Call Me Killer (16 page)

“It’s okay,” I said. “Once we’re dead, privacy doesn’t matter, does it? Nothing can hurt him now. And I was glad he wasn’t alive to see me accused of murder.”

“He wouldn’t have believed that accusation, would he?”

That was a question that startled me. I had never thought about it from that angle. Sean would have believed it, I realized. Or, at least, he wouldn’t have been certain of my innocence.

He might not even have been as certain as Rory was.

Sean had killed people. He’d confessed it to me. He was trained to kill in all sorts of ways. For his country, of course. Justified military kills, committed while defending himself or saving somebody else.

Sean had been the one who’d taught me to fight. To shoot. To kill a man with my bare hands, not that I’d ever tried it.

“He might have believed it, yeah,” I said, shocked at my own conclusion.

She twisted in my embrace until we were facing one another. “You’re not him, Griff, and I’m glad you’re not. You’re your own person. You’re here to do different things. Good things.” She pressed her sweet lips to mine and caressed my face. “I’m sure your brother was an awesome guy, but you’re just as awesome in your own way. You have to have faith in yourself.”

“What is this, a fucking motivational lecture?” But I was touched by her faith in me. I kissed her back. Where had she come from, this crazy little Griff-admiring girl?

She went to MIT, for fuck’s sake, but here she was, all cuddled up in my bed, flattering me. I swear I’d have suspected her of some kind of duplicity if there had been even a tiny scrap of anything she had to gain from hanging out with me. Sexing with me. But what did I have to offer a woman like her?

She made me happy, and remarkable though it was, I seemed to make her happy, too.

“I have a brother, too,” she said.

Whoa. So far she’d ducked most of my questions about her family, although she’d been willing to talk about school and her various interests. But ever since the night when she’d told me she wanted to get away from her real mom, she’d avoided that subject.

I hadn’t pressed her. I figured there was something nasty in her past; maybe abuse? I wasn’t going to pester her for information she didn’t want to share.

“Yeah? You wanna tell me about him? What’s his name?”

“Jesse. It’s been a few months since I last saw him.”

“Older or younger?”

“Older. Five years older. My big bro.” She sounded affectionate, not hostile, so I figured it was safe to ask more questions.

“Is he a smarty-pants, too? Did he go to college?”

“Yeah, but he dropped out. He’s a musician and he wanted to play music more than he wanted to study. He’s really talented.”

“Tough career choice. What instrument does he play?”

“I think he can play just about any instrument. Keyboard, wind, violin, guitar, bass. But guitar mostly.” She hesitated again, which I thought was odd because she usually just came right out with whatever she wanted to say. “He can sing, too. He’s in a band. They’re on the road a lot, doing gigs. That’s why I never see him. He’s always like, on the bus.”

“I’ve heard that’s tough. Being on the road. Must get tedious, every day in another town.”

“Yeah. I worry about him a lot. You know, traveling musician’s lifestyle stuff.”

I put the pieces together. “He does drugs?”

She sighed. “It’s so stupid. I mean, everyone knows what those things do to you. He OD’d last year and almost died.”

I squeezed her hand hard, reminded once again that she’d sprung from a tough neighborhood where some women felt they could only survive by working the sex trade and drugs were probably all too widely available. “Does he admit he’s addicted? Has he been able to get any help?”

“He was in rehab last year and he claimed to be off the stuff. But I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him lately and I think I would have if he were still clean. When he’s on something, he gets ashamed and avoids me.”

“Gotcha.”

“I try not to judge. Or even sound judgy when I talk to him, but I guess he knows how I feel about drugs.”

“You’re not judgy,” I said, because, God knows, there were lots of ways she could have been judgmental with me. But she wasn’t. “Don’t take out it on yourself, babe.” I was delighted to be able to give her advice for a change. “You know how it is with addicts. They have to commit to getting and staying clean. No one can force them.” I’d known addicts, too, plenty of them. “Habits are hard to break, especially bad habits. I don’t do drugs because I probably wouldn’t have the mental strength to ever get off them once I got hooked.”

“True. I guess everyone’s addicted to something—sometimes even good things, like exercise or meditation or chocolate.”

I found a warmer spot for my hand. “Or sex.”

She giggled and the mood lightened. “I could get addicted to sex with you, Mr. O’Malley.”

“Yeah? That’s great because I’m already addicted to you, Rory.”

“Show me.” She tickled me until I grabbed her wrists. “I mean,
please
show me how addicted you are to me, Sir.”

Okay, she was asking for it. Earlier we'd done it vanilla style, but I decided a little kink was in the cards for her now.

I'd been deliberately taking things slowly in that department, since it was so new to her. I didn't want to freak her out or scare her. And I was happy she wasn’t into Hadley’s level of intensity. You practically had to have an EMT certification to do some of the shit Hadley had wanted. Not having to worry that I might make a huge fucking mistake made it much more relaxing for me to be a Dom.

I knew by now that Rory dug bondage.

So I spread her legs and bound each ankle to the footboard of the bed, using my leather ankle cuffs. I knelt between her thighs and started licking down where the anklets encircled her, slowly working my way up her calf with long slow strokes of my tongue. When I got half way up her thigh, I switched to the other ankle, which caused a protest.

I grinned. Her arms were bound over her head, so there was nothing she could do to stop me teasing her just as much as I wanted.

I rubbed my cock with one hand while I licked her. My entire body was reveling in her submission. “I could keep you hanging—hungry—for hours,” I told her after nuzzling the inside of her thighs just an inch or two away from her pussy.

She moaned and thrust her pelvis at me. I wanted to postpone it some more, to make her squirm and beg, but my own fire was burning so hot inside me that I didn’t think I could wait.

Yeah. I was probably smoldering.

Her legs were tied loosely enough to stretch and strain, and as I gently pressed my teeth to her inner thigh and bit down, she writhed and keened. Her sweet pussy, lush and ripe with juices, was irresistible. As I slid one finger deep inside her, my balls tightened and my cock jerked. We both groaned together.

I bent my head, kissed her tenderly on her mound, and then twirled my tongue around her clit while rhythmically fucking her with my fingers. I kept it up, loving the way she rocked against my face. I made my tongue as pointy as I could, the better to stimulate that delicate, sensitive bud.

Giving her pleasure gave me pleasure, too. And holding her there at the edge of fulfillment turned my dick into an iron rod.

“May I come?” she gasped, the words not even sounding coherent.

“Soon.”

“Please…I have to….Griff…” she was wailing … “I can’t hold back.”

God, but I loved hearing that.

“Don't hold back, babe. Let yourself go,” I ordered, and, gasping, she did.

I was on the verge of coming myself. I gave a quick look down to make sure her bindings weren't too tight, then I slid up until my aching cock was at her opening. As I thrust inside, I could feel her pussy walls pulsating.

Her orgasm went on and on, pumping me exquisitely as I drove in and out. I grabbed some of her hair and blindly sought her mouth; our kiss was another passionate joining. The climax arced through me. It didn’t stop. More moans from us both as my body reveled in its pleasure and my mind was saturated with bliss.

Why did it feel so good with Rory? I’d fucked my share of women, but, damn, she was special.

Griff

“So, I got us an invite,” Rory said.

I had just finished my half of the homemade pizza that Rory had made while I was at work. It was yummy and my belly felt pleasantly full. “An invite to what?”

“To the secret weird-ass club. Reef Hill. I pulled some strings.” She handed me a slip of paper with an address on it. “You know where that is?”

I blinked at it. I didn’t recognize the street name, but the address was in our zip code.

“I checked Google Maps. It’s on a hill. Makes sense, huh?”

I leaned back in my chair. “You got us an invitation to a private BDSM club? How? And why?”

“Because I figure they might have something to do with Hadley’s disappearance. But mostly because I’m curious what goes on at a private BDSM club. Aren’t you?”

The twitch in my cock at the thought answered that question. “By pulling some strings do you mean you hacked into their system? After Connor got pissed at you for poking around in his clients’ sex lives?”

“Actually, this time it wasn’t a hack. I know some people who know some people.”

“You know people who know the local rich guys?”

“It’s a chain of knowing. Like that six degrees of separation thing. I even got something to wear. Shall I try it on for you?”

“Sure.”

She vanished into the bedroom and emerged a few minutes later wearing a crimson corset with a matching thong, black stockings, five inch heels and little else. Holy shit. I had a flash of how wet and bedraggled she had looked on the night we’d met and couldn’t believe how well the girl cleaned up.

She looked sizzling hot and so fuckable that I wanted to drag her back into the bedroom and get down to business.

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah. Forget the club.”

She batted my hands away as I tried to grab her. But her eyes were shining.

“You need to find something to wear, too. Stop that. The invitation’s only good for tonight.”

* * *

The place turned out to be on a hill at the edge of town. We had to follow a private road through the woods to an area I’d never visited. We were stopped at an iron gate at the bottom of the hill, where we had to show the invitation Rory had so mysteriously procured.

At the gate, we were each handed a harlequin eye mask. The guard shrugged and said, “optional.”

Rory put hers on. So did I. Not much in the way of concealment, but I didn’t expect to know anybody at the club anyhow.

The building was old but grand. It looked like a Victorian mansion, although I decided when we mounted the stone staircase to the entrance that it was of a later construction, probably the 1920s pre-stock-market crash era.

My builder’s eye told me that the place had been well-maintained over the years. The roof looked new.

There was another gatekeeper at the entry, but this one was female and dressed in black leather, Domme-style. In a clear, clipped voice she asked for our invitations, which she scrutinized. But Rory must have had the genuine goods, because she informed us with a brisk nod of her head that we were welcome.

We were admitted to an anteroom with an oriental rug, comfortable leather sofas, and a gleaming mahogany coffee table. Water was available in a carafe.

“Take a seat and read our rules,” she said, handing us a slim leather bound book. “The safe, sane and consensual code is required for any scenes you perform on the premises. Safewords must be respected. All salons have a dungeon monitor whom you may consult for assistance should you need any.

“There are no cameras or microphones and no photography, video or audio recording is allowed. Please respect the privacy of others. No firearms or other lethal weapons are permitted. No alcohol is served and drugs are not permitted. Anyone who appears to be exhibiting drunken or drug-induced behavior will be escorted out.

“Do not intrude on anyone else’s scene unless you are invited to do so. If you wish to have penetrative sex, please request a private room. Violators will not be permitted to return. Read the rules for other refinements, but the things I’ve listed are the important ones.”

I glanced at Rory. As far as I knew, she’d never been to a place like this, but the rules were fairly standard in other BDSM clubs.

She nodded with considerable aplomb, took the rulebook, and began reading.

“When you’re ready,” our hostess went on, “simply enter the club through the door on the far side of the room. You’ll find a general meet-and-greet area and a large dungeon with various equipment.” She nodded to the leather bag I was carrying. “I see you’ve brought your own toys. I’ll have to inspect your bag. If you have any private items you wish to lock up, we have safes available.”

I handed her the bag, which she went through rapidly and without comment. Clearly nothing inside it surprised her. We didn’t have anything for the safe, so after a few more minutes in the anteroom, we were ready to roll.

“There are also specialty salons that cater to different kinks. Feel free to indulge as you see fit,” our hostess said, winding up her welcome spiel. “Play hard, play safe, and enjoy yourselves.”

“Are all BDSM clubs like this?” Rory whispered as we passed through into the public area. We had entered a much larger room that reminded me of the lobby of a Victorian-era theater. There were ornate full-length mirrors on the walls that made the area seem even bigger.

There was also a bar, but it was clear they were serving only coffees, teas, juice, sodas, and water. There were a few couples and one triad consisting of a dominant with his two submissives.

The costuming was similar to what I’d seen elsewhere—Doms in black and subs in collars, cuffs and skimpy clothing. There was no absolute nudity, I noted. The genital area in both males and females was covered if only with the teeniest of thongs. Breasts and chests were bare, though, and often adorned with nipple clamps and the markings of a lash.