Sierra Cartwright - Doms of Dark Haven

He turned back to face her and took away the soap. After putting it in the dish, he adjusted the showerhead so that the water hit his back instead of her face.

Capturing her chin between a thumb and forefinger, he wiped water back from her face. Her lips parted in a quiet “thanks.”

Torin placed a leg between her thighs. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, she settled her pussy against him. “Hump my leg,” he told her.

“Uhmm…”

“You were naughty enough to fuck the mattress this morning,” he reminded her. “You've got three minutes to bring yourself off.”

“And…?”

“If you don't, it will be a long time before you're allowed the opportunity again.

I've been generous in allowing you to come. Don't push me.”

She tilted her body forward a bit and wrapped her hands around his neck.

“This feels totally naughty.”

“It is.”

She approached this task like she did all the other assignments he'd given her—gamely—if a bit nervously.

She moved against him a few times, her breasts swaying. After about thirty seconds, she gnawed on her lower lip. “I need a different angle.”

“Make yourself comfortable. Time is ticking. And don't even think of trying to fake it. I'll know.”

Mira rose onto her tiptoes. Using her hands, she spread her labia and leaned into him again, pressing her clit against his thigh. She moved slightly and then groaned.

“Better?”

“Oh God.”

He took that as a yes.

Her eyes closed, and she tipped her head back, getting into it more. Just watching her was enough to make him hot for her body again. “You've got about a minute and a half left,” he told her.

“I…”

He took mercy on her. He reached behind her and pushed a finger deep into her ass.

She screamed, but he knew it wasn't from pain.

She moved faster and faster.

“Grind it out,” he told her.

She did, rocking, making smaller and smaller circles on his thigh. He felt the tiny nub of her clit against him. Water sluiced over them both, and steam rose over the shower door.

“You've got twenty seconds to orgasm,” he said softly against her ear. When she didn't respond, he asked, “Mira?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes…”

He drew her earlobe into his mouth.

She leaned even closer to him, and he supported her entire weight. He moved his finger in and out of her rear entrance, fucking her.

“Torin!”

“Take it, baby,” he urged her. “Come.”

There was no faking that orgasm. Her cry came from deep inside, and the slick of her cum against his skin was moist and real.

Her response thrilled him, made him feel possessive in a way he'd never experienced before.

She was right; they needed to talk: about the future, about what effect their BDSM relationship would have on their ability to work together.

One thing was certain: now that he'd had a taste of her, he had no intention of letting her go.

An hour later she found him outside. He was swinging an ax, splitting a log.

He'd cut down a small forest since they had arrived. It had nothing to do with needing to be warm. The house had central heat and a pile of wood stacked inside as well as out.

She admired the raw athleticism it took to split the wood. He wore a black T-shirt, and it emphasized the way his muscles rippled and moved with the exertion.

He looked up, obviously sensing her presence. He drove the ax partway into a log and then took off his safety glasses and pulled off his leather gloves.

The man was pure sex appeal.

He was strong and firm. She'd learned that he was relentless in getting his way, to the point of nearly breaking Master Blake's wrist. But he'd been completely gentle with her when he'd cleaned her up after ravishing her anally earlier this morning.

She didn't want to give him up sexually, nor could she conceive of giving up any part of herself or the job she loved.

“We've got a call,” she told him. This, more than anything, was the moment of truth. This was their first mission together. Their safety, even their lives could depend on the way they worked as a team. And if he treated her as a submissive instead of a partner, the results could be devastating.

He nodded. “Fill me in,” he said, following her back to the house.

“Black tie required,” she said. When he raised a brow, she added, “Seriously.

Word came from Ms. Inamorata herself.”

“Don't suppose you know her first name?”

No one knew her first name. Hawkeye's right-hand woman was damn good at her job, and that included keeping secrets. The office pool to guess her name had five figures in it. Whoever won would have enough money for a heck of a vacation or a down payment on a house.

“Where are we headed?”

“The Grand Hyatt. Trace and Aimee Romero have a personal security client attending a fund-raiser.” Trace and Aimee were two of the best. Aimee was the younger sister of the enigmatic Inamorata. A brainiac if there was one, she was a scientist who had recently taken up running ultramarathons in addition to supporting her new husband, Trace, on occasional Hawkeye, Inc. assignments. The 48

Sierra Cartwright

whole ultramarathon thing made Aimee's brainpower suspect, in Mira's opinion.

“There's been a death threat against their client.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Nathaniel Sinclair.”

He whistled and nodded. “No wonder they're calling in backup.”

“Inamorata is e-mailing the hotel layout to us.”

“Be ready in half an hour?”

She checked her watch. “Less if we can manage it.”

He headed for his room, and she went into hers.

“Mira?” he shouted less than a minute later. “Skip the underwear.”

She rolled her eyes.

When she didn't respond, he called out, “Excuse me?”

“I heard you!”

“And what you meant by that was, 'yes, Master.'”

“Yes, Master!” she called dutifully. More importantly, she skipped the underwear. She told herself it wasn't because she was being obedient, but because her black dress would look better without them.

Twenty minutes later she checked the smallest of her three guns for bullets and then tucked the pistol in her handbag alongside a tube of lipstick.

She stopped in the bedroom that now served as a command office, and printed off the hotel layout before joining Torin.

He was waiting for her in the living room, checking his cuffs.

Damn. The man was completely devastating in his tuxedo.

His hair, the color of midnight, flirted with his collar. His eyes seemed all the more electric against the dark clothing. “Show me,” he said.

“Show you?”

“Bend over.”

“Torin…”

“Bend over, Mira, and lift your dress.”

She questioned whether she should actually comply. They were on duty, and they needed to head out.

He waited her out.

Finally, with a sigh, she placed her pocketbook on the coffee table and then turned around, raised her dress, and showed him she'd followed orders.

“Lovely.”

Her insides tightened. Against her will, her pussy moistened.

“Your obedience will make tonight's punishment much less painful. Shall we?”

She stood and smoothed her dress into place.

She shook her head to clear it. He was already at the back door; his hand was on the knob, and he was waiting for her. Obviously he was better at separating business from pleasure than she was.

“Grand Hyatt?” he asked.

“We'll meet Inamorata in the hotel's kitchen.”

He snagged the vehicle keys off a hook and offered them to her.

“You want me to drive?”

“I assume you know how?”

She bit back an instinctive smart-ass reply to his smart-ass question and handed him the printout from Inamorata.

In the SUV, he turned on the GPS and programmed it for the hotel.

She remembered their ride home last night, with him keeping his temper caged while he drove home silently. Neither of them mentioned that, however. Now that they were on the road, they were both all business.

She had the valet park the car and took a deep, steadying breath before heading into the lobby. She saw Trace there. None of them acknowledged each other.

Torin cupped her elbow and led her toward the kitchen.

Ms. Inamorata was there in her pencil skirt, hair pulled back. She had surveillance equipment on one of the stainless-steel work areas, and she efficiently handed them each an earphone.

After a tech made sure all the wiring was secure and in place, Mira and Torin each went through a sound check.

Inamorata asked, “How's the partnership coming? Any trouble working together?”

Mira wondered if the woman could see something. “None,” Mira said.

She nodded crisply. “Hawkeye is usually right on in his assignments, but if it doesn't work out, feel free to ask for a new partner.”

“Not necessary,” Torin said.

“You're a couple tonight. Aimee will be arriving with Mr. Sinclair. She'll be his date for the evening.”

Mira had done her research while Torin showered. She'd already known Sinclair was a media magnate. He owned newspapers, magazines, a cable network, and he had a San Francisco hotel named after him. He wasn't popular with everyone, though, because of his politics. He was running for office, and some thought he was trying to buy the election and push his liberal agenda. That hadn't made anyone mad enough to want to kill him, though, especially in California. It was his testimony fifteen years earlier that had sent a mobster to prison that was the issue. Several other people had refused to testify and had gone to jail for contempt of court rather than take their chances. Sinclair was campaigning on his bravery, and it had been effective until said mobster had recently been paroled. It turned out that a decade and a half hadn't tempered his attitude any.