Bound to Submit (Miami Masters 4)

“Please,” she whispered with an unconscious lift of her hips.

“Excellent. You’re a natural, Hope. Don’t fight it and you’ll be much happier. Do you want more? I need to hear you say it.” He ran a finger under the edge of her panties and teased the under curve of one buttock, that small touch making the decision for her.

She didn’t need to hear her friends’ ribbing or dares to answer him. “Yes, please.” Scrunching her eyes closed, Hope held her breath as he slowly lowered her panties to mid-thigh, baring her ass to a roomful of strangers. “Oh, God,” she groaned when he rested his warm palm on one quivering buttock. The only reason she didn’t succumb to the urge to reach behind her to cover herself was because she feared the humiliation of landing face-first on the floor.

“Take a deep breath.” His deep voice was followed by a painful crack in the middle of her butt.

An embarrassing whimper slid past her compressed lips as he built a blistering, heated throb across her buttocks. Within seconds, the burn encompassing her entire backside spread between her legs and took up residence in her pussy. Stunned surprise at her body’s response, a reaction she had yet to achieve when engaged in full-naked intercourse with the man she was slated to marry, ripped through her and shattered what little control she still had. She wanted more; harder, butt numbing swats that promised to deliver something she’d been denied for too long.

“Please, I…” Hope lifted again into his swat, embraced the flash of pain and hugged the odd pleasure she derived from it. Her buttocks turned into a mass of quivering, fiery flesh, pulsating with a beat her sheath kept up with. And then he struck the sensitive skin of her sit-spots and she flew apart in a stunning, ecstatic explosion of pure bliss.

Hope didn’t know how long the exalted pleasure went on or when he ceased his slaps and switched to soft caresses over her sore cheeks. The now soothing strokes calmed her frayed, overwrought senses and by the time he adjusted her clothes and helped her stand on wobbly legs, her mind was starting to clear. Blinking open her eyes, she looked down into…

Hope jerked awake, tangled in the sheets, her sweat-slick body shaking like a wind-blown leaf. It hadn’t been the light-haired, blue-eyed Dom staring up at her in approval that ended the dream this time, but the vision of Miles’ coal-black hair framing his dark, scarred face and his black, probing eyes looking her over as she stood in vulnerability before him.

With a groggy fumble, she sought the lighted numerals on the bedside clock then cursed as she noted the time. No one should be awake before 5:00 a.m., but she was. And, thanks to yet another heart pounding, body-dampening erotic dream, she knew the odds of getting back to sleep were nil. She threw herself onto her back and loosened her legs enough to ease up on the pressure she’d unconsciously been putting against her crotch. Her panties were wet enough for the thin cotton to be soaked through; not a surprise given the explicit vividness of her dream.

Everything had been fine with her life until the day Miles Cavenaugh had accompanied his friends, Zach and Troy, into the shelter seeking information on one of her guests. She’d already helped Sandie flee the city, and her stepfather’s thugs, and normally would never have divulged anything about one of her residents, especially one who was on the run from a bad situation. When Zach showed her proof he was the same man her new friend had fallen for after spending four days cruising on his yacht, and Troy held up his detective’s badge, she’d trusted the look of concern on all three men’s faces. But it was Miles’ dark gaze and anger on behalf of bruises she’d sustained when those same thugs arrived at her shelter the night before that was responsible for her current dilemma.

Like she’d been doing for the last six years, Hope pulled her mind off the ache throbbing deep inside her body, and the temptation to assuage it. She’d gotten over the need to do penance for the awful sin she’d committed, yet she still refused to seek another relationship or give in to her needs, needs that skyrocketed to a whole new level whenever she came within a few feet of Miles’ tattooed, muscled body and felt the impact of that midnight gaze. Turning her head, she looked at the picture of Craig she kept as a reminder of everything one night of indulgence had cost her. She may have fled her home, and the family and friends who turned on her with as much condemnation as her fiancé, but there was no running away from the constant guilt, or the fear her new life and new friends would be lost to her if her former actions became known.

Her bare feet hit the wood floor as she sat up and rose with a reluctant sigh, setting aside the urge to indulge herself with her favorite bedside toy. She’d never reached the same level of acute pleasure a stranger’s control and hard hand had driven her to, neither before nor after that night, so was it any wonder she kept denying herself the sexual relief any normal, thirty-year-old woman craved? The whole Dom/sub interaction may not make sense to Hope, but then, neither did the way her family, and others, continued to blame her for defending herself. They claimed she got away with murder, but Hope bore the physical and mental scars proving otherwise. She just wished her guilty conscience would get on board with her legal exoneration.

Was that why she hadn’t had sex in all this time, to prove to them she wasn’t ruled by abnormal, kinky urges? Time and distance hadn’t given clarity to her confused yearnings, nor had it softened the condemnation she’d faced after that horrible night stripped her of everything.

Not everything, Hope admitted as she padded into the bathroom and ran a cool washcloth over her heated face and neck. She now spent her days doing the hands-on social work she’d studied so hard towards instead of being stuck sitting behind a computer in a plush office of a fancy nonprofit, and could finally feel good about herself and the help she provided to those who found themselves in the direst of circumstances.

The friendship she enjoyed with a few women who lived the lifestyle she’d once dipped her toes into wouldn’t judge her for that, and often encouraged her to join them. But, despite each of them having lived through and dealt with their own traumatic experience, she was so terrified of losing their respect, and possibly their new friendship, she couldn’t bring herself to open up about her own tragic past.

Hope leaned on the bathroom counter and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She bore the perfect bone structure and white blonde hair of her Slavic mother and the full, lush figure of her father’s robust heritage. But physical attractiveness couldn’t make up for being raised by emotionally distant parents who were more interested in maintaining their public airs as befitting the rich elite of Atlanta than bothering themselves with raising their only child. The most attention they’d showered on her had been to hire a high-powered attorney to clear her of all charges following Craig’s attack, and that had been more to save face among their peers than because they believed in her innocence. Her gratitude to them for that didn’t extend to sticking around long after the air cleared to listen to their constant admonishments and cutting remarks about ‘blowing’ the best chance she’d had to get into a successful marriage.

“Time to get to work,” she muttered, turning away from the mirror and the past. The shelter had been filled to capacity last night and she needed to supervise the kitchen in preparing breakfast for those who’d stuck around. If supplies were short, they’d have to stretch what was on hand to feed everyone then restock for dinner. Finances were getting low and the afternoon would have to be spent doing her least favorite chore, applying for more grant money and pushing donations. She disliked that stressful part of her job but couldn’t keep the doors open without it. By the time girls’ night rolled around tomorrow, Hope knew she’d be more than ready for the weekly get-together Sandie and Krista instigated last month.

Hope set a tray of cheese and crackers on the low coffee table in front of her second-hand sofa just as the bell pealed on her door. She cast a last-minute glance around the living area with a critical eye before answering it. This was the first time she’d hosted girls’ night, and even though her small but homey residen

ce above the shelter was a far cry from the trendy apartment in an upscale complex she’d rented in Atlanta, she felt more herself and at home here than she ever had anywhere else.

Opening the door, she beckoned Krista and her friend, Alessa, inside. “You beat Sandie, but Julie just called and said she couldn’t make it. Jackson’s out on an emergency.” A familiar twinge gripped Hope’s abdomen when her eyes were drawn to Krista’s attractive suede collar with its row of small diamonds. She knew it was the symbolism of belonging to someone that she envied, not the twenty/four seven, Dom/sub relationship Krista shared with Dr. Dax Hayes.

“That’s too bad,” Krista replied. “I know she was looking forward to tonight.”

Hope didn’t know much about the backgrounds of the guys her friends were hooked up with, only that they met as troubled teens and the seven of them were close. Julie was the newest woman they’d welcomed into their midst when she and veterinarian, Jackson, breached the chasm that had put a wedge in their childhood friendship for a number of years. “There’s always next week. How are you, Alessa?” She’d only met Krista’s best friend twice, but she and the strawberry blonde nurse took right to each other as the only ones not involved with someone in the small group of male friends.

“I’m good, and ready for a glass of wine.” Pulling a large bottle out of a bag, Alessa asked, “Where to?”

Hope grinned and waved toward the compact kitchen. “I have an opener on the counter.” The elevator pinged then the doors slid open.

Sandie waved, rushing forward to greet them with a flushed face and breathless voice. “Sorry! Time got away from me at the Art Institute.”

“Krista and Alessa just arrived, no sweat.” Hope closed the door after Sandie breezed inside and hoped she could shut out the financial stress nipping at her shelter as easily for a few hours.

Thirty minutes later, Hope sat curled in her wide, overstuffed arm chair, sipping a second glass of wine and enjoying girl talk and her mellow mood when the subject of setting up a shopping date led to the topic she’d been trying to avoid, men. Not just men, but the guys Sandie and Krista were living with, and their friends.

“As much as Zachary keeps grumbling about me working, I’ll be lucky to get away for an afternoon of shopping without him insisting on tagging along. I swear, the man couldn’t wait to get me off his boat a few weeks ago, and now I can’t take two steps without him breathing down my neck.” Sandie’s disgruntled sigh lacked substance since her green eyes shone with pleasure whenever she mentioned Zachary’s name.

Krista shook her head. “They do tend to turn into overbearing, overprotective Doms once they commit, don’t they?”

“You must not mind,” Alessa chided her with a knowing grin. “You not only moved in with Dax but went to work for him as well.”

Krista sent her best friend a shrewd look. “No, I don’t mind, as you know.” She fingered her collar and Hope envied the contented expression that entered her blue eyes, even though she didn’t understand the dynamics of the strict Dom/sub relationship Krista shared with Dax. “At least working as first scrub for just one surgeon, and one I know well, is much easier and less stressful than spending a few hours in an operating room enduring the glare and cutting remarks of an ego-inflated crank. I’ve had my share of dealing with both considerate, easy going doctors and complete jerks. And I sure as heck don’t miss all the drama that goes on in hospitals.”

“Well, despite Zachary’s grumbling, I love my art classes, especially the hands-on ones with the younger kids. They love messing with clay and finger-paints, anything they can sink their hands into and get messy.” Tossing down the last swallow of her wine, Sandie eyed Hope with a mischievous glint. “Speaking of hands-on, who’s going to take Miles’ self-defense class? I’m doing good at the shooting range with Zachary’s help, but he’s still insisting I try this class.”

“I’m a decent marksman, but that won’t help if you’re caught unawares or aren’t armed,” Krista said. “We’re going to sign up, right Alessa?”

Alessa shrugged, as if she didn’t care one way or another about taking the martial arts self-defense class. “I’ll give it a try. Hope, are you in? I think Julie is going to make the long drive from the shelter for it.”

Hope rose and strolled into the kitchen, not wanting them to see her face as she replied, “Not right now. I have too much on my plate, and finances are low at the shelter, which means cutting back on my personal expenses. Maybe when I get additional grant money coming in, I can swing it.”

Sandie followed her into the kitchen and set her glass by the sink, teasing her by saying, “If you and Miles would quit dancing around each other and start enjoying some touching and molding yourselves, I’m sure he’d waive the fee.”

“Don’t let either of them push you, Hope,” Alessa put in as she and Krista carried over the empty snack trays.

Krista rolled her eyes at Alessa. “I’m not going to quit encouraging you to attend the club one night as a guest. It’s obvious you’re not happy with your sex life, since you don’t have one.”

“I told you, I’m working on getting up the courage,” Alessa grumbled, her cheeks turning pink.

Hope could commiserate with the chagrined look crossing Alessa’s face, but unlike her, the idea of going to another club, just as a guest again, appealed to Hope. What better way to stop the plaguing thoughts and dreams of Miles than with the diversion of meeting others not within the small group of women and their guys she’d become so attached to? Exploring the urges that had been recently resurrected might put an end to them once and for all, or, if they continued to grow, a club might give her the alternative outlet she needed to get them out of her system without involving her friends and risking them learning of her past.

“If I take the class, I’ll pay the fee. I don’t want to be indebted to anyone,” Hope replied, taking the heat off Alessa while avoiding commenting on Sandie’s more personal remark concerning touching Miles. “I should hear back soon about some grant proposals I submitted today. If so, I’ll only miss one class and be able to join you next week.” She would have to come up with another excuse then, but Hope would cross that bridge when she came to it.

Dean McCallum rapped on Miles’ open office door. “The new women’s self-defense sign-ups are all here, Miles. Do you still want me to take the class?”

“Yes, but I’ll be around to observe and offer pointers,” Miles told his new instructor. Disappointment, along with a small kernel of anger twisting his gut, had been his first reaction when he checked the list that morning and saw the absence of Hope’s name. Traci Aikens, Hope’s receptionist, had enrolled, he suspected with some prodding from her boss, so why hadn’t she? Did she learn nothing when the thugs after Sandie came after her a few weeks ago? It hadn’t been that long since the bruises and her sprained wrist had healed. Pushing back from his desk, he rose and padded barefoot across the cramped room. “I’ll introduce you, then let you take the reins.”

Dean nodded and followed him back into the big gym and over to the largest mat, where Sandie, Krista, Alessa and Julie sat with six other women. Each wore the white, classic gi provided with the class fee. The loose pants and tunic tops offered the freedom of movement they would need in learning how to use martial arts moves to defend themselves.

“Ladies, I’m Sensei Cavenaugh, or Master C, whichever title you prefer. This is Sensei McCallum, or Master D. By signing up for a self-defense class, you’ve taken the first step toward averting serious harm from an attacker should you be so misfortunate to fall victim to one.” Miles let his gaze rest on each woman for a silent moment before saying, “Martial Arts is a great spectator sport, but if you’re here to ogle the men working out in the rings or on the other mats, I suggest you leave now. The Arts are also an excellent way to keep fit. Again, if that’s the reason you signed up,” he pointed to the door marked Exit, “you can get a refund before wasting your—and our—time.” When no one moved, he nodded once. “Good.

Sensei McCallum.”

Miles strolled over to Sandie as the group followed Dean’s instructions to stand and go through a series of warm-ups. In a quiet undertone, he asked her, “Why isn’t Hope here?”

“I tried, Miles. She’s waiting for more grant money or donations for the shelter before committing to the extra expense. I think that was an excuse though.”

Miles cocked his head. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re throwing your friend under the bus.”

“Yup,” Sandie admitted without batting an eye or any sign of guilt. “Someone’s got to get her to quit holing up in that shelter, which, as you’ve pointed out, isn’t exactly safe late at night.”

“I’ll give her a call. Catch up on the warm-up.” He spun on his heel, turning his back on the taunting quirk of her eyebrow. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Miles stepped outside for privacy as he pressed Hope’s number.

The tentativeness of her soft voice when she answered told him she had caller I.D. and knew why he was calling. “Give me one good reason why you aren’t in class tonight?” he growled, not bothering to hide his frustration.

“Miles.” She paused, and when the sound of his name in her sexy as sin voice sped straight to his cock, he swore under his breath. Ever since Ed had taken him in and showed him how to channel his anger through martial arts instead of street fighting, he’d maintained strict control over both his emotions and his sexual appetite. One look at Hope’s bruised face and one breath from her mouth stripped him of that hard-earned control and threatened his resolve to keep his distance.

“That’s not an answer,” he snapped with impatience.

Miles could hear her exasperated sigh through the line. “If you must know, I can’t add any expenses to my budget right now. The needs of the shelter and my residents come first.”

“I’ll waive the fee,” he tossed out. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford it. He’d socked away a small fortune from his competing years.