Buckskins, Boots & Bondage (Cowboy Kink) (14 page)

Come and take it
was all he could think of. The war cry of besieged Gonzales during the Mexican War, but this had nothing to do with a cannon and everything to do with a woman who promised the ultimate level of pleasure/pain. As he studied the file and the recommendations, his cock hardened and his balls tightened painfully.

Swallowing a sigh, he turned back to Reece. “What do you think? She’s going to be your neighbor. Find out your secrets?”

Reece laughed. “It seems more and more of my neighbors are learning about me. Especially since Liz Gillibrand married Alex Wright.”

Liz owned the Lucky L Horse Ranch, and Alex was related to one of the girls who trained there. Although they’d met on neutral ground, both were shocked to run into each other at Rawhide. It had, however, been a fortunate meeting for both of them. Their relationship had blossomed, and only last month they’d had a small wedding that Reece and his wife Katie attended.

“I don’t want that to become a problem for you,” Clint told him. “We opened this club to give both of us anonymity, if you recall.”

“No problem. She won’t want notoriety any more than I will. And as you can see, she comes with impeccable references.”

Clint shrugged. “Fine by me, then. When she gets here, bring her in and I’ll have her fill out a form for provisional membership. We’ll see how it goes.”

“Who’s on the schedule tonight?” Reece asked.

“Linc Stoddard and Melora Regan.” Clint grinned. “Good night for you and Katie to show up. There’ll be no sleeping at the Halliday residence tonight.”

That couple always drew a crowd, mainly because Melora was the Dominant in the relationship. And Clint had trained her in the use of the single tail whip. She was an expert with it now and favored it over other forms of punishment. It was well known that she teased her subs first with sharp nipple clamps and butt plugs before treating them to the lash of the whip. Linc and Melora had met at Rawhide and recently moved into a more formal relationship. Tonight’s performance would be outstanding.

“Well.” Reece stood up. “I’d better get out to the lounge. I’ve got Katie on the lookout for our guest. I can hardly wait to meet Miss Montana Steele who breeds bulls for the rodeo.” He winked at Clint. “I still think you should take a good look at her.”

Clint laughed. “I intend to. Professionally, of course.”

****

Montana Steele smiled at the man who asked for her identification. Once they accepted her as a member here—if they did—her name would be on the list. And if she came here often enough, he’d recognize her. She liked that about clubs like Rawhide. After a while, it got to be like an extended family.

The man smiled at her, lifted a small radio to his mouth, and turned away for a moment. When he turned back, he was smiling again.

“It’ll just be a moment, I promise.” He nodded at the padded bench against one wall. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

She was about to tell him she’d just as soon stand but realized there were people behind her waiting to get in and she was holding up the line. “Thank you.”

She walked to the bench and sat down as gracefully as she could. She had no idea why she was so nervous. This wasn’t her first club visit by any means. But she was starting a new life here, everything was changing, and it was important that she get her life—personal as well as professional—in order. Sorel was a bitter memory, and she had no intention of repeating that mistake. She often reminded herself that his initials, D.S., actually stood for Dip Shit.

Not for the first time tonight she wondered if she should even be here. Maybe she wasn’t ready to be in a social situation yet. Lord knew the bulls took up enough of her time and the hands grabbed for the rest. But her body was sending signals that it needed something more than friendly toys to bring it to orgasm and she hadn’t worn a skirt or primped for a very long time.

What if I make another mistake? What if I find another Dusty?

No. That wasn’t going to happen. She would compartmentalize, like so many others did. She’d allow herself so much playtime, find an appropriate sub or two here at Rawhide and take the edge of the erotic need that gripped her like a claw.

She smoothed her hand over the leather skirt she wore, then crossed her legs, an expanse of thigh flashing between the hem of her skirt and the top of the high patent boots. Trying not to look nervous, she adjusted the short leather jacket, fiddled with the heavy chain around her neck. She was about to start counting the squares of slate in the floor when a deep voice sounded in front of her.

“Miss Steele?”

She looked up, and her breath lodged in her throat. Standing in front of her was six foot plus of the most devastating male she had ever seen in her life. He looked like Mr. Midnight with his black hair, a black silk shirt that draped easily over broad shoulders, and black slacks that emphasized lean hips and long legs.

She stopped breathing, her body in some kind of limbo, as if she’d been transported out of this space. As if nothing existed except her and this man. Something powerful exploded between them and circled around them, binding them, invisible threads that were strong despite their lack of visibility. Montana couldn’t have moved if a bomb detonated next to her. She’d never had this reaction to another man. Not in her entire life. And she was sure, without a doubt, that the explosion had the same impact on him.

Automatically her gaze was drawn to his crotch. She was sure the fabric of his slacks concealed a very impressive package.

The corner of his mouth quirked in a smile, and she realized he’d seen exactly what she was looking at.

Nice, Montana. Way to make a good impression.

Taking a moment to even her breathing and steady herself, pull those threads back so she had some control, she rose with as much grace as she could manage, tossed back her thick mane of auburn hair, and held out her hand.

“Yes. Montana Steele.”

The moment their hands touched, the air around them became electrified, buzzing with intensity. When she looked at his face, his expression was composed, controlled, but his eyes registered the same shock at their contact. For a brief moment, she wanted to yank her hand back and flee through the door, calling over her shoulder that this was all a mistake. That she’d changed her mind.

“Clint Chavez.” The timber of his voice vibrated through her. “I’m Reece Halliday’s partner.”

His handshake was firm, but there was something so sensual about it she was almost reluctant to let it go. She hadn’t had that reaction to a man—any man—since she’d finally shaken the last vestiges of Dusty Sorel from her life. Not even in the few instances this past year when she’d ventured back into the club scene.

“Miss Steele?”

That low-timbered voice that had such a rich resonance broke into her thoughts, and she realized she was still holding his hand.

Way to go, dummy. You can kiss a membership here goodbye.

“Yes, sorry. Thank you for coming out to meet me.”

“Actually, I guess we had a little misunderstanding. Reece thought he’d left your name on the list, and his wife has been watching for you in the lounge.”

“Not a problem.”

The problem is that, suddenly, the space around me seems too confined. That I can’t breathe. That there was some kind of karmic connection tugging at us I can’t deal with.

“Let’s go say hello to Reece and Katie and get you situated. The performance will be starting shortly.”

“Thank you.” She smiled back at him, hoping she’d managed to regain most of her poise. Then their gazes connected again.

For just the briefest span of time, a look flashed in Clint Chavez’s eyes, but it was there long enough for shock to sizzle through her. Her breath was suddenly trapped in her throat. Unless her well-honed radar was failing her or out of whack, this very alpha-looking male was a sexual submissive.

Oh, god. This was more than she could handle.

Run, don’t walk. Hurry away as fast as you can. Do not issue a silent invitation to the club owner, idiot. Especially when you’re still here only as a guest.

Pulling herself together mentally as best she could, Montana let him guide her through the entrance hall into the lounge area. People were everywhere, filling every available space, laughing, talking in muted tones. Good. She needed the distraction of a crowd. She still felt wobbly and her pussy throbbed insistently with abrupt need.

She’d worked so hard to shut herself off from this kind of attraction. She couldn’t let down the barriers now. She’d just have to find a way to avoid Clint Chavez whenever she came to Rawhide. Assuming, of course, they approved her for membership.

Just beyond the lounge was a glass-enclosed area Montana recognized as performance space. And to the side of that were the rows of spectator seats. Some were already filled with people sipping drinks and chatting. Others held white tent cards indicating reserved signs.

She was very familiar with performance nights. The club in Tampa held them at least once a week. In fact, that was where she’d met Dusty when he was trolling for a new Domme. But Dusty’s problem was his submissive nature clashed with his image of himself as a macho rodeo rider, so he was constantly “jumping the fence” to situations he could control. She’d put up with it as long as she could, but when she finally kicked him to the curb, she couldn’t even remember why she’d fallen for the narcissistic asshole in the first place.

“Here we are.”

Clint had steered her to a couple seated at a small table against one wall. As they approached, the man stood and offered his hand. It was her first glimpse of Reece Halliday, personal friend of the owner of the club where she had played.

No doubt about this one. He’s got Dom written all over him.

Height had always been one of her problems. At five ten—at least six feet with her boots on—she’d had trouble finding subs she didn’t tower over. But both of these men had a good four inches on her.

“Reece Halliday. Nice to finally meet you. John asked me to make sure we took good care of you.”

“Thank you.”

He indicated the woman with him. “My wife, Katie.”

“Hi! Welcome to Rawhide.” Katie Halliday was a vivacious, self-confident woman, but when she looked at her husband, she might as well have had
submissive
stamped in her forehead.

“I’ll leave Montana to your excellent care,” Clint told his partner. “Devyn and I need to make sure everything’s set for the performance. I’ll see you later, Miss Steele.”

“Montana, please.” She sat down in the chair Reece had pulled out for her.

“In about fifteen minutes, we’ll go take our seats in the audience,” Reece told her. “Would you like something to drink?”

Most clubs had a two drink maximum, even if you weren’t there to play, but she’d always found liquor dulled her senses and prevented her from enjoying herself to the fullest, so she shook her head. Alcohol also had a tendency to erode control so she stayed away from it.

“Just coffee, please.”

She found the Hallidays friendly and easy to be with. They asked about her move, her purchase of the ranch, and the business she was taking over. Finally, she managed to slide in a question she hoped was casual. “Reece, your partner seems like an interesting person. Have the two of you owned this place long?”

Katie swallowed a grin and glanced at Reece.

“We’ve been friends for years,” he said. “And trust each other enough to own this club together.” Amusement danced in his eyes. “What would you like to know about him?”

“Nothing special.” She shrugged. “Just interested in his background. Tom gave me a thumbnail on yours when he said he’d recommend me here but didn’t mention your partners. Clint seems to know what he’s doing here.”

And does he play with the customers? Or go elsewhere? Does he have a steady relationship?

But she didn’t think she was in any position to ask further question.

Thankfully, Katie looked at her watch. “We really need to take our seats now. We’ll have time to chat later. You’ll enjoy tonight’s performance. Melora is an expert with the single tail whip.” She glanced at her husband and grinned. “Not as good as Reece, of course.”

“So we’ll be watching a female top tonight?” Montana asked. Something coiled tight low in her belly, her nipples hardened and pushed against the satin of her bra, and cream gushed into her thong. A Domme! Watching a really good one was almost as sexually arousing as performing herself.

“Yes.” Reece guided them to their seats in the front row. “She’s something of a star here.”

“Then I certainly came on the right night.”

Although the whip was not her punishing instrument of choice. She preferred the cane, especially the one with the smooth fiberglass construction that stung with each application. Or a paddle made with material that looked like a tire tread. The marks it left on a sub branded him as hers.

She also liked to gag her subs. They could still moan around the restraint, but it gave them something to sink their teeth into as she alternately caressed them and punished them, never letting them know which would come next.

In the early years of her marriage to Dusty, she loved to punish him until his ass was red and stinging just before he competed. She’d sit in the stands, horny as hell, knowing how the rough coat of the bull was rubbing the sore flesh of his buttocks. And how aroused he’d be when they got home and beg to fuck her brains out.