But without further ado, here’s Part V of our ongoing vignette…

* * * *

When she drew back, she caught his bottom lip in her teeth, holding there while he stilled, his hot breath caressing her face. She gave him a tiny flicker with her tongue, then drew back.

“I’m going to strip you now. I want to see all of you.”

“Your voice isn’t steady, angel. Why don’t you let me go?”

“So you can rob me of speech entirely?” She smiled, but took several steps away to open the cabinet where extra tack was kept, only she’d placed some different equipment there. She was sure he was acquainted with the snick of a well-oiled switchblade, so she wasn’t surprised to see his head come up, a delicious tension running through his upper body at the sound.

“Where did you get that?”

“From your desk, of course.” She came back to him, laid her palm on his chest to feel the thud of his heart. “Hope you’re not fond of that shirt.”

“I’ll use the strips to tie your hands when I get loose from here.”

“Threats, promises.” She leaned into him, using the firm brace of his body to reach up and slice smoothly through the seam and free the shirt from the cuffs. She knew as long as she was leaning against him, he’d hold steady. Taking care of her, as always.

She’d intended to drop the shirt to the side, but she gave herself a moment to turn her shoulder to his chest, prop there and inhale the fabric. She had all sorts of sexy lingerie that Tyler had bought her, but she’d noticed they both seemed to prefer it when she wore one of his shirts to bed. The sense of claim, and being claimed. If something awful ever happened to him, she suspected she’d just lay all of his clothes on the bed, use them as her linens for as long as she could last without him. Or simply sleep in his closet.

Because such a thought was unbearable, she pushed it away and let the shirt go, moving to his waist band. Using the tip of the blade, she traced that delectable diagonal line of muscle from groin to hip bone, making a fine red line, just short of drawing blood.

“Sometimes I’ve wanted to brand you, the way I did Brendan that night,” she mused. “Something that said you were mine, that I could reach over and touch at night, as if it were a magical symbol that would always keep you with me.” She raised her gaze to his firm mouth, the attentive cant of his head. “And sometimes I want to give you pain, as if it’s somehow more permanent than pleasure, like cauterizing a wound to heal it. Does that make sense?”

“You do whatever you need to do, angel,” he murmured in a husky voice. “Just touch me.”

She drew the knife up, then down, a flourish that did draw blood, a mere thin line. Pressing her palm against it, she felt the essence of him dampen her palm, make it sticky like his other fluids could.

Setting the knife aside, she slid the button of the jeans free and worked the zipper down, moving carefully over the sizeable impediment there. He had lean hips, long thighs. If he were a club submissive, she would have had him toe off his shoes himself, enjoying his struggle to do it while maintaining his balance against the give of the suspended hook. But he was her Master, and she liked the dichotomy of it, having him at her mercy while she knelt at his feet, leaving his jeans open as she slid off the loafers. She suppressed a smile at the dirt in them from the garden. In her position, it was easy to rub her cheek over his confined erection, inhale the damp musk of his arousal.

“While you’re down there…” There was strain behind the humor, and she managed a breathy chuckle.

“You wish.” She curled her fingers in the jeans and worked them down his legs, scraping his thighs with her nails, giving his knees a passing caress, knowing the backs were slightly ticklish. The beauty of eroticism and domestic bliss mixed. She wondered that anyone ever got tired of their spouse, thinking the terrain too familiar, the mind too well plumbed. Maybe because she was a Mistress, she knew that the male body was infinitely responsive, the mind never fully revealed. And for a complex man like her husband, she could spend ten lifetimes with him and still not have it all.

He wore his preferred boxers underneath the jeans, the snug knit that emphasized the hips and thighs, the large cock stretching the fabric. She took the underwear down next, making a pleased purr behind her teeth as his organ stretched up toward his belly, hard and demanding, the testicles a heavy, virile weight between his thighs. Her pussy contracted, weeping into the silk of her panties, her thighs already loosening in response to his cock’s proximity, the implied demand of it.

How often had she woken in the middle of the night to see the shelter of his broad shoulders over her, the wide chest? Felt his knee insinuating between hers, her legs already spreading for him, body automatically welcoming him?

Controlling her body’s learned and eager response, she finished removing the jeans and underwear, then stepped back to survey pure art. Lean, long muscle in his arms and chest, thighs and stomach, cock aroused and at her mercy. She walked around him, dropping the clothes in a pile to the side, and studied a back like a powerful Roman god, tapering down to firm, high buttocks and spread thighs. Moving casually around him as if considering him from all angles, she picked up something else from the cabinet without pausing or giving away what she’d acquired. When she came back around, one step, two, she laid her unoccupied hand on his lower back, caressing the rise of his ass. Shifting onto her toes, she put her lips on his nape, bit down.

“Are you mine, Tyler?”

“Yours and no other. You’re killing me, Marguerite.”

“Really?” She bit him again, suckled the place hard, wanting to leave a nice imprint of teeth. Why was it so many sensual things had such silly, demeaning names? A hickey. It sounded juvenile, harmless, rather than a mark of pure erotic possession.

He let out a growl, responding in kind, and she brought her tongue into it. Pressing her body to his bare side, she let her hard nipples slide over the expanse of his ribs. Her pubic mound rubbed against his flank, telling him how snug her riding breeches were. The seam bit into her labia, making the friction of his hard heat a pleasurable gift.

Considering him sufficiently distracted, she made her move. Before he had time to react or tighten, she positioned the slim probe between his buttocks and slid it through the two rings of muscle in one economical movement. The slick lubricant on it made it sink swiftly into the dark channel and her fingers followed, delving between the buttocks to tease and caress the now stretched rim.

“Son of a—”

She’d never placed anything there. It really wasn’t something a submissive did to her Master, was it? Unless the slave happened to also be a Mistress, who knew the kind of pleasure it could bring, how it could reduce a male to mindless orgasm.

“Easy,” she crooned, placing her hand on his shoulder, her fingers caressing his throat. “You have such a tight ass, Master. One would think you were a virgin.”

He gave a strangled sound that might have been the closest thing to a threat she’d ever heard from him. It only made her anticipate his revenge. But that would be later. She wanted to savor this now. She worked the probe with her fingers, stroked him inside, and was rewarded by a jerk. She’d had four mirrors placed fore and aft, to the left and right, so she could see his every reaction. His lips were stretched back, breath coming through his teeth as he tried to suppress his response to the stimulation.

“I want you harder than you’ve ever been in your life, Tyler. I want you to beg me to let you come.”

“Not…happening.”

He was probably wondering once again how this qualified as his birthday present, but she knew he didn’t know how to think like a submissive. He didn’t know the release that came with full surrender. But she was going to take him there, because she was the only one who could.

Fitting the harness around the base of the probe, she threaded the straps around his legs, coming around to work the cock ring over him and tighten the straps for it, constricting the testicles. She couldn’t resist bending down after she did it, pushing her hair back onto one shoulder to keep it out of the way as she took him fully in her mouth. She went all the way to the base, teasing those metal rings and tight strap, the flesh constricted under them, before withdrawing with painful slowness, savoring every considerable inch of him. He was hard, hot steel beneath her tongue and lips. Flicking her tongue over the slit at the end, she tasted salty male fluid.

When she straightened, she thought the muscles in his jaw were drawn tight enough to break. “I want to feed you now,” she decided. “I know you haven’t had lunch, because we were going to have an early dinner.”

“You bringing your cunt up here? Because that’s the only meal that interests me right now.”

It made her shiver, the raw demand in his voice. Even in his most aroused moments, he had polish. But she’d opened the door to the beast beneath. It was a good thing she’d brought a whip and a chair.

Anyhow, enough blather. Here’s Part IV!

* * * * *

Marguerite knew that low voice of demand. It never failed to send a strum of sensation coursing through her thighs. She was already pushing him, and while that was what she wanted, she knew the danger of it. He could take her over like no one else, and she was determined to give him this. She’d owed it to him for so long, and though he would argue with her about that, she had her own code of honor. She would do this, see it through, even if she was already trembling at the way he looked, his arms stretched up high. She could imagine, too well, how he was going to look when she was done with him, when she did all the things she wanted, all the things he deserved.

She took her time responding to his demand, knowing he would be following every footstep, marking the deliberately provocative saunter. He was the consummate hunter, using all his senses to profile his prey. Testing, she slid her fingertips down her sternum, into the neck of her blouse to give her breast a light caress.

He tilted his head. “Want me to do that, angel?”

“In good time.” She moved closer, inhaling. He’d been in his garden. She could smell earth and rose petals lingering on his skin, as well as healthy sweat. As she came closer, she pushed the tip of the riding crop under the hem of his T-shirt, and drew upward. The cotton gathered and lifted, showing her the diagonal slide of muscle over his hip bone. The temptation to touch was more than she was willing to deny herself. He was hers, after all.

She placed her palm on that heated expanse of skin, her thumb tracing the waistband and then dipping beneath to find his hip bone, graze over that. Coming even closer, she put one bare foot on the inside of his loafer, aligning their feet precisely so her knee pressed against the inside of his leg.

“What are you wearing?”

She had her moonlit hair down, the way he liked it best. She scooped it in one hand, let the long mane of it slide over his shoulder, tease his neck as she drew back, carefully out of reach as he turned his head in the hair’s direction.

“A white silk blouse, very thin. A pair of riding breeches, very tight. The two grooms got impressively hard, watching me walk from my car to the stables. I had them arrange this area for me, indulged in a few fantasies of my own as they said ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am’. Then I sent them to an early lunch so they could go to some quiet place, put their hands into their far-too-baggy jeans and have their own fantasies.”

“Nothing under your clothes?” A muscle flexed in his jaw.

She pressed against his chest, a brief, taunting contact, and let him feel the soft give of her breasts, the tight arousal of her nipples. “What do you think…Master?”

His muttered oath, the overt sensual threat, made her want to push him even harder. When she lifted on her bare toes, she brought her mouth so close, her breath whispered against his face.

“Do you want to know what I was fantasizing about, when I was ordering those two grooms to do my bidding?”

“Not if it involves them.” He tried to bring his mouth to hers. She expected that, averting her face so his lips cruised down her cheek, caught her jaw. He was an excellent improviser, turning that into a slow rub of his lips, a teasing caress of his tongue along the erogenous zone just below the hinge of her jaw, where her pulse beat the hardest. She gave him that, feeling everything below her neck tighten and roll in slow pleasure.

He said nothing else, waiting on her, his silence a palpable demand all by itself. As he probably well knew, it increased all her suppressed desires, making them push against the boundaries she wanted to maintain. If she were an ocean, she could create another Great Flood by unleashing them here. She could never get enough of him, and she had ceased trying to understand why that was, why he could do for her what no one else could.

“I imagined it was a couple hundred years ago. You were the plantation owner, lord of the manor, with that sexy Georgian drawl of yours. I had persuaded those two grooms to ambush you on your morning ride, tie you up and bring you here, hang you on this hook for me. You’d be wearing those old-fashioned, snug ivory riding breeches.” Her palm dropped, cupped straining denim. Her pulse leaped under his mouth at the size he was already, the heat that blasted from his confined cock. “That feels terribly uncomfortable.”

“Cruel Mistress. It makes you wet, knowing I’m that hard.”

“Would you beg me to make you more comfortable?”

“You know I don’t beg, angel.”

“Well then, I’ll continue.” She dug her nails into him, dropped her thumb to idly trace the generous weight of testicles that filled out the jeans so perfectly. And the way these jeans fit his ass…

Not more than a few days ago, she’d enjoyed that very view, watching him in the garden. He thought she was been curled up in the hammock chair, reading while he rearranged some border plants. Then he turned around and found she’d slid her gauzy white skirt up. She’d put her hand beneath it, stroking her pussy and rocking back and forth in the hammock chair, slow and easy as the breeze, watching him while the cicada song rasped in the morning heat. She’d known he would notice in his own time, no rush. It had pleased her to be doing it so close to him, without his knowledge. His reaction, when he noticed her starting without him, had been just as pleasurable, a different form of sharp anticipation.

He’d punished her by threading her arms and legs through the holes in the hammock hemp ropes, holding her thighs open and keeping her hands out of the equation. Then he’d knelt and put his clever mouth and agile tongue to work on her pussy lips, bare because he hadn’t permitted her underwear that morning. He’d commanded her to remain completely still. An exercise for her own considerable control, because it had been an excruciatingly long build up to the climax. When she was on the cusp of orgasm, he’d drawn back, opened his jeans with an impatient hand. He’d pushed that thick, steel and velvet cock with a salty wet tip between her lips, stretching them, filling her mouth while her pussy wept for him. Holding the top of the hammock chair in one strong hand, he’d rocked her back and forth against him, just as slow and easy, as she tried not to beg.

He could turn a Mistress into a slave. She wanted to give him the pleasure of that kind of surrender. Wanted him to trust her with it.

When at last, he’d pulled free, he’d tilted her up, all those strong muscles rippling across his chest, and driven into her. Clutching her through the rope fibers, he’d used them and the rasp of his fingers against her hips to pump into her, her body entirely at his mercy, the climax pulling her up and throwing her out into waves of sensation that had led to screams she couldn’t bite back.

Such thoughts wouldn’t help her keep control in the present, but the air of the stable was already saturated with sex, and she’d been contemplating his arrival for well over an hour. If his hands had been free, she knew he could have made her climax with barely a touch.

“Isn’t it odd,” she murmured, keeping her voice low so it would be steady, “how back in those plantation days those breeches so clearly showed the line of a man’s cock, when they were all so supposedly modest and pure in thought…”

His breath huffed out in a half chuckle. “No man can be pure in thought around you, Marguerite.”

Same goes to any woman within a mile of your scent, your power. Your sheer male beauty. She drew back out of range again, though she kept her body close. Allowing both of her hands to slide beneath the T-shirt, holding the crop on her wrist, she spread her fingers and traveled up that terrain that should be so familiar, and yet was always such a new thrill to her sensitive palms, the nerve-rich ends of her fingers. She covered each ridge of muscle, the silken arrow of hair down the center of his stomach, following it up to the pectorals, the fine mat of masculine hair there.

For so long, at the club, she’d had her share of pretty, pretty boys, like those two grooms. All smoothly sculpted muscle. Tyler’s body was that of a rugged, mature male, the landscape occasionally marked by a scar, a memory of risk that could have taken him from her before she even knew he was her salvation.

It made her fingers curl, just to remember. There was a time she couldn’t afford to show tenderness, or her own deep needs, but it was not with this man, not now, not ever again. So she permitted herself to lay her cheek on his chest, over his beating heart, rub there. She intended to make him mindless with lust, but the joy of being his wife, of him being her husband, was that she could also take the time for this.

He bent his head over hers, his lips grazing the crown of her head. “What is this all about, angel?”

She lifted her face, caressed his mouth, liking how the blindfold emphasized the firmness of his lips and slope of jaw, the fall of hair on his forehead. He kept it cropped short on the sides and back, but she liked it a little longer on the top, and he’d indulged that.

“Do you remember, when you first started pursuing me—so relentlessly—you agreed to submit to me for one night?”

“It was a memorable night.”

“Yes. It was a shameful night.”

“No.” His head came up then. “It was the night you started learning to trust me, Marguerite. There was no shame in that. If you think that, you and I will have a problem.” Though she couldn’t see his expression beneath the blindfold, his tone left no doubt of his intent. “And if you think I can’t slip a hook, you’ll find out differently.”

She was a tall woman. Though he was taller, it didn’t take too much of a stretch to follow his arms with her hands, grazing the straining muscles until she clasped his forearms. She took the T-shirt up with her, baring his chest and shoulders, pushing the neckline over his face and then past it, up to the wrists, catching the folds of the shirt there, so the garment would stay out of their way.

She let her gaze travel down again, because it was impossible not to do so. All that bare male skin. An upward stretch like this loosened the jeans’ waistband, made them drop a little lower, hint at the curve of his excellent ass, the architecture of muscle sloping to the groin area.

He had his sweaty combat and gym sessions where he might lift a couple hundred pounds, punch a gym bag, do grueling reps and sparring matches. She could do yoga moves that would make the jaws of his fellow weight pumpers drop and their imaginations go wild.

This wasn’t one of them, but it was a palpable reminder. Lifting her left leg, standing with easy balance on the right, she coiled it high around his hip, letting her calf brush his taut ass, rub a teasing circle before she braced her foot on the back of his calf to balance her in the modified tree pose.

“Tough guy.” She whispered it against his ear, caught it briefly in her teeth. “You know I’m not intimidated by you.” She’d of course never admit it if she was. There’d been times he’d scared her to death, because of the things he could make her feel and want, but he already knew that well enough. No need to give him a better opinion of himself than necessary. As Violet was fond of saying, Tyler’s arrogance might be fully justified, but there was no need to give a Ferrari an additional wax job.

She suppressed another soft smile at that thought, but, remembering what answer she needed to give to him, she sobered.

“That night was shameful because of what I did to you.”

Whatever he’d been about to say in their escalating sexual fencing came to stillness as his brow creased above the blindfold. “No, angel.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “That night was about something far different, true, but I want to give you what I should have given you that night. I want you to let me take care of you, trust me with everything you are, the way you’ve taught me to trust you. I want to give you that gift, the way I didn’t, all that time ago. Though I know we’re past that, it’s bothered me. I want you to know you can trust me, like this.”

“I do. And I trusted you that night, angel. I never faltered in that trust. Not once, and not once since.”

How he could draw tears from her now so easily, when she had gone years dry-eyed, was another mystery to her. But she guessed it was understandable. When you were lonely and unable to trust any softer emotions, tears would not come. When you trusted in love, you could celebrate it with laughter or tears. He’d brought both miracles into her life. A woman’s kind of miracles.

Now she wanted to bring him a man’s kind of miracle. A fantasy that would make him hard whenever he recalled it, whether it was tomorrow or years from now, when he was in a rocker, thinking he was far beyond such things.

“I’d thought about keeping those two male grooms around. Have them strip you, put you in those tight, tight pants. A pair of black boots. They were fine-looking young men. All lean muscle and hair like horses’ manes. Eager colts. I’d have made them kneel and polish your boots while your muscles gleamed with perspiration. Your shoulders”—her palms grazed over them—“would have been knotted, a Dom’s tension at being touched without permission. I’d have stood back, watched your cock getting harder as you imagined the ways you’d punish me for it. You know that I’d do it again and again, just to get the same response from you every time.”

Her fingers whispered high on his thigh. “They were eager colts, but you’re the dangerous mount in the stable. I’d take care of your discomfort, open your pants to stretch your cock out, but only to put some tack on you. A cock harness with a stimulator, and then I’d put you back in those tight pants so they would get damp in front. Your cock showing your intent to fuck me, to take me down beneath you and prove who’s Master.”

This time, when he whipped his head around, she didn’t try to evade. She met him, welcomed the hard, open kiss with a sound of helpless desire caught in the back of her throat. His tongue swept down over hers, tangling and shoving, his lips closing over her mouth as if devouring it, letting her feel all the power and lust he had to give to her.

Marguerite cupped his skull, fingers pressing into hard bone, conveying how tightly her own arousal was leashed, how wet for him she already was. She leaned into his body, let him feel every inch he couldn’t touch with his hands, what she wouldn’t let his cock have until she’d done what she intended.

They had so much further to go. She just hoped his considerable ability to derail her from her plans, sweep her away on a tide of her own personal desires, wouldn’t overwhelm her before she got him there first.

* * * * *

They didn’t take him into Tampa as he expected. Before they got started, after he’d said his hellos to Daisy, Violet pulled a blindfold out of the glove compartment and then turned around in the seat, balancing on the center console with the long practice of a woman used to wiping a nose or handing out a cookie. Or to check on a suspect and threaten his life with a mere pointed look.

“Marguerite doesn’t want you to know where you’re going,” she explained. “If you start to feel car sick, though, let me know. I don’t want you to get there and throw up on her shoes.” She gave him a steady look. “But if you’d rather just close your eyes, I think I can accept your word that you won’t peek.

He had been a CIA operative, not a cop, but Violet understood that all those in law enforcement had difficulties with being rendered helpless, even in the company of trusted friends. Ironically, though, it was that sensitivity that helped.

“No, I should be fine. You’re not driving, so I feel reasonably comfortable.”

“Wise guy. Daisy, we might just stick your pacifier in his mouth before this ride is over.” But Violet was still pretty gentle as she guided the blindfold over his face, adjusting the strap behind his ears and making sure it was comfortable.

He inhaled, and a faint smile touched his lips. “Marguerite gave you this.”

“Yeah. Don’t tell me what you’re smelling. I’m sure I don’t want to know where that’s been.”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing a little bit more about it,” Mac offered.

Tyler heard the grunt as she punched her husband in the arm. Giving Mac a hand, he shoved his knee against the back of her seat, hearing a satisfying thud as it moved on its track. “It’s the fragrance she puts on her wrists. Gutter-mind.”

It was something he’d bought her, one of those customized scents that cost a ridiculous amount of money but was supposed to be aligned with the woman’s body chemistry to make it uniquely hers. She’d smiled at the notion, indulging him, but they’d both been surprised by how tantalizing a touch of the oil on her pulse points had been to his nose. Not that it took much to tease his senses where Marguerite was concerned.

“Are Daisy and I going to have to separate you two?” Mac quipped, and then they were on their way.

By instinct, Tyler tried to keep track of the number of turns, the distance between them. Violet kept up an easy flow of conversation between the three of them, with the obligatory interruptions to respond to Daisy’s spontaneous gurgles, coos and various baby noises. He figured out they’d gotten onto some type of rural road, headed in a westerly direction, which would take them to the Keys if they stayed on it way longer than he assumed they would be. He found he was correct, because after about twenty minutes, Mac turned off and they were bumping up a gravel road.

Violet had opened one of the windows, and he smelled cut grass, distant marsh. Something else, musky, animal-like. Horses. They were somewhere that had horses. Confirming it, he heard a distant whinny and snort, the thud of hooves as they found some energy to play, despite the late afternoon Florida heat.

But something else was in the air as well. When Mac braked, a sudden still readiness settled over Tyler. Marguerite was nearby. He could sense her, waiting for him. Despite his banter with Violet, and the seemingly entertaining nature of what Marguerite had asked them to do, all that changed in this moment. That strong current of need and want that could rise up and take him over when he needed to let her know exactly how much she meant to him, surged forward now, making him as focused as he’d ever been before a mission.

Being with her defined everything he was, underscoring what he’d always been, as well as creating something new and stronger. Whenever they came together like this, Master against Mistress, it was as if both the predator and mate in him awoke, ready to do battle and seduce at once. Marguerite Perruquet Winterman was many things, but few of them were easy. Whatever it was she had planned, preparation for it coiled in his lower belly, making his cock harden and all his other senses go on alert.

Though she was a female Dominant, she’d surrendered to him, a unique scenario even in the unpredictable world of Domination and submission. She wasn’t just any Mistress, but a living legend at their preferred club, The Zone. Since being a Mistress was in her blood, situations like this were intended to challenge him. She needed to be a submissive with him, to find that emotional balance her very difficult childhood had almost stolen from her permanently. However, it took both a strong and delicate hand to hold the reins on her. His lips twitched, wondering if the choice of a stable had been intended or unconscious. Either way, his blood stirred, ready for both the gauntlet and the gift she’d prepared for him. It was a fair description of the woman herself.

His wife. Something he never got tired of saying, thinking, or murmuring in the shell of her ear, particularly after a hard climax, holding her shuddering body, knowing that, by some miracle, she was all his.

* * * *

Violet was the one who took him out of the van. As if sensing the change in his mood, she said little, merely guiding him along a gravel path. When he realized they’d stepped inside a building, he recognized it as a barn, the smell of hay and old wood filling his nostrils.

“I’m uncuffing your right wrist. I want you to move your hands in front of you, and then I’m going to recuff them.”

He complied without a word, and her small fingers tightened over the bracelets, binding him again. Her knuckles brushed his groin, inadvertently he was certain, because Violet didn’t play with him like that. But he was sure she couldn’t help but notice he was getting hard.

“We can’t help it, can we?” she murmured. “Like pit bulls getting ready to go into the ring. Good luck, champ. Kick her ass.” Then, in her cop voice, she added, “Stand right here.”

She left him, her shoes crunching on the stone. The haze in the air was disturbed by a fan mounted somewhere on the wall, so that the sweat that had collected on his shirt when he was gardening cooled. Despite the pleasurable tension he was feeling about what might be ahead, it was peaceful here, quiet. Earthy. Marguerite chose her settings quite deliberately, and so had known this would be a good balance for him, too.

“Lift your hands over your head.”

Had she been standing downwind from him, remaining completely still so that he couldn’t detect her? Since he was already expecting her arrival, she’d managed to cloak her presence cleverly in that anticipation.

As a Dom, he knew that sensory deprivation, anticipation and denial were the three potent ways to drive up desire and need, heighten all other sensations. So he shouldn’t have been surprised that those few syllables, said in the unconsciously sultry voice he most wanted to hear, could tighten his lower abdomen muscles as if he’d just driven himself into her. His cock responded accordingly with a hard jerk that made him wince, because he was definitely in need of adjustment. He hadn’t thought it appropriate to ask Violet for help with that, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Mac.

“Don’t make me tell you twice.” That core of authority that made so many submissive males cream themselves, slid into her tone. In his case it stimulated more than that, an urge as primal as that which drove the first male wolf to follow an elusive female scent.

Baring his teeth in a smile, he lifted his hands, felt the hook waiting there, just within reach of his wrists.

“Thread it over.”

“Whose gift is this, angel? Yours or mine?”

“You won’t have to ask that when I’m done.”

“Come here.”

Her breathy soft laugh made him want to lunge at her, but he held his position, knowing she was circling him now. Her feet were bare, because he knew the sound of her smooth, slender soles padding against the wood of their bedroom floor. “You shouldn’t be barefoot in here. You could cut those pretty feet. The ones that belong to me.”

“You still haven’t followed my instructions.”

He would do anything for her, and she knew it. Tyler guided the chain connecting the cuffs over the cool steel, and immediately heard a whirring noise. Before he could consider the idea of unhooking himself, the hook had retracted, stretching his body upward. She kept it going until he was fully extended, his muscles taut, though his heels still remained on the floor. Barely.

“Come here,” he said again. A Master’s demand, one he knew would send an electric surge through her blood that matched his own, and create a gloriously unpredictable reaction. The sense of waiting was over. He was ready to handle anything she had to offer.

* * * * *

Last Par Part One –

…Because as strong a Mistress as Violet was, he was a stronger Master, and he knew it would take more than a set of cuffs to make him relinquish control.

* * * * *

Part Two

He’d have been surprised to know how closely Violet’s thoughts reflected his own on the matter. Even with all her experience in controlling males, professional and personal, her lower belly still gave an amusing little flutter when Tyler put down his clippers, slowly pivoted and brought his hands up, lacing them behind his head. It emphasized the width of his shoulders, the beautiful play of muscle, obvious even under the storm gray T-shirt he wore. And she hadn’t been kidding about his ass. She wondered if Marguerite would mind if she got a little enthusiastic with the role and frisked him thoroughly. Tucking her tongue in her cheek, Violet figured what Marguerite didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, but Mac, who could be a tad on the possessive side about his own Mistress, might have a few issues.

Plus, Tyler would tattle, and she’d have to worry about Marguerite asking for quid pro quo next time they were at the club. Whatever Marguerite’s boundaries might be about Tyler’s body, Violet knew exactly how she felt about another woman fondling Mac’s fine ass.

Still, she was too much of a Mistress not to feel a frisson of physical pleasure when she clipped the cuff on his left wrist, and then guided his hands down behind his back to secure them both, so his knuckles rested on the rise of his buttocks. When he gave her a sidelong glance, of course he was too much of a Master not to register her reaction. His lips quirked at her, and she gave him an arched brow in return.

“Don’t get cute, or I’ll use that Taser after all.”

Tyler grinned then. “You’re just looking for any excuse.”

Despite the smile, there was a hint of tension in the solid biceps beneath her grip. Since he was her closest friend, aside from Mac, she wanted to offer him something, but she checked herself. She knew the value of ratcheting up anticipation.

Mac had stayed at the corner of the house, and as Violet guided Tyler around the large stand of oleanders, he could see why. He’d needed to keep a clear line of sight to the circular driveway and the vehicle that was parked there, the hum of the running engine underscored by the blowing sound of air conditioning.

“I’m being kidnapped and transported in a mini-van with infant sunscreens in the windows,” Tyler observed dryly. “I wonder why the CIA hasn’t thought of that. Perfect cover.”

“Welcome to where the D/s lifestyle meets the reality of transporting tiny people,” Violet agreed, unperturbed. As she took him to the van, Mac fell in behind them, lifting his hand in a farewell to someone inside the house, probably looking through the tall living room picture window.

“I assume you informed my housekeeper that you were doing this?”

“Actually, Sarah’s been in on it for some time. She asked me if I’d blindfold you so she could come out and beat you like a rug, anonymously. You know, payback for every time you left your dirty boxers on the floor for her to pick up. I would have agreed, but I promised Marguerite I’d deliver you in pristine condition.”

“You know, speaking of payback—”

“I’m just following orders, sir,” Violet said in her official cop voice. “Take it up with your legal counsel.”

“I get legal counsel?”

“No,” Mac said amiably, sliding open the door for him.

Tyler had a suitable and colorful response to that. Violet punched his arm, hard enough he was pretty sure it would bruise.

“Language,” she said. Her tone had changed again, this time to the “mother” voice, a new dialect that had amused Tyler as it developed without any plan or effort, apparently something that attached itself to her DNA once she’d conceived. “There is a child in the car.”

At that, his tingling apprehension about their destination temporarily dissipated, pure affection taking over. Daisy was in her car seat, the five month old infant playing unperturbedly with a soft fabric mobile of flowers dancing over her head. Mac hadn’t had her out of his sight of course, but Daisy had come out of the womb remarkably self-assured. Mac thought it was because she’d inherited her mother’s terrifying fearless streak. Tyler was pretty sure it was because Daisy knew she had an indomitable father who would move Heaven and Hell if necessary to keep a moment of distress from touching her.

Even now, having been in the vehicle ostensibly by herself, she looked like a tiny princess welcoming them into her throne room. Her violet-blue eyes turned toward them in calm curiosity. One curlicue of her fine dark hair sat up, tied with a pink ribbon.

Mac guided him onto the seat beside her, cupping Tyler’s head to protect it as he ducked in. It was an easier feat for him than Violet, since Mac was closer to Tyler’s height.

“Daisy was very excited about coming along for this.” Violet slid into the front passenger seat. “She even had me dress her up special for the occasion.”

For Violet’s baby shower, Chloe—Marguerite’s irrepressible baker and hostess at the Tea Room—had provided Daisy an applicable, if somewhat inappropriate, gift. It was a pajama set, a pretty pink and white thing that depicted a small female devil with flirtatious lashes and a pitchfork laced with flowers. Beneath the cartoon were printed the words: “I like spankings.” Dressed in that, Daisy also had Chloe’s other impudent gift, a rattle shaped like a tiny flogger. Attached to her wrist, she was vigorously shaking it even now, the rattler in the handle making a pleasant bell noise while the straps slapped together.

“I think her participation in this is illegal,” Tyler noted.

“She’s only assisting in transport.” Violet cooed at her daughter, touched the little fist as she leaned through the opening between the seats. Mac came around to take the driver’s side. “She gets to go to bed when she gets home, so the pajamas made sense.”

“She still appears better dressed for the occasion than I am,” Tyler responded.

“I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about that for long,” Mac observed, with far too damn much smugness for Tyler’s peace of mind.

Even so, he couldn’t resist leaning over, despite his restrained hands, to tease his goddaughter’s perfect nose with a puff of air. She gurgled at him, smiling, then kicked her arms and legs vigorously, whapping him several times with the flogger.

“That’s my girl,” Violet laughed. “Take us into Tampa, Mac. As happy as Daisy is to see Tyler, there’s a woman who’s even more eager to get her hands on him.”

If you haven’t read the Baby Shower vignette, you don’t need to read it first. But if you’d like to read it, just go to my yahoo fan group (link in side bar), and Terry keeps it in the files section. Or you can email me directly for it. For those of you who may not yet have read the Nature of Desire series, I’ve tried to include enough descriptive info that you can still enjoy the vignettes (and maybe tease you into giving them a shot – wink)

Okay, here we go… Enjoy, and happy Independence Day, for those of you in the States!

* * * * *

“What do you need, baby?” Tyler squatted on his heels, wiping a sweaty arm across his forehead. Jesus, the Florida spring was stifling this year. “I’ve hand fed you, mercilessly destroyed your enemies, told you that you’re beautiful…a woman is allowed to be this difficult. Life’s too short for a rose to be this standoffish.” Stroking a finger over the leaves of the bush, he noted how tight and green the buds were. “You see this fuscia floozy next to you? She’s spreading her petals for the whole world to see. I know, maybe you don’t want to be a tramp like her, but that’s why you coming out now will be so classy and coy. You’ll be the Audrey Hepburn to her Jezebel.”

“This is just sad. Or biblical, I’m not sure which. You don’t often get to see a man on his knees, begging a bush to do anything.”

Tyler put his hands on his knees and straightened. Turning, he saw Violet standing a few feet behind him, fully rigged out in her trooper uniform. It always made his lips twitch, because she was barely five feet tall and, despite having had a baby in the last few months, still a pixie. But since she was also the second toughest Mistress he knew, and mean as a Georgia snake when riled, he managed to stifle the smile that would expose how cute he thought she looked.

“Who’s protecting Tampa if you’re here?”

“All the criminals decided not to commit any crimes today, in honor of your upcoming birthday. Wasn’t that nice of them? And you can wipe that “You look like Tinkerbell in uniform” smirk off your face. I have a Taser and a gun. As well as a baton I won’t hesitate to telescope up your ass.”

“You can’t prove I was thinking that and, despite your threat of police brutality, the justice system is still ‘innocent until proven guilty’.”

“Boy, are you behind the times. It’s innocent as long as you get a stupid jury and a high priced attorney. And you have enough to buy both.” Violet unsnapped her handcuffs and shook them out with a metallic click. “I’m here to take you in.”

Tyler blinked, gave a half laugh. “The last time I had a woman in uniform say that to me, she started stripping. It was at my bachelor party.” He picked up his Heineken, took a swallow and leaned his hips against the brick retaining wall, finding a small bare patch where his yellow climbing rose wasn’t spilling forth, bursting with blooms.

“I brought reinforcement, though I don’t really think I’m going to need him.” She nodded, and he saw Mac coming around the corner. The homicide detective was built like a brick house, his relaxed stride emanating easy power. The jeans and T-shirt he wore obviously came from the same store where the Tampa Buccaneers shopped for clothes, needing a special fit for broad shoulders and powerful thighs. But it was the anticipatory grin playing around his features as he met Tyler’s gaze that gave Tyler fair warning he was in serious trouble.

“This is about my birthday, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Not a surprise party. Marguerite knows I hate surprise parties.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s not our place to explain the charges against you. We just cuff ‘em and deliver ‘em.”

“I’ll go along quietly,” Tyler decided with a resigned sigh, though he was puzzled. Marguerite had infallible intuition with respect to his desires. While she might plan a get-together with their closest friends at the Tea Room to quietly celebrate his birthday, he doubted she’d go all out like this. “I don’t need the cuffs.”

“I don’t recall making that a choice.” Violet’s eyes sparkled. “Now are we going to have to take you to the ground, or are you going to turn around and put your hands on your head, fingers laced?”

Tyler glanced between the two of them. Mac had come to a halt, one hip cocked, fingers hooked in his armpits, the smile settling into a faint curve on his firm mouth. Damn if the bastard didn’t look ready and willing for a sparring match. At the very sweaty, testosterone-laden gym they both frequented, eschewing the co-ed bright lighted yuppy workout hangouts, they were pretty even, but they both knew if Violet jumped into it, it was game over. No way was Tyler going to wrestle her, he didn’t care how accomplished she was. He didn’t fight with girls. The last time he’d told her that, he’d earned a nice uppercut that had rocked him on his heels, but he’d taken the blow and held to his guns. A Southern gentleman did not raise a hand to a woman.

“I think this is why you like being in law enforcement. It’s the chance to restrain men and order them around.”

“Makes my nipples hard, baby. Now turn around, lace your fingers on your head, and let me see that fine, fine ass.”

Tyler choked on a laugh and his beer, but the gleam in Violet’s eyes still gave him a ripple of unease. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her. Until his marriage to Marguerite, he counted Violet his best friend. He’d helped her embrace her Dominant nature as a Mistress, and had enjoyed a front row seat when she met Mac Nighthorse and discovered the tough detective was the ultimate paradox. A strong alpha who needed a Mistress’s firm hand in the bedroom.

But precisely because of what she was, a smart man would think twice before being cuffed by her. Particularly when he had no idea what she was up to. However, given that Marguerite was behind this, he could do nothing more than give in. For the time being.

Because as strong a Mistress as Violet was, he was a stronger Master, and he knew it would take more than a set of cuffs to make him relinquish control.

All my weekly blogs won’t be vignette serials from here on out – there will be weeks I’ll still post some of my usual “Deep Thought” ruminations (God/dess help us), or tell you about current or upcoming things that may interest you. I intend the vignette serials as a great way to stay in touch with “why writing is fun”, something that every author needs to keep her contracted work filled with the same sense of excitement and inspiration. At least, that’s my theory.

So here’s how it will go. I’ll serialize each vignette until it seems to come to a proper stopping place, and then I’ll send the full HTML file to Terry, who runs my yahoo fan group. She’ll post it in the files section so you can visit the story again whenever. And then I’ll start serializing the next vignette idea. So on and so forth.

Be as interactive as you wish. Comment on the vignette, good or bad things, what you wish would happen, where you’d like to see me go next, either with this vignette or a whole new idea. Can’t promise that I’ll always go in that direction or grant that wish, if the muse is tugging me hard in another direction, but it’s just as likely I will! So don’t be shy. As far as vignette ideas, they can feature characters from ANY of my full length works.

Final note (and then I’ll stop babbling and post Part I of Tyler Tied Up in the post directly after this one) – I’m going to try and not be an anal editor on these things. The point is kind of a free flow, so if you see the occasional typo, please forgive me. However, that said, you know I can never abide to do shoddy work, so if you think a vignette is substandard, you let me know that, too! I want you to enjoy reading these as much as I’m enjoying writing them.

All right, off to do a last quick read through, then we’ll post that vignette…

If I’m reading it correctly (and I hope I am), looks like Beloved Vampire got a Top Pick in Romantic Times Magazine for the August issue. This is making me even more excited to get the book into your hands. Hopefully, you all will agree with the review (wink).

This is just a short post tonight. I have to go investigate mailing lists on Writerspace and the wonderful world of Twitter. Yep, it’s an expand-my-promo horizons night. Wish me luck as I see what’s involved in becoming a Twit (snort). Social networking – shudder.

Hope everyone had a wonderful weekend and Father’s Day celebration.

Here are a few shots. In this picture, I’m with Jacquelyn Frank (red head) and Emma Holly (sitting). I told them I wanted this picture so that I could look like an important author (wink), because of course both of these ladies are NY Times and bestselling authors, as well as great women. At the beginning of the conference, authors chose a table at which to sit (4 authors per 10-person table), so readers would know where to find them. I had the good fortune to sit at Emma’s table, and found someone more shy than myself – while being entirely gracious and not hesitant to provide her insightful views about writing, critiquing, etc.  A very talented lady. I’m reading her book Velvet Glove right now, and it is everything I was told it would be. Emotional and hardcore erotic at once.

Jacki Frank flattered the socks off of me some time ago by indicating that Natural Law is one of her favorite books, and that I’m one of her favorite authors. I’ve read the first book in her Nightwalkers series, Jacob, and her visual world building and memorable characters make me even more bowled over to be the recipient of her praise. She’s hosting the Authors After Dark conference in October, which I’ll be attending, and I can’t wait to get to know her better. She also loves cats, which I consider a plus (grin). I have two more of this series, Elijah and Noah, to read, and also intend to read the first in her new Shadowdweller series, Ecstasy. Hopefully the conference will give me an excuse to do this pleasure reading. And I’ve heard such great things about Emma’s books, I know Velvet Glove won’t be my last title of hers to read.

We have Victoria of Two Lips Reviews to thank for bringing us together at this table. She has a knack for rounding up us shy ones and helping us to open up. Which means I was mightily amused when she asked to take her picture with me and said she’d been too intimidated to ask at RT. If ever I go into an intimidating situation, this is the woman I’d want at my side (see below left). She’ll tell you up front she’s from Chicago, with the Untouchables accent and everything, and assure you “she ain’t from no suburb”, either. She’s a wonderful, interesting person – the kind that spawns book heroines. Add to that, she loves books and has an incredible knowledge of the romance genre. Now, in case you’re wondering, I’m not blowing all this sunshine just because she’s a book reviewer – Victoria’s the kind of person who’d say my book was crap if it deserved it! I like that about her, too (grin).

The next pic is the two-woman author team of Violet Summers. In this month’s newsletter, I mentioned that I’m reading their book, Daniel’s Surrender, and really enjoying it. As you know, I love to analyze writing, so VJ (lady in red/black) and I had a lot of great discussions about that, with active participation by other readers/authors who rotated through our table. We had such a great group there -  I can’t remember everyone’s name, but they were all so much fun. Below is a picture of our table and the ballroom in the background – there were 300+ attendees. The girl with the pretty long blonde hair on the far right is author Tracy Ranson. I haven’t had the pleasure of reading her work yet, but she has some very intriguing paranormal and medieval romances on her website.

On a particular high note, I finally got to meet Shiloh Walker face to face!! She and I have emailed for some time (I love her story Her Wildest Dreams, which is in her Cops & Cowboys anthology with Lora Leigh), but have never met, so it was wonderful to give her a hug and hang with her and her friends one evening in the bar area for a lot of hilarious travel stories. I’d go into detail, but this is already going to be too long, of course. Let’s just say that having Shiloh, JC Wilder, Crissy Brashear (Samhain Publishing), Rosemary Laurey and a bevy of other witty ladies whose names I dearly wish I could remember (sadly, I wasn’t drinking, I’m just that bad at names – I’ve mentioned that before, right?!), left me with my sides hurting in the morning from laughter.

And then of course there were games. Saturday night was a luau sponsored by Author Island. Very relaxed affair, but they played games, like this hula contest. That’s author Stephanie Burke, aka Flash, doing her thing while Harrison Turner watches – he’s a ten year old author who was signing/promoting his first book, about a duck and a cat, that was a delight – I obtained a copy for my mom, and savvy promoter that he was, he was handing out cute rubber ducks with the book. He later also held his own in the hula competition by masterfully spinning the hoop around his neck. They also played author Jeopardy (Victoria won her round of that), and had volunteer readers match book covers to an author line up.

So in short, good fun for all. I’ve heard great things about Lora Leigh’s Reader Appreciation Weekend (RAW), and had the opportunity to meet her for the first time at this event, so I’ve added that one to next year’s calendar, money permitting. For this year, I’m looking forward to the Authors After Dark and Romanticon Conferences in October. If they’re anything like this one, I think it will be a sheer pleasure to attend.

Okay, closing note, since you deserve a reward for wading through all that detail (laughter). Be sure and pay close attention to the last paragraph of my June newsletter, because starting in July (deadlines permitting), I’m going to start serializing vignettes on the blog. Not sure who the first one will feature, but it’s likely to be Nature of Desire series characters, since you all have had to wait so long for a fix. And you’ve sent me such great ideas for vignettes for them! So stay tuned. You’ll have to put up with my rambling analysis of God-n-Goddess-knows-what for a couple weeks’ more, but then I’ll get started on Part I of the Vignette series (aka the “I’m out of interesting blog topics desperation measure”)!

This is my first author-sponsored conference. I’ve been told they’re much more informal and laid back than the big conferences, and I should bring casual clothes (grin). There’s a pizza party Friday night, a luau Saturday night, and in between a lot of time for readers and authors to hang out in the ballroom and by the pool to talk books and writing and just enjoy one another’s company. What’s also great is that all the raffle tickets bought for the baskets/giveaways being offered by authors, sponsors and other industry folks will benefit One Way Farm Children’s Home which helps abused and neglected children. Also, one of the books being promoted heavily at the conference is an anthology called Tails of Love, put together by Lori and some fellow authors to benefit the Animal Adoption Foundation. So this is obviously a good gathering of folks.

If I don’t see you there, I’ll look forward to bringing you a report next week. AND I’ll give you an update on Gideon, Anwyn and Daegan. They are evolving into an incredible threesome, and Daegan is seriously hot. Since Gideon was already nothing to kick out of bed, I think you’ll like their chemistry with Anwyn (wink)

Have a great week!