Finding Master Right (34 page)

We’d like to thank our families, who put up with our daydreaming, rushing to the computer in the middle of dinner to jot down an idea, and the all-nighters to finish edits on time. Your unconditional support helps us get through the hard times. Plus, it’s fun to have people to celebrate the good times with.

And most of all, our readers. We do this for you.

Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next book in the Masters Unleashed series from Sparrow Beckett

PLAYING HARD TO MASTER

Available from InterMix October 2015

Morning shift sucked, and not in the good way. Covering Morgan’s maternity leave at the salon was proving more difficult than Everly had anticipated. It wasn’t just the double shifts that made her feet ache and loathe heels for life. The worst part was having to drag her sorry ass out of bed early to open the hair salon.

As a hairdresser, she was expected to look her best—full makeup, hair styled, cute shoes, etc. Getting dolled up at eight
AM
sucked major monkey balls. Maybe eight in the morning wasn’t early for most people in the working world, but she really,
really
wasn’t a morning person.

The bells above the door jingled at ten o’clock sharp, signaling her first client was here. Who made a hair appointment at ten in the morning, other than senior citizens? From the back of the salon, she spotted the guy. He was no senior citizen.

His frame filled the doorway, making him look like he was there to conquer the salon and enslave its women. Under his fitted shirt, muscles bulged. From this distance, she couldn’t make out his facial features but his body was enough to either scare her or send her libido into overdrive. Sometimes the line between the two blurred.

The appointment book showed his name and phone number. Ambrose Langly. Interesting name. Not common around here. It sounded foreign and exotic. Almost too dignified for the thuggish guy making his way to the desk.

Ugh. If he was another one of the university snobs, she’d pass him off to Willow after this appointment. But even from a distance, he didn’t look like he belonged in a university. Maybe a WWF wrestling ring. Or prison.

Shaking off a shiver of fear, she put on her best cheerful expression, reminding herself that appointments meant money. Then she walked out to meet him.
Mama needs a new pair of fuck-me boots.

“Ambrose?”

His forehead creased when he caught sight of her. “Yes.”

“Hi! I’m Everly.” She stuck out her hand, noticing the purple polish was chipping. It matched the streaks in her hair. She made a mental note to touch it up later.

Ambrose took her hand and politely shook it, but frowned. “Nice to meet you.” He peered around the salon briefly then sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

Okay then. Maybe he wasn’t a morning person either. “Sure. Come on back.” She waved him to her station and he followed. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m a groomsman in a wedding,” he mumbled behind her. “The bride will kill me if I don’t look presentable.” He almost sounded sulky.

She chuckled, then gestured to her chair. He sunk into it, dwarfing the standard hairdressing chair.

Standing behind him, she hit the foot pedal and brought the chair down so she could actually reach his head. “What is it about weddings that make people so crazy?”

“I have no idea. The groom, who’s my best friend, has even started his own Pinterest account. It’s like I don’t even know him anymore.”

She swung the cape around his neck. “I’m guessing you don’t want your favorite sports team logo shaved into the back then?”

He laughed. “No. Not my style anyway. Just trim it up. Nice and neat.”

The man had a beautiful head. What would it look like if he grew his hair out long? Even at the short length, she could tell it was a light shade of blond, which matched his light complexion. Combined with his size, she wondered if he had Viking heritage. She chuckled inwardly, picturing him sweaty, holding a sword, an army behind him ready to obey his commands. Vikings would make good Doms. And this guy looked like he could give a mean Dom-eye.

Good Lord. Since when did clients make her imagination run so wild? The combination of not getting laid in a while, ovulating, and her biological clock ticking shot her sex drive through the roof. Maybe she’d hit the dungeon tonight and see if she could find a play partner. It’d been a while—there might be fresh meat she hadn’t scared off yet.

After plugging in her clippers, she made her way back behind him. “So do you have to wear a tux and everything?” By the casual look of his jeans and T-shirt, and the roman numerals tattooed on his thickly muscled forearms, he didn’t seem like the type who liked to dress up.

“Yup.”

“I’ll bet you clean up nice.”

His answering smile was sinful.

Her cheeks heated. Why had she said that? Flirting with certain customers was normal, and brought better tips, but flirting with this guy seemed . . . dangerous. “I mean, you don’t seem like the suit and tie type.” She paused to readjust the clippers. “It’s all good. Rich people are stuck-up, entitled assholes.”

He opened his mouth then shut it and nodded stiffly. “Yeah. I’ve met my share of those.”

Smiling, she turned the clippers on and started his haircut. Since he probably couldn’t hear her over the noise, they fell into silence as she worked. A while later, she stopped then turned the chair toward the mirror.

“What do you think about the length? Is it short enough?”

He barely glanced at it before he said, “It’s fine. I trust you to make me look good.”

As if he needed her help with that. But his brush-off gave her pause. “I know you don’t care as much but what would the bride think?”

His brows rose and he gave a longer look. “As long as it’s even, I think she’ll be happy.” He shifted in his seat as if ready to dash for the door.

“Hold up there, cowboy. Not done yet. I still have to even out the front and sides.” She switched to the smaller clippers then circled around to his front. “Stay still and—”

“What’s this?” With a smirk, he pointed to the small tattoo she hid under a thick bangle bracelet. “You’re a kinkster?”

So he knew the symbol. Most people thought the tattoo was just a pretty filigree design, which was how she’d planned it. It was a very subtle nod to BDSM.

“None of your business.”

“Relax,” he said quietly, interest in his eyes. “I am too. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

She flipped her hair. “I’m not. You just caught me off guard.”

An awkward silence hovered over them. She wasn’t in the habit of apologizing or acting ashamed for who she was, but some people didn’t understand BDSM. They thought it was about abuse or sexual perversion—not about emotional connection and for her, just plain fun.

“Are you in the scene around here?” Ambrose said, breaking the tension.

“A little.” She was glad the salon was empty. Having this conversation all hushed in front of nosy coworkers would have spelled trouble. People got fired for less. “I go to The Catacombs once in a while. You?”

“I haven’t gone in a long time. I don’t remember seeing you.”

“I’m not very memorable.” She chuckled like it was a joke but it fell flat. Maybe because there was truth there.

“No.” He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her face. “I would’ve remembered you.”

She squirmed under his gaze. He was definitely a Dom. Was he single? Could he handle her? If it was just about size, he could definitely manhandle her plus-size figure easily, but did he have the mental stamina to keep up with her? Most Doms didn’t like brats, but tough shit because that’s who she was and she’d sworn back when she broke things off with Scott she’d never change for a man. Or a woman. Doms included.

Trying to ignore him and do her job, she turned on the small clippers and leaned down to even out the front of his hair on his forehead. The buzz was quiet enough to talk now but she wasn’t sure what to say. This whole conversation, here at work, was throwing her off her game. Kink talk happened in the bedroom or the club, not in the salon.

“Do you know Banner?” he asked.

When his head wobbled, she held it still with her free hand.

He kept talking anyway. “He used to play there. Before he settled down with his Kate. That’s who’s getting married the day after tomorrow.”

“No.” She finished the front then moved to the side to work around his ears.

“What about Konstantin?”

That rang a bell. Images popped up of a playboy with dark eyes, a Russian accent, and a girl under each arm. She chuckled. “I’ve heard of him.”

He smiled. “He’s my other best friend.”

“Cool. So we must travel in the same circles. Weird we’ve never met.”

“Yeah. Weird.”

How could she ask if he was single without sounding desperate? Rejection stung like a bitch and she wasn’t in the mood to deal with that this early in the morning.

“So who are you bringing to the wedding? Do you have a . . . sub?” Fuck. She could’ve kicked herself. Way to not sound desperate.

“No. I’m single at the moment.”

“Me too.” Fuck again! Why had she said that? It wasn’t like he’d asked. God, she was being so lame right now. This guy was messing with her head. She was usually smoother than this.

“I was thinking of heading to The Catacombs tonight actually,” she ventured. Maybe she could still salvage this. “To see if I can find someone to play with. It’s been a long time.”

“Really?” His brow quirked.

“Yeah. I’m hoping there’ll be some new people. I’ve played with almost everyone and scared all the usuals away. Poor little things.”

“You haven’t played with me.” Their gazes met in her mirror, and the blatant dare in his made her bite her lip.

She paused. Then smirked. “I doubt you could handle me.”

Chuckling, he shifted in the chair. “Well, that’s a challenge if I ever heard one. Are you a switch?”

“I’m a brat.” It sounded like a warning. Maybe it was one. She was tired of too-serious Doms trying to crush her spirit and turn her into something she wasn’t. And she was tired of the newbies letting her walk all over them then storming away all butthurt when she wouldn’t cooperate.

“I enjoy brats.”

She snorted. “That’s what they all say. Next thing you know, they get all huffy when you tell them their pretty mouths shouldn’t be used for so much lecturing but rather getting busy with other things.”

He barked a laugh. “You’ve actually said that?”

She answered with a cocky smirk.

“You might be a sorry little girl if you got too much of what you asked for.”

Oh fuck. A rush of heat pooled in her pussy, making her knees almost buckle. She pictured it—spread out on a bed, legs wide, Ambrose between them, making her scream for mercy.

She realized she’d frozen with her clippers in midair, staring at their reflection. After setting the clippers down, she cleared her throat. “You don’t believe in playing nice?”

“I can when I want to. But there are times when I don’t want to be nice. Are you the kind of sub who likes to be made into a good girl by a mean Dom?”

“I’m the kind of girl who likes a Dom to have a sense of humor.”

He arched a brow.

Reluctantly, she added, “And to sometimes . . .
convince
me to be good. Once in a while. When the mood strikes me.” She gave him a sidelong glance.

“Cocky little thing,” he muttered, shifting in his seat again.

She wondered what he kept having to shift down there. But he wasn’t rolling his eyes or sighing at her teasing. Maybe he wasn’t like the others. She wished there was a tactful, smooth way to ask if he wanted to play.

“You’re going tonight?” he asked, rubbing his clean-shaven chin.

She nodded.

“Maybe I’ll go too. We could talk more. If you want.”

A small, giddy smile pushed through her mask of confidence. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” She realized she sounded like a parrot and gave her head a shake. Way to look like a smitten idiot. “I mean, I’m done. What do you think?”

“Sweet.” He turned his head this way and that, but he was looking at her, not his hair.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked while she unclipped the cape.

“Twenty-five.”

He fiddled with his wallet while she brushed off his neck. Frowning, he looked up at her. “Do you have change?”

“Not much. It’s early still.”

“Okay.” He handed her two twenties.

“Oh. Umm.”

“Just keep it.”

“No, I can’t. It’s too much.”

He waved his hand. “Buy me a drink tonight and we’ll call it even.”

That seemed fair. “Alright.”

“Good girl.” He winked.

Bastard. Fuck, he was hot. She placed a hand on her hip and glared, trying not to crack a smile. He rose from the chair, reminding her of his size. Hot in a thuggish, terrifying way.

“Ooooh,” he said, pretending to be scared. “Evil eye. You sure you’re not a switch?”

She shrugged. “I suppose I could be for the right person. You interested in trying?”

“No. I’m one hundred percent dominant.” As a second thought, he added, “But I’m only interested in playing. Not a serious relationship.”

Wasn’t that just her luck? All the good ones had commitment issues. The fiasco with Scott should’ve kept her on guard when it came to relationships but sometimes she still wore her emotions on her sleeve. “That’s fine. I’m not looking for long-term either.” Her uterus said otherwise.

“Great.”

“Great.”

“See you tonight?”

“Yup.”

He smiled wickedly. “See you tonight, Everly.”

Ooh. He remembered her name without being reminded, and the sound of it on his lips made her shiver.

She tossed him back a saucy grin. “I’ll be there around nine. You might want to take a nap first.”

His brow quirked, and for the first time in a long time she wondered if she was in over her head.

Two writers in two countries transform into the writing duo
Sparrow Beckett
each night after wrangling their housefuls of children and pets. They trade the cape and colorful tights for tattoos and cups of coffee, then set out to create a world where readers fall in love with heroes and the women who willingly go to their knees for them. Masters Unleashed is the product of two kinky minds—who don’t take themselves seriously—and the portrayal of realistic, romantic, and sometimes heartbreaking BDSM relationships. Sparrow also writes as Leia Shaw, and Beckett writes as Sorcha Black.