Three-Part Harmony Read online

  THREE-PART HARMONY

  Angel Payne

  www.loose-id.com

  Three-Part Harmony

  Copyright © July 2012 by Angel Payne

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  eISBN 978-1-61118-814-1

  Editor: Rory Olsen

  Cover Artist: Marci Gass

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 809

  San Francisco CA 94104-0809

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * *

  DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  Dedication

  To my beautiful Sir, for the song that never ends.

  Special thanks to Shayla, for always believing I belonged here. And to Christy, for your amazing memory!

  Chapter One

  So this is why they made up the term “conflicted emotions.”

  Dasha Moore punched the End Call button, then winced at her phone’s black screen.

  It was the third night she’d sold out Madison Square Garden. And the third night Dad “just couldn’t make it.”

  As she tried to breathe down the ache in her chest, the air in her dressing room shifted with the movement of its other occupant. A leg, long and commanding, invaded her view. A camel Kiton suit clung to it in all the right places. The other leg entered her view, and now the owner of those tense, braced thighs gave a hard huff, emphasizing a case of thoroughly pissed-off that she’d recognized even if blindfolded.

  “David,” she pleaded. “Don’t start, okay?”

  “Don’t start what?” came his rage-roughened voice. “Asking what lame excuse he came up with this time?”

  “He’s a senator,” Dasha countered. “He has responsibilities.” So many that he now has the perfect little aide leaving his voice mails for him. Crystal had even done the deed in less than sixty seconds. Was there anything the woman wasn’t good at?

  “Right. Responsibilities greater than his own daughter. Responsibilities that come up every time you invite him to a show.”

  Dasha bit down her retort. What option did she have otherwise? David was right; there was no point arguing, because that was what they’d do. It would be the same words, different setting. She’d protest about Dad’s “duty” and “obligations” to his position. David would snarl about how the esteemed Senator Moore had an obligation to her first. Her frustration would mount with each word. His fierce, protective fury would climb in proportion.

  And her adoration of him would grow because of it.

  She grabbed a water bottle from the clutter on her dressing table, then attempted to drown that thought with a big swig from it. She kept telling herself it had nothing to do with David’s recent breakup. What was this one’s name again? Oh, right. Lilly. Like the split changed anything between her and David. Like it ever would. Like Lilly wouldn’t be replaced in another month or two with some other strawberry blonde who stood demurely at his side, quipping three-word sentences.

  Dasha grimaced. Damn it, she was a strawberry blonde, give or take a shade or two. As far as the vocabulary handicap…well, that was where she fell short. David didn’t call her his “walking thesaurus” for nothing. She’d started wishing, with more frequency than she wanted, for just a few less IQ points, as well as a good dip in the sarcasm that earned her David’s chuckles but not his heart.

  Brooding was a completely unproductive pastime.

  She put the bottle back down with a decisive thud, making the sequins of her stage outfit throw little prisms all over the room. Next to the bottle, she found an elastic band and used it to whip her long, thick curls into a high ponytail. In the mirror, she caught David’s eyes on her, the dark gray depths now glittering, like some wildcat watching from a forest. The look entranced her so deeply that it stopped her, freezing her arms in midair.

  “What?” she finally challenged.

  His eyes narrowed, making him look even more predatory, tightening the knot in her stomach. “You’re not going to say anything else?” he asked.

  Dasha huffed. “Why? Because you want a fight? Because you don’t have—”

  She stopped herself from blurting something she’d really regret later. Or even right now.

  “Because I don’t have what?”

  “Forget it.”

  “No.” His voice went lower, almost a growl. “I can’t and won’t read your mind, sweetheart. Spit it the hell out.”

  She was glad they now stared at each other via the mirror. She wasn’t sure she could directly handle the do-it-or-else intensity that underlined his words. Or the dark energy that saturated his gaze again. She watched a cord in his neck go hard, pulsing against the collar of his white dress shirt. Their sparring matches had always been part of their friendship, but the edge he’d carved to his end tonight was new. And strange. And turning her pulse into five kinds of awake.

  “Fine. I was going to comment on how testy you get when there’s no bimbette on hand for you to order around.”

  To her shock, he snickered. On the heels of the shock came the embarrassment, which made her flush deeper. Which of course, made David laugh harder.

  “‘Bimbette,’ huh?”

  She flashed him a tighter-than-Spanx smile. “If the shoe fits, Mr. Pennington.”

  “Hey, no hating. Unless you’re auditioning for the job?”

  “And if I am?”

  He shook his head, still grinning. “Ha-ha, babe.”

  But during those three seconds, Dasha spun back toward him. She didn’t smile. Aside from the turn, she barely moved. Or breathed. She just waited, wordless—for—

  What?

  Idiot. Like after five years, he’s ever going to see you as something, someone, more than his employer. His paycheck. Maybe, just maybe, you qualify as a friend—but not a lover. No, you’re not enough of a woman to be his lover.

  Not. Enough.

  The words stabbed her, sharp and accusing, plunging into the heart that tonight, of all nights, felt exposed and trampled. Dasha bowed her head as angry tears speared to the front of her eyes, then fell.

  “D?” David only made the torment worse with his concerned rumble. She felt him move closer, his steps strong and fast. “Hey. What—”

  She cut him off by acting, for once, on pure instinct. She lunged into him with every ounce of her strength. Before he could turn his stunned grunt into words, she captured his lips beneath hers and tasted him greedily, desperately. Joy rained through her
when she felt the answering pressure from his own mouth, the seeking tilt of his head, the eager response of his tongue against hers, the hard grip of his hands at her lower back.

  All too fast, he broke the kiss short.

  “Dasha.” The sound vibrated through his body, dark as his unblinking stare. “Wait. Whoa.”

  “No.” It came out a sob, and she didn’t care. “No ‘wait.’ No ‘whoa,’ damn it. Please, David, not tonight!” She slid a hand from his neck to his face, threaded her fingers through his hair. “Please, just for tonight…I need to know…”

  “What?” he uttered into her hesitation.

  “That I’m good enough.” She squeezed her eyes shut against the humiliation of the words. “Damn it, that someone wants me.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not it. That you want me. I need you to want me, David. You have to know, just a little, how I feel. How I want it…from you.”

  Silence stretched. David released a heavy breath, though he didn’t pull away. That had to be good, right?

  But then he spoke again.

  “Ohhhh boy,” he muttered. “Dasha. Listen. Listen.” He captured both her wrists as she tried to yank away. “It’s not that I don’t want you too, okay? Christ, there’s a reason your fans adore you. You’re incredible and talented, vital and gorgeous—beyond gorgeous. But, you and I, as lovers—” He exhaled hard. “I can’t take care of your heart the way it deserves to be taken care of. And sweetheart, you do des—”

  “I’m not your sweetheart.” She dipped her head again. “Got your entire message, mister. Loud and clear. Now let me go.”

  His grip went tighter. “That’s exactly my point.” Then he tightened it again. The move, so deliberate, brought her stare back up in time to watch him slide an assessing stare all the way down her body. “If we were…together, you wouldn’t be firing orders at me like that. Well, not without some punishment to follow. And I certainly wouldn’t be letting you go. Not by a long shot. Not for a long time.” One side of his mouth quirked. “As a matter of fact, I’d be thinking of which way to best hold down your pretty little ankles too.”

  Dasha got a shallow gulp in. “My—my ankles? And what do you mean, ‘punishment’?”

  He locked his stare back to hers. A trace of dark marine blue now danced in those gray depths, giving her the smile his mouth just teased at. “I’m a Dominant, Dasha. I enjoy a lot of control in my personal relationships. Granted, it’s control that’s freely given, but I push those limits. A lot. Do you understand now?”

  “No,” she managed to reply. And couldn’t get out much else. Just the way his tone went lower, and harder, started doing things to her body…things other men had to physically touch her to incite. Her thighs began to ache. And the intimate flesh between them… God, were her folds actually pulsing?

  “Okay, let me put it this way. I don’t waste my time with women who can’t think. All my ‘bimbettes’ have a master’s degree or higher, some more than one. The reason they all took my ‘orders’ is because they chose to, as my submissives.”

  “As your what?”

  He chuckled again. “Surrender can be fun, you know. And a lot more.”

  At that, he changed his grip on her a little, making it possible to rub the pads of his thumbs into her palms. Her breath caught. The caresses were better than his foot rubs. Dasha dragged her eyes up, forcing herself to focus beyond the pleasure and accuse, “Fun for who?”

  “Fair question,” he conceded. Though his gaze remained steady, a discernible tension now curled out from him. No, not tension. More like…anticipation, a sensual Tesla coil that radiated into her too. “And I’ll be very honest with my answer.” He pressed an inch closer. “You know you can expect no less.”

  She flashed a knowing smile. “I guess I do.”

  David didn’t smile in return. Instead, the Tesla coil went into high drive. He squared his stance and nearly pressed their bodies together now. “The full term for the dynamic is ‘BDSM,’” he stated. “The letters stand for Bondage, Domination, Sadism, and Masochism. The S is also sometimes for Submission.” His gaze raked her face, which was surely stamped with every iota of her shock—and, she admitted, horror. “I know they’re not words found on your usual Valentine’s Day card—”

  “You think?” she retorted.

  “But to those of us who got created with the mental chip for it, those words are better than a Shakespeare sonnet.” The angles of his face changed then, riveting her with a conviction that seemed nearly noble. “In D/s, it’s not just an act of your body. We sometimes call them scenes because of the focus that’s demanded. There has to be complete commitment on the part of both the Master and the submissive. Total focus from me. Absolute trust from her. Bondage is a way to signify that, even to help it. That can include ropes, cuffs, blindfolds—”

  “Okay, got it.” She squirmed for a second, but she knew David didn’t miss the way she flicked her tongue over her lips, too—so yeah, he probably knew. He probably saw that hearing him talk like that, then imagining him using all those things on her, and asking her to be open to him like that…suddenly, it seemed less the stuff of a horror movie and more the fabric of fantasy.

  Ohhh crap. The pulses between her thighs became a drum circle.

  She had to refocus. She had to address the rest. The other words. The more frightening ones.

  “What about…” She took a deep breath. “You said…sadism. And masochism. So there’s—parts of the scenes that sometimes—”

  “Hurt.” He supplied it as a fact, not a question, and with brutal calm. Oh yeah, like a glassy lagoon hiding a water snake. “I won’t lie to you about that either, D. Or about me. I’m a sadist, sweetheart. But a fun one. I play hard. I love the high of watching a lovely submissive writhe under me and for me. It makes my body rev and my blood sing. And I like to push limits too, when I know I’m with someone who wants it and trusts me with it—because I love what I give her in return.”

  “Wait.” She cocked her head, brow crunching. “Did you really say someone who wants it?”

  He jutted his jaw with enough force to command an army. His one-sided smile balanced the daunting effect. “Tell me something: Raife runs you and the dancers through a new routine and shows you moves that look like torture—”

  “Because they are?”

  “Then he makes you do the damn thing over and over until you think your body’s going to come apart, right? But you trust that he knows where everything is going, how everything fits. And then, something happens. That moment comes when everything connects, and you get it too.” He suddenly broke out in a huge smile. It was more beautiful than any she’d seen from him before. “And it’s magic.”

  Dasha closed her eyes for a moment. The sincerity in his voice compelled her more than the words. But she had to separate the two, if only for a moment.

  “Crap,” she muttered. Then shot her tone with more anger. “So, what? Did these women just lie down and say ‘hurt me, Davey,’ now?”

  His grin became a little smirk. “In a matter of speaking, yes. But not exactly like that. Most of them came to me with some previous experience in this unique lifestyle, so we had communication about what kind of things they enjoyed. And of course, the lines they trusted me not to cross.”

  “Really?” She slid it out with sarcasm but couldn’t hide her surprise. So, even though submissives were—well—submissive, they got a vote about the conditions of their experience? “You mean there are choices? There’s a…variety?”

  If it was possible, his sexual heat intensified. And like before, it permeated her too. It turned his response into something that seemed an invitation to a deep, entrancing wonderland.

  “Variety would be the understatement, sweetheart. Imagine all the flavors of chocolate and cheese you love, turned into toys for sensation and pleasure.”

  “And pain,” she reminded.

  “Part of the pleasure.” It sounded practically an order, forcing her to look up again. To her surpri
se, that wolfish smile lingered at his elegant lips. “Marceline used to cry and beg me for riding crop welts. Katy liked rope bondage and fucking swings.”

  Okay, TMI. But Dasha kept the words to herself. Because somehow, standing here locked in his hold and bathed in his gaze, it wasn’t too much information. Because now, it wasn’t enough information. Every nerve ending in her body wanted to know more. Craved more of the feelings he’d now introduced to her muscles, her skin, her very breath…

  “I suppose Lilly loved handcuffs and ankle shackles?” It escaped before she could help it. And sounded totally dorky.

  “Only if we were into cop and criminal that night.” He looked almost pleased with himself. “Lilly did love her costumes. But yeah, that was probably her favorite. Probably because I withheld her orgasm for hours.”

  Dasha shifted again. But this time, it wasn’t to resist or squirm. She started to return the pressure from his hold, curling her fingers around his thumbs. “So you…handcuffed her?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “And then…told her she couldn’t…”

  “Ohhhh yeah.”

  “And what did she do?”

  “She said, ‘Thank you, Sir.’”

  Okay, bypass dorky. Barrel straight to what-the-hell. “She thanked you?”

  “In more ways than one.”

  For a second, Dasha couldn’t identify what she felt about that. Then realization slammed. Jealousy. Envy that she hadn’t been in Lilly’s skin, pleading with David…pleasing David.

  The ache bloomed again between her breasts. She didn’t hide her tears from him this time. “All right, then. Let me thank you in the same ways.” Before he got in another protest, she rushed on. “I want to try it. I want you, David.”

  “Dasha—”

  “Test me. Show me. How do you know I won’t like it too?”

  He chuffed. “By the way you had to practically choke that out?”

  “You haven’t even given me a chance.”

  “Oh yes, I have.” Suddenly, his grip went from tight to unyielding. His stare bore into her with a feral honesty that turned the pain in her chest into chaos. “I’ve done exactly that, sweetheart. About a thousand times, in my imagination.”