Boston Avant-Garde 5: Bellicoso (2 page)

Before she could voice a protest or ask him to find out the names of the two men who’d rescued her, he had the car in gear and was screeching around the corner with the gas pedal pressed to the floor.

If there were more men like that in the world, it wouldn’t be such a lonely place.

Chapter One

Several weeks later

Wild music pounded the walls of Club Triptych. The writhing bodies packed inside the rectangular chamber generated a fierce heat that rippled through the air. Selena flung her head back and spun. The dim lights crisscrossing the domed ceiling coalesced into a solid stream of brightness that ribboned across her vision. She’d come to this place half a dozen times since the incident with Jackson, but she’d never managed to dig up anything on the two guys who’d faced down her ex. It was almost as though it had never happened.

Which leaves me with Bachelor Number…whatever.

Her dance partner splayed his palms against her torso and brushed his lips against her ear. “You’re so sexy.”

He braced her weight over his forearm and dipped her so low that the tangled ends of her blonde ponytail skimmed the stone floor. The deep V of her neckline bared a generous portion of cleavage. He pressed his palm against her chest and slid his fingers into her dress.

The touch was forbidden, titillating, exciting, and everything she’d hoped to gain from coming to the club. She didn’t want to think anymore, but it was hard to let go of so many years of conditioning. She was dancing with a total stranger, and his hands were all over her breasts. Selena’s brain began to clamor a warning, and she faltered against her partner’s hold.

He flipped her back upright and pulled her closer. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Wasn’t this what she’d imagined when she put on the siren-red dress with the side cutouts and revealing neckline? The dress had accomplished everything Selena had wanted.

“My cock is damn near strangling to death,” he said.

If the hard bulge behind his ripped jeans was anything to go by, he spoke the truth. Each movement of the dance caused the ridge of his erection to skid along her hip bone. Heat built between her legs. It felt so damn good to be wanted. She locked down any reservations and let her body rub against his.

It had been less than an hour since she’d first met him. She thought his name might be James or something generic like that. Selena had known a million guys in prep school and college named James or John or Charlie or David.

But only one Jackson.

Anger sent a rush of blood to her cheeks. She bit the inside of her lip to hold back the feral snarl that threatened to burst forth. There’d only been one Jackson, a guy she’d dated for years before accepting his proposal. He had promised her the world and screwed her over instead.

James cupped her ass in his big hands, thrusting against her. Selena wanted to forget. Locking her lips against the near stranger’s, she wordlessly demanded he help her achieve oblivion for just one more night. That was as far as she was willing to think these days. One night, one guy, one more chance to forget. Their tongues tangled together. He tasted like tequila and lime and something else not entirely unpleasant—generic, like his name.

He kissed her neck before sweeping his tongue through the cleft between her breasts. Selena whimpered as her core pulsed with desperation. She ground against his leg, letting the rough material of his jeans slide against her satin panties. It wasn’t enough. It never was. Even ripping off his clothes and begging him to fuck her wouldn’t be enough.

She remembered a night weeks ago at another club when she’d realized it was possible for one woman to snag two men. Maybe if Selena could find two lovers, she wouldn’t feel so empty inside. Two men might be able to assuage the isolation that seemed to dog her every step.

“Damn, you’re hot.” The guy’s voice was ragged. “I’ve got a pass to go to the Underground tonight. Come with me.”

The Underground? What the hell is that?
Selena’s brain struck up a whole new line of questioning. She’d been trolling the Boston club scene for nearly a month, and she’d never heard of anything called the Underground. Was it a new club? Maybe a new scene would provide something new, something more to satisfy the emptiness inside her. So far nothing else had.

“What is it?” Selena stopped dancing, swaying to keep her balance in the crush of people gyrating and spinning to the music. She had to yell in order to be heard over the din.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her in the opposite direction of the exit. “The Underground is literally under Triptych. It’s invitation only.”

Titillation wound its way through Selena’s body, and her resistance melted. She liked exclusive. Exclusive was her life. She’d grown up the pampered darling of one of Boston’s most prominent families. “Invitation only” was a phrase that had always meant “for Selena Aasen.”

Until you became a laughingstock.

She shoved thoughts of the man she’d married out of her head. She’d managed to divorce the bastard, with no small amount of trouble on her part. Now it was time for her to have fun and act irresponsibly. After all, she had nothing left to lose.

James paused before a set of imposing double doors at the end of Triptych’s main dance floor. “Well, how about it?”

“Sounds like my kind of party.”

MALACHI STIFLED A yawn. It was late, he was tired, and his shift was nearly over. At one point he had believed it impossible to be bored while working in an elite club that catered to the deepest sexual fantasies even the kinkiest nymphomaniac could think up. After nearly ten years of being witness to the full spectrum of fetishes, bondage, and wild group sex, he’d changed his mind.

One of Malachi’s managers approached and took up a position beside him. He was dressed like Malachi in the standard snug leather pants, though he wore a bloodred T-shirt with the Triptych logo emblazoned across the back instead of Malachi’s trademark white Henley.

“We’ve got a little problem in the stocks.” Trace’s tone could barely be heard above the club noise.

“Is that right?” Malachi knew the low-key description deliberately downplayed the seriousness of whatever was going on. His managers, sardonically dubbed Triptych’s dungeon masters, were all like himself. They thought on their feet, responded with confidence, and never waffled about a decision. Trace asking for help meant something had gone straight to hell.

Malachi rubbed his tired eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. He was ready to be done. It was time to crawl home, slip into some flannel pajamas, and grab some sleep. His formfitting clothing was comfortable enough at the beginning of the night, but by three a.m. he’d had enough.

The old church that housed Triptych had been one of the first buildings in South Boston. The Underground was laid out in a maze of corridors that had been part of the original architecture. Now the veritable warren of subterranean passages, rooms, and chambers hosted the kind of sex that would have aroused even the stodgiest Puritan.

He headed out of the main common area, passing the old-fashioned bar and turning into a long, low hall that held various bondage tables, steel restraint towers for cuffing submissives, and stocks reminiscent of Massachusetts’s earlier days of witch-hunting.

Several couples already occupied the room. Malachi stepped past a woman strapped to a table, her lover rubbing her rounded buttocks after a flogging. Her moans suggested she was enjoying the reward she’d earned. Another sub was restrained to a tower. The steel pole stretched from the stone floor to easily accommodate the six-foot-tall submissive. The man’s neck, hands, and feet were pinioned to a spreader bar attached to the pole. The angle gave his Dom a pleasing view of the dildo inserted into the sub’s ass.

Malachi suppressed a shiver. He usually avoided this room and the tower in particular. In another life he’d felt the cool kiss of the metal restraints against his skin far too often. It had been a way of holding him powerless, of keeping him in check.

Not anymore.

“I said to let me out of here, you bastard!” A blonde with the most graceful legs Malachi had ever seen was struggling to keep her partner from grabbing hold of her feet and locking them into the manacles.

“I thought at first it was a new D/s relationship,” Trace commented. “Now I’m thinking not.”

The asshole trying to play at being a Dominant was a moron. Malachi would bet the guy had no experience with restraint devices of any kind. He’d probably come to the Underground on a pass and was now experimenting on some chick he’d picked up in a bar. Bondage didn’t work that way. There was simply too much trust involved. Bondage without trust was abuse. Malachi didn’t tolerate abuse.

“I said no!” She managed to land a solid kick by twisting her body at an incredible angle.

His groin woke up, his brain imagining a hundred different ways to take advantage of that sort of flexibility. It was hard to tell with her trussed up like a turkey, but she appeared to be a stunning woman. In fact he could’ve sworn her voice was familiar. Regardless, she deserved better than this jackass was trying to give her.

Malachi stepped in just as the guy managed to get ahold of one shapely ankle. “I think the lady has made herself clear. She’s not interested in playing.”

“My submissive, my rules.” The arrogant prick actually had the nerve to waggle his eyebrows.

“Wrong. My club, my rules. She’s not your sub, and if she is, I’m taking her away until you get some proper training. The way you’re going about this, you’re going to break her legs. Now get the fuck out.”

The wannabe puffed up and took two steps toward Malachi. “I’ve got just as much right to be here as anyone else.”

Malachi gestured at Trace. “Get him out of here and make sure he knows not to come back.”

Trace wrapped one muscular arm around the wannabe’s head and dragged him away. Malachi thought it apropos that the jackass got to experience the same choking sensation he’d forced on his unwilling date. Since Trace was a hundred pounds heavier and a foot taller, it was like a playground teacher hauling away a recalcitrant child.

“Don’t even think about it.” The blonde was trying to catch a glimpse of Malachi, but he was standing behind her line of sight. “Just keep walking. I didn’t want him, and I sure as hell don’t want you.”

“Even if I let you out?” Malachi was amused by her bluster, though he still couldn’t place her voice. He knew he’d heard it somewhere before.

“How do I know that’s what you’re going to do?”

He could just barely make out the shape of her full lips as they settled into a pout. It was strangely alluring. “If you want out of there, you’re going to have to take a chance that I’m one of the good guys.”

She was really quite magnificent. Her body was lean, her muscles toned and agile as she moved. Her skin was crisscrossed with tan lines, the honey gold giving way to pale peaches and cream. Pert pink nipples topped her firm breasts. A tuft of dark gold hair topped her mound. He normally didn’t tolerate pubic hair of any kind on his lovers. Still, she was well-groomed, the kind of woman who took good care of herself. How had she ended up as some loser’s toy in the Underground?

There was a tiny scrap of red material in a pool at her feet. Malachi wondered how the wannabe had convinced her to strip. Unless the jackass had removed the dress after he’d gotten her head and hands trapped in the stocks. The notion angered Malachi more than it should have.

“Fine,” she snarled. “Just get me out of here.”

Malachi released the catch on the stocks. Longtime members of the Underground were authorized to use actual locks on the restraint systems within the club. Malachi was thankful nobody had thought of giving the ignorant jackass that kind of power.

The top board snapped up, the spring-loaded hinge sending it flying. Malachi watched, fascinated, as the blonde stood and began rolling her neck and shoulders. She was still cursing a blue streak under her breath.

She was taller than he’d first thought. Her willowy frame would easily reach his shoulder. He bit back a groan as she continued to rub the back of her neck. Each movement made her breasts bounce and jiggle. His cock roared to life behind the laces of his leather pants. He wondered if she was truly comfortable being naked, or if she was so discombobulated she hadn’t realized she wasn’t wearing clothes.

She turned and stared right at him. “That was utterly— Oh my God!”

If the way she dived for her dress was any indicator, she hadn’t really thought about the fact that she was naked. He chuckled in spite of himself. She was obviously a handful.

After tugging and yanking her dress into place, she gave him a belligerent glare. “How the hell do I get out of here?”

He studied her expression. The woman had every right to be scared shitless right about now. She’d been restrained against her will and nearly violated. None of that registered on her heart-shaped face. Instead, he saw a touch of recklessness, a healthy dose of defiance, and a fury that jolted him to his bones.

He knew that kind of anger. He knew the betrayal that spawned it, the hate that fed it, and the desire to nurture it until it burned you on the inside.

She snapped her fingers imperiously. “Hey! I asked you a question.”

The chit was actually going to get in his face and start making demands. He glanced down at his watch. His shift was officially over. He could turn around and walk away. She was not his problem.

So why couldn’t he make his feet move?

Chapter Two

Selena wished the guy would talk. Her false bravado was going to fail any second, and she’d start doing something ridiculous—like crying. So she’d made a bad decision to come down here with what’s-his-name James. It was all good. She’d gotten out of those god-awful stocks, and now she was going to get the hell out of this crazy club. It was the second bad experience she’d had at Triptych in a month. Selena was no dummy. She could take a hint from karma.

Her first order of business was to get away from the hot guy staring at her as if he was still trying to decide what species she was. It was disconcerting.