BELOVED VAMPIRE by Joey W Hill

BELOVED VAMPIRE by Joey W. Hill
Book IV of the Vampire Queen series

Mason has lived in the Sahara desert for almost 300 years, grieving for a lost love and guarding her tomb. When the tomb is breached, his bloodlust is stirred to raging by the thought of someone disturbing her sanctuary.

What he finds is Jessica, a fugitive from his own world. Jessica was the forced second-mark servant of a cruel vampire master. Through an unexpected turn of events, she was able to kill him when he tried to give her the final mark, which would have made her his full servant, bound to him even in death. Because the third marking was not complete, it left her alive...barely.

Drawn by the historic legend of the tomb, not knowing how it intertwines with the vampire world she is seeking to avoid, Jessica's only desire is to die there, with her hand on the sarcophagus of the woman who'd had an unyielding faith in love.

Instead, she finds her desire to live forcibly re-awakened by the vampire who refuses to let her give up. She clings to her hatred, but the more Mason struggles with her, the more determined he is to help her believe in love again. The only catch is he might have to do the same. But can he offer up his heart to another extraordinary woman if he already gave it away centuries ago?

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Excerpt:

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Beloved Vampire
Erotic/BDSM Paranormal Romance
© Copyright 2009 - All Rights Reserved



The Sahara had once been green. Lush, a verdant land supporting civilizations. Then the earth’s orbit changed, the sun came a little closer, and the land altered, becoming a desert that swallowed armies. It had happened three or four thousand years ago, barely a blink in the nine billion year life of Earth, but in that blink, Heaven and Hell had switched places. Had it been cosmic boredom, a need for a different perspective? Life giver, life taker.

Jessica wondered which face the Sahara preferred. Since she’d come here to die, it was a point of interest. Barely two years ago, her body had been vigorous and fertile as well. Now it, too, was a barren skeleton that repelled most sensible life forms. She felt almost at home here.

As the largest desert in the world, this was a place one could walk for days—if one had the constitution of a camel—and see no other human life. But the history of the area was still mapped on this wasteland, if one had trained eyes. Though she’d had to study it primarily from within the walls of her prison, she’d done little else of importance in the past months but study her final destination.

She didn’t really count killing Lord Raithe as important. The vampire who’d forced her to be his servant for over five years, and the reason she was dying now, was relatively nothing in the scheme of things. Creatures lived, creatures died, and their bones became sand like this. They all walked over the remains of their ancestors. At least he’d never torment anyone again. That mattered, though in truth, she’d been sick for so long now, she couldn’t even recall why that had been as important as it had once seemed.

In contrast, Farida had remained significant to her. In the midst of a life so horrible Jess often thought she’d already died and somehow deserved Hell—though she couldn’t recall her crime—Farida had given her a spark of light. It had amazed Jess, discovering the body’s desire to live was stronger than anything, even despair. Maybe that was why she’d connected with a woman who had chosen love and then lost everything.

From the very first moment Jess opened the ancient binding and discovered the written memories of the sheikh’s daughter who had lived over three hundred years ago, a bond had formed between them. Farida had spoken in her memoir passionately, vibrantly, of a love worth any torment.

Between being on the run as a fugitive and hoping she had the strength to keep going the next day, Jess had read her words. Hiding in dank places that only society’s forgotten frequented, often there was nothing else to break her thoughts, except the trickling background of an internal hourglass, the sands of her life running out. Her cells were being subsumed in that flow of sand, as if she were becoming part of a place like Farida’s Sahara. But she was okay with that. There were those who believed that the Sahara would return to greenness, that the cycles of climate change would evolve again, the sun getting less hot and the rains increasing. A different way of life would return.

After Jess killed Raithe, Farida’s journal and the diamonds were the only things worth her life to slip back into his house and retrieve. Maybe even then, in her subconscious, she’d realized where she was going to go and what she was going to do with the short remainder of her life. It was no more fantastic than what her life had been for the past five years. And no one would look for her in the Middle East.

When she’d arrived in the Sahara, she realized that those who wrote of it as a desolate place, devoid of life, didn’t know it. There was life here. Not just in the few peoples and creatures that called it home, but in the ghosts that whispered, finding voice through the movement of the sand, a haunting noise like blowing across the top of a soda bottle. She knew what that sounded like, for she’d done it as a teenager, clustered with her friends on the curb outside the Quik-Stop with soda and Cheetoes, eying the boys that came in after school. Boys who eyed them right back.

God, that was a long time ago. She held those memories to her occasionally like a favorite doll, even as she knew the act was closer to that of a mother holding a dead baby.

The three men she’d paid to accompany her this far thought her a madwoman, of course. But she’d paid them enough to indulge her, and there was nothing to lose, no liability. Take a crazy, dying woman out to a remote part of the desert that wasn’t on any map, and she’d eventually tire of her fantasy of finding the marker for a dead woman’s grave or die. They’d be rich men, either way. She’d shown them the jewels, what would be theirs if they helped her. She thanked whatever capricious Deity watched over fools that she’d had the foresight to take the gems while everyone was still out looking for her. Raithe had had a hoard to rival a dragon’s, so they’d never be missed.

Now, as she rolled the comfort of familiar thoughts through her head, a reminder of where she’d been, where she was going, she looked over the endless stretch of dunes. The breathtaking artistry of the wind upon them rivaled the greatest sculptors of the ages, and the sun collaborated, providing a different view with each degree it descended. But even that beauty couldn’t distract her from the fact night was drawing close. God, she hated darkness. But she fingered the compass in her pocket, reassuring herself. The stars would help her find Farida tonight at last.

Reading the words of that diary made her feel as if she were in Farida’s silken tent, where they cuddled on the pillows as girlfriends, pressed forehead to forehead. In the darkest time of night, Farida whispered in her ear. She’d told Jessica that, while everything in life could be taken away by uncontrollable forces, there was always a choice left. Something overlooked, if one did not let fear overwhelm desire.

Farida’s choice had been an incomparable man. Jessica’s would be where she wanted to die. Closing her eyes, Jessica remembered her favorite diary entry, about the night Farida had met Lord Mason…

* * * * *

I was behind the screen when Prince Haytham entered the tent to speak with my father. My father valued my counsel and often allowed me to do this, perhaps because he knew how very restless I became in a woman’s world. Why does Allah create dreams and appetites, the desire to live free and fierce as a man does, if those things are to be denied a woman’s soul? I have often wondered this.

Then I saw the man with the prince. Those longings, banked always against my responsibilities as my father’s daughter, exploded inside me like the brightness of stars, such that they couldn’t be contained. I bit down so hard on my lip I drew blood, though I knew I must fly, sing, dance…all for him.

He had to be a djinn spun from the desert sand, for never has a man been so beautifully made. Face carved with the sculpted beauty of the dunes, but smooth as watered stone, as if a goddess had created him and then lovingly stroked him, over and over.

When they sat for coffee, he removed his robes, showing he wore the brown riding trousers and white shirt of a European. He lounged back on the pillows, a graceful animal. Though he smiled and listened in that relaxed way of men as coffee was prepared, he reminded me of a desert tiger, for his hair was burnished copper, an animal’s pelt. He had it scraped back from his face, so every magnificent plane was emphasized. My fingers wanted to feel that fall of straight silk, tied back from his shoulders.

His eyes were true amber, like the tiger as well, an almost unnatural brilliance to them, as if he carried the fire of the desert within him. A djinn, as I have said. I heard Prince Haytham say later that he suspected Lord Mason was a British spy, for during the time he stayed with us, he was always gone by dawn, and returned at nightfall. He also spoke our language as well as a native, and his accent was not as precisely bitten off as other Englishmen who have met our camp.

The prince said Lord Mason’s purpose was nothing that concerned us, though I imagined him stepping out of view of our camp and dissolving into a tornado of sand, a desert devil spinning across the dunes. He had too much energy to contain in the body of a mortal man. I imagined that he returned to us at night only when his need to exercise his powers was temporarily sated.

But I need to leave off my fancies and go back to that first time I saw him. As I bit down on my lip and tasted my blood, I must have made a sound despite my efforts, for he looked at me, found me behind the screen. Those tiger’s eyes flickered. I saw his nostrils flare, as if he had my scent, knew every shameful thing I wanted. A passing moment, over in a blink. He shifted his attention away, not disrespecting my father by staring at a woman of his house.

But when he raised his hand to perform the salaam, I drew in another unsteady breath, thinking how those hands would feel on my flesh, compelling my surrender, my obedience, my devotion and love throughout eternity. I knew then. From that very first second, Fate tied a gentle but unbreakable tether around my throat and handed the lead to him. I would follow him, no matter what our end would be.

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A VAMPIRE'S CLAIM by Joey W. Hill

A VAMPIRE'S CLAIM Book III of Joey W. Hill's Vampire Queen series

Lady Daniela has never taken a full human servant. At two hundred years, she’s always put it off, having a bachelor’s attitude toward bonding with another, even an inferior human. However, on her return to her sheep station in Western Australia in 1953, she meets Dev, a war veteran and laconic bushman, who has the talents to help her reclaim her station from her mother’s lover, who usurped her position there forty years before.

But after she takes care of that nasty bit of business, she’s also intending to rid Western Australia of a corrupt Region Master who is 500 years old and therefore over twice her age and strength. While a full human servant, particularly one with Dev’s unique talents, can augment her skills and resources, the more she gets to know him, the more reluctant she is to bind him to her in a way that might get him killed. But Dev has his own thoughts on the matter, and she will soon find it’s easier for a vampire to survive in the desert sun than for her to survive without him by her side.

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Don’t go there tonight. Nothin’ but trouble.

As Dev passed the Aboriginal elder, he heard the warning, muttered in the language the old man knew he understood. A wise man would listen to such a warning. But he wanted a beer. A dumb galah he might be, but hell, he’d been in the Outback more than sixty days. Even uncooled, the beer would bring welcome bitter wetness to his throat. A smooth bottle in his hand, the clink of the top falling away on the bar surface. His craving for it made a knight seeking the Holy Grail no more than a bloke who liked collecting fancy cups.

He needed the comfort of human conversation. At least for a night. After that, it would start to grate on his nerves, rouse old memories. He was like a seesaw, needing to descend into the embrace of humanity, but in short order he had to push off from that and let the other, darker part of him sink back into the vast emptiness of the harsh lands he called home. People were too full, and that fullness hurt, the longer he stayed around it.

So, after his beer and some idle talk, he’d pay his tithe for the company and the wetting of his throat and head back out.

Unless there was a woman.

He snorted at himself. Not only were unmarried women few and far between out here, no decent woman put a foot inside a bar. An indecent one would be snapped up in a heartbeat, the ringers taking a break from their hard work on the far flung sheep and cattle stations willing to shell out their last quid for her.

It didn’t matter. As bad as lingering in human company could be, a woman’s body was a drug that carried with it a hell of a hangover when he had to face himself in a mirror the next day. Unfortunately, he couldn’t ignore the burning need festering in his balls. His mind had been dragging him into all sorts of unlikely fantasies for the past couple weeks. He’d risked fatally dehydrating himself, those nights he’d given in to the poor substitute of his hand. He might have to give it away, take the Ghan down to Adelaide and endure the mobs of people and noise, where women for hire were more plentiful.

Maybe it would be better that way. More impersonal and anonymous. Maybe he wouldn’t imagine Tina looking down at him with shame and sorrow in her eyes, from the heights of a heaven he was never going to see.

Walling that thought off, he focused on an Adelaide whore. He’d want a soft and passably pretty sheila, one who’d smell clean. Who’d let him take her as rough as she could tolerate and still hang around to stroke his hair, curl in front of him so he could fit himself to her curves. Even have the pleasure of listening to her sleep, if he wore her out. Which, if he did her proper, would be the case.

Uncomfortably aware that his imaginings were far from the impersonal fucking he’d claimed to be seeking, he tuned back in to his immediate surroundings. The usual scattering of vehicles, mostly utes, were parked in front of Joe and Elle’s place, a pub in the usual style. Two story, the upper level for the hotel, the lower for the bar. A veranda wrapped around that top level was for those who often preferred it to the stuffy rooms, if they had netting to guard against the bugs. A couple blokes sat out on it now, behind the lacy wrought iron railing, trying to catch the breeze.

Aside from the utes, there were a pair of expensive-looking Rovers, one being worked over by an agitated, grease-stained driver and another man. City folk by their appearance, but they wore appropriate clothes for the bush and appeared to be carrying the right supplies needed when traveling out here. That was a relief. Less chance the whole bloody town would have to mobilize to rescue them from some foolishness. Lord knows, the bush could surprise even the most experienced man. It could chew up tourists like a hungry croc.

He took his pack into the bar with him as usual, because sometimes a light-fingered fella got to thinking you didn’t need your belongings if you left them sitting unattended. However, as he stepped into the bar, he forgot he was even carrying it. Hell, if asked, he doubted he could have told anyone his name.

While no respectable woman went into a bar, he wasn’t about to cast any stones at the one standing at the antiquated juke box Joe prized. Except for her, it was the only shiny thing in the dusty place.

Her back was to him, so her face might look like an aggravated camel’s. But she had blond hair, tied in a tail that curled and waved across the narrow slope of her back like peaceful surf, touched by the gold of sundown. The track of it drew his gaze to the nip of her waist and down. Her arse alone would be worth overlooking a homely face, for the flare of her hips was well-outlined in a pair of trim brown jodhpurs.

“Well, look what the cat’s dragged in. Going to barter those eggs for a beer, Dev?”

In order to focus on Elle, Dev had to pull his attention away. He might have taken more time about it, but something in Elle’s voice put his radar up.

Eleanor Waters was the exception to the decent-woman-in-a-bar rule, first because she was the licensee, with her husband Joe. Second, she was as tough and no nonsense as old Joe. She always said she’d seen it all, such that she kept a shotgun below the bar in case any of it came back twice. But she was bothered tonight. Strangers passing through weren’t a frequent occurrence, but it was rare they caused trouble.

A glance about the occupied tables showed the woman was there with three men, in addition to the two out by the vehicle. From the way they’d checked him out when he stepped across the threshold, it was clear they were hired muscle. It was also clear she was the one who’d hired them, from their body language and glances toward her.

As he deposited his pack against the bar, taking off the slings that held his rifle on his back and the nest of billies at his hip, the blond woman turned at last.

Blue eyes. Jesus, so blue it was like diving the Reef. Skin so fair it brought to mind the fairy tales. But then there was that soft mouth, lush in ways that drove away all thoughts of children’s stories and went into the realm of darker, more provocative tales. The lipstick she wore was deep red, wet. Normally, he would have scoffed at a woman wearing makeup out here, but wherever she wanted to wear it was just fine with him. And holy Christ, she wore an opal amulet the size of his thumbnail. While that was impressive, he was far more distracted by how it glistened in the cleft of her breasts, just above the slightly strained button of her white blouse.

He’d stripped off his shirt to carry the three emu eggs Elle had noticed right off, so the stranger’s vivid blue gaze traveled with deliberate appreciation over his bare, sweat-stained shoulders and the expanse of his chest, passing over the scars, then lingering on each muscle in his abdomen as if she were tracing them with her tongue. When her glance went lower, just as slow and easy, her mink lashes fanned the cheeks of pale cream. She obviously didn’t mind him knowing she was looking.

“Dev.” Elle’s voice was a bit sharper.

Jesus. “Yeah, Elle. How ya going?” Clearing his throat, he put the bundle on the bar and took off his hat.

“Fair enough.” Elle’s solid bulk was a less unsettling sight to him as she slid him a beer. She had her brown and gray hair pinned up to keep it off her neck in the late afternoon heat. “The Yanks elected that Eisenhower fella president. And the Queen’s supposed to have another go at visiting us soon.”

Trying not to look toward the jukebox as the bar owner untied the shirt to give the eggs a critical look, Dev made a noncommittal noise. “Guess that’ll be a right treat for some. You know the eggs are for Joe. I’ve got the money for the beer.”

She smiled. “No, I was just teasing you. I know you’ve got the money. But I’ll shout you the first one anyway. I asked you to bring them, after all. Had a few bad moments thinking of you lying out there with your head kicked in by an angry mother bird. Then I remembered just how hard your head is.” A warning glinted in her eyes as she said it, her gaze sliding to the jukebox and back. “Joe’ll be so surprised for his birthday. He hasn’t had a cake made of emu eggs since his Nanna was alive. You can have the third, though. Only need two.”

When the woman reached over, ostensibly to wipe the bar, she lowered her voice and muttered, “Unless a bird did kick you in the head, you’d best pay attention, you daft bastard. She ain’t sweatin’.”

Dev shifted his attention. It was a sweltering sundown after a hot day, for sure. Elle had the fans going to help with it as well as the flies, but no help for it, a man was going to sweat. A woman, too. Not just the three muscle men his fair sheila had with her, but the group of blokes back at the pool table, some leaning against the wall with their drinks or tapping their smokes in the ash tray on the mantle for the fireplace that was never used. They all bore the signature sweat stains at the usual places. Chest, back, armpits.

In contrast, the woman’s ivory cotton shirt looked as if it had just been pressed and pulled out of the wardrobe. White, always a favorite color for the flies, seemed to have no appeal to them while on her back. They weren’t anywhere near her, whereas those who chose glasses instead of bottles had to keep a hand over them in between swallows to make sure the pests didn’t go for a swim.

As the jukebox started to play the wistful ballad she’d chosen, she turned back to it. When she started to sway, those trim brown daks she wore moved with her curves perfectly. His gonads engaged again in a shot, like bullets being racked into the firing chamber of a shotgun.

He wouldn’t say she was oblivious to the attention she was attracting, but she didn’t seem one of those shallow girls who needed it to thrive, her beauty her only sense of worth. Rather, he was reminded of a female predator who used wiles to attract her prey, just close enough…

His body and mind were screaming at him to go into that trap. Resolutely he turned back to Elle. “I’ll take a second beer,” he said.

His forearm was braced on the bar, and so he was startled when a slim-fingered hand reached over it to cup one of the three eggs Elle had now placed in a bowl. Elle jumped, her eyes widening. While Dev managed not to react, he hadn’t even heard the woman’s slim booted feet move across the wooden floor.

Her nails were a feminine length with clear polish, the elegant tips drawing attention to the grace of her hands. Despite the large size of an emu egg, the way she stroked the curves, he couldn’t help but think of how those tips would feel moving over his balls in a similar way. God, he could smell her. All woman, fresh scents of soap and powders and the mysterious things women did to make themselves impossible to resist. And those miles of blond hair, waiting for deeper study, teasing at the corner of his eye.

Forcing himself not to look, Dev nodded his thanks to Elle and lifted his beer to his lips, closing his eyes to savor as he tilted back. Perhaps it was because he was so aware of her proximity that he anticipated the woman, but he caught her hand a moment before she would have touched his exposed throat. Opening his eyes, he kept his hand firmly closed on her wrist. Intrigued, he noticed her men didn’t react, continuing their card game.

“Don’t think we’ve been properly introduced, love,” he said without rancor.

“I’m a woman who likes to touch fine-looking things,” she responded. Her voice had a Brit and Aussie blending with an unexpected sultry cadence, probably because the sound of it had the smoothness of lava, pouring heat straight into his pants.

She might have said something else, but he missed the next series of words entirely. Just like Elle, he wasn’t knocked off his pins by much anymore. But now, confronted with her close up, he was knocked full on his arse.

Her face looked as fragile and protected as a prize-winning orchid. The blond hair was truly spun gold, like that found in the mines long ago, when the dust glittered on the walls like an enchanted castle.

Easy, mate. She’s no whore, though by God she’s acting willing enough to take you on. What in hell was a woman like this doing out here? The softness of the skin under his fingertips said she sure as hell didn’t live in the Outback. He noticed how she’d come in on his left side, which avoided the straining long patches of late afternoon sunlight coming in through the open door and windows.

Nothin’ but trouble there tonight.

He’d gone and put his foot in it, hadn’t he?

Shifting his glance to a watchful Elle, he said, “Elle, love. Can you loan me a clean bar rag?”

Elle slid one over. Picking it up, Dev released the blonde to clean off the sweat and grime he’d just left on her skin. She had a narrow wrist, a gemstone on one finger in proportion to the one on her neck.

“Some nice baubles to be wearing way out here,” he observed, trying not to focus on how easy it would be to make his functional scrubbing a teasing stroke over her pulse, a hint of what he could offer to other parts of her. As she lifted her hand to accommodate him, he could feel that pulse beating like a bird’s heart. There was a delicate web of lines on her palm. Her life line was long, he noted.

“No sense in owning something if you’re not going to play with it. Show it off.” She turned her hand, interlacing a couple of her fingers with his own despite the cloth, and held them there at eye level, keeping his gaze focused on her face. He was a few inches taller than she was. “I’ll tell you my name if you give me the extra egg.”

Considering that, he gave her a half shrug. “Well, I haven’t asked you for that, have I now? As pretty a name as I’m sure it is, it’s not much currency for what could provide me a good meal or two. Barter again, love.”

She studied him, her mouth curving up. “A dance.”

“A slow dance.” Dropping the rag on the bar and letting her go, albeit reluctantly, he took another bracing swallow of the beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As he did, he let his gaze move down and then back up, with as much brazen appreciation as she’d indulged herself. He thought he saw that hint of a smile reach her eyes at his boldness, but something else, too. Something darker. “The kind of dance that tells a man what a woman’s got to offer under her clothes,” he added.

Elle muttered something under her breath. Dev was sure it was something like “stupid bugger”, but because he was cracking on to the pretty stranger way too hard or because he was going hip deep into trouble and just trudging along happily, he didn’t know. Well, as for the first, the blonde had started it, hadn’t she?

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VAMPIRE TRINITY by Joey W Hill

VAMPIRE TRINITY by Joey W Hill
Book VI of the Vampire Queen series

Vampire hunter Gideon Green sure as hell never intended to become a vampire's servant. But when Anwyn Naime, a woman with whom he shared an unforgettable night, is turned by a vampire pack, they become bound by something far greater than either imagined. It also forces Gideon into an uneasy alliance with one of the most terrifying vampires he's ever encountered: the mysterious Daegan Rei.

Daegan also has a vested interest in Anwyn. His history with the lovely nightclub owner is both intimate and intense. As Gideon and Daegan shepherd Anwyn through her dangerous validation with the Vampire Council, it's clear the three of them must learn to trust each other. But as boundaries between them erode and vulnerabilities surface, Gideon realizes he is no longer the man he thought he was - changed by a strange and unexpected bond with the two new people in his life he can't survive without...vampires.

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Excerpt:
By reading any further, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of 18, it is necessary to exit this site.

Vampire Trinity
BDSM/Paranormal Erotic Romance© Copyright 2009 - All Rights Reserved
Note: This is a pre-copyedit draft excerpt, so it may vary from the final copy.

Background: Anwyn’s turning was violently done by a schizophrenic vampire. As a result, in Daegan’s absence with the Council, he’s asked the scientist, Lord Brian, to stay with her to see what can be done to help stabilize her transition seizures. In this scene, she and Brian are at dinner with Gideon and Debra, their respective servants, when Brian tells her he needs to monitor her vitals during a sexual experience to get a better baseline for the seizures. Needless to say, it puts a different spin on dinner conversation...

Now she turned her gaze to Brian, arching a brow. “Will masturbation provide the same data?”
He cleared his throat, giving her some small satisfaction at her reminder that on some things, at least, she didn’t need kid gloves.

“Similar enough. And tonight would be preferable,” he said, with just the right note of apology and concern in his eyes.

“All right. But first I want to know something. The first night Debra made us dinner, when she pulled out the table settings, she stopped and looked at you, as if waiting for an answer to an unspoken question. You said, ‘We’ll all eat at the table. No games.’ What did that mean?”

“Good memory.” Brian nodded. “You remember Lord Daegan said you and your servant were exclusive until your transition was complete and he returned?”

Dear Goddess, let him come home before the transition is complete. That could take up to three months. If she had to wait three months to see him, she might completely lose it. But she nodded. She felt Gideon’s gaze on her. Since, as her servant, he could be in her mind and she wasn't so adept yet at keeping him out, she knew he might have heard that thought.

“Vampire social gatherings always involve sexual games with the servants. It’s required by etiquette, and there are many political strategies worked out through such games. Though it’s also for the pleasure of the diners.”

Brian lifted his wineglass without glancing toward Debra. Putting down her fork, she immediately rose, took it from his hand and went to the sidebar to pour him another glass.
“During a typical social gathering,” he continued, “a vampire’s servant either stands behind her Master’s chair, or kneels next to him, if he wants to feed her portions of the meal he’s sampling.”
He glanced at her blood-laced wine. “You and I are not sampling human food. And I am here merely for your protection and diagnostics. Therefore, it made more sense to have our servants join us at the table and engage in conversation. Keep it more informal and relaxed.”

“So this is the vampire version of eating dinner at home, in front of the TV?”

Brian inclined his head toward Gideon, acknowledging the sardonic question. “If you like. But there have been times, even when eating alone, that I have bade my servant perform at my direction as she would at a gathering. Test runs, to help her confidence.” He turned his gaze back to Anwyn, a clear message there. “As well as for my own pleasure.”

Brian shifted from absentminded genius professor to urbane and well-versed dinner guest with barely a grinding of gears. Since he was a born vampire, his father a Region Master, it shouldn’t surprise her that he’d been trained to handle himself that way. Had Daegan imposed that directive about Brian not sharing servants because he didn’t think her capable of the other right now? Or he didn’t want to share her with anyone? Perhaps he was concerned about how Gideon would handle such a situation. She’d caught his sharp glance at the exchange. She knew Gideon wasn’t going to participate in anything like that, because she could hear it in his head. A cold day in hell before that will happen...

It was no less than what she expected, but it still added to the heavy, cold weight in her lower belly. Every day she grew more dependent on him, the first man in her life she could say that about and not feel she’d betrayed herself. When he left...

By the time that happens, you’ll be on your feet again, Anwyn. You’ll have graduated, gotten your full-fledged bat wings and not need me in your head anymore.

How do you know?

Because I know you. And because I won’t leave until that happens.

Was it something perverse in her that wanted to test that?

“What kind of things?” she asked Brian with not-so-casual interest. Crossing her forearms, she leaned forward, toying with the stem of her glass. Her nostrils flared, catching the scent of fresh blood as Debra cut her wrist with a tiny pearl-handled knife she’d had tucked in her bodice, let it flow into Brian’s glass. He drank white wine, so the crimson exploded like a flower blooming, sparkling in the candlelight Debra had set in the center of the table.

Brian glanced toward his servant. She’d changed for dinner. While Anwyn expected it was still demure and casual by vampire standards, the short, sleeveless lavender dress hugged Debra’s curves and gave her gray eyes a violet hue. Her hair was down, and the straight strands teased her fine cheekbones and lightly glossed lips.

As if visually recalling some of those “tests,” Brian’s gaze lingered on her as he spoke. “Simple things. Requiring that she strip naked and cook me human food, gourmet choices. Then lay on the table before me, with those samples placed on her body so I can use her as my table, my plate. Sometimes I bind her to a chair, with a vibrator inside of her, and watch her writhe and beg to come while I drink her fresh blood from a glass and go over my notes for the day. If she’s been a little too opinionated”—his eyes glinted as she turned back toward the table carrying the wine—“she kneels between my knees and holds my cock in her mouth as long as I demand. Not sucking or stimulating, merely holding it, feeling it grow harder until it fills her mouth and pushes into her throat.”

Brian took the glass from his servant, his hand closing over hers. Debra was still, her eyes lowered, her lips pressed together, but Anwyn recognized the flush of arousal on her soft cheeks. She wasn’t wearing a bra, because her nipples were points pressing against the fabric.

Gideon had put down his fork, sat back. Though he was trying to stay removed and wary from the turn in the conversation, Anwyn could tell the images Brian had painted were affecting him, as they would any male with alpha tendencies. Which her vampire hunter had in spades.
“That takes some self-discipline,” she observed. “For both of you.”

What Brian had described fired her own blood, ratcheted up her earlier yearning to be more demanding with Gideon again. But each time she thought about it, she remembered the way she’d lost control when she was overstimulated by the club environment. A Mistress’s first responsibility was protecting her slave, and she was his worst danger. Vulnerability had crippled her confidence. Brian was here, yes, but she didn’t trust him the way she trusted Daegan.

They said they needed readings. Gideon’s voice, in her mind. Why not handle two birds with one net, Mistress? Confidence and coitus?

She didn’t smile, because his mind-voice, which had some of the same sexy, deep cadence it had when spoken, ran chills and pleasure both up her spine. He knew. Of course he did. He was in her mind, but more than that, Gideon was always hyperintuitive when it came to her. He would have noticed her holding back.

You don’t want me to do this. Not this way.

Yeah, I do. Because I miss the woman I met in the Queen’s Chamber that first night. Almost as much as you do.

I don’t want to hurt you.

You won’t. Not that way. Just... I don’t want him anywhere near me, all right? That’s all I ask. On everything else, I’m all yours, Mistress.

This was why she needed to work harder to turn the thin screen between their minds into a solid wall when needed. He already knew what would heat her blood, arouse her Mistress instincts and put them in forward drive. She felt like a teenager whose driving instructor had just mashed down the gas pedal, taking them into a merge lane toward a busy interstate. Out of control, but a surge of exhilaration, knowing she could do this; she was just scared. She hated her own fear almost worse than anything else, but fear of what she might do to someone else was a harder animal to control.

Gideon rose from the table, collecting his dishes as well as Debra’s, taking them into the kitchen. He dumped them in the sink and ran some water over them. Watching him do the domestic task, his hips shifting with the movement, head tilted down and shoulders flexing as he moved the dishes into the dishwasher, she made her decision.

“Gideon.”

He straightened, turned, met her gaze. Whatever he saw told him she’d transitioned into that mode, because his firm mouth curved. “Mistress?”

He was calling her that more often now. To help her confidence, yes. If only for that, it would have irritated her, made her feel patronized. But in those dreamland drifts through his mind, she’d found he liked using the title, though like so many things, he couldn’t define why, or admit it to himself when waking. Gideon’s mind was divided between the lies he told himself to function while awake, and the truths that comforted him in his dreams.

She’d been the kind of Mistress who made a man face his truths, to bring them both the maximum pleasure that such brutal honesty could invoke. She could be that again.

“Leave the dishes for later. I want to give Lord Brian his readings. Go to the playroom, bring the strap-on with the six-inch phallus. The curved one that vibrates, and some lubricant.”

He’d anticipated, or perhaps hoped, that it would be simple, she straddling him on the couch or chair, where he could close out everything but the vision of her riding him, the feel of her cunt clamped around him. The arch of her throat, those miles of hair tickling his bare thighs as she dropped her head back, her breasts straining upward, begging for the cup of his hands.

No part of my body begs, Gideon. It demands, and you beg for the right to give it what it wants. She arched a brow. You wanted me to reclaim my confidence as your Mistress, right?

A rueful, somber smile touched that tempting mouth, and he set aside the dish towel, giving her a look before moving toward the playroom. Anwyn concentrated, hard, brought that screen down, where thoughts and words, unless directed right at Gideon, were harder to discern, like parceling out chatter at a crowded mall. Looking toward Debra and Brian, she discovered the rules were not so different here than in the underground level of Atlantis.

When he’d released her hand, Debra had gone to a kneeling position next to Brian’s thigh. He’d taken his wineglass from her, letting the silent interaction between Anwyn and Gideon play out while Debra assumed a common submissive position. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her knees spread in the short dress, making it ride high on her thighs. As Anwyn watched, Brian painted a drifting line of the blood-laced wine along the upper portion of her bosom, exposed by the low scoop neck of the dress.

Desire curled in Anwyn, seeing the tableau. She’d missed watching the games above, unable to spend time in her club during open hours. She could get the video feed, still did a lot of review of those tapes, but it wasn’t the same as being a direct witness. With his vampire senses, Brian picked up on her response. Though he could send a command to Debra’s mind, Anwyn realized he was offering her, a Mistress, something directly with his spoken words.

“Unzip your dress and let it fall to your waist. I want full access to your breasts.”
Debra complied, and tugged the soft fabric over her aroused nipples, giving Brian a wider expanse of flesh to paint, increase that flush of arousal and the still tension of her body. Anwyn realized she could smell the response of each one of them. Debra’s moistening sex, her own. Even Brian was hardening, such that he already had some fluid leak at the tip under his slacks. Heartbeats were quickening, Debra’s breath becoming more shallow.

“Lord Brian, I’m on familiar and yet unfamiliar ground here.” Anwyn straightened in the chair, met his gaze when it turned to her. He had such a level, calming expression, but now, in arousal, it had taken on that faint predatory gleam she realized that even a vampire scientist could possess. “I assume you would tell me if any step risks either of our servants?”

“I will. I assume you would tell me if anything we do risks your protector’s displeasure?”

Anwyn smiled at the quirk at his mouth. Having been raised in Britain, Brian possessed that dry humor that struck at unexpected times and made the green eyes and sculpted face all the more appealing. She’d noticed he often pushed the dark blond, straight hair that fell over the high brow out of his eyes with muttered impatience when trying to look through a microscope.
Despite his good looks, he didn’t seem the vain type, so she’d wondered why he didn’t cut it. Sliding a glance to Debra, noting her studying that very feature in his profile, she thought she maybe had her answer.

According to Daegan, Brian and Debra were supposedly a textbook example of the perfect Master-servant relationship. While there was an obvious deep bond there, Brian was clearly Debra’s Master, in a way that even exceeded the definition of the 24/7 couples Anwyn had seen at the club. There was the same flavor, in terms of the sexual practices, but a different animal entirely in how it was manifested. Debra truly belonged to him. Anwyn didn’t want to equate it with historic slavery or even indentured servitude—there was a willingness and devotion here that characterized neither of those situations—but the power Brian held over her, and her submission to him, were close kin to those states. And unlike the world in which her 24/7 couples lived, the vampire world did consider human servants property of the vampire who marked them. Debra seemed not only to understand, but to accept that.

She wondered if that was another reason Daegan had wanted them here. To remind her vividly of why Gideon couldn’t be a permanent part of her life? Or to give Gideon an example to follow, a way to learn without dictating to him?

Daegan was mysterious, manipulative and arrogant. But he was also insightful, exceedingly clever and unmatched in his judgment of people. Seeing such a relationship was entirely too fascinating to her Mistress nature and the vampire blood in which it now churned. She kept telling herself to proceed cautiously in those waters. She had to proceed cautiously in all waters, because any type of volatility or passion could be taken way too far.

But still, as she heard Gideon returning, saliva gathered around her fangs, reacting to the surge of adrenaline through her chest, the tightening of her thighs and breasts. A simultaneous animal possessiveness and wave of lust washed over her as she turned to look at her servant.

He brought in the strap-on, carrying the sterilized sexual aid rolled up in his hand and low to his side, the way men carried things they didn’t particularly want or know how to carry in a masculine way, like a woman’s purse. When she reached for it, he gladly turned it over to her. Rather than rising to initiate something, however, she laid it on the table, in front of Debra. She shifted her gaze to Brian.

“I would like your servant to wear this, and take my servant from behind, while he is inside of me. Would you permit her to do that, Lord Brian? Can you perform your readings that way, or do you need her direct assistance?”

Brian considered that, glanced toward Debra. Debra had lifted her gaze to Gideon, briefly, then cut back to her Master, awaiting his decision. Anwyn saw trepidation and curiosity simmering in the gray gaze. Debra had never done that to a man. And definitely not to a man like Gideon.
“Yes,” Brian said at last. “I think that will work. Debra, remove all of your clothes, except your heels and stockings, and put on the harness.” He glanced toward Anwyn. “Do you think the couch would be best?”

She nodded. If Debra wasn’t involved, she would have chosen the easy chair, aligned with the sofa. She told herself it was a coincidence that it was Daegan’s favorite chair. It was best suited for a larger man’s frame, was all.

Brian got up to retrieve the sensors. She’d been aware of the turmoil in Gideon’s mind, and now tilted her head back, studying him upside down, standing just behind her, arms crossed and thumbs hooked in his armpits.

“Gideon,” she murmured. “Take off all your clothes as well.”

His gaze flickered to Debra, already lifting her dress over her head. She was entirely naked under it, except for the thigh-high stockings Brian had mentioned that she wore with three-inch ankle-strap heels. She’d been wearing a choker of steel links with a pendant. Anwyn realized it was a collar, something that Brian must have gotten for Debra, liking the symbolism of it. It was a romantic gesture, making her wonder anew what lay under the surface of the “textbook perfect” Master-servant relationship of these two.

Anwyn brought her attention back to Gideon, who hadn’t yet started to undress. Not afraid of two girls, are you?

He narrowed his eyes at her. I think you’re obsessed with sticking things in my ass.

I’ll take a strap to your ass if you don’t start undressing.

You and what army? But the devilish thought came with compliance as he unbuttoned the shirt he’d borrowed from Daegan’s closet for their more formal dinner. He looked incredibly handsome in Armani, those vivid blue eyes even more compelling, the ends of his hair brushing the collar, but when he shrugged out of it, with a ripple of chest and biceps muscle, it was enough to make any woman take a breath. Anwyn rose, cognizant of Debra’s gaze passing over those muscles, down to the waist and below, a moment before Anwyn shifted to block the view, deliberately bringing her gaze back to her.

“You’ve never done this before.”

“No, ma’am. But I’ve had it done to me.”

“All right.” Anwyn unpinned her hair, let it tumble down her back until it caressed her hips. She shook it out, threading her fingers through it, and felt Gideon’s hands pass over it, a quick tug. But when she glanced back at him he was unfastening his belt, the picture of obedience. An illusion, she was sure. “Then you should know you ease in. Let him relax, and I’ll help him get that way.”

“I’ll be fine,” Gideon grumbled. Anwyn pivoted on her heel. With unerring direction, she closed her hand over his testicles in the slacks. They were a little snug, because though Gideon had a whipcord musculature she wanted to feed, it still had more Irish brawler bulk to it than Daegan’s graceful physique.

“That’s enough,” she said softly, looking up at him. “It’s time for you to listen, and be still, and obey your Mistress. Do you understand?”

There it was, that quiver in the muscles her senses were fine-tuned to detect. She’d been so gun-shy of doing this, but all of a sudden, she knew what she wanted and how she wanted it. She was demanding it from him. She wouldn’t hurt him. Brian was here, and it was going to be okay.
She could be the Mistress she’d been aching to be to him for three long weeks.

His gaze held hers for a long moment; then he gave her a nod.

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VAMPIRE QUEEN'S SERVANT by Joey W Hill

Book I in Joey W. Hill's Vampire Queen Series with Berkley Heat

His blood. His soul. His body. Hers for the asking…

Lady Elyssa Yamato Amaterasu Wentworth is a centuries-old vampire who's been given a new servant – Jacob, a total alpha male unaccustomed to submitting to any woman’s wishes. What really binds Jacob to her are not her sensual midnight hungers, but something far more provocative. It stirs her blood, renews her life and awakens her soul like only true love can. The passion between Lyssa and Jacob yields something else unexpected – a shared history that reaches back through the centuries and is fated to challenge their destiny like nothing ever will again.

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Vampire Queen's Servant
Erotic/BDSM Paranormal Romance
© Copyright 2007 - All Rights Reserved

"Why do you want to become a human servant? Are you running from death? Or are you one of those idealistic idiots who believe vampires are misunderstood creatures, issuing pretentious threats while we cling to the shadows and whine out our angst over our lost mortality?”

The description made Jacob smile. Too late, he realized he should have curbed the urge. He’d been warned her moods changed as quickly as the snap of a whip.

In a blink, the room closed in on him with a suffocating energy. Making the chamber much warmer than the gas log fire, the power raised the hairs on his neck in warning.

“Do you realize, mortal, I could rip you apart limb by limb? Tear out your entrails and take your blood while you watch, choking on your last breath? Don’t play games with me, and do not speak false, or those words will be your last.”

When Jacob raised his gaze, he saw her eyes had taken on a reddish cast as she spoke, a hint of fang pushing over the right side of her full lip. The humanity had disappeared from her expression.

A wise man would have taken his hands off her foot. Put about a hundred feet between him and the threat he knew she was capable of executing. But Jacob knew that would be it. Game over. The last nine months of his life a waste. Most importantly, he would fail her, something he’d sworn to a dying man he would not do.

“I know you can destroy me,” he said quietly, staring back down at that shapely foot. “My reasons for wanting to be your servant are complicated and personal, my lady. My tongue isn’t clever enough to explain them as you wish me to do. But I can prove myself to you, if you’ll give me the opportunity.”

It took Herculean effort to manage the words in an even tone, to raise his attention back to her face and hold that preternatural gaze without flinching, though his muscles tensed in an involuntary readiness he knew would be futile if she chose to strike. “I suspect if you truly intended to tear my limbs off, you wouldn’t take the time to threaten me.”

“Perhaps I feed on fear.”

“There are other, more satisfying meals I can offer you.” Daring or just plain stupid he didn’t know, but going with his gut, Jacob bent and placed his lips against the top of her foot.

* * * * *

Small, fine-boned, cold. Like his mother’s china. When he was little he’d been forbidden to touch it. As a man, he’d learned how to handle delicate things, enjoying the sensation while taking the proper care to keep them from harm.

Despite her strength, which could tear out the concrete foundation of the Eldar if she chose to exercise it, he thought of her as delicate. There were many formidable women, with or without vampire strength. But it was his experience that all of them had a need for love, unless damage to their heart had caused them to wall it off. They all desired to be cherished emotionally, and the art of conveying that through physical touch was one of the most potent ways to do it.

His lady appeared to have some sizeable fortifications around her heart for reasons he knew too well. Even so, he thought he could see a light guiding him through the crevices that still remained in those walls, toward the dark center of her soul.

Perhaps that intuition came from Thomas’s many insights into her. Or maybe it wasn’t intuition at all, merely the rationalizing stupidity that came with a man’s lust. But though Jacob had woken countless times in the middle of the night bathed in sweat, his cock spent like a teenager’s over the dreams he’d had about her, as many or more times the dreams had been about other things. Things that created a deeper-than-physical yearning unable to be assuaged with the touch of his hand on his cock. Only the feel of her in his arms would be enough. He let that guide him now.

Thomas, her former servant, had exaggerated nothing, even the way she made this abrupt transition from haughty goddess to merciless sorceress. As overwhelming as she was, he wanted to please her, to give her the gift of losing herself in her own desire. She was so lonely. He felt it from her like a labored heartbeat that made his own chest ache.

So he shifted his lips to her instep, tasted her there, his tongue flicking along the curve as he nuzzled the sole of her foot. When she placed her other foot against his shoulder, he figured she was about to shove him back on his ass. Or through a wall. But when he lifted his lashes, he found she’d gone motionless and was watching him. Turning his head, he brushed his hair along her ankle before he put his mouth against her calf. Slowly, so he conveyed his respect and his intention, he gripped her ankle and lifted her foot from his shoulder, supporting her calf in his other palm as he tasted her, all along the length of that fine limb.

The gauzy points of the skirt brushed his forehead. His nostrils flared when he smelled her response, which spurred his cock like a shot of adrenaline. Steady, mate. Make it about her.

He didn’t suppress the male passion that made him nip at her as he reached her knee, her thigh. She arched, a gasp leaving her at the rougher contact, and he did it again, marking her lightly with his teeth. Her other foot moved, rested on his thigh as he squatted before her. Then, not content with that, she slid it under his arm, bent her knee so her leg curved around his bare back, drawing him in. He made himself take his time though, nuzzling the thigh of the leg he still held, working his way up in millimeters. A tiny caress of his tongue, a quick suckle from his lips, then that scoring again, tasting her flesh in his mouth, feminine, silky skin.

Always ask permission.

The recollection of Thomas’s instruction was an irritating intrusion. Jacob didn’t ask women’s permission to drive them to pleasure. He took his cues from their bodies, their gasps, the grasp of their fingers. With her response, he felt an aggressive need to prove he could take over her senses. Perhaps it was because she was challenging him in an aggressive way no woman ever had. Or perhaps it was because he sensed against all logic and Thomas’s teachings she needed him to try to take her over. But for the moment, he chose to obey Thomas’s directive. In his own way.

He made himself look up at her. “My lady, you don’t need to tear me limb from limb to destroy me. Just deny me the taste of you now. May I give you pleasure?”

He was already giving her pleasure, on so many levels all Lyssa could think was she wanted his lips to be doing far less talking. But the part of her that still hung grimly to a shred of rationality was reassured by such hardcore evidence of Thomas’s tutelage. She suspected her answer was obvious to him, since her eyes could not help but drift down his bare upper body to the hard and impressive evidence of his own desire, revealed by his spread thighs. His cock was a long hard ridge against the hose, held against him only by the tight constraint of the fabric. There was a small wet area marking the tip as she’d suspected.

“Put your mouth on me, Jacob,” she said softly. “Prove to me you want to be my slave.”

Most human servants were not fond of the term, but that was what they were. Bound to her service forever, compelled by an oath to serve whatever need his Mistress demanded of him, a servant could not deny the true nature of the role. So she used it deliberately, watched his gaze flicker, a flare of resistance. But as she moved, intending to push him back from her, he took the challenge.

Wrapping his arm over her bent knee, his palm hot on the inside of her thigh, he levered it outward. Followed the line of her flesh beneath her skirt with his mouth, the gossamer fabric drifting over him as he worked his way ever closer…

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VAMPIRE MISTRESS by Joey W. Hill

VAMPIRE MISTRESS by Joey W. Hill
Book V of Vampire Queen series

Sometimes desire works three ways...

Joey W. Hill returns to the dark and seductive landscape of her Vampire Queen novels as a desperate woman finds herself trapped between the desires of two men, each with his own mission of the night.

Gideon Green is a hardcore vampire hunter. But in the past year, his only family, his little brother, became a vampire queen's servant – and then a vampire himself, giving Gideon a different view of the vampire world. Since Gideon's sole purpose for over a decade has been killing vampires, the violence that has scarred his soul now haunts his conscience.

Then he crosses paths with sexy BDSM night club owner, Mistress Anwyn. Their connection is immediate and intense, but she has a silent partner - the vampire Daegan Rei. When Anwyn is viciously attacked and turned by a rogue vampire, Gideon and Daegan join to protect her through a dangerous transition. As the bonds between the three of them draw tighter, Gideon faces an unbelievable truth...that the path to meaning in his life may be found in surrendering to the desires and needs of two vampires.

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Vampire Mistress
Erotic Romance
© Copyright 2009-2010 - All Rights Reserved


Anwyn stood in the security room, her eyes trained on the surveillance screen for the Queen’s Chamber. With the high canopy bed, lush draperies, and polished restraint systems, it was one of her favorite rooms. The stainless steel and gleaming wood instruments of pleasure and torture had been rendered by quality craftspeople. She’d spent a lot of time designing it, her own private fantasy room in a club dedicated to fantasy. In some ways, she considered it hers, though she took very few sessions herself anymore.

Running any business consumed a great deal of time, and Club Atlantis more than most. An exclusive BDSM club, Atlantis dared to cater to the most extreme players, the ones who wanted to step boldly over the lines and fully immerse themselves in a world few understood, even those who played at less strenuous levels. Knowing diversity was key to business success, Anwyn had an upper level for those softer lifestyle people, as well as the dabblers and thrill seekers. This was the underground level, its geography enhancing the psychological impact of what it was about. The deep core zone.

Though everything that occurred in Atlantis was legal in the ways that mattered, they had the same philosophy as an illegal business. The people who came here paid a high price for the painful pleasures they sought, and therefore they weren’t interested in lawyers and liability suits. It made it easier to meet those needs.

Down here, people were fully dedicated to hardcore Domination and submission. They understood that consensual was a term used by the politically correct. They wanted to lose themselves in their craving need to dominate or be dominated, and for those purposes, choice was often a disruption to the fantasy. Because that was a line that required careful straddling to make sure everyone stayed safe, her largest cost was well-trained security outside each playroom door, and video surveillance of what was happening inside. The eyes she paid to watch those screens never wavered, her staff making a play by play judgment as to where the line was. A private ambulance and an on-staff medical team were ready to help those who needed it.

At this level, it was about a desired, if temporary, reality, and she was committed to giving it to her clients. However, since many personalities were incapable of handling what they thought they wanted, the vetting process for this level was strict. She herself personally approved or rejected all applications after viewing video tape of the entry interviews. Which was why she was sure none of her staff understood why she’d approved Jon Smith. He had every warning flag that resulted in a rejected application.

He was aggressive. Passive, active, and every spot on the spectrum in between. He was a tiger trapped in a small cage, almost mad with confinement, though only he could see the bars. In his interview, he couldn’t define what he wanted, but he had an obvious, burning need for what they were offering. He’d given the name “Jon Smith” with an insolent sneer, daring them to challenge it, even producing a driver’s license that backed it up, but that didn’t mean she believed his lying ass for a minute.

He was 120% trouble. She’d known it the first time he’d darkened the club’s doors in a battered leather jacket, scuffed boots and faded jeans, those midnight blue eyes vibrant with a breathtaking energy and passion. Because she knew only one other with eyes that piercing, she’d taken a second look to be sure their new guest was a mortal. He was, through and through. The badly cut dark hair that fell to his shoulders tempted touch, enhancing the fact he was all wild animal, fierce and beautiful and scarred. Most people dressed up for their sessions in some way. He’d come as he was, she was sure of that. Probably his only adjustment was leaving behind whatever weapons he’d been packing, because that was one rule the club never bent. There were weapons here, for controlled use, but that was it. Only the highest level of her security team, most of whom were ex-military, ever carried.

He was so overwhelmingly alpha she’d wondered—and still did—if he might need a Master’s hand in addition to a Mistress’s. But during the entrance interview, he’d reacted to that as if the interviewer had threatened his testicles with pruning shears.

“No, I do not want to be ass-fucked by a man.” He’d surged out of the chair and loomed over Madelyn, who was fortunately one of her more unflappable Mistresses. “Do I look like a faggot to you?”

It was a kneejerk hetero reaction, and one Anwyn quickly dismissed. People in the vanilla world were so caught up in their categories and labels. What people needed inside these walls had little to do with their sexual orientation, politics or gender. They needed to be stripped down to their souls, in order to find the lost treasure of themselves again. That was why she’d named her club Atlantis. That, and because it had lingered in her own childhood memories, a young girl who read the legends of the enlightened city, trying to find her own answers.

Of course his violent reaction was another reason his ass should have been booted out of here. She’d watched his taped interview, read his terse, uncommunicative responses. James Watts, the head of her security team, said flatly he was a risk, that he wouldn’t recommend his admission. Instead, following her intuition, Anwyn approved his temporary pass and met with her more experienced Mistresses, several of whom agreed to take the plunge.

In his first session, he wouldn’t be bound, but he was okay with pain. He kept goading Madelyn, his assigned Mistress, asking for higher and higher levels, and as he did, he’d get more worked up. He never moved to hurt Madelyn, but when his frustration level got too high, he destroyed furniture, equipment, got verbally abusive. Then, contemptuously, as if paying a whore, he’d thrown down a wad of cash for the repairs and stormed out.

But he came back. He’d seemed a little surprised that he’d been let back in, and Anwyn had felt her staff’s speculative glances when she made the decision. During that visit, she’d ordered a camera trained on him, so that later that night she could watch it. Alone. From beginning to end.

He’d sat at the bar, watched the public play, but hadn’t tried for another private session that time. There’d been a female slave bound for a flogging, and the few times his eyes strayed toward her, his gaze would just as quickly slide away. Anwyn had a trained ear for the begging note in a cry of pain, a clue to building desire and pleasure, so she knew the woman was receiving what she wanted. Though he apparently recognized it enough not to interfere, his shoulders had hunched, as if he found it difficult to bear the woman’s cries.

In contrast, he’d watch the play involving a Mistress without flinching. When a scourge landed on a bare male back or buttock, leaving red welts, his fingers would tighten on his glass. Even through the screen, Anwyn felt his yearning, a gas fire that threatened to consume. It was too similar to what she knew and remembered, and she felt oddly stripped as she looked into his face and saw how lost he truly was, this feral creature who’d come to her door, not sure if he wanted to beg for a bowl of scraps or break in and take whatever he wanted.

His next private session had gone no better than the first. Tara was strong, tall, an almost masculine woman. He’d hated her, with a viciousness that had almost come to blows when she’d tried to force him to his knees. Tara’s MO was that she got physical with her clients, and she was trained for it, a former MP and karate blackbelt. Madelyn had tried mockery, Tara brute force, and he’d responded to neither.

So tonight, Anwyn had sent in her best psychological Mistress, Chantal. She’d tried clever manipulation and head games to break him down, and now Anwyn was looking at a destroyed dresser, a shattered mirror. The rich hangings on the bed had been ripped down, shredded. Their problem child sat on the bed, his head in his hands. He hadn’t moved since Chantal had gone to the door, dropped her persona and told him in an even tone that the club didn’t have what he was seeking. She’d made the private signal to the camera that she was done with the session, no intention of returning after he had a cooling-off period.

“He’s a loss, Anwyn.” James had come in behind her and now leaned against the wall, his well-developed arms crossed and brow furrowed, the intent gray eyes as focused as she’d expect from a man who’d spent twenty years working with the DEA. “You’ve got the best instincts I’ve seen, but I think you’re off on this one. He’s not a psychopath, but he’s too close to it. Too damaged. Completely unpredictable. We need to cut him loose. He’s going to hurt someone.”

“I agree with your assessment. But I want to try one more thing.” Leaning over, she pressed the button to reach the security guard posted outside the Queen’s Chamber.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Engage the locks on the door, Alan. I want Mr. Smith to know he’s not free to leave.”

She straightened, glanced at James. “I’m going to take over this session.”

His jaw tightened. “I could send in three men to secure him. Maybe that’s what he wants. You know we’ve had clients before who want the forced binding.”

“Yes, but not him. If we go that route, I think we will push him over that dangerous edge you’re concerned about.” She studied Smith’s broad shoulders, the scarred hands clenched at his neck. “He’s all beast, James. A male will be a threat to him, only make things worse. He’s seeking a woman’s touch, but he’s looking for a specific woman. One he knows he shouldn’t have, shouldn’t want, but with every wrong woman we’ve sent him, his need has only gotten sharper, his self-damnation deeper. The goal is surrender, James.”

“To what? Or whom?”

“The only opponent he’s been fighting all along. Himself. I’m going to clear the ring so he can go hand-to-hand with himself. Then maybe he’ll let go.”

James gave her an arch look. “I have absolutely no idea what that means.”

“I know.” She smiled at him. “It’s a lot like watching the Dog Whisperer. Cesar can’t always explain what he’s doing. He just knows, because he feels what the dog feels. That’s something most people don’t get.” Though she kept the smile on her face, she knew James was sharp enough to see there was no humor behind it. “In order to understand a creature’s pain, you have to step inside him, see through his eyes. And be strong enough not to feel sorry for him, teach him how to be a dog again. Live in the moment, because this moment is all there is.”

“I didn’t realize Cesar was Zen,” James muttered.

“All good trainers are, James.” She laughed. “Feed that link to my private changing area, please. I want to watch him while I get ready.”

“Speaking of animals, you’ve had another alley cat show up. She looks pregnant. I think they’re spreading the word that you’re handing scraps out the kitchen door on the graveyard shift.”

“You can stop sounding so disapproving. I know you do it, too.” She gave him an absent smile. “We’ll have to catch her, get her spayed. Maybe she’ll be more tameable than the others so far.”

“If anyone can do it, it would be you. Just be careful,” he advised, nodding toward the screen, telling her he was referencing Gideon, not her assortment of alley cats. “I know who will have my ass if someone hurts you. As scary as this son of a bitch is”—he dropped his voice so only she could hear him—“I’d rather deal with ten of him than a tenth of Daegan.”

James, you don’t know the half of it. “I run this club,” she said crisply, snapping his spine straight at the reminder of who paid his check. “If I get hurt, he will take that up with me.”

The security chief held his tongue until she’d left the room, but then he grimaced, attracting a curious look from the two security techs monitoring the screens. “Yeah, right,” he muttered. If something happened to the remarkable Mistress Anwyn Inara Naime, Daegan Rei would make everyone within these walls responsible. There’d be hell to pay.

James returned his attention to the Queen’s Chamber. You hurt her, buddy, your personal demons will look like Disneyland characters next to what will come after you. You better hope she’s right.



* * * * *


Okay, so maybe this time he’d really pissed someone off. They probably wanted him to stew until some stuffy club owner in a suit gave him a strong talking-to about his bad behavior. Delivered the official word that they didn’t want him here again or they’d call the cops. Or hell, maybe they’d actually called the cops. Somehow Gideon doubted this place handled its problems with official law enforcement, though. Most of their security team looked like Rangers or SEALs.

He wasn’t particularly concerned by a locked door, but the fact he wanted to leave and it was locked irritated him. That irritation continued to grow. He knew he was under video surveillance, so he’d prowled about some, kicked a prissy-looking vanity stool across the floor so that it made a satisfying dent in the velvet wallpaper. Queen’s Chamber. He hadn’t seen a queen grace it with her presence yet. Maybe some ladies-in-waiting. Pretentious bullshit, but he’d liked the room. That’s why he’d destroyed it.

“All right,” he snapped. “I get it. You want me to leave and not come back. I don’t need your lectures. You know I have the money to cover it. Just let me the hell out of here and I’ll go. Throw a bottle of Jack on the tab.”

Another long, ten minute silence. Fuck it. He was going to take down the door. He’d had enough.

Just as he was determining which of his picks he was going to use, or if it might be just as satisfying to rip it off its fucking hinges, the locks snicked back, and the doorknob turned. When the door swung inward, he curled a lip, ready to leap and snarl at whatever inferior being came through it.

Instead, he went still.

Though he’d scoffed at their efforts, he’d recognized that the three Mistresses they’d sent had been formidable in certain ways. The first, the one who’d conducted his application interview, had been older, stout and more experienced, with a superior rack. Beautiful, full tits just begging for a man’s adoration. Then there’d been the Amazon with the martial arts moves, kind of a tall and better cut Lara Croft. Today’s contender had had that slim, upright look of a spinster schoolteacher.

This one…she wasn’t formidable at all. Not physically, but what she did bring into the room preceded her by about ten feet, and packed a punch.

Maybe about five-six. A little on the slim side, but a body that wouldn’t quit, C curves and an ass that would fill out a pair of jeans in a way that would make even a non-vampire crave to bite. Only instead of such casual attire, she wore painted-on latex black pants and stiletto heels she worked like a pro. He’d expected some equally intimidating corset, so that she was tight and armored from neck to toe. Instead, she wore a lace camisole, one that gathered on her hips and gave the outfit a casual, sexy look. Her slim throat displayed an onyx choker with an earth goddess pendant on it, and her hair, a sable brown, was loose on her shoulders, shining waves that coaxed a man’s fingertips.

It was an unsettling mix of Mistress and sub, vanilla next-door girl and experienced woman. Hard to pin down. He’d never seen her before, because he was sure as hell certain he’d have remembered her. Maybe even asked for her, when he’d asked for nothing else. He’d basically said “figure out what I want or go fuck yourselves”. He’d been kind of surprised they’d accepted his membership, and suddenly he realized they’d never stopped auditioning him. This was who’d been evaluating him, the guy who couldn’t tell them what he wanted because he didn’t know himself.

When her gaze came to him, he was pinned by killer blue-green eyes that should have belonged to a mermaid. They were framed by brown lashes, and underscored by a soft, small mouth that was an unbelievable tender pink, frosted with a light gloss.

Though he was unbalanced, he wasn’t fooled by such fragility. This woman ran the show.

“Your real first name, Mr. Smith. Your given name. I don’t care about your last name.”

He’d heard of women who purred, or who had a touch of velvet in their tones, a practiced art. But he realized he was wrong when he thought the way she walked in the stilettos and wore the latex was professional, learned. Her sexuality was innate. There was a rasp to the voice, a husky pleasure just in the speaking, that touched him as if she’d run fingertips up his bare spine while he was strapped to a whipping post, unable to do more than strain toward her.

Holy hell, where had that thought come from?

She moved into the room, sliding a shard of wood gracefully out of her way with her foot. The stilettos were boots, laced with scarlet ribbon, crisscrossed on metal hooks that stopped just above her ankle. Tiny charms clinked together at the ends of the laces as she moved. “Please pick the broken dresser up and set it against the wall. Then I would like you there.”

She nodded toward a prayer bench in the corner, set before a tranquil fountain and stained glass depiction of a male angel. Back lights drew the eye to the blue of the angel’s robes, the silver of his sword and wings, the darkness of his hair.

“I’m still waiting on your name, Mr. Smith.”

“Why should I do anything you ask? What makes you so different from the others?”

Of course he knew, but he wanted her to prove it. Was afraid she would.

She considered him. He knew body language. If she was daunted at all, if there was any tension to her, it was faint, and it wasn’t anxiety. It was the irresistible drug of female arousal. He knew the really good ones were into what they did, even in a place where you paid for it, but some part of them stayed detached, that invisible line between client and proprietor, strangers.

She wasn’t detached at all. That beast that had been raging in him, that he’d carelessly unleashed towards the others, made him fear for her now. Because the beast wanted her. It hadn’t wanted the others. That soft hair alone was taunting him closer.

As if she knew his thoughts, she tossed it over her shoulder in a smooth, elegant move, a faint smile coming to her lips as his eyes followed it. “You should do it because I did not ask you to do anything. And because you’re not a coward.”

Unlike the last Mistress, she wasn’t trying to goad him. Her voice remained smooth, thoughtful, not derisive. She kept her gaze on him, her expression serious. “You’re here for what I have to offer. So let’s proceed. Tell me your name, and go to the bench, please.”

“Trey,” he said. Her expression did not change, the eyes didn’t even flicker, but he swore he felt the ocean of the blue-green color close over his head for a moment, the slither of a feathery tail as the mermaid swam past, leaving him behind.

Turning, she moved back toward the door. “You may stop at the accounts office to pay for the damages. I wish you a good night.”

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t slow down. If it was a game, she was damn good at it, and usually so was he. When she reached the door, he didn’t even have the extra moment her turning the latch would afford him, because the same security guard who’d opened the door for her did it from the outside now, not only confirming the interior surveillance, but the fact this was a woman who didn’t have to touch doorknobs. Not if there was a breathing male within fifty feet.

“Gideon,” he snarled.

She didn’t stop. In a blink, she was gone, the door closing on well-oiled hinges behind her. Gideon stared at the door, his hands closing into useless fists at his sides. Hell, he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this. She’d been right to leave. Vaguely, he knew he’d paid them for the right to be here, that he should be pissed, but he understood this place better than he would have at one time. This underground level wasn’t about memberships and having your ass kissed.

Then he realized something. The door was closed. They left it open after a session’s completion. At this point, the security guard would have put his carefully blank face back in and told him how many minutes he had before his ass was expected to be out of there. Instead, he heard the locks snick in place again.

Something loosened in his chest and tightened even lower.

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