MIranda's Rights

Dedication

To OC for being there when I needed inspiration. Thank you for making me laugh and brightening my days. You’re a true friend, chickie. And I love you like a sister.

Chapter One

Detective Jase Ralston paced across his living room. The hollow click of the clock on the wall was a patronizing sound, reminding him that the hour was late and he was too damn tired for this shit. He shouldn’t be upset. He shouldn’t care.

Still, his hands clenched into fists as he imagined the worst. Where was she? She could be hurt, lost or alone. She could need him and he wasn’t there. His pulse spiked and emotions—fear—coiled in his gut. He hated feeling helpless. Damn it, Miranda Carlucci was testing his limits. What she needed was a paddle across that perfectly round and luscious ass. His cock stirred with the thought. Thoughts he was better off not having.

Despite the fact that she plagued his fantasies and kept his dick in a state of anticipation, he and Miranda were just friends. She’d lived across the hall from him for nearly two years. Two years of wanting her while she kept her distance. They both had secrets. His were in his head—darker thoughts, needs and desires. He ached to reign over her body, her mind…her heart. And hers were just as personal; she hid a part of her life. The part he wanted.

Another late night, another guy. He growled and raked his fingers along his scalp. Whom she fucked was her business. But damn it, Vegas was a dangerous place for an attractive single woman. He should know. As a detective for the LVMPD, he dealt with the scourge of the city. Sin City. Drugs, gangs, prostitution surrounded by the glittering lights of the Strip. Bells of the slots couldn’t drown out the wail of another violent crime. He’d seen it all.

Miranda, with her lithe body, blonde hair and naivety, wasn’t equipped to deal with what his city had to offer. Nebraska born and raised, and her trusting blue eyes refused to see the cruelty in people. Men could use a woman like Miranda, force her submission…

Jase growled and paced back to the door. Was he any different? He’d wanted to fuck her since she’d moved in. He slid his palm into the front of his jeans and adjusted his swelling cock. He couldn’t think of her, of laying her on his bed, spreading her thighs—not without a piercing ache to his chest.

If he had her in his bed, he would leave the imprint of his hand on her beautiful ass before he spread her full taut, cheeks and slid a plug into her tight little star. After he buried his face in her cunt, sucked her clit until she screamed his name, and drank down her intoxicating essence, he’d remove the plug and fuck her ass. He’d worship her in a way only he could.

But that would never happen. She wasn’t interested.
Just friends.
He’d accepted that long ago, but her lack of sexual interest didn’t diminish his attraction to her. Besides having a tantalizingly hot body, firm tits and an ass to fill his hands, she was a doll. Friendly. Too friendly.

Jase acknowledged he wasn’t in her league—not for more than friendship. He was blue-collar and hardworking. Miranda deserved diamonds and caviar. They might live in the same apartment complex, spend time together watching television and even grab dinner together several times a week, but those weren’t dates. Miranda dated up. Her work behind the scenes in the casino industry exposed her to the wealthy, powerful men of Vegas. Upscale scourge. Jase had a gut feeling that her latest guy wasn’t treating her well.

Jase was a Dom. He liked control, but he’d never abuse a woman. Lately he wasn’t sure if someone was hurting her, demeaning her—forcing her to do something she didn’t want to do. That was the problem. She wouldn’t open up to him about her late nights. His thoughts raced in a thousand different directions. Only one conclusion made sense. She didn’t want Jase to know.

Across the hall, a key worked into a lock. Jase stomped across the floor and swung the door open.

“Jase!” Miranda sucked in a sharp inhale, slapped a hand over her heart and spun in his direction. “You scared me.”

Perhaps he should have put on a shirt. Her gaze traveled his torso, igniting small fires over his flesh. She lingered on the open snap of his jeans riding low on his hips and trekked lower to his bare feet.

“And put on some clothes. If Ms. Perry in 3D sees you, you’ll have a stalker on your hands. She drools at anything with a nice body, especially a nice tight butt and—” Her gaze locked on his groin. “Well, and the right anatomy. If she gets her inch-long dragon-lady nails into your back, you’ll need surgery to remove her.”

“It’s close to four a.m. No one else is awake.”

She snorted. “This is Vegas. No one sleeps.”

“Where have you been?” In the span of a heartbeat, he glanced over her from her tousled hair to her askew clothing. The buttons on her blouse weren’t aligned and her stockings were torn. “What the hell happened?” Her sexy lips, normally pouty and pink, were slightly swollen. Dark circles shadowed her red-rimmed eyes.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she whispered. “I’m fine now,
Detective
. It’s late. You should be in bed.” Her lips curled into a smile.

“You aren’t fine.” His hands balled into fists. This craziness had gone on long enough. He couldn’t stand by and watch her self-destruct. He took a step back. “Get in here.”

Her head cocked to the side. “Jase, I’m tired.” She turned back toward her door and wiggled the key until it turned and the lock popped. “I had a rough night, but really. I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

She glanced at him and her tired eyes widened.

“We need to talk.”

“I’m sure whatever scolding you’re going to give me can wait until morning.”

“Now.”

“Okay.” Her hand paused on the knob without turning the handle. Her head bowed and her shoulders visibly trembled. She was petite, not more than five-foot-five. Jase had eight inches on her and outweighed her by eighty pounds. He could force her into his apartment. But he wouldn’t have to. The Dom in him stirred at her willingness to heed his words. Whether she’d ever acknowledge it, Miranda had submissive tendencies. He tamped down the small thrill and focused on the anger coiling in his gut instead.

“But I’m tired and don’t want to talk.” Miranda crossed the hall and entered his living room. “I just want to crawl into bed and sleep.” She clasped her hands in front of her, a small purse clutched in her fingers. The door closed with a thud and she jumped.

“What the fuck is going on with you?”

“Nothing. I went out.” She stood in his living room, glancing at his couch, the window, anything but his face. Normally her bubbly personality had him laughing. At the moment, she seemed almost afraid. He had an infuriating idea of why. The thought of someone hurting her… He growled and jammed his hands into his pockets. He had the mounting need to slam his fist into the wall, scour the city for the piece of shit and show him a little payback. Any bastard who could hurt a woman deserved his ass beat.

Jase understood BDSM. Power and dominance went hand in hand with trust and devotion. He understood the high from pain play. He’d been in the scene long enough to know that the glimmer in Miranda’s blue eyes wasn’t from being taken to the brink and pushed over the edge. She’d been broken, and that wasn’t willing submission. “What has he done to you?”

Her head snapped up and her eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Who? Christ, who do you think?” He stormed across the room and grasped her wrist.

She winced and tried to pull away. “Don’t.”

“Who is doing this to you?” He jerked back her sleeves. Angry red welts banded her delicate wrists. Deep purple and maroon bruises crisscrossed her porcelain flesh. Higher on her arm, four equally spaced marks bore the impression of someone squeezing her, restraining her. “Miranda, I see it all the time. I recognize an abused woman.”

“I’m not being abused!” She jerked her arm, yanking her wrist from his hands.

“That’s more than rough sex.”

“I’m not having sex either,” she snapped.

“And I’m not stupid. Are you going to tell me you did that—” he pointed to her wrists, “—to yourself?”

“Are you crazy?”

“No, I’m ready to go fucking ballistic.” He’d kill the bastard who put his hands on her. “I can help you.” He lowered his voice. “Please, let me take care of this, let me take care of you.” He heard the desperation in his voice but didn’t care. Actually that was the problem. He did care. Cared about her. Friendship? Fuck. Friendship would be easy. She was everything he found attractive in a woman—everything he wanted.

His cock was in a state of flux. Friendship wasn’t what simmered in his chest at night when he dreamed of her. Dreamed of handcuffing her to his headboard, blindfolding her and raining pleasure over her soft flesh. More than his next breath, he wanted to be the man she needed. He
was
the man she needed. Hell, he was half in love with her and they’d never even kissed.

She straightened, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “I don’t really want to talk about this.” She adjusted her sleeves. “Besides, I handled…the situation.”

“I’ve heard that before. Do you like getting the shit beat out of you?”

“You’re overreacting. I have a few bruises but not from what you think. I’m not seeing anyone…not seriously anyway, and I’m not being abused.”

He watched the walls go up as she hid behind the facade of a strong woman. She was strong but not against this. This wasn’t any form of love. Violent abuse caused the physical damage. Miranda needed a dominant man with strong hands, but one who wielded his power with her pleasure in mind.

Tumultuous emotions twisted in his gut like a knife. “Do you know how many women are killed each year by domestic violence?”

“Yes, I watch the news.” She stepped farther into the room. “If we’re having an interrogation, can I have a drink?” She sat on the couch and sagged into the cushion. She held up her wrist. “This is not domestic violence. My, um, purse twisted around my wrist and left a bruise.” She sighed and gave him a soft smile. “Besides, you’re the only man in my life.”

“I’m not the man in your life,” he said as he walked to the kitchen. If he was the man in her life, she wouldn’t be coming home in the middle of the night with another man’s scent clinging to her. She’d smell like sex because he’d be the one making love to her every night. With a growl, he grabbed two beers out of the fridge.

“Yes, you are, Jase. You’re my friend.”

He walked back to the living room and paused at the perimeter. Miranda curled into the couch cushions. Her eyes were closed and her mouth had softened. “You’re right, but I’m
just
your friend. I worry about you,” he said as he approached.

Her heavy lids parted. “You shouldn’t.” She took the beer from his outstretched hand and tipped the beverage to her lips. “I’m a big girl.”

No, she wasn’t. She had perfect round breasts, a trim tummy and lean thighs he imagined locked to his hips as he braced above her and fucked the hell out of her—no he’d make love to her. Rough and dirty. Wild and fast and slow and deep. Whether she was bound to his bed or sitting astride and riding his cock, Jase would be making love. Heat rushed from cock to balls to buttocks.

Christ, he needed to keep perspective. First he had to get her away from her dickhead boyfriend.

“So you want to tell me about your date?”

She adjusted on the couch and angled her body toward his. With her elbow braced on the back of the couch, she tucked her hair behind her ear then rested her head in her palm. “It wasn’t a date,” she said with a little chuckle. “Just more of an acquaintance.”

Great, she was fucking acquaintances. “Sleeping with strangers is dangerous.”

“Oh hell, Jase. Let it go. You’re making a broad assumption if you think I’m screwing strangers.”

“Come on, Miranda. Remember who you’re trying to bullshit.” She was involved with someone.

“I’m not saying I’m celibate.” She narrowed her eyes. “Neither are you. Don’t forget, I’ve been in Vegas two years. I know the city. I have an amazing job.” She smiled and laughed. “And I have good friends, including a wonderful, caring—” she wagged her brows, “—sexy, yet overprotective neighbor who doesn’t mind his own business.”

She yawned, and he decided to let the subject rest for the night. “Do you want to play pool tomorrow night at Jack’s?” Jack’s was off-Strip, a local’s-only pub with pizza, beer, pool and darts. There were also the usual casino attractions—slots, poker and a focus on blackjack—but small-scale without the glitz and glamour. Plus he’d keep her away from whoever she was seeing socially.

“Can’t.” She stretched and stood. “I need to get some sleep.”

Jase followed her to the door. He put his hand on her arm. Her skin was soft, smooth and tantalizing. A shiver raced up his spine. Wisps of her hair brushed his knuckles as he trailed his fingertips higher. She dropped her ear toward her shoulder and stepped away, but not before he saw the marks. Bruising around her neck. Breath caught in his throat along with the bitter taste of bile. His stomach roiled. Every muscle in his body burned to shake sense into Miranda and kill the fucker who hurt her.

“Are you in trouble?”