Three-Part Harmony (21 page)

She could only nod. It was true. Every word of it.

“But the journey to get to that freedom,” Mary went on, “it’s not an easy one. No
regular
person would willingly pick up a flogger and use it on you, even if you begged them for it. It takes extraordinary men to understand women like us…to see the spaces in our minds that crave this
,
then find the courage in themselves to take us there, but then the control in their minds to stop when it’s time too. None of that is easy. It takes a lot of
cajones
to be that
guy.”

Dasha lowered her hand. “You’re right.” She didn’t hide the amazement from her tone. How the hell any of that made logical sense, she had no idea. But it did. Crazy, wonderful sense.

Her friend shrugged. “Why shouldn’t you be in love with your Dom, hon?” With that, an entrancing sparkle entered her gaze. “I’m completely in love with mine.”

Like they were in a play and those words were a cue, the door opened, and Raife strode in. Dasha imagined the guy would look different to her now, but his ensemble drove the change home: a black formfitting shirt overlaid with a pewter vest, black cargo pants with carabiner hooks at the belt line, boots made for commanding a battle ship. His black hair, normally a just-out-of-bed mess, was slicked back from his sharp Italian features.

“Well, look at this.” He intoned it in the voice Dasha normally heard when the guy got ready to persecute the dancers with a tricky new step. “Two lovely pets in a row. Very nice.”

Dasha felt her cheeks flame, but Mary’s face was a sudden forest fire, ablaze with need and longing. “Master,” she said, rising in an eager swoop. “Your timing couldn’t be more perfect.”

“Really?” Raife paced over, eyes dancing but black brows arching. “I’m not inclined to agree, love.” He tugged at the front of her plain gray shirt. “Is this the state you intended to greet me in?”

Fresh heat lit up her friend’s eyes. Without hesitation, Mary threw off the shirt. That revealed a shiny latex corset in a rich, dark blue, with black laces cinched to push her breasts up into generous, matched swells. Along the side of one breast, Dasha noticed a swirled tattoo: the letter R. Before she could see if Raife’s last initial got honored on the other side, Mary shucked her sweatpants as fast as she’d lost the top. Beneath them was a barely there pair of black latex shorts layered over Caribbean-blue fishnet stockings. Both showed off the woman’s toned dancer form to naughty perfection. Since the dancers often wore heels to rehearsals, the black Mary Janes on her friend’s feet had clued nobody, including Dasha, to what the sweats really hid.

“Better?” Mary asked, lifting a hopeful smile. But Raife wiped it off her face by jerking her head back with one hand, then smothering her lips with his own. Dasha felt she should look away but instead couldn’t help gawking at her friends. They barely came up for air before sealing mouths again, clearly not caring if she watched, left the room, or started swinging from the ceiling fan.

When they finally pulled apart, Raife used his hold to push Mary right to her knees. As she dropped, her shining eyes never left his face. “Better,” he crooned and gently stroked her hair. He broke contact with her for just a second to let a wicked grin fly free. “Hey, Dasha.”

“Uh…hey.” Bewilderment still reigned on how to relate to this new, take-no-prisoners version of her buddy. Raife let her deal with that dilemma in private, his desire for his woman now flashing in his eyes and playing across his jaw. He plunged his tongue into her again. This time, he also scooped a hand inside her corset, pinching the treasure inside. Mary moaned, running a hand up his arm, but her action made him stiffen. He twisted, caught her wrist, and angled it sharply back.

“Forgetting manners already, pet?” He added a harsh tongue click. “Oh, it has been too long, hasn’t it?”

Mary visibly trembled at that. Dasha couldn’t figure out if she’d gotten terrified, aroused, or a combination of both. “Yes, Master.” Her rasp didn’t clarify it either. “It certainly has.”

“Maybe it’s good that I called in some reinforcement.”

New emotions lit up her friend’s face. Anticipation. Lots of it. “You did?”

The next moment, Mary let out a shout that bordered on a squeal as a stranger strolled into the room. Dasha had to admit, the guy bumped the BPM on her pulse too. Though dressed in similar attire to Raife, his tanned face, gold hair, and leonine grace made him more suited for a gladiator thong. When his gaze found Mary, he gave her a smile of both lover and predator.

“Well, well, well.” The man’s voice sounded like velvet over sandpaper. “How’s my favorite little play toy?”

“Naughty.” Raife supplied it as Mary jostled at his feet, clearly yearning to jump up and attack the guy. “And ready, Sir Philip. Look at the way she can’t control herself. Just had to pull her off me for getting handsy during a reward kiss.”

The golden god issued some tsks
of his own. The sounds carried the same sand-and-silk quality of his voice. Dasha began to regret using his name and anything ancient in the same sentence—especially when he threw an openly sadistic stare at Mary.

“Is that so?” Philip crossed the room until he towered over her. “Does someone need a refresher about pawing their Master correctly?”

Dasha watched Mary’s reaction. Mesmerizing. The little blonde stopped squirming, though her breaths now came fast and furious, shoving her breasts tight against their constraints. Her lips fell into an obedient line; her stare dropped to the tips of Philip’s boots. “Yes, Sir Philip,” she answered. “Your toy would appreciate the instruction…very much.”

“Perhaps the toy shouldn’t be neglecting her manners again.”

Mary frowned. “Sir?”

“Maybe there’s a ghost in the room, or do you have a friend here?”

Dasha skittered back as the Dom nodded toward her. She’d been absorbed with the interaction of the three before her, almost joyful that their dynamic unfolded in such a natural way. Observing Mary’s adoration for her men had eased Dasha’s impression about being a deviant herself; now she felt a lot more like her friend, a woman simply with a lot of love in her soul to give. She didn’t want to shatter that special bubble for Mary, Raife, and Philip.

Mary, however, already smiled her direction. “Permission to rise, Sir?” she asked Philip.

“Well done,” he praised. “Granted.”

Mary approached and took her hand. “May I introduce my dear friend, Dasha?” To Philip, she added, “She’s called ‘D’ by her Sir.”

Dasha had the strange urge to curtsy or bow or something, taken in by the romantic formality between the two. Thankfully, Philip took charge, lifting her hand to his lips with courtly style. “A pleasure, my dear. You do your Sir proud.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled. “Um…you know David, then?”

“No. Just met him today. But he’s a good man. He’s upstairs with Agent Moridian.” He gave her a deliberate nod. “Who’s also a good man.”

Her to-the-hair-roots blush didn’t deter him.

“They’re both concerned about you, little one. Doms need a little TLC too, you know. And the assurance you haven’t gone catatonic.”

As Dasha managed a nod, Raife came forward. “Okay, the therapy couch is closed. If you don’t get some knots on your toy’s wrists and some lashes on her ass, we’ll both have hell to pay.”

“He’s right,” chirped Mary, bouncing on her toes. “I’m waiting, damn it! I’m waaaaiting!”

Philip transformed back into a provoked lion. He stalked to Mary and, without skipping a beat, dropped to one knee and then flung her over it, punishing her backside with smacks loud as gunfire. He didn’t let up until she squirmed and screamed.

“Okay, little one, let’s get this clear,” he finally declared. “You’ll wait as long as I desire you to wait. Respond properly, or I’ll consider a few dozen more.”

“Y-yes, Sir,” Mary replied, completely droopy-eyed and limp-limbed, as he stood her back up.

“Now follow your Master to the dungeon. I want to see correct posture and distance as well, or I’ll stop you and go get the collar and leash. I’ll be right behind you to make sure you don’t fuck up.”

Dasha took that as her cue to leave too. Philip’s statement had sunk in. It was time to get the inevitable over with; hiding out with her guitar wasn’t helping matters at all. The music to be faced here was with David and Kress, even if it was in the key of awkward, with a resounding backbeat of uncomfortable.

Kress clicked the Pause button on the security camera footage filling his computer screen. His team in Miami had done a great job of pinpointing a half-dozen pertinent clips from the Viceroy Miami, but his eyes felt like dust balls from watching them a hundred times. He rubbed his lids and grunted in exhaustion.

“Not riveting shit, I take it.” The support came from Pennington, who sat on a couch nearby. The guy was buried in piles of surveillance photos from Miami International, background dossiers on the Buenos Aires outfit to which they’d tracked the cell phone, and a complete workup on Ambrose Smith, who remained a “person of interest” in case they’d missed any connections to their crackpot from Miami.

“No,” he stated. “But you’re not getting to read the top of the
Times
bestseller list there either.” He gave a gruff nod. “I appreciate the help, man.”

David pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anything to catch this bastard faster.”

“It’s still above and beyond. Especially after your dancers invited you to go watch their playdate in the basement.”

Pennington dropped his hand and reopened his eyes. They were dark as thunder. “Right. And you think that’d be fun for me right now?”

“Got it,” he returned. And he did. More clearly than he wanted to admit. He understood every note of frustration in the guy’s voice, betraying exactly what—more correctly, who
—
lay front and center in their minds right now. “Sorry.”

“Forget it. I just wanna know if she’s—you know—”

“Going to speak to either of us again?” Kress supplied. “Going to speak to
anyone
again? Not freaking out from the most intense sexual experience she’s likely ever been through?”

“Thanks for the reminder, Oprah.” His friend jolted to his feet, looking ready to punch the wall. “Goddamn it. I watch after my subs, you know? Aftercare is fucking key for me.”

“I’m on the same page, man. You know that.”

“Yeah, I do.” He pressed his fist into the side of a bookcase and let out a dark laugh. “I’ve had subs send
me
flowers for my aftercare excellence. Waiting for the chance to do it… Well, it’s just new.”

“Maybe in this case, the waiting is the aftercare.” Kress closed the video window and leaned back in his chair. “Dasha’s not exactly in a usual profession to begin with. On top of this, her world has been upended in less than a week. I’ve seen fewer plot twists on most cop shows. Give her some space to process it, man. She’s not a stupid woman.”

“I know that.” Pennington’s tone went grittier. “But I also know she has a tendency to bottle up. To hide out. To avoid dealing with herself behind the facade of stressing about everyone else.”

Kress took that statement and connected the dots in his own head. “Everyone else,” he echoed. “Like, what I witnessed with her on the call from dear Daddy last night.”

David arched both brows. “The lightbulb starts to come on.”

“But this case, the ‘everyone else’ is—”

“Us.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit.”

Kress shook his head. “She’s a forest with a few shadows, isn’t she?”

Before Pennington could respond, a soft rustle came from the doorway. “She’s also a forest who’s way late for breakfast,” came a soft soprano voice that robbed him of a few heartbeats. “And…she’s sorry.”

How the woman could get any more gorgeous than she’d been last night, Kress couldn’t understand, but here she was, irresistible even in her tied-up hair, Duran Duran T-shirt, black capris, and nothing on her feet except lavender polish. He remembered the color all too well—from every moment she’d tried to squirm away from his flogging.

Concentrate on something else.

He cleared his throat and forced an affable smile. “Hey, stranger.”

Fuck.
Hey, stranger? What, now you’re Woody Allen with the dork-dick lines?
But what
was
he supposed to call her now? Were they back to Miss Moore and Agent Moridian? He sure didn’t expect her to keep up the Sergeant act, though his cock twitched just at the thought. And taking that one step further, imagining the joy of calling her his good girl once more…

Best to cut that one off at the head right now, figuratively speaking.

Hell.
This was new, land-mine-filled ground for him. Sure, he’d had the pleasure of getting to share some beautiful submissives before, just never any he had to get back to work with the next morning. Even worse, the definition of that work: tracking down the lunatic who wanted to kill them. And as long as they were on the subject of fuck-my-mind-please, now he had to pretend last night hadn’t blown the doors off every other D/s experience he’d ever had—meaning a vanilla relationship comparison was pointless too. Especially when he had to give a few thousand brain cells on acting as if Dasha, with her trusting eyes and sweet spirit and open eagerness to please, hadn’t likely ruined him for any woman who knelt for him again.

More importantly, he had to quash the hope of Pennington ever letting Dasha do it again.

“Hey, stranger,” she said in return, though her gaze already raced to her man. “David.” It almost sounded like a question, until David opened his arms for her. Kress clenched his jaw behind his smile, dealing with the mental dagger of her sloppy little “Sir!” as she raced past him, straight into Pennington’s embrace.

“Hi, sweetheart.” He murmured it into her hair as she burrowed against him. “How are you?”

“Good. Really good…now.”

David tugged her ponytail free. Kress grabbed a chair, surely refinishing it with his grip as D’s long, sunshine-colored curls spilled into David’s fingers.

“You don’t sound so sure about that.”