Cherise Sinclair - This is who I am

As he moved to where Cullen was mixing a drink, he heard the distinctive crack of a bullwhip. What the hell? “Who’s using a whip? And how?”

“Anyone who wants.” Cullen grinned. “Z roped off a couple of areas for single-tails.”

Well, damn, the evening was looking up. Sam pulled his favorite bullwhip from his bag, adjusted the coil, and clipped it to his belt. “Sounds good.”

“Yeah. Z hoped you’d give a demo and lesson for the newer Doms.”

“No problem.” His favorite kind of lessons. “Trainees okay?”

“They’re fine.” Cullen jerked his chin to the left. “Uzuri’s staring at one of the new Doms.”

Sam turned. He’d seen the guy before. Multiethnic, like Uzuri—maybe African-American and Asian. As a farmer, Sam had learned hybridizing made for stronger plants and animals. Made damned fine humans as well.

Uzuri didn’t care about a man’s race though; she just wanted a man who was gentle and dominant. But Sam had noticed the new Dom had a decided preference for darker women.

After taking the man’s order, Uzuri walked back to the bar, hips swaying in a way that no man could mistake.

“Want that one?” Sam asked as she set her tray on the bar top.

Her eyes rounded. “Oh. I—” Her dark skin darkened further. Glancing over her shoulder, she let out a sigh. “He’s even better looking than Denzel Washington. But he could have anyone here, so why would he want me?”

Marcus had walked up in time to hear her words. He frowned. “You’re pretty as peach pie, Uzuri. Sweet. Lively. Smart.”

“Any Dom you’ve been with requests you again, missy,” Sam said.

“Really?” Her face lit up. “They like me?”

Sam’s gaze met Marcus’s. Yeah, they’d be working on her sense of self-worth in the next few scenes. He’d have to pick Doms who could handle that. He turned to study the new guy. Needed to talk to him.

“But, don’t…don’t bother that one. I still—”

Sam gave her a look that shut her up. The little mite had worked her way into his affections. He’d damn well be sure she was safe. “You don’t have anything to say about it. I’ll be talking to him. See if he’s worthy of you.”

Her mouth dropped open. Then she shocked him spitless with a hug before dancing down to where Andrea was setting up drinks.

Sam heard Cullen’s sub whisper, “You hugged Master Sam?”

“My reputation’s going to hell,” Sam grumbled, giving Linda a quick check before turning away.

“You’d best go beat on someone,” Marcus agreed.

At the bar, the spotter watched the older redhead—the ex-slave—serve drinks. Yes, that was a slave he’d like to break. To shove his cock in every orifice. Then his knife. Make her bleed.

Aaron shifted on the bar stool as he hardened, and his head began to buzz. It had been a couple of weeks since he’d had any real fun. At one time, he’d been able to wait months between kills, but then he’d linked up with the Harvest Association. His price for targeting potential slaves had been to fuck the unpurchased ones. To kill the damaged ones.

Fine times.

Didn’t look as if the redhead would be available anytime soon. He’d heard Davies tell another Dom she was being evaluated and wouldn’t be released to play with anyone for a week or so.

Even when she was, Aaron would have to be careful. Sam seemed to have a special interest in the trainee.

In the meantime…perhaps he’d take a trip to Miami and pick up a whore. Indulgently, he watched the ex-slave as she picked up empties from a nearby coffee table, filling her small serving tray. She looked tense.

“Hey, Aaron, got a joke for you.”

He turned his attention to the Doms standing nearby. He’d played poker with two of them; a couple he didn’t know. “Yeah?”

The man grinned and started, “In a mental institute, there’s a sadist, a masochist, a murderer, a necrophile, a zoophile, and a pyromaniac. They’re sitting on a bench, bored out of their gourds, looking for something to do.

“‘How about having sex with a cat?’ asks the zoophile.

“‘Let’s have sex with the cat and then torture it,’ says the sadist.

“The murderer perks right up. ‘Yeah. Let’s have sex with the cat, torture it, and then kill it.’

“‘No, no, let’s have sex with the cat, torture it, kill it, and then have sex with it again,’ suggests the necrophile.

“The pyromaniac bounces up and down. ‘Let’s have sex with the cat, torture it, kill it, have sex with it again, and then burn it.’

“They sit in silence. After a minute, the masochist speaks. ‘Meow.’”

Along with the other Doms, Aaron roared with laughter, and the redhead stiffened as if someone had pinched her. As if she’d heard something she recognized.

Fuck. Fuck! Aaron spun back to his drink. Before she could turn, he’d set his elbow on the bar and was intently watching Cullen’s big-titted submissive. Anyone looking would see he wasn’t part of the group of Doms. A glance showed her attention had focused on the men who were still laughing.

His gut turned to lead. Maybe she hadn’t seen him on the slave boat, but she’d recognized his voice. His mouth thinned. The other night in the dungeon, had she heard him? Was that why Davies’s scene had gone sour? No wonder she was tense tonight.

Was she just afraid, worried she’d heard someone that sounded like a slaver, or was she actually trying to ID him? Fat chance. Too many men sounded alike.

He relaxed slightly. No, if she had been certain, Z would have lined up the entire membership for her. He wouldn’t fuck around.

So Aaron had time. He could just go home. Not return until she was gone.

But if the slut told Z now and pointed to the Doms who’d been laughing, one would remember Aaron had been part of the group. A similarity of voice might not be admissible in court, but an investigation would turn something up.

And a search of his apartment would recover the hanks of hair in his bedside table. Souvenirs to liven up his memories as he jacked off. He’d watched enough CSI to know that even disposal and a thorough cleaning might not work.

He took a slow sip of his drink as his options decreased.

He’d just have to make sure she never had a chance to hear him speak. No slut was going to disrupt his life. And he’d have to do it tonight.

Tilting his head, he listened to the wind wailing around the building. Easy-peasy to sneak up on her in a rainy parking lot.

He’d wanted to play with her. Now he wouldn’t have to wait.

God, it was him! The slaver’s voice—his laugh. Linda’s stomach churned as if she’d chugged a bottle of cheap tequila, and for a second she was afraid she’d vomit. Taking shallow breaths, she forced her body to relax as she looked around. A couple of Doms sat at the bar, sipping their drinks. Not talking with anyone. Not them. Just behind them, four Doms were trading stories and laughing. So…one of the four. But which one?

A trickle of sweat ran down her back. What should she do now? She spotted Sam near the back, instructing a Dom on how to throw a single-tail. Master Z was monitoring a wax play scene that looked as if it wasn’t going well.

Cullen was her best bet.

She made her way to the bar, smiling and trying to look carefree, finding a section of the bar that held no one close. She stood, heart hammering, waiting for Cullen.

“You all right, pet?” His appraising gaze ran over her. He’d obviously picked up her distress, although she could swear she looked normal.

“Just a little stressed,” she said discreetly. “There are so many people to keep track of.” She let her gaze rest on the huddle of Doms.