Sierra Cartwright - Doms of Dark Haven

“My bedroom,” he said. He'd created a monster. “You may crawl, Mira.”

“Of course,” she said, instantly dropping to her hands and knees.

Once again, she won. She took her time crawling toward the door, exaggerating her movements, stopping once to readjust her shorts. The adjustment didn't make the nylon any less provocative.

He had a feeling if he bent her over that exercise ball and spanked her, she'd just behave even more scandalously.

In his room, she pulled off her clothes while he adjusted the water temperature.

The shower wasn't big enough for the two of them, which made it more than a little entertaining when he squeezed in the stall with her.

“May I wash Master's back?”

He grabbed the bar of spicy soap from the dish and handed it to her. He turned away from her and enjoyed the hell out of the way she ran her slick hands over his shoulders, across his shoulder blades, made circles on his back, then traced his spine up and slowly back down.

She soaped his buttocks, then crouched to wash his legs. Boldly she ran her hands back up again to cleanse his anus and scrotum.

Every touch was delicate, and her nails glanced off his skin. It was enough, just enough, to make him hard again.

He turned back to face her and took away the soap. After putting it in the dish, he adjusted the showerhead so that the water hit his back instead of her face.

Capturing her chin between a thumb and forefinger, he wiped water back from her face. Her lips parted in a quiet “thanks.”

Torin placed a leg between her thighs. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, she settled her pussy against him. “Hump my leg,” he told her.

“Uhmm…”

“You were naughty enough to fuck the mattress this morning,” he reminded her. “You've got three minutes to bring yourself off.”

“And…?”

“If you don't, it will be a long time before you're allowed the opportunity again.

I've been generous in allowing you to come. Don't push me.”

She tilted her body forward a bit and wrapped her hands around his neck.

“This feels totally naughty.”

“It is.”

She approached this task like she did all the other assignments he'd given her—gamely—if a bit nervously.

She moved against him a few times, her breasts swaying. After about thirty seconds, she gnawed on her lower lip. “I need a different angle.”

“Make yourself comfortable. Time is ticking. And don't even think of trying to fake it. I'll know.”

Mira rose onto her tiptoes. Using her hands, she spread her labia and leaned into him again, pressing her clit against his thigh. She moved slightly and then groaned.

“Better?”

“Oh God.”

He took that as a yes.

Her eyes closed, and she tipped her head back, getting into it more. Just watching her was enough to make him hot for her body again. “You've got about a minute and a half left,” he told her.

“I…”

He took mercy on her. He reached behind her and pushed a finger deep into her ass.

She screamed, but he knew it wasn't from pain.

She moved faster and faster.

“Grind it out,” he told her.

She did, rocking, making smaller and smaller circles on his thigh. He felt the tiny nub of her clit against him. Water sluiced over them both, and steam rose over the shower door.

“You've got twenty seconds to orgasm,” he said softly against her ear. When she didn't respond, he asked, “Mira?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes…”

He drew her earlobe into his mouth.

She leaned even closer to him, and he supported her entire weight. He moved his finger in and out of her rear entrance, fucking her.

“Torin!”

“Take it, baby,” he urged her. “Come.”

There was no faking that orgasm. Her cry came from deep inside, and the slick of her cum against his skin was moist and real.

Her response thrilled him, made him feel possessive in a way he'd never experienced before.

She was right; they needed to talk: about the future, about what effect their BDSM relationship would have on their ability to work together.

One thing was certain: now that he'd had a taste of her, he had no intention of letting her go.

An hour later she found him outside. He was swinging an ax, splitting a log.

He'd cut down a small forest since they had arrived. It had nothing to do with needing to be warm. The house had central heat and a pile of wood stacked inside as well as out.

She admired the raw athleticism it took to split the wood. He wore a black T-shirt, and it emphasized the way his muscles rippled and moved with the exertion.

He looked up, obviously sensing her presence. He drove the ax partway into a log and then took off his safety glasses and pulled off his leather gloves.

The man was pure sex appeal.

He was strong and firm. She'd learned that he was relentless in getting his way, to the point of nearly breaking Master Blake's wrist. But he'd been completely gentle with her when he'd cleaned her up after ravishing her anally earlier this morning.

She didn't want to give him up sexually, nor could she conceive of giving up any part of herself or the job she loved.

“We've got a call,” she told him. This, more than anything, was the moment of truth. This was their first mission together. Their safety, even their lives could depend on the way they worked as a team. And if he treated her as a submissive instead of a partner, the results could be devastating.

He nodded. “Fill me in,” he said, following her back to the house.

“Black tie required,” she said. When he raised a brow, she added, “Seriously.

Word came from Ms. Inamorata herself.”

“Don't suppose you know her first name?”

No one knew her first name. Hawkeye's right-hand woman was damn good at her job, and that included keeping secrets. The office pool to guess her name had five figures in it. Whoever won would have enough money for a heck of a vacation or a down payment on a house.

“Where are we headed?”

“The Grand Hyatt. Trace and Aimee Romero have a personal security client attending a fund-raiser.” Trace and Aimee were two of the best. Aimee was the younger sister of the enigmatic Inamorata. A brainiac if there was one, she was a scientist who had recently taken up running ultramarathons in addition to supporting her new husband, Trace, on occasional Hawkeye, Inc. assignments. The 48

Sierra Cartwright

whole ultramarathon thing made Aimee's brainpower suspect, in Mira's opinion.

“There's been a death threat against their client.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Nathaniel Sinclair.”

He whistled and nodded. “No wonder they're calling in backup.”

“Inamorata is e-mailing the hotel layout to us.”

“Be ready in half an hour?”

She checked her watch. “Less if we can manage it.”

He headed for his room, and she went into hers.

“Mira?” he shouted less than a minute later. “Skip the underwear.”

She rolled her eyes.

When she didn't respond, he called out, “Excuse me?”

“I heard you!”

“And what you meant by that was, 'yes, Master.'”

“Yes, Master!” she called dutifully. More importantly, she skipped the underwear. She told herself it wasn't because she was being obedient, but because her black dress would look better without them.

Twenty minutes later she checked the smallest of her three guns for bullets and then tucked the pistol in her handbag alongside a tube of lipstick.

She stopped in the bedroom that now served as a command office, and printed off the hotel layout before joining Torin.

He was waiting for her in the living room, checking his cuffs.