My Hunge

Inside Out - 3.2

Lisa Renee Jones

Dear Readers:

Thank you for taking the journey through the Inside Out world with me. This story continues the story that Mark and Crystal began in The Master Undone. You can read My Hunger as a stand-alone story, but I believe you will find it a more pleasurable read if you read The Master Undone first.

I hope you enjoy!

Lisa

Part One

It Never Happened

New York

I’m sitting in my mother’s hospital room where she is sleeping soundly, her body trying to fight off stage 3 breast cancer. I lean back in the recliner, pretty sure my normally neatly trimmed blond hair is standing on end and turning gray from the hell of the past three days. Nearby, my father pays attention to his notebook computer, no more rested than I have been for the past week. We were sideswiped by the cancer diagnosis, the timing vicious since I’ve just lost someone close to me. Worry for my mother and guilt over that death eat away at my mind and body.

To most, Rebecca had been an employee at my San Francisco art gallery. To some, she’d been known to be my submissive, a woman who shared my home and my life. To me, she was so much more than either of those things—so much more than anyone, including her, will ever know. Knowing I couldn’t be what she wanted me to be, I had let her go, and I’d believed that for months she was off traveling the world with a rich man she’d met. She’d called me and promised to return, and I’d promised things would be different. But she never showed up, and I’d believed she’d blown me off. Instead, she’d been murdered by another woman I’d brought to our bed at a time I’d desperately been fighting what I felt for Rebecca. A woman who’d killed her out of jealousy. I’m not sure how I can live with that. Right now I’m only doing it for my mother, and barely doing it at all.

More guilt eats at me as my mind goes back to last night, when I’d done what I always do: used sex to fight the hell in my mind, to control the demons clawing at my insides. I tell myself Rebecca, more than anyone, knew that was my way. She understood me and what sex and control are to me. But even if I get right about what I did, I can’t understand my illogical choice to get naked with Crystal Smith. Knowing she is acting manager of Riptide in my mother’s absence and thus too close to my family for the distance I like to keep with my women, I still fucked her.

No. It was more like spontaneous, out-of-control sex. And I do not do spontaneous, out-of-control sex. I do planned Master and submissive encounters. I do contracts. I do it my way. She is everything I don’t want, yet the minute she’d shown up at my hotel for work, and our eyes had met, the inevitable was in the air.

In all of ten minutes we were naked, and she’d been screaming more, more more. Demanding more, when it is I who demand. I who decide when and how, and what is satisfaction. There was not a submissive bone in Crystal’s body last night—or ever, for that matter—and I’d still wanted her.

I don’t understand it. I need to understand it, and me. But more than anything, I’m bothered by the way she’d darted away, leaving me a note I’ve re-read in my head a million times, with troubling conclusions.

Mr. Compton:

I’m sparing you the awkward morning after. This never happened. Okay, maybe it did. But this really was “just” a fuck.

Ms. Smith

Just a fuck . . . Those three words bother me not because she wrote them, but because the very fact that this was not my normal kind of fuck, makes it not just a fuck. What happened between us means I have a problem. I don’t trust myself to be the Master, to be responsible for anyone else’s pleasure, let alone their safety, anymore.

My cell phone rings in my pocket and I quickly remove it so it doesn’t wake my mother. The caller is the very woman who’s been driving my mind in circles, and I push to my feet, motioning toward the door at my father. He waves at me, flicking me a look with softer gray eyes than mine, quickly returning his attention to the video footage of the college baseball team he says he’s using to plan his next play for the championship. But I know him. Baseball is to him what it once was to me, before my world shattered and emptied a whole lot of hell into my life. It’s what sex has now become for me. It’s control—a place to funnel the crap he doesn’t want to bleed into the rest of his life.

Stepping into the hallway, I pull the door shut. “I trust your travels went well, Ms. Smith,” I say, referencing her trip to Los Angeles to make a big purchase for Riptide.

“Crystal,” she corrects.

“That’s not what the note you left me last night, when you ran off, said.”

“I didn’t run off. I left before we had an awkward moment neither of us needed.”

“So you thought leaving me a note that assured me it was ‘just a fuck’ achieved that goal?”

“Thanks for putting that out there in all its bright and shiny glory. No discretion with you, I see.”

“You told me you don’t like people to filter, so I’m not.”

“Hmmm. It’s more like you’re trying to prompt a reaction from me, but I’ll stick with facts. So here they are. My message was simply that your giving me an orgasm does not mean I require roses and chocolates. We’re business as usual, and you can count on me to do my job and do it well.”

The mention of roses, so symbolic in my relationship with Rebecca, stirs my inner demons to life with a vengeance, and I use this opening to do exactly as she’s indicated. Get back to business, starting with the large check that I’d written her to make an out-of-state, in-person purchase, which had been her reason to stop by my hotel room yesterday. “Then I take it that means you spent my hundred K well.”

“It was a rough trip but yes, I did. The seller was an asshole who tried to jack the price up on our purchase, but I stayed firm and got the Beatles items for the one hundred thousand he agreed on. After seeing them, I’m even more certain that we’re going to make double that on the auction block.”

“I’ll be impressed if we do.”

“Really? I wasn’t sure impressing you was possible.”

“I’m impressed when someone does something exceptional, Ms. Smith.” Certain she’s about to correct me on the use of her name again, I quickly ask, “When will you be back in New York?”

“I’m at the airport now. If we take off by eleven L.A. time I should be there by eight New York time.”

“Call me when you get in. I leave in the morning. We need to discuss some things before I do.”

“Oh. Well . . . I . . .”

“For once, she’s speechless,” I say dryly.

“No. I’m not.” She sounds convincingly indignant. “But if this is about us and—”

“Last night never happened,” I say. “You said so in your note, and therefore there’s nothing to talk about in that regard. Call me when you get here.” I pause, and for no reason other than it’s not what she’s expecting and because it leaves me in control, not her, I softly finish the sentence with “Crystal” and then hang up.

It’s nearly nine when Crystal calls me again and I answer as I climb into my rental in the hospital garage. “I just got home,” she says.

“There’s a restaurant named Jake’s a block from your apartment. Meet me there in thirty minutes.”

She’s silent a moment and I’m certain she’d expected me to say my hotel room. Until a few minutes ago, so had I. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

“Until then,” I reply, hanging up. And when I start driving, it’s with determination to keep things with Crystal where they belong: all business, and me in control.

Fifteen minutes later I arrive at Jake’s, a ritzy American cuisine joint, and since it’s Sunday night and a later hour, it’s sparsely populated. I easily claim a fairly private but compact, black half-moon shaped booth. Combine the size of the seating with the back corner location and the seductive glow provided by a dangling tear-drop light, and we’re in intimacy overload.

I’ve just settled into the seat facing the door when Crystal enters, and there’s an instant thrum of awareness in me that I don’t expect or welcome. She spots me and comes forward, her black trench coat parting to reveal a slim-cut, fitted red dress that hugs the curves I know so intimately. Tracking her every step, that thrum becomes deeper, and unwillingly I find myself anticipating how she smells, remembering how she tastes. My reaction to her remains wholly illogical in every way. She’s blond, when I like brunettes; outspoken and quick-witted when I prefer quietly intelligent; and last night she painted a picture of obvious expectancy, whereas I crave eager and willing.

The more she closes the distance between me and her, the more certain I am that a public place isn’t where I need to be with Crystal. It’s alone with her, fucking her the right way, until she’s begging, not demanding. Washing away the memory of how out of myself I’d been when we were together, allowing myself to get my head back on straight—where it has to be when I return to San Francisco and face what awaits me there.

Standing up, I greet her coolly, a perfect gentlemen as my parents taught me to be. I’m taken off guard by the way her sweet, feminine scent stirs memories of her naked and in my arms, and it spikes an instant, ravenous hunger through me. Our eyes connect and I see heat there, and the confirmation that we both know damn well that last night happened, and it’s not going away. Now we both have to decide what, if anything, to do about it.

“Hi,” she says softly, almost timidly, and this part of her is as much who she is as the one who screamed more at me. The contrast appeals to me. She appeals to me.

“Hello, Ms. Smith,” I reply.

“Make up your mind,” she insists. “Is it Crystal or Ms. Smith?”

My lips curve. “I find I’m surprisingly willing to keep my options open where you’re concerned. Let me help you with your coat.” I step behind her, my hands settling on her shoulders, my actions making my words a command rather than a question. I do not intend to ask Crystal Smith for anything.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, shrugging out of the trench coat.

Testing the tension between us, I drag it down her arms, letting my hands caress the sheer red chiffon sleeves of her dress, and she shivers. The attraction between us is a simmering heat ready to boil over, and no matter how absolutely wrong she is for me, or me for her, we aren’t through with each other.

The waiter appears and I’m handing off Crystal’s coat when she whirls around and intercepts it. “I’ll keep it here,” she says quickly.

The way she holds it close tells me she’s preparing for a fast retreat, which means I’d been right. She ran from my hotel room.

I motion to the seat, silently suggesting we sit, but she doesn’t immediately move. Of course not. That would suggest a hint of submission, and she doesn’t intend to submit. And since I don’t intend to ever convert another woman who isn’t already living the lifestyle, we have no options. We cannot fuck again, no matter how much tension is in the air.

So we stand there, the seconds ticking by, and I arch a brow. Her sweet little pink tongue flicks over her lush, red-painted lips, and I think of how close I’d been to having that tongue and mouth on my cock. I slide into the booth, noticing how Crystal sits far from the center, where lovers might gravitate. We, though, are not lovers. We are “just a fuck.” Not even two.

The waiter returns and offers us menus. Crystal accepts hers, opening it, and glances across the table at me. “Do you have a recommendation?”

“We’re both virgins tonight,” I say.

She laughs, mischief in her eyes. “I’m pretty sure you weren’t a virgin even when you were born, Mark Compton.” The waiter chokes and Crystal flushes, as if she’d forgotten he was there.

I cut a look at the college-age waiter, who is looking like a deer in the headlights, not sure if he should go or stay. “Do you have a recommendation?”

Looking relieved, he quickly replies, “Best burger and fries in New York City.”

“Just fries for me,” Crystal says. “And a Diet Coke.” She slides her menu across the table. “The diet drink makes up for the grease.”

This somehow perfectly fits the logic I’m coming to expect from her. “I’ll take the burger with my fries,” I say, also offering my menu to the waiter. “Well done, with bacon and cheddar cheese.” My lips quirk. “And a Diet Coke to combat the grease.”

He snatches up our menus and departs. Crystal smiles at me. “I’m a good influence on your diet.”

“Had I known Diet Coke killed grease, I’d have given up my gym routine and healthy eating for burgers and fries a long time ago.”

She sighs, and the tension I’d sensed in her seems to be fading. “Truthfully, I normally force myself to order a salad, but I’m just too exhausted to care tonight.”

“I trust you had our contracted courier handle the delivery of the auction items?”

“Yes. They should arrive tomorrow.”

“And I’ll head back to San Francisco tomorrow. They hope to release my mother from the hospital on Thursday, so if all goes well I’ll be back by then.”

“Don’t worry about Riptide. I’ll take care of the auction house and let you know if I have a problem I need help with.” Her tone sobers. “You can count on me, Mark. Nothing is going to change that, and I’m very attached to your mother.”

“As she is to you.” My curiosity about why she doesn’t work for her family’s computer empire gets the best of me. “Are you close to your mother, as well?”

“I love her very much, but we’re very different. I think I bond with your mother because we’re so alike.”

“Driven and hard-headed,” I comment. “I’d have to agree. And your mother is . . . ?”

She seems to consider her choice of words before saying, “Submissive.”

“Submissive,” I repeat, reminded of a few other comments that make me wonder if she’s more familiar with the BDSM world than she’s let on. “To your father?”

“To him and to everything. It’s her personality.”

“Then you inherited the dominant gene from your father, I assume.”

“I’m adopted, so what I inherited are overly protective, loving parents and two brothers. If they all had their way, I’d work for the family business and I’d live in a luxury apartment I didn’t earn myself. They’d examine the resumes of any men wishing to date me and ask for a medical report on anyone I slept with, and in general my world would be those roses and chocolates I mentioned.”

Her words seem playful, but there’s something dark in her eyes, something vulnerable—and if I’m right, there’s pain. “How old were you when you were adopted?” I ask, choosing my questions cautiously.

“Fourteen, and yes, it’s an old age to get adopted.”

I know what it’s like to bury something that hurts that you don’t want to be known, and I know when I see it in someone else, as I do now with her. Suddenly there’s so much more to Crystal Smith than there was before, an explanation for why I’m drawn to her.

About to ask where she was before the adoption, I silently curse when the waiter appears and places our drinks on the table.

“So,” Crystal says the instant we’re alone, as if she’s trying to direct the conversation away from whatever I might ask next. “You mentioned wanting to talk to me about something. What is it?”

Seeing no point in waiting, I reply, “I assume you know what happened with my gallery back in San Francisco?”

“I know your sales rep Mary was arrested for trying to move counterfeit art through Riptide, and shockingly Ricco Alvarez was involved. I’m not sure what makes a famous artist worth millions do such a thing.”

Jealousy over Rebecca. “The important thing is that you’re prepared for customers who might have read about it and have questions.”

“Your mother and I discussed how to handle press inquiries and customer concerns.”

There’s one problem solved. “Do you know about Rebecca?”

“The last I heard, she was on a leave of absence.”

A band seems to tighten around my chest. “She was.”

Brow furrowing, Crystal asks, “Was? She’s back or . . .” Her eyes go wide. “Oh no. Was she involved in the counterfeit situation, too? Your mother seemed to think so much of her. That would destroy her.”

She’s right. My mother was fond of Rebecca, much like she is of Crystal. “She wasn’t involved. She’s dead.”

“What? God. No. How? Did she catch Mary and Ricco? Did they . . . did they kill her?”

Though I prefer to keep my private life private I don’t have that option with the press involved, and she has to be prepared for what might be thrown her direction. “I was seeing Rebecca. We broke up and she took a leave of absence to travel the world with a new man she’d started dating. That was months ago and she’d gone silent on us all.” I leave out the part about me asking Rebecca to return. It’s not relevant and that’s a personal boundary I plan to keep in place. I continue, “Two nights ago, Sara stopped by my house to ask me a question. Ava, the manager of the coffee bar next to the gallery, was with me at the time, and though Sara and I have nothing personal going on, Ava went nuts. She attacked Sara, and threatened to kill her as she had Rebecca.”

Crystal gasps and covers her mouth. “I . . . no. Is it true? Are you sure?”

“The police checked Rebecca’s passport and confirmed that she returned to San Francisco a few months ago, but no one ever saw or heard from her. The assumption is that Ava got to her before anyone else did. Unfortunately, Ava’s retracted her confession. I’m going to do my best to try and close the gap that a lack of evidence creates, and help the police keep her behind bars.”

“So,” she asks, sounding tentative, “there’s no body?”

“No.”

“Then there’s hope she’s alive.”

My throat thickens. “The police don’t think so.”

She studies me a moment. “You don’t, either.”

“Believe me when I say that this is one time I’d like to be wrong.” I don’t pause to let her comment, certain that unwanted sympathy will follow. “So far, the police have kept this quiet and the press hasn’t reported on it. Whatever their motivation for silence, it isn’t likely to last. This will get out, and added to the counterfeit scandal . . . it won’t be pretty. I’m going to drag Riptide along for a bumpy ride.”

“You didn’t do this. Bad people did this.”

“People I motivated to do bad things. I’m at the root of all of this and I take responsibility.”

She looks like she wants to say more, but hesitates. “Does your mother know about Rebecca?”

I shake my head. “Thankfully, neither of my parents know, and I don’t want to put this on them right now. That’s where you come in. I need you to keep it away from them until I get back. If you have problems, I’ll be on speed-dial and I’ll charter a private plane to get back here if I have to.”

She nods and I stare at her, trying to read her. Her lashes lower, shielding her eyes from mine, and I have a powerful sense of her guarding her reaction. Maybe she thinks I’m a prick who sleeps with everyone and deserves what I get. Maybe she sympathizes with me and feels sorry for me. Since those feelings could affect her loyalty, I have no choice but to push her to make her feelings and her position clear.

I open my mouth to say as much when the waiter appears, a tray of food in hand. As he sets our plates in front of us Crystal scoots out of the booth, leaving her coat and purse behind, and darts away and down a hallway.

I curse under my breath. She’d run from the awkwardness of last night; now she’s running from this. I leave tomorrow morning. So if she’s about to jump ship, I have to know now.

Pushing to my feet, I follow the hallway behind the bar, which leads downstairs to a small space with two doors: one for men, and one for women.

I knock on the women’s door. When Crystal opens the door my hands go to her waist, walking her back into the tiny room. She pushes out of my arms and hugs herself while I allow her escape long enough to turn and lock the door.

“I guess you don’t like the door that says ‘Men’?” she challenges, but while her words are confident and cool, the way she hugs herself screams nervousness.

I ignore the flippant remark. “And you seem to cut and run when things get awkward.”

“I didn’t cut and run, Compton. If I had, I wouldn’t have been on a plane the next morning to make a trip that gained Riptide a damn good purchase. And when I left the booth, it wasn’t for the reason you think.”

She presses her hands to her head and drags her fingers through her hair. “I just . . . I saw the pain in your eyes when you were talking about Rebecca. I know you’re hurting, and I don’t know if I made that worse last night or better . . . and I don’t know what to say or do now.”

She saw pain in my eyes? No one sees anything I don’t want them to. But this woman, she sees too much. She makes me do things I don’t do, and desire things I don’t want to.

“I don’t know what you need,” she continues, “but I want to help—”

I advance on her and lift her to the sink, sliding her legs apart and pressing between them. And now it’s my hands going through her hair, tangling in the silky strands. Tilting her head, I force her gaze to mine, bringing her mouth a breath from a kiss I promise myself I won’t claim. “What I need is for you to keep this nightmare away from my parents until I’m back. That’s all.”

Her hand closes around my tie. “I told you I will, and I meant it. Whatever they need, and whatever you need, is my priority.”

What I need is her: to taste her, to feel those lips against mine, and that’s exactly what I do. My mouth closes on hers, my tongue delving deeply, stroking, tasting. Taking. I need. Oh yes, I do, but that need shifts and changes, turns to something darker, and more demanding. Suddenly I’m aroused beyond belief, thick and hard, my cock straining against my zipper, and the burn to be inside her is almost too intense to bear. It’s consuming. It’s dangerous to my vow to stay away from women who don’t live my lifestyle.

And still I deepen the kiss, my hand traveling up her waist, caressing the curve of her breast. She presses into me, moaning, demanding “more” without words. And all too easily, I could give it to her. I tear my mouth from hers, staring down at her, and my hunger roars to life. I want Crystal, but even more so, I crave her submission and my control.

“Put your hands on the sink behind you,” I order.

Her chin lifts. “I told you—”

“What happened to ‘I’ll do whatever you need’?”

“Need and want are two different things.”

“Not if they’re done right,” I assure her, taking her hands in mine and pressing them behind her onto the counter, holding them there as I nip her bottom lip. “You want an orgasm? Then don’t move.”

Her eyes glint with rebellion but she says, “Since you put it that way.”

I tug her dress and bra down, my gaze lowering to her rosy, tight nipples before I roll them in my fingers and tug roughly. She whimpers and I lean in, sucking one of them into my mouth, and then scraping it with my teeth. A soft yelp escapes her lips and I glance up at her. “Hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” I do it again.

“Good?” she demands.

“Pain only makes the pleasure better.” Demonstrating, I lick the wounded nipple, and slide my hand between her legs, finding the silk of her panties and ripping them away. I hold them up. “A reminder to me that you really can do as ordered.” I shove them into my pocket.

“Those were expensive.”

“So is the orgasm I’m going to give you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

I lower myself to my knee, shoving her dress up her legs to expose the neatly trimmed V of her sex. “It means”—I explore the wet, slick heat between her thighs—“that you’re going to find out I take orders, too, when given to me my way.”

“I still don’t know what that means,” she chokes out as I slip a finger inside her.

“It’s quite simple. Tell me what you want, Ms. Smith, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Crystal,” she pants, arching against the two fingers I’ve slipped inside her. “And you don’t seem to need instructions.”

I remove my fingers abruptly. “If you want them back, you have to tell me.”

She sucks in air. “I do. You know I do.”

“Tell me you want my fingers inside you.”

She glares. “That’s unfair play.”

Play. Another BDSM word that I find curious. “Is this unfair?” I ask, lightly touching her clit with my tongue, then pulling back and running my tongue over her knee.

“Very,” she hisses.

“Tell me what you want, Ms. Smith.”

“The orgasm I’m not going to beg for.”

I arch a brow. “An orgasm is a start. How do you want me to give you that orgasm? My mouth? My fingers? Or perhaps my cock?”

“Any of the above work for me.”

“Choose.”

“Fine. With your mouth.”

“You want me to lick you?”

Her look is murderous. “Yes. Damn it.”

“Say it.”

“Fine. Lick me.”

“Lick me, please,” I command her to say.

“No.”

I stroke my fingers over her sensitive flesh, dipping one inside her and pulling back. “Lick me, please, Mr. Compton,” I instruct.

“Fuck you, Mr. Compton.”

I laugh, low and soft. “Not this time. This time I’m fucking you.” I stroke her bare knees with my thumbs, drawing circles on sensitive flesh. “I want to lick you, Ms. Smith. I want to taste you. I want to make you come, but I won’t. Not until-”

“You’re such an asshole,” she blasts. “Lick me, please,” She glares down at me and adds, “Mark.”

I slip two fingers inside her. “You know what you have to say.”

She inhales and lets it out, a mix of embarrassment, anger, and passion washing over her face. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this, or that I’m really doing it. Lick my pussy, Mark. Please.”

“Mr. Compton.”

“Lick my pussy, please, Mr. Compton.”

Satisfaction fills me and I give her the reward she deserves, sucking her nub into my mouth, then licking, teasing, pumping my fingers into her. Her head falls back against the mirror, her hips arching against my fingers and mouth, the salty taste of her pleasure spilling onto my taste buds. And it is only a few more seconds before she gasps and her body clenches, tightening around my fingers. I lead her through the spasms, licking her, my fingers pumping, caressing, easing as her tension eases. And in those moments, I own her pleasure and I own her body. And that means I own the control I feared I’d lost.

When finally she shudders and relaxes, I remove my fingers, give her one last lick, and then stand up. Leaning into her, I slide my fingers into her hair and stare down at her. “That was what we call ‘just an orgasm,’ and yes, it really did happen.”

I push off the sink and leave, paying the bill on my way out. Pushing through the exit door, I get the hell away from Crystal before I forget that control is what I have now and what I need—not her in my hotel room.

Part Two

Denial

San Francisco

“How long did you know Rebecca, Mr. Compton?”

“Asked and answered, Detective Grant,” I reply, leaning back in my steel seat in the tiny room that makes the airplane I’d left an hour before seem downright roomy.

“All right, then,” he replies. “Let’s try something new. Is it true Rebecca called you ‘Master’?”

Tension ripples down my spine. “Yes. She called me Master.”

“Having such a beautiful young girl call you Master must have been a real power rush.”

“What’s the point?”

“I’ll get to the point when I’m ready. See, I’m the Master of this conversation. I’m in control. Now, what exactly did being her Master mean to you?”

“The dynamics of a Master and submissive relationship are defined by each couple, but the basics are the same. It’s the Master’s job to protect the submissive, and put his or her pleasure and safety before all else.”

He snorts. “Clearly you failed on the protection end of things.”

The words successfully hit the open, bleeding wound that no doubt he intends them to. Anger that I would normally contain prickles easily. “Mocking her death does not become a man in your role,” I say tightly.

“I’m not mocking her death. I’m mocking you.”

“Which makes me concerned about your competence to get this job done.” As does his wrinkled shirt and suit jacket that he’s accented with bloodshot eyes and a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard that match his thick¸ rumpled hair.

He arches a brow. “How is my mocking you any indication of how I do my job?”

“A Master in any role, which I would assume a homicide detective should be of his, does not disrespect those who have put faith and trust in him based on that role.”

“I think you’ll discover, Mr. Compton, that we have more in common than either of us would like. Nothing I do is an accident, as I suspect is the case with yourself.”

I narrow my gaze on his, seeing the calculation behind his look. “Whatever head game you’re trying to play with me, I choose not to play. I came down here to assure that you deliver the justice Rebecca deserves. If you want my help, it’s freely offered, but from this point forward, through my attorney.”

“Why, Mr. Compton, would you need an attorney?”

“I don’t, but apparently you do. People who get off task need those of us who know how to get them back on task, to help them remain effective. I’ve been in town all of an hour. If there’s some point to all of this, get to it now.”

“Ava claims her confession was protecting you, the man she loves, because she found out that you and Sara McMillan killed Rebecca.”

“This again?” I ask, irritated by the illogical claim that anyone with two bits of sense could dismiss. “Aside from it being untrue, Sara never even met Rebecca, nor did she become involved with the gallery until Rebecca had resigned. So clearly that claim is impossible.”

“I’m just relaying what Ava’s defense will say.”

“Ava’s defense, or you?”

“Anything that could present as a reasonable doubt has to be dealt with. What do you know about Rebecca’s father?”

I blink at the sudden change of topic. “What does her father have to do with this?”

“Just being a Master of my job, Mr. Compton. Every possible suspect other than Ava has to be wiped off the list.”

“Rebecca didn’t know her father.” I push to my feet. “I’m done. I came back from New York early, with my mother barely out of cancer surgery, expecting this was going to be productive. So far, it hasn’t been. If you want to ask about Ava or anything actually related to the case, I’m available. For nonsense, I’m not.”

“Before you go,” he says, pulling a red journal I know is Rebecca’s from an accordion file, “I want to read you something.” He flips to a marked page. “The moment that he promised there was pleasure in pain. The moment when the blade traveled along my skin with the proof he would be true to his words. And I knew then that I had been wrong. He was not dangerous. Nor was he chocolate. He was lethal, a drug, and I feared . . .” He glances up at me and shuts the journal. “Who do you think a jury would think killed Rebecca?” He leans back in his seat. “Ava? Or one, or both, of the two men mentioned in this journal entry?” He taps the desk. “Her writing is about her Master, which you’ve already told me was you. Who’s the other man?”

I see how Rebecca’s words sound damning and could be easily twisted against me. “I want justice, and I will do everything in my power to help you see it delivered. You have my full cooperation, but I’m smart enough to have an attorney present when I do it.”

“To keep me focused.”

“As we’ve already established.” I head for the door and he follows.

“My focus, Mr. Compton, is on evidence. Confessions are given and retracted all the time. They don’t hold up. If you have any influence, as one would assume a Master would, use it to get Ava to produce Rebecca’s body.”

A body. Rebecca’s body. I feel like nails are being drilled into my skull, and though control is second nature to me, it’s all but lost to me now. It is all I can do to not pull him over the desk and shake him for fucking breathing, when Rebecca isn’t. “If I have to hear her tell me where the body is,” I say, “you’d better have glass between us or a guard nearby.”

“Understood. When?”

“I’ll get my attorney to set it up with you.”

“Today. Get him to set it up today.”

I walk to the exit and leave without looking back. But I am looking back—at every moment I’d ever spent with Rebecca.

Thirty minutes later, my attorney has promised me a call-back after he assesses the situation, and I’m pulling into the driveway of my house in the Cow Hollow area of San Francisco. Killing the engine, I sit there. My skin is twitching and my nerve endings feel like they’re standing on end. I’m drowning in emotional quicksand that spells trouble I don’t need. What I do need, I cannot have. She’s gone—and just the idea creates a burning sensation in my chest.

Fighting the urge to pound the damn steering wheel, I shove open the Jaguar’s door and step outside, walking the sidewalk leading to my porch. The cool early evening air washes over me but it’s nothing compared to the ice in my veins. My role was protector to Rebecca, and Detective Jerkoff was right. I failed.

Had I not convinced Rebecca to return to San Francisco for me, she’d be alive today. Hell, had I not convinced her to be my sub, she’d be alive today. How am I supposed to live with that? How do I ever trust myself to be anyone’s Master again? Who am I, if I’m not that person?

Opening the front door to my house, I try not to think about the first night Rebecca came to my home, the night she started on the path to being my sub. But I remember all too well the way I’d stood at the window, watching her walk the very sidewalk I just did, in a skimpy dress I’d sent her to wear. I’d opened the door and she’d gone to her knees in the entryway.

Stepping inside the foyer, I don’t bother with a light. I’m feeling out of my skin, becoming a person I’ve not known for a decade, and don’t want to know. Control is how I left that person behind. Control is how I survived hell once before. It’s the only way I’ll survive now, and I have to survive. I have to do more than survive, since I’m faced with more than the monster that is Ava. I have the monster that is my mother’s cancer.

“She’s healing,” I remind myself, and I know she’ll be home soon and probably trying to work before she should.

And what do I do when her interim manager stops by my hotel room to have me sign off on a major purchase? With nothing more than a verbal agreement that it was “just a fuck,” I got naked with a woman so far from the submissive type she’s practically the poster child for dominant women.

Dropping my jacket on a black leather chair in my bedroom, I pull off my tie and kick off my shoes, then go to the bar in the corner that I rarely use. With a glass filled with expensive scotch and the bottle in hand, I settle onto the mattress of the four-poster bed I used to share with Rebecca. It’s far more empty than it’s ever been. Setting the bottle and my cell phone on the nightstand, I kick back the warm liquid, letting it roar a path down my throat. For a man who doesn’t like the lack of control that comes with alcohol, I’m definitely liking the way it burns away a bit of the acid eroding my veins right now.

Snatching up my phone, I check my messages and see one from Crystal. I punch the Play button, remembering her use of that word in the bathroom, then hear, “I have a problem I need to discuss. You said to call and, well, I’m calling.”

A problem. I suspect I’m her problem, and the variety of ways that could be true bite far more than the booze. And so does hearing her voice, all sweet and sexy with a hint of anxiety and vulnerability in its depths. The very fact I care that I might have put it there stirs even more guilt in me, when I’m already overflowing with the damn stuff. Crystal might have had a taste of BDSM, but she’s not a submissive, and she’s inside my head and too close to my family to be an escape. I need to find my escape at the club, to trust myself as Master again, and do it the way Chris Merit used to. A different submissive every visit.

I set my phone on the nightstand by the bottle and open the drawer beneath it. Removing Rebecca’s red leather journal, the one I’d found months ago between the mattresses, I open it. Having read it cover to cover several times over, I know there’s nothing inside it that would help put Ava behind bars, and I’m not offering up more of Rebecca’s private thoughts to anyone unless I’m forced. It’s mine—like she could have been, had I let her—and somehow, I keep thinking that the answers to what I don’t understand are in these written words.

I begin to read. . . .

March 2011

My father. My father . . . I can’t say those words out loud without them sounding strange. I never knew the man. I wanted to, but my mother wasn’t having that. I know this because she confessed it to me on her deathbed, when she told me everything I needed to know about him. As I’d suspected, he didn’t know I was alive. My mother had kept her pregnancy from him. I’d been furious until she’d told me his name. Then I understood, though the anger didn’t go away. Kenneth Burgendy: the notorious crime lord deeply rooted in the mob. It was a shock to digest. He was the man I’d hungered to know, who I’d been certain was the missing link in my life. The hole I could never fill.

And then I’d met . . . him—my Master. And I started to believe he was the missing link. Only he has no desire to love me. He just . . . wants me. He has his business and his private club, where he is Master of both, as he is of me. I wonder if the coldness that allows him to be with me, but not love me, makes him like my father? But my father has hurt people, and I don’t believe my Master wants to hurt me. He thinks he’s protecting me, but while he does, I fall more in love with him. And love is as brutal as it is sweet, when you’re doing it for two people. When you’re experiencing it and living it . . . alone.

I shut the journal, tormented by how badly I’d hurt her and how blind I’d been to it. Though the club would be an escape right now, I refill my glass, not able about to trust myself to be Master of anyone right now.

Maybe Crystal’s real appeal is that she isn’t a damn submissive. She let me tap into the raw sexuality that I funnel all the shit in my life into, with none of the pressure to protect and guide that I’d had with Rebecca. I didn’t call her mine, and she didn’t call me Master. The way Rebecca had.

My lashes lower, and I try to hear Rebecca’s voice and see her face, but she’s just out of reach. It’s pure torture. The harder I try to bring her to life, the more it feels like a blade is slowly slicing my throat from one side to the other, and I can’t breathe.

My cell phone rings, jerking me from the spell of Rebecca’s words, and I see it’s Crystal’s number. Avoiding her isn’t the answer, nor is it the action of a Master. I take the call. “Ms. Smith. What can I do for you?”

“I have a problem.”

“There’s always a problem.”

“This one is named Mac Reynolds. He left a message on your mother’s voice mail, which I’m clearing for her right now.”

At the mention of Riptide’s largest and most difficult customer, I drain my glass. “And what exactly did his message say?”

“More than you want your mother to know right now. I deleted it to be sure she doesn’t hear it. But the jist was that you had one dead employee and another involved in counterfeit art, and he’s threatening to take it to the New York papers.”

“Of course he did. Have you met him?”

“Yes. Several times.”

“Then you know he enjoys being sucked up to. He just needs to know you’re the new resident ass-kisser and that you have the power to negotiate whatever he’s after.”

“He’s a power-play guy, Mark. That’s why he went to your mother. He’s going to want to talk to you.”

My cell phone beeps and I say, “I have to take this call.”

“But Mark—”

“I’m a power-play guy, and you do just fine with me. Handle him, Ms. Smith.”

I end the call and confirm my attorney is on the line, clicking over to the other line. “Talk to me, Dean.”

“What it boils down to is they have no body and no evidence, and it’s an election year,” he announces without preamble. “They need a fall guy.”

“Are you suggesting that’s me?”

“I’m suggesting it’s whoever they can get their hands on. He mentioned the club.”

I curse and he adds, “Yeah, right there with you on that one. I don’t need my membership made public.”

“How does he even know about the club?”

“Ava for one, and Rebecca’s journals for another. How damning are they?”

I glance at the one on the bed. “I’ve only read one of them and there was nothing about the club, but a lot about the lifestyle.”

“Which an attorney would demonize. I’m going to have a conflict of interest if this gets too much further along.”

“You think it will?”

“It depends on what those journals say, and how convincing they are that you and the club are problems. They could get a warrant to see the club records, in which case we need another attorney on standby, to motion to have the records kept closed. I have a guy I trust. I’ll talk to him.”

“I need to go see Ava and get her to hand over the body.”

“No fucking way. They have no case against you now, and everything will be filmed. Ava’s defense team is already using you as her reasonable doubt. If she twists things on tape it could end up in court.”

“I’m not going to let her twist things.”

“They’ll find a way if they want to—not to mention how it could drag Sara further into this.”

“Sara didn’t even know Rebecca.”

“That won’t stop them from saying she did. It’s about reasonable doubt.”

“It’s only a matter of time before the press gets hold of this. They already ran an article about my gallery being wrapped up in counterfeit, scandal, and murder. It won’t be long before they pull the club into it. If I can talk to her—”

“It’s insanity, and you aren’t crazy. Just wait. I’m meeting with the detective tomorrow. Let me feel him out in person. Maybe we can get them to sign a waiver that nothing in the conversation with Ava is admissible in court. But that works two ways. If she confesses again, it’ll be off the record.”

“Put me on the hot seat, and get everyone else but Ava out of it. I don’t care how you do it, but do it. This isn’t about me. It’s about Rebecca, and it’s about no one else getting hurt.”

There’s a moment of silence. “I’ll call you after the meeting with the detective.”

“Whatever we’re doing, I need to get back to New York for my family.”

“Understood.”

We end the call and I push to my feet. I need to clear my head and take control, and I’m not going to get it in this room. My cell phone starts ringing again and I cross to the nightstand and grab it, leaving the scotch I want no more of. When I see the caller ID that reads “Ms. Smith,” I hit the Ignore button.

And that’s a compliment she’ll never understand. I’m offering her the reins and with them, the control I never give away—except to her, it seems.

Part Three

Accused

I wake to the sound of my cell phone ringing and glance at the clock. Nine in the morning. After a night of reading Rebecca’s journal and climbing the walls, I’ve slept two hours. My caller ID says it’s my father and I sit up, my legs draped over the side of the bed. “Morning, Dad.”

“You sound like shit.”

“Better than looking like shit,” I answer, but I’m pretty sure I do that, too. “How’s Mom?”

“She’s weak and not handling the pain meds—they give her a queasy stomach. They took a blood sample as a precaution. We’re waiting on the results.”

“Can she talk?”

“She’s knocked out, which is why I called now.” He hesitates. “How are you?”

I stiffen, concerned he’s heard the latest bombshell. “What do you mean, how am I?”

“I know this Mary and Ricco situation, on top of your mother’s scare, is a lot to happen at once.”

The tension in my shoulders relaxes. “Mom’s on the mend. That’s what counts.”

“The nurse is here. I’ll call you later.”

“Call me when you get the test results.”

“I will. And son, remember. Shit happens, but it only stinks as long as you keep it around.”

The line goes dead with one of my father’s many ridiculous sayings that always end up being profoundly accurate. I sit there for a moment, letting this one stir up determination, and then I dial the attorney. I can’t bring Rebecca back, but I can make sure that I don’t keep the “shit” that could hurt other people around longer than I have to. And to me, the shit is Ava, reporters, and turmoil. I’ve been down that path and it doesn’t work for me.

I have to talk to Ava and convince her to come clean. It’s the only way to end this and end it now. I hit Redial and this time I leave a message. Taking my phone with me, I head to the bathroom to shower, determination burning through my veins. I’m ready to take action. For my family. For Rebecca.

An hour after my insightful chat with my father, I pull my car into the nearly deserted back parking lot of the gallery. We’re closed and I’m not about to open the doors until I’m back here to prevent a three-ring circus.

Stepping out of the car, I am dressed in my standard finely tailored gray suit with a well pressed white shirt and a gray tie. I’m also wearing my best steely “Bossman” persona, as our accounting manager, Ralph, often calls it when he thinks I don’t hear him. My cell rings and, noting Dean’s number, I lean on the car, staying outside beyond the earshot of employees to answer.

“Did you talk to the detective?” I ask.

“Yes. And as I suspected he’s a good guy who wants justice, but he pretty much told me the district attorney just wants a conviction. He’s going to do whatever it takes to pressure you to help him, even if that means dragging you through mud.”

“He doesn’t have to pressure me. I want to help.”

“I get that and I told him that, but the bottom line here is he has to deliver a conviction—and that means someone is going down. If it’s not Ava, it’s going to be someone else. You can’t let him turn that into you.”

I curse and Dean says, “Ditto that from me. I talked to an attorney named Nick Rogers on your behalf. Many of us call him Tiger because he’ll rip your throat out if you mess with his success, which means his clients. He’s in court today, but I set up a meeting for tomorrow morning. I’m assuming under the circumstances you can make it?”

“Can we make it later tonight? I need to get back to New York to deal with the backlash this causes at Riptide before it gets to my mother. I’ll double his fees. Hell, I’ll triple them. Just get me in, and now.”

“I’ll find out and text you the answer and the address. This is going to get messy, Mark.”

“Then let me just go talk to Ava. I can get her to talk.”

“Not no, but hell no—and Tiger agreed.”

“If I can end this, then I have to do it.”

“If you go, you go with Tiger by your side. Just wait until we talk to him, Mark.”

“I have my family, my employees, Sara, and the members of the club to think about.”

“As a member of the club, you think I don’t know that? We’ll talk to Tiger. We’ll get a plan and we’ll attack. I’ll call Tiger now, but I might not hear back right away since he’s in court.”

“Right. I’ll be here.”

“Where is here?”

“At the gallery.”

“If the detective shows up or calls you, keep your mouth shut. Tell him to call me.”

“Right. Hurry the fuck up with that meeting.” I end the call and head toward the door. I’m about to enter the building when a flurry of activity occurs to my left. Turning, I find myself accosted by a female reporter with a cameraman.

“Mr. Compton,” the pretty blonde says, “I understand you have one dead employee and one arrested for counterfeiting art. I assume the two are related?”

“You know what they say about assuming,” I comment dryly, pushing open the door. “It makes asses out of pretty reporters.”

She grimaces. “So they’re not related and you’re just, what, unlucky?”

“I’d say you’re the unlucky one, or just the unwise one. People who call and schedule interviews do better than people who sideswipe me.”

“You won’t take my calls.”

“Eventually I’ll take someone’s, and it won’t be the reporter who started my day out on the wrong side of the door.” I enter the gallery and lock the door behind me.

Bright white floors gleam beneath my feet and a memory slams into me. It was near closing and I’d heard our salesperson Mary in a conversation with a customer. Something about the unknown female’s voice had compelled me to seek her out. Rebecca. I remember the moment I first saw her, her green eyes alight with excitement, her long brown hair windblown and sexy. I couldn’t look away, and I’d known she was special, that she belonged here. That she belonged with me. Damn it, she’s supposed to be here now.

Forcefully I shove aside the thoughts and reenter the present. Somehow I’m standing still. Out of myself. Out of control. Setting my feet back in motion, I push through the entryway to the offices and my attention turns to the reception desk where our receptionist, Amanda, is taking a message on a call while the often flippant but always efficient accounting manager, Ralph, is kneeling at a drawer to remove a file.

I lean on the wall and watch them, wondering when they’ll notice me. Amanda groans as she finishes the call and three more lines begin to ring, shoving her hands through her long brunette hair. “This is insanity,” she wails. “They won’t stop ringing. The press and the questions are driving me nuts.”

Ralph grabs the lines one after another and quickly takes inquiries, then puts them all on hold. “All press,” he says. “Focus on putting them on hold and getting to customers and the talent who support this place.”

“Ralph, you’re not hearing me. They won’t stop calling.”

“There’s an ancient Chinese saying about the press,” he tells her, referencing his heritage.

“What is it?” she asks. “And it better be good.”

“I don’t remember. I’ll ask my grandmother.”

Amanda growls at him, “Ralph, this is serious.”

“It says,” I interject, “that if you put the press on hold, leave them on hold.”

They both whirl around to face me, all but jumping out of their skins, a feeling I understand too well right now.

“Mr. Compton,” Ralph says, straightening fully. “We weren’t sure if we’d see you today or not.”

“I’m hoping to get a plan of action in place here and return to New York in the next few days.”

Amanda answers another call and puts it on hold. “Another reporter.”

“I wasn’t joking,” I reply. “Put them on hold and leave them on hold.” Considering Mary was arrested for trying to pass off counterfeit art and Sara resigned from her job to pretend fairy tales come true with one of the richest artists on the planet, I add, “Put the phones on the answering service and just check them for important calls once an hour. I don’t want an intern in here who could say the wrong thing. I assume I have a stack of messages?”

“All on your desk,” she says, giving me a concerned look I really don’t need right now. “How is your mother?”

“Recovering and hopefully going home on Thursday.” I glance at the two of them. “We’re going to keep the gallery shut for the next two weeks except for private showings, and that includes all scheduled events.”

“Oh, good,” Amanda breathes out. “I was afraid we’d have to deal with reporters in person.”

“We will, but not until I’m here to do it myself.” I glance at Ralph. “You’re picky and obnoxiously honest about people. Go through the sales resumes and prescreen. Send me your top ten by e-mail. I’ll look them over for the future.”

“Obnoxiously honest,” he repeats. “I’ll try to live up to that observation.”

“See that you do.”

Amanda clears her throat and surprises me with, “Speaking of Sara, can we ask her to come back when she returns from Paris with Chris Merit? She’s so good with people, and, well, the questions about Mary and Rebecca are awkward.”

I glance at Ralph expectantly and he quickly says, “I’m handling the Mary questions for Amanda.”

“How?”

“Nonanswers and more fortune cookie quotes.”

I arch a brow and he happily supplies, “Confucius says there are answers in silence. Confucius says speak not, listen not.” He shrugs. “Whatever pops into my head. It works. They ask what the saying means and what I’m trying to tell them, and forget what the question was.”

Amanda interjects, sounding distressed again. “All the regular customers want to know if Rebecca’s really dead. I keep telling them she left the country and this could all be a mistake. She could be alive.”

Anger spirals through me and my gaze lands hard on her, and I speak from the gnawing ball of emotion in my gut. “She’s dead, Amanda.”

She pales. “But—”

“Her passport shows her return. Ava got to Rebecca before she got to me. So I repeat. She’s dead. We can’t bring her back by pretending otherwise.”

Amanda sobs and Ralph makes some kind of choking sound. “Denial only drags the hurt out. I’ll be in my office.” I turn and head down the hallway, refusing to look at the office that was once Rebecca’s.

Reaching my office I enter and shut the door, then lean against it facing my desk. I stare at the damnable mural behind my desk that Chris painted that reminds me of him and his warning that I was pushing Rebecca too hard and too far.

“Damn it to hell,” I murmur, running my hand over my face. I tell myself I was doing Amanda a favor. She has to deal with the truth.

No. Fuck. That back there wasn’t about Amanda.

It was about me. I have to deal with it.

Shoving off the door, I pull out my cell and dial Crystal, far more concerned about the New York press where she is than I am by the press I am dealing with here, and wait as her phone begins to ring.

She answers, “Mr. Compton.”

Mr. Compton, not Mark—and I somehow know that means she’s with employees, just as Rebecca had addressed me formally at work and as Master elsewhere. “The press is all over me here,” I say. “What’s the story there?”

“Knock on wood, we’re without incident.”

“And Mac Reynolds?”

“He made my cranky seller in L.A. look like The Good Witch of the North, he’s such a jerk. He wanted us to pay for expert reappraisals on every piece he’s bought through us, under threat of him going public.”

“And you told him what?”

“Turns out his company does business with my father’s company, and while I don’t like to use those connections, I talked to my father, who gave me a free ticket to use him on Riptide’s behalf. So I dropped my father’s name and made it clear I’m influential with his business choices. I then offered to pay for the reappraisals Mac wanted and buy back the items if they were found to be counterfeit, but since I knew they wouldn’t be, it would end up being at his expense. He’s going to keep his mouth shut.”

“Well done, Ms. Smith. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Compton. I do aim to please.”

“That could be debated.”

“Not successfully.”

I’m surprised to find my lips curving and my body relaxing into my leather chair. “You can convince me another time.”

“I will,” she assures me. “In the meantime, is there anything else I can do for you?”

There’s a softness to her voice, real concern I don’t want to notice, but I do. “Just be you, Ms. Smith. It seems to be working.”

“One day you’ll say that and mean it.” Her phone beeps. “Before I go . . . I’m going to see your mother tonight. I’ll call you afterwards.”

She hangs up before I can reply and I turn in my chair and stare at the mural again, remembering Chris’s warning. You’re pushing her too hard, taking her places she doesn’t want to go. I kept telling myself Rebecca was just another sub, when she was never just a sub. She always wanted what I wasn’t willing to give. What I’m not sure I have to give.

She wanted love, a façade of happiness that rips out a person’s heart and leaves them bleeding. Exactly why I told her I don’t do love. And yet my heart is on the ground, and it’s damn sure bleeding.

I need Sara back. It’s the conclusion I come to after hours of picking apart the gallery’s books and analyzing the impact of closing for the next few weeks. She won’t be influenced by the media, and she knows how to handle customers for private showings. She’d also be able to help me plan a grand reopening. Chris’s attending that opening wouldn’t hurt, either. Getting him to agree to Sara’s return or his own participation, though, is another story, due to Ava throwing accusations of an affair at us.

Moving on with other options, I decide I’ll have to bring in someone from Riptide. Once I’m there, I’ll decide who. In the meantime, I start Amanda and Ralph on making plans. We set a date, and begin the guest lists. By the evening I have calls out to several high-profile artists, and I’ve sent Amanda and Ralph home. By eight thirty I’ve left my father two messages: to check on my mother, and one for Crystal, who I know will stop by the hospital.

And I’m now sitting in a high-rise building at a conference table with a view of the city lights. “Tiger,” my new attorney, sits at the head of the table and is the polar opposite of Dean. Dean, like me, wears his light brown hair short and neat, his suit perfectly pressed. Tiger is in jeans and a T-shirt, his long black hair tied at his nape, his face sporting at least a two-day shadow. He reminds me of Chris Merit, who can drop that casual persona and knock someone down ten notches in sixty seconds flat with lethal precision.

“Here’s the down and dirty,” Tiger says, leaning back in his chair. “Dean filled me in fully and I know all about the club you own and his involvement. I’ll start out with the reality we face. Election years suck. Everyone has extra pressure on them, including those unfortunate enough to be caught in a mess like this one.”

“So you’re telling me they’re coming after me,” I state.

“I haven’t talked to them yet,” Tiger says, “but the bottom line here is that they don’t have a body, but they do have a young, missing girl. That’s big news, and it’s scary news to the public.”

“Ava confessed,” I argue. “And she tried to kill Sara. Ryan, Sara, Chris, and I were witnesses to that fact. We were all there that night.”

“Sara and Chris need to get back to the States,” Dean complains. “Right now it looks like they ran.”

“Chris lives half the year in Paris,” I remind him. “It’s not like it’s some random out-of-the-country location. And I’m sure their attorney has whatever their situation is under control. Chris has money and expert advice.”

“It would look better if they were here,” Tiger agrees. “And a good attorney will use the public’s lack of information about BDSM to paint you as some sort of fetish monster who commanded Ava to take the fall for you.”

“What about the attempted murder?”

“If they discredit you and the other witnesses,” Tiger replies, “it’ll be a hard case to make.”

I press my fingers to my forehead and curse.

“This sounds bad,” Dean comments,“but it’s all smoke and mirrors to get Ava off. They have no evidence.”

Dropping my hands, I say, “We hope. And what stops this from ruining me and my family in the process, not to mention the privacy of the members of the club?”

“Me,” Dean says. “They know me and my reputation. I’ll sue the stink out of their shit if they so much as blow the wrong air your direction. One of the first things I’m going to do is make sure the club records are safe. Get them off site, if you have them there, and bring them to me. They’ll go after the gallery and your home first. And anyone else they can connect to you and Rebecca.

“Like Ryan,” Tiger indicates. “And I’d guess Chris, if they find out he’s a member of the club, and they’ll get to Sara through Chris since she lives with him. Fortunately for Ryan, Ava seems to be pointing her anger elsewhere.”

I scrub my jaw. “I haven’t even warned him about all of this.”

“I’ll call him,” Dean offers.

“Back to the club,” Tiger interjects. “If things heat up, it’s a good idea to have someone in mind to sign the club over to. I don’t anticipate it being necessary, but it’s better to have a plan. We can do some paperwork to protect your rights. It will give me an argument, if we need it, that the only records of relevance are yours, Ava’s, and Rebecca’s.”

“What about Riptide?” I ask. “Can they touch it?”

Tiger straightens, resting his hands on the table, and I hope he’s as good as Dean claims. “That would be a very difficult stretch for them to make,” he replies.

“But they could try to make it,” I say, and it’s not a question.

“They can and will try about anything. That’s why I’ll be street-brawl ready if need be.”

“I don’t want you to need to be. I want this over quietly and quickly, and it seems the only way to do that is for me to talk to Ava and get her to tell the truth.”

“No.” Tiger’s voice is absolute steel. “Even if you get her to give up the body and it’s covered in her DNA evidence, you run the risk of her claiming you were involved or even the one who plotted it all out. They’ll use the Master-and-submissive relationship you favor against you.”

“Ava wasn’t my submissive.”

“Did she want to be?” Tiger asks.

Tension crawls up my spine. “Yes.”

“How did she pay for her membership at the club?”

“On her own. I didn’t sponsor her.”

Tiger glances at the paper in front of him and arches a brow. “How did a coffee bar manager get that kind of money?”

“She owns the coffee bar, but according to her she also had a family inheritance.”

“That explains a lot,” Dean comments dryly.

“Meaning?” I prod.

“She’s got a couple of hotshot, very expensive attorneys.”

Tiger taps the table. “Back to her wanting to be your sub. I’m guessing she’ll say she was trying to earn that role by doing as you wish.”

“He’s right,” Dean agrees. “It’s too risky for you to confront Ava.”

“Talk, not confront,” I correct.

“And if you convince her to change her story, they could say it’s the way you manipulate her and mess with her head,” Dean counters. “This is one of those calls attorneys make—like not putting someone on the stand.”

I am not pleased with this answer or the way it ties my hands. “Ava claimed Sara was involved in Rebecca’s murder. None of us had even met Sara in the timeframe in question. Surely that demonstrates she’s lying and hurts her credibility.”

“Eventually the truth will win out,” Tiger assures me. “But it’s going to be a hell of a ride.”

My cell phone rings and I pull it from my pocket. It’s Kurt, the manager of the club. I answer. “The police were just here,” Kurt tells me without preamble. “I sent them away, but I’m guessing they’ll be back.”

“Did any members see them?”

“We kept them behind the gate. How do they even know we exist?”

Ava, I think, regretting the day I ever approved her membership. “I’ll be there in half an hour.” I hang up and glance from Dean to Tiger. “The police showed up at the club.”

“Predictably,” Dean replies, “Ava told them where to find it, and her people are doing everything in their power to turn this on you.”

Tiger shifts in his seat and pulls his cell from his pocket. “I’ll call the detective in charge of the case and give him a good verbal beating. In the meantime, we need to get the records out of the club to protect the membership—preferably tonight.”

“I’ll go get them now,” I confirm.

“And stay away after you’re out,” he says. “I wouldn’t put it past the police to decide to bring you in for questioning while you’re there, to get past the doors. In fact, can someone else get the records?”

I give a shake of my head. “Not with the security system I have in place. I need to open the safe.”

“Then get in and get out,” he replies.

“One final heads-up,” Dean cautions, as they both stand. “Ava’s team could decide to anonymously tip off a reporter. Who knows what creative story they might tell, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was along the lines of ‘a dead woman and a BDSM Master.’ It’s the kind of story that will get major attention, and apply pressure on the cops and the suits.”

“I’d sure take that route if she were my client,” Tiger confirms. “But they might not be that smart or that brave.”

“Ava is,” I say. “She’s crazy, but she’s smart.” I scrub at the tension at the back of my neck. “I’ll have the records here in the morning.”

“Don’t keep them with you,” Dean warns. “I need to stay away from the club right now, too, but call me when you have them in hand and I’ll pick them up.”

I give him a nod and shake Tiger’s hand. Ready to get this trip to the club over with, I exit the conference room and, needing to burn off the emotion clawing at me, I take the stairs. I’ve just reached the garage and settled into my Jag when my cell phone rings.

Noting Crystal’s name on the ID, I answer. “Ms. Smith,” I say, punching the ignition button and hoping for at least one piece of good news. “How’s my mother doing?”

“I talked to your father and he said she’s still not feeling well. They’re running tests with no results back yet. Mark, I’m not in New York. I’m here in San Francisco. I need to see you.”

I brake at the exit to the garage. “What? Why? You’re supposed to be looking after Riptide.”

“I have my father’s private jet. I can go back tonight if you want me to.”

“If I want you to? What the hell does that mean, Crystal?”

“I’d rather explain in person. I’m at the gallery. Are you here? Can you let me in?”

A sense of foreboding fills me. “Is everyone safe?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“And Riptide?”

“Is under control.”

“What are you doing here, Ms. Smith?”

“In person,” she repeats. “I need to see you.”

I hear the stubbornness in her voice, and say, “I’m not at the gallery. Do you have a hotel?”

“Not yet.”

“Meet me at my house in an hour. I’ll text you the address.”

“Wait, Mark. The plane—”

I hit the End button, and it’s all I can do not to go to her now and find out what bombshell she has waiting for me.

And it will be a bombshell. I’m sure of it.

Part Four

Consumed

Twenty minutes later, I’ve ignored three calls from Crystal, tried to reach my father to no avail, and I’m finally at the gates of the club. It is only a few blocks from my home in Cow Hollow. I punch in a code on a panel. The steel entry starts to open and I hit the intercom, announcing myself, and instruct the attendant, “Make sure Kurt knows I’m here.”

Shifting the car into gear, I travel the long driveway draped in heavy foliage for privacy, and around the curved drive to park in front of the sprawling mansion that’s only one of many buildings on the several miles wide property. Opening my door, I hand off my keys to one of the longtime attendants. Without a word to anyone else, I head up the long stairway to the double red doors meant to signify money and power.

After another long-term employee, a security guard wearing the standard black suit I require, greets me at the top level, I enter the house. As Dean had pointed out, members pay a hefty price to join the club, and the foyer, like the rest of the property, is decorated with fine art and expensive furnishings to create the luxury they expect. Those fees also encourage confidentiality, both that of the members and the staff, and my role as Master is to the protection of everyone here—a role I take deadly serious. The idea of failing in my duties is unthinkable, and Ava’s betraying the secrets of the membership is a failure.

Kurt, an ex–Navy SEAL and head of security, joins me in the foyer, his long blond hair tied at his nape, showing a four-inch scar he wears proudly down his cheek.

“My office,” I order. We head down a separate set of stairs, not as ornate as the stairs up, which are lined with mahogany rails, and into the finished basement that includes a dungeon area and my office.

As I reach the foot of the steps a memory stirs in my mind, of bringing Sara down here to the dungeon. It had been the night that Chris had lost it, mourning a little boy dying of cancer. I’d known Chris had tumbled into darkness that evening, pushing too hard for escape, beyond safety and reason. Chris had once been a friend, one I still didn’t want to see crash and burn, perhaps because his strength felt like my own. It was my job as Master to make the decision to break code and stop the beating he was demanding. And as much as I’d tried to prevent Sara from ending up with Chris, I’d known she was the only way I’d get him out of that dungeon in my club.

Up to that point, knowing how damaged Chris truly was, and is, I’d feared the power he was giving Sara over himself, and the power he was gaining over her. I hadn’t realized it was my fear that she was his Rebecca, a woman he’d destroy. That night I’d just been damn thankful she was his salvation, but I’d also sworn I’d never be in that place he was myself. Now, just a month later, I’m teetering on the edge of that place, trying my damnedest to pull myself back.

Reaching the double dungeon-style wooden doors at the end of the walkway, I key in another code on a panel, hold my thumb on a scanner, and then watch the tiny red light change to green. Entering the room lined with bookshelves, my path is a straight to the centerpiece of the space, an oversized antique desk that I restored years before. Kurt follows me inside, locking the doors behind us. I step behind the desk, opening a drawer and pressing my thumb to yet another panel there. One of the bookshelves slides to the side, exposing a secret room.

“I need you to load all the files in my car,” I instruct Kurt, “including all security footage.”

Kurt stops in front of the desk. “Is this a precaution, or should I expect a search warrant to follow?”

“Both.” I fill him in on the details of what’s happened with Ava.

“What a little bitch,” he says when I finish. “Isn’t killing Rebecca punishment enough? She has to shred your life and anyone else who’s in it? I suppose she’s going to claim insanity.”

“She’s in a psych ward for evaluation, but I think that’s more due to her calculation and manipulation than losing her mind.”

“I knew enough of those kind of people in the Navy to know that spells trouble.”

And he’s done a damn good job of heading off trouble here the past few years. “I’m going to draw up papers to put you in control of the club. It will shield the members, and I need to focus on my family until my mother is well.”

“You want me to take over the club? As in ownership, not just management?”

“For now. There will be a hefty compensation package, and a time limit before it transfers back to me. My attorney will get in touch with you, to review the documents and give you the chance to accept or decline. But I’ll need to know quickly.”

The phone on my desk rings and I punch the Speaker button. “Mr. Compton?” an attendant asks.

“Yes. I’m here.”

“There’s a Ms. Smith at the gate asking to see you.”

Adrenaline rushes through me and I clench my jaw. What the fuck is Crystal doing here? How does she even know this place exists? I’m not sure if I should be worried or pissed. All I know is that I don’t have the files yet and I can’t leave without them, and she’s too stubborn to leave without me.

I release the button on the intercom and glance at Kurt. “How long do you need to load my car?”

“Half an hour to download the security feed. Who the hell is she?”

“The acting manager of Riptide while my mother is on the mend.”

“And she knows about the club?”

“She didn’t.”

“I’m guessing Ava got to her?”

“That’s a good question.” I punch the Intercom button again. “Have someone go to the gate and ensure she comes in alone. Then keep her at her car until I come outside.” I round the desk. “Call me when the files are ready.”

“Should I have security on standby?”

“You should always have security on standby. But for the next few weeks, I want them on eggshells.”

I find Crystal at the side of her car, arms crossed in front of her, trepidation in her stare as she watches me exit the house. Just seeing her long blond hair lifting in the breeze, around the trench coat she’d worn last night, reminds me of spreading her wide on that bathroom sink. This doesn’t please me, nor does the jolt of white hot need that lights a fire in my body.

Her gaze tracks my path down the stairs, and if she’s attempting to hide the unbridled admiration or the worry in her stare, she’s failed. The combination of these things is an uncomfortable mix of desire dashed with ice water. I don’t know why she’s here, but I’m doubly certain now that I’m not going to like it.

Once I hit the sidewalk, she rounds the car and races toward me. “Mark, I—”

My hand comes down on her arm and I pull her hard against my body, trying not to think about how soft and feminine she feels against me, lowering my voice for her ears only. “How did you find this place?”

“There was a detective at the gallery. I was flustered when we hung up, and he told me I could find you here.”

The detective. I should have known. “I told you to wait at my house.”

“I know, but I couldn’t wait. My father’s pilot needs to know within the hour if I’m using him tonight or in the morning. He takes contract jobs, and he has one he’ll cancel for us.”

My anger is instant, but not directed at her. Sending her here is a message from the detective, punishment for my attorney’s refusing to allow me to meet with Ava. And a promise he will make my life hell if I don’t cooperate. I wouldn’t be surprised if he created whatever emergency that seems to have Crystal chartering private planes and jumping through hoops to see me. He knows she works with my family, and I’m sure he assumes I don’t want my parents to know about this place.

Well, the detective has underestimated me. I do not take punishment lightly, and I won’t be manipulated. I’m calling his bluff.

I’m finding out now if Crystal can hang tough, no matter what the next few months throw at her. I just hope my parents don’t have to try.

“Mark,” Crystal says, and her fingers curl on my jaw, drawing my attention.

Aware of us being watched, I reach for her hand, pulling it between us, and I fight the sweet sensation of her touch, when I never ever let anyone touch me. “Do you know what this place is?”

“He said it was part of your offices.”

“No. It’s not. We’re going inside and you are not to look at anyone, talk to anyone, or do anything unless I say you do it. I own you when you’re here, no matter how much you might not like it. Understood?”

“No, I—”

“This is not a place where you disobey me. This isn’t about your job. You are not my employee here. So you follow the rules, or you can get back in your car and I’ll meet you at my house.”

Understanding seeps into her eyes and her chin lifts. “I’m staying.”

“Then I own you while you’re here. Say it.”

“No, I—”

“Say it, Ms. Smith.”

“You own me when I’m here—and only when I’m here.”

There is no sense of reward from her words; she doesn’t belong here. “I’ll take that answer.” I start to release her, to have her walk by my side untouched, as I would any other guest, but an unwelcome possessiveness overcomes me, followed by an intense need to protect her.

She doesn’t belong here. Rebecca didn’t belong here. The truth of those words cuts deeply and I lace my fingers with Crystal’s, aware of the intimacy of the act and how out of character it is for me. Everyone else will know this as well, but this isn’t about me the Master. It’s about Crystal, whom I fully intend to protect—even if that means scaring her out of my family’s life.

We start up the steps and I can’t help but notice her jacket covers a conservative black dress that she’s paired with basic black pumps. It appears that she’s dressed for work and left there quickly to get to me. The burning question is why? What happened to bring her here?

Approaching the guard, I softly remind her, “Eyes down.”

“Yes, Master,” she growls, and I wonder if this is an ironic joke or her way of telling me she knows more than she’s let on. Either way, she does as I say.

Inside the foyer, her head lifts, and I allow her a moment to take in the elegant decor and the expensive artwork; the conservative façade is part of the experience of taking part in the arousing and shocking erotic deeds that happen here. I need her to understand this place, to bolt now if she is going to, before the police can shock or sway her opinions and actions.

Her gaze tilts upward and she studies the spectacular glass chandelier over our heads, and I study the creamy expanse of her naked throat, where my mouth has been, where it could be again, and I remember just how luxurious her naked body had been. Then I motion her toward the dramatic winding stairwell that is very Gone with the Wind by intention.

We climb the steps, our destination my private chambers. While it’s not the place I prefer to take her, not with the memories I have, it’s where she will understand who I am. We stop at the final door, where I key in a code again, and motion for her to enter. She swallows hard, her eyes meeting mine, trepidation in their depths, before she steps forward.

I follow her inside and lock the door, giving her a moment to take in the massive four-poster bed in center of the room, the sheer curtains leading to several “play” rooms. She walks toward the bed and turns to the monitor that takes up most of the wall to the left, with a half dozen smaller screens above and below it.

She turns to me. “This isn’t a gallery.”

“No,” I say, closing the distance between us. “It’s not a gallery. It’s a very exclusive club.”

“A sex club.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re a member?”

“I’m the owner. The head Master.” And now is the time to show her what is on the huge monitors lining the wall, to show her the public floggings, group sex, bondage. But I don’t move. “Have you ever been in a BDSM club?”

“No. I haven’t.”

The answer defines where we will go, which is nowhere. “And I assume the detective hoped that would be the way I’d want to keep it, therefore I’d do what he wanted me to do.”

“Which is what?”

“To convince Ava to produce a body.”

“Why wouldn’t you do that anyway, if you can?”

“My attorneys seem to think it’s suicide, since Ava’s trying to frame me for the murder.”

Her brow furrows. “Didn’t she confess and try to kill Sara?”

“Yes. But she says she did it all for me, and my role as Master here doesn’t help me dispute that.”

“I don’t really know how this works, but was Ava . . . is she—?”

“My submissive? No. But she wanted to be, and what we’re thinking is that she’ll say she was trying to earn that place by my side.”

“By killing the woman you loved? That’s insane.”

The woman I loved? There’s an instant denial on my lips but I can’t seem to speak it, nor can I escape the truth. I did love Rebecca. Maybe not in the way she wanted me to, but she changed me, she touched me—and in the only way I know how, I did love her. I just didn’t see it until it was too late. Until now, this moment.

A burning sensation starts in my chest, moving to my throat, and I’m suddenly, illogically, angry. At Crystal. At myself. At Rebecca for dying, and I hate that I’m that selfish, but damn it, why did she die? She was too young. Too beautiful. Too full of life.

“Why are you here, Crystal?” I demand, my voice sharp, my emotions in upheaval.

She sways and sits on the edge of the bed, like she can’t bear to say what she has to say. “I came to trade places with you so you could be with your parents.” Her voice trembles and so do her hands where they rest on her legs. “I can cover the gallery. I’m a fast learner and can teach myself.”

Her words are as illogical as her borrowing her father’s plane to be here. “You live in New York. You work in New York.”

“This is the right thing to do.”

Impatience mixes with a sense of dread and I close the distance between us, leaning over her, pressing my fists into the mattress at her hips. “Don’t talk in circles. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Those tests they are doing on your mom. I don’t think the results are going to be good, and neither does your dad. He collapsed.”

“What? My father collapsed? When? How is he?”

She grabs my arms. “He’s okay. It was just emotional. I promise. He broke down and cried, and—”

“My father cried?” My father never cries. He’s a rock. A boulder when he has to be.

“He needs you. They both do. That’s why I came to change places.”

I shove off the bed and run a hand through my hair. “What do they think is wrong with my mother?”

“They wouldn’t tell me, and your father just said it was bad. I told him I’d come and get you. He wanted me to come and get you.”

Pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose, I’m fighting the dark haze of something dangerously familiar; something I haven’t felt for years and swore I’d never feel again. I turn away from her and put distance between us, shoving my hands onto the wall, letting my head fall between my shoulders. A splintering pain spikes in my head, and I fight a flashback to a moment in my past I don’t want to see. I am not going back there. And I damn sure am not going to lose my mother or my father.

Crystal’s hand comes down on my arm. “Mark—”

I drag her in front of me, against the wall. “Why would you come here?”

“I told you—”

“I know what you told me, but you aren’t family. You barely know me. You’ve known my mother only a year. Why would you do this? Why would you—”

“Your mother,” she says, her voice cracking, “she’s a special person, and you . . .” Her hand settles on my chest, over my heart, and I let her leave it there. I can’t make her move it. “I know,” she continues, her voice a soft whisper, “you’re holding up the world on your own. I saw that when you were in New York. And I know what alone feels like. It sucks really badly. And it makes everything hurt worse.”

“And you’re going to make me less alone?”

“You can count on me. Call that a friend or a good employee. Call it whatever you want, but I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

She’s here. She’s not going anywhere. Those words beat down on me. No one can make that promise. I know this, and I live with this in mind, but it doesn’t seem to matter. This moment isn’t about the future. It’s about need. Suddenly, this woman is the answer to everything I can’t solve, everything I feel and don’t want to feel.

My fingers slice into her hair and I drag her mouth to mine. “I’m using you. I’m fucking you. I’m never going to be anyone you deserve.”

She laughs, a bitterness to the tone. “Then we won’t deserve each other.” She grabs my tie. “And I’m never going to be your submissive.”

“I’m more than clear on that point,” I assure her, and my mouth comes down on hers, my tongue pressing past her lips, caressing, stroking, taking. And she’s kissing me back, her arms wrapping around me, her breasts smashed against my chest. I feel her hunger, taste her passion, as if this is her escape, too, as if she is running from something I don’t know, burying it in this kiss. It calls to me, drives me to want more, tells me she does know loneliness. She knows pain, and it’s that pain that’s bringing us here, to this moment. It’s why I crave every touch, every stroke of her tongue.

But as the lust and hunger build inside me, turning into something dark and uncontrollable, desperation rises in me and with it the fear that losing control means never having it again. I turn her to the door, forcing her hands to the wall, and tugging her jacket down her arms, toss it aside. Shrugging off my own, I free my arms, then loosen my tie.

The soft rasp of her erratic breathing is erotic, enticing, and I can almost taste her desire. Pressing into her, my hands go to her hips, my lips to her ear. “I told you outside that I own you while you’re here.” My hands caress her slender rib cage, then upward, until I fill my hands with her breasts.

She arches into the touch, her back into my chest, her hard nipples against my palms. “And I said you did, but I don’t think that’s what you need from me.”

Something about the way she says the words splinters down my spine and burrows into my soul, the truth of her words jolting me. I find myself leaning into her, my face buried in the sweet floral scent of her hair. I know what I need, and she can’t give it to me. No one can.

“You’re wrong,” I say, shoving down her dress, pinching her nipples. “I need to own you. I do own you in this place.”

“Because the rules say so?” she challenges.

I turn her to face me, pressing my hand on the wall by her head. “Yes. Because the rules say so.”

“Rules make you think. Don’t think, Mark. Just forget it all, and fuck me.”

Her words hit some raw, exposed nerve, and suddenly I’m kissing her, and I don’t know which one of us moves first, or if we move together. She reaches for my tie and I let her. I’m so out of myself and into what this woman has me feeling that I don’t even care. And for the first time in nearly a decade, I lose myself in a frenzy of removing clothing. Hers. Mine. Ours. There is no command that she undress. No command that she undress me. There are just our hands, our mouths, our bodies pressed together. And I let her touch me freely. Her hands on my chest, my arms, and yes, wrapping my cock. Her touch is like freedom, escape, and the answer to that mindless burn that needs satisfying. There are no games, none of me tormenting us both with the anticipation. I can’t get inside her soon enough.

We roll the condom on my cock together and fall to the bed, side by side, my hand caressing her hair from her face, my shaft pressing into the wet heat of her sex, then thrusting deep. She gasps, and the sound creates a sweet ache in my chest where there had been pain. I mold her closer, cupping her sweet little ass, but it is she who presses her lips to mine. She who licks into my mouth and drives my hunger to new places. And finally, she who pushes me to my back, leans into me, and grinds against my hips. I can feel her urgency expanding, my urgency with hers. She sits up, her breasts high, her nipples puckered, and I thrust into her, and it’s me moaning for more. Demanding more.

Consumed by my need for this woman, I flip her to her back, thrusting into her, and still it’s not enough. I lift her legs to my shoulders and she lifts her hips, arching into me as I pump into her, harder and faster, deeper and deeper, until she pants out, “I’m . . . oh, Mark, I . . .”

Her inner muscles grab hold of my cock, squeezing it, and I shudder with an intense, consuming release that leaves me oblivious for several moments of pure pleasure. The world spins and I have a sense of being lost and never wanting to be found.

Too soon, reality comes back to me and I ease Crystal’s legs from my shoulders, but I don’t feel the urge to move away. My elbows settle on the mattress by her face and she reaches up and strokes my cheek, her fingers tracing my mouth. I say nothing. She says nothing. I expect something, but I’m not sure what. Maybe she does, too.

My cell buzzes with a text and I roll off her, pushing to my feet and grabbing it from inside my pants. My screen tells me I’ve missed four calls—three from Kurt and one from Dean, who has resorted to a text. The car is ready, with the files inside.

“Oh no,” Crystal says from behind me, and I turn to find her scrambling off the bed. The sight of her naked body has blood racing to my cock, ready for round two.

She stops in front of me and grabs her jacket from the floor. “I have to call the pilot or he’ll leave you behind.”

I pull her to me. “I’ll get us a later flight.”

“Us?” she asks. “I need to stay here. I brought several weeks of clothes.”

“I have a plan to handle the gallery. My mother needs you at Riptide and by her side.”

And I need to get her the hell out of this city before she gets pulled into the nightmare of my life right now. Before I destroy her like I did Rebecca.

Tonight I didn’t own her, and I never will. This was, this is, the end.

Content

My Hunge
Inside Out - 3.2
Lisa Renee Jones

Part One It Never Happened

Part Two Denial

Part Three Accused

Part Four Consumed