ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories) (75 page)

What is inside almost offends his sensibilities, but then he pulls himself up short.  There are men in skintight latex suits being led on leashes held by women whose dark makeup gives them a slightly vampiric edge.  Gorgeous women of all shapes and sizes, wearing collars or not, are being attended to by men.  There are indeed paddles up for sale near the back exit of the club, and the line to obtain these toys moves fast, although it is easily ten-deep.  The whole place reminds Hank heavily of a dungeon, the kind where he and George ended up on one of their missions; they ended up having to extricate the women there and lead them to shaking, relieved safety.  Unlike that mission, however, the women here look as if they feel completely at ease.  There is no familiar bar-buzz, seeing as the place sells non-alcoholic drinks, only, and there is a surreal feel to the space; this is where fantasy goes to live, and there is a group of people on a centralized platform suspending what looks like a bed onto a complicated pulley system.  A closer look reveals that what he thought to be the bed is actually a very large box filled with straw; in the center of it lays a nubile young woman, her ankles and wrists bound together, a black satin gag tied around her mouth.

His first instinct is to run to her, untie her, and punch everyone around her, but he notices that her eyes are burning with excitement and not fear; he would know fear anywhere, and this most certainly is not that.  As men’s hands reach out and stroke her, she arches her back and leans into the caresses; Hank sees one of the men draw out a riding crop and slide it gently over the rounded expanse of her bottom.  He lifts his arm, but before he can bring it down, Hank turns away.  He is the interloper here; he has seen many things over the course of his lifetime, and he knows better than to interfere, especially when the rules of the club are so blatantly clear.  There must be over a hundred people in this club; if none of them are running away screaming, then why should he panic over some sexual deviance?  As it is, he avoids making eye contact as he uses his peripheral vision to scan for Iliana.

He stops stock-still.

There, on the dance floor that consists of a reflective surface and many blinking lights, a slim-hipped young woman sways.

He is riveted to her, the fall and rise of the top of her skirt riding low, the way the natural grace of her arms waves in time to the music.  It is as if he has been transported back in time, when kings and noteworthy men would call upon the beautiful women in their royal households to dance for them, to serve them.  She cannot see him, her eyes are downcast, but he watches her, trying his best to ignore the feeling of dirty rising up within him.  He survived Hell Week, for Pete’s sake, that fourth week of SEAL training where candidates sleep for about four hours a night and run more than two hundred miles the next day.  He should be able to stop from staring at a woman.

The dance is over much too fast for his taste, as loathe as he is to admit it.  Hank watches with regret as Iliana goes back to her seat, next to a man who looks as brutish as any I have ever seen.  Is this actually her type?  He looks as though he can choke a horse, and the idea of the man doing anything to her wiry little frame puts Hank ill at ease.  He does not notice as he begins to gradually draw closer and closer to the couple.  The man leans over and whispers something in Iliana’s ear, to which she laughs, the liquid in her martini glass swishing softly.  Hank draws closer and closer, not thinking of what he is going to say and do—how will he even justify being here?—and then he sees the man put his hand on Iliana’s thigh.

Hank feels himself darken, his focus narrowing on that possessive hand claiming the ivory-skinned thigh.  He does not fully know what goes on in a place like this, but there is something so off-putting about what he is seeing that without even thinking about it, he comes over and clasps a firm hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Unhand her, you pig.”

The man looks up at him, confused.  “Sorry, friend, do I know you?”

“You’ll know what my fist tastes like if you don’t get your fucking hands off of her.”

Dark eyebrows furrow.  The man looks back at Iliana, who appears to be completely complacent at the sudden appearance of her ex-SEAL buddy in a BDSM club.  The Dom does not know her history, however, and has some questions.  “Are you with this man?”

She glances up at Hank, amused.  “No.”

“Do you know him?”

“Yes,” she replies, sipping the martini he has had refilled in her absence; he is demonstrating good care, which is important to her.

“Do you want me to leave?”

She shakes her head no.

The Dom looks up at Hank.  “It appears the lady wishes for me to stay.”

Hank’s mood is not benefitting from this conversation.  “I don’t know what you’ve threatened her with, but if you don’t get your hands off of her, I’m going to hit you.  I have training.  I wouldn’t get me angrier than I am.”

“Look, clearly you’re new here.  Perhaps you don’t know the rules—“

The man does not have time to finish before Hank takes a swing at him.

In seconds, the club’s security has rushed to the scene.  It has taken three men, each one the size of a truck, to pin Hank down, but they have managed to subdue him, however temporarily.  While he is on the ground, Iliana approaches him and kneels, making sure he can hear her every word.

“Hank,” she breathes, soft but firm at the same time, “You don’t know what you’re doing here.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He looks up at her, catches the cobalt-blue eyes of supreme confidence and mild embarrassment.  It takes him a minute to realize that it is on his part.  By the time security drags him out of the club and tosses him out onto the curb, the hot rage within him has passed.  In its place lays only an overwhelming curiosity that is far stronger than it was before.  So she recognized him, then, just as easily as he had recognized her.  He supposes the scars he acquired over the years of service have done less to mar his appearance than he had first imagined.  He rubs his jaw, feeling where it made heavy contact with the floor just a few minutes before and thinks about the way Iliana looked on his way out of the club, her small, leather-clad frame at the heart of the hustle and bustle of the screwed-up fantasy of the dungeon around her.

Tomorrow it is, then.

*                       *                       *

“Whoa, looks like they sucker-punched you a good one!” George crows, almost knocking over his tall glass of ice-cold lemonade as he leans over to rub the sore spot on Hank’s jaw.  “Who was it this time?”

Hank winces as George’s hand catches on a particularly tender spot.  “Security at a club.”

George frowns and sets his glass down on the porch table; Hank watches as fat beads of condensation slide down the length of it and plop heavily onto the wood, staining it forever.  “I thought you don’t do clubs anymore,” he says to him, scratching at his stubble.

“I don’t.  I heard Iliana’s back in town, so I decided to see what she was up to.”

“So the girl goes clubbing.  What’s it to you?”

“Wasn’t a regular club.”

George’s light green eyes seem to perk up with interest.  “Old girl’s a rug-muncher, isn’t she?”

“Shut your prejudicial trap, asshole.  She’s not a lesbian.”  Is she?  Based on what he saw last night, it’d be difficult to rule anything out with Iliana; then again, she’s always been a bit of a mystery.

George raises his hands in mock self-defense.  “Truce, truce, man.  You know I’m just kiddin’ around.  I wasn’t raised with any of these new-fangled terms the youngsters use.  I’m accepting of whatever wherever.”

This much, at least, is true.  For all his blustery talk, George is one of the least judgmental people Hank has ever known.  Early on in their training, there was a scandal with one of the recruits who turned out to be gay; now it was no longer as much of a problem, but just like in the army, there was a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy that left the recruit completely in emotional and, sadly, physical shambles when the other trainees found out.  It was George who had stood up for him, telling the others to back away and standing in front of the man’s shivering body, held fetus-like until the room was clear.  Hank thinks on this for a moment, wondering whether or not to divulge the truth of the night before to him.

“It was a BDSM club.”

George blinks once, twice.  “Like some of that kinky shit?”

Hank nods.  “Went home, did some research on it.  It’s all about power plays and pain, some dominance and submission bullshit.  Scared the hell out of me.”

“That because you’re afraid a little girl can control you?  Sorry, buddy, but from your past relationships, I’d say you were used to being led around by the balls.”

Hank laughs aloud.  George has a point there.  When he’s in a relationship with someone, he tries to do everything for them—cooking, cleaning, watching out for emotional needs.  The difficulty comes when women find out that underneath that bad boy Navy SEAL exterior of toughness, he’s actually a sweet guy inside.  Maybe he should refrain from laughing at Iliana’s choices.  At least she’s being honest about what it is she wants out of a relationship; Hank wonders what it would be like to stop hiding from what he really feels inside and just be with somebody who accepts that the uniform he wears is just that—a shell, a casing for the real man within.

“Greetings, gentlefolk,” comes a soft female voice laced with sarcasm.  “How have you been?”

Iliana is a sight to behold. Gone is the dark makeup, the leather-clad long legs.  She is long beige pants and a blue button down tucked in at the waist, the kind of clothing that looks good only on women of a certain body build.  George lets loose a cry of joy, heaves himself off the porch swing, and grasps her in a huge bear hug.

“Lady love!  How have you been all these years?”

Iliana laughs aloud at his exuberance and winks at George from her smashed position in the huge SEAL’s arms.  “I’m fine, George, just fine.  Working over at the pet store now, taking some weekend pre-requisites at Marymount for vet school.”

“That’s terrific!”  The conversation goes on for many minutes without Hank joining in; George’s enthusiasm is contagious, but he still feels apprehensive about speaking to Iliana.  He never fully knew her during their SEAL days and after last night, he’s quite certain he does not know her now.  Gone is the loner girl from boot camp; in her place is a shining, happy woman whose sense of self shines through her every action.

“Ever going to look at me again, Hank?” she asks, breaking through his reverie.

Hank flushes.  “I…it’s not every day I get thrown out of a public place, Iliana.”

“I know,” she says, looking at him with kindness.  “You thought you were protecting me.  But I don’t need protection, Hank.”

“He was touching you.”

Now it’s George’s turn to look concerned.  “Someone was touching you?”

“Yeah, I turn around and one of those freaky jerks is putting his hand on her leg like she belongs to him or something.”

Iliana’s face turns cold.  “Watch what you say about those jerks, Hank.  I’m one of them.”

“Yeah, about that.  How can you DO all of that weird stuff?” Hanks asks.

“Whoa, whoa,” George cuts in, feeling the tension rise up in the air between them.  “This isn’t some stranger you’re talking to, Hank.  Remember what you said about reserving judgment?  Come on now, she’s a former SEAL, man.  If she’s doing this, she has her reasons.”

Iliana considers the strong-jawed man, cocking her head to one side.  “Thank you, George,” she says, but the look on her face is thoughtful.

“Why’d you leave the SEALs, anyway?” he asks, saying out loud what he and Hank had been truly wondering about all these long years.

She ducks her head, letting the long curtain of her hair conceal her face momentarily.  The silence between the trio is long and heavy; as the moments tick by, Iliana considers the trust bond between them.  What finally decides her is Hank’s action from the night before.  Certainly, he rushed to her side because of some misguided jealousy, but there was also that bred sense of protecting your own kind; even after so many years, even after she dropped out, she knows that Hank considers her one of his own.  You always do.  Navy SEALs swim together, run together, dive together, and work together.  They live and they die together.

“Growing up,” she begins, “my daddy was mean.  A lot of people never knew because on the surface, he was a terrific family man.  Mama always looked so well-cared for.  He would open bottles for her, trim the hedges, drive me to school. In reality, it felt like we couldn’t even leave the house without him having to know everything.  When we would come back, he would have to know every single detail of where we had been and who we had talked to; he would check in with the people with mentioned, as if we had committed a crime and he was looking to see if our alibis ever panned out.   I can’t even say that he had booze to blame it all on.  He was just mean.”

George and Hank are quiet.  They have to be, since they are re-evaluating the adolescence they spent growing up next to the monster.  It’s hard to believe, but maybe that’s the whole point.  After all, there’s no doubt that men like that exist in this world, and that they’re very hard to detect, especially if they’re working hard to hide it.  But Iliana is talking again.

“So one day, my old man did all of this up until it was time for me to leave for college.  He didn’t want me to go; after all, it’s harder to control your daughter when she’s miles and miles away.  So I told him I was going whether he liked it or not, and that’s when he punched me square in the mouth and kicked me out to the curb.  I guess he figured I’d come back with my tail between my legs because I had nowhere else to go.  That night I ran, and when I was too tired to run, I slept.”