To Master and Defend (The Dungeon Fantasy Club Book 2) (2 page)

Leather, corsets, and bare breasts seemed to be the couture of the night. It made her wish all the more for her yoga pants, comfy blanket, a cup of tea, and Mister Darcy or one of the other noble heroes she was head over heels for at the present. Hell, she'd re-read Jamie Fraser's adventures for the hundredth time if it meant getting her away from her unfortunate night out.

When Ophelia spied a woman—in violet, sprayed-on latex—kneel at her biker-clad counterpart's feet and begin to give him head right there in the open, she knew she was in way over her head and was out.

Signaling the bartender, Ophelia paid her tab, slipping the Goth girl, with blue hair and skimpy fishnet top, a generous tip. What a hell of a place! With her purse clutched in her hands, she got down off the stool and started to maneuver through the throngs of bodies to the exit. A set of strong arms slithered around her waist from behind and pulled her body flush against his.

"You weren't leaving yet, were you, baby?" the man mumbled in her ear, rubbing his obvious erection against her ass.

Gross! He drove home what he wanted, rubbing his hips back and forth. White hot anger bubbled and foamed at the surface. This was why she didn't come out much, because of asshats like this. What the hell had happened to chivalry? Or asking permission before you manhandled a woman, grinding your erection up against her? Not to mention she hated that endearment: 'baby'. Ophelia wasn't a baby; she was a grown-ass woman.

"Get your hands off me," she ordered, praying her voice would sound firm but cursing how whiny and scared it sounded to her ears. She struggled against his grip, squirming until she was half turned in his arms and could finally get a look at him.

The only word she could think up for him was 'poser'. His outer appearance was a walking billboard for Bikers'R'Us, replete with a skull and crossbones bandana over his bald head, while his dull, cornflower blue eyes said 'investment banker playing at being a hard-ass'. She rolled her eyes, praying that she could extricate herself without causing too much of a scene. She just wanted to catch a cab and go home at this point, she'd text Molly and Anna that she'd left and that would be that.

"Now is that any way to be, baby? I've been watching you at the bar and thought we could head to Devil's Lair and have ourselves a private party."

Ophelia grimaced. "Thank you for the offer, but no. Please take your hands off me and let me pass." She pushed against his hold, feeling more and more like a fly caught in molasses.

An unholy light gleamed in his eyes as he narrowed them into slits. He yanked her back against him, his hand covering her mouth. "You're coming with me and no one's going to stop me, you uppity bitch."

The first grips of panic speared her pulse as the man used the crowd to his advantage and ushered her toward the doors with the red lettering. The throng was so busy dancing and getting their groove thing on that no one noticed as she struggled against his iron grip. Fear pounded in her veins and she prayed she could escape him. Ophelia didn't care about any scene she might cause—she might want to get laid, but not by him, and no way in hell was she going to let this guy force her. Beyond those doors, they had bondage tools available. He'd have her gagged and bound before she could call for help. The phrase 'be careful what you wish for' played on a recorded loop in her mind as she fought to free herself.

Unable to think of any other avenue of escape as his fingers closed like a vise around her arms, she acted without thinking and bit the hand he had slipped over her mouth. She bit him hard, unwilling to let go until she drew blood.

He yelped, howling in outrage.

"Fucking bitch!" He slapped her across the face, breaking her hold on his other hand.

Ophelia cringed as he drew his arm back, struggling to escape his grip. One minute, she was preparing for another blow. In the next, she was watching in stunned amazement as a gladiator of a man knocked her attacker to the ground. Tattoos covered his muscled biceps, disappearing under a fitted black shirt with the club logo that displayed his wealth of muscles. His angular face was too masculine to be considered beautiful, with dark stubble covering his jaw, framing full lips that were set in a hard line as he hauled her attacker to his feet.

The man fought his grip, belligerent that he had been denied his prize. "I'll sue you and this club," he roared.

"How about we call the cops? I'm sure they'd find your assaulting a woman a punishable offense," her rescuer said.

"Fuck you," the man spat, clearly deranged, as two more bouncers—who looked like they bench pressed semis on a daily basis—stepped in, restraining him.

"Do you want to press charges?" Her rescuer turned his amber gaze Ophelia's way, addressing her for the first time. She shook her head. She just wanted to go home and forget about the whole night. Maybe drown her sorrows in a pint of double fudge brownie. The press of the clubgoers, the horde that had formed a wide circle around the firework festivities, was becoming too much for her. She felt like she had entered a tilt a whirl as the eager faces of the mob watched the interaction with unrepentant glee.

He nodded his understanding before returning his stare toward the perpetrator. "You are banned from this club. Matt, Derek, fill out a violator's report with his information, call the authorities if you have to, and escort this asshole out of the club."

Ophelia wobbled on her feet in relief as the jerk was dragged away before she focused on the man who'd saved her from unspeakable horrors. She used him as a lifeline as the room continued to spin.

"Are you all right?" the deep gravelly voice of her rescuer said. He really had a nice mouth, the bottom lip fuller than the top, surrounded by burnished copper stubble.

Ophelia opened her mouth to respond, to thank him for his timely save. Then her knees buckled and she felt herself falling. The horror of the night's events finally caught up with her.

"Shit." Her rescuer moved like lightning, which was surprising for a man who was so big. His burly tattoo-covered arms scooped her up, and carried her from the press of curious onlookers.

"Brendan, watch the floor while I take care of our wounded bird here," his voice rumbled as they passed the bar and she felt his words keenly inside her chest. She liked the way his voice sounded. The honeyed baritone resonated, making her belly quiver.

She buried her face in his neck, clinging as tears fell. This was the last time she would hit the club scene for some time. A night out wasn't worth this. A man had struck her because she'd said no. Ophelia would have one hell of a time explaining away a bruise she could practically feel forming on her cheek—where his hand had landed—to her sister, Zoey. She'd be furious and get all over-protective like she had since their parents died.

They passed through a pair of doors on the other side of the bar, down a long, rather forlorn hallway that made Ophelia think of every horror film she'd ever watched, and up a set of stairs. With each passing footstep the sounds from the club became muted and diminished. She felt the sensation as they climbed—it seemed, in her position—the longest flight of stairs in the world.

He pushed inside a large steel door, closing it behind them. He deposited her on a leather sofa and she protested the loss of his warmth, his strength.

"I'm just going to grab some ice for your cheek, I'll be right back." He lightly traced her throbbing cheek. His amber eyes simmered like molten gold as he held her gaze. Then he withdrew, walking around the couch and leaving her there.

Ophelia studied her surroundings, her tears drying on her cheeks as her natural curiosity got the better of her.

Gone was the garish club lighting and couture, replaced by hints of old world décor. It screamed 'expensive'. The loft apartment appeared to span the entire back-end upper-level of the warehouse. Dark walnut hardwood floors, the real deal, not the fake stuff that had hit the market years ago; midnight leather furniture; and plush ebony rugs dominated the open space. Barely any splashes of color anywhere. It made Ophelia wonder what he had against colors other than black. There were a few oak doors, the same uniform color as the floor, on the wall opposite the front entrance. She assumed they led to bedrooms and bathrooms.

Then she returned her attention to her knight in shining armor. His strength was lethal. He had taken down her attacker with one solidly landed punch. Tall, his body power-packed with muscles that rippled with each movement, he moved with a lion like grace as he withdrew a bag of something from the stainless steel industrial grade refrigerator. His kitchen color scheme was like the rest of the place, dark wood and black, with stainless steel appliances breaking up the monotony.

He approached her, then, kneeling in front of her, he removed her feathered mask, which she'd completely forgotten about with the entire hubbub. He lightly gripped her chin, angling her face as he inspected the damage, and then placed a frozen bag of peas against her jaw.

"Ow," she murmured. She winced, hissing, staring into his sensual amber eyes framed by some of the longest inky eyelashes she'd ever seen. There were women she knew in this town who would kill for a set of eyelashes like his.

"Sorry, you're going to have quite the bruise there. Are you sure you don't want to press charges?" he said.

Like a complete ninny, she couldn't stop the tears as they spilled on to her cheeks. Ophelia had never been exposed to violence like that, even though she'd lived in LA her entire life. She'd never even seen the pictures from her parents' fatal car crash. Mom and Dad had used time out and other punishment tactics growing up. Even though she'd had a few frenemies throughout high school, not one of them had ever struck her. It burned her to her core that she couldn't seem to stop shaking. Ophelia wished with everything inside her that what had transpired downstairs hadn't decimated her sensibilities, but she'd be lying.

"No, I just want to forget it ever happened. No one's ever—" she blubbered, unable to stop the tears. She observed him through watery eyes, trying to finish her explanation, but found that words escaped her. God, she must look horrible, holding a bag of frozen peas against her right cheek, tears leaking down her face, her left arm wrapped around her body as if she could hold herself together by will alone.

"Hell," her beefy, gorgeous rescuer muttered.

Her world upended itself as he lifted her up into his arms, turned and seated the two of them on the sofa. He cradled her against his chest, his warmth seeping into her frigid limbs, and held her with such gentle chivalry. A dam burst inside her and she wept on his firm shoulder. All the while, he comforted. His large hands stroked her hair, her back, cuddling her close while she unleashed her sorrow upon him. As the storm abated, he held a tissue up to her nose.

"Blow," he commanded.

She did as he instructed. She kept her face buried in his chest as embarrassment replaced the tears. What must he think of her? Falling apart like this, with a stranger, no less? After her experience tonight, she should be freaked out that she was alone with a man she didn't know, but she felt safe with him. Unlike her attacker, he didn't make her skin crawl. In fact, she became more aware as her crying jag subsided. Warmth had seeped inside her at every spot their bodies touched. Ophelia was curled up like a cat on his lap, her face buried in his firm shoulder, plastered to the contours of his body. He felt marvelous.

His rather large hands rested on her. They had stopped stroking her as some point during her waterworks, and were now motionless. One hand had curled around her waist, the other rested on her thigh, teasing the hem line of her dress. For the first time, she noticed his warm scent, a little spicy, mixed with deeper notes that made her think of the great redwood forest and set off her pheromones.

Still holding the bag of peas she angled her head back, taking in just how masculine this man was. This was no poser, no mama's boy, or metrosexual, but an unabashed, unapologetic alpha male who exuded confidence, dominating the world with his presence. Her body had plastered itself to his, melting in a puddle, and she perceived how nicely she fit inside his arms. Her softness met with his corded muscles, not finding an inch of give.

He was sexy, dangerous and, studying his tousled burnished copper locks, she had the distinct urge to run her hands through it, to see if it was as soft as it seemed. She knew she should say something, thank him for what he had done to rescue her, and then leave this place never to return. The thought of never beholding the sexy fullness of his lips or the way his eyes turned to liquid metal as he considered her filled her with sorrow—which was just crazy, they'd didn't know each other. But she couldn't move away from him if she tried. She didn't want to as she studied his face, unwilling to break the spell of the moment.

Neither did her mystery savior, or so it seemed, as his amber gaze regarded her, his eyes assessing her response to his nearness. His long fingers stilled against her, tightening their grip slightly. After everything Ophelia had experienced tonight, the stark desire igniting in her belly was the least expected. It should shame her, but the thought of that rough hand sliding under her dress and touching her center made her breath stutter in her throat. And those damn lips of his were so close, and were just begging to be sucked on.

Ophelia's sister had accused her on many occasions of thinking too much. Ophelia was the proverbial over-thinker. She never made hasty decisions, usually agonizing over them thoroughly and examining every possible scenario she could think up. But this time, just this once, she didn't want to think things through or worry about the consequences. She just wanted to feel like a normal woman. Acting on instincts, she lowered the unthawed bag of peas to her lap and kissed him full on. His stubble rubbed against her lips enticingly as she moved her mouth against his. His taste reminded her of an aged whisky, with hints of honey swirled in the mix, and made her desire above all else to drink him down to the last drop. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth, nipping at the fullness. Her hands crept up to the corded muscles in his neck, attempting to pull him closer.