Caught By Two Doms (Club El Diablo (Angel's Doms Book 2)) Read online

  He pointed to the soft carpet and she walked over and knelt between his thighs.

  “Look at me.”

  Her gaze traveled up past his muscled legs to the juncture of his thighs where his cock was slowly coming to life and then to his defined abs. She loved the slight sprinkling of hair that traveled upward then peppered out to his nipples. The sparse hair didn’t hide the scar that ran from chest to shoulder, but, at this moment, she didn’t think about the pain he’d suffered. She gazed at his chest… rock hard all the way to the corded muscles of his neck. Her breath hitched at the slow, steady pulse just below the skin. She admired his shaved jaw, and then his softly curved lips that turned the harsh planes of his face into a sensual promise. His control, such a part of him, relaxed with his smile and showed a depth of feeling that shattered her world.

  His husky voice sent a thrill directly to her core. “Take my cock.”

  She smiled and leaned in, her eyes focused on his. She placed one hand beneath the tight warm sack of his balls and smiled naughtily when his cock jumped. With her other hand, she aligned his burgeoning flesh with her lips and ran her tongue over the bulging head.

  His eyes closed briefly then flared open. “Hands behind your back.”

  The throaty order made her smile around his flesh and comply without hesitation. He loved it this way, just her mouth fucking him, her eyes on his, with his hooded gaze taking in every nuance of her obedience.

  She treasured everything about his cock—the silky flesh, hard length, and musky, salted taste. She knew the different flavors of her men and would never be able to choose which she preferred. Saliva released from the glands in her mouth as she sucked him deep into her throat, swirling her tongue under the crease beneath the head. He shuddered and she gloried in her ability to give him pleasure. Undeniably his slave, she relished the power of her servitude.

  Warm hands encased her head and he increased the tempo of her movements until he cried out and pulled her forward. She couldn’t breathe as cum slid down the back of her throat, but she savored every second of his undoing.

  Air entered her lungs when he eased away. His eyelids were now closed as he regained control of his breathing. He sank back on the bed while she rested between his thighs waiting for his next command.

  Finally, he reached down and pulled her up beside him. His fingertips trailed over the swells of her breasts and he sucked on one nipple and then the other until she writhed. His fingers traveled to the folds of her pussy, glistening with need and swelling at his touch. Then, her breath caught when he stopped his exploration and lifted her hands, bringing them to his chest.

  “Touch me.”

  He’d never asked this of her. She always touched Sir, but Master didn’t invite this intimacy. Her palms traveled his hard chest, cherishing his warmth, accepting his gift.

  “Touch me with your lips, Angel.” His breath ruffled her hair.

  Using her mouth, she feasted on every inch of bared flesh while never ceasing to explore with her hands. A low growl left his throat and he rolled so he pressed her body into the mattress. His thumbs moved across the tears she hadn’t known she’d shed, and then his hot tongue licked the wet trail before returning to her mouth.

  He made love to her. Not a play scene or artistic creation, but pure unequivocal love.

  Chapter Three

  Monroe

  Mastering the intricacies of rope was much like mastering the nuances of Angel. And tonight, he discovered that no rope on earth compared to the touch of her lips against his skin.

  His nose rested in her hair, his arms held her close while she slept. For the first time in years, he sank into memories of his past.

  His parents had little time for the odd child that shied away from a mother’s embrace. The best doctors, psychiatrists, and therapists made little headway past the walls that kept the world out of the workings of his mind. Medical professionals bandied diagnoses and tried different therapies, but Nathanial, from his earliest memories, felt he stood on the outside looking in.

  His nannies and tutors bragged about his brilliance in every subject, but his parents wanted a normal child. Nathanial Jason Monroe would never be normal.

  When he was ten years old, a stodgy British bodyguard by the name of Stephens put a length of rope in his hand. The braid, perfectly woven from small filaments, told Nathanial a story. He studied the rope for hours, unfurled the strands, and then tried to reconstruct their original form. He wrapped the cord around his wrist, liking the feel against his flesh. It wasn’t cold or warm and felt nothing like human touch. But, for a young boy caught in a void, the rope was alive.

  A few days later, a book of knots was smuggled into his room along with more rope. He studied the book and practiced each instruction for hours until he could tie them with his eyes closed.

  One day, Stephens put his hand out and invited Nathanial to tie his wrist and show what he had learned. For the first time, he voluntarily touched another human being. Focusing on the intricate knot formation, he stroked Stephens’ skin and admired the way it compressed within the strictures of rope. He looked up.

  Stephens smiled. “You learned well.”

  Nathanial rarely spoke, but he needed to communicate too badly at that moment. “May I do another, sir?”

  The bodyguard’s eyes brightened, his smile deepened, and he nodded.

  Nathanial double looped the rope and then wove the next knot. He asked to tie another and then another.

  “I made my own knot, sir. May I show you?”

  “Yes, lad, show me your design.”

  The knot was a combination of several, and Nathanial closed his eyes and let his fingers construct the picture in his mind. When finished, he looked at the weave covering Stephens’ lower arm.

  “You have found beauty in the rope.”

  It was beautiful and much more alive than when he practiced on the bedpost.

  Stephens put his other hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a folded knife.

  “It is important that you find a way out if the rope becomes stubborn. My knife is sharp and will cut deeply if misused. Can I trust you to be wise and use it only in times of trouble?”

  Nathanial nodded.

  Stephens did not raise his voice. “I wish a spoken answer.”

  Nathanial did not hesitate, “Yes, sir.”

  Stephens placed the handle of the knife into Nathanial’s hand.

  “Now cut the rope and see how sharp it is.”

  Nathanial didn’t want to slice the beautiful creation and Stephens understood.

  “I must know you can use the knife. There is more rope. I will provide whatever you need. It is important that I know you are practicing safely.”

  Nathanial sliced the threads, allowing the dull side of the blade to run across Stephens’ skin. The rope snapped free and Nathanial looked up in question.

  “Very good, young sir.”

  Nathanial smiled.

  More books appeared in his room. Within a day of each gift, he could master the knots with little more than looking at the pictures. Then the book arrived that completely changed his life—a large coffee table picture book of Shibari. The kimono-clad men and women fascinated Nathanial.

  He went to Stephens and asked to use him to practice some of the designs within the book.

  “I cannot allow that. My job is to protect you, and I must have at least one hand free and not have my movements restricted, but… I have an idea.”

  After dinner that night, Stephens took him to the kitchen. Marguerite, their cook, was cleaning the last of the dishes. She seemed unsure of Stephens’ request at first, but then agreed to have her hands bound. Nathanial had known her for years, liked the cookies she baked, but especially liked that she never tried to touch him.

  Her skin was different than Stephens’—softer, with no calluses, and it reddened more when he wound the rope around her hands and arms. She remained stiff while he wrapped and knotted the cord. He rarely noticed the
feelings of people around him, but when he looked up, he saw her worried expression.

  “I will not hurt you,” he assured her with a calming smile.

  “Sí, Señor Joven.”

  “I shall be quick and then you may join me for milk and cookies.”

  Marguerite laughed, and their ritual of bondage and milk and cookies began.

  Stephens’ next gift was a collection of kunai, Japanese throwing knives. He taught Nathanial to handle them with incredible accuracy. They practiced for hours, but Marguerite promptly turned him down when he asked to use her for a demonstration of his newly acquired throwing skills.

  “No estoy loco,” she said with conviction.

  He knew she was not crazy, but he thought it odd that she reacted so vehemently. He would never hurt her. His unusual bond with these two adults changed his world. They accepted him as he was.

  He attended college shortly after his sixteenth birthday and began learning about the complexities of human nature. Outside of his studies, he watched the mannerisms and intricacies of relationships, trying to understand society’s need for interaction.

  At twenty-one, and only a few months away from earning a master’s degree in bioinformatics, his parents died in an automobile crash. He never quite understood the concept of death. In his early college years, he took classes on religion and metaphysical analysis to try to gain insight into something that made no sense. His curiosities about death went unanswered until the finality of his parents’ passing. He experienced grief for the first time and their loss created a need he did not understand.

  Nathanial finished college and then made a life-altering decision. He always admired Stephens’ military training and without a backward glance at his many job offers, he joined the Marines. The structure formed a world in which Nathanial excelled with little effort. His accuracy with any and all weapons placed him in the sights of the military elite. His standoffish behavior became a commodity. He was twenty-three when he killed for the first time. He settled the feelings surrounding that death in the far reaches of his mind. The man had murdered innocents and needed to die.

  His participation in the BDSM community evolved through his quest for sexual gratification with as little human contact as possible. He became known for his artistic rope work and allowed several photographs of his designs. He examined the pictures, but they left him cold because they did not convey the correct precision of his work. He built a studio in his childhood home and started controlling all aspects of his gift.

  Through his BDSM club associations, he was introduced to Mistress Melody Charles, a world-renowned photographer. Though more than fifteen years his senior, she became his first long-term lover. A kinky switch, she taught Nathanial a more diverse dominant roll.

  She got along with Stephens and Marguerite, scheduled models, and when their relationship shifted more to friendship, she found male and female submissives that interacted within the confines of Nathanial’s needs.

  Years later, he rescued Zachary and yearned for something he never before desired. Maybe it was seeing Zachary bound in a tangle of messy rope work or the look in Zachary’s eyes as he waited for death. The young soldier made Nathanial crave that elusive bond that was stronger than rope... love.

  Through Zachary, Nathanial found Angel, and for the first time he had a family that accepted him as he was. Now, after one kiss, Nathanial realized he may have changed their dynamic forever, and he feared things would never return to the way they once were. Nathanial pulled Angel closer, trying to shake his troubled thoughts from his mind. He had no idea how to fix it however even if he did, he had to go away.

  Hours later, he felt the bed dip as Zachary joined them. Angel’s body shifted slightly away, but Monroe held on. Zachary’s leg settled between hers, and Monroe finally closed his eyes and let the world drift away.

  Chapter Four

  Angel

  She woke up with Sir’s body wrapped around hers. Settling further into his warmth, she tried to believe everything would be okay.

  “He’s gone but he’ll return to us,” he whispered with conviction.

  “I’m not sure what to do.” Her hand rested on his arm as his laugh rumbled from his chest and sent shivers clear to her toes. It was his teasing laugh that often meant trouble.

  “We’re going for a jog, and then eating breakfast.”

  Angel squeezed the taut muscle beneath her fingers and gave a low groan at the thought of Sir’s kind of “jogging.” The sound earned a solid slap to her thigh. “Ow.” She rubbed the offended skin and turned her head toward him, smiling through wet lashes.

  He kissed her nose. “When he’s not around, you’re a brat.”

  Her hand traveled to his groin, seeking an alternative to outdoor exercise by continuing her bratty behavior.

  He grunted and stopped her playful pursuit. “You’re earning punishments and you haven’t even gotten out of bed this morning,” he teased.

  “Punish me,” she whispered, “please, Sir.”

  He moved so fast she had little time to do more than yelp. He had her across his lap and the first strike of his palm landed against the globe of her ass, though it only made her laugh.

  “You will be running in those tight little jean shorts I love so much. No underwear and you will feel this,” he swatted her again, “with every stride.”

  He increased the force, and playful swats turned to stinging strikes against her recently bruised skin. She wiggled and squirmed, but one of his legs pressed her down further against his stiff cock. Her sad tears turned to painful ones. At last, the rough calluses of his palm smoothed over the redness, sending undeniable need directly to her pussy. Giving her right cheek a solid pinch, he stood, letting her slide to the floor in a puddle of desire.

  “You have five minutes to meet me downstairs in running shoes, ‘my’ shorts, bra, and any t-shirt you want. Don’t be late.” He walked from the room and she couldn’t help admiring his tight, naked ass.

  ***

  With every pounding step, she more fully accepted the fact that Master was gone for an extended period of time. He’d left before, but not since Sir’s return to their lives. Master had quit his government work, or told them he had. But now, they both knew he had placed himself in danger again. She wasn’t sure exactly what Master did, but his last trip had ended with a deep twelve-inch wound that caused a jagged scar from chest to shoulder. Her lips trembled with the thought. Sir, like Master usually did, sensed her troubled feelings and increased their pace.

  She stumbled, her legs jelly. Sir grabbed her arm, righted her, and kept running until all she could do was focus on placing one foot in front of the other. Even her chafed ass cheeks couldn’t compete with her aching chest.

  After four miles, the well-worn path looped around. Sir didn’t stop running until they were a half-mile from home. “Put your hands above your head,” he commanded.

  She complied, trying to suck air into her oxygen-deprived lungs. She enjoyed running, but Sir’s pace was torturous. She walked next to him, miffed because he barely breathed hard. She covertly glanced at his knee where a bullet had ended his career in law enforcement, but he wasn’t limping. After giving her a few minutes to recover, he took her hand and walked beside her back to the house. At the side door, he turned and placed his palms against her cheeks.

  “Every morning, we’ll run until he returns.” The intensity in his eyes caused her pulse rate to increase.

  She gave him a tremulous smile. “I hate you.” She sighed against his mouth as he moved in closer.

  “You love me.” His lips parted hers.

  The dampness on their skin mingled as he pulled her tightly into his body and ravaged her mouth with lips, tongue, and teeth. Small bites on her lower lip caused her pussy to flood. “Take me to the playroom, Sir, please,” she begged.

  He released her and backed away. “Go shower and then eat your breakfast. I’ll think about it, but remember… no underwear.”

  She p
ushed out her lower lip in a childish pout, which caused him to display his evil smile. Turning, he opened the door and led the way upstairs before leaving her to shower alone.

  Thirty minutes later, she sat down at the table, wearing a mid-calf length dress in retaliation to his no underwear dictate. As she looked at the breakfast Marguerite had cooked, her stomach sank. Glancing at Sir, she noticed him watching her. She raised the fork to her lips, barely tasting the food, and then chewed, but fought to swallow.

  “Take another.”

  She complied and slowly ate the food until the last few bites and pushed them around her plate. Thankfully, he stood and beckoned her to follow. They entered the music room and stopped beside the piano.

  “Play for me.”

  She’d only taken lessons for three years, but natural talent allowed her to play far beyond her training. She loved the time she spent practicing and performing for her men. She didn’t think about her choice and dove into Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Her fingers flew over the keys while thoughts of Master invaded her mind. A slight mistake made her concentrate more fully on the music. She hoped Sir didn’t notice. Master would have had her start over from the beginning. The thought made her smile, and she managed to flawlessly finish the rest of the piece.

  She sat still, but heat traveled across her back with his closeness.

  “Turn around.” His low, velvety voice rippled against her skin.

  She swiveled, circling her legs around the bench. Sir moved between her thighs and went to his knees.

  “Lay back.” He looked into her eyes as his hands traveled under the gauzy material of her dress, gliding up her thighs and further parting her legs.

  Her back hit the keys, and her head leaned against the fall, causing a very un-melodic sound.

  “Cross your arms over your chest.”

  Once she complied, his tongue ran over her clit. With her hands crossed, she had nothing to grab onto. It was torture worse than the miles of running. His fingers pulled her delicate folds apart and he delved deeper.