only one who understood his job and what he did. But then, that was probably because Yamamoto was in deep with another agency, the CIA. Damien had met Yamamoto when the DEA muscled in on an operation and insisted they do a joint job, which had involved a sting operation where the target had an extensive home dungeon. Damien knew the moment he saw Yamamoto who and what he was. His history was tattooed on his body; he wore his dominance like a garment. The man was more complex than probably even Damien knew.
The note to Rapunzel was more difficult to write. He stared at the blank square of paper, considering his words. How to relate all that he wanted to say in just a few sentences?
Damien did his best, then handed both to the woman.
“The car downstairs?” he asked.
“It’s being refueled, but should be ready when you are. Anything else, sir?”
“No, that’s it. Thanks.” He gathered his duffel and glanced around the room he’d spent almost no time in, which was a shame. Yamamoto knew how to host.
Damien departed, feeling a weight on his shoulders that counterbalanced the electric charge in his veins.
Mission Huck Finn was a go. It was the culmination of years of work, and it looked like it would be successful. If only his personal life wasn’t about to go to hell.
Poppy sat up and glanced around her at the grand library and its kinky trappings.
Where the hell was he?
She threw the blanket back and swung her rubbery legs over the side. Despite three orgasms, she was still aroused, though she didn’t think her body could handle any more. She would be tender and sore for a week at least, but it was worth it.
The marks were faint. She traced the thin red lines of the rubber flogger with her fingers, twisting to see them better. There were a few puckered scratches from the knife, but nothing that broke the skin. The rope had left impressions on her skin, but they were beginning to fade. They were probably her favorite markings, and she would mourn their loss.
The worst marks seemed to be on her wrists, where they’d been bound during sex. There wasn’t so much as a single permanent mark on her, but her arms felt as if she had weights attached to them. Maybe he’d kiss them and make them better. She giggled at the idea, still giddy on endorphins and the highs of subspace.
Poppy’s stomach growled again. She hoped he came back with food soon. There was no telling how long they’d cuddled and snoozed after the last round of sex. If she hadn’t been famished, with her tummy rumbling so loudly, she was willing to bet they would still be intertwined.
The library doors creaked open across the room.
Oh thank God, food
.
Poppy hurriedly got back in the bed, fluffed the pillows, and sat back against the headboard, pulling the comforter up to her shoulders. A chill had set in as time passed. Maybe they needed to move to the fireplace—or better yet, her room. Would he want to play again? She hoped the answer was yes. He’d given her what she’d wanted and more.
A man of the wrong ethnicity rounded the bookshelves and approached the bed.
What the fuck?
“Um, this is a closed scene, sir.” If the man standing at the foot of the bed didn’t own the sheets she was lying on, she’d have told him to hit the road. Though she hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words with the dynamic Dom Yamamoto, he had presided over the meals anddelivered a brief opening address to the retreat attendees. He was every bit as striking as the pictures on the website made him out to be.
“I do apologize, and offer you my humblest regrets.” He inclined his head and his dark curtain of hair fell forward.
Dom Yamamoto was known for his mannerisms and dramatics. In a world of daisies, he was the orchid. Even now, he wore dark-red leather pants and a Japanese silk robe.
Under normal circumstances, Poppy might be excited by his attention, but not tonight. He wasn’t her sir for the night.
“What’s going on?
The note to Rapunzel was more difficult to write. He stared at the blank square of paper, considering his words. How to relate all that he wanted to say in just a few sentences?
Damien did his best, then handed both to the woman.
“The car downstairs?” he asked.
“It’s being refueled, but should be ready when you are. Anything else, sir?”
“No, that’s it. Thanks.” He gathered his duffel and glanced around the room he’d spent almost no time in, which was a shame. Yamamoto knew how to host.
Damien departed, feeling a weight on his shoulders that counterbalanced the electric charge in his veins.
Mission Huck Finn was a go. It was the culmination of years of work, and it looked like it would be successful. If only his personal life wasn’t about to go to hell.
Poppy sat up and glanced around her at the grand library and its kinky trappings.
Where the hell was he?
She threw the blanket back and swung her rubbery legs over the side. Despite three orgasms, she was still aroused, though she didn’t think her body could handle any more. She would be tender and sore for a week at least, but it was worth it.
The marks were faint. She traced the thin red lines of the rubber flogger with her fingers, twisting to see them better. There were a few puckered scratches from the knife, but nothing that broke the skin. The rope had left impressions on her skin, but they were beginning to fade. They were probably her favorite markings, and she would mourn their loss.
The worst marks seemed to be on her wrists, where they’d been bound during sex. There wasn’t so much as a single permanent mark on her, but her arms felt as if she had weights attached to them. Maybe he’d kiss them and make them better. She giggled at the idea, still giddy on endorphins and the highs of subspace.
Poppy’s stomach growled again. She hoped he came back with food soon. There was no telling how long they’d cuddled and snoozed after the last round of sex. If she hadn’t been famished, with her tummy rumbling so loudly, she was willing to bet they would still be intertwined.
The library doors creaked open across the room.
Oh thank God, food
.
Poppy hurriedly got back in the bed, fluffed the pillows, and sat back against the headboard, pulling the comforter up to her shoulders. A chill had set in as time passed. Maybe they needed to move to the fireplace—or better yet, her room. Would he want to play again? She hoped the answer was yes. He’d given her what she’d wanted and more.
A man of the wrong ethnicity rounded the bookshelves and approached the bed.
What the fuck?
“Um, this is a closed scene, sir.” If the man standing at the foot of the bed didn’t own the sheets she was lying on, she’d have told him to hit the road. Though she hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words with the dynamic Dom Yamamoto, he had presided over the meals anddelivered a brief opening address to the retreat attendees. He was every bit as striking as the pictures on the website made him out to be.
“I do apologize, and offer you my humblest regrets.” He inclined his head and his dark curtain of hair fell forward.
Dom Yamamoto was known for his mannerisms and dramatics. In a world of daisies, he was the orchid. Even now, he wore dark-red leather pants and a Japanese silk robe.
Under normal circumstances, Poppy might be excited by his attention, but not tonight. He wasn’t her sir for the night.
“What’s going on?
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