Bite the Bullet (2 page)

Automatically her gaze was drawn to his crotch. She was sure the fabric of his slacks concealed a very impressive package.

The corner of his mouth quirked in a smile, and she realized he’d seen exactly what she was looking at.

Nice, Montana. Way to make a good impression.

Taking a moment to even her breathing and steady herself, pull those threads back so she had some control, she rose with as much grace as she could manage, tossed back her thick mane of auburn hair, and held out her hand.

“Yes. Montana Steele.”

The moment their hands touched, the air around them became electrified, buzzing with intensity. When she looked at his face, his expression was composed, controlled, but his eyes registered the same shock at their contact. For a brief moment, she wanted to yank her hand back and flee through the door, calling over her shoulder that this was all a mistake.

That she’d changed her mind.

“Clint Chavez.” The timber of his voice vibrated through her. “I’m Reece Halliday’s partner.”

His handshake was firm, but there was something so sensual about it she was almost reluctant to let it go. She hadn’t had that reaction to a man—any man—since she’d finally shaken the last vestiges of Dusty Sorel from her life.

Not even in the few instances this past year when she’d ventured back into the club scene.

“Miss Steele?”

That low-timbered voice that had such a rich resonance broke into her thoughts, and she realized she was still holding his hand.

Way to go, dummy. You can kiss a membership here
goodbye.

“Yes, sorry. Thank you for coming out to meet me.”

“Actually, I guess we had a little misunderstanding. Reece thought he’d left your name on the list, and his wife has been watching for you in the lounge.”

“Not a problem.”

The problem is that, suddenly, the space around me seems
too confined. That I can’t breathe. That there was some kind
of karmic connection tugging at us I can’t deal with.

“Let’s go say hello to Reece and Katie and get you situated. The performance will be starting shortly.”

“Thank you.” She smiled back at him, hoping she’d managed to regain most of her poise. Then their gazes connected again.

For just the briefest span of time, a look flashed in Clint Chavez’s eyes, but it was there long enough for shock to sizzle through her. Her breath was suddenly trapped in her throat. Unless her well-honed radar was failing her or out of whack, this very alpha-looking male was a sexual submissive.

Oh, god. This was more than she could handle.

Run, don’t walk. Hurry away as fast as you can. Do not
issue a silent invitation to the club owner, idiot. Especially
when you’re still here only as a guest.

Pulling herself together mentally as best she could, Montana let him guide her through the entrance hall into the lounge area. People were everywhere, filling every available space, laughing, talking in muted tones. Good. She needed the distraction of a crowd. She still felt wobbly and her pussy throbbed insistently with abrupt need.

She’d worked so hard to shut herself off from this kind of attraction. She couldn’t let down the barriers now. She’d just have to find a way to avoid Clint Chavez whenever she came to Rawhide. Assuming, of course, they approved her for membership.

Just beyond the lounge was a glass-enclosed area Montana recognized as performance space. And to the side of that were the rows of spectator seats. Some were already filled with people sipping drinks and chatting. Others held white tent cards indicating reserved signs.

She was very familiar with performance nights. The club in Tampa held them at least once a week. In fact, that was where she’d met Dusty when he was trolling for a new Domme. But Dusty’s problem was his submissive nature clashed with his image of himself as a macho rodeo rider, so he was constantly “jumping the fence” to situations he could control. She’d put up with it as long as she could, but when she finally kicked him to the curb, she couldn’t even remember why she’d fallen for the narcissistic asshole in the first place.

“Here we are.”

Clint had steered her to a couple seated at a small table against one wall. As they approached, the man stood and offered his hand. It was her first glimpse of Reece Halliday, personal friend of the owner of the club where she had played.

No doubt about this one. He’s got Dom written all over
him.

Height had always been one of her problems. At five ten—

at least six feet with her boots on—she’d had trouble finding subs she didn’t tower over. But both of these men had a good four inches on her.

“Reece Halliday. Nice to finally meet you. John asked me to make sure we took good care of you.”

“Thank you.”

He indicated the woman with him. “My wife, Katie.”

“Hi! Welcome to Rawhide.” Katie Halliday was a vivacious, self-confident woman, but when she looked at her husband, she might as well have had
submissive
stamped in her forehead.

“I’ll leave Montana to your excellent care,” Clint told his partner. “Devyn and I need to make sure everything’s set for the performance. I’ll see you later, Miss Steele.”

“Montana, please.” She sat down in the chair Reece had pulled out for her.

“In about fifteen minutes, we’ll go take our seats in the audience,” Reece told her. “Would you like something to drink?”

Most clubs had a two drink maximum, even if you weren’t there to play, but she’d always found liquor dulled her senses and prevented her from enjoying herself to the fullest, so she shook her head. Alcohol also had a tendency to erode control so she stayed away from it.

“Just coffee, please.”

She found the Hallidays friendly and easy to be with. They asked about her move, her purchase of the ranch, and the business she was taking over. Finally, she managed to slide in a question she hoped was casual. “Reece, your partner seems like an interesting person. Have the two of you owned this place long?”

Katie swallowed a grin and glanced at Reece.

“We’ve been friends for years,” he said. “And trust each other enough to own this club together.” Amusement danced in his eyes. “What would you like to know about him?”

“Nothing special.” She shrugged. “Just interested in his background. Tom gave me a thumbnail on yours when he said he’d recommend me here but didn’t mention your partners. Clint seems to know what he’s doing here.”

And does he play with the customers? Or go elsewhere?

Does he have a steady relationship?

But she didn’t think she was in any position to ask further question.

Thankfully, Katie looked at her watch. “We really need to take our seats now. We’ll have time to chat later. You’ll enjoy tonight’s performance. Melora is an expert with the single tail whip.” She glanced at her husband and grinned. “Not as good as Reece, of course.”

“So we’ll be watching a female top tonight?” Montana asked. Something coiled tight low in her belly, her nipples hardened and pushed against the satin of her bra, and cream gushed into her thong. A Domme! Watching a really good one was almost as sexually arousing as performing herself.

“Yes.” Reece guided them to their seats in the front row.

“She’s something of a star here.”

“Then I certainly came on the right night.”

Although the whip was not her punishing instrument of choice. She preferred the cane, especially the one with the smooth fiberglass construction that stung with each application. Or a paddle made with material that looked like a tire tread. The marks it left on a sub branded him as hers.

She also liked to gag her subs. They could still moan around the restraint, but it gave them something to sink their teeth into as she alternately caressed them and punished them, never letting them know which would come next.

In the early years of her marriage to Dusty, she loved to punish him until his ass was red and stinging just before he competed. She’d sit in the stands, horny as hell, knowing how the rough coat of the bull was rubbing the sore flesh of his buttocks. And how aroused he’d be when they got home and beg to fuck her brains out.

Toward the end, she gained less sexual satisfaction out of laying the cane across his skin and more a feeling of retribution for the way he was destroying her. Montana swallowed a sigh. She’d finally had the sense to kick him out before the entire situation became destructive and she turned into someone she didn’t even know. She’d spent the past six months in celibate solitude, pulling in the tattered edges of her wits and her emotions. Rawhide gave her the opportunity to dip her toes in the water again. Now she was ready to move beyond that.

She hoped.

Moments later, they seated themselves, all the lights in the club dimmed, and overhead spots in the performance area became bright and all-encompassing. The entire glassed-in stage was lit up like the sun at high noon. In the center was an apparatus that Montana herself had often used, a rectangular frame padded with thick leather built on a platform that rotated. Attached to each corner were manacles.

It allowed the sub to be restrained, but unlike with the St.

Andrews Cross, the entire body was exposed with no support except at ankles and wrists. It not only allowed minimal movement as the instrument of punishment was applied, but also, with a male sub, it could be rotated to give the audience full view of the man’s cock and its reaction to the pleasure/pain.

A door at the far side of the area opened, and a couple strode in so striking they took Montana’s breath away. The man was at least six foot four, with a lean, muscular body, a chiseled faced and thick sun streaked blond hair that had been expensively razor-cut. The well-defined muscles in his body stretched and tightened as he walked. Nipple clamps were attached to his chest, and his magnificent flesh was completely oiled, glistening beneath the overhead lights.

The woman was equally as attention-getting. She was a good foot shorter, although the stiletto-heel boots she wore added to her heights. Her hair was blonde, also, the color so pale as to be almost silver. She wore it pulled back and anchored with a wide black clip. Other than her boots, she wore only a bustier that lifted her breasts so they appeared to be resting on a shelf. Her pussy was completely exposed.

Montana wondered if the hair was close trimmed or just so pale, like that on her head, as to be nearly invisible from this distance.

And right behind them, Clint Chavez moved with the grace of a panther, the heat of his presence searching out Montana even through the glass. She shifted in her seat and crossed her legs, squeezing her thighs against the sudden surge of lust.

Clint stood in the center of the room and smiled at the audience.

“Good evening.” His voice came through what was obviously a state of the art sound system. “Welcome to Performance Night at Rawhide. Tonight we have one of your favorite couples, Linc Stoddard and Melora Regan. When we asked for preferences you chose them almost overwhelmingly.” He glanced over at Melora. “It must be your beautiful blue eyes that gets them, darlin’.”

She smiled, shook her head, and lifted the coiled whip from her shoulder. “I think it’s my toy they’re fascinated with.

Oh, and of course, Linc’s wonderful screams.”

Clint turned back toward the spectators. “As you know, Melora is an expert with the single tail whip, trained by Rawhide’s own Reece Halliday.”

Montana slid a glance sideways at the mention of Reece’s name. Katie was looking at her husband with a hungry look on her face. Reece brought her hand up to his lips and ran his tongue over the knuckle. Just the intimacy of the gesture made Montana shiver.

“I know you want to see our starring couple get to it,” Clint was saying, “so I’ll turn the floor over to Melora.”

Tugging Linc to stand next to her, she took Clint’s place as he moved out of the enclosure.

“For those of you seeing us for the first time, tonight I’ll be demonstrating the use of the single tail whip as an instrument both of punishment and extreme pleasure.” She turned to Linc and ran one hand slowly over the upper part of his body, pausing to tug at the chain between the nipple clips.

The man’s cock jerked in response and his body stiffened slightly, but his face was expressionless.

I wonder if Clint has ever been whipped? Maybe he prefers
the cane and paddle like I do.

Stop it! You can’t do this again. Choose someone who
hasn’t suddenly assaulted your emotions. Besides, he’s one of
the owners. Off limits. That should put up a big enough
barrier.

But she’d been in sexual isolation for so long that all her hormones were waking up and doing a fast two step everywhere in her body. Not helped at all by the rampant sexuality of one Clint Chavez. Or the powerful connection that had exploded between them. She dug her nails into her palms to still her racing emotions.

“The whip can be an instrument of great pleasure if used, properly,” she continued, trailing her hand down Linc’s stomach to the caged cock. When she tugged on it, Linc tensed again but remained at attention, hands clasped behind his back.

Melora uncoiled the whip and let it trail lazily on the floor, walking around the immobile man, eyes tracing invisible paths over his body.

“I like to oil Linc’s body in preparation,” she said in a sultry voice. “It allows the tail of the whip to slide over the skin more easily and also helps to prevent scarring if I happen to be a little, shall we say, enthusiastic in its application. We have been playing with the whip for a long time, and as you can see, his back, ass, and thighs are still quite smooth.

Barely marked.”

She lifted the handle of the whip and in a fluid motion snapped it in the air so the thin strip of leather made a resounding
crack
as it sliced through the air. Although it came close to his body, Linc didn’t flinch.

Montana recrossed her legs, reminding herself it would be bad form to slide back and forth on her seat to ease the throbbing in her pussy. Her breasts ached so badly she wanted to rip open the short leather jacket and squeeze them as hard as she could. And they’d barely even started. Another signal that she’d been denying herself for far too long.