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Shay groaned. Good? This was so far above the stratosphere from good, it was outer space. He didn’t know if he’d ever felt anything so perfect. So tight. So right. “No arguments from here, baby girl.”

  “I can feel you…everywhere.”

  He didn’t know how to interpret the wince she tagged on the end of it. “If it’s too much—too painful—”

  “It’s okay. I’ve been a dancer since I was eight. Pain and I have an interesting agreement. It’s good to me if I let it be boss for a while.”

  “Hallelujah.”

  She started to giggle again, but he fucked the sound into another scream. Shay groaned in return, savoring the feel of her silken sheath around his throbbing shaft. She trembled, arched her neck, and groaned again, wordless entreaties for more. As he pumped with more force, conflict assaulted. Ruefulness that he’d possibly found the most perfect submissive in the world for him, and only had her for one night. Relief for the exact same reason. If he had any more time with Zoe Chestain than these rare hours, he’d be a man in big trouble.

  “Harder, Shane. Deeper. Please!”

  Big trouble.

  He pressed his forehead to hers. Reveled in the slick tango of their sweat as he drove farther in. Zoe moaned and gasped, her hands curling into fists, her toes pressing at his ass. She panted faster with every lunge, her nipples poking his chest, her pussy quivering against his abdomen.

  “Not yet.” Shane commanded it, slowing his pace in emphasis. “Not yet, baby girl.”

  She shot up a wild glare. “Are you kidding? Shane—”

  “Sir.”

  “Sir—dammit—I—it’s so good. I can’t just—”

  “You can.” He captured her lips in a salty kiss. “And you will.”

  “But—”

  “You’re a submissive, Zoe, despite how some ass-munch of a Dom tried to convince you otherwise.” He leaned to show her the conviction in his gaze. “And you’re going to prove it to both of us now. You’re not only going to hold back your orgasm for me, but you’re going to earn it by pleading for it.”

  She glowered again. “Yes, Sir.”

  He pinched both her breasts. “You’re cute when you’re pissed.”

  For a second, she only gave an aching moan. Could’ve had something to do with how he rolled into her, doubling the friction to her pussy. “And you’re maddening when you’re cocky.”

  “And I like it when you say ‘cock. But it’d sound a lot better in the phrase, ‘Please, Sir, make me come with your cock.’”

  He punctuated with a hard thrust, conveying the tone was a jibe but the intent wasn’t. As he’d hoped, Zoe’s eyes rolled back in her head.

  “Ohhhh. Sir…please make me come with your cock.”

  “Perfect. You’re so fucking perfect, Zoe.”

  The moisture of her new tears didn’t come as a surprise. He hadn’t issued the words as empty praise and knew she wouldn’t take them as such. Shit. If he ever got his hands on the dickhead poser who’d messed up her mind like this, made her feel so far from the stunning submissive she was…

  “Thank you, Sir,” came her sweet whisper. “Will you give me more? Please? Until my pussy comes around your cock, and makes you explode with me?”

  “Damn.” He’d sure as hell cut the butterfly from her chrysalis, hadn’t he? The naughty benefits were wonderful to reap. “That would be a gigantic affirmative, baby girl.”

  He committed to the promise by releasing her wrists and sliding his hands to her ass cheeks. With his fingers splayed across her flesh, he ground her pussy harder on his cock, setting up a hard, primal rhythm for the demand of his body on hers.

  “Vaya,” Zoe cried. “Sí. Ayyy. Mas adentro. Mas duro. Cojame, señor. Cojame.”

  Shay groaned. Here was another reason their passion was best confined to one night. Any more sessions full of that wicked Spanish sex talk and he’d be a deer in the headlights for this woman. He let the gorgeous filth of her words shoot up his cock and flare into his head, now buried so deep in the velvet of her womb.

  “Again,” he ordered, working his fingers into the crevice of her ass, working her deeper onto his shaft. “Beg me again with that perfect mouth of yours, Zoe. Fill my cock with your dirty, beautiful words.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she rasped. “Ohhhh, yes Sir. Take me hard. Fill me deep. Fuck me until you let me—”

  “Come.” Any consideration of drawing this into a hedonistic fantasy were decimated by her untamed submission. Now, he only wanted to grant her every drop of pleasure her wet, tight little body begged him for. He couldn’t bear to make her pussy wait any longer. “Come for me, Zoe. Come around me. Now!”

  Her body quivered and convulsed. Her head sank against the pillows. Her scream consumed the air.

  Her orgasm squeezed every inch of his cock. Flash-bombed his self-control into nonexistence.

  He detonated, too.

  And for the first time in his life, finally understood why some poets compared climaxing to death.

  Having faced the possibility of his own check-in to hell on several occasions, he’d always tossed off those writers as French fried dumb shits. Those asshats had never been in the middle of a gun battle against jihadist maniacs, with smoke thick as London fog and brass raining the air. No way in hell could death and sex have a damn thing to do with each other.

  Until now.

  The universe narrowed. His vision was a pinpoint of white heat and sheer ecstasy, tunneling his mind yet blasting his senses. With logic and spirit fused, he floated through one moment then slammed to earth in the next, aware of every breath that flowed through his lungs, every beat that hammered his heart.

  Yeah. He was dying. In all the best, French fried ways possible.

  The most incredible part? He wasn’t doing it alone.

  Zoe. The muscled sculpture of her body. The olive silk of her skin. The soul-snatching beauty of her sighs as tremor after tremor coursed through her, massaging every drop of his climax out of his cock and into her welcoming heat. For one second, he even imagined that the latex barrier between their bodies had dissolved and they were skin-to-skin, connected even more deeply.

  Slowly, she slid her legs from his hips. Even more slowly, Shay withdrew his hands from her ass. As she sank back into the sheets, he straightened in order to stay inside her for at least another minute.

  One minute more. Please.

  Fate actually listened this time. Sort of. While he was given the respite, it didn’t relieve the wordless weight from the air between them. He watched Zoe swallow then close her eyes before dipping his lips to the hollow at the base of her throat. He moved up a hand to continue a soft trail between her breasts, kissing her there, too.

  Her heart thudded loud enough for him to hear. A solemn knell…without poetry this time.

  He pressed his face into the creamy valley of her skin, soaking in the seconds they had before the energy of their explosion faded. Zoe sifted her fingers through his hair, the movements conveying her own awareness that the shadows were soon to come. Wasn’t that the fucking rub? They’d likely ignited a radius of five miles with the intensity of what they’d just shared, which made these minutes feel like a trip to the caves of Afghanistan.

  Wait. He’d been to those caverns. This was worse.

  “Stay ere.” Even the ten seconds he took to rise and toss the condom were agony, though they imparted an opportunity to dash to the bathroom, dampen a washcloth, and bring it back with him. Zoe sighed as he gently toweled off the front of her body. Before long, he wordlessly directed her to turn over. He couldn’t let the opportunity pass to once more appreciate the masterpiece that was her ass.

  “Mmmmm.” She wiggled the two sweet globes as he stroked the cloth over them. “That feels really good…Sir.”

  He smiled and smacked her lightly. “Method to my madness. I didn’t get a chance to properly appreciate this side. Though if you keep up that teasing, I’ll do more than appreciate.”

  “Promise?”

  He
battled not to take her up on the offer. Fuck, it would be nice to see how the impact of his palm affected her glorious backside. But he let the silence stretch once more, still steadily stroking her. After a few minutes, he set the cloth aside but continued the strokes. During the downward sweeps, he glided his knuckles along her skin. On the upward, he used the tips of his fingers.

  “So tell me about the asshat,” he finally said.

  Her shoulders tightened. He expected the reaction but didn’t let up his touch.

  “Which one?”

  She giggled. Shay didn’t.

  “You’re a smart woman. Why don’t you answer that one?.” For good measure, he infused it with a growl of command. Didn’t do a shred of good. Though Zoe raised her gaze to meet his, she had guard rails up on her eyes. High ones.

  “Isn’t this the time when you ask me what there is to do in Vegas besides gambling and shows? Then I ask if you’re in LA for business a lot, and where you originally come from.” When he didn’t respond, she fumbled on. “Then we talk about the holidays, and I get to tell you how great my tamales are, and—”

  “What was his name?”

  She snorted. He tried not to let on how much it enchanted him. They didn’t have time for enchantment. Or small talk. He craved to get deeper inside her—delving into her spirit this time. And perhaps help to heal it just a little more.

  You know, no matter what, it’ll still be a task half-finished, right? Her issues on this shit have long roots, man—far beyond what a single fuckwit did to her.

  Halfway was better than no way. Maybe he’d at least give her some food for thought, a direction to go after this that included some good, solid sense for the next time she ran into a wannabe Dom. He owed her that much.

  No. It was about more than that. So much more.

  It was about giving her what she needed.

  Her submissiveness…he’d never experienced anything like it. He felt like he’d stumbled onto a rare flower in the middle of the jungle, ready to burst open for some lucky man. Instead, she’d damn near been yanked out like a weed. It was time for her to see the sun. To grow again.

  “You really don’t want to know about my tamales?”

  He stretched out beside her, propping his head on his hand. “Unless ‘tamale’ is the clown Dom’s name, then no.”

  She sighed. In her eyes, he watched her inner debate. The woman was really something, actually considering whether to give him some more sarcastic lip. Shay made sure she watched as he propelled a stare down at her ass. Go ahead. Give me a reason to spank it, baby girl.

  He admitted a slight twinge of dismay when she huffed in surrender.

  “Bryce.” She rolled to mirror his position. “His name is Bryce. Happy now?”

  His chest tightened. “Is? Or was?”

  Her lips curled in a knowing female grin. He didn’t relent his glower. Fine. He was jealous. A little. At least for another hour, he was well within his rights, anyway. The nation’s toughest judge would agree, considering all the places he’d been inside her body—and the rare piece of himself that had been peeled back in return.

  “He’s not dead,” she countered, “if that’s what you mean. At least I don’t think so.”

  He scowled deeper. “And that means…what?”

  “He’s a cop. Well, was one. I guess he still is. I haven’t heard otherwise. We haven’t talked in a while.”

  “Good.”

  Her eyes flared. Shay stared back, still unapologetic. She dipped her head and sidled a little closer, likely guided by pure instinct, a kittenish bid to regain his approval. Though she’d never lost it, the action moved him. He had a feeling she didn’t get to play kitten very often.

  He tunneled a hand into her hair, tugged her face up, and kissed her soundly. Warmth suffused her features—and all of his senses. “So tell me more about Clown Dom Bryce.”

  She tossed a quick but disparaging glare. “We met after a show one night. There was a big convention in town, and the hotel requested police support to make sure all the dancers had protection getting to our cars.”

  “And he was your dashing escort.”

  “Something like that.” She tucked a strand of hair out of her eyes. “We dated casually at first, and the sex was that way, too, but open-mindedness is practically a prerequisite for a Vegas cop…so I had some wine one night and got up the nerve to tell him about my kinkier needs. I confessed that I’d always had some interest in Power Exchange, and he jumped on board pretty fast.”

  “No shit,” Shay drawled.

  She hitched a little shrug. “It was the beginning of the end, as they say.”

  “Sure,” he murmured. “As they say.”

  She narrowed her eyes again. “Now what are you thinking?”

  He narrowed his back. “How do you know I’m ‘thinking’ anything?”

  “Seriously?” It was a good thing her little eye rolls were so cute. That, combined with the snarky tone, would earn most subbies in his presence a good swat or two. “Because you hide your ‘thoughts’ so damn well, is that it?”

  Shay gazed intently at her. Actually, that usually was it. He wasn’t called “Ironman” just because he was hung well, ran like a rocket, and was able to hump it out of hot zones with a couple of injured guys on his shoulders. The name stemmed from his ability to hide the effort beneath it all, too. He was the guy with the steel poker face—

  At least until he’d met her.

  Whose uncanny insight into him was rivalled only by his brother’s.

  Which terrified him worse than a hill full of hostiles with loaded RPGs.

  Time to steer this conversation in the right fucking direction.

  “I was thinking that most people don’t just decide they’re kinky one day, even to please a boyfriend.” He ran his hand up her back, beneath her hair, to embrace her nape. “You’ve known about your tastes for a while, haven’t you?”

  The sarcasm dissolved from her smile. It left behind a softness so captivating, he forgot to blink. “My mom died when I was eleven. Needless to say, life sucked for a while—but in those first few years, I learned I was pretty good at taking care of my dad and sister. I enjoyed it, too. When the teenage hormones flooded, I transferred that pleasure into my dating life. It started out with stuff like baking cookies for my boyfriends, helping them with homework, giving them back rubs.” A subtle blush flowed over her cheeks. “Once I had my first steady guy, when we were juniors in high school, I’m afraid the libido took over.”

  Shay drifted his hand to her cheek. “I’m sure he was grateful.”

  She giggled. “There certainly were no complaints—until the night of our senior prom.”

  “What happened then?”

  She snuck her bottom lip beneath her teeth. “It was a special night. I told him I wanted to celebrate by giving myself to him in a new way.”

  He couldn’t help smirking. “Let me guess. Ropes or cuffs?”

  “Both.”

  A laugh tumbled out. “That’s my girl.”

  Nix the laugh. Cue the internal barrage of what-the-hell.

  That’s my girl?

  Had his sanity left his body with the load of that orgasm? Maybe it had, judging by the way those words flowed out like he was simply asking about her tamale recipe.

  He coughed in an attempt to make recovery easier for them both. Fat fucking chance. “So I take it the prom night plans didn’t go well?”

  She winced. “None of my attempts at kink really have.”

  “Including your time with Bryce,” he supplied.

  Zoe twisted, gazing at the ceiling while her body still faced him. The position didn’t look very comfortable but was sexy as hell, so he zipped it. “It wasn’t like we didn’t try. We definitely tried.” She grimaced then shrugged again. “Perhaps it was the blind leading the blind.”

  “You think?” Shay snorted.

  She batted his shoulder. “Things went from comfortable to weird in a few weeks, so we decided to
break up.” She’d left her hand where it was, and now used a finger to trace a line from his shoulder to his pec. Her finger followed the scar he’d gotten from falling on a couple of swords, damn near literally, during a night mission in Paktika. Had to love those insurgents and their creativity with the booby traps. “How’d you get this nasty thing?” she murmured.

  “How’d you get so good at changing the subject?” He lifted her finger and nibbled the end. “You and Bryce?” he prompted. “Broken up?”

  “We separated for about three months.” Her gaze took on a resigned sadness. “I basically gave up on the kink dream at that point. Figured my independent streak was embedded too deep and I’d never get the hang of it, even in Las Vegas.”

  “You want me to call major bullshit on you now or later for that?”

  Her exotic mouth lifted at the corners. “Maybe you should just spank me.”

  “Maybe you should quit while you’re ahead on that.” Because if you don’t, I’m going to make sure you hobble out of here tomorrow, girl. “So, three months?” he forced himself to echo. “The two of you reunited after that?” After she nodded, he asked, “Why?”

  “The blame for that rests thoroughly on my little sister’s shoulders.”

  He scowled. “You dissin’ on your baby sib?”

  She clubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “Oh, no. Are you one of those?”

  “We’re cute, aren’t we?” he countered. “And so misunderstood.”

  The three words were possibly the truest thing he’d ever spoken. Even if there’d been a free chance to contact Tait in the last six months, his older brother would’ve refused the call. Like the rest of the world, Tait was convinced Shay had gone rogue on his duty and his team, turning to “the good life” as one of Cameron Stock’s hired guns. Last he heard, Tait had even requested transfer to JSOC’s new group of boy-toys based out of Hawaii, the Special Hostilities Readiness Command, aka the “Sharks.” The acronym wasn’t the only perfect fit for the nickname. Every man on the team was selected for their tenacious dedication to missions. One of the top targets on their list? Stock’s ass, of course.

  What the SHRCs didn’t know was that thanks to him, the CIA and FBI knew exactly where Stock’s slime tracks were. But the spooks’ secrecy was because of him, too. If word got out that Shane Burnett was actually Shay Bommer, the intel would eventually make its way around to Cameron. Shay’s eye sockets would get an instant renovation—with bullet lead.