Needing Harte (1-800-DOM-Help) (3 page)

After the paperwork was done and his shift was over, Harte went home, heading straight for the shower. He felt safe in his home where everything was always in place. He could close his eyes and find the soap or shampoo or towels—separated by color and use. Here was where he could be himself. Nothing interfered with his orderliness.

In the shower, he reached for the soap but dropped it when his mind switched the soap with the feel of a hard cock in his hand. He knelt to get the escaped bar only to see a vivid im-age of Ramey kneeling before him.

“Fuck.” The word dragged out on a ragged groan. “Just fuck me running. Why now?”

Rather than argue with himself, Harte leaned back under the spray. He cupped his balls, rolling them against one another. His cock hung hard and heavy, hitting his hand in rhythmic thumps. Soaping his hand, he put the soap back on the tray then slid his hand down his shaft.

With his eyes closed, he could imagine the dancer touching him. He would be willing and able to do anything Harte asked. He stroked his cock while imagining slapping Ramey’s sexy ass with his dick. Short, hard strokes matched his fantasy.

With his legs braced apart, Harte gave himself over to the fantasy scrolling through his brain. He panted as he let his head drop forward. The hot water struck the back of his neck as he pounded himself into an orgasm.

Letting out a low growl, Harte wiped the cum off the shower door. He grabbed the shower nozzle off the holder so he could spray down the walls. That was all his housekeeper needed to send her into apoplexy. Finding jizz on the tile.

He finished his shower then wrapped a towel around his waist. Time to fix some dinner and watch some mindless television. The last thing he needed to do was think more about that damn dancer.

Ramey finished his shift, changed in the locker room and then slipped out the back door to avoid anyone waiting for him in the main bar. He usually got a few offers for sex, a few others wanting to buy him a drink and still others just wanting to hang out. Tonight, he wasn’t in the mood for any of it.

Though sadness at Kevin’s death filled him, he knew Carl wouldn’t welcome his presence or his phone call right now. Carl’s family was fully accepting of his gay lifestyle and completely oblivious to his D/s relationship. They’d take care of him. Ramey’s mind returned to its fixation with one hot cop and he wanted to relive every moment of that kiss in Jason’s office.

Though Harte had denied being a Dom, Ramey knew the instinct was there. He’d been in the lifestyle long enough to recognize those tendencies, just as he knew his own submissive nature. The way Harte had held on to the back of his head, the way he’d taken total control of that kiss just made Ramey want to beg for more.

Walking the few blocks to his apartment, Ramey let the whole encounter run through his mind again. He unlocked the security door to his building and headed up the three flights of stairs. The elevator wouldn’t do him any good tonight. He needed to push his tired body just a bit more. Besides, the stairs helped him keep in shape. Who needed a pricey gym?

Then again, Harte’s hard body had probably been honed in the gym, and if he wanted to work out with or even on Ramey, he wouldn’t object. Just the thought of those powerful arms restraining him, of those broad hands squeezing his ass made Ramey rock-hard—again. He’d have to find someone willing to top him soon.

He only wondered who he could get to fill the role who resembled the cop enough to allow Ramey the fantasy that it was Detective Harte Donovan wielding the flogger, Harte Donovan pushing his limits and ultimately, Harte fucking him senseless.

With a slight smile, Ramey closed his apartment door behind him, throwing the locks into place and heading for the kitchen. He’d showered before leaving Pulse, but his stomach was reminding him he’d skipped dinner. A guilty pleasure left over from childhood awaited him. An ooey-gooey grilled cheese and tomato sandwich and a big glass of milk. Wondering if Harte was into comfort food or a total health nut took him through his meal and Ramey washed his dishes before leaving them in the drainer by the sink.

His bed waited, along with a bottle of lube and a lovely rubber dildo he could use to pretend he’d managed to get Harte home. A vision of those gray eyes filled his mind as he stripped and let his clothes fall where he stood. Grabbing the lube and dildo, he slowly oiled the big cock then rimmed his own ass with the lube.

Sliding his fingers around his hole, Ramey dipped the lube inside, preparing himself.

Stretching his opening and sliding more lube in, he could imagine Harte standing over him, telling him to go deeper, faster.

Ramey imagined Harte gripping that big cock he’d felt hidden behind the conservative gray suit and lining it up with his ass. As he slowly pushed the dildo into his ass, he thought about Harte leaning over him. Gripping his cock with one hand, and pushing the dildo into his ass with the other, Ramey rocked on the bed. His breathing sped up, his heartbeat racing as he dreamed about Harte restraining him. Harte pushing that big cock into his mouth, forcing himself deep into Ramey’s throat.

He wanted Harte’s hands on his body and Harte’s cock in his ass. Pushing the dildo even deeper and speeding up his motion on his own cock, Ramey fucked himself into a shouting orgasm.

As his heartbeat slowed, he eased the dildo out of his ass and slowly rolled off the bed.

Clean the toy, clean his body of come and hopefully dream of Harte all night. Ramey grinned as he headed for the bathroom. He’d have the memory of that kiss and his own imagination to carry him through until he could get back to a dungeon on his night off and find a Dom willing to play. Hopefully a blond with blue-gray eyes.

Harte reached the coffee shop a full ten minutes before his scheduled meeting time with Jason Winters. Sincerely doubting that the man had any real leads in the Ramos murder, he still wanted to know why Winters had insisted on this meeting. Did he know that Harte had kissed Ramey? Was he going to try to blackmail Harte in some way?

Knowing he’d quit his job before allowing that to happen, Harte straightened his tie and entered the café. Harte was surprised that Jason Winters was already sitting at a table dead center of the room with coffee and a bagel in front of him.

He smiled slightly as Harte made his way across the room and offered his hand. Harte shook his hand then sat down. A waitress came to take his order and Harte duplicated Winters’ breakfast. Waiting until the waitress left, Harte looked at Jason Winters. Definitely good-looking in a very smooth, polished way, the man oozed confidence and control. Harte sipped his coffee and focused on Winters’ face.

“You have some information for me, Mr. Winters?”

“Jason, please. And I hope you’ll allow me the same intimacy, Harte?” At Harte’s slight nod, he continued. “I think you know that I really wanted to talk to you about something other than your case. Specifically, Ramey Nichols.”

“If that’s the case, I don’t really think we have anything to discuss.”

“Wrong, Harte. Ramey is a friend of mine and I saw the attraction between the two of you.

I also saw your faces before you left my office. Ramey would have gone down on his knees for you in a heartbeat if you’d commanded him to.”

“Commanded?”

“Please, let’s not trade semantics, Harte. I have a feeling you’re more of a Dom than you’re admitting, possibly even to yourself. Let’s talk plainly, shall we? People with our…taste…” Jason quirked an eyebrow then smiled.

“Well, we have very limited arenas for pleasure. Finding a treasure like Ramey when you least expect it can throw a man off-stride. Here’s what you need to know about him. Ramey is submissive in many ways, but don’t mistake that for insecurity. He knows who he is and what he wants. He wants a Master in the bedroom. Someone to take control, tell him what to do, push his limits.

“But he needs an equal outside of the bedroom. Someone to show him he’s worth more than he thinks he is.”

“I have no idea why you think I need to know this.” Harte could feel his pulse racing but knew he betrayed nothing to the other man.

“Harte, there’s one thing you need to understand about this particular bent to our lifestyle.

Never lie to a Master. You think you’ve hidden your reaction to my information about Ramey, but I can see your pulse beating hard in your throat. I can see the dilation of your eyes, and you licked your lips three times while I was talking about Ramey. If those aren’t the signs of a man with a serious case of lust, I don’t know what are.”

Taking a deep breath, Harte blew it out slowly then nodded.

“Okay. Say you’re right. What if I don’t know what to do with someone like Ramey? I’ve never wanted to beat up my lovers. A spanking now and then? Sure, I’m up for that. Some restraints from time to time? Yeah, I’ve used my handcuffs for more than arresting people. But I’m completely out of my element with what you’re talking about.”

They stopped talking as the waitress came by to see if they needed anything. Winters smiled at her as she refilled his coffee. As soon as she walked away, he met Harte’s eyes again.

“No one said anything about beating your lovers, Harte. A flogging or caning, maybe, but not beating. Ramey has limits, as do most subs. A good Dom, and I think you have that potential, will push but never break those limits. You’ll force the sub into taking more than he thought possible, find yourself reaching to fulfill every need that sub has and in doing so, find your own freedom.” Jason finished his coffee and set the cup precisely in the center of the placemat in front of him.

“Someone gave me something. Told me I’d know when the time was right to use it. I think now is that time.” Reaching into his pocket, Jason pulled out his wallet and extracted a plain white business card. Placing it on the table, he stood and picked up the check their waitress had left. “Use this and call me if you have any other questions.”

With that the other man left. Harte picked up his own cup and finished a really fine cup of coffee, then set it down just as precisely as Jason had, also in the middle of his placemat. He picked up the card and turned it over.

“1-800-DOM-help? What the fuck?”

Tossing the card back onto the table, he got to his feet and left. It was going to be a long day and he had way too much to think about already. A help line for Doms? Really? Isn’t that some sort of contradiction in terms?

Ten hours later, as he unlocked his front door and yawned widely, Harte was still mulling over what Jason Winters had said that morning. Moving across his comfortable living room toward his gun safe, he couldn’t get the memory of Ramey and that kiss out of his mind either.

What would it be like to have Ramey here, ready to do his bidding, wide open and ready for him to make love to, to fuck, whatever his mood? Suddenly coming to a stop, Harte realized something was off.

Someone had been in his place. Looking around, he spotted what was wrong. There, right in the middle of his coffee table, a plain white business card.

“Son of a bitch!” Picking up the card and confirming what he already knew, Harte yanked his notebook out of his pocket and thumbed through it until he found Jason Winters’ phone number. As soon as the man answered, Harte tore into him. “You bastard! How did you get into my place?”

“Donovan? What are you talking about?”

“That card you gave me. I left it at the café and now it’s here, in my house. How the fuck did you get in here?”

“I haven’t been to your place, Harte. If the card is there, well, let’s just say I’m not totally surprised. There’s something almost mystical about that particular connection. Call the number and then if you still need to talk to me, call me back.” The bastard hung up. Harte stared at the phone in his hand then shook his head.

“We’ll see about this bullshit.” Dialing the number, he listened as the phone rang once, twice and a third time. Finally a male voice answered.

“1-800-DOM-help, this is the Operator. How may I direct your call?”

“I was given this card and I just need to know what this is all about.”

“You’ve reached a help line, sir. May I ask your preference? Are you Dom or sub?”

“I don’t fucking know. I don’t know what this is all about.”

“Ahh…I see. One moment, please, I’m going to connect you with Master Thomas.” Soft classical music filled the earpiece as Harte flopped down on the sofa. Still confused, he waited to find out what was going to happen next.

“This is Master Thomas. Who is calling?” The command in the voice was clear, and yet it didn’t put his hackles up…too much.

“My name is Harte Donovan and I want to know how the hell this card wound up in my house. I left it at the café and Jason Winters said he didn’t break into my house. So how the fuck did it get here?”

“Master Harte, please give me a moment. Ah yes, Jason Winters. We gave his sub some guidance not too long ago. Now please let me explain. I’m part of a very special group. We provide assistance where needed, to subs and to Doms. In your case, I’m guessing you need a little more assistance than just a phone call can take care of.”

Master Thomas laughed softly and Harte pulled the phone away from his ear to stare at it in disbelief for a moment. Putting it back against his ear, he listened to what the man had to say.

“You like control. You want to tell your lovers exactly what to do and when. I’ll bet you are very precise about everything in your life, aren’t you?

Harte shook his head. “Okay, so you’ve got me there.”

He listened as Master Thomas outlined what Dominance was. Like Winters, this guy reit-erated the loving side of Domination—how it would be his job to help Ramey find what he was looking for.

“Wait a damn minute. Why are you bringing him up too? Oh I get it. You and Winters are in on this together. It’s a joke, right? Some kind of setup?”

Harte had to carve out some space. His gut ached with a strong pull, a yearning, to experience what the other man spoke about.

He wanted it. Didn’t even know he wanted it until he heard the words from Thomas. What he described—that level of trust with someone—it wasn’t something he’d ever admitted to himself, but he wanted it.