Shayla Black - Theirs to Cherish

Just because she wasn’t enjoying herself, however, didn’t mean she was going to escape punishment. She had a protector and a Dom, both of whom would do anything to help her. Had she trusted either of them? No. She’d just left. Sean, he sort of understood. Hell, Thorpe hadn’t trusted the man himself until . . . what? Maybe yesterday. Or the day before. His days were running together. But Callie had known him for four fucking years. In all that time, she hadn’t learned that he cared, that he would do anything to help her?

She was damn well going to learn now.

Obviously, she had panicked. He understood that—to a point. But he refused to accept excuses from Callie. She was going to learn to rely on the men who loved her. Whatever happened next, whether he never got to lay another hand on her after her punishment tonight, he would teach her once and for all to look to him if she ever found herself in trouble again.

The slime ball with the skinny black tie and the C-note in his hand shoved the bill into the back of her thong—then copped a long caress of her ass. With the other hand, he brushed his way up her thigh, looking at her like she was a particularly prime cut of filet.

Thorpe felt steam coming from his ears and fucking lost it.

As he jumped to his feet, Sean was right beside him, fists clenched. Thorpe kicked his chair out of the way and prowled toward Callie, shoulder to shoulder with the other man.

Callie leaned away from the letch feeling her up, cringing back. Trying to cover her reaction, she sent the man a little smile over her shoulder, then danced away. Thorpe felt his fists tighten with the need to beat the fucker to death.

Sean was faster, grabbing the son of a bitch by the back of the neck and snarling something in his ear. The thug tried to fight back, but the fed proved himself all kind of badass, blocking the guy’s every move, then slamming the creep face-first onto a nearby post. Thorpe raced over, more than happy to help. He was gratified when Sean yanked the skunk back to reveal a broken, bleeding nose. In fact, he hoped Sean had done permanent damage to the asshole for daring to touch Callie.

Frantically Thorpe looked for her again. And he found her, damn it. Her trim back and undulating spine told him she now courted the men on the other side of the room, still holding her skirt up and wriggling her hips until a few more men shoved more bills in the string of her thong. They howled as she enticed them, and more guys approached the stage with money in fists, just wanting the chance to get close to Callie.

While Thorpe had been distracted by her, Sean and the letch got into a scuffle. Apparently, the fed had been busier watching Callie than the greaseball’s elbow to his gut. As Sean grunted and dodged the guy’s flailing fists, Thorpe approached. So did the bouncer.

“No fighting,” he shouted over the music. “Take it outside.”

“Yeah, get your fucking hands off me, prick!” said cheap suit. “I gave the pretty slut some money. So what?”

Oh, that was it. Doms sometimes called their submissives “slut,” but as a form of endearment, however odd that seemed to others. Not everyone understood, but that was true of the whole lifestyle. Even if he would never call Callie his slut, no other random dick was going to malign the girl when he didn’t know her at all and had no idea how far from the truth that was.

“Don’t touch her again.” Sean looked ready to kill.

“Get over it,” the lowlife ranted on. “You don’t own her.

“Actually,” Sean tossed back, “I do.”

Thorpe threw a punch, hitting the fuckwad square in the jaw and sending him reeling to the ground with the force of the blow, out cold. The bouncer turned to him with a menacing glare and reached to throw him out the door.

Fuck, he should have held his temper. He couldn’t afford to get tossed out.

Thorpe turned back to Callie. She whipped her gaze in his direction to decipher the commotion. Their gazes connected, and electricity fired his veins. Shock widened her eyes and bleached the color from her cheeks. Then her gaze zipped over to Sean. She gasped as if she’d seen a ghost.

Despite the fact that she hadn’t finished her number and the music still played, she turned and darted for the curtain and the back of the club.

The bouncer rightly put keeping the talent working above restraining a few guys from fighting, so he ran after Callie, catching her in his beefy grip just before she could slip backstage.

She struggled and cursed, demanding to be let free as the crowd collectively booed her retreat.

“Show us your tits!” repeated a man in the front row with a one-track mind.

The bouncer dragged Callie back toward mid-stage, then stood between her and the curtain. “Finish your damn number or Marty is gonna fire your ass.”

Predictably, the moment the big beefcake released her, she made another run for it, this time darting for the stairs that led to the club floor. She valued her freedom way more than this piss-ass job.

But Thorpe was one step ahead of her. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, blocking her exit off the stage. And in those shoes, jumping down five feet to the ground would be impossible.

They had her surrounded.

Sean quickly assessed the situation, then leapt onto the stage and reached into his pocket to flash his badge to the hunk of beefcake. “FBI. Unless you want trouble, give the girl to me.”

The big guy stiffened as the music screeched to a stop, his eyes narrowing as he took in Sean, then his badge. He stepped back and tossed his hands in the air. “We just hired her, man. We don’t want any trouble. Take her.”

Callie tossed Sean a defiant glower and over the din of the crowd, she warned, “You stay away from me.”

“Not going to happen, lovely.” The words were a vow, spoken as Sean prowled closer, but his expression was pure warning. He meant to assert his will.

She froze, then her gaze darted around the room. Thorpe’s gut knotted. Goddamn it, she was going to make a run for it.

He opened his mouth to warn Sean, but she was quicker, taking off one of her wicked shoes and tossing it in Sean’s direction. Callie’s makeshift weapon smacked him in the shoulder, then she planted her hand on his chest and shoved him off balance. While Sean scrambled to right himself, she tore off the other stiletto and raised it menacingly at the bouncer. He charged her and grabbed her wrist, clamping down harshly to stop her from pelting him. So she kicked him in the balls.

As the incredibly stupid hulk dropped to his knees, he clutched his genitals and groaned. Callie sprinted past him and through the curtain, disappearing backstage.

Thorpe darted up the stairs after her, tearing past the drape in time to see her shove the weathered industrial back door open and race into the alley behind the building. He swore and took off after her.

The metal door was swinging shut, and Thorpe pushed it open, then hit the alley. Under the spotlight of a bug-infested bulb, he looked left, then right before he caught sight of Callie dashing away on her bare feet in a fevered panic, artificial blond pigtails swinging against her pale back only saved from bareness by the strap of that tiny, sexy bra. Damn it, she was either begging to step on glass or be raped by some criminal in the shadows. Of course, she was in full flight mode and not using all her logic, but what the hell was she thinking?

One thing became immediately clear: Callie was younger and surprisingly fast. But if he let her through his grasp again, he’d be fucked seven ways from Sunday.

He charged after her as fast as his stride would take him, rapidly gaining ground on the barefoot girl. She was about to reach the end of the alley, which didn’t worry him . . . until a taxi rolled by. Of all the rotten fucking luck.

Somehow, he had to stop Callie. On feet, he wouldn’t catch her in time. Neither would Sean, whom he could hear chugging down the pavement behind him. Once Callie made it inside that taxi, Thorpe knew she’d be gone forever. She’d definitely be taking his heart with her. And Sean’s. Motherfucker.

Between the lights of other businesses and the moon, he could see that the alley was blessedly empty. So he did the one thing he thought might stop the panicked girl in her tracks.

“Callindra Alexis Howe, stop and look at me this instant.”

WHEN Callie heard Thorpe shout her real name, her heart screeched to a stop. He knew? She turned, still backing away, tangled up in his gray eyes. How? When? What had given her away?

Damn it, his life had just become twenty times more complicated—and dangerous. She didn’t want that for him.

Stricken, she shook her head, struggling to take in air. “You’re wrong. That’s not me.”

Thorpe approached her in long, determined steps, his face granite, his hand outstretched. Behind him, Sean, that deceitful snake, charged toward her like a train with a headful of steam. She spun around and darted away again. What the hell was he doing here? With Thorpe? She couldn’t allow either of them to get their hands on her.

Callie raced for the cab fifty feet away, still idling at the corner and waiting for the light to turn green. Dressed only in a bra and a little short skirt, she could probably get his attention. Maybe. In this neighborhood, maybe not. Good thing she had money in her thong. She’d have to pick up her “go” bag at the motel, lay low for a while, then find a bus station . . .

“Don’t you lie to me,” Thorpe shouted out to her. “And don’t run!”