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Gibson was the picture of cool rage, completely unruffled and terrifying in his calmness. “You. Disrespect the lady again, and we’re going to have a major problem.”
“Fuck you, man,” the guy said, words slurring. “This cunt’s job is to serve me my goddamn drinks, and she’s not doing it.”
With lightning-fast movement, Gibson grabbed the guy by the shirt collar and jammed him against the bar. “Wrong answer, asshole.”
“Shit.” Sam hurried around the counter and yelled for Angie to get their bouncer, Herb. “Gib, stop. Let us handle this guy.”
But it was too late. The drunk idiot was already taking a swing at Gibson, and his equally idiotic friend was heading their way. The punch missed wide when Gibson ducked out of the way. A glass broke. Gib looked smug at the guy’s failed attempt and knocked him hard against the bar again, rattling all the bottles and glasses nearby. Soon it’d be the guy’s teeth. But before it could turn into a full brawl, Herb got in between to break it up. He dragged the drunk away and told him and his friend to get out.
The two men continued cursing and throwing insults her and Gib’s way, but they weren’t dumb enough to try to fight Herb. If they did, she’d have the cops on the phone before they could blink, and they’d be sleeping it off in the drunk tank down at county lockup.
The customers in the bar had stopped to watch the ruckus, but as soon as the two jerks were out the door, all the conversation kicked back in, like hitting Play after pausing a movie. Sam released a breath and turned to Gibson, who was straightening the cuffs of his shirt.
She shook her head. “I could’ve handled that, you know.”
He looked up, frown lines between his brows. “No one gets to talk to you like that. I saw them giving you a hard time earlier and could tell he was headed up here to cause trouble. What did they say to you earlier? You looked pissed.”
She shrugged. “They kept trying to get me to bend over and pick up things off the floor. Then they ordered buttery nipples while leering at me. Juvenile stuff. Dumb but probably harmless.”
His jaw flexed. “Customers or not, they don’t get to disrespect you like that.”
She smirked and stepped around him to return to her spot behind the bar. “Getting respect around here is hard to come by. I have to go other places to get that.”
“Too bad you can’t bring a single tail to work.”
She laughed. “No kidding. That’d get people’s attention. Talk back to me, and I’ll paint a stripe across your ass.”
His gaze flared at that. “That could make it worse. Some people might misbehave for that privilege.”
She cocked a brow. “People like you?”
He frowned.
She sighed and grabbed a rag to start wiping up the drink they’d spilled during the altercation. “Sorry. Guess we haven’t reached the point where we can joke about everything with each other yet. Want to talk about the weather?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. It’s fine. I just hate that things are weird between us now. I miss hanging out with you. And my brother’s married to your best friend. We’re going to run into each other.”
She focused on cleaning the bar top, using a little too much vigor to wipe up things. Out, damned spot. “Doesn’t have to be weird. We can be friends.”
“Hard to be friends with someone you want in your bed.”
She looked up, something tightening low inside her when she saw the invitation in his eyes, that rope tugging again. Tug. Tug.
God, it would be so easy to give in and let him have the control. Sex with him in whatever form would probably be like winning the orgasm lottery. But it’d taken her so long to get to this point. She knew what she wanted, had finally figured out what flipped her switches, and she was tired of doing things halfway. “You know the price of admission for my bed, Gib. You’re not willing to pay it.”
Gibson leaned forward, bracing his arms on the bar and getting way too close for her to concentrate on anything but his dark eyelashes and full bottom lip. He kept his voice low enough for only her to hear. “We don’t have to be in any roles at all. We could just do things the old-fashioned way. Hot skin and cool sheets.”
She closed her eyes, a hint of his scent hitting her—rain-soaked earth. He’d always smelled like spring rain to her, something in his laundry detergent probably. But not until she’d had him under her whip did she get the rest of it—earth and man and hot need, who he really was beneath that polished exterior. She could smell it on him now. And that scent brought her right back to those sessions in the training room at the Ranch.
Never before had she felt such an utter need to make a man hers like she had when Gibson got into a scene. Something about him stirred those dark desires she’d only toyed with in fantasies before then. But the sessions had been her own kind of torture because they’d kept it so businesslike. He’d never taken off anything more than his shirt. There’d been no sex. He’d guided her from the bottom as her trainer and never gave over real control. Not until that last session, when she’d somehow broken through that outside layer, had she gotten a glimpse of what things could be like if they ever did those things for real, without restrictions.
And she knew without a doubt that if she agreed to an old-fashioned hookup with Gibson, physically she’d probably be over the moon, but deep down she’d be left unsatisfied afterward because she’d gotten a peek at what she’d be missing. She was done compromising. In her endless search to find Mr. Right, she’d spent too many years of her life dating guys who she’d jumped through hoops to please. No more. Even if Gibson was stupid beautiful and looking at her like he’d light her world on fire.
She poured a Crown and water and slid it his way. “Gib, let’s not pretend that either of us would be satisfied with old-fashioned. You don’t pay that exorbitant fee at the Ranch for nothing.”
The grooves around his mouth deepened and he straightened to full height, taking the drink in his hand. “I can’t be what you want me to be, Sam.”
“Why?” The word slipped out before she could stop it. But she’d seen how he’d reacted after that flogging. It hadn’t just been the pain. She’d been practicing dirty talk that night, dressing him down with her words. That had been the difference that night. He hadn’t just gotten hard; he’d been fighting subspace. Submission did something for him. She hadn’t imagined that.
His gaze slid away, the doors to his expression slamming shut. “Because it’s not who I want to be.”
She pressed her lips together, considering him for a long moment. She knew some submissive guys struggled with their desires. Many thought big, strong alpha men weren’t supposed to be anything other than dominant. But Gibson was so confident in his everyday life, she couldn’t imagine he gave a shit what societal norms or traditional gender roles called for. But for some reason, this was a no-go for him.
She needed to accept that. Move on. She reached out and put her hand on his arm and squeezed. “Hey, that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Friends who are not weird with each other. Or at least only weird in an awesome way. Because, let’s face it, neither of us has any shot at normal.”
His lips tilted up at the corners, but his eyes didn’t hold the same humor. “Yeah, guess we’ll have to get some practice at that.”
She nodded. “Definitely. We’ll go have lunch or something soon, okay?”
“Sure.” He grabbed for his wallet. “What do I owe you for the drink?”
“It’s on the house for trying to protect me from drunk assholes. Thanks for that, by the way. I would’ve handled it, but seeing his teeth knock together when you shoved him against the bar was pretty entertaining.”
His mouth curved into a full smile then. “Anytime, sunshine.”
After one last look, he headed back to his table, and she didn’t talk to him again until he and her friends said good-bye for the night. When he walked out of the bar, all the starch drained out of her. She tried to stay busy, keep her energy up, but as the crowd thinned and the night stretched on, the finality of her and Gibson’s situation weighed on her. When the last customer headed out the door, she sagged back against the counter and closed her eyes, rubbing her brow.
“Everything okay?” Angie asked.
Sam opened her eyes to find her current manager-in-training cleaning a glass and giving her a concerned look. Sam shook her head. “I’m fine. Long night.”
Angie nodded toward the back. “You should get out of here, then. Billy and I can lock up. I’ve got the hang of the closing procedures by now.”
Sam stretched her neck and glanced at the empty bar. Usually she stayed and helped to put things back in order, but she’d worked every night this week preparing for her time off, and the thought of staying any longer suddenly felt like a prison sentence. “You sure?”
“Of course. Your vacation can start now. Go. Get some rest.”
Sam smiled. “Why haven’t I made you assistant manager yet?”
“Because you’re too much of a control freak. But I’ll be more than happy to accept that promotion when you get back.”
Sam pushed off the bar and patted Angie’s shoulder as she passed. “Consider it done. And if anything happens this week, you can call me—”
“I’ll call Marvin,” she said, cutting her off. “You’re on vacation, not on call. Forget about us for a while.”
“You’re a bossy thing.”
“Hello, Kettle, you’re black. Love, Pot.”
Sam rolled her eyes. “Fine. Point taken. I’m out of here. Don’t forget to lock up the safe and check—”
“The side door. I know. Go.” She shooed her with her hand.
Sam didn’t protest this time and went into the back room to grab her purse and keys. The spring night was cool and dry as she exited the side door and headed through the alleyway toward the parking lot. Her worn Vans were silent on the pavement and after the constant roar of the bar, she welcomed the quiet night around her. But despite the peacefulness, she held her little bottle of mace in her right hand.
This area of downtown was pretty safe, but she didn’t take that kind of thing for granted. You were never really safe. She’d learned that the hard way bouncing around foster homes and group homes, running into people who thought her petite size and vulnerable circumstances made her an easy target. Danger pounced when you let your guard down.
It’s why in her first semester in college, she’d taken a Krav Maga course and learned how to protect herself. It’s why she always carried mace. And it’s why when she turned the corner around the building and saw a familiar face heading her way, she didn’t hesitate to raise her hand and aim.
Idiot number one from the bar fight was glaring back at her, but he lifted his hands. “Easy, now, darling. I’m not here to cause trouble.”
“Bullshit,” she said, finger on the trigger of her mace, her heart trying to pound out of her chest. She dipped her other hand in her purse, blindly feeling around for her phone. “You need to back off and go home.”
He smiled. “I was just coming back because I left my wallet at the table. I need to get back inside.”
“You can come back tomorrow. I’ll let the staff know to put it aside for you.”
“I can’t wait that long.” He took a step closer.
“I said back off, asshole.” She put more pressure on the trigger and stepped back.
And ran into something solid … and warm.
Her body jolted at the impact and her finger slipped off the trigger, but it was too late to react beyond that. A hand came around and clamped over her mouth. Another arm banded around her chest, knocking the mace out of her grip and dragging her back into the alleyway
“Well, hi there,” a voice said against her ear, stale whiskey breath burning her nostrils.
Everything went cold and electric inside her, and she wrenched her body, trying to break the grip and scream behind the hand. Frantic. She’d been through self-defense. She knew there was a way to break this hold, but none of the moves would come to her. All she could think of was to stomp on his feet. But when she tried, her tennis shoes did little damage and her body wouldn’t cooperate. Everything trembled.
The first guy followed them between the buildings and moved closer, invading her space and dominating her vision. His smile was one of triumph. “You know, we never did get those buttery nipples. But how about I taste them without the butter for now.”
He reached out and grabbed the collar of her T-shirt and yanked it down, ripping it and exposing her bra.
Tears jumped to her eyes, and she kicked and writhed like a wildcat. This was not going to happen. These disgusting men were not going to touch her. After a few failed attempts, her shin connected with the guy’s crotch and he doubled over, crying out in pain. She felt the small surge of victory, but then he hauled up and slapped her hard in the face, making stars appear and sending her ears ringing.
“You stupid fucking bitch,” he seethed, still hunched over, one hand cradling himself. “You think you’re so high and mighty, but you’re not going to be anything when we take you to the van and fuck that attitude right out of you.”
The man who was holding her tightened his grip, and her throat closed up, air whistling through her and her vision blurring. Other voices filled her head. Voices she hadn’t heard in years interspersing with the present ones. Her eyes closed and all that was there behind her lids was blood spattering, the violent Texas sun blinding her. Hands on her. Trapped. Held down. Not again. She would not go through this again. She forced her eyes open and shook her head with a violent, sudden motion, breaking free of the hand over her mouth and letting out a piercing scream—one that seemed to come from a place so far inside her, it made her body quake.
Idiot number one’s eyes went wide, and she hoped to God they would run, but he just looked out toward the street. “Come on, get her to the van. Hurry.”
But before they could drag her a few steps, the door to the bar opened and Angie ran out. When she saw what was happening, Angie lifted her arms and pointed a gun their way, hands steady as stone. “Let her go or I swear to God I will blow your fucking balls off.”
Sam knew Angie could damn well do it, too. The girl had grown up in the country, and her daddy still took her hunting.
The guy holding Sam tensed behind her and then let her go like a sack of grain. Her knees hit the ground hard and the two men ran off, shouting at each other to move faster.
Angie raced down the back stairs and toward the parking lot, and Billy came running behind her, cell phone to his ear. He stopped at Sam’s side. “Jesus, are you okay? I called the cops.”
Sam braced a hand on the pavement, panting and trying not to hyperventilate, and held her torn shirt to her chest with her other hand. Her brain seemed to flash through present and past all at once, a scrambled channel of images that made her want to scream again and not stop. But she forced deep breaths into her lungs. It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay. “I’m all right. Check on Angie.”
But Angie stepped back into the alley a second later, face red with exertion. “I couldn’t get a license plate, but I saw what kind of van they were driving.” She hurried to join Sam and crouched down next to her. “God, honey, you’re bleeding. Billy, get some ice and a new T-shirt.”
Billy jogged back into the building, and Sam sat back on her calves, tentatively touching her lip. It felt swollen but not deeply split at least. “I’m fine. They didn’t get a chance to do more than hit me thanks to you.”
And no thanks to Sam’s own instincts. Every goddamned lick of training she’d gotten had gone down the tube in an instant. She’d felt so strong and confident after arming herself with all those self-defense tools. Had felt like she’d beaten those demons. But when she’d needed them most, she’d been useless. She was just as vulnerable as she’d always been. A victim waiting to happen. The thought shook her down to the core.
You’re never safe.
Angie put her arm around Sam. “Come on. Let’s get you inside. You’re trembling.”
Sam let Angie lead her back into the bar, and Billy brought her ice and a new staff T-shirt. They were babying her, but Sam didn’t have it in her to protest at this point. She just wanted to give her statement to the police and get the hell out of there so she could put herself back together.
The cops arrived a short time after that and took all of their statements. Sam doubted they would be able to find the guys by description alone, but she hoped the van may give them a good lead. Either way, she didn’t think the men would come back to the bar. They were dumb but not brain-dead. The staff would recognize them. Everyone had seen at least one of them during the altercation with Gibson. But she’d ask Marvin, the bar owner, to pay for extra security for the next couple of weeks anyway.
By the time she got in her car to go home, she felt numb. Hollow. But as she drove toward her place, that numbness gave way to anger. Anger at the men who’d attacked her. And anger at herself for panicking so completely. She was not that person. She was the girl in her Krav Maga class who had taken down an instructor twice her size. She was the domme at the Ranch who had men willing to kneel at her feet. She was not going to be the girl to go home to her empty apartment and cower behind the locked doors and jump at every sound. That wasn’t who she was anymore. She couldn’t go back to that.
So when she got to her apartment, she grabbed the suitcase she’d packed for her vacation and added another black bag that was meant for only one place.
Tonight she didn’t need to be alone. Tonight she needed to be in charge.
She tossed the bags in her trunk and got on the road. The Ranch was only an hour away. She couldn’t get there fast enough.
Chapter 2 (#ua4578452-bf7d-5778-bb40-203e37625c35)
Gibson leaned back in his chair, taking in the sights of the common room at the Ranch, unable to focus on any one thing. This was the spot where people came to catch up and maybe find a partner for the night. No nudity was allowed in here, but some people pushed the edges of that with strategically placed bits of leather or vinyl. Others didn’t go for the fetish wear and were dressed like he was—casual, nothing different from what would work in a vanilla club.
Gib usually found the scenery interesting, the interplay between people entertaining. But he couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm tonight. He had no idea why he’d even bothered to come out here after his run-in with Sam earlier tonight. He’d made a reservation for one of the cabins out here a week ago, hoping to distract himself from the raven-haired domme. But after seeing her tonight, it made everyone here look about as exotic as Wonder Bread. And that was saying something considering the table next to him was having a negotiation conversation about fisting. And the table in front of him had two dominants in full drag having a drink before they performed in one of the entertainment rooms. When this was boring, Gibson knew he was in trouble.
He was just about to give up and leave when someone new stepped into the room, catching Gibson’s attention with his unmistakable presence. Grant Waters, the owner of the place, made his way around the room, greeting people and shaking hands. The big cowboy didn’t seem to forget a name or a face, and everyone seemed happy to be acknowledged by the guy. But there was no mistaking his intimidating effect on those around him. The formerly raucous conversations turned to murmurs, and everyone seemed to sit up a little straighter.
Effortless dominance. Like something primal in everyone’s DNA recognized the alpha in the pack.
Gibson envied it. He had no trouble commanding respect in a boardroom. At work he was the leader in his department and enjoyed being at the helm. But here, he often found the role exhausting. He could enjoy it. He could get turned on. But lately he’d been finding it more work than it was worth. He wasn’t stupid. He knew he wasn’t a dyed-in-the-wool dominant. Or maybe not even a dominant at all. He’d been around his brother long enough to know what one looked like, and he knew what lurked in his own fantasies. But even accepting that, Gibson couldn’t relinquish the control. The thought of—well, he couldn’t even think about it.
Which is why he’d had to walk away from Sam. She wanted more from him than he was capable of giving. Deserved more. He could bottom for a night or two, had done it. He’d discovered his masochistic streak years ago and had paid for private sessions with a domme when the need for that kind of release would build up too much. But those were transactions. A bloodletting of sorts. He still held the control—informing the domme what he was there for. And he never surrendered or really let go. He got his enjoyment from taking the pain. That was all.
Sam wouldn’t be satisfied with that. She was a new domme, but he’d discovered how easily she could affect him when they’d trained together. She would want more than his physical submission, she’d want to get in his head, would want his full commitment to the role. No way. He’d learned to deal with the fucked-up wiring his childhood had left him with, but he wasn’t going to base a relationship on it. Couldn’t.
Maybe if those cravings came from a pure place, he’d be okay with it. He didn’t look at the other submissives at the Ranch as if they were screwed up. People were kinky just like people were gay or bi or asexual. It was a part of who they were. He wished his desires were like that—just something that was. But he couldn’t help but see the imprint of his father on all this. His dad had taught him with violent fists and degrading words that you could never show weakness. Victory was in taking it and never flinching, in not giving the other person the satisfaction of getting to you. You could not break.
And Gibson never had. He’d had sessions with dommes where he’d been blind with the pain but he never let go, never orgasmed in session, never went to that place he knew others sought, that oblivion of subspace. He couldn’t surrender. The gratification was in surviving it.
But Sam wouldn’t want that. She’d want his full surrender.
It was something he didn’t have to give. Just thinking about letting go like that put a pit in his stomach.
Grant stopped by his table and clapped him on the shoulder, breaking Gibson from his thoughts. “Hey, stranger, haven’t seen you around in a while.”
