Ice Queen (9 page)

The shape of his cock rubbed against the sensitive cleft of her buttocks such that she instinctively tightened there. She felt him harden further. His thigh moved forward, pressing into hers. Before she could decide to bolt, he began to move.

“Dance with me,” he said huskily. “Follow my movements.” An early training session. At least that’s what she told herself to make it acceptable.

His thigh shifted again, his hand pressing against the hand on her wrist. He rocked with her, shifting hips, moving them in rhythm with the beat of the R&B score. Tyler kept them in the open circle area into which the dancers did not come, though on their turns the light flashed over the women’s hair mere inches from Marguerite’s face. They were on a crowded nightclub dance floor, surrounded by bodies responding to one thing. The sound of the music, the message of it, too demanding to be denied.

He took her down lower and her hand curled up into a fist in his as his thigh rubbed the back of hers, as their knees bent, then straightened. She leaned back against him and he lifted the hand he held by the wrist to the side of her face. Threaded her fingers through her own hair and then up, bringing her touch and the strands of her hair alongside his neck.

Marguerite closed her eyes, felt the beat of his pulse, dug her fingertips into his skin and her hair as he turned them. When she opened her eyes, she had a brief impression 52

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of bodies, light, shadows. She could feel his heart beat against her back, the press of his cock firm against her. Every time the bass thumped, it vibrated through their bodies, meshed with their heartbeats.

The hunger broke through like a wind tearing loose the lock on a shutter, slamming it open. She mewled, a soft cry of aching want as he laid his lips on her neck the way he had last night, only this time he didn’t move or even bite. Just kept the pressure of his mouth there as she realized he was bearing almost all her weight. He rocked them and spun, shifted them in the steps of the dance.

Without thinking, she tried to slide her hand free, move down her waist for that throbbing scream for fulfillment. Instead of letting her go, he went with her, went down her body. She quivered in his grasp, arching in rigid, silent passion as his hand and hers covered her pussy through her tunic. With his clever fingers still laced through hers, he shoved away the tunic material impatiently and touched the soft lips of her pussy through the thin white fabric beneath. Brushed over them, and though she knew her fingers were there too, it was his firm touch that her body reacted to like a starburst, sudden, explosive.

Tyler swore under his breath at the surge of wet heat against his fingers.
She could be
wearing something inside…
Not likely. Marguerite had not gotten wet for Brendan, but at his touch she was as soaked as a woman after climax. The Dom roared up in him, wanting to take, possess, devour.

“No, no…” She was gasping, twisting. Before he realized what she was about, she had pulled away, disappearing among the lights and wildly dancing figures of their illusory companions, as illusory as the woman herself.

Tyler swore again, turned on his heel to shut it down and go after her. He cursed himself for rushing her, cursed his lack of control, something he’d never had a problem with before. He wasn’t in the mood to analyze it, though. His raging hard-on made it difficult enough to get to the control panel and told him the obvious. His mind was the organ he’d used the least in the past few moments. But he’d be damned if she’d elude him when his flaring nostrils had her scent, when his fingers were damp from the proof that she wanted him.

* * * * *

Marguerite strode out into the back parking lot, her motions too jerky, nothing feeling smooth. She felt a trembling in her limbs she didn’t want to feel. She was shivering, cold and hot at once. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t afford this. She’d just have to leave The Zone, maybe stop this part of her life altogether. Damn Tyler Winterman. She was fine as long as she stayed away from him. What the hell did he want from her? She’d opened the D/s door in her life to find some answers to her past.

Well, she’d found them, understood as much as she needed to do so. It was time to move on.

53

Joey W. Hill

That’s what she told herself, though the idea of never coming here again, never seeking that connection with one of her chosen submissives in the exceptionally safe surroundings of The Zone, burned in her gut like an ulcer.

When she reached into her purse for her keys, her arm was seized, twisted with an explosion of pain calculated to scatter her wits. She found herself shoved hard up against the door of an SUV, a position which blocked her from the sight of the back entrance of The Zone and the security cameras. The silver point of a knife pushed against her throat and the whites of a pair of cold dark eyes were all she could see of the masked face before her.

“Purse, bitch.” He yanked it from her grasp, his grip on the knife tight and sure, conveying the confidence of a man who often took from others the things they weren’t willing to give.

Well, she was a professional in that area as well. She let her knees go out from under her and dropped to the ground. He swore, following her, trying to hang onto that purse strap. Curling her knees up to her chest, she formed a ball and kicked out, plowing into his stomach, thrusting him off her. It wrenched her shoulder as he lost purchase on his prize. As he stumbled onto his backside, she sprang up, stomping on his lower midsection, the same place she’d kicked him, following it up with a sharp jab with her blunt street heel into his crotch, the soft nest of testicles. He howled.

“Son of a bitch,” she snapped. When he rolled away from her, she turned her back on him and headed for her car.

“Just plain bitch,” he rasped. He latched on to her ankle, twisted and brought her to her knees. With a roar, he was up and on her, lifting her, slamming her against the side of the SUV. He punched her stomach. Despite the painful loss of air, Marguerite hissed at him and knocked her forehead into his, dazing them both. She scratched at his face with her fingers, trying to find his eyes with her thumbs.

She was seeing a haze of red anger, furious with his hands on her, the flash of his bared teeth, his smell, everything about him affronting her. She wanted every scrap of his existence eradicated but behind all the berserker rage, she knew he’d just gained the advantage. He had her by the throat, one hand tangled in the front of the tunic as he rapped her hard into the side of the SUV. He was trying to make her let go, give up and let him take what he wanted.

“No, no, no…” She tore at his face, kicked at his legs with feet that were just grazing the ground and struck at his shoulders but she couldn’t bring any power into the fight in this position. She was losing.

Abruptly, she was dropped, crumpling hard to the ground, her ankle twisting beneath her. The robber spun away and it took her a moment to realize the wild pinwheeling of his arms and legs to regain his balance was because another force was holding him by his collar and the waistband of his baggy trousers. Swinging him around, Tyler rammed his head into the window of the car next to the SUV with a solid thunk. A thin chink signaled the window had been compromised. When Tyler pulled 54

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him back for a second blow, she saw a spider web of lines running out from the point of impact, a momentary impression before the window disintegrated into nuggets from the second ram.

When Tyler yanked him back this time, the man slumped to the ground and stayed there, shuddering with pain and the shock of the likely concussion.

Tyler gave him enough of a look to confirm he was out of the game. Then he was beside her. Marguerite had already managed to struggle halfway to her feet, using her hands behind her to crabwalk up the side of the SUV. She suddenly realized the car alarm had gone off, was wailing frenetically. Voices were coming from the back of The Zone, alerted by the alarm or the fact that Tyler’s actions would have been caught on the camera. She realized with a great deal of satisfaction she was still holding her purse and shouldered it more securely.

She supposed it was smart thinking, hitting on a high-priced S&M club. The clientele surely wouldn’t want to fill out police reports. But her assailant hadn’t counted on the type of person who would be a member of such a club.

She nodded at Tyler, a brief move but one she hoped expressed the courteous thanks expected at such a moment. “I’ve got to go,” she said. Reaching out, she touched Tyler’s startled face, his strong jaw. Her thumb passed just below his eye, which still reflected a protective rage that made something tremble in her belly almost more severely than her legs. “I’m going… I don’t want to do anything to him. I shouldn’t have lost control of the situation. I let anger take over. Emotion.” A variety of expressions crossed his features. His hands settled on her shoulders, holding her in place. “You lost control because you were dealing with a career criminal who had at least fifty pounds on you.”

“I wasn’t talking about that.”

“I know that. You don’t have to be in control, Marguerite. Not all the time. Not of this. Not of us.” Tyler cupped the side of her bruised face, fighting his rage, his desire to turn around and rip the man’s head from his shoulders and kick it across the parking lot like a soccer ball. “Why the hell did you fight him?” She stared over at the man. “Because no one’s ever taking anything from me I’m not willing to give.”

“Is that why you’re so pissed at me?” He guided her face back, made her look at him. “Because I made you give something you weren’t willing to give?”

“Tyler, everything you’ve gotten from me so far is something I wasn’t willing to give. I can’t give. But I don’t want you to stop.” Her voice dropped on that last sentence, so that for a moment he wasn’t sure he’d heard what he’d heard. Then it registered. Enflamed him.

She let out a small sigh. “And that pisses me off more.”

“I need money, man.” The thief spat blood. “What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

55

Joey W. Hill

Tyler was forced to turn from her. When she would have moved, made her escape, his hand snaked back, caught the edge of her tunic in a strong grip. Holding her, two of his fingers found a rip in the thin white fabric high on her thigh. He stroked the scrape gently, even as he leveled an expression of cold anger on the man on the ground.

“Wal-Mart is always hiring, asshole.”

Two security people had arrived. Tyler nodded to them. “Tell you what. The lady’s not interested in pressing charges but if I ever see you here again, even in the neighborhood, I’m going to treat you to your worst nightmare. I’ll take you inside those walls and let some of the scariest women you can imagine put clamps on you in places you’ve never thought of, beat you with canes, stretch your balls until they drag the ground and fuck you with a railroad spike until you bleed. Got it?”

“Tyler.”

She sounded more like herself now, her voice no longer that vacant whisper of a few moments ago that had galvanized his rage. Tyler looked up and her eyes were level, cool, remote. She reached into her purse, withdrew what looked like a handful of hundred-dollar bills and dropped them so they landed in her attacker’s lap. By putting her hands over Tyler’s hand on her tunic, she asked him to release her with insistent fingers. When he reluctantly complied, she knelt, reaching out to touch the robber’s face, the bloody lip. She brought her face close and Tyler tensed but there was no reason to worry. The robber was frozen by this unexpected turn of events and a pair of arctic blue eyes.

“You can have my money.” Her voice dripped with disdain. “Snort it, drink it or give it to charity, it doesn’t matter, because ill-gotten gains do nothing but curse you.

We make our own fate, our own karma, no matter our circumstances. If you have the integrity and strength of character to understand that, then you’ll mail that money back to this club to the attention of Mistress Marguerite. If you don’t, then God help you, because that money won’t.”

Rising, she nodded to Tyler and the security detail. “Please let him go. I’m going home.”

She turned, a tall, elegant woman with torn and dirty clothing, her hair falling down on one side. She began moving toward her car, limping badly. Ten steps away she bent slowly and retrieved her keys.

Marguerite made it five more steps before Tyler caught her. He didn’t stop her as she had expected. Didn’t turn her around and make her explain or demand she act a certain way. He put an arm around her waist and supported her, taking her weight, pressing his hip against hers so she had no choice but to capitulate and let him help, despite the dangerous shudder that ran through her limbs, telling her how close she was to feeling the aftermath.

Taking her keys from her hand, he deactivated the locks on the BMW. The lights went on, a warm, welcome sight. What was it about your own car that was always so comforting? She understood how shiny Cadillacs appeared in the front yards of the 56

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poorest homes. A car felt like freedom, security. The ability to stay or to go, wherever, whenever one wished.

“Anything broken?” He asked it quietly.

“No. I’m sure the ankle’s just twisted. It’ll be fine with some ice. The rest is just some bruises and cuts.” She was also sure her back was going to be nicely black and blue in the morning. Mentally, she ran down what bath salves she had on hand at home, what medicinal teas she could use in compresses to minimize the aches and pains.

“I saw most of the fight running across the parking lot,” he commented. “You’re a tough lady.”

She didn’t bother to answer that. He opened the car door for her and she got in, feeling his hand at her elbow, her waist, guiding her.

“I’m following you home. I won’t try to come in but I’m going to make sure you get there safely. And don’t argue with me, goddammit.” She laid her head on the headrest, looked up at him. Aware that he was holding her hand still, caressing her fingers. What could he do? Run that bath for her, carry her up those two sets of stairs she would have to face? As soon as she imagined someone doing that, the idea of taking care of herself became exponentially harder. She pulled her hand away. “Fine. I appreciate your concern, Tyler. You’re a kind friend.” He dropped to one knee so they were at eye level, put one hand on either side of her face with infinite, inexorable tenderness.