“Remember in Miami, when you said I could tie you up and tickle-torture you?”
“Uh, Deanna—”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh, no chickening out.”
Jonas smiled and spread his arms out to the sides. “I’m all yours, kitten.”
Deanna sat up, then reached across the bed to the nightstand and grabbed the handcuffs. She snapped one around his wrist, then the other. Now he was bound and at her mercy.
“Oh, yeah,” she murmured. “This is going to be so much fun.”
Jonas groaned. “I’ve created a monster.”
Turn the page for a sizzling preview of Tawny Taylor’s
DANGEROUS MASTER
An Aphrodisia trade paperback coming November 2011
1
It was heaven. Glorious, nude male bodies as far as the eye could see. Limbs entwined; muscles stretching and flexing; hard, thick cocks gliding in and out of pussies, mouths, asses.
Mandy Thompson’s job had taken her to all sorts of places, from the presidential suites of Michigan’s finest five-star hotels to rat-infested hellholes in the most dangerous pockets of Detroit. But never a place like this.
Until tonight.
A tray of full champagne glasses balanced on one hand, Mandy stood in the doorway, her gaze meandering around the space, sliding from one beautiful male body to the next. A sigh slipped from between her lips. “Damn, I love my job. I am so glad I took this case.”
“I told you, you wouldn’t regret it.” Sarah Gray, her best friend, adjusted her corset before leading her down a narrow walkway that skirted the perimeter of the room. “Just remember, you can’t get so carried away that you forget everything I taught you.”
Easier said than done. Although Mandy was professional enough to realize the danger of forgetting where she was, why she was here, and what could happen if anyone made her.
To everyone but Sarah, Mandy was a waitress, paid to tote around trays of champagne.
To Sarah, and to her client, Allison Clark, wife of Mr. Andrew Clark—two-timing trust-fund baby—she was one of the best private detectives in Metro Detroit. Discreet. Thorough. And as tenacious as a bulldog.
Sarah and Mandy made a full circle of the room. Only twice was she stopped by thirsty guests. Then they headed outside, down the main corridor, and into a second spacious room, this one set up as a bondage dungeon.
Sarah stopped in front of a scene featuring a gorgeous man, nude with the exception of an itty-bitty G-string that strained at the seams. He was strapped spread-eagle to a wooden cross. But it wasn’t the rippling muscles, pulled taut beneath oil-slicked skin, or the hard penis testing the construction of his G-string that made Mandy feel warm between the legs. It was the look of rapture on his tanned face. It was sexy beyond imagining. It was enough to make her cream her panties.
“Now that’s how you tell if you’re doing things right,” Sarah said, her voice a little on the breathy side.
Her own voice husky, Mandy said, “It’s no wonder you spend practically every free minute at places like this.” Shifting the tray to hold it in front of her body, she leaned back, letting the wall support her. The drywall felt cool against her burning skin. It was a very welcome sensation.
Sarah gave Mandy a little nudge. “I have a feeling you will, too, even after you’re done with your case.”
“Maybe. Speaking of the case ...” Mandy pushed off the wall, forcing her gaze from the man on the cross. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to visualize the man she had been hired to watch. It wasn’t easy shoving aside the memory of the man on the cross, but she did it.
Late thirties. Blond hair, wavy and cut about collar length.
Andrew Clark, one of Metro Detroit’s richest men, was said to be submissive and prefer male doms and sex partners. He had talked his wife, Allison, a former topless dancer, into signing a prenup. She wouldn’t get more than ten thousand dollars in the event of a divorce, unless she could prove infidelity.
Why a gay man who’d married a woman to pacify his father would think a document would be enough to protect him was beyond Mandy. But it was good for his soon-to-be ex.
And good for Mandy’s bank account, too. Despite having steady work that paid well, it was getting lean. Lately, she was shelling out hefty money for her grandmother’s care. Her maternal grandmother, a woman who wore the “feisty Irish” tag with pride, Grandma Dougherty was the only family she had left, and Grandma Dougherty was the most important person in the world to her. Mandy would live in a cardboard box to keep that woman in the home she loved.
“Do you see Mr. Jones?” Sarah asked, using the code name they’d agreed upon before leaving her apartment.