Saved by His Submissive (7 page)

She took it all in, trying to summon gratitude for the splendor around her, for the very fact she was alive. But she couldn’t change her emotional forecast. The radar clearly showed “mortified” with a ninety percent chance of “forever heartbroken.”

Again not knowing where to turn, she opted for the breezeway to the right. Her luck continued its snarky trend when she came across a couple sitting together on a stone bench in a pretty alcove, though they may as well have been on the moon for all they noticed their surroundings. The bubble of new attraction glowed around them like shooting stars on full strength. Like she couldn’t have her nose shoved more into the shit of things with Garrett, she couldn’t help noticing the man was roughly the size of Half Dome, and the woman’s hair was the color of a late summer sunset.

Hell. Zeke and Rayna.

“Shit,” she whispered. “Sorry.”

“Sage? Hey, wait!” Rayna’s voice echoed along the tiles with a mix of surprise and concern. “Sweetie, what’re you doing—” Her friend stopped when she caught up. “Holy crap. Honey, what happened?”

“Nothing. Sorry I interrupted. I’ll just—”

Her resolve melted as soon as Rayna put an arm around her shoulder. She turned into the only person who really knew her now. Finally, the tears of frustration and anger flowed all over again.

Chapter Five

“Where the hell have you been?”

Garrett leveled the question at Zeke after turning a corner outside the cafeteria and nearly colliding with the guy. His friend’s gaze showed more copper than green right now, which meant Z was royally irked about something. Great, fucking great. Garrett sure as hell wasn’t thinking clearly, and when that happened, he could usually count on his friend to do the job for them both.

“Well,” Zeke grumbled, “now that you’ve taken the words out of my mouth…”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Zeke swung a nervous glance around the corridor. The regular embassy workers were starting to arrive for work, bustling into the cafeteria for their morning coffee and conversation, jostling too close for comfort. His friend gripped his shoulder and dragged him out the door. Once they were there, Z’s irritation flared across the rest of his face.

“It means that I was playing out the we’re-the-besties bonding bit with Rayna, and it was rolling toward an all-systems-go when your fiancé busted in and started the waterworks like she’d watched
The Notebook
ten times.”

Garrett’s gut coiled. “Shit.”

What had he expected? That Sage would simply roll over and go to sleep after he left? That she’d be totally fine about getting naked, hot, and bothered for him, before he bolted the door spouting lines so tortured, they’d be cut footage from even the sappy-ass film Z had invoked?

“‘Shit’ is right,” his friend snapped. “What the hell’s going on?”

He turned and jammed his toe at the ground. Answering that was nowhere near an option right now. You didn’t explain umpteen kinds of fucked-up during an early morning stroll, even if the listening ear belonged to your best friend. In this case, especially because of that. Zeke was the unspoken leader of the squad’s Whips and Chains society. The honor was perfect for his friend, who’d gotten his first tattoo at ten and collared his first submissive at twenty. No way in hell did Z understand why Garrett struggled with this crap, nor was Garrett inclined to unlock the box on that story.

That night, exactly between his thirteenth and fourteenth birthdays, was best forgotten—though his goddamn psyche didn’t always pay attention to what was “best,” did it? So much had changed in that hour when he’d snuck out of the house to go visit Uncle Wyatt, and had come home with a different view of the world.
Very
different. Well, at least of what it was possible to do with a woman. At that time, half his world view was obsessed with that, anyway.

Shame bombed him. He’d gone through the twelve years since that summer with a bullet in his psychological chamber aimed at Wyatt—and maybe at Josie too—as he not-so-subtly blamed them for the scene he’d secretly witnessed in the barn that night. Though Josie hadn’t been totally naked yet, he’d known she soon would be. He’d also known that the uncle he’d worshipped his whole life, who’d inspired his dream of going Special Ops one day, had returned from Afghanistan a changed man in many ways—but most disturbingly, in
this
way. The conflict was grueling to resolve, especially as Garrett’s own alternative tastes began to creep in on him.

He’d fast learned “those tendencies” weren’t talked about in a place like Adel, Iowa. Hell, they weren’t talked about anywhere. Even Zeke hadn’t said a word to him until Sage was gone and they’d had a two-week dry spell for missions, turning Garrett into a wall-climbing nuisance of unspent energy. Z finally came clean about himself, becoming Garrett’s tour guide down the dark halls of Club Subjugate, opening up a world that was more surreal and amazing than fucking Oz.

Zeke had made it all seem okay. When
he
practiced the dynamic. But when it came time for Garrett to demand the safe word and wield the flogger, it had been a different story. His mind, reeling with Sage’s image, had hurled such a thick stew of guilt, confusion, and castigation, he’d only been able to wash out the taste by drinking himself into a stupor. Z had never judged his decision, the same way Garrett never held Z’s choices against him. He’d left Subjugate, putting that shit behind him for good. Been there, tried that. The Dominant itch was scratched for good.

Or so he’d thought.

His face was stamped on the idiot coin for good now, wasn’t it?

“Fuck.”

No. You’re not an idiot. You’re a moron. You had the woman of your soul on a golden platter, but you picked
today
to revisit this shit? She wanted you inside her. She spoke words you’d been dreaming of for a goddamn year. Instead, you forced her down. Spanked her. Not just on her glorious ass, either. You smacked her on the most sensitive part of her body. You made her cry, and not in the oh-my-girlie-stars-that-was-amazing kind of way.

And just thinking about it again gave him an erection that put the flagpole across the courtyard to shame.

“I can’t think straight.” He said it past clenched teeth.

“No shit,” Zeke replied. “You wanna talk?”

“No.” He pivoted around. “No, goddamnit, I don’t want to talk. I just need to get out of here. Now.”

“You got it.” The guy shoved away from the pillar that his shoulders rivaled for stone-hard texture. “Let me go grab the keys to the jeep.”

“Rayna will stay with her, right? I don’t want her to be alone, but—”
I need to bug out of here. Before this perverted monkey on my back eats me alive.

“Of course she will, Hawk,” his friend assured. “I’ll check them both, then we’ll bug.”

* * * *

Fifteen minutes later, the aplomb in Zeke’s bold features officially gave way to amazement. Not that Garrett could see all of his friend’s face, since the interior of the hotel’s lobby was engulfed in perpetual twilight, and they’d just walked in from a brilliant summer morning.

But sometimes, the tilt of a guy’s head said it all. That and one line blurted in total incredulity.

“What. The. Fuck?”

Garrett said nothing as he turned to follow the concierge who’d come to greet them, a tiny woman with straight black bangs, a practiced smile and enormous fake tits. She led them to one of many sumptuous sitting rooms lining the lobby then motioned for them to sit in big leather chairs. One wall was consumed by an expensive-looking portrait of an exotic naked beauty holding decorated fans over her body in all the right places. A backlit bar gleamed in the corner, and the air smelled like eucalyptus and mango. Aside from the artwork and the “hostess with the mostest” popping open a couple of beers for them, the place could’ve been a classy Hilton from back home.

“The wait will not be long,” said the woman as she served their brews. Her English was a soft combination of proper British and come-fuck-me seduction. “Are these acceptable accommodations for you in the meantime?”

“Yes.” Garrett gave her an obligatory smile. “Thank you.”

Zeke swung another stunned glance at their surroundings. “I thought you just wanted to go get hammered.”

Garrett nodded at the guy’s bottle. “Go for it. I’m sure there’s more where that came from.”

A small pressure on his thigh drew his gaze lower. He watched the hostess’s red-polished fingernail trail an inch closer toward his cock, nearing its one-hour mark of flagpole status thanks to Sage’s first kiss. “You’re a beautiful man,” she murmured, licking her bottom lip. “You’re certain there’s nothing else I can…blow your way for comfort?”

Garrett caught her wrist as she touched his fly. “Thank you for the compliment, but I’ve already told you what I need.”

“You sure as hell did that,” Z added. Once more, he shook his head as if trying to wake up from a weird dream.

The woman pulled her hand back with demure grace. “Of course,” she murmured. “You will not be disappointed with the companion we’ve selected, Sergeant Hawkins. Gia’s tastes are compatible with your request. She’s looking forward to—”

“I don’t need to know her name,” Garrett interjected tightly. “I don’t
want
to know her name.”

The woman nodded with a soft smile. She returned to the lobby without another word. Garrett looked back down at his beer, waiting for the inevitable snort from Z. Half a second later, the guy delivered on the expectation.

“Okay, asshat, I’m officially out of rounds to fire at your gray matter. I learned how to add up people before I could add two and two, but right now, I’m tossing in the towel on making any sense of you.”

“Never recalled asking that from you.” Garrett chugged half the beer while staring at his boot, now crossed against his opposite knee. He hoped Z would leave it at that. No such luck.

“All right.
You
indulge
me
for a second, because I need to get this shit straight. The woman who’s been fueling your wet dreams for the last year has now pulled the miracle move of the century and come back from the dead. You were finally alone with her, the perfect chance to get some true-to-life action for those sorry nuts of yours, yet you’re here, about to do the nutcracker dance with a total stranger?”

His friend’s words did nothing for the muck ball in his gut.
Like I don’t know all that already, Z? Like I don’t know what a feast Freud would have with my psyche right now? They’re called demons, my friend, and I need to purge them on someone besides the woman I plan to marry.

Outwardly, he scowled at his beer label and muttered, “It’s complicated.”

“Shit howdy, Corncob Bob, ya think so?”

Garrett slammed his foot down. “Look, dickwad, this is partly
your
fault.”

Zeke’s posture shot straight up. “What the hell? My fault?”

“If you hadn’t dragged my ass to Subjugate that night and—”

Fuck. His mouth had sprinted ahead of his brain. Way ahead. He realized it the same second Zeke did. His friend’s eyebrows shot nearly to his hairline.

“Okay.” Z drew each syllable out with knowing emphasis. “The puzzle pieces are starting to fit a little better. So this is about that wicked Dominant you keep denying, huh?”

The stomach sludge roiled with new fury, forcing him to his feet. He grabbed his bottle as he went, hurling it into the trash behind the bar, filling the little room with the crash of shattering glass. “I don’t have a fucking ‘Dominant’ side. And I’m not denying anything!”

He didn’t look back at Zeke as he wheeled and went back to prowl the main room again. With impeccable timing, the hostess reappeared and motioned him forward. Thank fuck.

“Yeah,” Zeke called after him, “And I’m the Prince of Persia.”

Garrett thought of flipping him off, but the urge got mentally back-burnered as he focused on the next hour in store for him—and the bigger challenge of not feeling like a total bastard for it. But he had to figure out this crap inside himself for good. Wait. Screw the “figuring out” part. The demons weren’t getting a friendly chit-chat today. Guys like Zeke were comfortable with their demons. He wasn’t one of those guys. He needed to dynamite this shit back to the darkness from where it came—and no way in hell was Sage getting anywhere near the blast zone.

The hostess led him up a gold, spiral staircase that ended at the hotel’s third floor. He followed her down a hall with purple velvet wallpaper, softly lit by frosted glass sconces. All the doors were closed. He couldn’t hear a sound, except the tinny house sound system pushing out an aria being sung in one of the European romance languages. Irony deserved a fist bump for that one.

Finally, the woman stopped and pushed open a door with another serene smile. She motioned him into the room like a game show model showing off a new car. Garrett dipped his head, hoping he looked a gentleman despite feeling everything but, before stepping through.

Before she shut the door with a quiet click, his dick surged in heightened agony.