Authors: Christina Crooks

Rough Play (10 page)

BOOK: Rough Play

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“You saw me and Amethyst together?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You hiring me? I don’t give details out for free.”

“You’re a con.” He stared at her with disgust.

“I’m legit! I said you wouldn’t believe me.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

“Well, then you won’t believe I saw Amethyst threading your ball sack with red and green pins, and you howling for more,” she snapped. “Guess you’ll have a Merry Christmas.”

His grip tightened until she winced. “I’m not a bottom. I’m not a damn bottom. Why does Amethyst and everyone else in the world assume I’m a bottom?” He shook her, his eyes shooting sparks of frustration.

Ratty squeaked and released her when a large hand clamped down on his own shoulder. He looked at it and froze.

They both stared. That had to be one of the largest men she’d ever seen. For a moment Charlotte thought of the crimpers, wondering if a huge, muscular ghost of one were about to abduct her and Ratty both.

“Ratty, my man. Amethyst wants you.” The large black man eclipsed a number of furniture pieces with his girth.

The name seemed to galvanize Ratty. “Amethyst, again!” Spittle made Ratty’s lower lip shine. His eyes rolled wildly even as his coat’s sequins caught the light and sparked rainbows. His scalp gleamed with sweat, making the rats seem to swim.

The bouncer shrugged. “I’d do what she says. She’ll own the club pretty soon.”

“Amethyst says what suits her. She can go to hell before I’ll come when she calls.”

Charlotte looked at Ratty. His hyperventilating breaths concerned her. He seemed so disturbed and so frail. She touched his arm. “Ratty . . .”

“Hands off, both of you. People can’t touch me whenever and however they feel like. I’m not everyone’s submissive. Do I have a sign on my back saying ‘tell me what to do’? Push me, poke me, give me orders? Huh? Do I?”

The bouncer made his mistake then.

He tried to propel Ratty by the shoulder. “Enough chitchat. Amethyst wants—ooph!”

Ratty’s left uppercut knocked the man’s head back, and his elbow jabbing into the man’s diaphragm produced a gruesome retch.

Charlotte stared. Ratty’s violence was as effective as it was sudden. The large man fell to his knees, still coughing.

But on the way down he grabbed a handful of Ratty’s coat.

“Hands off! Hands off!” Ratty beat at the hand fisting the glittering material.

Charlotte took a startled step back—right into an open iron maiden. The sharp metal points inside the casket pierced her sweater and pricked her skin.

“Ouch!” Reflexively she flung herself forward, away from it. She tackled Ratty.

Who exploded in a frenzy of defensive kicks and punches. “Hands off!”

“It’s me—ouch!” she cried out for the second time in less than a minute. Ratty had just punched her. It wasn’t a hard punch, but it knocked her off balance. She stumbled back. “But I’m just trying to—” Her words cut off as her head connected with an edge of rock.

The blow to her head gave her the briefest sensation of tumbling into an abyss. She shook her head violently, grimly using the pain as an aid to cling to consciousness even as she clung to the rough wall.

A shadow loomed over her. She flinched, suddenly back in her slave collar, being put through her paces by Cory. For two days and nights he’d held her, “trained” her, punished her brutally for the slightest infraction.

This wasn’t that. She had to forcibly remind herself this wasn’t Cory come to hurt her again. Those days and nights were in the past.

People who let past traumas rule them, define them, were sad creatures indeed, she mused woozily. This pain was just pain. Some pains could even be combined with pleasure to enhance ecstasy. She had that talent too.

A diminishment to the spirit, on the other hand, had deeper consequences. No way could she allow more damage in the spirit department.

Nobody had better try.

When one of the two clashing shadows got too close, she tensed.

Not ever again.

She thrust herself toward it and swung wildly. She connected only with air.

She heard a familiar deep voice. “Charlotte? Ratty! Oh, for chrissakes . . . Ratty, all of you, stop it this instant. No? All right then.”

A third shadow merged with the first two. Charlotte heard the sound of a struggle. Blows. Someone shoved her.

Her head connected almost gently with the wall. This time she didn’t even try to remain upright. She slid down, letting the wall’s rough surface scrape her. Its roughness seemed oddly distant.

On the dirt floor, she slumped sideways. She was okay. It had been the smallest of taps to her head.

But fast upon it, the shadows grew dark and all-encompassing.

C
harlotte swam up from unconsciousness. Her head felt cradled in softness and her body stretched out comfortably.

“You’re fine. Please keep still for a few moments, if you don’t mind.”

She barely knew herself, but she knew that voice. Martin’s voice. It centered her with its tone of authority. She felt a light hand on her forehead. Stroking fingertips. She’d do whatever he wanted if he’d continue that delightful touch.

“You bumped the side of your head. Over here.” The stroking fingers moved over her hair, light as a breeze.

She heard herself make a purring noise of contentment.

“You’re lying on an examination table.”

“Examination table?” Her eyes flew open, then squeezed to a pained squint. Light seemed to come from everywhere: white walls, white sheets, and various glinting stainless steel instruments.

She struggled to her elbows.

The hand’s touch moved to her shoulder. A gentle suggestion. “Don’t make a lot of sudden movements just yet.”

She looked at his hand—just as large and capable as when she’d locked it into restraints—then to his face. The compassion and concern in his gaze caused a surge of warmth in her heart.

She tried to ignore her response, craning her neck to look down at her body. The movement made her wince.

“I told you to be still. Stubborn.”

She glanced up at him again, her vision still adjusting to the light. He looked good in the light. Capable. Sort of heroic. She blinked. “People were fighting. You stopped it?” She waited for his nod.

His hand radiated a soothing heat. “I’m going to take a look at where you bumped your head. You’ll be more comfortable lying down for the moment.” His calming voice and warm hand worked an odd kind of magic, and her body started to obey him even before she consciously decided to.

She stopped her body’s movement. “Are you a doctor? I mean, of course you’re not . . . you run Subspace, not a medical practice . . . but do you have medical training of some kind, too?” She sounded foolish and she knew it.

She lay down.

He was amused. “I’ve had some training in how to handle certain situations. CPR, first response stuff. This will be a bit bright, but I need to see your eyes. Look straight ahead.”

She did, straining not to blink as he shined a narrow light into first one, then the other eyeball.

“Pupils react equally,” he murmured. “Now, do you feel any nausea, any weakness on one side of your body?” She shook her head.

His sigh of relief made her smile, which made him smile in return with a cute, completely non-devilish glint in his eyes.

Her mild headache faded under his smile as if charmed away. She shivered, pulled her gaze from his.

She had to remember the danger he represented.

Her first glimpse of his stern look on that dating site had made her body throb. The memory of her fantasies made her tremble. Good thing he wasn’t her type. She wasn’t of his world and she didn’t ever want to be. He was completely wrong for her. Also, he was strange-looking. Maybe not ugly, but way too intense. Not even remotely model material, she told herself a little desperately.

She snuck a peek at him. She had to concede that if commercials and magazines featured nonstandard guys like him, they’d sell more products. Such easy masculinity and commanding charisma paired with that cute smile of his could melt steel.

It certainly melted her. Made her feel . . . willing. And very able.

“Here,” he said, offering his arm. “I’d like to see you walk slowly to that door and back, just to be sure.”

“I’m fine.” But she slid off the table. She shook her head briefly at his offered arm. She walked to the door, placed her hand on the doorknob. She should keep going. For the sake of her hard-won equilibrium, she should keep going.

Her hand tightened on the knob.

Then her hand slid from the knob.

He spoke as if he hadn’t noticed. “We need to ensure you don’t have coordination and balance issues, or any persistent feeling of being confused.”

“I was confused before, so no change there.”

“Yes. About that.”

She turned until her back was pressed against the door.

From behind the door came the beat of music and, more faintly, the sound of voices, reminding her she wasn’t in a real examination room.

She touched the smooth white door with just her fingertips. The room had a long countertop, just like in a real doctor’s office. She recognized some items on it. Bandages and tape, speculums, a Wartenberg pinwheel, tongue depressors, reflex hammers, scopes, needles, thermometers . . . Even the examination table looked real, with a fresh paper gown at its base. Right above the foot stirrups folded discreetly underneath.

She lifted her gaze to his. “And now I’m more confused than ever. What’s this room all about?”

“You can’t guess?” His smile teased. He put on a white coat, raised an eyebrow.

“Doctor-patient role-playing?”

At his nod, she shrugged. “Not my kink. I don’t trust doctors.” She considered. “I don’t trust many authority figures anymore,” she added. “But I don’t imagine you rescued me only to chop me into little bits. Thank you, by the way. For the rescue.” She smiled and crossed the room, all the while keeping one eye on Martin. Even as she spoke she settled herself onto the table, nowhere near the stirrups, her butt making the white tissue crinkle. “It’s very authentic in here. I feel as if you’ll present your thermometer any second.”

He raised a brow. “Interesting choice.”

Charlotte felt her cheeks heat. “By ‘thermometer’ I meant a temperature-taking device.”

“So did I. What kind of doctor do you take me for?” His mock outrage made her smile again. “Thanks for the compliment. This exam room is one of my more inspired additions, according to the feedback.”

“I’m sure.” Her awareness of him crackled like a force field between them. Every tiny movement of his, every nuance of his voice, she tracked with fascination. Maybe he’d elaborate on the delights this room offered people. Maybe he’d show them to her.

He only looked at her. Then, “So, what do you do for a living?”

She had to laugh. “Small talk? Aren’t we past that?”

“I don’t know. Are we?”

“I want to learn about you.”

“It’s good to want things.”

She felt the pleasant tension of sexual frustration. “More fencing.”

“You seem to enjoy it.”

She sighed. Surely he could sense the arousal in her, the magnetism they both resisted. “I used to be a secretary.” She found herself telling him about her short-lived job working for Cory on the men’s magazines. How she’d fallen for the handsome CEO, moved in with him, married him. Then found out they weren’t as compatible as she’d thought. How he’d eventually agreed to give her a divorce. How since that time she’d focused exclusively on other people’s relationships. “So now I’m single and I’m a dating coach with not enough clients,” she concluded.

Which reminded her of Gail.

She moved, restless. “I don’t belong in this club any more than Gail did.”

“How weren’t you and Cory compatible?”

Charlotte’s gaze whipped up to meet his. He’d gone straight to the heart of the matter.

Panic fluttered in her chest. What was she doing? Why was she even still there? “It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does. I think it matters a lot.”

“Pushy.” She slid to the edge of the table, stood up. “Are you this annoying with your other patients? You’ll drive business away.” Her heart seemed to be doing acrobatics.

His voice became brusque, businesslike. Almost like a real doctor’s. “You exhibit no signs of concussion from my visual inspection. I’d like very much to examine you more thoroughly. However, you can go anytime you like,” he repeated.

When she lingered, he added more sternly, “You left me restrained and unsupervised. That’s a pretty serious breach of safety protocol, not to mention bad manners.”

“Guess I was raised wrong.” Charlotte felt her energy surge, riding on a crest of fire. “You could’ve helped, you know.”

“Helped, how?”

“You wouldn’t tell me where my client is.”

“Your client.” He spoke. “That woman was your client. Not a friend, a client. You set her up on the date with me.”

She just looked at him.

“You must not be a very good matchmaker. She wasn’t my type.” His eyes glittered dangerously. “You are.”

She felt his proximity and her body’s reaction to it. “I’m quite good, actually. I know very well I’m your type.”

She felt reckless and lightheaded. She wanted to provoke him into doing something dangerous, to find out if he merited trust. She had the urge to run and see if he chased her. She wanted . . . crazy things.

He didn’t move, only looked at her with that damned knowing gaze. “What are you afraid of, Charlotte?”

“You,” she whispered.

“I won’t hurt you.” He considered. “Much.”

“Stay away from me.”

“Okay.”

She panted where she stood. After a moment, she began to feel foolish. “That’s it? Just ‘okay’?”

“What did you expect?” He gave her a mocking smile. “I like the way you think, but this is the wrong room for a rape fantasy. All we’ve got here is this examination table.” He patted it. Paper crinkled. “Let me examine you.”

She felt her mouth twitch, wanting to smile. She didn’t let it. “What happened with Gail?”

“I don’t know, exactly.”

Charlotte folded her arms. “What happened with her, inexactly?”

“We didn’t connect on a meaningful level. Or on any level. Have I mentioned she’s shrill and annoying? She paired off with someone else.”

“Who?”

“Ah, that’s where it gets murky. See, I truly do feel an obligation to protect patron privacy. I can tell you she didn’t leave right away, and I can tell you I didn’t actually see her leave. She looked fine when she went with him downstairs to the dungeon play spaces.”

“With
who?
”

“Privacy.”

“Screw privacy. I want to know.”

“Why?”

“Gail called me. An arranged safe call.” Charlotte looked. Martin nodded, encouraging. “Then the phone went dead. She hasn’t answered my calls, and she hasn’t called again. I’m not sure what to think. I wonder if I’m overreacting.”

Gail often sounded urgent, brusque, ready to pick a fight. Charlotte allowed the bad behavior because she needed Gail as a client. But wasn’t it possible the disconnected call meant nothing at all?

“So it might be urgent. Or it might not.” His decisive tone and small frown enhanced his appearance as a doctor. “You came here and you’ve looked all over the public places. All three dungeons. The bar, the dance floor. A bathroom. The play spaces.” The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Having met the woman myself, I’m betting she didn’t hit it off with the dom she ditched me for any better than she did with me. In fact, I’m certain of it. He wouldn’t put up with a woman like her for five minutes. She obviously left. She’s not in Subspace now.” He shrugged. “What more can she expect of you?”

“The world,” Charlotte muttered. “On a platter. She’s demanding and rude.” She gazed at Martin. “She left you for another dom? What a foolish woman.” She heard the breathy sound of her own voice. Her tongue was thick in her mouth. Her sex felt heavy and warm. She’d never wanted anyone so much.

“Foolish,” he agreed. “She didn’t belong here.”

“And I do?”

“Is that what you’re worried about? Something happened to you.” He cocked his head, examining her without touching. “Something to do with your ex, probably.” He moved, a slow pacing revealing an animal-like stride. It unnerved and excited her. “Something that makes you afraid of this place, of the kinds of people here. Of me. Yet you don’t leave. I can help you. The table’s over here.”

He grinned, patted it. Paper crinkled again. “I’ll do my best to help what ails you, but I’ll need your cooperation. Your full cooperation.” His gaze took her in from the tip of her head to the tips of her feet. He turned, walked to the door. His heat and scent, the fabric of his white coat brushing lightly against the sleeve of her sweater, made her weak in the knees.

He faced her and stretched, casually placing his hands up against the doorjamb. Blocking the exit? It certainly showcased his broad shoulders as much as the St. Andrew’s Cross. “Please remove your clothes. There’s a paper gown for your convenience.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Fear and desire surged in her, making her almost painfully excited.

“I don’t . . .” She plucked at her clothes. She saw his eyes track the movement. “I’m not sure . . .”

BOOK: Rough Play

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