Masked Page 5

  “We have a new girl in the house.”

  Max nodded toward the second living room area that the bar overlooked. Both spaces were crowded tonight, lots of people hanging out in couples or small groups, chatting or snacking before deciding what playrooms they’d be going to. In general, the crowd struck Dan as experienced and informed—not that newbs had the word stamped on their forehead—but there was a nervous energy that first-timers to the scene usually gave off, especially women. It made them as detectable as cheese to rats—a perfect comparison, since that was usually how the Doms in the room behaved once the chase was on.

  Dan gazed across both rooms again. No swarming rats yet, though there was a lone figure, sitting in a wingback chair, at the back of the second room. From here, she could only be viewed from midtorso down. And damn, what a torso it was. Even half her cleavage was a pleasure, imagining how high and pert her tits likely were, spilling from her red latex corset. Delicate tattoos feathered from her bare shoulders to just above her elbows. Her stiff forearms led to the tight clasp of her hands in her lap—perhaps because she knew that from there down, the ensemble needed an overhaul. As in, huge. Where the hell had she gotten that black lace skirt? Its layers looked more Dolly Parton than dolly kinky, stopping at the tops of lace-up boots that looked like she’d really tromped across the desert to get here tonight.

  “What the hell?” Dan groused.

  “Right?” It came from Tamago, who glanced up at Max for the clearance to say more. When he nodded, she went on, “After Master gave her the orientation three nights ago, I tried talking to her about the Little Match Girl look. She’s been too nervous to give it up.”

  “Too nervous?” Dan echoed.

  “She won’t come out and say it.” Tamago shrugged. “But a girl knows when another girl says she’s fine and means it—and when she doesn’t.”

  “Is she in the right place?” he inquired. “She had orientation three nights ago?”

  “And keeps coming back,” Max filled in. “And just sitting in that same chair.”

  “And not a single Dom’s requested her?”

  Tamago offered, “Well, she also insists on the mask.”

  “The—” Dan couldn’t help his double take. “There’s a mask involved too?

  “Well, it’s a super pretty mask.”

  “Pretty or not, she’s a bank of virgin snow at this.” Which had its own set of plusses and minuses, though the mask clearly belonged in the latter column. “How’s a Dom supposed to read her if she’s wearing a damn mask?”

  Max spoke for everyone with his weighted exhalation. “Now you know why I’m a little uppity.”

  “Uppity?” Franz grunted. “You did not just say ‘uppity.’”

  Max rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have a subbie to flog?”

  Franz’s lips lifted again. “Now that you mention it…” He shoved to his feet. “You all know where I’ll be. Knock on the door only if there’s really a nuclear apocalypse. Wait. No. Only if there’s a zombie apocalypse.”

  Apocalypses. Zombies. World destruction. All the connections were too easy—and cruel—to reach, as Franz stepped away, just as the woman across the room fully rose from her chair fortress.

  And the bottom fell out of Dan’s gut.

  Yep. There was the mask, easily covering half her face—its strings tied beneath a waterfall of brilliant red curls.

  Rose Temptation.

  The color he hadn’t been able to forget for four damn days.

  Framing the face that had clung even tighter to his mind.

  The proud carriage of her neck. The determination beneath her heart-shaped chin. The high, sweeping cheekbones. And damn—damn—that perfect pinup girl’s mouth, defined by her favorite cherry-red lip stain, glistening anew as she swiped her tongue nervously between the curved surfaces…

  “Fuck,” Dan grated. He spun back around on his bar stool as her gaze circled toward them. Ducked his head, leaning it into his right hand.

  What the hell? Why was he hiding from her? Wouldn’t be like she’d be stunned to see him here. She knew all about his dark side. Probably too much.

  But you told her anyway. You told her more because she always begged to know—and that felt good. Damn good. Better therapy than what the “assigned” shrinks had done for you. Because that was something you were ever going to bring up to a person who could decide if you got your job back, right?

  There was that.

  Which didn’t do shit for this. All the craziness in his nervous system, still breaking down the fact that Tess stood across the room, looking like that. That she was so determined to find a Dom, she’d come to the most hardcore club in the city by herself, for the third night in a row—

  Where she eventually would find that Dom.

  The guy who would be good to her. Would be good for her. Every Dom and Domme in this place had to pass Max’s rigorous evaluation process first. They’d been studied, screened, and tested. They were men and women damn good at what they did, serious about their responsibilities to the people who knelt and served them.

  She’d asked him to be that guy.

  He’d turned her down.

  Karma’s teeth did not feel good in his ass.

  “Dan?” Max’s query was low with concern. “You chill, man? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  He forced a nod while sneaking another glance at Tess. “Maybe I’d have preferred one.” Goddamn. One of the overhead lights caught the top of her head. Her hair was like fire, her skin toasted cream. He didn’t even dwell on her mouth. Hard-ons were tough to hide once they busted past a guy’s fly.

  Max didn’t miss a nuance of his movement. “Now you know why I’m ‘uppity’ about her.” The guy cocked his skull-cut head while bracing his arms to the bar. “Though my screening process is rigid, I’m tweaked that some guy is going to hear new and think open to anything.”

  “Fuck,” Dan snarled. “You’re right.” Everything about Tess’s wide stare, nervous gulps, and lost-lamb stance was like an open gate for a Dom who wanted fresh ground to churn with dark fantasies. But that was the trouble with plowing fertile soil. If tilled too deeply, it was ruined for any growth.

  “Last couple of nights haven’t been a huge concern,” Max went on. “Midweek without a huge convention in town, we usually see only regulars and their bottoms. But it’s Friday now. I can already see a few of the weekend guys considering a reset of their radars in her direction.”

  “Who? Where?”

  “Whoa. Easy there, Dothraki.”

  “Where?”

  “Snarls don’t earn you cookies. Or answers. What the hell, Colton? Do you know her or something?”

  He wanted to lie, but karma had it too bad for him as it was. “Yeah,” he muttered. “In a way.” Max’s snicker whipped his head up. “What the fuck’s so funny?”

  “‘In a way’?” Max taunted. “Dude, I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “Like what?” he snapped. “Breathing? Sitting? Enjoying my drink?”

  “Gawking? Scowling?” The guy chuckled again. “And sure as hell not ‘enjoying’ yourself.” He suddenly frowned. “Don’t tell me you’ve played with her before.”

  “No.” He had no idea why the clarification felt so important. “Fuck, no.”

  Max settled in lower, meaning he leaned closer. Nearly beneath his breath, he murmured, “So do it now.”

  “Fuck no.”

  “You want to, Colton. Don’t tell me you don’t.”

  He jerked up his head. “You know what I was doing one week ago tonight, don’t you? Looking at these hands as they shook, Brick. Shook because I didn’t know if I could hold myself back from killing Cameron Stock before we flew his sorry ass back to the States.”

  “But you didn’t.” Max notched his stance one degree closer. “And I’ll bet, my friend, that you need to shut off the world as badly as she does. So maybe this is what you need too.”

  He hated how much that made sense. How much he
couldn’t retort that hooking him up with Tess would mean the monkey was off Max’s back. Max was a lifestyle purist who actually liked the monkeys, so that argument had no teeth.

  What was he supposed to do now? Stride over and inform Tess that—ta-da—here he was, and he’d changed his mind? That getting a good look at her in latex had reformed him about getting into a play room with her? It’d be a lie. She could’ve worn a damn potato sack, and watching her walk off with any man would mangle him worse than a totaled semi.

  Who was he kidding? He’d already been tossed into the scrap heap, damn it—and now glared hopelessly at the two metal plates about to crush him, one stamped with Damned if you do the other stamped with Damned if you don’t.

  “What I need is to get out of here,” he finally growled. “Look, Brickham, if you can just call me a cab, then—”

  He spoke to empty air. Max had gone ninja. Tamago didn’t provide any clues as to where he’d disappeared either, having moved to the other end of the bar, absorbed in conversation with a newly arrived couple to the club.

  “Shit.” He fought a weird paralysis. He didn’t dare look back to gauge where Tess had traveled in the room. Did it matter? He could pretend not to notice her, that her mask was meeting its purpose, that her hair hadn’t already given her away like a signal flare.

  Or he could really just get the hell out of here.

  Just as he pulled out his phone and punched in a search string for reputable cab companies, a text blazed across his screen—from ninja boy.

  :: I have an idea. Meet me in the storeroom behind the bar. ::

  “Shit,” he repeated. “The last time I bought into one of your ‘ideas,’ Brickham…”

  Was all too recently. Tait’s bachelor party, at Gilley’s two weeks ago. Everyone had gotten blotto except him. Not one of the most memorable nights of his life, probably because he could remember it.

  But going to the storeroom meant he wasn’t sitting out here, waiting for Tess to spot him like a fly on a pest strip.

  He walked into the storage area to find his friend wearing a cocky smile. Hanging from one of Max’s massive hands was a half-face mask, decorated with very little except some silver filigree at the outside edges. In the palm of his other hand was a black disk about the size of a quarter.

  Before Dan could say anything, Max drawled, “If you can’t beat her, join her, buddy.”

  “The hell?”

  Max shoved the mask at him. “Try it on.”

  He stepped back. “No.”

  “Shut up and try it on, you wuss.” He slammed the thing into Dan’s chest. “It got the Phantom of the Opera some tail, right?”

  “The fuck it did.”

  “You want to tell me he took that hot chorus girl down to his grotto and didn’t take advantage of the setting?” Brick leaned against the cooler door. “We’ve even got a grotto here, you know. It’s fed by underground hot springs. Ideal for aftercare…and other things.”

  With visions of “other things” parading through his head, Dan growled at his friend—and tied the damn thing on.

  Hmmm. Not bad. Actually…kind of cool. The mask was made out of reinforced velvet, making it form to his face without constricting too much. The cover extended all the way over his nose and also shielded a lot of his cheeks.

  Max pointed to a small mirror mounted on the back of the stockroom’s door. Dan peeked cautiously—then grunted in shock. Because he hadn’t shaved in the last four days, the bottom half of his face was transformed, too. A person would have to be looking really hard to discern his scars…

  A person would be looking even less if she was blindfolded.

  Just the thought of cinching a blindfold over Tess’s face made his dick jump to life again. He jerked back from the force of it, shaking his head. This was still a crazy—

  “Now stick this against the base of your throat.” Max jammed the small disk at him. Dan shot another glare but complied, peeling back the coating on the disk’s strip of sticky tape. No use protesting at this point.

  He pushed the circle to his skin, just beneath his Adam’s apple, and huffed. At least that was his intention. What the hell?

  “Brickham.” He stopped, too astounded to punch his friend for snickering at him. “What the fuck have you done to my voice?”

  People always told him he sounded like Clint Eastwood crossed with a good ol’ Atlanta boy. Now, his voice was like Vin Diesel after a pack of smokes—and a good ol’ Atlanta boy. It was freaky but kind of cool.

  “Pretty dope, eh? We offer it as part of a few role-playing kits. Subbies love it because it turns their Top into any number of slathering beasts. The disk is like a high-end voice box. It adds artificial resonance to your throat. If you want, we can go deeper with the tone.”

  “No.” Damn. Weird. “Not sure I’ll get used to this.”

  “Sure you will.” Max raised a hand, his voilà implied. “Good thing is, between this and the mask, she’ll never know it’s you.”

  It came around to this again.

  Another moment of truth.

  Another invitation to forge trails he hadn’t traversed in a long damn time. A long damn time. Since before the fire…

  “Man…I appreciate this, I really do.” The voice discrepancy was a little less unsettling. “But it’s been over a year since I last scened. I don’t know—”

  Max dug both hands into his shoulders. They felt like eagle talons. “Colton, I’ve seen a lot of Dominants in my time. Some have been coerced into it. Some have been lured into it. Some have been attracted to it and can learn it. But the good ones…they’re born for it. And that’s you.”

  Dan grunted. “You’re not going to give me a Mr. Miyagi speech, are you?”

  “Shut up.” He gave a hard jerk. “And listen. You get this, okay? The exchange—taking what a submissive gives you and processing it into all the things she not only wants but needs… It’s not something you get an instruction sheet for. But a Dominant with his—or her—heart in the right place, who intrinsically realizes dominance is just as much about service as submissiveness…well, that’s exceptional. And rare.”

  Dan stepped back. Rolled his shoulders. “You ever consider that the mask and magic voice box were already enough for the ol’ self-consciousness meter?”

  “Fine.” Brick pulled his hands back. “I get it. Getting back on the bike is hard, even if you were an expert rider. Don’t stress. Like I said, it’s Friday. I’m sure somebody will come in who’s just right for our little red rose.”

  Max pegged the color right. It was the perfect theme for the moment, considering how it blazed through Dan’s vision. The rage even blasted in beneath the mask, making him burn to rip the thing off—while vowing to keep it on. Some crazy logic dictated that if the cover stayed, he could ward off the images, so vivid and merciless, of Tess giving her submission to another man.

  Just what you told her to do, asshole.

  Kneeling for him.

  Because that’s better than her doing it for you, right? You’re still too fucked up to handle it. To even consider handling it.

  Undressing for him…

  The sound that emanated up his gut and out his throat seemed more beast than man, even pushing Max back by two steps. That was just fucking fine. Took away the hassle of having to slam Brick against the employee lockers as he retied the mask, double-knotting it this time, and then whipped off his leather jacket and T-shirt.

  “The rose is going to be fine.” He embedded his ownership on every word. As each syllable growled out of him, he wasn’t surprised to watch a slow, knowing grin grow across Max’s lips. Or to receive his buddy’s respectful utterance in response.

  “Understood completely, Sir Daniel.”

  Chapter Four

  “Little rose.”

  Tess jumped out of her chair. Literally. Not that it had been a particularly comfortable chair. She’d found another wingback in the second of Catacomb’s living-room areas, hoping she’d have better
results in here with the whole calm-down-and-talk-to-somebody-damn-it efforts.

  And how did all that go for you, missy? Did changing rooms help you escape one drop of the feeling that you’ve shown up at prom without a date, three damn nights in a row?

  She’d given herself until eleven o’clock to get the stick out of her ass and strike up a conversation with somebody or just leave. No use sticking around until midnight when she didn’t even have mice, a pumpkin, and glass slippers to worry about.

  All of a sudden, her fairy godmother of BDSM got a huge damn clue.

  And delivered a prince who defied her wildest, kinkiest dreams.

  And not because he instantly reminded her of Dan.

  Get off the Colton crazy train! Especially now!

  It was his hair. It looked so much like Dan’s dark-blond waves, she was initially captivated—though her perception was undoubtedly hindered by the thick velvet strings from his mask, tossing all kinds of shadows through his thick style.

  About that mask…

  Dear God.

  Sometimes great minds really did think alike. Though it covered half his face and transformed his eyes into daunting mysteries, she tilted a little smile. She was looking for daunting, right?

  She’d just had no idea how much. And one look at this man, powerful and beautiful and looming before her in nothing but his huge black boots, faded jeans, and that mask, revealed he probably had a doctorate in daunting.

  She’d only concentrated on his covered parts so far too. The face she couldn’t quite decipher. The legs, endless and powerful, converging at a bulge beneath his zipper that stripped the moisture from her throat. But everything else was…

  Dear God.

  It bore repeating. Probably out loud. If she could only figure out where the hell all her air had gone.

  He was beautiful. Almost unreal. She’d only had this sensation a few times in her whole life, like the moment she’d gazed at her first Michelangelo statue in Rome or gasped at a Cirque performer who supported three others in his palm. His lean but rock-hard build emphasized every captivating striation of his muscles: the hard ropes of his neck, the shoulders and arms that rivaled the ridges of Red Rock, the abdomen that was another mountain range all its own as well. He moved closer to her with grace that reminded her of an eagle’s flight, deadly force honed for efficiency and grace.