Michael Dayton caught a whiff of spiced vanilla on the night air, and he turned his head to find the source.
The view of the woman passing by walloped him. He only managed a brief look at her face, not enough to make out her eye color, but on a primal level he noted the softness of her mouth and the sexy pout of her beautiful lips.
She kept moving in the direction of the Den’s firepit. Fascinated by her beauty, as well as her confidence, he didn’t look away. How could he? She was tiny, compact, with blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, the strands an untamed, riotous mass. She walked with determination, her hips swaying seductively as she navigated the uneven flagstone patio. Her grace was even more remarkable given the unyielding leather dress and her crazy-high heeled sandals. Even though the shoes added extra height, he doubted she’d reach his chin.
A need to protect flared in him. The sensation was as unexpected as it was unwelcome.
Several times a year, he attended BDSM play parties here at the Den, a mountain retreat owned by his friend Master Damien. On occasion, Michael scened, and he’d been sexually attracted to many of the subs he’d played with.
But he’d only had this kind of visceral reaction one other time in his three decades. Recklessly, he’d ignored his intuition and the warnings of others and had ended up married within three months.
A few years later, he and his bride had been in court, and he’d spent most of his inheritance to hold on to the Eagle’s Bend Ranch. The two thousand acres had been in his family for over eighty years. If he’d lost it to some scheming bitch, his father would have haunted him from the grave. The lessons Michael had learned while rebuilding his life and fortune had made him harder, smarter, and significantly more cautious.
He adjusted his cowboy hat and continued to look at the blonde. She had joined a group of people near the fire. Her figure-hugging dress did as much—and maybe more—to arouse him as her nudity would have.
Until this moment, he hadn’t missed having a woman in his bedroom, tied to his rustic four-poster bed, arms and legs spread wide as she lay there for him, willing and waiting. Last night he’d gone to bed alone after masturbating to ease the day’s tension. Tonight, he hoped things would be different. He was glad he hadn’t simply tossed away the invitation to the Den’s late-summer party.
As if sensing his scrutiny, she glanced over her shoulder. They made eye contact for less than five seconds, but it was enough, more than enough for him.
Nearby, a male voice flatly stated, “She’s trouble.”
Michael blinked and reluctantly turned toward the newcomer, Gregorio, the Den’s caretaker.
“Don’t go there,” Gregorio advised, coming to a stop in front of him.
But Michael was already thinking about her, despite the fact she didn’t resemble the women who generally caught his eye. He preferred a more rounded, feminine form—a woman who could withstand the rigors of ranch life as well as his Dominant demands.
“Her name’s Sydney,” Gregorio said.
Michael was aware of Gregorio’s voice, but his focus was elsewhere. Sydney. Unusual name. He let it roll around in his mind. How will it sound when I say it aloud as I command her to her knees?
“She used to dance nude in a cabaret in Vegas and has a boa constrictor as a pet. It killed her last Dom and dragged him out to the backyard. She’s on the run from the law. We heard she’s wanted in ten states and two Canadian provinces.” Gregorio snapped his fingers near Michael’s face, jarring him from his reverie. “You listening to me, Mike?”
“What?” He shook his head and looked at Gregorio.
“I figured you weren’t listening, otherwise you’d have decked me for calling you Mike.” Gregorio chuckled. “If you want to play, there are a number of subs here tonight—they’re wearing the house’s purple wristband. That means they’re available for a scene, they know the rules, and they follow them. Any one of them would be much better for you than Sydney.”
Gregorio, as Damien Lowell’s right-hand man, knew things. Gregorio understood human nature and, since he tracked all the membership applications, he had insider knowledge of everyone at the Den. He served as a house monitor and sometimes participated in scenes. Because he was so well respected, Doms and subs alike listened to him. Those who didn’t often regretted their decision.
For the first time, Michael wanted to ignore Gregorio’s unsolicited advice. “I didn’t see a collar around her neck.” He took in the people she was standing with. “And she doesn’t seem to be here with anyone.”
“She doesn’t have a Dom.”
“I’ll bite. What’s wrong with Sydney?”
“Other than the snake and the problems with the law?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Michael asked, taking a sip of his energy drink and looking back at her. A waiter approached with a tray full of sparkling water, and she snagged a flute. Her back was to him, and he couldn’t drag his gaze away from her shapely derriere. “Is she a Domme?” He’d bet money she wasn’t.
“She’s a sub,” Gregorio said, giving the answer Michael wanted. “But one with no real interest in a relationship with a man.”
He blinked. “She’s gay?” Please God, no, not now that he was imagining her legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into her slick pussy.
“She likes men just fine. What I mean is, she’ll start playing, if a guy interests her. If he bores her, she bails.”
“Meaning she’ll leave in the middle of a scene?”
“It’s happened a handful of times.” Gregorio folded his arms across his chest. “She’s earned the name ‘the Brat’ around here.”
Something he could handle. “Challenging.”
Gregorio laughed. The sound was both ominous and sympathetic. “A few other Doms have felt the same way,” Gregorio said. “Sydney has a history of battering hearts and egos. Protects herself emotionally—with good reason. And she never plays with the same person twice.”
Water in hand, she walked around to the far side of the firepit and stood there alone. He responded to the unspoken cue. After finishing his beverage, he crumpled the can and passed it off to Gregorio. “Wish me luck.”
Gregorio shook his head. “You’ll need more than luck, my friend.”
Michael moved toward her.
Perhaps hearing his approach, she looked up and watched as he closed the distance.
“Evening, ma’am,” he said, as he stopped near her and tipped his hat.
“I was hoping you would be brave enough to come and talk to me,” she admitted with a smile that could roll his socks down. “I saw you talking with Gregorio. No doubt he tried to frighten you away with tales of how terrible I am.”
“And are you?”
“I suppose there could be some truth to it.” She shrugged easily. “But a good story is always entertaining, isn’t it?”
This close, she smelled potently dangerous—spiced vanilla blended with unadulterated pheromones. The combination created a cocktail he couldn’t get enough of. “Either way, not much scares me.”
“A man among men.”
“Michael Dayton. Master Michael.” Although the sun hadn’t completely vanished behind the distant mountain peaks, torches were being lit, adding to the ambience and catching streaks of red in her hair. He wanted to touch those strands, to curl them around his fist as he held her down and made her scream out his name.
“Sydney Wallace,” she said, returning the formality.
“May I call you Sydney?”
She rolled her glass between her palms. With a tease in her voice, she said, “I’m hoping you can be considerably more creative than that.”
He tipped back the brim of his hat to get a better look at her. She intrigued him. “So name calling is not on your limits list.”
A server, this one a woman in a French maid’s outfit that left nothing to the imagination, walked nearby. Though she was curvy with luscious bare breasts, he only had eyes for the woman he was with.
Sydney placed her glass on the tray. He appreciated the fact that she didn’t need something to toy with.
When they were alone again, she said, “I understand you’re divorced, Mr. Dayton. No kids. You have a ranch you’d like to protect from gold diggers. You scene every once in a while, and you’re not looking for a serious commitment.”
“Do you know my blood type?”
“No.” Her quick grin was engaging. “I only asked about the important stuff.”
“You found out a lot in a short amount of time.”
“I like being prepared. If I’m going to spend an hour with a man, I want to make sure the time is worth it. I don’t think it’s fair to either of us if there are false expectations.”
“You’re mistaken, Sydney.”
“About which part?”
“We’ll be spending more than an hour together. I can’t get you properly warmed up in under sixty minutes, and I intend to keep you on the edge, writhing for an orgasm for much, much longer than that.”
Her eyes widened, and for the first time he noticed how blue they were, a shade of ice, a shocking contradiction to the heat she radiated.
“That’s a bold statement, Michael.”
He captured her chin gently. “Find out for yourself. Let’s have an experiment here at the Den to see if we have chemistry. After that, we can head out to my ranch. It’s about forty-five minutes from here. Or if you’d prefer, we can go to your place. Wherever you feel most comfortable.”
Michael allowed his gaze to wander down her body, taking in her shapely, bare legs. Until now, he’d been a stockings man. “Are you wearing underwear?”
“I…”
With his index finger, he stroked her cheekbone. “I asked you a question.”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
She hesitated for a moment, and he wondered if she was going to answer or whether she was going to run. He held her lightly enough that her movements weren’t restricted.
“Boy shorts,” she said.
“Please remove them for me.”
“Now?” She blinked. “Here?”
“Maybe you’re the one who should be afraid,” he said quietly, “rather than me. Gregorio says you often bail out of scenes. I wondered at first if it was because Doms asked too much from you. But I’m thinking they probably didn’t ask enough. I’ve known you less than five minutes, but I’ve figured out you’re assertive. You know what you want, but I’m guessing you’re not always good at asking for it. Furthermore”—he leaned in closer—“I’m willing to bet you’re bored with anyone who isn’t as aggressive as you are. Am I wrong about that?”
She shivered. Since the Colorado evening was mild and they were standing near the fire, she couldn’t be cold. Clearly, he’d hit a nerve.
Surprising him, she met his gaze. “You’re right about the fact I get bored easily.” She curled her hand around his wrist. “And you’re wrong if you think I’m afraid of anything.”
“Fair enough. In that case, I told you to take off your panties.” He released his grip on her chin, and she let go of him. He remained where he was, physically and figuratively refusing to give her space.
He offered his arm, and she held on to it while precariously balancing on her high heels.
Finally, she straightened and looked at him as she dangled the pretty pink material from her index finger. Too late he realized he’d made a mistake by not asking to see them on her first. The material had probably stretched across her derriere, highlighting her butt cheeks perfectly.
He accepted the proffered underwear and stuffed the silk and lace confection into his pocket. Who would have suspected that she wore something so tantalizing beneath black leather? “What are your limits?”
“I haven’t found any,” she said.
“Then you’ve been playing with the wrong Doms.”
She shrugged. “That’s possible. But maybe I’m tougher than you think.”
“Perhaps.” He met her answer with a great deal of skepticism. Jane, his ex-wife, had let him believe she wanted things raw, but the moment his wedding band had been placed on her finger, the figurative collar had come off her throat. “Humiliation?”
“I don’t have a lot of experience with that.”
“No one has made you stand in a corner with your nose pressed to the wall and your panties around your ankles when you misbehaved?”
She stiffened.
Have I hit another nerve?
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