Olivia had well earned her Mistress title. Anne shrugged. “Just a few leftovers from work.”
“Right.” Olivia fell into step with a vampirish smile enhanced by the long plastic fangs. “Are you going to let me watch Z shred you into confetti for touching his security guard?”
“He’ll do no such thing.” I hope. “Go find your sweetie and play.”