Chapter 2 #2
“Spoilsport.” Olivia looked around and headed for her sub-of-the-month, a pretty redhead seated with some of the Masters’ submissives.
Anne reached the bar, slid onto a barstool, and suppressed her groan at the pull on her sore ribs.
As she watched Cullen mix up some involved girly drink, she realized Ben was just about the same height—a good six-five or so.
Both men were big-boned and rough-hewn. Cullen’d probably score high in a Good Looks contest.
But Ben would unquestionably win in the More Deadly one, something she’d first grasped when seeing a girl harassed at Gabi’s bachelorette party. That night, he’d looked quite capable of ripping someone’s throat out—and wasn’t it perverse of her to find that incredibly hot.
“Did a bit of service,” Ben had said. It really, really showed.
“Nice Maleficent—you’ve sure got the required cheekbones.” Cullen stopped in front of Anne. Before she could give him her order, he put down a delicate ice-filled crystal glass and filled it from a bottle of sparkling water.
Anne stared. “Water?”
His mouth thinned. “If you ever imbibe on top of pain medications again, I’ll never serve you another drink.”
Z had shared.
Anne tapped her fingernails on the bar top. Unfortunately, she’d earned the reprimand. Cullen was compulsive about the no-impairment Shadowlands rules; he’d cut people off after one drink if they appeared affected. He’d have blamed himself if she’d come to harm.
So rather than taking offense, she answered mildly, “Fair enough.”
“And here I thought I’d need a crotch-guard to protect my pride ‘n’ joys from your snips.”
A chuckle came from Marcus.
Cullen poured the remainder of the water into a beer mug and clinked it against her glass before drinking. “You scared me last night, love.”
“Sorry, my friend. I hadn’t realized how potent the pills were.” She sipped the strawberry-flavored bubbly water. Not bad.
“You okay?”
“I’m just sore today. And my drug of choice this evening is only ibuprofen.” She’d never make the mistake of taking pain meds unless she intended to stay home. And maybe not then either. Cullen wasn’t the only one who’d been scared.
“Z took you off dungeon monitor duties tonight.”
“Z’s such a mother.”
“Nah, we’ve got it covered. The Feds are back in Tampa.”
Although Galen had resigned from the FBI, his partner Vance had stayed in—and both were out of town so often that they didn’t go on the roster. But when home, the two Masters enjoyed filling in. “In that case, it’s nice to have a break.”
“Are you fixin’ to play tonight?” Marcus asked in his deep, Southern-accented voice.
She hadn’t planned to because of her soreness, although she’d taken the time to dress up. A girl had to have standards, after all. “Play? There’s a chance I just might.” She felt herself smiling.
“Aye? And what lucky boy gets the Mistress tonight?” Cullen asked. “Been a while since I saw you look interested.”
“Indeed, I would have to agree.” A snifter was set on the bar top, and Z took the seat to her right. His intent gaze swept over her in a Dom’s automatic assessment.
She sighed, unable to summon any annoyance. Z did the same to all of the club members, submissive or Dominant, male, female, or gender-fluid. In his opinion, he was responsible for them all.
“Z. You’re just the person I needed to see,” she said. “I’d like to steal your security guard for an hour.”
Z looked taken aback for a moment.
Cullen choked on his water. “Ben? Ben’s the guard tonight. You want Ben?”
Z rubbed his lips, obviously smothering a smile at Cullen’s reaction. Then his gray gaze landed on Anne. His brows drew together. “He’s always insisted he was vanilla. Did he indicate he wanted a scene?”
“In an I’m-too-macho-to-ask-for-what-I-want way, yes. Most definitely.”
“You’re not one to misread a man’s intention.” Z’s calm response was gratifying. “I’ll send someone out for an hour while Ben takes a break. Would twenty-three hundred suit you?”
Eleven at night. Her favored time to have a session.
Early enough that the ambiance in the room would still hold an edge.
Late enough that the gung-ho players would have finished and not be impatiently waiting at a roped-off area for a turn.
She’d be able to take her time during the scene. “Perfect. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Just don’t break my guard, please.”
“Not a problem.” She hadn’t felt like breaking a man in a while, at least not in the same way she had before.
And lightweight or not, the guard dog would be fun to play with.
That night, Ben answered the thumping on the locked door and let his buddy Ghost into the Shadowlands. “Hey.”
“Got called in to relieve you. The boss says you want to play.” Vocal cord damage during an early battle had given Ghost a hoarse voice more suited to telling horror stories—and sounding horrified, as well. “Seriously?”
“Yep.” Ben grinned. “I figured it was time to liven up my life.”
“I guess it can’t be worse than getting shot at.
” The gray-haired vet should know. As Special Forces, he’d been in and out of every active shithole over the last twenty years.
Dressed in black jeans and a button-up shirt—Z’s minimum dress code—he crossed the room without a limp despite his leg prosthesis and tossed a crossword puzzle on the desk.
“It’s quiet tonight.” Ben tapped the membership list. “Mark off the members as they leave. If you’re not sure someone is stable—or if any combo of people feels hinky, call Z.”
“Roger that.”
A month ago Ben had cut back his hours, recommended Ghost, then given him the token training needed. The position required a miniscule amount of paperwork, a closed mouth, good fighting skills, and even more common sense. Z said if his security guard had to fight, he’d already failed.
Ghost settled into the chair and leaned back. “I do appreciate the job though. It’s interesting—and I was hell of bored.”
“I know that one.” Soldiers didn’t do retirement well.
Ben entered the club, feeling his anticipation rising. He’d been told to report to the dungeon in the back. As he crossed the main room, he gave it a careful study.
Wall sconces were dim in the shadowy room, except near the well-lit equipment along the walls and the center bar.
To the left was a munchie area with food, tables, and chairs.
On the right was the dance floor. Farther back, planters offered privacy for scattered sitting groups.
BDSM scenes were held in roped-off sections, and more seating had been provided for the viewers.
Even this late, people were dancing, and the scene areas were busy.
He had to say, the Shadowlands was damned sinister this evening. Innocent-looking schoolgirls—and boys—were wandering about at the mercy of some fucking ugly creatures. The place looked like a movie set for “Slaughter at Metropolis High.”
He’d been inside a few times, but always to report in to Z about something. Never as a spectator. The clubroom looked and sounded different now that he was to be a…a participant.
Not that he hadn’t paid attention when he’d been in here. Nah, he knew what he’d volunteered for. Had even seen Mistress Anne working over some poor schmuck before.
Now he’d be that poor bastard. Once again, he was being an idiot—like when he’d voluntarily taken the SERE course. Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape—yeah, he’d accepted he was going to get hurt. At the time, the knowledge had been a lead weight of determination in his gut.
Tonight was much the same. One lead weight…along with a full-fledged cockstand. Mistress Anne would take one look at him and know precisely what he wanted.
Maybe. He wasn’t exactly sure himself.
On the way through the room, he passed various scenes. Flogging. One where a zombie Dom was dumping wax on a woman’s tits—although she did seem very onboard with the idea.
Not for him. Safe, sane, and consensual or not, he’d never be down with hurting a woman, which was why he’d known he wasn’t any Dom type. Why he’d confidently told Z he was “vanilla.”
He’d never given a thought to a gorgeous female hurting him.
Totally different mindset.
A scream made him stop. Tied to a post, little Uzuri was trying to evade a man caning her. “Red,” she shouted, but the dumb fuck was too caught up to understand she’d safeworded.
Ben walked right in and trapped the swinging cane in his palm. Hurt like a son of a bitch. He yanked the stick away. “She said red.” His voice came out threatening enough that the Dom paled and jerked back.
“Thanks, Ben.” Vance Buchanan slapped his shoulder and tugged the cane from his hand. Dressed as Frankenstein’s monster, he wore the gold-banded vest that marked a dungeon monitor.
“Not a problem.” Good to know that if he hadn’t been present, a DM would’ve rescued the pretty black submissive. Olivia slipped past him and tucked an arm around Uzuri, untying her with the other hand.
“Hey, I didn’t hear her,” the asshole protested and took a step toward the little trainee, who cringed back. “Listen, Uzuri, I—”
“Stay put, please.” Vance gripped the Dom’s arm hard enough to silence him, then lifted a quizzical brow at Ben. “I didn’t know you provided security in here too.”
Looked as if Buchanan had shit under control. “I don’t.” Ben waved a couple of fingers near his forehead and headed for the back.
Mistress Anne rested on a stone corner bench in the dungeon room, her back against the wall with her left leg outstretched.
She’d pulled part of her hair up, spiking it into two horn-like shapes.
A black, ankle-length robe covered a my-mouth-went-dry latex catsuit that clung to every one of her sweet curves.
A long zipper ran down the front, and he wanted to pull it down more than he wanted his next breath.
And his fucking jeans were way too tight.
She watched him walk in, her light eyes unreadable…until her gaze reached his crotch.
He could swear he saw a dimple appear. Yeah, she was sadistic.