Shut Out Page 14

  She’d first encountered Frank at Kyle’s club. Once he’d laid claim to her after she’d forced Evan Adams out of her life for reasons that still remained mysterious to her, he had insisted they not attend anymore. Frank hadn’t liked putting her out there for show, didn’t like the club scene for them as a true D/s couple. Of course, he did it to control her. Ensuring that she stayed as isolated as possible was the first step in his plan.

  She glanced over at the large wooden box on her coffee table. Its dark mahogany wood, devoid of any decoration, meant more to her than any single item she owned or had ever owned in her life. Frank’s stash, she’d learned, once he’d confessed under questioning before being slapped in jail for attempted murder and extortion, did exist. Right under her feet, as it were. He’d been squirreling away cash—her damn cash—and hiding it in plain sight.

  It had been in that box, where he stored the sex toys, under a false bottom. The impressive collection of vibrators, dildos, and what not had hidden almost ninety-thousand dollars, nearly the amount she’d paid back already to creditors through bankruptcy proceedings. So when it was revealed, the court awarded it to her.

  Before she chickened out and let Frank and his memory force her from acting, she got up and headed for her bedroom. The few items of club-wear she still had were stuffed in the back of her closet. She dragged them out and prayed to the gods of lost baby weight she might still fit into them, before packing some into a large purse. The manager of The Suite, Shannon, Kyle’s fiancée, said she’d be allowed to change there. Jen had a bowl of popcorn and was watching TV when she emerged, heart pounding and face flushed with onrushing terror at facing that place again.

  “Well, thanks again for staying over.” She gripped the purse strap tight, hoping she didn’t appear as wigged out as she felt.

  “Sure thing.” Jen smiled then returned to whatever dreadful reality show blared from the television. “Have fun. I mean it.”

  “Oh, I’ll try,” she said, keeping it light and short as her heart played its terrifying rhythm against her ribs.

  The pressure to hire more people…hire more people, played havoc with her head as she drove the forty miles downtown, more or less on autopilot. The whole point of the night’s little undercover trip stayed fixed in her mind. She also wanted to refresh her memory as to how the club scene worked. It had been a damn long time since she’d darkened the door of such a place. With so much water under her personal bridge since then, the bridge might as well not exist.

  Lance had been making noises about converting their D/s service into something else. As of now, they had five private rooms, each its own theme and booked calendar from now until the foreseeable future. He wanted to open it up a bit so that the scheduling would not be so nightmarish and the profit margins a bit healthier. Not totally against that in concept, she needed to check out how a top-shelf, perfectly-run club did things from a customer’s perspective. So, in the name of research and continued small business success, she headed straight back into her worst nightmare—submission to a total stranger. She bit back tears and trembled in the overheated car.

  ****

  The Suite proved as tasteful and lovely as she remembered, the memory rush, surprisingly, not completely negative. She’d had some very amazing times there with Evan and a couple of mind-blowing sessions with Frank, on the rebound from her rejection of the one-time law firm intern. She stared at herself in the mirror. The corset highlighted her pregnancy-improved boobs without a doubt. She could pass for womanly, curvy in all the right places. No size-six like she’d maintained for years, but comfortable in her new, mature body. Of course that meant she had to ditch her custom-made leather pants and go with the garter belt, silk stockings, and lacy panties option, thanks to her new hip size.

  Damn, you are fine. She pep talked as she put her hair up, letting a few curly strands frame her face. Finally, she settled the mask over her eyes, adjusting the strap enough to leave on for awhile, no matter what she ended up doing.

  A soft knock at the door of her room signaled primping time over—show time. She sucked in a breath and followed Shannon out to the main room, forcing herself to recall the good memories and not let the one of Frank ruin it for her. Because a new reality hit then—she was big time, full-on, damp-pantied, hard-nippled, near-panting horny.

  Her autonomous nervous system took over, and she shivered in pleasant anticipation. She might get laid, after a bit of playtime, BDSM-style the likes of which she hated to admit—she missed. No one took security as seriously as Kyle. After the truth about Frank had finally emerged—that Kyle and his many layers of background checks and vetting had failed, letting a total faker into his club and into the life of one of his best customers—playing as a Dom at The Suite got harder than ever.

  She had registered under a pseudonym. Kyle honored her desire to remain completely anonymous, letting his manager, Shannon, handle the direct contact using the name she had provided without question. He trusted her motives, and she loved that about him. Even though she wanted to scope out potential new Doms for her stable at the Katrina loft not that far from this one.

  Shannon led her onto the stage and Sophie let her brain shut down, keeping her eyes downcast. She got to her knees when told to do so. Shoes appeared as the carefully chosen Doms presented themselves for the submissives to consider. The usual drill, and one that bored her some, gave her an inkling that the club scene might not be what she would do with Katrina’s. Her mind had already begun formulating different strategies, pondering a suburban location as a way to alleviate stress on her calendar and accommodate all the needy folks who wanted to be whipped, spanked, caned, shackled, and humiliated by total strangers in leather.

  A new set of shoes appeared and her neck moved of its own accord, earning her a swift yank of the chain attached to her collar. Her skin broke out in a cold sweat, then chills. Her poor, nearly-four-years-neglected body actually pulsed, throbbing as if being touched by the man looming over her, kissed by his lips, and bound by his hands. A tear slipped from under the mask when the men moved back. She crawled on all fours in one direction as if drawn by a homing device.

  When she stopped at his feet and he put a warm hand on her shoulder, she trembled, but this time with a jolt of desire that forced a groan from her, just under her breath. He helped her to her feet, frowning a little at the mask. But when he reached for it, to tug it off, she stopped him. Shannon appeared at his elbow and whispered in his ear, then shot her a sympathetic glance before disappearing into the gloom.

  His dark eyes narrowed, face clouded with a quick-tempered reaction she didn’t care for much. Then he nodded and led her out of the room, down the hall, and into a room lit with one candle. The St. Andrew’s Cross stood tall, beckoning her in ways she couldn’t comprehend.

  When he spoke, Brody’s words poured sweet, warm, Tennessee honey over her soul. “Now, let’s see what I can do for you, mystery woman….” He took off his coat and tie, standing there, perfect as ever, and studied her.

  Chapter Six

  Brody’s very brain burned. He was convinced that if he caught sight of a mirror, actual flames would be rising off his scalp. What a fan-fucking-tastic moment.

  The woman stood before him, face half covered by a mask he’d not liked at first, until he decided he did like it—because it gave her a mysterious aura, like a puzzle, his to solve. He sensed the lusty waves emanating from her as if he were a superhero, possessed of such ability. Lovely, creamy, rich-looking bare skin tempted him.

  He licked his lips, took a few steps toward her, and drew her hand to his mouth kissing it before leading her to the St. Andrew’s cross. Gently, he fastened her wrists, and let his fingertips trail down the underside of her arms, across the tops of her breasts, and to her waist. Then, lower, to her thighs, calves and ankles and finally he kissed the top of each of her feet that were encased in the best kind of fuck-me pumps—the shiny ones.

  He worked his slow, pleasant way back up, teasing t
he insides of her legs, just grazing the outside of a pair of black panties. He tingled from his head to his toes, but most especially right below his belt. Grinning, but holding back an odd sort of whooshing noise threatening to deafen him, he stepped away, loving how she writhed and tugged against her restraints.

  He’d never really taken time to observe a woman like this—a submissive who’d shown up at a club for this express purpose. Strange really, but the biggest turn-on he’d experienced in, well, his life, at least the part of it he remembered. He shook his head, not allowing any kind of stupid memory-witch—as he’d come to call the redhead who haunted him daily—ruin this for him. Nope. He wanted to go all out tonight and see how this Domination-thing really worked. No more spank-the-random-girl-while-he-fucked-her and Amber got to watch. He owned this shit.

  Mystery woman sighed, drawing attention back to his task. Forcing a go-slow approach in order to savor the sensation of her smooth, hot skin, he ran his fingers up her sides, across the tops of her breasts, her neck. Transfixed for a moment by the sight of the pulse beating in her long, lovely throat, he touched it. Leaned in and pressed his lips to it.

  The onrush of another memory almost left him collapsed in a heap at the bound woman’s feet. But he willed both of them to relax, stroking arms and shoulders while kissing his way up from where he’d started. When their mouths met and she allowed his tongue to probe and explore, his brain nearly exploded with a vision so clear and bright he whimpered. He cradled her face. Tasted the tang of her tears.

  Ripping his mouth from hers, he stepped away, unable to get his breath. Images rushed at him full force, blinding him even to the lovely woman in front of him. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, shivering uncontrollably.

  As quickly as they appeared, they vanished, snuffed out like a candle flame. His body roared into action, propelling him forward. He determined to do this, to be what the masked woman needed him to be. Not a weak, sniveling, whining, useless…

  No. Not tonight. He would not give in to her again.

  Dropping a hand onto the table that contained several instruments: a flogger, an alarming black leather bullwhip, clamps, a long stick, he gulped, finally choosing the only thing that seemed familiar. He trailed the flogger along her shoulders, breasts, smiling when she shivered, again, mesmerized by the pulse beat in her neck. She stayed quiet a long time—his mysterious treasure chest to unlock.

  Flicking her thighs and stomach with the soft leather, loving the small noises it drew from her throat, he watched as her creamy skin reddened under his attention. A raw, animal-like power rose in him and on its heels, lust so strong he wanted to come in his damn trousers. He touched his erection, pondering what in the hell he wanted anymore. What makes you think you can do this…thing?

  Clutching the flogger’s handle in a death grip while pain shot through him, he dropped to his heels against the wall. Pain bloomed in him, everywhere and nowhere. At once awful and wonderful, and on the heels of that, an anger so intense he gasped. Confusion warred with intent. Fury battled with remorse, all bracketed by a cavernous loneliness that made his chest ache.

  “Use it.”

  Brody looked up, startled by the sound of a female voice. The woman’s full lips parted, and she spoke again.

  “Use what you’re feeling right now. Don’t question it. Go with your gut.”

  He stepped up to his mystery woman, bound, spread, and at his mercy. Ran his hand up her arm to her neck, pondering how she understood his extreme tension. How her words prompted him to untie her and run away before he did something truly irreversible. Emotions he rejected burbled up to his surface, as he trembled with uncertainty, which pissed him off, and sent another shaft of strange pain and pleasure through his skull.

  “Who are you,” he whispered, licking his way up the long line of her neck. “I…I’m…not….” She exuded some sort of vibe that seemed to force him to his knees. To submit…to Her. The red headed devil woman—she was here in the room with him.

  He touched a strand of her deep brown hair.

  No, not Her.

  He blinked as the anger he repressed daily colored his vision. This cunt who haunted his nightly attempts at sleep with her taunts and jabs and whips stood before him, at his fucking mercy.

  He tightened his hand on the bitch’s arm and grabbed the bullwhip from the table. Unfurling it with some kind of newfound skill, he grimaced as his body raced ahead while his mind resisted. He would be the boss in this room, and this bitch had to pay for making him so miserable. For using him and turning him into a whiny little boy when she…. The sound of the loud crack of the whip splitting the air frightened him…then spurred him forward.

  When her cry of pain ripped through his subconscious, he stopped. His vision blurred and returned to normal. He saw her then…his…submissive. The woman’s skin glowed red, bleeding in some places. He glimpsed his hand, white-knuckled on the whip’s handle. Sweat dripped into one eye.

  What just happened? He remembered nothing after picking up the whip and facing her, his enemy. His Mistress.

  He dropped the instrument with a cry, and stumbled back, tripping and falling to the floor. The horror of what he’d done to a complete stranger that his stupid, fucked-up brain convinced him to whip relentlessly hit him, bringing a rush of nausea. That woman, the redheaded bitch, held him hostage, body and soul when…. When?

  “Fuck! Shit. Goddamn it….” He pounded his forehead with a fist, as if that would force lurking, scrabbling memories just under the surface of his stubborn brain to the light of day. “Why can’t I remember anything?”

  A loud sob broke his concentration. He scrambled to his knees across from the bound, bleeding, and crying woman. Then half-crawled, half-ran to her, his fingers hovering over her damaged legs—damage he had caused in some kind of trance state. The word professor leapt to the forefront of his brain. Then the classroom appeared again as clear as day, her at the front, done up like a Dominatrix for a movie, all leather-clad, high-booted, masked, and sexy as hell. But for the words spilling from her bright red lips.

  You’re my bitch, Brody. My little toy. Mine. If I catch you ogling sorority sluts again, you will regret it for the rest of your stupid life, do you understand?

  He opened his mouth to speak to her, but before he uttered a word, she had him pinned beneath her. They were both naked. Except for a heavy leather collar that choked him every time he tried to take a full breath and a mask over his eyes. But he felt her, fucking him, taking what she wanted while he just…laid there and let her.

  She tugged the chain connecting the clamps to his nipples. “Oh baby! Now! Now, Brody!”

  He heard her yell as his cue. But for what?

  He tried to focus on the here and now. To help the poor, innocent person he’d whipped so hard, her ragged sobs filled their private room. He, Brody, had hurt her. He unlatched the wrist restraints, flipped open the ankle bonds.

  She collapsed into his arms calling him Robert over and over again. He went with his gut and picked her up, cradled her to his chest, making nonsense sounds he hoped were comforting.

  Phantom, long-forgotten pain, and a deep, toothache-like agony settled in his shoulder. The shoulder he had to have constantly manipulated by team therapists. She had done that. That bitch had restrained him for a day, a whole twenty-four-hour period, his arms yanked up over his head and fastened into cuffs that dangled from her ceiling. An entire day he hung there, punishment for flirting with a girl not His Mistress a hallway of…Vanderbilt. He gasped.

  The woman in his arms had her face buried in his neck, her arms around him. He held onto her, cursing his rock-hard cock, his stupid lizard brain that still wanted to fuck, even after all this. Something about the pain memory made him yearn for a connection. He glanced down at mystery woman’s legs, striped and horrible, thanks to him. He touched one of the ugly marks. She flinched but didn’t let him go.

  He tilted her face up, thumbed the mask, and pondered taking it off
, but then she had her lips on his, kissing him so hard he lost track everything. He broke from her, puzzled but with a renewed focus, and reached for the bowl of condoms on the bedside table as she eased off her panties. She smiled, and took the foil packet from him, tossing it over his shoulder before leaning in to own his mouth again.

  Keeping their lips locked, he lifted her off his lap and down on to the soft, silky bed cover. “Who are you?” he asked when he was naked, between her legs, then inside her body.

  They cried out in unison when he stroked deep, as his entire existence coalesced around her. She shuddered and tightened around him, groaning as she climaxed.

  “Who are you,” he demanded again, propped up with one hand while reaching for her mask with the other. “Oh…” he sighed when she stopped him.

  “Come, Robert. Fill me…. Please…” she whispered.

  Her request triggered a reaction he’d never experienced. His face burned at a sudden bizarre flash of realization at who she must be. The release roared up from the depths of his soul, he moaned and obeyed her, tears dropping onto her skin. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sophie. I’m so, so sorry.” His voice rasped in his ears as he spoke, confusion and remorse and loss all forcing more tears. Sophie. Why had he used that name?

  “It’s okay.” She cradled him close, their bodies still connected, sweat slicking the space between them. “Robert.”

  She stroked his hair, and for the first time in his memory a one-hundred-percent sense of rightness suffused him. A sketchy thing, his memory, but he let it go and allowed it to just be.

  But she stirred, and he dropped down to his side just as she got up and retreated to the bathroom. “Don’t go. Please.”

  She shook her head, keeping her back to him then turned, and he saw a tear fall from under that stupid mask.