Chains and Canes (8 page)

But that was a lie.

Only because you told me to.

He stiffened, chin lifted to the ceiling, and sank deep. His orgasm seared every nerve and obliterated thought. He couldn’t see past the splashes of gray and bright, sparkling white. He was spent, but sensation layered over sensation when Naya came too. Her cunt clenched around his prick. She ground back against his hips. Cussing. Moaning. Crying again.

His erotic angel.

Remy had gathered her hair in his left fist. His right hand was back where he needed it most. He pumped his cock. Sweat dripped between his pecs and down his rigid abs, and made his biceps glisten. Tendons flexed from his forearms to the caps of his shoulders.

“Don’t move,” he growled at Naya.

When he next yanked her hair, she cried out. Her neck arched, and she lifted that rounded, bruised little ass. She was lithe and flexible, but he never gave her enough slack to get away.

“Sir!”

“You don’t want me to stop.” Remy’s voice had dropped an octave. “You don’t. You wanna make me happy,
chère
. Gonna make me happy. This is how.
This
.”

“Please, Sir.”

Daniel stretched over her shaking body until he twined his fingers with hers along the back of the couch. He met Remy’s blistering stare. Naya was right. They all knew what was happening. Daniel could’ve retreated after his orgasm. He could’ve watched Remy finish, or even walked away altogether. Instead, he layered over Naya in blatant invitation. He wanted to finish this as they’d started. The three of them. Surprises and mind games and the best fucking sex he’d ever had.

With a whisper barely louder than an exhale, Daniel said, “Yes.”

Remy gasped and groaned, cussed and cried out—some combination. His come streaked along Daniel’s back and Naya’s side. A shudder and a low, slow, “Fuck,” accompanied the slowing tempo of his strokes.

He released Naya’s hair and collapsed onto the couch. His breathing was still ragged when he smiled. “Well, well now,” he said, his voice a tempting tease once again. “Wasn’t that a surprise?”

Chapter Eight

Naya entered the club through the rear employee entrance, which was not the first thing to amp up her nerves that morning. The first thing had been groggily groping her way to the bathroom after the third blare of Daniel’s snooze alarm. She’d given him two more before dragging him to his feet for a ten a.m. meeting and, later, for a redeye to London.

Dios mío
, her back. Her ass. She’d stood holding a hand mirror. Every angle revealed physical proof of what Remy had done. Her skin was streaked with color—splashes of red and pink, with darkened speckles. She touched her ass, which was still that gratifying mix of stinging and numb.

She’d never taken so much.

Remy had lit a fuse beneath her beautiful, tidy life with Daniel. The question now was when or even if those explosives would detonate and what the damage would be.

Now she would see him again, only seven hours after he’d left their apartment. They would meet in a professional capacity, although she hardly knew what that meant. They’d sparked sex and something more volatile from the first seconds of her audition.

She passed the rear-most rehearsal rooms. It contained a pair of Latin dancers in the middle of a salsa routine that should’ve come with a stand-by fire crew. Naya watched them until her presence was noticed. The man broke his hold and stalked toward the sound system to turn down the music.

Naya gripped the strap of her duffel. The weight of it rested along her spine. Softly stinging reminders would be there for days, giving her a private thrill. “Sorry, I was looking for Remy Lomand.”

“He’s always in the middle room.” The woman was a bleach-blonde stunner with enviable hips for a white girl. Her outfit was made of sequins and little else. “Don’t let him fool you. For seeming so damn laid back, he’s persnickety. That room might as well come with a plaque engraved with ‘Here dances Remy Lomand, so get the fuck out.’ I’m Lizzie Maynes, by the way. This is my husband, Dima Turgenev.”

“Naya Ortiz,” she said, shaking hands with the pair.

Lizzie grinned. “Ah, the new girl. Declan mentioned you choreograph too?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does Remy know that? He usually doesn’t work with choreography partners.” Dima shook his head. “He barely has the patience to add some flair to our routines. What is it—to think outside the box?”

Lizzie laughed. “If we don’t
explode
the box, we risk a Cajun meltdown.”

Dima’s sly smile said he didn’t really give a damn.

Naya enjoyed his Russian accent—sharp in places, almost awkward. It suited his stiff posture and obvious shyness. Her mind, however, kept conjuring sloppy consonants and long, teasing vowels. Remy’s voice was another means of sinking her into a quick trance. She could try to hold on and fight it, but why?

Daniel.

Her heart accelerated its eager rhythm. “Then wish me luck. And I’ll let you get back to…
Mierda
, you’re good.”

They bowed their thanks at near identical angles. Maynes and Turgenev. Who in the dance community hadn’t heard of them? Together longer than most fresh-faced Broadway chorus wannabes had been alive, they matched each other in a way that wasn’t forced or false. They were enviably confident within their shared sphere.

Her retreat was probably too hasty, but she needed to get away from the pair. She and Daniel enjoyed that same confidence. Right? A flutter of guilt whispered otherwise.

Frowning, she stopped in the hallway. Daniel knew her private desires. He’d done everything to facilitate them. Pampered girl that she was, she’d never probed as to why. He was a good guy. He wanted her happy. They got off hardcore whenever he needed a damn fine fuck.

Did he harbor deeper desires too? Being curious about men wasn’t the same as how he’d responded to Remy’s demands.

Come take my shirt off.

And the big mind buster for the night:
Only because you told me to.

She’d heard the same trancelike notes in her own voice when submitting. The urge to please. The hope she
had
pleased.

But…
Daniel
? Fifteen years ago, he’d turned Louis Baker’s crazy, unsalable cloud-computing idea into an industry forerunner. They’d been ahead of the curve for more than a decade because Daniel was brilliant, innovative, charming, and above all, in control. There wasn’t a person or pencil or blade of grass in his vast empire that he didn’t know as well as his own name.

Naya’s skin broke out in a wave of chills. After almost four years as lovers, she didn’t know what he truly wanted.

She’d noticed the early hints of her desires in high school. At first it had been the adrenaline rush of dancing. She would hit her second wind, then a third, always flying higher, until she looked around—dizzy on endorphins—and found herself alone in the studio. Everyone else had tired and gone home. Afterward, she’d giggle her way home on the subway, then take a warm shower and cry.

Still restless. Still aching for something she couldn’t name.

Only meeting Patrick had solved the mystery. He’d been her lover while working a small off-Broadway show. In him she’d found commonality. They worked to the point of heady, bright-eyed exhaustion. Their first fuck had been on the floor behind the stage curtain after a late-night rehearsal. The theater might have been empty. Naya hadn’t cared. He’d forced her onto her hands and knees, slapping her ass with every plunge. She’d begged for more. He’d complied with rough commands and stinging slaps.

Soon smacking hadn’t been enough. He’d graduated her to paddles, clamps, and even vicious cane strokes that left her sobbing. Finally she’d found the key to the explosive release she’d unconsciously sought for years. Patrick had used her craving for pain to introduce her to submission. If she wanted to cry, or if she wanted to come, she did what she was told.

Such a good girl.

Perfect.

Beg for it.

Now your reward.

She’d learned that the true reward wasn’t explosions or orgasms. It was the peace that followed. She existed with such calm in the days after a session. Everything aligned. Her worries disappeared as simply as graphite erased from paper.

Despite the most sizzling sex of Naya’s life, she and Patrick hadn’t lasted long. The show had ended a few months later, and so had their association. He’d made that decision, just when Naya wanted to take their relationship beyond the physical.

Daniel was so good to her. Safer. He’d tried to give her what she needed, but part of her had resisted. Being dumped by one’s master was worse than a breakup. It was a loss of direction, a loss of
self
. Patrick had molded her into his submissive until he didn’t want her anymore.

Despite Daniel’s best efforts, she’d resisted giving in to him on that primal level. She didn’t want to risk security and love for the crazy, uncontrollable thrill of becoming his submissive—even if they’d been capable.

Playing with Remy had been an adventure, and submitting to him had been scarily easy. But he wasn’t the one to hold her safe and make her happy for the rest of her life. Daniel cherished her. He believed in her. That meant more to her than the whole rest of the world.

Yet, how could she marry him if she took for granted that he was content? That his needs were being fulfilled as well as he worked to satisfy hers? What if…?

Damn.

She entered Remy’s rehearsal room with that weight in her heart, only to have her chest burned open upon seeing him again.

Only seven hours had passed. Could’ve been a year. More than the physical sensations, she’d adored his firm command. He’d kept his word—every nasty threat and every bone-melting promise. To trust in such a Dominant…

She was in real trouble.

He trained his deep gaze on her. A nasty, dazzling smile followed his slow perusal. Head to toe. Once more.

“You wear too much clothes during rehearsal,” he said. “Noticed that yesterday.”

“Habit. I want to be noticed for me. My dancing. Not how nice my ass looks poking out from tiny shorts.”

He didn’t stalk toward her. He had too much grace for that. “Most choreographers and casting folks like to see bare skin. Technique can be masked by layers.”

Naya looked down at her standard practice outfit. Leggings. Form-fitting T-shirt over a plain sports bra, which chafed like hell that morning. “You see plenty and you know it.”

“After we dance,
chère
.” His grin was quick and dirty and, oh, she wasn’t going to be able to hold this together. “I’ll see plenty after we dance.”

She ditched her gear in a corner and propped her hands on her hips. “That’s what you think.”

Turns out she could hold it together just fine. The piece they rehearsed was to headline at Devant in two weeks. They had other, more simple pieces to perform in the meantime—merely warm-ups to acclimate to one another and the stage—but this was the exciting one. This one evolved every time they practiced. It was slow, sexy teasing, but above all, sultry, like dancing in honey. Or being made of honey. The music surrounded them as Remy’s arms surrounded her. They oozed through smooth jazz steps that shouted passion and hinted at obsession. His chest pressed against her back, as if he’d designed the choreography with her bruises in mind. After a quick turn and the snap of his arm, he pulled her face to face. One hand twisted into her hair. The other palmed her ass.

He touched her like a lover, although she doubted it was because they’d become lovers. He’d touched her that way during auditions. He would’ve touched any woman that way.

Nothing to be trusted about a man who could turn chemistry on and off that efficiently.

“
Non,
” he said, guiding her in another slow grind. “Deeper. Like fucking on the dance floor.”

“Wait, wait.” Naya used a brief walk to the sound system to collect thoughts that had nothing to do with sex. “Why did you give me so much freedom during the audition, but today everything’s by rote? I’m damn good and you know it. You’re talking to me like a first-year dance student, down to telling me how to give the illusion of sexuality on stage.” She pinned him with a hard stare, given weight by her doubts and his condescension. “Because it is an illusion, Remy.
Here
it is.”

“Auditions are to gauge adaptation.”

He crossed his arms. Triceps flexed and pecs bunched. His stark black tattoo was a roughly four-inch hollow circle that ringed the cap of his left shoulder. Another plain tank top displayed his masculinity to perfection. He was just as predictable as she was in that regard. Pro dancers kept to routines, like superstitious athletes. One look, one hair style, one type of outfit—maybe that’s why they’d been given a gig. Daniel never said it was silly, although he maintained that talent paired with hard work trumped anything.

“Then why not let that adaptation become part of the creative process?” She grabbed a bottle of water from her duffel and swallowed three times. Twice because of exertion. Once to keep her throat from drying under his scrutiny. “Declan hired me as more than a dancer. I’m a choreographer too. Get used to it and get your head out of your ass. You’re
missing something
.”

Rather than get angry or even scowl, he looked away. His jaw worked over what was obvious emotion. The bar that pierced one eyebrow caught the bright rehearsal room lights, which were intensified by three banks of mirrors. Again, the sameness. Ragged jeans. Barely laced hip-hop shoes styled to resemble combat boots. The macho nonchalance of his half-assed mohawk. His rich brown hair was tousled on top and trimmed close along his temples and down to his nape. Naya wanted to sink her fingers into the thick silk at his crown—then wait for what he told her to do next.

“Missing something.” His voice was dead flat. “Go ahead then. Give it to me. What am I missing? I’d rather hear shit like that straight up.”

Naya hid a frown. Suddenly it didn’t sound like Remy was talking about dancing. She let it slide. One thing at a time. Rehearsal wasn’t the time or place for a heart-to-heart.