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"So think." She turned away from him, though moving back toward the door felt like moving through deep sand, all the muscles of her body screaming in protest. "I'll come back here tomorrow between nine and eleven. If you want me, you'll be in this room, stripped. Nothing on. You put on one of the cock harnesses, tether yourself to that ring in the floor, the minimum amount of slack necessary between it and your cock, your knees spread as wide as you can get them, your hands laced on the back of your head. You stay straight upright in that position until I decide to come down here."
She looked over her shoulder, cocked a brow at him, stifled a groan of need as she saw his cock hardening again at her words. "Can you hold a position that long, Mackenzie? How badly do you want to have a Mistress worth having, rather than a playmate?"
Chapter 5
He wanted to run, to turn his back on The Zone and pretend, at least for twenty-four hours, that it, and Violet, did
n't exist. That the shameful moments had not existed.
But he made himself stay, made himself talk to other club members, find out more about his fiery little Dom. Everyone knew Violet. She went to many of the outside private parties, where D/s couples got together in their latest pairings. Here several times a week, she often interactively played.
She was perfect.
She also terrified him, and he didn't know why. Why was she different? He'd had Mistresses do all manner of things to him. He'd tolerated it, and most of it turned him on. She had overwhelmed him, shot him up and over a pinnacle with her clever fingers before he'd even had a chance to catch a breath. Her sultry voice teased his mind, the faint smell of lavender still on his body from where she pressed against him.
He didn't go home. He went to the office. Nodding briefly to the dispatch officer, he went back to his desk, switching on the lamp. There were several new reports on his desk. Psych profile, forensics for the last victim, the latter not telling him more than he already knew. He knew the method of restraint, how a bullet tore through flesh. The profile was disappointing, a generic analysis.
It is possible the subject was traumatized by a sexual betrayal or rejection, and has had to pretend the betrayal or rejection does not exist, therefore leading to suppression of an enormous anger... by calling the parent, the person they perceive as responsible for their pain, they are likely punishing the authority figure.
He didn't blame the Psych department. Likely very accurate, it was a standard evaluation of motivation for crimes of sexual violence. Most serial killers weren't terribly original in that area, just in their methods of expressing that pain. It was her way of killing that would lead him to her.
His gut told him the frustrating truth; that he only had one piece of the jumbo brand 10,000 piece puzzle. There was something odd about this murderess, a secret she hadn't yet revealed with her actions. He lifted the list of regular Doms provided by The Zone in exchange for a confidentiality agreement. They hadn't forced the issue of a warrant. Connie had been visibly impressed when she relayed the manager's message to Mac: "If our people are getting hurt, we want to protect them. If that gets someone's nose out of joint, their snit isn't worth someone's life."
Because of that, he didn't regret the personal funds he'd chosen to invest in The Zone guest membership, rather than requisitioning a reimbursement. He'd even consider going for a full membership, if it weren't for Violet being there. What was it about her that made his gut clench in anxiety, even as his cock jumped up like a dog waiting for a treat?
He ran his hand over his face to the side of his neck and froze at the thump of his pulse in his jugular. So caught up in what she was doing to him, he hadn't even registered until now the blood staining her neck when she left him. Jesus. He had bitten her. He'd never used his strength against a Mistress, though the throbbing bruise on his cheekbone told him she'd handled him all right. No fear in that one. A porcelain doll with a core of iron.
The thought made him smile, but it worried him for her, that she was too green to know when she should back off. But had she needed to back off from him? Or had she done exactly what she should?
Would he go tomorrow night? Of course he'd go, he was on assignment. But the question was, would he go to that room, wait for her, accept her as his Mistress for another night?
Mac picked up the photo of Jesse Rodriguez, a twenty-three year old accountant, stared into his dead eyes. Yeah. Yeah, he would go to The Zone tomorrow night, because Jesse was never going to get to enjoy the anxiety and anticipation again. He had died because he'd taken the risk with someone who killed him, and that offended Mac deeply, on a personal level he felt too raw to explore.
On the computer reports Consuela had run for him, he saw that there were no related crimes in the fifty-state area for the past two years. It looked like his murderess had just started her killing spree. They needed to find her soon. Six weeks between her two victims meant she was a fast learner. She'd found a release for the pain she nursed inside. The hunger would keep growing, and she would go after whatever would ease the craving.
Just like him. He muttered an oath and slapped the file shut. Violet was not the murderess, but she obviously had the power to destroy him. He'd go to The Zone, but not to her. There would be other, less distracting Mistresses with whom he could hook up and mingle, watch the play beneath the floor. He'd follow that strategy. See if he could start zeroing in on a killer that he was certain was already stalking her next kill.
*
Violet had a hard time sleeping, and found it even more difficult to focus on doing her job throughout the next day. Her body ached with unsatisfied desire, but the idea of relieving it with a toy after she'd left Mac had left her cold. She wanted to build her own anticipation as well as his, though she knew it was entirely possible she'd pushed too hard and he wouldn't be there. Or worse, he'd be there and not in that room. A flat rejection.
No. She stood in front of her bathroom mirror, pulled her hair from her face, pinned it up so the curls just brushed the nape of her neck, and tucked the black wig over it. Not a rejection. If he shunned her, she would think of it as a retreat. She'd unsettled him, knocked a sizable dent in that arrogant attitude of his. Was he man enough to admit it and come back to her?
She certainly wanted him to do so.
The phone rang and she picked it up as she leaned forward to apply her eyeliner.
"So, did you take my advice?"
She grimaced. "You have spies everywhere, Tyler, so don't pretend you don't already know how last night went."
He chuckled. "Oh, I know you picked up a prime target, but word is you engaged the privacy screen, so no one but those who won't be bribed know how it went. I do have reports that you came out alone. Mistress Marguerite reported that he came out a quarter hour later, looking like he'd had the carpet of his world yanked out from under him. Was that a good or bad thing?"
"I won't know until tonight, if he shows up again."
"Your boy socialized a bit after you left."
"Did he?"
