Chapter 2
Devil’s Pointe welcomed him as it always did, familiar, contained, comfortable.
Shadows pooled where the flickering amber sconces didn’t reach. The air held the bite of leather and the heat of spent desire. Music pulsed beneath the playroom’s soundtrack: the crack of a whip, the slap of skin, and the low, guttural sound of someone finally giving in.
This was Rhys’s element. Nothing pulled at his focus. Nothing tested his patience. Here, he had space to breathe.
Unlike working inches from Gaby Flores and pretending she didn’t affect him.
It had been three weeks of hearing her voice across conference tables.
Three weeks of catching her scent in the corridor, citrus threaded with something darker, slipping under his defenses before he could brace for it.
Three weeks of watching her concentrate, argue, push back against him, bending without breaking. Three weeks of not touching her.
He’d come to the club tonight because he needed distance and distraction. He wasn’t here to play, even though his body ached with a restless, tightly leashed need he hadn’t felt in years.
Instead, he monitored, a discreet presence moving through the playroom with purpose. He steered well clear of the playground, the waterfall, and the swing, places where memory lingered and still felt raw.
For her, it had all been an act.
She hadn’t come to him open or seeking. She’d come watching, listening, investigating. The lies had been justified. Undercover work demanded that. But knowing the reason didn’t soften the impact. They were lies all the same.
For a man who had built his reputation on insight, the blind spot stung. Because, with Gaby, he’d let himself imagine more.
That was a mistake. He didn’t do more.
Because some wounds didn’t heal. They waited to be torn open again.
Rhys stopped in the center of the playroom and deliberately set thoughts of Gaby aside, refocusing on the assignment he’d accepted for the evening.
To his left, a suspension scene unfolded.
Knotted hemp encased silken curves and pale skin.
Long blonde hair brushed the floor. The sub’s breathing was fast but controlled.
Fingers pink, a positive sign of good circulation.
The dom’s solid stance and clear commands showed he was in full control. No intervention required.
To his right, impact play on the padded A-frame had drawn a sizeable crowd. Rhys moved closer, evaluating as he always did, quiet, methodical, detached.
The domme used a rubber flogger. Her movements were practiced and even. Still intense, still packing a bite. The sub’s cries rang out, his body moving toward each stroke, not away. Experience told Rhys this was release, not distress.
After a few more resounding thwacks, the domme checked in. Her sub answered with a raspy, breathless “Green, mistress,” followed by a desperate “more.” Rhys’s certainty solidified. He hadn’t lost his instincts.
He resumed his slow circuit of the room, scanning constantly. Couples filled the space tonight. They exuded connection, continuity, and choice. He’d once believed in permanence. Now, he no longer afforded himself that luxury.
A discordant note rose from the back of the room. He recognized the sound instantly. Not pleasure or the cadence of darker needs being met. A call to action.
He moved instantly, already assessing as he closed the distance. The bottom’s fingers had blanched white, signaling too-tight restraints and impeded circulation. The dom held a slapper paddle in midair, ready to carry on. Confident but inexperienced, he had missed the signs.
Rhys stepped up to the ropes, voice quiet but firm. “Hold. Restraint check.”
The dom stiffened, focus realigning. Then he dropped the paddle and quickly adjusted the restraints, speaking to her in calming tones.
In seconds, color returned to her fingers, and she relaxed.
Crisis averted. When the man glanced his way, Rhys inclined his head and stepped back, letting the scene resume.
There was no cause to stop it. No argument or resistance to his correction. There never was with him.
The club still answered his need for control and authority. It simply didn’t answer his desire.
Not long after, another problem broke out. This time it was panic—sharp and unmistakable. The new dom was chasing a reaction rather than reading his sub. Her eyes were glassy. She wasn’t lost in subspace; her breathing was too fast. Her body locked, not in fight or flight but frozen.
With a single command, Rhys ended it.
“It’s over, Jordan.”
The twenty-something glanced his way. His pupils were nearly as wide as his bottom’s, soaring in top space. But he accepted a DM’s judgment, took a deep breath, and backed off.
Rhys freed her himself, lifting her when her knees buckled.
“Get a blanket,” he ordered, his voice pitched to cut through the younger man’s confusion.
Jordan moved, slower than Rhys preferred, but was back in seconds since aftercare stations were everywhere.
Wrapped up and warm, she curled against Rhys as he carried her from the playroom to the indoor lounge, finding a vacant couch in a dark, quiet corner. He held her, speaking low and steady, until her trembling eased. By then, Jordan looked more aware, still shaken, but teachable
Aftercare was neither optional nor performative. It was an essential duty.
He handed her over to the young dom.
“I’m sorry,” Jordan said, voice raw as he gathered her close. “I got caught up.”
“Did she give you her safeword?” Rhys asked.
“No, Master Rhys,” the sub whispered, voice barely there. “I should have—before I couldn’t.”
“Your name?”
“Cissy, sir.”
“You’re both new. Mentoring would serve you well.”
They nodded.
“Could you do it?” Jordan asked.
“Ordinarily, I would be honored to, but I’m tied up with work and monitoring.” Seeing his disappointment, he added, “I’ll speak with Master Dev and see who’s available.”
“We would appreciate that, sir,” the younger man said.
From a fellow dom, the formal address was unnecessary and made him feel older than he was. "Make sure she drinks plenty of water," he told him. “Chocolate sometimes helps. Talk it through, but no more scenes tonight.”
“Yes, Master Rhys,” they said together.
He gave them an encouraging smile. “We’ll get you where you want to be.”
With Cissy stable and Jordan clear-eyed, he returned to the playroom.
Leland was circulating when he arrived.
“You’re not on duty tonight,” Rhys said.
“Your relief’s running late. Flat tire,” Leland replied. “You’ve been on since six—go get a drink. I’ll cover until Boone gets here.”
Rhys scanned the room. Every station was full. Typical of a Saturday.
“I’ve already intervened twice.”
“Full moon,” Leland said dryly.
As if summoned, Boone appeared in the doorway looking harried.
“I’ll brief him,” Leland offered, “then join you for a whiskey.”
Rhys snorted. “You drink your rotgut. I’ll have a single-malt Scotch, neat.”
He waved off Boone’s rushed apology and headed down the hall into the Florida night. The heat and humidity hit him like a slap after the club’s cool interior, but he was getting used to it.
The bar lay to the left. He took a few steps, maybe four, then he saw her.
Dark curls spilled down her back. Golden skin revealed by a backless halter showcasing the delicate curve of her spine. Long legs that could wrap around a man and pull him in.
He stopped cold, a warning hammering through him. Rhys drew a long breath in and let it out just as slowly.
Focus, Langston.
The pull between them wasn’t the problem. Trust was.
Needing distance from her gravitational pull—and the memory of how she’d melted under his hands, submitting when she wasn’t submissive—he pivoted away from the bar and from her.
He strode down the sloping yard toward the quiet of the dock, letting the night swallow the temptation whole.
***
Gaby slid onto a barstool, the leather cool against her bare thighs as she waited for Mateo, who was tending bar tonight.
He approached, easy grin, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, casual in a way that screamed dom whether at the office or the playroom.
She knew she wore far less than she ever would at work, and heat crept up her neck to her face.
The overlap between the staff at Devlin & Associates and this place still surprised her.
“What will it be?” he asked.
“Vodka and lime—” She caught herself. “Actually, I’m driving. Make it a ginger ale. Lots of ice.”
He grabbed a glass. “Why are you heading out already? It’s early.”
“I’m more tired than I thought.”
Mateo snorted. “It’s just past ten o’clock. You’re twenty-eight, not eighty like my abuela.” He glanced over her shoulder, understanding clicking into place. “I see the problem. A British one.”
It had to be Rhys. She forced herself not to swivel on the stool and look for him.
“That’s not it,” she lied, heat creeping up her neck.
He ignored her denial completely. “I don’t know what Langston’s issue is, but I’m off in thirty. I’ll introduce you to someone who’s interested in a pretty little newbie with a head full of curls.”
She resisted the urge to smooth her hair, which had probably frizzed to three times its volume in the humidity.
“No thanks. I’ll just head home.”
Mateo muttered under his breath, something that sounded like, “Stubborn. Just like him.”
He finished making her drink and slid it across the bar. The glass arrived cold and sweating, bubbles snapping above the rim. She lifted it and took a long swallow. It didn’t come close to cooling the ache in her chest.
She hadn’t come for the club. She’d come for Rhys, hoping to talk to him away from work, to finally explain.
Since the rescue, they’d spoken about business, nothing more.
They disagreed on some things, but she’d tried to keep it professional.
He’d been guarded. Nothing like the man who had tied her wrists beneath a waterfall and made her feel so much, it both overwhelmed and scared her.