sneers at me as her knees fall open and she clips the leash to a ring on the crotch of her G-string.
I grab the free end and give her a slight tug, imagining the cool metal sliding against her folds.
My cock goes rigid, traitor that it is. But I take satisfaction in Z’s slight squirm against the leather seat.
“When I say come, you come,” I tell her, then lead her out of the car. It takes every ounce of effort not to allow my mind to wander to the dalliances we’ve shared over the years. The vise grip of her pussy on my cock. Goddamn it, she’d open so wide for me. She gave me everything except for the truth.
For the seconds we stand next to each other, she leans close and whispers in my ear. “If we make it out of here alive, I’m going to kill you.”
I chuckle, though I know it’s only partly a joke. Agent Z’s reputation with the blade is legendary. As is her talent for escape. No one can capture her.
“I look forward to it, Princess.”
And then I stride farther into the alley, the slack on the leash the determiner of how many paces she’ll walk behind me.
Yes, we’re playing our assigned roles, but it also allows me to case our surroundings and for her to have my back should I miss anything.
Not that I ever do.
I count the doors, none of them lit, and stop at the fifth one—an indistinct black door recessed in the nondescript redbrick rear wall of the building.
A camera above the door clicks and whirs as we approach. Then the door falls open, revealing a dimly lit stairwell.
I wrap the leash around my hand and give it a soft pull.
Z sucks in a sharp breath and my nostrils flare. Fuck. I capture the scent of her erotic aroma.
“Tell me what’s on the other side of that ring,” I say, because it’s either that or throw her up against the wall and take her bareback, thrust my cock in her to the root, make her milk every last drop of come out of me and see if that gets my head on straight.
She grits her teeth. “Make me.”
Z
I HATE HOW my toes are cramped inside these ridiculous pointy boots. I hate the way the glue from my pasties itches my sensitive areolas. I hate the way London’s autumn night chill pebbles my exposed skin with gooseflesh. But most of all, I hate how wet I am. I swear if I look I’ll see my arousal shimmering on my thighs in a telltale gleam.
My body is compact and muscular, an instrument of death, honed to fatal precision, and yet with Max—no, X—looming over me, smelling vaguely of pine, oiled leather and mountain rain, my defenses crack. A part of me, a part that feels quite achy at present, wants to rub against his powerful form like a feral cat in heat, purring that he can use me any way that he sees fit. To acknowledge him as my master. My G-string is soaked and my mouth waters, remembering the velvet feel of his cock on my tongue.
But I got to where I am in the Order by being competitive, and I am compelled to answer the challenge in his eyes.
“As you wish,” he growls and tugs me forward.
The wet leather of my G-string goes tight against my pussy, the cold metal of the leash ring skimming my clit. But I don’t allow so much as a whimper to escape my lips. Keeping my face carefully bored, I clip down the steps behind him, concentrating on my balance and cursing the day that I ever begged my parents to send me to Frasier Academy. My life would have been easier if I never knew this man existed, because ever since I’ve been trapped in his orbit, it’s as if he exerts his own gravitational pull.
No matter how many years I’ve known him, I can’t get used to his presence. He’s as addictive as heroin. The sexual chemistry between us could blow up Western Europe.
He glances behind and scowls. “Eyes down, Princess.”
“Excuse me?” I bristle.
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “So help me, my sub will be well trained. Turn your gaze to the ground. You don’t make eye contact with anyone unless I order you to, is that understood?”
“Fine,” I spit. He’s right. I have to be professional. Even if my job is requiring me to play a role that I hate.
He tugs my leash. “Yes, sir.”
My breath hitches as my pussy responds to the pressure, and he snorts.
“Yes, sir,” I mumble, lowering my gaze, my cheeks pink not from embarrassment but barely controlled fury. And still I want to lick every contour of the muscles beneath his Dom outfit.
“I might enjoy this gig after all,” he says, almost to himself.
I glare at the floor, unsure whom I hate more. Him? Or me and my damn weakness.
And just like that we are at the bottom of the stairs. X pushes apart thick black velvet curtains, and we enter the Lion’s Den.
Throbbing Euro trance music mingles with the sound of a woman’s breathless moans. I dare a quick glance to my left to see a woman trussed up in what appears to be clothesline as a muscular man in head-to-toe latex pumps her slit with a fat crimson dildo while tugging her nipple clamps. A crowd gathers around them, clearly enjoying the spectacle from the way they stroke their exposed erections or finger their shaved pussies. At their feet, slaves kneel, heads down, men and women, all submissives waiting on the pleasure of their masters.
On the other wall, a young man is chained to a giant metal X while a dominatrix in a purple corset and crotchless panties paddles his exposed ass with an ebony cane.
Sprawled across a dining table in the center of the room, a nubile blonde stretches out, her naked body covered in small pastries. Dominants lounge in chairs around her, occasionally plucking a delight from her body as if she was nothing but a dessert plate.
Shocked, I return my gaze to the ground, grateful for a moment not to be the one in control. My thighs tremble as heat licks my core. It’s like entering a sexual circus and erotic fun house.
It’s not that I’m a prude. After all, for the last three years, I’ve been X’s secret lover, allowing him to penetrate me in anonymous cars and hotel rooms all over the continent. But here I am out of my element. Cries of agony and ecstasy hit me on all sides. It’s as if I’m a child, Alice of Through the Looking-Glass, and entering a wonderland of sexhibition.
“Hello, hello,” I hear a woman purr in a throaty voice, addressing X. “Your little one is delicious.”
“She is, isn’t she?” X answers smugly, as if I’m a toy he’s proud of.
And for the moment, I suppose that’s exactly what I am.
“There’s going to be a black-sheet party starting in the
