Nobody's Angel

Chapter One

Marc D’Alessio put on the eye mask to maintain some anonymity. What Italian men didn’t do for their mamas. No one he knew from his earlier life in Aspen had ever shown up at his club, but he’d promised Mama he wouldn’t be blatant about his alternate lifestyle. Shit, just having her find out about his interest in BDSM had been bad enough. If his little brother Sandro had just kept his mouth shut….

He wished he’d chosen a different mask, though. The damned wolf one just brought him attention from unattached subs and bottoms he really didn’t want these days.

Marc donned the black leather vest over his bare chest and ignored the familiar hitch in his breath caused when he overstretched the adhesions in his side. He checked to make sure the vest pockets included the safety and first-aid items he may need while on duty tonight. The yellow armband he placed over his right bicep identified him as the club’s dungeon monitor supervisor tonight.

Marc stepped out of the dressing area and walked down the short hallway to where the great room at the Masters at Arms fetish club opened before him. The scent of sweat and sex filled the air tonight. The club appeared to be at capacity, so he knew he’d have to stay alert. He also was about an hour late and needed to find co-owner Adam Montague to get the lowdown. He scanned the room looking for the retired Marine master sergeant.

Fellow Iraq War veteran Damián Orlando, the youngest of the club’s three owners, wore his trademark black-and-orange Harley leather vest and had a petite blonde chained to the center post where he delivered evenly placed lashes with his single-tailed whip. The center of the room had been roped off sufficiently to keep onlookers out of range, but many watched the demonstration with rapt attention.

Marc recognized the bottom as one of Damián’s regulars, the expression on her face one of pure ecstasy, despite the red welts he could see on her back, ass, and thighs. No blood. His friend sure was popular with the masochists; Marc didn’t get off on delivering that level of pain.

The tattoo on Damián’s flexing bicep showed the rippling tail of a dragon, the body hidden by his vest. But Marc knew it covered a good portion of his chest and back because he’d gone with him for some of the sessions at the tat parlor. With his shoulder-length hair pulled into a queue, and his goatee and moustache, Damián had the look of a real badass.

Marc couldn’t help but remember the shy kid he had been when they’d met at Camp Pendleton. Or that trip to the L.A. fetish club the week before they’d deployed to Fallujah. No, if he didn’t know it for a certainty, he’d never believe this was the same man. The kid sure had come home from Iraq messed up. Marc and Adam had almost lost him during his deepest depression. Apparently, with BDSM he’d found a way to regain some level of control over his life again, even if it did mean he’d chosen to delve deeply into the sensual-sadist range of the lifestyle’s spectrum.

Marc loved Damián like a brother, realizing he’d become closer to this kid from his Marine Corps training days than he was to his own brother. The two of them had gone through some serious shit together in Fallujah. Damián had come out the worse for it. Marc wished he’d been able to do more, but was thankful that, as his Navy corpsman, he’d been able to keep him alive. His buddy’s limp was hardly noticeable now and he seemed to be getting his life back on track.

Well, on track as well as any of the three co-owners had been able to since the war.

Continuing to look for Adam, Karla Paxton’s final preparations for tonight’s set caught his eye. She flinched each time Damián’s whip struck the woman’s bare and sweating skin. When Marc had first met Karla, he hadn’t expected her to last more than her first weekend’s performances. She sure as hell didn’t care much for the lifestyle, even the milder stuff.

But Karla sure did care for Adam—not that his former master sergeant noticed. Shit, the man whose instincts and wisdom had kept a lot of men and women alive on the battlefield was totally clueless when it came to Karla.

“You’re here.” Well, speak of the devil, he turned to find Adam approaching him. After all these years of retirement, his friend still kept his hair trimmed to near-Marine regs. Not a high and tight, but close enough. There was a heavy mix of gray among his friend’s dark brown hair now.

“Sorry. Got held up on…a mission.”

Adam’s intense stare bore through him saying he knew Marc wasn’t being honest, which niggled at his conscience. Adam had gone back for him on that rooftop in Fallujah. He’d visited Marc in the hospital until they could ship him out of Iraq, often spending his nights watching over Marc as he slept. Most importantly, he’d helped ease some of Marc’s guilt over the loss of his big brother, Gino, who had served under Adam in Afghanistan. He owed the man so much. Why was he trying to distance himself from him now?

Because you distance yourself from everyone.

No, that’s just women. He did keep women at arm’s length emotionally, but knew Adam would take a bullet for him before he’d ever hurt him. So, why didn’t he let him in? Adam had been nudging him for months to tell him what was going on in Marc’s head after he’d quit scening, opting to volunteer as a DM or DMS most nights, well, when he showed up at the club. One thing was certain. Marc would continue as a co-owner of the club with these men; their band-of-brothers bond would never be broken.

Shit, he couldn’t explain what was going on himself, much less tell his friend. He was just…unsettled since he’d left Pamela last year. She had been the first woman he’d gotten close to since Melissa all those years ago.

He had let Adam believe Pamela had dumped him, but he was in no mood yet to talk about what really happened. Marc deflected the man’s unspoken questions. “So, what’s the situation?”

Adam narrowed his eyes, paused a moment, then stood down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Keep an eye on Room Eight. They’re new to the scene and I don’t get the feeling they know each other very well.”

The recent surge in erotic BDSM books had couples coming out of the woodwork to try out with their partners, some of them nearly strangers, what they had discovered in those romanticized stories. Too bad. Most of them should have stuck with the romantic version. They got off on the idea of BDSM, but not the actual experience. Besides, most of their “Doms” had no clue. Too many used this as consent to abuse rather than any type of consensual power exchange.

Until the last few months, Marc had held a series of weekend training sessions when he wasn’t on a mountain-rescue call and didn’t have any wilderness expeditions planned with his outfitter company. Those Doms who truly wanted to learn to please their partners in the BDSM lifestyle signed up, but they’d represented a small fraction of the couples he saw coming in to experiment on the equipment at the club. Of course, he hadn’t given a class for quite a while.

“I’ll keep an eye on them,” said Marc. Adam filled him in on how many dungeon monitors were on duty tonight and where each was stationed. “Anything else?”

“No, pretty routine.” They shared a grin. There was nothing routine about the Masters at Arms, now one of Denver’s hottest fetish clubs. They’d become so popular since hiring Karla to sing that they’d just started opening on Wednesdays, in addition to Fridays and Saturdays.

As Karla sang “Song to the Siren,” Marc’s and Adam’s gazes were drawn to the young woman commanding attention on the stage. Her wardrobe sure had improved since she’d first started; tonight, she wore a black satin and sequin number that concealed her shoulders, but left a large oval expanse of her chest open, showing off the swell of her breasts. Her arms were bare except for lacy black gloves covering her forearms and wrists. The hem of the dress was mid-thigh, showing off her sexy long legs encased in black mesh stockings. Definitely hot.

Marc turned back to Adam to finish up before getting to work. Shit. The look of intense longing on his friend’s face bordered on pain. If Adam wanted her so badly, why didn’t he just go after her? They shared some kind of history with each other from what he gathered, but Adam was doing his damnedest to treat her like a daughter. Hell, anyone with eyes could see that the looks Karla gave him were anything but those of a daughter’s. Sure, there was a significant age difference, but she sure as hell didn’t act twenty-five. She was mature, almost somber sometimes. Not that his fifty-year-old friend noticed—when he allowed himself to get anywhere near her. Maybe he was still holding onto the memory of his dead wife, but, after nine years, and with a beautiful woman like Karla wanting him, the man needed to wake up and smell the vino.

Like you’re the expert on relationships. Marc sighed. “I’ll make the rounds.”

“Hang around for a drink later on,” Adam said. “I have Birra Moretti in stock.”

Marc knew Adam didn’t drink alcohol, but just wanted an opportunity to grill him for information. Adam wasn’t going to take much more of Marc’s shit before he kicked him in the ass.

“Let me take a rain check. It’s been a helluva long day. Now, I’d better go check on Room Eight.”

Adam nodded and let him go, more because he was worried about the couple in the private theme room than that he wanted to let Marc off the hook. Marc maneuvered around some couples gyrating on the dance floor near the bar, almost tripping over a sub kneeling on the floor beside her Dom at one of the tables.

The Italian woman, looking too damned much like Melissa for his taste, gave him a come-on with her eyes, then smiled. Totally disrespectful to her Dom, who seemed not to even notice as he spoke with Grant, another Marine vet, who stroked the head of the malesub at her side. Marc bent down to instruct the Dom to please keep his sub out of the walkway, then continued toward the theme rooms. He and the other dungeon monitors were spread thin tonight with a crowd this size.

The hallway to the rooms was painted red from the floor to the black ceiling. Flickers from the simulated-fire wall sconces caused his shadow to dance against the walls and gave the feeling you’d just walked into a sinister place. Not as bad as the dungeon, but… Marc approached the fourth room on the right and stopped at the large window that gave DMs and voyeurs a vantage point over the scene inside the room.

Each of the theme rooms was set up with specific equipment. Some provided furniture and items that conjured up popular fantasies—the office, the medical examination room, the office. He’d hired Luke Denton, now his Search and Rescue squad partner and the carpenter who helped renovate the club, to make the specialized BDSM equipment.

Room Eight focused on a number of spanking and whipping paraphernalia, including a spanking bench, a leather love seat, a sling, and the St. Andrew’s cross. A muscular Dom dressed in black leather vest and pants held a leather flogger. His sub was tied spread-eagle on the cross, naked except for the blindfold. Her long black hair hung in waves halfway down her back. Thankfully, her hair stopped short of the gorgeous curves of her ass.

Focus, man. You aren’t here to get off on the scene.

The blindfold impeded his ability to assess her condition. He switched on the intercom button to listen in. Her ass was red, and he heard her whimpers. Nothing out of the ordinary, except she was new to the BDSM scene and might not remember she could stop the scene if it went beyond her limits.

Slap!

The flogger struck her upper thighs, a particularly painful place to strike a novice.

“Acckkkkk!” Her lower body arched against the cross in an effort to escape the lash of the leather strips.

“Stop your crying, bitch,” the blond man shouted at her.

Marc cringed at his tone. Was she into verbal abuse and humiliation? He’d monitor the scene a little longer and try to determine whether she was getting off on the scene. If not, maybe he’d take the inexperienced Dom aside and give him some suggestions for making the scene better for her. Perhaps he would permit a demonstration on how to maximize her pleasure. Marc felt his cock come to life at the thought of working with this sub and her luscious curves. Shit. What was wrong with him tonight?

Slap!

More red stripes appeared across her upper thighs.

“Ow! Stop! …enough.”

Marc couldn’t make out all of her words. He became more alert.

“Don’t top from the bottom, pain slut. You know you wanted to be punished. You made me wait so damned long.”

Marc cringed. She didn’t appear to be loving anything about the scene, unless her pleas and tears were part of her kink. Hell, it was hard to tell with someone he didn’t know. He needed to check in with her, though, to make sure she wanted to continue. Marc turned off the intercom and slowly opened the door, slipping inside without a sound and keeping his distance as he tried to further assess her condition. Wrapped up in his scene, the Dom didn’t even notice Marc. He delivered two more sharp blows, this time to each of her tender inner thighs.

“Mio Dio! Stop!”

Italian? Well, shit.

Not taking time to analyze why that should make a difference to him as a dungeon monitor, because he wanted nothing to do with another sub, he motioned to get the Dom’s attention. Keeping his voice calm and low, he asked, “May I have a word with you a moment, Sir?” The man sighed heavily, but knew he had no choice but to obey a DM or DM supervisor. Not wanting the sub to overhear their conversation, Marc guided him to a corner of the room.

“I understand you’re both new to the club,” Marc whispered, “and I just wanted to make sure she understands about using her safe word.”

“She’s fine. She hasn’t used her safe word.” The Dom glanced away, making Marc suspicious as to whether he spoke the truth. “She just needs to get used to the flogger. This is her first time.”

Damn. Adam was right. But the Dom was riding her awfully hard for a first experience.

Marc noticed her feet straining on tiptoe because of how high he’d cuffed her hands on the cross. She clenched her fingers open and closed, as if trying to restore circulation. “I just came on duty. How long has she been on the cross?”

He looked at his watch. “About an hour. We reserved the room for ninety minutes.”

Faccia di merda. This asshole was a real piece of…work.

“I need to check in with her before you can continue this scene. Then you might want to consider providing some aftercare during the rest of the time you have in here. It’s pretty hard for a first-timer to have her body stretched and beaten like that for such a long time.

“She’s fine.” He ground the words out between his teeth. Now Marc understood why Adam was so worried about this couple. They’d both seen his type before. Thought he knew everything and wasn’t one to accept advice. Abusive, to boot.

“Excuse me.” Marc left him and walked over to the woman. The rules forbade him from touching her without her Dom’s permission, unless and until he put an end to the scene. He couldn’t see her eyes, but the blindfold was soaked from her tears. She sobbed quietly. Was she in subspace? This could be serious for such a novice, but he couldn’t really tell for certain until he saw her eyes.

Turning around to the man, he asked, “Permission to remove the blindfold and evaluate her condition?”

“I guess so.”

Marc reached up and pushed the loosely tied sash up to her forehead. He stood in front of her face, wishing he could cup her chin and brush the tears away. Focus. What the fuck had gotten into you? Would she follow his command?

“This is the Dungeon Monitor Supervisor. Look at me.”

Her eyes remained closed as she mumbled incoherently. No response. Damn. She was in too deep. Health concerns trumped no-touching rules. He pulled the flashlight from his pocket and lifted each eyelid in turn. Pupils unresponsive.

Shit.

“She’s in deep subspace. This scene is over.” Marc bent down and unbuckled her ankles as fast as possible.

“What’s deep subspace?”

Asshole bastard. Her Dom would be fucking clueless about how to bring her back down safely, even if Marc were willing to let him anywhere near her. Which he wasn’t.

He doubted these two would continue in the lifestyle together, but felt responsible for trying to explain the seriousness of this situation to Sir Asshole here, hoping to save the man’s next unfortunate partner from a similar fate where there might not be a DM with medic training nearby to rescue her.

Marc reached up to undo the clips that held her cuffed wrists to the cross. Her hands felt cold. As he worked to free her, he provided a lecture to the jerk. “For whatever reason, she didn’t say her safe word when she reached her limit. Experienced submissives might have subspace as a goal, but she’s too new to scening for that. Her mind disassociated from the pain when she could stand it no longer.”

Turning his attention back to the now whimpering woman, Marc wished she’d had her first experience with a Dom who knew what the hell he was doing. With me.

Now, where had that thought come from?

“She agreed to this.” The Dom went on the defensive and walked over to the dark leather loveseat in the corner to pick up a piece of paper that looked like the club’s contract.

Sorry, Sir Asshole, but read the fine print about my right to shut your scene down.

After the last cuff clip was undone, she moaned as he lowered her right arm from its over-stretched position. Her body collapsed into his waiting arms with a grunt, and he carried her to the loveseat.

Marc pulled an aftercare blanket from the nearby basket and wrapped her naked body in the micro fiber cloth to quickly bring up her body’s temperature. He covered her full breasts as quickly as possible, quashing an errant desire to bend down and take one of the delectable peaks into his mouth.

Shit. He hadn’t been this attracted to a woman since…well, a very long time. Why the fuck did she have to be Italian?

Marc held her tightly against him. So soft. Her curves molded against his body. His breathing hitched as his cock sprung to attention for the first time in a long while without the use of his fist.

Regaining some self-control, he continued his lesson for Sir Asshole. “Then the endorphins kicked in to the point where she could no longer engage her brain to make the decision to speak her safe word.” He glanced up at the man in time to watch him look away once more. Guilt? Maybe he should double check. “Did she speak her safe word?”

The man didn’t meet his gaze. “Well, I’m not sure…”

Goddamned bastard ought to be flogged himself—but with a cat-o-nine tails instead.

Sir Asshole moved toward the loveseat. “Here, I should be doing that…”

When he reached down, as if to wrest her away, Marc growled. Remembering him role, he forced himself to speak in his calm DMS voice, but in no uncertain terms. “Don’t touch her. If you want to learn how to administer aftercare properly, watch.” But don’t think I’m letting you put your fucking hands on her again as long as I’m here to stop you.

“I still have thirty minutes reserved on the room!” he wailed, waving the contract in his hand.

Obviously, he had no concern for her welfare. Marc knew there wouldn’t be any reasoning with the man—and no membership refund coming, either—but really wanted to get rid of this asshole so he could focus on the woman. “Go discuss it with Master Adam.”

When the wannabe Dom puffed out his chest and stomped from the room, slamming the door behind him, Marc texted Adam and told him what had happened in here—and that he should kick the sonuvabitch out of the club and ban him for life. Looking around the room and not seeing any bottled water, Marc sent another message, asking Adam to send over a bottle. As an afterthought, he added, “and a dark Hershey bar.”

Putting the phone beside him on the loveseat, he looked down at the gorgeous woman in his arms. Olive skin, dark hair. He remembered her eyes were a rich chocolate brown. Yeah, definitely Italian. His cock throbbed, surprising him yet again. He’d avoided Italian women for years. Too close to home. Too emotional. Too strong-willed.

Too much like Melissa.

Marc wiped away the hot tears still flowing from her eyes. “You did well, cara. Shhhh. Just rest now.” He kept his voice soft, soothing. Her body shook in response, or perhaps from chills. He pulled her head against his shoulder and laid his chin on the top of her head to keep more heat in her body. The scent of lavender surrounded him. “Shhhh. It’s over. You were so brave, cara,” he crooned.

He held her in his arms, for several minutes longer, savoring her weight in his lap, her delicious scent… Suddenly, her mind and body reintegrated.

“Accckkkkkk!” The woman screamed and fought him, trying to pull away, to escape the pain, the blanket, him. He knew the more she struggled, the more her back and ass would burn from the friction, so he took his hand and pressed her cheek against his chest to hold her still.

He needed to break through to her. What name had Sir Asshole called her? Oh, yes.

“Angie, lie still. You’re safe now.” He used a firm Dom voice, hoping to engage the sub’s instinctive desire to please.

Her nipple beaded to a hard point against the underside of his forearm. She moaned—definitely not from pain this time.

“Ahhhhh!”

Oh, shit.

The newbie sub was going to come. His more experienced submissives had been able to reach orgasm in subspace without his touching their clits at all. This one would probably need a little help, though. Hell, if she were his little sub, he wouldn’t hesitate to help her reach that level of satisfaction.

But she wasn’t his.

She grabbed his vest and moaned in frustration, tilting her hips upward as she sought release. His cock bobbed against her ass. Oh, hell. Why not? She’d earned some degree of pleasure after all the pain she’d suffered with Sir Asshole. Why not salvage something from the disaster that was probably her first scene? Maybe then she wouldn’t give up completely on exploring the submissive lifestyle with a responsible Dom someday.

With me.

Ignoring that stray and totally absurd thought, Marc’s hand slipped inside the blanket, seeking the folds of her pussy and what he knew would be an erect clit. She wouldn’t need much stimulation to fly apart for him.

No, he corrected himself. Not for him.

For her.

 





Chapter Two





Angelina Giardano floated. Free of pain. Free of her body. Free. Where had Allen gone? Who cared? She was free of him, too. She found herself staring down at what looked like her body being held by a dark-haired stranger. Definitely not Allen. This man’s tanned and muscular bare arms held her blanket-covered body. Even though she was unable to feel his arms around her, she knew it was her body somehow. She marveled at the sense of security she felt.

Safe.

How strange. The delicious feeling left her without a single care.

Why didn’t she open her eyes to look at his face?

“You were so brave, cara.”

Brave about what? She’d never been brave in her life. But his words made her want to believe him. He wiped away her tears. Why was she crying? She felt so incredibly safe. Blissful. Not a reason for tears. He’d even said she’d been good. Exactly what she’d been good at, she didn’t know. She was just happy she’d pleased him.

A tremor shook her body and he pulled her closer to his chest, resting his head on top of hers, as if to keep her still. You did well, cara. He even used Italian endearments. Cara. Dear. Papa called her cara. She wished she could brush her fingers over the soft-looking black hairs on his corded forearms.

How could she be looking at him from above but feel him? Even though her eyes remained close, she saw short black curls on the top of his head. Why didn’t she open her eyes and look at him? Mio Dio, had she died? Was this heaven? If so, it was nothing like she’d been led to expect.

Suddenly, a blinding flash of light engulfed the room. Oh, Dio! The pain!

“Accckkkkkk!”

The once strong, safe arms wrapped around her now only caused the pain to intensify. Her butt burned as if held over a flame. She screamed and fought to get away. From him, from the pain.

“Shhhh. I have you.”

Safe. No!

His hand wiped the tears away from her cheek. When the underside of his forearm brushed lightly against her breast, she felt her nipple swell as if reaching out to him. More. Her skin tingled where he’d barely touched her, sending a zing to her clitoris.

“Ohhhhh!” Both nipples hardened, as did her clit. She was going to come. How could that be without her or someone else stroking her clit? Dio, even with Allen touching her there, she’d never had an orgasm unless she took matters into her own hands. Now she was nearing orgasm without that stimulation?

Heat engulfed her—delicious, curl-your-toes heat. The pain in her butt receded as she reached up to hold onto his vest. The pecs she brushed felt like velvet-encased steel. She moaned, grabbing his vest tighter, frustrated as she tilted her hips upward seeking release. More. Please!

She needed him. So hot. Why did he have her wrapped in a blanket? Oh, good! His hand pulled the blanket apart. He was going to take the damned thing off of her. But he didn’t. Instead, his hand reached inside the blanket, took her knee, and opened her wider, then his fingers moved to delve just inside the opening of her vagina. Oh! With two fingers, he spread her folds, then one finger slide up her cleft until he drew wet circles around the hood her swollen clit.

“Oh, oh, yesss!”

Angelina’s lower body bucked toward his hand. His finger moved faster. She wanted to feel him inside her. As if he’d heard her, his finger glided back along the path to her pussy lips and his finger slid deep inside her. So wet. Allen had never been able to do that without lubricant.

“That’s right, cara. Just feel.”

Oh, she felt him, all right. Her grip tightened on his vest. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Don’t stop! Had she shouted the words, or were they only reverberating through her mind? Thank God he continued, whether he’d heard her or not.

His finger slid out of her and back up to her clit again, this time directly touching the hard nubbin.

“Yes! Oh, Dio, yesssss!” Angelina pressed her forehead against his chest. The sensations were too intense. She was losing control, if she ever had any. Her hips bucked against his hand, harder and harder, simulating intercourse.

“Mio Dio! Don’t stop!” she screamed as her release approached. Angelina pulled her head away from his chest and reached up, digging her fingers into the back of his neck. She pulled the stranger’s head toward hers. Even with her eyes closed, she guided his lips to hers perfectly and tried to open his mouth with her tongue. His unyielding lips pulled away. She groaned, then didn’t care anymore as she crested the waves of ecstasy.

“Voli, cara. Fly. Fly apart for me.” His thumb rubbed her extremely sensitive clit as he rammed two fingers inside her vagina. She bucked up. “Yes, that’s right. Ah, shit, bella, you’re so damned tight.”

His words and the friction of her motions caused her butt to rub against the blanket. Fire. She was on fire again. But the pain only added to the exquisite sensation. Pain mixed with pleasure.

“Yes, yesss, ohhh, ohhhhh, God! Yesssssss!” The intensity of the orgasm caused her body to stiffen, then buck, and stiffen, over and over again. Her climax went on forever and she her eyes flew open as she clutched his vest, hanging on for dear life.

The wave receded much more quickly than it had built up. Tiny tremors shook her body as she floated. Her clit became hypersensitive and she moved away from his hand. He supported her back and readjusted the blanket over her hips and breasts, surrounding her with his arms, pulling her close against his hard body once more.

Her body began to shake, the muscles in her neck, arms, and legs spasming. Oh, God, what was happening to her?

“Shhhh. I have you, cara.” He tucked her arms inside the blanket again.

That voice. Her angel from heaven. The sexy angel with a Northern Italian accent. Oh, Papa you were right. Heaven is in Italy!

Fire burned in her butt. No. This was hell! Another chill wracked her body. Hot. Cold. The uncontrolled tremors caused her stomach muscles to contract, as well. He held her tighter.

“It’s over now, bella. You’re safe.”

She crashed to earth violently. Disturbing images invaded her once-euphoric state. Allen. An X-shaped cross. Cuffs. Arms aching, stretched so high above her head. He’d used a flogger to beat her senseless. He wouldn’t stop. She’d used her safe word. Hadn’t she? Why didn’t he stop?

Spasms gripped her calf muscles. She groaned and pulled her knees up toward her chest. The blankets trapped her arms, but she tried to reach down anyway to rub the knotted muscles in her legs.

“Hurts,” she whimpered.

The angel took her calf in his firm hand and massaged the cramp away, first one leg, then the other.

“Ow!” Oh, Mio Dio, the pain was more than she could stand. Tears wet her cheeks. Hot against her skin, then cold. She’d never been in so much pain in her entire life. Not physically, at least.

Why had she agreed to come with Allen to his kink club in Denver? He’d used much more force than they’d agreed upon when they talked about doing a BDSM scene. At first, she’d tried to please him and not cry out, but the beating had continued for what seemed forever. She’d begun to scream. Soon she realized Allen had been getting off on her screams of anguish.

That bastard!

Where was he now? They had driven up here together. Had he left her at the club? Or was she somewhere else? How would she get home?

She heard a door open and close, seemingly far away. Her angel reached out for something, then tilted her head back. She missed the warmth of his chest against her cheek.

“Here, cara. Sip on this.”

At last, she would be able to see his face. She opened her eyes, looked up, and gasped. Oh, God, he wasn’t an angel at all. He was a wolf! She tried to back away, frightened again.

“Shhh. It’s just water. You’re dehydrated. This will help take care of the cramps in your legs, too.”

An English-speaking wolf, with a Northern Italian accent, and intense green eyes. Was this a dream? A nightmare? As if in a trance, she opened her mouth and let him tilt the bottle until cold water trickled down her throat.

“Good girl.”

Her insides melted. Why was it so important she please him? She didn’t even know him. Some water dribbled down her face to her neck, but what she managed to swallow soothed her scratchy throat, raw from screaming, she guessed. She took his hand and tilted the bottle at a steeper angle.

“Whoa, easy, cara. Not too fast.”

He smiled at her and she realized he was only half wolf. Warmth pooled in her stomach. His mouth and chin were very human. A man, with a full lower lip and straight white teeth—no wolf fangs—against tanned, beautiful skin. Below his mask, his jaw and chin sported a shadow of scruff. As she sipped slowly, she wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by her angel-man-wolf. Why hadn’t he let her kiss him moments ago? Would his whiskers abrade the skin on her face and neck—and other places?

He pulled the bottle away. “Now, have some chocolate. This will help you come back to us faster.” He smiled.

She wasn’t sure who he meant by us, then she remembered the door. She tensed. Allen! “Don’t let him touch me again!”

“Shhh. He’s gone.” He clenched his jaw.

She relaxed again. Safe. He smiled. All she knew for certain was that she wanted to keep him smiling at her. As he broke off a piece of chocolate, she opened her mouth, waiting to be fed. He wouldn’t have to force her to eat chocolate. When he looked down at her, his smile vanished and his hand went still just short of delivering what she craved.

“Please.” Her voice sounded raspy to her ears. She wasn’t sure if she was begging him for the chocolate or to smile at her again. She wanted both.

Used to taking care of herself, she reached up and pulled his hand toward her mouth, biting off a piece of chocolate, accidentally nipping his fingers in the process. He laughed. Bliss. The deep rumble from his laugh sent shivers down her body. She didn’t know or care what was so funny. Closing her eyes, she sucked on the nectar of the gods while being held by an angel.

“Mmmm.” The dark chocolate melted in her mouth. She licked her lips to get every bit. When she opened her eyes for more, his gaze was fixated on her mouth. Perhaps he wanted some of her chocolate. “I don’t mind sharing.”

He looked puzzled, his gaze straying to whoever was standing behind her, and then back at her. She looked down at the chocolate bar in his hand and licked her lips again.

He laughed, as if relieved. “Insatiable.” She opened her mouth and this time he placed the flat rectangle on her tongue. She smiled at him and closed her mouth and eyes again, her lips surrounding his thumb and finger before he pulled them from her mouth. He lowered his arm and tightened it around her, holding her close again. If only she could stay here forever.

Not possible. The world intruded on her post-orgasmic state. She had to get back home. She had an event to cater on Wednesday. At least she thought it was this Wednesday. She didn’t really care anymore. Her body became more relaxed and listlessness blanketed her. All she wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep for a year or two. Curl against her angel-man-wolf. She smiled. As her eyelids drooped, she heard him speaking with whoever stood behind her.

He’d taken care of her. He hadn’t hurt her. She deemed him safe enough to let down her guard. Angelina curled against him and felt his arms adjust to support her in sleep. If Allen came back, he would protect her.

Safe.



* * *



“I came down as soon as I could get rid of the dickwad.”

Marc looked up at Adam, bare-chested as well, except for his all-black leather vest. He stood with his legs apart, hands fisted on his black leather-clad hips. The man looked as if he held his beast on a tight leash. Well, join the club. He’d known Adam would take care of Sir Asshole. None of the Masters at Arms tolerated abuse like what had been done to this woman.

Now, how did they keep it from happening again? Clearly, he needed to offer classes again, if it would keep her and others from going through something like this. He looked down at the beautiful angel sleeping in his arms and felt an unfamiliar tug at his heartstrings.

Dangerous.

Adam cleared his throat. “How is she?”

Marc tried to keep his voice low as he answered. “Better. Sleeping.”

“I’m having a room prepared for her upstairs—the one next to Karla’s.”

Marc knew every room in the house, of course. Adam had purchased the run-down mansion in Denver’s Five Points neighborhood after he retired from the Corps. Seeing that Marc was going to be at loose ends after receiving his medical discharge, he invited him to join him in starting a fetish club. Soon after, they’d discovered Damián needed a lifeline after the trauma he’d suffered at Fallujah.

The unlikely crew of three had embarked on converting Adam’s monstrous house into a club and a residence for Adam and Damián. They’d worked over the next three years to refurbish the Victorian into the showplace it was today. Marc had never realized how good it could feel to work with his hands, or to be so proud of accomplishing something he’d set his mind to.

Luke had worked during the last year of renovations to do the cabinetry and trim. The man had become fixated by Marc’s SAR work with the mountain rescue squad, asking a thousand questions. Then Marc had learned he’d lost his wife in an avalanche. Soon after, Luke began training for the squad and the two had become very good friends over the ensuing years.

He’d even had Luke make some equipment for a private playroom in the tower of that monstrous cave of a house his grandfather had bought him when he’d first come home from the war. He’d tried to convince Gramps it was more house than he wanted or needed, but the man had insisted the family’s “war hero” accept it.

Marc was no hero. His brother, Gino, Sergeant Miller, and Damián were the heroes.

He couldn’t disrespect the man by turning him down. Still, he sometimes wished he had someone else to rattle around with inside the mausoleum. He just hadn’t found a woman he wanted to let that close—and probably never would. Pamela was long gone before Marc had been able to complete the playroom. Okay, so maybe the room wouldn’t have helped their relationship and he did have commitment issues, as she’d accused him of being. Or maybe he was just discerning.

He wasn’t the only one steering clear of commitment, though. All three of the club owners led pretty solitary lives outside of club activities. Adam lived upstairs, in the private west wing. Damián had lived here, as well, until a year or so ago when he got an apartment of his own—alone. He’d said he wouldn’t put a woman at risk sleeping with him because he might hurt her if he had a nightmare or something triggered his PTSD. He’d had a tough time dealing with the amputation and Sergeant Miller’s death. Marc guessed he still fought that firefight in his mind on a regular basis.

When Karla had shown up for an audition two months ago and had been hired, Adam moved her into Damián’s old room. He’d said he wanted to keep an eye on her, be there for her. His former master sergeant liked to make people think he was a hard-ass, but Marc knew his heart was about as soft as they came. He was always rescuing the lost ones. Damián. Karla. Hell, he’d even rescued Marc on that rooftop in Fallujah, and afterwards, too, when he didn’t know what to do with himself after the war.

Of course, Adam always kept rooms available in the east wing upstairs for club members who wanted their privacy. The bedroom in between was a sanctuary for someone who needed one, like his little angel here.

He glanced up at Adam again. While his friend kept his emotions in check most times, Marc saw the muscle twitching in his jaw. He was about as pissed as Marc had seen him since Fallujah.

They thought they’d done all they could to teach the Doms who frequented the place to behave responsibly, but despite putting Sir Asshole through their basic training, he’d broken most of the rules anyway.

“I’m glad you got to her in time,” Adam said, unable to take his eyes off her.

Marc looked down and held her closer. Mine.

Whoa! Marc put the brakes on thoughts like that right away. He didn’t know where that possessive thought came from, but looked up at Adam again. “We’re going to have to address the problem of abusive Doms before someone else gets hurt.”

“We’ll discuss it at this week’s meeting.”

Marc nodded, then looked back at the angel in his arms. He brushed the hair away from her face. Her eyelashes twitched and she grimaced. “Shhhh,” he whispered.

He’d hoped helping her reach orgasm would take away some of the bad memories, but she’d probably be plagued with nightmares for a while, depending on how well she thought she could trust Sir Asshole. Marc brought his hand up to brush his fingertips across her full lips. His cock tightened, leaving him with the unfamiliar wish that he could stay with her tonight to hold her. Be there for her when the nightmares came. Help her forget.

Hold on. He hadn’t spent an entire night with a woman in more than a year. Pamela. He’d moved too fast that time. He wasn’t going to go there again, either.

“She’ll be monitored closely during the night,” Adam continued, as if he’d known the direction of Marc’s thoughts. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll see that she gets home safely. Karla has a friend who lives near where the sub’s from, according to the guest form she filled out to enter the club tonight. I think Karla would like a chance to get away from…the club for a while. I’ll ask her to take her home.”

Marc wished he didn’t have a five-day survival training excursion planned starting tomorrow at noon. He’d liked to have taken her home himself, to be sure she made it safely. But Adam’s relief at being able to send Karla away for a while wasn’t lost on Marc either. Adam liked to keep the young singer at arm’s length—and sometimes even further away.

Not his concern. He looked down at the sexy woman in his arms. He knew Adam was trying to tell him to stop worrying about her and resume his DMS duties, but damned if he wanted to let her go. She brought out his most basic Dom instincts—to rescue and protect.

“I’ll carry her upstairs soon and get back to work,” Marc said to appease Adam.

“Stay with her until I send Karla up after she finishes the next set,” Adam instructed. “We can switch to canned music tonight.”

Marc knew Karla would nurture the woman to the extreme, given the way she took care of the three Dom owners like a mother hen, despite her young age.

He stroked the soft cheek of the woman, who smiled in her sleep. His bone-hard erection grew even harder, if possible. The thought of training this little one into the lifestyle excited him a bit. Correction, she scared the living hell out of him.

No, she would not be his sub.

“Take as much time as you need. I’ll send a sub in here to clean the equipment after you leave.”

Marc nodded and Adam left him alone with her. Dark lashes lay fanned below her closed eyes. Serene again. She appeared to have returned from deep subspace fairly well.

A strong woman.

He didn’t even know her full name. If she’d opted for confidentiality, as most guests and members did, he’d never find out who she was. Only Adam had access to membership and guest records. Good. He didn’t want to have further contact with her anyway.

Of course, he didn’t expect to see her back here again—ever. Not after the experience she’d had with Sir Asshole. He wondered if being someone’s submissive was even her fantasy. Some women just went along with a kinkster boyfriend or spouse for fear of losing them to someone else who would be willing to share their kinky fantasies.

He brushed his thumb across her cheekbone again, unable to keep his hands off her. She moaned in her sleep and pressed her face into his hand. His cock tightened. No sense torturing himself with what might have been if they’d met under different circumstances. Still, he regretted refusing to kiss her earlier. Maybe just this once…. He bent down and brushed his lips across hers.

He felt her lips curve into a smile as she snuggled closer to him. Don’t take advantage of her. With a sigh, he pulled his face away, held her closer to his chest, and stood, leaving the room and making his way to the brick stairway. At the top of the stairs, he turned down the hall toward the private living quarters.

The door to her room was open. Marc carried her inside. The sheet and comforter had been turned down. He laid her down gently near the center of the bed. It pained him to see her grimace and moan as her sore backside made contact with the mattress. She needed some lidocaine to help ease the pain.

Trying to keep a professional medic’s demeanor, he unwrapped the blanket and turned her onto her stomach. Don’t ogle her gorgeous ass. Reaching into his vest pocket, he pulled out the tube of soothing gel and a pair of latex gloves. She didn’t appear to have any lacerations, just angry red welts on her ass and thighs, but he didn’t want to chance infection.

He squirted the gel onto his gloved finger and spread it along the flogger lines on her thighs first. When she moaned, his cock threatened to rip through his zipper. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He moved as quickly as he could to cover the welts on her ass, too, then blew on her skin to dry it more quickly, watching gooseflesh spread over her ass.

When he finished, Marc wrapped her in the aftercare blanket again, turned her onto her back, and pulled the sheet and comforter over her. In the morning, Adam would retrieve her clothes from her locker in the women’s dressing room downstairs. Then she’d be gone.

As Marc looked down at her, she curled onto her side, burrowing under the covers. He wished he could crawl into bed with her and curve his body around her backside.

Cut that shit out.

Still, he’d try to get back upstairs to check on her tonight. But with all the activity going on in the club, that would be hard to do. He sighed. For the first time in months, he wished he hadn’t volunteered for DMS duty.

Oh, shit. He had it bad for this one. What was the matter with him?

“How is she?” Marc turned to watch Karla enter the room. She’d changed into black jeans and a “For My Pain: Fallen” Finnish band t-shirt. “Adam told me what happened.” She shook her head. “Poor thing.”

Marc smiled. Yes, Karla would mother her to death.

“I’ll check back in on her later, if I can get away.” Marc longed to bend down and kiss his angel again.

Hell, no! Not his. Still, he brushed a strand of hair away from her face, letting his finger trail across her lips before he turned and left the room.