Doms of Dark Haven

Chapter One

Torin Carter snarled and pushed his way through the crowd.

Three weeks ago he'd been assigned a partner he didn't want: Mira Araceli.

Despite the fact he didn't want to be teamed with anyone, especially a female, Torin believed in rules, and he was inflexible in his adherence to them.

If Hawkeye, in his infinite wisdom, had decided Torin and the so-sexy-he-was-going-to combust Mira were stuck together, they were stuck together. And that meant he had to keep his legendary libido in check. He'd been doing okay, that was until Mira had shed her clothes and exposed her pretty little ass and freshly shaved pussy to him two nights ago.

He curled his right hand into a fist when he finally found her.

His partner was strapped over a spanking bench, her long, Victorian-style gown and a stupid number of layers of ruffled lace were tossed over her waist. Not only were her delectable, round butt cheeks completely exposed, but she was being flogged by Blake Miller. Thank God she had on a very modern thong; otherwise he would have had no control of his fraying temper.

Torin had nothing personal against the puny man—well, besides the fact he was wielding a leather flogger that was turning Mira's butt pink.

He'd only seen Mira's naked rear once. Because her body aroused him so much, it had taken him less than thirty seconds to jack off after he'd tossed her out of his bedroom.

Blake caught her full on with the flogger, and her hips swayed from side to side. Little vixen obviously loved getting spanked.

His momentary relief at actually finding her faded and became a torch of anger directed as much at Blake as at her.

Right now Torin Carter was a dangerous man.

“Only five more, pet,” Blake said. He drew back his arm again and soundly smacked Mira with the leather straps.

Mira rose up as much as the restraints allowed, and arched her back.

Even from a few feet away, Torin had heard the difference in the intensity of the stroke. Blake was taking Mira to more extreme pain levels. From her reaction, the blow had clearly stung as it was meant to.

Fury overcame reason.

Through the years, he'd played with dozens of women, most of them at this club. He'd enjoyed showing up and having a new woman kneel at his feet each time.

But this was different. This was Mira.

Despite Dark Haven's rules, despite the fact his partner was obviously a willing participant, Torin acted.

He grabbed the smaller man's wrist. If Torin exerted a bit more downward pressure, the man would be on his knees. Still more and the bones in Miller's wrist would snap. Part of Torin wished the other man would give him the excuse.

“Playtime's over, Blake.”

Mira obviously recognized the sound of his voice, and she froze, becoming silent and still. Smartest thing she'd done today. Today? Make that in the past three weeks.

Torin glanced at the gathering crowd. There were plenty of doms and subs captivated by the scene he was creating. Waiters and waitresses continued on their rounds, too highly trained to stop and gawk. A dungeon monitor stopped nearby, his arms folded across his chest.

Everyone but Torin was dressed for the evening's Charles Dickens theme. In his fury, he'd stormed past Destiny at the door. Bad-mannered, ill-tempered bastard that he was, he'd ignored the club's theme night and Destiny's protests that he couldn't come inside. He'd cut the receptionist, in her revealing and attractive purple formal wear, a quick don't-fuck-with-me smile. She'd set her mouth in a frown that showed off her lip piercing perfectly.

Now, deep inside the caverns of Dark Haven, he realized he looked completely out of place. Instead of a fancy frock coat, he was wearing jeans, uncivilized boots, and a brown leather bomber jacket. Not that he cared.

His focus was totally on the immobile woman strapped to the spanking bench.

“Move along, boys and girls,” he said to the doms and the couple of dommes who were still staring.

“Trouble?”

Xavier, legendary owner of San Francisco's Dark Haven dungeon, calmly walked over; the crowd parted to let him through.

“Carter interrupted my scene.” Blake all but sputtered the words as he struggled to pull away.

After flicking a nonexistent speck of dirt from his elegant black frock coat, Xavier studied Torin. “By 'Carter,' you mean Master Torin?” Xavier asked, maintaining decorum. Despite the tension, no matter what kind of tension, Xavier never raised his voice. Trouble in the club was handled professionally, defused by the power of the man's mystery and magnetism.

Torin struggled to maintain his own composure. He was accustomed to being in charge, alpha even in a pack of alphas. But here, Xavier was law. Torin met the more controlled man's eyes.

Blake—Torin wasn't one to extend the courtesy of addressing the man as Master Blake, no matter what Xavier insisted—had to tip back his head to look at them both.

“The woman Blake's beating—”

“Sub,” Blake interrupted. “At Dark Haven, she's a sub.”

“The woman,” Torin corrected, tightening his grip inexorably, “is my partner.

As such, she is under my care and protection.” More than anyone, Xavier would understand what that meant.

“Fine job you're doing of taking care of her,” Blake said.

Torin exerted a bit more pressure. The other man paled.

“No one, no one, but me touches her,” Torin said.

Mira struggled against her bonds and made tiny mewing sounds. Since she wasn't shooting off her mouth, she was obviously gagged. At least that was one smart thing Blake had done. Gagging the unruly Ms. Araceli was a supremely good idea. Torin should have done it weeks ago.

With his left hand, Torin flipped the material of her dress back down, covering her ass. Even though she was wearing a scrap for panties, he could tell she was dripping with arousal. Dear God, he couldn't wait to get her alone.

“Maybe we should ask the sub what she wants,” Blake said.

“Excellent idea,” Xavier said.

Torin disagreed. Asking her anything was a bad idea. God only knew what she'd say when that gag came out of her mouth.

He hoped, for both their sakes, that she was as intelligent as he believed. If not, trouble was already on slow boil.

Xavier waved over the young blond dungeon monitor.

With a nod to acknowledge the order, the man moved toward Mira.

Torin struggled against the instinctive caveman act. He wanted to be the one to detach her from the bondage. He wanted to toss her over his shoulder, drag her back to the safety and seclusion of the Hawkeye house where they were training together then he would soundly beat her himself.

She'd been asking for it since they'd become partners.

Torin realized it was partially his fault she was here in the first place. But damn it, he'd had no idea how serious she was about getting her desires met.

Having no choice at this point but to follow Dark Haven's protocol, he watched as the dungeon monitor systematically unhooked the clips that held her firmly against the leather spanking bench.

“Master Torin, you can release Master Blake,” Xavier said. His tone brooked no disagreement.

Reluctantly Torin loosened his grip. “Drop the flogger,” he told Blake.

“I—”

“If you don't,” he said with a quick smile, “you're giving me a reason to break your wrist.”

Elegant, calm, in control, Xavier nodded toward another dungeon monitor. The man moved in and extended a hand toward Blake. The dom glared at Torin before turning over the flogger.

“Now release Master Blake,” Xavier said to Torin, his tone still not wavering.

Slowly Torin followed instructions.

Blake rubbed his bruised skin. Torin had a moment of regret that the man's wrist was still functional.

The dungeon monitor helped Mira from the bench and held on to her arm for a few seconds, obviously giving her time to catch her bearings and get her circulation back. Torin scowled. He'd meant it when he said he didn't want anyone touching her.

For a second she looked at Torin. Her brown eyes were wide, focused on him.

She blinked, and then, seeming to recognize her error in staring at him, she dropped her gaze.

Jesus God.

What the hell had he been thinking in not making her submit?

The little sub had begged him to flog her. More than begged she'd also cajoled.

And when that had failed, she'd, in her charming way, even demanded, trying to goad him.

He preferred to play with superbly trained subs he might or might not ever see again. He'd never had an exclusive relationship with a sub, had never collared a woman. In his line of work, being moved around the country or planet depending on Hawkeye's needs, it had never seemed prudent. He'd never even been tempted.

He'd never played with a colleague either.

He had rules. Rules were rigid. They kept the world in order.

Still, two nights ago, she'd gone as far as to crawl into his bedroom completely naked, his leather belt held delicately in her mouth. He'd drawn on his adherence to rules—well, rules and the mental reserves developed from a lifetime of studying martial arts—to send her away and lock his door.

The dungeon monitor secured her hands behind her back and then exerted pressure on her shoulders so that she knelt before them.

“Take out the gag,” Xavier said.

Shit.

The dungeon monitor unbuckled the gag and slowly drew it away. She swallowed several times, and Torin couldn't take his gaze off her. Mira was as lovely as she was determined.

Her long black hair was pinned back in Victorian fashion, and a few tendrils had escaped their confines. The strands curved alluringly across her cheeks and at her nape.

Her gown was cut fairly low, in a way he was pretty damn sure would have been scandalous when Queen Victoria had sat on the British throne. The style of Mira's dress emphasized the alluring swell of her breasts. Her exposed skin had a lovely olive tone that spoke of her Spanish heritage.

On her knees, her head bowed, she was exquisite. And he was nearly undone.

“You are…?” Xavier asked, looking at Mira.

“Mira Araceli, Sir.”

“My Liege,” Torin corrected. “You will address Master Xavier as 'my Liege.'”

She looked up at him, then instantly back down. In front of everyone, he'd corrected her, and he knew she hadn't missed the fact he was establishing even more firmly his dominance over her.

“Yes, Sir,” she said without a hint of her customary defiance.

“Now answer Master Xavier's question.”

“My name's Mira Araceli, my Liege,” she said softly, more softly than he'd ever heard her speak.

The complete contradiction to the Mira Araceli he knew stunned him. Even when she'd crawled into his bedroom, she'd taken the lead, and that's what he expected from her. Hawkeye didn't waste his time hiring women, or men, who weren't leaders, who weren't resourceful. In addition to providing personal security services to the rich and famous, Hawkeye, Inc. employees operated in the world's most hostile environments.

Mira had passed the Hawkeye screening process, and Torin had taken the time to read her personnel file along with every report she'd written. She'd been in the Middle East, and she and her client had been the only survivors of a gun battle.

She knew how to remain levelheaded in stressful situations; she knew how to handle herself. So this…

And why the hell hadn't he recognized her true submissive nature?

He'd thought she was likely a masochist. That wouldn't have shocked him. In their line of work, raw, nasty, gritty hook-ups were common, a way to celebrate being alive, a way to remind themselves they were still human.

Most of the personal security agents he knew were adrenaline junkies. Some drove too fast or burned through the gears on a crotch rocket; others signed up for extended tours and crawled through jungles or endured a mouthful of one-hundred-ten-degree sand. A handful he knew enjoyed sadomasochism; it was another way to fuel the fire.

He'd heard that the infamous Ms. Inamorata, Hawkeye's right-hand woman, even dabbled in the world of BDSM. He wasn't sure he believed the rumor, and even if it were true, he had no idea which side she would be on. The woman was tough enough to chew nails. He could picture her as a domme with tall, spiky stiletto heels. He couldn't see her as a sub, but then again he'd never pictured Mira as a sub either.

Xavier spoke, cutting into Torin's thoughts. “I take it, Ms. Araceli, that you were willingly engaged in a scene with Master Blake?”

Torin snapped his back teeth together. Dark Haven might be Xavier's club, but Mira was Torin's partner. “Xavier—”

She interrupted Torin's protest, saying, “Yes, my Liege.”

Fuck a goat, the woman had just given Torin another reason to punish her.

She continued either not recognizing or, more likely, ignoring Torin's clenched jaw.

“My Liege, I approached Master Blake when I arrived. He made certain to ask if I was alone.”

“Goddamn it!”

Xavier raised a hand to silence him. “Master Torin states you're under his protection.”

Even on the best of days, Torin didn't keep his temper under tight control. As it was, he figured he had another, oh, forty-five seconds of patience left. A minute, tops.

“Ms. Araceli?” Xavier prompted.

“Well…”

“A yes or no will suffice, Ms. Araceli.”

Chapter Two

Torin silently counted to ten, waiting for her answer.

“I—” She looked at Torin. She swallowed. “We—”

“Choose wisely,” Torin warned. He had no claim on her, and they both knew it.

But she was smart enough to realize they'd end up back at the same house tonight. They were stuck together for as long as Hawkeye said or until one of them admitted defeat. Torin figured that would be at least several months, if not years.

The next few seconds were critical to her, to them both, to Blake's safety.

Despite his demand that people move away, several couples had gathered closer to better hear what was being said.

Finally, after swallowing, she reached the right choice and said, “Yes, my Liege. We're partners.”

“Then the decision to engage in a scene with Master Blake was not yours to make?”

Any other time he might have acknowledged Xavier's skill. As it was, with Blake standing there, onlookers greedily drinking in the scene, and Mira on her knees needing to be punished for her behavior, Torin wanted the drama to be finished and wanted her alone, subjected to his wrath.

“Mira?” Xavier prompted.

“Technically he—”

“Mira!” Torin snapped.

She swallowed and then licked her lower lip. She tipped back her head and looked directly at Xavier, avoiding all contact with Torin. “No, my Liege. As you said, the decision to give myself to Master Blake was not mine to make.” She bowed her head. “I'm sorry, my Liege.” She then looked at Blake. “I apologize, Master Blake.”

Apologizing to the whiny bastard who'd been beating her? Torin closed the distance between them and dug his hand in her hair. Pins scattered across the ceramic-tiled floor.

“You broke the rules of the club, Ms. Araceli,” Xavier said.

“I will deal with my sub,” Torin said.

Always the professional, no matter how much it pissed off Torin, Xavier crouched in front of her. Only the three of them could hear what was being said.

“Since it's your first visit to my club, you need to know that Master Torin is well within his rights to punish you for your behavior. It's also at my discretion as to whether or not I will personally punish you.”

Torin felt her tremble.

“I'm going to give you a choice. I can turn you over to Master Torin, or I can call you a taxi. If you decide that I should call you a taxi, you will not be welcome at Dark Haven again.”

Torin tightened his fist in her hair and saw her wince.

“Thank you, my Liege.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I was disobedient to Master Torin.”

Master Torin.

Goddamn, his cock throbbed.

She glanced at him. “I'm sorry…Sir.”

“I'll leave this between the two of you, then?” Xavier said, standing and looking at Torin.

“I'll be taking my sub to the Medieval Room, if you'll excuse us?” He nodded to Xavier and to Blake. Easy to be magnanimous when you'd won, especially when the loser was cradling his wrist.

Torin kept his fist in her hair, not pulling, just exerting a small amount of pressure.

In all his years practicing BDSM, he'd never touched a sub in anger. He refused to allow her to be the exception. He would punish her because she deserved it, needed it, wanted it, and because it was a house expectation. But he wouldn't do it until his temper was fully contained.

He looked at the blond dungeon monitor and said, “I need a collar and a leash.”

Mira gasped. He tightened his grip, silently warning her to keep quiet. She'd pushed him as far as he'd allow.

The man snapped his fingers, and one of the waitresses dashed off. Dark Haven catered to all needs and kept an assortment of toys available for instances much like this one. Tonight he was particularly grateful for Xavier's foresight.

“Turn up the music,” Xavier instructed another of the servers.

Loud, thumping music rocked the walls. Tension eased and conversation around them resumed as people went about their business.

“No hard feelings,” Torin said to Blake.

“Fuck off, Carter,” Blake said. “How the hell was anyone supposed to know she was yours?”

How indeed? He'd never claimed her. Blake rubbed his wrist. “Next time, claim your subs.” He looked at the kneeling Mira. “And when you're done with this asshole, look me up.”

Torin took a step forward.

Xavier put out a restraining arm. “Enough, Master Torin.”

Blake glared at Torin before moving away.

“He's right,” Xavier said. “Claim her. If she comes to Dark Haven unaccompanied again, I'll back whoever does master her.”

With a tight nod, Torin acknowledged Xavier's order.

Within seconds the blond dungeon monitor returned with a collar and leash.

“I'll take it from here,” Torin said.

“Yes, sir,” the man said, handing over the leather pieces.

“Your sub broke club rules,” Xavier told Torin. “And upset one of the founding members.”

“She'll be punished,” Torin promised. He took his hand out of Mira's hair, confident that she'd stay put.

“As I told Mira, it's my prerogative to mete out the punishment,” Xavier reminded him.

“Indeed.”

“But I don't want my wrist broken.” He smiled.

“Or your movie-star nose,” Torin supplied.

Xavier touched his nose instinctively. If he weren't so focused on the sub before him, Torin would have laughed.

“Watch your step, young lady,” Xavier said to Mira.

“Yes, my Liege.”

Then it was just the two of them. “After tonight we will still be partners, unless you request a transfer.”

She nodded.

“But we cannot leave here without your being punished.”

“Torin—”

“Master Torin,” he corrected. “You forced my hand, Mira.”

She sighed. “You didn't have to follow me here,” she said. “I was doing fine with Master Blake.”

“I'm already pissed, Mira. Don't make it worse,” he warned.

“You ruined my evening,” she said. If her hands hadn't still been secured behind her back, he imagined she'd have poked a finger in his chest. And here, in the club, he couldn't allow that to happen.

His temper had returned to a simmer when she'd chosen him over Blake, not that he'd given her much choice. The heat was getting turned back up.

“It's the weekend,” she reminded him. “And we are not working a case. I invited you to come with me to Dark Haven, and you turned me down. You have no right to go all mondo loco on me just because Master Blake was flogging me, like I wanted, like I asked him to. He tied me to the spanking bench like I wanted him to, and he was hitting my bare ass with just the right amount of pressure. I would have come for him in only a few more minutes.”

She'd carefully chosen her words to hit a nerve, and it worked.

“You're not willing to beat me, so it's none of your freaking damn business if I find someone who will. Keep out of my personal life. Sir.”

The little minx had added the “Sir” more as an insult than a term of respect.

The idea of gagging her was becoming more appealing every moment. He leaned in toward her, close enough that he could kiss her. And wasn't that was a tempting idea? A gag, his cock, his tongue—all ways to keep her mouth occupied. “Let's get a few things straight. I'm here now, and I sure as hell intend to beat you.”

She shuddered slightly. She wanted to pretend she wasn't affected by him, by his words, his simmering anger, and the tension that had built between them over the last few weeks, but she was.

“Whatever you need, I'll make sure you get it.” Torin captured her chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger. He forced her to look at him. “Beating, flogging, spanking, punishment, humiliation, bondage…” He trailed off. “You will not go to Blake or anyone else, and you will not flash your cunt at anyone who wants to see it.” His reaction startled him. He'd never minded playing with other subs in front of an audience. One woman had been a total voyeur; she hadn't cared if he'd posted pictures of her all over the Internet. But this woman… His. “Understand?”

“Fuck you,” she said.

He snapped his back teeth together.

“As you said, we're partners. Nothing more.”

“I didn't add the 'nothing more' part, Mira; you did.”

“You can't stake a claim on me without my permission.”

“Which you gave me when you invited me here with you.”

“You refused.”

He sighed, fighting for control over his temper. “You crawled into my bedroom.

You publicly chose me over Blake. I'd say you've given permission twice, and now you're just being a brat. Brats get spanked, Mira, and I can make that happen right here, right now.”

“You wouldn't. You can't spank me through this dress, and you've already said you won't have me showing my cunt to others—”

“Enough,” he told her, ruthlessly cutting in. “You got what you wanted. Now show a little respect. Fight me all you want, but you can't win.”

They were at an impasse, locked in a battle of wills.

“Ask yourself what you really want,” he said. “Do you really want me to turn you over to Blake? Or to Xavier? Or do you want to see if I can give you what you want, what you need? But if you do, it's going to be on my terms.”

He waited, knowing how important the next few seconds were. She still didn't wear his collar, could change her mind and have him summon Xavier or even a taxicab.

Her internal struggle was visibly waged on her face. She worried her lower lip.

The act was a betrayal of the nerves that she usually managed to disguise. The liquid depths of her brown eyes threatened to drown him. Her desire lay there, exposed. A layer of disbelief was shrouded but not hidden.

“Give me what I crave, Torin.”

“Master Torin,” he corrected.

“Give me what I crave, Master Torin.”

“You're submitting to me?” he asked, pressing for answers so they were both clear. “Willingly?”

Chapter Three

She took a breath and exhaled it in shaky measures. “Yes, Sir.”

Satisfied—finally—he secured the collar around her neck. He tightened it to the point he could get just one finger between her throat and the collar.

She looked up momentarily. Her mouth was slightly parted, and her breaths were shortened, whether from fear or anticipation, he didn't know.

“I'm nervous,” she confessed.

“I hope so.”

“You're not helping to reassure me.”

“I'm not trying to reassure you. I'm pissed, Mira. And you will pay for your behavior. Now stand.”

“We've never played together before.”

“If you think I'm playing now, think again. It may be fun and games to you; it's not to me. Stand up this instant, and don't make me repeat myself again.”

Since the gown was a monstrosity of length and fabric, and because her arms were still bound behind her, she struggled to comply. He made no move to help her.

The usually graceful Ms. Araceli was out of her element, but to her credit, she didn't protest. When she stood in front of him, head bowed slightly, he said, “Good girl.”

She glanced up long enough to glare. He grinned. His partner, his submissive, was a complex woman who intrigued him immensely. She had natural submissive tendencies, and she was clearly a masochist. But she was still a highly trained operative accustomed to being large and in charge. Apparently the three facets sometimes collided. The mix intrigued him.

“I—”

“You look lovely.” He didn't think his cock had ever been harder.

He wrapped the leather cord around his wrist several times, then gave it a light tug. She was pulled off balance, and her eyes opened wide.

He liked having her at his mercy, on his leash, the black collar tight and stark against her delicate throat. She'd goaded and pushed until she got what she wanted. But if she wanted to be in control—top from the bottom—she'd chosen the wrong man.

At a fast pace, probably uncomfortable for her in those fantastic-looking, do-me-now shoes, he led her downstairs toward the Medieval Room.

Once inside, he closed the massive door, sealing out everyone but them. There was a window for voyeurs, and he figured Xavier would check on them at least once.

As much as he hated the idea of anyone seeing her, watching her receiving his punishment, he also had to respect the club's policies and Xavier's pronouncement.

And truthfully, she didn't mind, so why in God's name did he? If she wanted to show her cunt to the world, it was technically none of his business.

So why couldn't he convince himself of that fact?

She'd fired a protective streak in him, one he'd never had for another woman.

It was more than just their being partners—something much, much more. The idea of her willingly exposing herself, asking another man to flog her, infuriated him.

“Let's keep the rules straight,” Torin told her. “In here, you're the sub, I'm the dom. There will be no topping from the bottom. Your disobedience, your questioning, your testing were left outside. We're both clear that when we're training or on duty we're partners, and I will respect you as such. For the rest of this evening, you have my permission to respond with a 'yes, Sir' or 'no, Sir.' Or if you prefer, you may say 'yes, Master' or 'no, Master.' You will answer direct questions, and you will not speak without permission. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir. You made your point.”

Good start. He gave the leash a little more slack and said, “Turn around.”

This time she didn't hesitate at all.

“Keep your gaze on the wall.” The walls of the Medieval Room were made from stone. Shackles were bolted into them. He wanted her to focus on the shackles, imagining what he had in store for her.

He removed the bindings from around her wrists, and then he went to work unfastening the dozens of tiny hooks and eyes that held her dress closed. He gave silent thanks that women didn't dress like this anymore. As it was, it took all his restraint not to whip out his pocketknife and go barbarian on her, slicing her out of the yards and yards of material.

“I—”

“You crawled into my bedroom,” he said against her ear.

She trembled slightly, responding to him. The knowledge he affected her was heady stuff. “That was different.”

“Because you were in control.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. He saw a flash of fire in the dark depths of her eyes, and he didn't see a sub. Instead he recognized the woman who showed up for their training exercises, the woman who ran five miles a day, adding punishing sprints to increase her endurance, and who pounded out fifty noncheating push-ups, five more than he did. She could outshoot him, outthink him, and she had never rubbed it in.

She wiggled, trying to turn. “Stay still,” he ordered. “I want you looking at those shackles.”

He heard her sharp inhalation. Her training as an operative helped her be a better sub, he realized. She had self-discipline that she could call on from the bottom of her soul. Tonight, and others, would be a treat.

He drew the dress off her shoulders and let it fall to her waist. “Good girl,” he said when he saw she wasn't wearing a bra. His cock was hard, demanding. He reached around to cup her breasts.

“Torin—”

“Master Torin. Here, I'm your master, and you're my sub. I want you naked, and I'll have you naked. Any questions?” He flicked his thumbs over her nipples.

They hardened instantly, and her knees weakened a little. “Stand up straight.”

The bass from the music outside the room reverberated through them.

She supported her weight, and he rolled her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. “You brought me a belt two nights ago,” he reminded her. “In your mouth. That was bold.”

She didn't say anything.

He squeezed her nipples.

She moaned ever so softly.

He increased the pressure on her nipples until he knew it was painful.

Her knees buckled again, but she caught herself and stood up tall before he had to remind her. “Quick study.” Not that he'd expected anything less. “I assume that means you like pain.”

She didn't answer.

“Mira?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I didn't hear you.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Sir. I like pain.”

He tightened his grip on her nipples.

She moaned, but she didn't protest.

“Tell me.”

“I like it,” she said. “It hurts. S-s-sir!”

He finally relented, releasing her. His cock throbbed behind his jeans. He wanted to be naked, buried inside her.

He unfastened the final hook and eye that secured the dress at the small of her back. The fabric pooled on the Medieval Room's floor. He noticed her ass was slightly red from the force of Blake's blows, and it took all his self-control not to go after the man and finish what he'd started. He reminded himself that Mira had asked for it, but it didn't take the edge off his anger; it only fueled it. “Step out of the dress.”

She did.

Little vixen. While he'd been outside chopping wood for the fireplace, she'd been getting ready. She'd spared no detail.

Even though she couldn't have known it, her choice in lingerie was perfect.

Her black lace garter belt and silky, sexy stockings were the stuff of his fantasies.

Her high-heeled, fuck-me shoes could not have been fashionable in the Victorian era, but they sure as hell turned him on now.

If he weren't careful, she'd bring him to his knees.

He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on top of a bench. He then moved around to the front of her. “Remove my belt.”

Her eyes opened a bit wider, but she reached for the buckle. “Master's cock is hard.”

And getting harder.

She took her time drawing the leather back through its loops. Torture. Pure torture.

She offered the belt to him with one hand, and with the other, she grabbed his cock, squeezing hard.

He curled a hand over hers. “Later.”

“But—”

“No topping from the bottom,” he reminded her.

She obediently dropped her gaze. He could have come instantly.

After taking his belt from her, Torin detached the leash from the collar. “Now that the dress isn't in your way, you can crawl to the wall.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Crawl?”

“Do I need to repeat my order?”

She shook her head. “My stockings—”

“Can be replaced. Crawl. Now.”

She sank gracefully to her knees before moving onto hands and knees, doggy-style. He fully intended to take her that way. Soon.

She moved across the uneven stone floor with a flawless class that made his dick physically ache. Her pert rear swayed slightly. He admired the length of her leg muscles, and he wondered how her thighs would feel wrapped around his waist.

When she arrived at the wall, she stopped and waited for further instruction.

“Stand and face the wall. Arms above your head. I want you totally flat against the wall; press your breasts into the stones.”

She hesitated only seconds.

“Legs shoulder width apart.” While she stood there, held only in place by the force of his will and her obedience, he grabbed two sets of restraints from the pegs on the adjoining wall.

He moved in behind her. “You've got a hot body, Mira.”

“Thank you…Master.”

Master. He liked the sound of that much better than “Sir.”

He crouched to wrap the restraints around her ankles and then secure them to the hooks in the floor.

He trailed his fingers up the inside of her right thigh. Her legs trembled. “Are you still wet?” He drew a finger across her pussy lips.

She jerked and gasped, dropping her hands beside her.

“Keep your arms above your head,” he instructed her. “You are wet, Mira. Will you still be that damp after I whip you? Or will you be wetter?” He then parted her pussy lips. He pressed the pad of his thumb against her clit. She jerked convulsively.

“I… Please. I need…”

“On second thought, drop your arms. Reach behind you and spread your ass cheeks.”

“Master?”

“Do it.”

Slowly, she brought down her arms, then reached back to grab her buttocks.

“What's your safe word?”

She spread her buttocks apart. He closed his eyes momentarily to get control of his libido. He wanted to plunge deep inside her, slamming her against the wall, pounding out his orgasm, and taking her with him. “Mira? Your safe word?”

“Sangria.”

“Sangria?”

“Sangria,” she said. “It's red.”

And it was a drink her country was famous for. Of course. “Anything off-limits?”

“Permanent injury. Strangulation. Knives. Unsafe sex.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“You're an extreme player, Mira?” Or she just thought she was.

“I like to push the edges. I have a safe word.”

Fair enough. Unable to wait any longer, needing to possess her, he plunged a finger inside her damp pussy.

She jerked.

He felt a moment of pure male satisfaction. He liked having this woman respond to him so completely.

Torin drew a deep breath. He was in control of the scene, and he intended to control himself as well. “How close are you to orgasm?” he asked softly. He moved his finger, feeling her internal walls constrict around him.

“It's been a long time,” she said, her breaths becoming more and more shallow as he explored her insides. “M-Master Blake warmed me up.”

Torin growled and impaled her with a second finger. The idea of Blake taking any liberties with this woman, his sub, infuriated him. “You're here with me now.

You'll not come without permission.”

When she didn't respond, he asked, “Am I clear?”

“Yes, Master. But…”

“Problem?”

“I come easily.”

“You'll come when I say you'll come. Keep your ass cheeks parted!” He knelt to lick her while he finger fucked her.

“Master!”

He stopped short of letting her orgasm.

“Master is a beast.”

He grinned but was glad she couldn't see him. She delighted him, made him want to please her. “Did you have permission to speak?”

“No,” she said.

“And…?”

“The sub apologizes.”

“Apology accepted.” He loved the way she referred to herself in the third person; she was suddenly getting into the scene as much as he was. “We'll just add another two lashes for insubordination.”

She made a funny sound, somewhere between a mewl and a protest, but didn't say anything else.

He stood then pulled out his fingers from her cunt, trying hard not to think about how badly he wanted to replace them with his cock.

He pressed a damp finger against her anus. Her muscles tightened, but instead of pressing forward and into the wall, trying to escape from him, she took a breath and pressed back in silent invitation.

Lust filled him.

He wanted her. “Bear down,” he told her.

“Yes,” she whispered.

As she followed his instructions, he pressed his finger deeper, past his first knuckle. She moaned and wiggled. Could she be any more perfect for him?

“More,” she begged softly.

He entered deeper, stretching her wider, sinking his finger all the way to the hilt.

“Mas…Master… May I come?”

“No chance.” He pulled out.

She groaned in protest.

“Being an impatient sub will prolong the amount of time until you are allowed an orgasm. If you want to come, play it a little more obediently, Mira.”

“Yes…Master.”

After wiping his hands on a moist towelette, he returned to her. “Arms spread, Mira.”

He saw her shoulders rise and fall. Although she hadn't made anything ordinary off-limits, he knew he was pushing a boundary now. They'd never played together before, and all she had to operate on were her instincts. He was pissed, as he'd told her. She was wise to be wary. “I'm waiting,” he said softly against her ear.

Slowly, as if it were mind over matter, she moved her wrists toward the shackles attached to the walls.

Beating her was going to be a pleasure.

And the scent of her arousal only made him that much more anxious to get on with it.

Chapter Four

Mira forced a breath deep into her lungs. The breath didn't help calm her nerves. So she did it again.

She'd studied yoga for most of her life. Five years ago, she'd learned to meditate. Every day, even in inclement or blazing weather, she trained physically hard, keeping her body and its responses at their peak. She knew how to manage her stress, her emotions, and her energy. And right now she couldn't remember how to do anything other than gulp oxygen. Her brain felt like scrambled eggs.

She'd wanted this. She'd wanted to play with Torin Carter.

When she'd learned from Hawkeye himself that she and Torin would be partners, she'd almost swooned. She might actually have done just that had she been the type of woman who would ever swoon. As it was, she'd locked her knees momentarily, nodded politely, and pretended to be a professional.

She'd had a crush on the big, bad, mighty Torin Carter for several years, since he'd taught a training course she'd been forced to attend. She'd been young, green, not as physically strong as she'd thought. They'd participated in hand-to-hand combat, and he'd instantly and completely subdued her. Her ego had been as bruised as her body. She had used that experience to fuel her determination to be tougher, to be better. And while she knew he didn't remember her from back then—

she'd been just another recruit—she'd never forgotten him.

After the meeting with Hawkeye, she'd been anxious to get back to her Denver apartment. Later that night, alone in her bed, she'd take her bullet vibrator from her nightstand drawer. With the toy set to low, she'd allowed her fantasies about her new partner to run wild. When she'd orgasmed, she'd screamed out his name.

Until him, she'd never fantasized about an Irishman. She preferred men who were a contrast to her—blond to her black hair. Fair skin to her darker tone. And she definitely liked men who were more even-tempered than she was. She needed a man who was malleable, someone she could take off a shelf and play with when she wanted.

Torin Carter was the antithesis of what she thought she wanted in a man, what she always went for. Instead of the light green eyes she preferred, this man had searing blue eyes, along with a gaze that seemed to look through her, not at her. He spooked her a bit with the way he seemed to read exactly what she wanted.

Despite her protests, he'd been correct in saying she wanted him. She wanted to be beaten by him, not Master Blake. She wanted to feel the power of Torin's lash.

She wanted to know if he was as focused on playing BDSM games with her as he was on his job.

More than anything, she wanted to know if he was man enough to give her everything she wanted and needed when it came to sex.

So far she'd never found anyone who would or could.

Some were good for a spanking, but not for dominating her. One was great at telling her what to do, but when it came to wielding a flogger, he was apologetic and limp wristed. Master Blake hadn't been bad at inflicting the right amount of pain, and he'd been steadily increasing the intensity of his strokes, but she'd heard that outside of the club he was a bit of a wuss. Politeness was one thing; she needed a man who could be in control, always.

“Right wrist first,” Torin said, breaking into her thoughts.

His touch was uncompromising but surprisingly gentle as he secured her right wrist in place. Instinctively she pulled back on the tether, testing it. Like Torin, it was unyielding. A ripple of anticipation jolted through her body.

The wall was uncomfortably cold. She was hyperaware of the room's chill, of the door with its window, of Torin's spicy, masculine scent.

He secured her left wrist in place, leaving her splayed and helpless.

Her mother had always warned her to be careful what she wished for. With her temper, Mira always wanted to push the outer limits of everything she tried. In Torin, she might have met her match. His tone when he'd found her had shocked her. She was accustomed to a much more restrained Torin. Even when she'd crawled into his bedroom, he'd calmly wrapped her in one of his robes and escorted her out the door before locking it behind her.

He'd never raised his voice, never betrayed that he cared one way or the other that he'd seen her naked body.

But now she knew. His erection was turgid, and she prayed she'd have it inside her soon. Hopefully he wouldn't be shy about using her anally either. He could be the type of man she'd fantasized about.

Her pussy was still dripping; her clit throbbed.

“How many strokes with my belt?” he asked.

Uh. He wanted her to decide? A chill—part delight, part fear—chased up her spine. Torin wouldn't let her abdicate her role in their play.

“Mira?”

“Eight, Sir?”

“Good place to start. Eight will be sufficient to satisfy the club's demands for punishment, but not mine.”

She shuddered.

“How many strokes for allowing Blake to touch you, to see you?”

“When I invited Master Blake to play, I didn't realize I wasn't allowed to do that,” she said.

“That wasn't the question.”

Her instinct was to protest. How could he arbitrarily enforce rules that she didn't know existed? “Two.”

“Three it is.”

She opened her mouth but clamped it shut again. He'd simply add more strokes the more she protested. And since she didn't know how hard he would hit her, she figured she'd better err on the side of safety.

“How many total?”

“Eleven.”

“How many for coming to the club tonight without my permission?”

She bit into her lower lip. That one she couldn't protest. She had sneaked away from the house. They were partners, and even if an argument had ensued, she should have told him she was leaving. “Three more,” she said reluctantly. Fourteen was a lot of strokes from someone you'd never played with.

“Is your pussy still wet?”

“It was. Now I'm suddenly a little nervous,” she admitted, “so I'm not as turned on as I was earlier.”

He moved in behind her. Using his body, he pushed her hard against the cold, unyielding wall. She felt the scratch of denim and the hardness of his cock against her naked backside. Her breasts were flattened against the stone. Her nipples hardened from the cold and from her overwhelming arousal.

“I'm tempted to just fuck you hard, here, with you so totally helpless.”

“Now I'm wet,” she whispered. He didn't even need to touch her. He could turn her on just with words. He thrust repeatedly against her rear, simulating intercourse. She wanted his penetration, his possession. “Please,” she begged.

“Please fuck me.”

“The beating first,” he told her, his breath warm on her ear.

“Master!”

“You'll count them for me, mo shearc.” He moved away.

“Damn it,” she said. “Damn you.”

The bastard actually laughed.

He left her weak and needy, on the razor's edge of fulfillment.

He caught her completely off guard, unprepared.

Torin landed the first blow, right under her buttocks, with a vicious upward stroke. She gasped from shock, from sudden pain.

His punishment had been much, much harder than she'd anticipated.

“Count,” he reminded her.

“One,” she bit out. There'd been nothing erotic about his first smack. Maybe he wasn't as fabulous as she'd thought.

He caught her again, in the exact same spot, with the exact same pressure.

“Mira?”

“Two.” She braced herself as much as she could with nothing to hold on to.

The third followed suit, and it was then that she realized his skill. His aim was exact, his timing impeccable. He was a master of beatings.

“This is meant as a punishment,” he said, “not as a pleasure beating. Xavier wouldn't approve if I didn't punish you. And neither would you.”

“Three,” she said rather belatedly.

He added a little more force to the fourth, and she cried out.

“Four!”

“That's my girl.”

She bit back her reactive fuck you. Letting that out of her mouth, she knew, definitely wouldn't bode well for her.

For the next few seconds nothing happened. He allowed the time and silence to stretch. The only thing she was aware of was her own breath.

“Let me know when you're ready to proceed.”

He thought she was struggling to take it? That annoyed the hell out of her.

“Bring it on.” She waited a couple of seconds before adding, “Master.”

“You haven't learned about goading me?”

Instead of hitting her, he tormented her, moving in closer, reaching between her legs, trailing his fingertips up her thigh. He was going to drive her mad. Stark, raving mad.

He pinched her clit. She cried out. It hurt, but deliciously so. She ground her hips forward, all but trying to get off against the wall.

“Stop that. Naughty hussy.”

She would have stamped her foot if it hadn't been shackled.

“Where were we?”

“Four,” she said.

“Are you ready to resume?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“More respectful. Better.” This time he caught her across the fleshy part of her butt cheeks.

“Five.” Damn it! It stung so bad. Hurt so good.

God, she'd wanted this. She'd wanted a man who could give her this, with unyielding force. She liked the pain he inflicted, loved the fact he gave her a few seconds to absorb the sensation before moving on to the next one.

“We have an audience,” he told her. “Xavier has been watching for the last few minutes.”

That thought turned her on. She did have a little exhibitionist in her, but she respected that he might want to keep her punishment private in future. “I hope he's satisfied. Because you're definitely making me feel punished.”

“You don't sound repentant.”

She'd have to lie to say she felt repentant.

“Mira?”

Mira had wanted to feel his lash; she knew she would misbehave again to get it.

Before she was fully ready, the beast landed the next one across the uppermost part of her left thigh. The tip of the belt bit into her pussy. She moaned. She groaned. She wiggled, trying to escape. But he'd confined her perfectly, exquisitely.

“So I assume you're not repentant?”

“No,” she confessed.

He laughed. “Well then. You've had six strokes,” he said. “You've almost satisfied Xavier's club's demands. But you're not even close to satisfying mine.”

As he'd talked, the searing pain receded.

He moved to her other side to catch her right thigh; again, the end of the leather monster sliced against her exposed pussy.

“I can smell you,” he said.

“Seven…and it freaking hurt,” she protested.

“Bad?”

“Bad,” she said.

“Poor thing. And that's why your pussy is wet?”

He added the eighth on top of the last two, as if tying them together.

“Those satisfy the club,” he said. “And Xavier is gone. The next three are for you allowing Blake to touch you.”

The next three were perfectly timed and impeccably landed. Each stripe was on top of the previous one, across her butt cheeks instead of the upper part of her thighs. They hurt like hell, and he wielded the leather aggressively. He gave no quarter, and she asked for none, wanting to feel the full power of his lash.

Each of the three blows dragged a scream from her.

She'd never been beaten so soundly, never felt so overcome with pain, with emotion.

“Now for the ones I owe you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

She heard the sharp clatter of metal against rock. It sounded as if he'd thrown his belt on the floor.

Before her mind could assimilate, he spanked her, his open palm landing against her already raw skin.

Unbelievably his hand hurt far worse than the bite of leather.

“How many more, Mira?”

“Two.”

“Ask me for them.”

She wanted to sink into the oblivion of her thoughts, absorb the pain, make sense of it, savor it. But he wouldn't allow her that luxury. “Please, Master Torin.

Please give me the spankings I deserve for leaving the house without your permission.”

“Where do you want them?”

“On my ass, Sir.”

“Not on your cunt?”

Her insides constricted. For a moment she forgot to breathe. The idea of his powerful hand landing on her pussy scared her, thrilled her. And suddenly she had to know, had to know what it felt like, had to have the experience. “Yes,” she whispered.

“I didn't hear you.”

“Yes,” she said louder. “Punish me there.”

“Where?”

“My pussy,” she said.

“Your cunt,” he corrected.

“Spank my cunt, Master.”

He played with her first, stroking her labia, teasing her clit, dipping a finger inside her desire-slickened vagina.

She was going to go mad. Mad, mad, mad. Her body convulsed. She was so close…

The first stinging blow made her gasp, made her even wetter.

“One more.”

She moved slightly, arching her back, giving him better access to her private parts.

“Good girl.”

His final slap forced her onto her toes. She cried his name.

Then she felt him behind her, his strong hands forcing her butt cheeks apart even farther, making her entire body strain.

She screamed again when he tongued her. He had to be on his knees, and he was forcing her to fight her orgasm. She jerked convulsively. She groaned when he pressed his thumb against her anal opening. All the sensation was too much, beyond endurance. She knew she should fight off the impending orgasm. She had the skills, but she didn't have the desire. She wanted the relief that coming would bring, wanted to no longer feel the tension that was clawing inside her. “Master!

Ohhh, Master! I need to come.”

He moved away from her and pinched the inside of her right thigh, but the distraction wasn't enough.

“I'm going to come,” she shouted. “Please? Please, may I?”

He said nothing.

Then, without permission, breaking his rules, she shattered, pulling against her restraints, her hips jerking uncontrollably, her entire body convulsing against the rigid wall.

The orgasm was powerful, debilitating, every bit as emotional as it was physical. She was drained, her body limp in her bondage.

His presence overwhelmed her.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, but she saw him as he'd been before he'd secured her to the shackles—tight blue jeans, made even tighter by the size of his erection, scuffed and scarred boots, a black T-shirt with short sleeves, the fabric showing the cut of his biceps and power of his arms.

His scent was consuming, spice mixed with a hint of pure male sweat and the tanginess of a cool Bay Area evening.

But it was the way he'd beaten her that drained her completely.

He'd been relentless, demanding.

He made her hornier than she'd been in years.

“Mira?” he said, his tone was gruff, and it cut into her fantasies. Then, against her ear, he asked, “Did you come?”

She froze. She'd seen this kind of behavior before. Other doms she'd been with had acted the same way, feigning shock and disbelief that she'd come without permission.

She knew intuitively that Torin would have continued to eat her, tongue her, press into her anus until she came. He knew how to touch her, how to encourage the response he desired. Torin Carter had forced her into a no-win situation. Still, Mira was startled into complete silence.

“Mo shearc?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Master, I came.”

“Most unfortunate. Now you truly will be punished.”

Chapter Five

He'd been an idiot not to play with her before now.

Mira Araceli was totally responsive, utterly lovely, completely captivating. He wanted her again and again.

Her orgasm had been loud and unrestrained, like the woman herself, filled with passion.

He wanted to fuck her senseless.

And that, he knew, would be even more idiotic.

They were partners. Down the road, they'd be counting on each other. Their lives could depend on the way they interacted. Clouding the issue with sex was beyond stupid.

For once he didn't think logic and reasoning were going to stop him from taking her. This physical demand was undeniable.

After removing her shackles and rubbing her muscles to help restore circulation, he helped her back into her ridiculous gown and the annoying petticoats or whatever the hell they were called.

“Stand still,” he said, working on the frustrating number of hooks and eyes. “I prefer you naked,” he said. Much easier.

“Yes, Master.”

“Goddamn idiot who thought up this outfit.”

She laughed.

“I'll ignore that rudeness,” he said.

His thumbs and fingers were too big for the tiny metal clasps. In frustration, he skipped a few of them. Good enough.

He picked up his jacket from the bench, and he draped the soft leather bomber over her shoulders. He fed his belt back through his belt loops.

One hand in her hair, her leash wrapped around his wrist, he moved her toward the club's exit, past Destiny.

“Hey, Master Torin?”

He stopped and looked at Destiny, keeping his hand firm against Mira's skull.

“Next time you break our rules and come storming in here in street clothes, Xavier said I get to punish you.”

He laughed. The idea of the woman with purple-tinted, spiky, Goth-style blonde hair and a sparkling lip piercing being able to kick his ass was intriguing.

“You're a domme?”

“If it means beating your ass, I am.”

“I promise I'll follow the rules in future, Destiny.”

“Or I get to punish you?”

“Yeah.”

Beside him, Mira gave a rude hoot of appreciation. He'd take that out of her hide later too.

Destiny gave a cheery wave. The move jiggled her breasts, which were barely covered by flimsy pink netting. He bundled Mira outside and into his illegally parked car. He'd gotten a ticket for his aggravation, but fortunately, San Francisco's finest hadn't towed his vehicle.

With his cock throbbing, the drive back across the Golden Gate Bridge to the Marin County safe house would seem interminable. But once he had her there…

The Hawkeye house was remote and private. He'd be able to fuck her as hard as he wanted; she'd be free to scream as long and as hard as she needed.

He parked the car in the garage, then held open the door into the house. She preceded him, then stopped and turned back toward him when she reached the kitchen. She stood there alluringly, her head tipped back slightly, her lips parted.

There were few thoughts in his head, and every one of them had to do with him penetrating her. “Turn around.”

He closed the distance and plucked the jacket from her shoulders and tossed it in the general direction of one of the kitchen chairs before unfastening her confounded dress for the final time. When the voluminous amounts of fabric pooled to the tiled floor, he put his hands on her shoulders and gently spun her back to face him. “Kneel.”

She didn't hesitate. Part of him wondered how much longer he could stand it before he pounded out his release and ejaculated.

He left her there while he went into the living room to light a fire. As flames licked the logs, taking the chill out of the evening air, he resisted the temptation to stroke himself to satisfaction. When he came, soon, he wanted to be deep in her body.

He returned to the kitchen to find her in the exact position where he'd left her.

Her obedience undid him. “On all fours,” he told her. “I want to see how red your ass is.”

She complied instantly.

“Nice,” he said. “The ones on your thighs will make it difficult to sit down tomorrow.”

“Yes, Master.”

He abraded his thumbnail across the small welts.

She gasped and pulled away. Before he could correct her, she pushed herself back into position.

“The others, on your butt, are almost completely gone.” He crossed to a high-backed chair and pulled it back from the table. “Crawl over here, mo shearc.” He'd never used the endearment with anyone else. Somehow the “my love” worked with her, for her. “I want you over my lap for a proper spanking.”

“Sir?”

“Do I need to repeat my command?”

“No!”

She crawled, her breasts and ass cheeks seducing him. She looked up at him only momentarily before positioning herself artfully across his lap.

“I'm spanking you,” he said, “because I want to. No other reason than that.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” She braced her hands on the floor. Without instruction, she parted her legs slightly.

He saw the slight glisten of her moisture on her pussy, and he smelled her arousal. He wanted this woman.

Torin parted her lips and played with her clit, watching her squirm, enjoying the sounds she struggled to suppress.

Without giving her any warning, he slapped her cunt hard, his hand open.

She gasped, surged away from his hand, then made another softer sigh and wiggled back into position.

He spanked her hard, on her buttocks, on her pussy, on her thighs. He timed his spanks to arouse, not punish.

A minute and a half later she was begging.

“I need…”

“You need…?”

“Will you fuck me? Fuck me, Master.” Her words were breathless. “Fuck me.

Please?”

He helped her from his lap. “Lean over the table. Grasp the far end.”

She followed his directions, and she even turned her toes slightly inward so that her pussy was presented even more attractively. It would take all his control not to come before he'd even entered her.

He pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it near his jacket. He toed off his boots, and he noticed that she moved slightly. “Cold? Impatient?”

“Sorry, Master,” she said. “Just…”

“Yes?”

“I'm impatient; the sub is impatient. I want you inside me.”

“I?”

“She,” Mira said with a sigh. “She. The sub. You know, the woman on the table, waiting to be fucked. Dying here.”

He laughed. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she was into a scene, she couldn't hide her natural personality. And to tell the truth, he didn't want her to.

He grabbed his wallet from his back pocket. All thumbs, he pulled a condom from one of the compartments. Seemed the beautiful Mira wasn't the only one who was impatient.

He dropped his wallet, pulled off his jeans, and stripped down, throwing everything onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

His cock was hard, throbbing when he rolled the condom into place. Fighting to restrain himself, he stroked the outsides of her thighs. She sighed. “Do you have any idea how red your ass is?”

“If it looks like it feels, yes, I have an idea.”

“It's lovely.” He traced a couple of the welts before placing a hand between her legs, feeling her dampness.

“Take me,” she said, moving her hips back.

As if he could wait any longer.

Torin bent his knees slightly and pressed his cockhead against her opening.

“Yes,” she whispered.

She was amazingly damp and ready for him.

He took her in a single stroke. He filled her, felt her internal pussy muscles clench around his cock.

This woman could be the death of him.

He reached across her, grasping her wrists.

“Ride me, hard.” Belatedly, she added, “Master.”

He held back his orgasm, making sure she came first. It was more difficult than it should have been.

Torin was known as a generous lover, but with Mira—it was about possession.

He wanted her; he didn't want anyone else touching her, tasting her. He wasn't sure he liked the feeling. Having a woman, any woman, get under your skin was a bad move. The danger increased when the woman was your partner.

“Master!”

He heard her breaths, little gasps of air. He could feel her fighting her orgasm like a good little sub. “You may come,” he told her.

“Torin!”

He drove into her, hard, impaling her with his thrusts. There was nothing gentle or soft about this. It was raw, animalistic, filled with lust. For the moment she was his, and he'd leave her no doubt about it.

She screamed.

Then her body squeezed him tight.

Her climax pushed him over the top. In a hot stream, he ejaculated, the orgasm feeling as if it had been ripped from his testicles.

It was brutal. It was satisfying. It wasn't even close to fulfilling his need to take her.

He withdrew from her. He looked at her for a moment, her midnight dark hair escaping its confines to curl against her neck, her shoulders. She was still pressed against the table. He'd never see oak the same way again.

She remained in place, her hands curled around the edge of the table. The marks of his punishment striped her thighs and buttocks, and her pussy glistened with her moisture.

Oh. Yeah. He wanted her again. And again.

His cock began resurging to life, even though he would have sworn she'd already drained every drop of semen from his body. “Shower?”

“Is water sex involved?”

“Insatiable wench.” He helped her to stand, giving her a moment to regain her equilibrium before once again exerting his dominance by saying, “For your impertinence, you can get your lovely tush back on that table.”

“Master?”

“This time I want you to lie on your back, Mira. Spread your legs. I want to watch you masturbate.”

Mira's breath was shaky.

Her partner, and now lover-slash-dom, demanded more than she'd ever given to another man.

She turned to face him, and it was her first view of him completely naked. Her mouth dried. The sight of him nude didn't disappoint.

She'd known he was lean and muscular—she'd seen him workout in a T-shirt and shorts, but the flatness of his stomach and the definition of his biceps were incredible. She imagined those muscles flexing as he beat her, and she intuitively realized he'd held back a lot when he'd punished her. Torin was a raw, powerful man. He had harnessed that energy when dealing with her. She wanted, recklessly, to know what it was like when he didn't hold back, when he allowed emotion to affect him.

Dark hair arrowed down the center of his chiseled chest, stopping just above the thatch of pubic hair. His cock, even half-flaccid, was impressive. She hungered, suddenly, for him to take her again.

Already the experience with Torin Carter had exceeded any expectation she'd had. She'd used her vibrator several times and fantasized about him, and even those wild imaginations hadn't even come close to the reality of the way he touched her, tasted her, mastered her.

Through the years she'd played with any number of men. Now she realized they'd all had one thing in common. She could manipulate them.

This tall, dark Irishman wouldn't tolerate subterfuge, and that thrilled her as much as it frightened her.

“Now,” he said, his voice was roughened, like a diamond sliding across sandpaper.

“Uh…”

“Problem, sub?”

She was always bold, and it sometimes got her into trouble. “I haven't yet seen Master's hot ass.”

He laughed. Slowly, he turned around.

Oh, dear. God.

His ass was as tight as the rest of him. His thighs were muscular; his calves were well defined.

He was beyond dangerous to her, mentally as well as physically.

He finished the rotation, then nodded toward the table.

Following orders wasn't easy. She wanted to touch him, kneel before him, take his cock in her mouth, and suck it until he was hard enough to fuck her again.

She climbed onto the table and lay on her back.

Wordlessly, he repositioned her, putting her feet on the table and tapping her knees so she spread her legs wide.

This was a much more revealing position, leaving her exposed.

“Do you fuck your ass when you masturbate?”

She raised her eyebrows “Not usually. No.”

“Fuck your ass with your fingers, Mira.”

A frisson of excitement danced through her. No man had ever pushed her boundaries the way he did.

“Show me how you like to be pleasured,” he said.

Feeling oddly self-conscious, she reached between her legs and stroked her fingertips across her pussy. She was damp. Her heart was racing.

Her eyes closed as she searched for a rhythm to take her to release. Then she remembered he hadn't given her permission to orgasm, he'd just instructed her to masturbate. She opened her eyes to find him intently watching her, his arms folded across his chest. His blue eyes were like chips of a glacier. In that moment he looked truly masterful. She felt weak inside, wanting to be dominated completely by him.

“May I come?” she asked quietly.

“I'll let you know when I decide.”

She continued stroking her pussy, feeling it growing damper and damper. She moistened her forefinger and began to push it against her anal whorl.

“It's a total turn-on to watch you, Mira. My cock's getting hard again.”

Using her heels on the table as leverage, she lifted her hips slightly, realizing she was presenting an even more obscene image.

“Nice,” he said.

She inserted a second finger into her rear and began to move them in and out.

She closed her eyes again, and self-consciousness was lost in the sensation of pleasuring herself while he watched her.

An orgasm, and its delicious tension, spread through her.

Her breathing changed, becoming more labored.

She fought to hold off the climax, grinding her bare heels onto the oak table.

But then he was there, painfully squeezing her nipples between each thumb and forefinger.

She was so needy, so close…

Still keeping the pressure on her nipples and squeezing her breasts, he leaned over to eat her pussy.

Mira came with a scream.

Chapter Six

Mira woke up the next morning, tired, sore, well used, with a smile, facedown on the mattress and… Unable to move?

She pulled on her wrists slightly, realizing she was tied in place.

She pulled against her ankles, realizing they too were secured.

A bit frantic, she opened her eyes.

The room was dark, but at least she recognized where she was: Torin's bedroom in the Hawkeye safe house. She was completely alone.

She heard the sound of running water and inhaled the spice of hot, fresh coffee.

She was safe, but there was no way she was getting out of her bondage.

It was a testament to how hard she'd slept and to his skill that he'd managed to truss her up without her being aware of it.

She barely remembered anything after the scene last night on the kitchen table. He'd carried her to his room over her protests. She preferred to sleep alone, always had. Even when she was in a fairly serious relationship, she rarely had sleepovers, telling the men in her life that she could be called away at any time, day or night, and she hated to disturb them. She'd lied. Truth was, spending the night and having breakfast together were intimacies she didn't want. She enjoyed having a nice, orderly life. Men—relationships—mucked that up completely.

She liked bondage on her terms. She enjoyed being punished when she wanted to be punished, relished being the one to dream up the scenes. For one dom, she'd gone as far as to script what she wanted and send him an e-mail in advance.

Torin Carter, damn him, had his own ideas. Like leaving her spread eagle, facedown on the bed while he had coffee and a shower—after promising her water sex that had never materialized.

So while she'd fantasized about having a man who would push past her boundaries, Torin's actually annihilating them annoyed the hell out of her.

She wanted a cup of that strong, bold coffee with a dollop of heavy cream.

Breakfast would be good too. Control over the situation would be the bow on the present.

And since she couldn't control the situation until he got his ass back in the room, Mira schooled her thoughts, trying to rein in her annoyance. She measured her breaths, deeply in, slowly out, focusing on one thing: control of her mind, if not her body.

Unbelievably, she heard him singing in the shower. Singing while she was left alone with her thoughts and memories.

Against her intentions, she thought about the way he'd stormed into Dark Haven last night and nearly broken Master Blake's wrist. Torin's temper would be hot, if she went for that kind of thing, which she was suddenly realizing she might.

To have a man she desired so intently go after her…

And then the way he'd shackled her to the wall, beaten her, fucked her…

Horny, Mira began to move her crotch against the sheets.

She thought of his hands, the way he'd touched her… His mouth, the way he'd eaten her pussy…

“Naughty sub, humping the mattress just like you tried to get off against the wall in the dungeon.”

She froze.

How had she not noticed he'd stopped singing and turned off the water? The room seemed to echo with the silence.

“You didn't come, did you?”

“No,” she whispered, turning her head to the side to look at him. Oh. God.

He wore a white towel around his hips and nothing more.

Droplets of water clung to his bare chest, and his hair was slicked back, making his cheekbones all the more prominent. His eyes seemed more frosty than they ever had before, and his lips were set in a firm, nonteasing line.

The man who'd been singing a few moments ago had been replaced by a stern dom.

She hadn't thought it was possible to be more turned on than she had been earlier, but clearly she'd been wrong. He didn't have to touch her for her to become aroused; he only had to speak with that toe-curling brogue.

“Don't mind if I check? Subs aren't allowed orgasms without permission from their masters. I assume you were aware of that?”

When she didn't answer, he asked, “Mira?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me,” he said, keeping her gaze ensnared.

Softly, her voice roughened by sleep, she said, “My orgasms belong to you.”

“Good girl.” He crossed the room, the towel riding lower on his hips. He sat on the bed and stroked the insides of her thighs.

This was totally different for her.

She'd never had a scene that carried over from the night before. She'd never considered herself a true submissive, just a woman who enjoyed a taste of kink and knew how to play the game. That he'd tied her up while she slept and left her there while he showered bothered her a bit. That he was still exerting dominance this morning left her scrambling. He was taking this thing too far, past where she wanted to go—past the point where she was in control.

When he touched her pussy, she gasped.

“You're wet,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Lift your hips.”

Her restraints made it difficult to comply.

He teased her clit mercilessly, and she pulled against her bonds. When she was on the verge, he grabbed a pillow and pushed it beneath her stomach.

“I was thinking about you while I was in the shower,” he said. “How much I want you again and again. And how hard I'm going to fuck your ass.”

Her heart missed its next few beats and then slammed them all into a sudden surge of adrenaline.

As best she could, being tied facedown to the bedposts, she watched him. He opened a nightstand drawer and pulled out a bottle of lube and a condom.

He dropped the towel.

His cock was hard, thrusting toward her. For a few seconds she forgot to breathe as she watched him roll the condom down the length of his erection. He squirted a dollop of lube onto his fingers, then knelt beside her on the bed.

He slowly inserted one slick finger into her anus, allowing her time to accommodate his touch. “Relax,” he said, sweeping her hair from her neck, tangling his fingers in it.

She dragged her breathing back under control.

“Ready?”

She knew she could refuse. He was totally controlled, despite his obvious arousal; she had a safe word. But she did want this— him—despite the small panic caused by his continued dominance. “Yes,” she said.

He inserted a second finger, followed by a third. He stretched her, holding his fingers apart. It hurt, not badly, but enough that she wanted him to back off. She was going to ask him to stop, but he leaned over and kissed her exposed nape, distracting her.

“You're doing well, mo shearc.”

A hundred pleasurable sensations danced down her spine.

He was attuned to her reactions. The moment she relaxed and surrendered, he began to move in and out, patiently simulating sex.

“Yes,” she finally said. “I want your cock.”

“Where?”

This man was relentless. He was going to drive her loco. “Up my ass,” she said.

He moved slowly. He touched her, soothed her.

She'd never been taken like this, while she was tied down, helpless.

She was aware of him on his knees between her legs. He withdrew his fingers.

Then she felt the unyielding firmness of his cockhead against her opening.

“Doing okay?”

“Just take me!”

He laughed and possessed her by slow measures, firm and steady, starting shallow and reaching greater depths with each stroke.

She liked anal sex, but she'd never had it like this before.

It wasn't all about him; he made the act about her pleasure, kissing her, reaching beneath her to caress her clit. “Torin—”

“Master,” he corrected.

“Master! I want—need…”

“Come,” he told her, pulling all the way out and then surging forward, taking her in a powerful motion.

She screamed as an orgasm crashed over her.

“God, woman, you're sexy as hell.” He placed one arm beneath her hips, lifting her off the pillow slightly, holding her prisoner as he continued to ride her.

She felt sore and used, but she wouldn't be satisfied until he came.

She heard his breathing change, felt his cock swell slightly. She bore down hard, and he climaxed with a pure male grunt of satisfaction.

He continued to hold on to her long past the time her breathing returned to normal.

“I didn't sleep last night,” he said, “thinking about doing that with you.”

“Master fucked his sub hard.”

He laughed. “More where that came from, Mira.” He pulled out, and he disappeared into the bathroom for a few moments.

She heard the water running, and she closed her eyes, her thoughts in a whirl.

Now what?

Did they train together? Did he expect that these scenes had changed their partnership? Had they?

Torin returned to the bedroom with a warm, damp cloth. He pressed it against her anus, soothing her.

That had been missing in all the other scenes she'd participated in—the aftercare from her dom. Generally she hit the bathroom on her way out of a man's house, then called out a cheery good-bye over her shoulder.

Torin, it seemed, was having none of that. She was surprised how much she liked and appreciated the tender gesture.

Once she was cleaned up, he sat on the edge of the bed and released her right wrist from its restraint. “You're a lovely sub,” he said, massaging her skin until circulation returned.

“You don't suck as a dom.”

He swatted her rear, and she yelped. She was definitely sore from last night's beating.

He unfastened the rest of her bonds and then helped her to stand. He pulled her against him, her breasts pressing against his muscled chest.

It felt nice. Right.

He caught a hand in her hair and pulled her head back.

He claimed her mouth, kissing her deeply. He tasted of coffee tempered by a hint of sugar, then drizzled with sin.

She responded and rose onto her tiptoes, leaning wantonly against him. He pressed his free hand against the small of her back, holding her tight. She wiggled about a bit, feeling herself growing more and more aroused beneath his sensual assault. Torin Carter made her want to be a very naughty girl.

He slowly ended the kiss. Her mouth felt raw and ravaged. Hungry, she wanted more.

Torin looked at her intently. The color of his eyes never failed to startle her, but what she hadn't noticed before yesterday was that they revealed his thoughts and emotions, whether they were angry ice or aroused smoky blue.

“We need to talk,” he said. “I'll brew a fresh pot of coffee while you get cleaned up and put on some clothes.”

“Talk?”

“About what's next.”

She steeled herself.

If he said that their having had a BDSM scene was a mistake, she'd have to agree with him. Reluctantly. The scenes had been hot. The man knew how to give it to her.

But the emotional cost was high. He'd taken everything she'd offered and then some.

And if he said he thought they should end their partnership, what then? She wanted to work with him. Lord knew there was a lot she could learn from him that would make her better at her job, a more valuable asset to Hawkeye, Inc.

“Mira?”

She nodded. “I'll meet you in the kitchen.”

He kissed her forehead before releasing his hold on her hair.

His idea, apparently, of putting on clothes was to pull on a fresh pair of jeans, leaving them unfastened at the waist.

How could she think, let alone talk, with him looking so devilishly sexy?

“Ten minutes, Mira, or I'll come looking for you.”

She hurried to the shower in her own bedroom, the promise of fresh coffee more appealing, for the moment, than misbehaving and provoking him into another spanking.

When she exited the shower, she saw he'd left a cup of hot, steaming coffee on the granite vanity. He'd added the exact right amount of creamer, and steam rose from the surface. His powers of observation made him good at his job. No way would it still have been steaming if it hadn't been nuked in the microwave for thirty or forty seconds after adding the cream—the same way she did.

She wondered if he'd stood there for a few seconds and watched her shower through the glazed shower doors. The idea turned her on; it implied an intimacy she liked.

After a long sip of hot coffee that drained a third of the cup, she dressed in faded-to-white denim jeans, a soft sweater, thick socks, and her favorite running shoes. He was braver than she was when it came to facing the Bay Area's morning chill.

She finished the coffee, hoping the caffeine would clear the cobwebs from her head. She needed to be at her peak to face Torin. Cup in hand, she pulled back her shoulders, exhaled from her diaphragm, then joined him in the kitchen. “This seems to be empty,” she said, more to break the tension than anything else.

“I can handle that.” Along with brewing strong-enough-to-stand-a-spoon-in-upright coffee, he'd cooked a pile of bacon and a panful of eggs, and he'd kept a plate warm for her in the oven.

“You've been busy,” she said. “Thanks.”

He slid the plate onto the same table where she'd masturbated herself to orgasm last night, and told her, “You need to keep your strength up. Sit.”

Still bossy. She picked up a piece of bacon and chewed off a bite as she slid into the chair.

He poured her a fresh cup of coffee. She could get used to being spoiled like this.

After she'd cleaned off half her plate and drained another cup of coffee, he leaned back against the counter and regarded her with his arms folded across his chest.

“While we're partners,” he said, “you will not engage in BDSM scenes with anyone else but me.”

She put down her fork. “I'm not sure what you mean by that.”

“If you need to be beaten, I'll make sure you're satisfied.”

“Working together doesn't mean you have any exclusive hold on me sexually.”

“Yes,” he said. “It does.”

He might have been halfway across the room but she knew not to underestimate him or the Irish temper he was restraining. Her own temper started to flare. “You could try asking.”

“I could. But I won't. This is nonnegotiable. My rules, or tell Hawkeye you want to be reassigned.”

“He'll want to know why.”

“So tell him. Tell him you're a pain slut, Mira, who needs to have her ass reddened regularly, and it compromises our mission.”

“You never said that. You just went all mondo caveman and started issuing orders.” She clenched her jaw and shoved back from the table. He had her backed into a corner, trying to take away her choices, and he was offering no way out. “Is this your idea of us talking? You stand there and issue orders, and I'm supposed to smile like an empty-headed idiot and agree with you? You're an ass, Torin Carter.”

He grinned.

Damn him. Fuck him.

“You have no right to dictate who I play with, who I sleep with.”

“Mira, mo shearc, you started it when you crawled into my bedroom with a belt between your teeth. Until that moment, you were free to do whatever you wanted, with whomever you wanted.” He pushed his hips away from the counter. “But you offered your sweet ass to me, and I decided to accept. So deal with it.” In a few fluid movements—the kind that served him well in crisis situations—he was across the room. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her up from her chair.

She was breathless, angry, and aroused. For the first time in her life she had no idea what to do with the snarly knot of emotion. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to run the hell away from him, forget anything had happened between them, and take back control. Most of all, she wanted him to fuck her.

This kiss was unlike his earlier one.

He dragged her onto her toes, dug a hand into her hair, and pulled her head back, keeping her painfully imprisoned.

“Mine,” he said. He took her mouth, staking his claim.

His kiss was hot, searing, punishing. She fought her response for as long as she possibly could, keeping her body rigid and her responses under tight control.

She felt his hard cock against her pelvis, demanding her capitulation. She couldn't. She wouldn't.

Living her life on her terms was more important than his demands.

He was relentless. His tongue sought hers. His hand in her hair kept her from running away.

He dominated her ruthlessly.

After a few seconds he softened the kiss and her resistance.

He probed, sought, asked.

That kind of power—his power—subdued her.

Against her own instinct for preservation, she began to respond to his kiss. She willingly offered her mouth as well as her surrender.

Within moments she found herself falling into the natural order— his order—of things.

It infuriated her. She was a woman in control of her own destiny. Or she had been until she met Torin.

By coming on to him, what the hell had she started?

Chapter Seven

Fuck and a half.

Torin didn't let women get to him. He avoided emotional entanglements, and he preferred the anonymity and lack of commitment that went whip in hand with one-night stands.

Now he knew why.

This spitfire had gotten under his skin. He liked, wanted, needed a woman who was as resourceful as she was strong, who was as giving and submissive as she was carnal and honest in her sexuality.

Mira Araceli was all those things in one exotic, sexy package.

He admired that she knew what she wanted, that she went after it.

His balls tightened as the need to possess her intensified. He put a hand on her rear and moved her impossibly closer to him.

He'd clearly pissed her off with his heavy-handed proclamation that he was in charge, that he would be the only one beating her sweetheart of an ass, but damn it to Dublin and back, he was furious too.

He told himself he had no claim on her, save their being work partners. He shouldn't care who the hell beat her, who fucked her. If she wanted half of Hawkeye's team to tie her up, it was none of his business.

But the idea of anyone but him making her scream as she came made his Irish blood seethe.

He'd meant it when he said she was his to use. As long as they were assigned together, he'd be the only one seeing her naked body. He'd made that clear. She might fight it, but she would ultimately capitulate.

As his anger abated, he felt a shift in her response. She no longer struggled against him. Instead she became compliant. She surrendered to his strength and determination.

Unbelievably that just made him crave her more.

He tasted the sweetness of her surrender and its hint of promise…

Slowly he ended the kiss.

He continued to hold her against him, one palm on her rear end, his other hand tangled in the thickness of her hair.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were wide, luminous. Last night the brown depths had been molten, imploring. This morning they were confused, half-angry, half-dazed with the need to submit.

Her mouth was parted and reddened from the brute force of his kiss. No amount of tenderness would erase the swelling.

Her chin was tipped back, her head tilted to the right.

“Have I made myself clear?”

“Your way or your way, Lord and Master?”

His jaw clenched. “Yeah,” he said, his voice deceptively easy. “My way or my way.”

“You've made yourself clear.”

“On your knees,” he said.

She blinked. Her mouth opened as if she was going to protest. As he released her, he put his hands on her small shoulders and pushed her toward the floor.

Yeah, this woman might be fiercely independent, but she was also a natural submissive. She could have told him to go to hell or asked for a new partner.

Instead she was on her knees, her appealing mouth only inches away from his crotch. Her hands were behind her neck, which caused her breasts to thrust forward. “Tell me what you want to do right now.”

She looked up at him. “Besides actually talk about how we'll continue to work together?”

“Besides that.”

“I want…” Her voice was slightly husky, the way it had been last night when she'd stopped fighting him and recognized him as her master. The sensuality of it made his erection strain against the denim.

She shook her head, and her magnificent hair fell in mussed disarray around her shoulders and trailed down her back. “I want to unfasten your jeans and take your cock in my mouth.”

“Do it.”

She moved deliberately, not looking away even as she pulled down on his zipper. “And I want to suck you dry.”

He had no intention of letting another man within fifty feet of her.

She lowered his zipper the rest of the way and then pulled his pants down.

“Master is already hard.”

Being hard seemed to be a constant state when she was around.

She took his cock in hand and stroked him until a drop of precum appeared at the slit. She licked the length of his cock, then touched the tip of her tongue to the droplet.

She made a soft purr of satisfaction, and he had to resist the need to slam his dick down her throat.

“Would Master mind opening his legs a little wider?”

This was what made her such a perfect slut. She wasn't afraid to ask for what she wanted. There were some women he'd had scenes with who were like puppets.

They wanted to be told what to do, when to do it, how to do it.

Mira posed a whole new set of challenges to him, to his authority. Give him a woman with spirit and fire any day.

He stepped out of his jeans and spread his legs. She moved in a little closer.

She cupped his tight balls in one palm and then pressed a finger against his perineum, that sensitive area between his testicles and his anus.

“Love the way Master smells,” she said. “Masculine.” She took his cock deeper into her mouth, sucking, pulling, drawing.

It was all he could do to hold on to control. He wanted to let her set the pace, but it was difficult not to just fuck her until his cum filled her mouth.

Taking a breath, he closed his eyes. Looking at her made him even hornier. In order to let her lead, he needed to just focus on the sensation.

He felt her forefinger against his anus. Involuntarily, his muscles tightened.

But she was as relentless as he could be.

She left his cock momentarily, long enough to moisten a fingertip. “Relax.”

The temptress pushed her finger into his ass. No other woman had ever done that. The sensation of her finger against his prostate while she sucked his cock pushed him over the edge.

His penis swelled in her small mouth. He held the back of her head while she licked below his cockhead.

He was done for.

His orgasm spilled hot semen into her mouth. As he pulsed, draining his balls, she swallowed. She gave little groans of pleasure that kept his climax going.

And she literally sucked him dry.

His cock went flaccid in her mouth. She licked every last drop of sticky liquid before gently removing her finger from his ass.

In that moment he questioned who was dom and who was sub. He'd do anything to keep her happy and have her give him a blowjob like that again.

She slowly drew back, and when she looked up at him, she licked her upper lip and smiled. Yeah, she knew exactly the power she had over him. Which only left him one option. “Time to work out.”

“Hope you ate enough to keep your strength up. Master.”

He helped her to her feet. “See you in the exercise room in ten minutes.”

He pulled on his pants and watched her saunter from the room. There wasn't a better word for it. She moved her hips provocatively, played with her hair, and took her sweet time.

She wanted to be noticed, and it worked.

He went into his room to grab a pair of shorts and put on some running shoes.

He was aware of her in her bedroom, the sound of the closet door closing. As much as he was trying to harness his libido, he was unable to picture anything but her naked ass up in the air, her body completely available for him to take.

By the time he hit the state-of-the-art gym, she was already there. She'd cranked up the stereo system. Lady Gaga blasted from the speakers, the song's beat seductive.

Mira was doing sprints on the exercise bike—one minute of full-on cardio, two minutes at a more casual pace—building endurance. She'd opted for so-skimpy-they-should-be-outlawed shorts and a white sports bra. Up until now she'd worn exercise pants that hit her calf and long-sleeved shirts. The sports bra showed her nipples. And the way she'd pinned up her hair showed the dew of perspiration on her back. He hit the treadmill at a nine-mile-an-hour pace. That ought to distract him.

Usually it would have. He'd find a rhythm and forget about everything, tuning into his breathing, pushing his body past the point he'd been the day before.

This time the self-discipline didn't work.

Mira cooled down, slowing the bike to an easy pace. Then, a few minutes later, she hopped off the seat. Her shorts had ridden up higher, and she didn't straighten them. They were about as good as a thong at this point.

She wiped off with a towel and then dragged over a mat to a place near the mirror, and only a few feet away from him.

She lay on her back and began to lift her legs in time with the song's beat.

He increased the treadmill's incline punishingly. Sweat dripped down his spine, but it had less to do with the heat and exercise than it had to do with Mira, who'd now grabbed a stability ball. She lay on top of the ball, her shoulders and upper back supported by the ball, her legs spread, giving him a good view of her feminine parts.

Enough was enough.

He hit the Stop button. His heart rate was still elevated, his breathing ragged.

But he had enough energy left to deal with his misbehaving sub. “Last night I promised you shower sex,” he said. He grabbed her around the wrists and pulled her to her feet.

“About time,” she said with a grin.

He raised a brow. “Provoking me?”

“Me?” She had the nerve to blink several times in innocence. “Just hot and sweaty…Sir.”

“My bedroom,” he said. He'd created a monster. “You may crawl, Mira.”

“Of course,” she said, instantly dropping to her hands and knees.

Once again, she won. She took her time crawling toward the door, exaggerating her movements, stopping once to readjust her shorts. The adjustment didn't make the nylon any less provocative.

He had a feeling if he bent her over that exercise ball and spanked her, she'd just behave even more scandalously.

In his room, she pulled off her clothes while he adjusted the water temperature.

The shower wasn't big enough for the two of them, which made it more than a little entertaining when he squeezed in the stall with her.

“May I wash Master's back?”

He grabbed the bar of spicy soap from the dish and handed it to her. He turned away from her and enjoyed the hell out of the way she ran her slick hands over his shoulders, across his shoulder blades, made circles on his back, then traced his spine up and slowly back down.

She soaped his buttocks, then crouched to wash his legs. Boldly she ran her hands back up again to cleanse his anus and scrotum.

Every touch was delicate, and her nails glanced off his skin. It was enough, just enough, to make him hard again.

He turned back to face her and took away the soap. After putting it in the dish, he adjusted the showerhead so that the water hit his back instead of her face.

Capturing her chin between a thumb and forefinger, he wiped water back from her face. Her lips parted in a quiet “thanks.”

Torin placed a leg between her thighs. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, she settled her pussy against him. “Hump my leg,” he told her.

“Uhmm…”

“You were naughty enough to fuck the mattress this morning,” he reminded her. “You've got three minutes to bring yourself off.”

“And…?”

“If you don't, it will be a long time before you're allowed the opportunity again.

I've been generous in allowing you to come. Don't push me.”

She tilted her body forward a bit and wrapped her hands around his neck.

“This feels totally naughty.”

“It is.”

She approached this task like she did all the other assignments he'd given her—gamely—if a bit nervously.

She moved against him a few times, her breasts swaying. After about thirty seconds, she gnawed on her lower lip. “I need a different angle.”

“Make yourself comfortable. Time is ticking. And don't even think of trying to fake it. I'll know.”

Mira rose onto her tiptoes. Using her hands, she spread her labia and leaned into him again, pressing her clit against his thigh. She moved slightly and then groaned.

“Better?”

“Oh God.”

He took that as a yes.

Her eyes closed, and she tipped her head back, getting into it more. Just watching her was enough to make him hot for her body again. “You've got about a minute and a half left,” he told her.

“I…”

He took mercy on her. He reached behind her and pushed a finger deep into her ass.

She screamed, but he knew it wasn't from pain.

She moved faster and faster.

“Grind it out,” he told her.

She did, rocking, making smaller and smaller circles on his thigh. He felt the tiny nub of her clit against him. Water sluiced over them both, and steam rose over the shower door.

“You've got twenty seconds to orgasm,” he said softly against her ear. When she didn't respond, he asked, “Mira?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes…”

He drew her earlobe into his mouth.

She leaned even closer to him, and he supported her entire weight. He moved his finger in and out of her rear entrance, fucking her.

“Torin!”

“Take it, baby,” he urged her. “Come.”

There was no faking that orgasm. Her cry came from deep inside, and the slick of her cum against his skin was moist and real.

Her response thrilled him, made him feel possessive in a way he'd never experienced before.

She was right; they needed to talk: about the future, about what effect their BDSM relationship would have on their ability to work together.

One thing was certain: now that he'd had a taste of her, he had no intention of letting her go.

Chapter Eight

An hour later she found him outside. He was swinging an ax, splitting a log.

He'd cut down a small forest since they had arrived. It had nothing to do with needing to be warm. The house had central heat and a pile of wood stacked inside as well as out.

She admired the raw athleticism it took to split the wood. He wore a black T-shirt, and it emphasized the way his muscles rippled and moved with the exertion.

He looked up, obviously sensing her presence. He drove the ax partway into a log and then took off his safety glasses and pulled off his leather gloves.

The man was pure sex appeal.

He was strong and firm. She'd learned that he was relentless in getting his way, to the point of nearly breaking Master Blake's wrist. But he'd been completely gentle with her when he'd cleaned her up after ravishing her anally earlier this morning.

She didn't want to give him up sexually, nor could she conceive of giving up any part of herself or the job she loved.

“We've got a call,” she told him. This, more than anything, was the moment of truth. This was their first mission together. Their safety, even their lives could depend on the way they worked as a team. And if he treated her as a submissive instead of a partner, the results could be devastating.

He nodded. “Fill me in,” he said, following her back to the house.

“Black tie required,” she said. When he raised a brow, she added, “Seriously.

Word came from Ms. Inamorata herself.”

“Don't suppose you know her first name?”

No one knew her first name. Hawkeye's right-hand woman was damn good at her job, and that included keeping secrets. The office pool to guess her name had five figures in it. Whoever won would have enough money for a heck of a vacation or a down payment on a house.

“Where are we headed?”

“The Grand Hyatt. Trace and Aimee Romero have a personal security client attending a fund-raiser.” Trace and Aimee were two of the best. Aimee was the younger sister of the enigmatic Inamorata. A brainiac if there was one, she was a scientist who had recently taken up running ultramarathons in addition to supporting her new husband, Trace, on occasional Hawkeye, Inc. assignments. The 48

Sierra Cartwright

whole ultramarathon thing made Aimee's brainpower suspect, in Mira's opinion.

“There's been a death threat against their client.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Nathaniel Sinclair.”

He whistled and nodded. “No wonder they're calling in backup.”

“Inamorata is e-mailing the hotel layout to us.”

“Be ready in half an hour?”

She checked her watch. “Less if we can manage it.”

He headed for his room, and she went into hers.

“Mira?” he shouted less than a minute later. “Skip the underwear.”

She rolled her eyes.

When she didn't respond, he called out, “Excuse me?”

“I heard you!”

“And what you meant by that was, 'yes, Master.'”

“Yes, Master!” she called dutifully. More importantly, she skipped the underwear. She told herself it wasn't because she was being obedient, but because her black dress would look better without them.

Twenty minutes later she checked the smallest of her three guns for bullets and then tucked the pistol in her handbag alongside a tube of lipstick.

She stopped in the bedroom that now served as a command office, and printed off the hotel layout before joining Torin.

He was waiting for her in the living room, checking his cuffs.

Damn. The man was completely devastating in his tuxedo.

His hair, the color of midnight, flirted with his collar. His eyes seemed all the more electric against the dark clothing. “Show me,” he said.

“Show you?”

“Bend over.”

“Torin…”

“Bend over, Mira, and lift your dress.”

She questioned whether she should actually comply. They were on duty, and they needed to head out.

He waited her out.

Finally, with a sigh, she placed her pocketbook on the coffee table and then turned around, raised her dress, and showed him she'd followed orders.

“Lovely.”

Her insides tightened. Against her will, her pussy moistened.

“Your obedience will make tonight's punishment much less painful. Shall we?”

She stood and smoothed her dress into place.

She shook her head to clear it. He was already at the back door; his hand was on the knob, and he was waiting for her. Obviously he was better at separating business from pleasure than she was.

“Grand Hyatt?” he asked.

“We'll meet Inamorata in the hotel's kitchen.”

He snagged the vehicle keys off a hook and offered them to her.

“You want me to drive?”

“I assume you know how?”

She bit back an instinctive smart-ass reply to his smart-ass question and handed him the printout from Inamorata.

In the SUV, he turned on the GPS and programmed it for the hotel.

She remembered their ride home last night, with him keeping his temper caged while he drove home silently. Neither of them mentioned that, however. Now that they were on the road, they were both all business.

She had the valet park the car and took a deep, steadying breath before heading into the lobby. She saw Trace there. None of them acknowledged each other.

Torin cupped her elbow and led her toward the kitchen.

Ms. Inamorata was there in her pencil skirt, hair pulled back. She had surveillance equipment on one of the stainless-steel work areas, and she efficiently handed them each an earphone.

After a tech made sure all the wiring was secure and in place, Mira and Torin each went through a sound check.

Inamorata asked, “How's the partnership coming? Any trouble working together?”

Mira wondered if the woman could see something. “None,” Mira said.

She nodded crisply. “Hawkeye is usually right on in his assignments, but if it doesn't work out, feel free to ask for a new partner.”

“Not necessary,” Torin said.

“You're a couple tonight. Aimee will be arriving with Mr. Sinclair. She'll be his date for the evening.”

Mira had done her research while Torin showered. She'd already known Sinclair was a media magnate. He owned newspapers, magazines, a cable network, and he had a San Francisco hotel named after him. He wasn't popular with everyone, though, because of his politics. He was running for office, and some thought he was trying to buy the election and push his liberal agenda. That hadn't made anyone mad enough to want to kill him, though, especially in California. It was his testimony fifteen years earlier that had sent a mobster to prison that was the issue. Several other people had refused to testify and had gone to jail for contempt of court rather than take their chances. Sinclair was campaigning on his bravery, and it had been effective until said mobster had recently been paroled. It turned out that a decade and a half hadn't tempered his attitude any.

“Questions?”

Mira and Torin exchanged glances. They both shook their heads.

“Your first assignment together,” Inamorata said. “With luck, it will be an uneventful evening.”

“You have reason to believe it won't be,” Torin said.

“Rumors are Alberto Leone is in the city.” Inamorata showed them recent pictures of the man. “Bad shots, from a newspaper, I'm afraid.” She spread out a few more pictures on the stainless-steel table. “Other family members. Known associates.”

Mira and Torin studied the snapshots.

“I'm attending as a guest, like you two,” she said. “Cocktails are in fifteen minutes. Here's your official invitation. Our guys are manning the doors.”

She handed over the card to Mira, and without another word, Inamorata moved off.

“Suppose she's wearing a butt plug?”

Mira gasped.

“Let's go prepare to meet the man of the hour.”

For the first time, Torin struggled with an assignment. He wanted to make sure Mira was safe. Yet he knew she was fully capable of taking care of herself.

Hawkeye, Inc. had made sure of that. And Torin himself had had a hand in her training. She was strong, smart, resourceful. She didn't need him to look after her.

He was the problem.

He wanted her wrapped in cotton wool somewhere safe. The Leones were a tight-knit family who took care of their own. He didn't want Mira within a hundred miles of them.

She followed him to the lobby. He made eye contact with Trace before placing his fingers intimately in the small of Mira's back and guiding her toward the hotel's elegant ballroom.

A live band played forties music, and champagne flowed freely. Obviously no amount of money had been spared.

They went through the formality of having Hawkeye operatives check their invitation. He noticed that Inamorata was already in place. Outside of Fort Knox, this was one of the tightest places in the United States tonight.

He and Mira mingled. This was the nature of their jobs. Often twenty-three hours and fifty-five minutes of boredom interrupted by five minutes of “oh, shit!”

And occasionally nothing happened to interrupt the boredom. Ideally that would be the case.

“We should separate,” Mira said.

When hell froze over.

From their vantage near the bar, he kept a watchful eye on the door and on the guests arriving.

The night showed no signs of getting interesting, which was fine by him. He was ready to bury his cock inside Mira's willing body.

There was a buzz of activity near the door, and he kept his gaze there.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the evening's emcee announced, “your next senator, Nathaniel Sinclair!”

Shouts of approval and loud claps filled the ballroom. The media magnate came in with a wave, Aimee at his side.

Sinclair made his way to the stage and said a few words of thanks. He seemed completely at ease, without a care in the world.

In a security nightmare, he left the stage and started glad-handing all the attendees. People queued up to meet him, and they blocked a smooth exit. Torin figured Aimee would unobtrusively move Sinclair toward safety and keep her body between him and the guests as much as possible.

“I'll be back,” Mira told him.

“Mira…”

“I want to meet him.”

She walked off.

Since he could scan almost the entire crowd and see the door at the same time, he remained in the same general vicinity.

He kept a surreptitious eye on Mira.

She stood in the line with several other women, and she appeared to join in the conversation.

He noticed that she took one of the women by the arm as if they were old friends. Mira started talking loudly. If he hadn't been so in tune with her expressions and reactions, he might have missed the subtle look she shot him.

As it was, he keyed his mic to alert the others and headed her direction.

“I'm sure I've seen your picture before,” Mira was saying.

The woman's stiff smile, obviously surgically enhanced, started to fade. “You're mistaken,” the blonde said.

“Are you a movie star? Can I have your autograph?”

Torin moved in, cutting off the woman from her other friends. “Everything okay, honey?” he asked Mira.

“I think this woman is a movie star!”

Torin shrugged like a helpless male. “I'm sorry. She's an autograph hound. If you'll humor her…”

The woman had a sheen of sweat on her upper lip.

“Here, I have a pen right here,” Mira said. She opened her purse. “Oh. No!”

She got louder and more animated. “I don't have a pen. What am I going to do? Do you have one?” she asked the woman. “Can I borrow yours?”

She was drawing the attention of a lot of people, and Aimee whispered something in Sinclair's ear, then kissed him on the cheek, looking like a lover who was anxious to have her man all to herself. He shrugged, as if unable to resist the womanly wiles.

Inamorata moved toward Sinclair.

“Darling, I'm so excited! She's going to sign an autograph!” Mira gushed at Torin.

The blonde snapped. “I don't have a pen.”

“Just look,” Mira implored. “Please?”

Her expression more a snarl than even a politely civil smile, the woman made a show of opening her pocketbook.

Mira acted. She jostled into the woman, forcing her to loosen her grip on the purse.

Crap!

Mira's instinct had been completely correct. He keyed his mic. “Gun!”

The woman reached into her purse and grabbed the revolver then pointed it straight at Mira.

Pandemonium erupted in screams of hysteria.

Mira, gaze determined, leaned over and surged forward.

The gun discharged. The roar deafened him.

Chapter Nine

Pain shredded Mira's upper arm. It seared and burned. But she was focused.

She rammed her body full force into the blonde's painfully thin frame.

She knocked the woman over, and Torin moved into action, pinning her to the ground.

Trace Romero was there in seconds, securing the assailant's wrists while Torin hustled over to Mira.

“She winged me, Torin,” she said. “The bitch winged me.”

“Saw that. I made sure she is staying down.”

“My hero.” Her body refused to support her weight, and she couldn't stand up.

“You mad? I wasn't sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing.” She struggled to keep him in focus. Then the world went black.

When she opened her eyes again, she was on a stretcher in the hotel ballroom.

An IV drip ran into a vein, and Torin stood next to her, his jaw set in an uncompromising line.

She hurt like hell. And there was no one she wanted to see more than him.

A paramedic strapped her to a stretcher, and she struggled for the control she always had. “My dry-cleaning bill's going to rival the national debt,” she said. “I like this dress.”

He shook his head. “I'll buy you ten more.”

“And go shopping with me for them?”

“You're pushing it, Araceli.”

She tried to grin, to keep it light, but she couldn't. They seriously needed a talk. If it had been him who had been injured, how would she have reacted? How did they keep their jobs separate from their real lives? One thing was sure: she wouldn't give up her job, her freedom, or her independence for him or any man, no matter how good the sex was, no matter how much she wanted to experience his lash. She cared about him—loved him.

That thought made her light-headed again.

She didn't love Torin Carter. The man was strong and dominant, demanding.

His world operated by his rules, and he offered no compromise, especially when it came to her and their BDSM games.

“I'm riding in the ambulance,” he told one of the paramedics.

“Sir—”

“I'd save my breath if I were you,” she told the young woman. “In an argument with him, you can't win.”

“At least your brain didn't get damaged,” Torin said with a slight smile.

Inamorata efficiently walked over. “Nice work, Araceli.”

“Except for the part where she got shot,” Torin said.

“Grazed,” Mira corrected. “The slug just took a chunk out of my arm.”

His blue eyes reminded her once again of a glacier. Cold. Determined. The concern she'd seen earlier had vanished. He'd blazed past anger. Now his temper was on a shortened leash. The sweat on her back chilled.

“You,” Inamorata said, pointing at Torin, “can shut up.”

Mira couldn't have said it better herself.

Mira exhaled.

The last week had sucked. She hadn't required surgery. The doctors had just stabilized her and used some fancy new glue to put her back together. Treated and released.

Clearly Torin didn't see it that way.

He was still behaving as if she needed to be protected, and she'd already resumed weight training.

He hadn't spanked her, hadn't touched her, hadn't kissed her, hadn't made love to her. He'd slept in his own bedroom to be sure he didn't bump her arm at night. He'd fed her, kept her in coffee and food and ibuprofen, and he made sure she didn't overexert herself. And she was tired of it.

She joined him in the office.

He was obviously pretending to work. But she'd seen the hint of an online poker game before he hit a key to switch back to a spreadsheet.

“We need to talk.”

He spun in his chair to face her.

“The way I see it, we have two choices, maybe three.”

“Go on.”

She licked her lower lip. This would be so much easier if he weren't so remote.

He remained in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “You can ask for a new partner. We can stop playing BDSM games.”

“And the third?”

“We can end both.” She gave a brave, fake smile that faded instantly. Her voice shook as she added, “But we can't go on like this. I'm almost completely recovered.

And I have this to say…” She tucked her wayward hair behind her ear and pretended not to notice her hand trembled. She drew a breath. She had to say what was on her mind, had to get it out. She didn't want to live with the regret of having kept her mouth shut. “I want it all. I want to remain partners. I want you to spank me. I want you to fuck me hard.”

“Mira—”

She interrupted. “All of life is risk, Torin. All of it.”

His posture didn't invite her to continue. His spine was rigid, his mouth unyielding.

“You cannot go off half-cocked. You didn't trust me.”

“I didn't trust me,” she corrected. “There was just something about her… The way she was looking at Sinclair…”

“You didn't trust me,” he repeated. “Partners run ideas past each other.

Hawkeye might have found you were not at fault, the press may call you a heroine, and the police department may give you an award, but I disagree.”

Her blood seemed to slow in her veins.

“You put your own self-interest ahead of the partnership.”

His cold words fell harder than any lash he'd ever used. “When I believed I was likely right, you were there instantly. No harm. No foul.”

He stood and took a few steps toward her. “And that's the problem. You see it your way and no other.”

“And you see it yours,” she protested. “Like you said, Hawkeye's investigation found that I'd acted appropriately. We can talk about this. Reach a compromise.

Isn't that what partners do too?”

His arms were folded implacably. “Partners trust one another. As for BDSM

games—” He flicked his gaze down her body, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, lingering on her breasts and crotch. “Without trust, I have no interest in those either.”

“Torin—”

“I won't beat you senseless at Dark Haven whenever both of us happen to be in San Francisco at the same time, and I won't spend my nights wondering who you're fucking, whether you're taking stupid risks with a new partner.”

Her heart stopped momentarily, and her knees felt weak. “So option number three?” Her voice was hardly a whisper.

“You're not going to give up working for Hawkeye,” he said flatly.

“No.”

He nodded.

How could she have been so blind? Of course he'd already chosen option number three. He'd already left their relationship. He was only still here because Hawkeye had placed her on a leave of absence. He wouldn't walk away until she was completely healed and his reassignment came through.

He might have been a wonderful caretaker, but she should have realized the significance of his refusal to touch her. Everything he'd done had been out of a sense of obligation. It was what partners did. Her heart seemed to break into a thousand tiny pieces. “I mean nothing to you?”

“Not true. You mean too much to me. I can't live with your recklessness.”

“So that's that, then?”

Instead of answering, he walked around her. He left the room and closed the door behind him.

Shattered, she collapsed in the chair he'd just vacated and stared numbly out the window, no longer able to think.

Torin cursed himself for being ten kinds of fool.

He was five miles into a punishing outdoor run, and he wasn't even close to leaving the demons behind.

She was right that he was rigid in his thinking. No one but him would call her a fool for her actions. No one but him was in love with her. And that was the biggest problem. Somewhere along the line he'd fallen in love with the stubborn Mira Araceli. It'd be easier to cut off a limb than leave her, but he didn't have a choice.

Eventually they'd both get on with their lives.

He just wished the devastation on her face didn't haunt him.

Finally, after another mile, winded, he turned back around. She'd be cleared to return to duty in a few days, a week at the most. He'd get a new partner, a new assignment.

And so would she.

The idea pissed him off.

If he were honest with himself, he would admit there wasn't much about her that wasn't pissing him off at the moment.

She couldn't be cleared soon enough to suit him.

When he returned to the house, he discovered she'd closed herself in her bedroom.

He didn't like the lack of interaction. But he needed to get used to it.

He stayed up later than he usually did, waiting to see if she'd join him in the living room or maybe head to the kitchen for an evening snack. As far as he knew, she hadn't had dinner, not that it should matter to him. She was a big girl, capable of making bad decisions all night long.

Finally he gave up and headed for the shower, remembering the sex they'd had in the small stall, the way she'd ground her hot little cunt against his thigh, the way she'd screamed out her orgasm as he'd inserted a finger deep in her rectum.

His cock was hard, demanding. He'd gritted his teeth and endured it most nights since her injury. Some nights he'd masturbated, but the vixen had supplied the fantasies that made him ejaculate in a hot spurt.

He turned the water to a colder setting and then waited until goose bumps raised on his skin and then turned off the faucet. He towel dried his hair but left his body wet and went into the bedroom.

She was there, waiting for him. She was naked, on all fours, his belt held between her teeth.

His body reacted instantly, his cock straining with an erection.

His mind lagged a few seconds behind.

When rational thought returned, he knew he should send her back to her room. But his body was having none of that. Blood surged, demanding release.

“Why are you here?”

She removed the belt from her mouth. She kept hold of it, though. “You said I mattered to you.”

“It's too late.”

“You were right,” she admitted. “I was foolish. Reckless. I wanted to prove something, that I'm strong, capable, independent.”

She kept her legs parted. He forced himself to focus on her words, but he had a hard time not responding as a dominant. Her pussy was spread wide, and he wanted to possess her. He wanted to use that belt on her rounded ass, punish her hard for the stupid risk she'd taken. He wanted to return things to the natural order.

“And the truth is…”

He saw her swallow and look down before continuing.

“The truth is I love you. You—we—matter more than what I want. I realize I am stronger, more capable when you and I collaborate.”

“I'm not a bastard, Mira. I was well within my rights to expect that you would share your thoughts and feelings with me about what was happening that night downtown. Despite what you may think, even if you're in a submissive role, I don't think of you as weak or stupid. I'm not the type of man who expects his woman, his sub, to keep her mouth shut. I respect your brain. I'd be insulted if you thought I didn't want you to use it.”

“Thank you for that.”

“I never expected or wanted you to lose yourself to be with me.”

“I'm asking, begging, for a second chance, as your partner, as”—she took a breath—“as your submissive.”

“Mira—”

“Beat me,” she pleaded. “I heard what you said, and I believe you. You weren't the problem; my own beliefs were. Of my free will, I'm asking you to allow me to submit to you.”

He was undone.

She looked up at him.

“You will be punished.”

“Yes…”

“For your lack of trust.”

“Yes…”

And then the truth. “For scaring the shit out of me.”

She leaned back on her haunches and spread her legs even farther apart.

“Because of your wound, I won't restrain you,” he said.

“It's healed.”

“You will be tied by my will.”

She was silent.

“Your choice, Mira.” He knew what he was asking from her, and she knew it too. He'd put her in position, and it would be up to her to keep herself there. Being restrained was often easier, because the sub could let go emotionally and physically, surrendering to the pain. He was demanding she be a full participant the entire time.

Without saying another word, she offered him the belt. He took it.

She crawled to the bed and positioned herself, her torso on the mattress, her feet on the floor. She stretched out and crossed her arms at the wrists.

She spread her thighs wide and turned her toes inward, exposing her ass and her pussy to his punishment.

“How many strokes do you deserve?”

“Ten, Master,” she said without hesitation.

His cock tightened. He'd expected an answer of six, maybe eight. But ten would have been his choice.

He landed the first stripe from the leather just beneath her buttocks, across the top of both thighs. She gasped but remained in place.

He placed the second one slightly higher than the first. This time she moaned.

Inexorably he worked up a bit higher with each of the next four stripes.

“Are you counting, Mira?”

“Six?”

“Good girl.” He crisscrossed the next two on the full globes of her rear. “Your ass is beautifully red,” he said.

“Thank you, Master.”

Her hips swayed seductively. He was captivated. It took all his restraint to focus on her punishment instead of taking her and riding her hard.

“Please,” she said, “finish my beating and fuck me.”

How could he resist?

He laid the last two on her already moistened pussy.

She jerked against the pain, but she didn't try to escape his lash. She kept her wrists crossed, her legs parted.

“Turn over,” he said to her. “I want you on your back. I want to look at you as I take you.”

He helped her reposition so she didn't have to put much weight on her injured arm.

“Take me,” she said.

He stroked her pussy, and she was wet. He grabbed a condom from the nightstand and fumbled with opening the package.

Seconds later, he'd sheathed himself in the latex, and his cockhead was poised at her opening.

“Yes,” she whispered.

She was perfect. Submissive yet in charge of what she wanted. She was ideal for him. He knew they'd have disagreements going forward, but he believed her when she said she'd communicate with him in the future. What they shared together was more important than what either of them individually wanted.

He sank into her in a single, possessive stroke.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, inviting him deeper.

He took her as his own.

She reached up and dug her fingers in his hair, holding his head close. “Kiss me,” she demanded.

He did, but he allowed her to set the tone, and her kiss was fierce, as if making up for lost time and simultaneously staking a claim on the future. Fine by him. He met her tongue and returned the kiss with his own intensity.

Sparks ignited when they were together; he liked it that way.

Finally she ended the kiss and closed her eyes He rode her, filling her, impaling her, imprisoning her. He felt raw and savage in a way he'd never felt before. Her breaths came in frantic pants, and she whispered his name.

“Take it, baby. Come for me.”

She did, shuddering and crying his name, her internal muscles drawing out his climax. His balls tightened, driven by her responsiveness.

His body stiffened as he ejaculated deep inside her.

Her lips were swollen; her eyes glassy. “You're mine,” he said.

“Yeah?” she asked, full of sass.

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

He would. Again and again and again. “You sure you know what you're asking for?”

She shuddered, and it was obviously in delight and anticipation. “I”—her smile seemed to tremble—“I think so. I hope so.”

He pulled out of her, grabbed a damp washcloth from the bathroom, and cleaned her up.

He knelt on the floor near the bed and hooked her knees with his arms, positioning her so her legs rested on his shoulders. “Are you sure you know what you're asking for?” he repeated.

“Oh God,” she said with a tiny whimper.

Using moisture from her still-damp pussy, he lubricated two fingers and slowly worked them up into her ass.

She gasped.

“You sure you know what you're asking for?” he asked yet again.

“I…”

He inserted fingers from his other hand into her cunt.

“Torin!”

“Master Torin,” he corrected.

“Master Torin,” she said.

He who'd never wanted a sub, he who'd preferred a different woman every night was now besotted. Completely. Totally. In addition to keeping her, he was planning to collar her publicly at Dark Haven. There'd never again be a question of whom she belonged to. “Still want me to prove it?”

“Yes!”

He fucked her hard in both places, and when she was on the edge, he closed his mouth over her pussy and sucked hard on her clit.

Her heels dug into his shoulders, she thrashed and screamed on the bed.

He didn't settle for wringing one orgasm from her body; he demanded a second and a third. “Still want me to prove it, mo shearc?” he asked when she lay there panting, her head thrashing from side to side.

“You win,” she said, her voice ragged. “I think I've met my match.”

He was going to have a wonderful time showing her they were a perfect match.