Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(6)

A bossy submissive. Why couldn’t she summon the appropriate amount of annoyance? Her standards must be slipping, she thought as the bed rose up to enfold her and sleep carried her away.





Chapter Two



At the end of his three miles, Ben slowed to a jog and then walked the final block. Not that he’d cool down much in the humid Florida morning. It was only March, but the heat had already moved in. Growing up in New York, he’d often frozen his ass off in the mornings. At times, he missed those days.

Didn’t particularly miss the snow, though.

Once inside his warehouse, he pulled off his tank top, using it to wipe himself down as he trotted up the stairs to his living quarters and hit the fridge for a bottle of vitamin water. Designer shit, but didn’t taste too bad.

After an hour of weights in his home gym and a shower, he grabbed a fast-food breakfast in the car. He reached Sawgrass Lake Park as the afternoon sunlight slanted through the incoming storm clouds over the swamp.

Perfect.

Once his tripod was set up, he snapped a few shots of a graceful Little Blue Heron. Amazing how it managed to be both small and dignified—a lot like Anne.

All too soon the pelting rain began. Ben edged into a picnic shelter and took a final picture. Something, some movement, sparked a memory of peering through a scope, taking up the slack in the trigger, the world fading as he became hyperaware of the winds and light. Slow, steady pressure on the trigger, releasing a breath and pausing at the bottom of the exhale. Kill shot.

No.

As Z had taught him, he breathed through the flashback and let it dissipate.

Gone.

Thank you, Z. He owed the man more than he could say.

After tucking his camera in its waterproof bag, he settled down on the concrete bench in the shelter.

Owed the man for the treat last night as well.

Fuck, but the woman had a beauty like the morning after a New York blizzard. Hair the color of dark walnut, eyes the gray-blue of a winter sky. Stark and striking enough to stop a man’s heart.

Her smallest smile would delineate her sharp cheekbones, but her real smile showed her dimples and changed her entire appearance. Made her human. A woman. And one he wanted so bad he could taste it.

Wind gusted into the shelter, whipping his hair around his face. The world flashed with a lightning strike. Five seconds later, he heard the crack of thunder announcing an approaching storm cell filled with fury. He loved Florida thunderstorms, even if they occasionally set off the messed-up storage program in his head. PTSD—and what idiot psych-tender came up with that phrase?

The lightning reminded him of the first time he’d heard Anne’s low laugh. It’d been the night of the bachelorette party when he’d actually seen her without her Mistress armor. When everything that was her had sizzled into him and stopped his heart.

Not an hour later, she’d seen one of her friends being harassed and had been willing to step up to the plate and take on the *s.

That’s when he’d known he was in serious trouble.

Anne. She had a pretty name. Short. Terse. Much like the woman herself. She was completely different from the last woman he’d dated, who babbled at the drop of a hat. Or if a hat didn’t drop. Or if the sun rose. Or set. Or if she was breathing. Jesus. Wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d been interested in anything besides what she was babbling.

But the Mistress didn’t babble. And she not only listened, she listened with all her attention.

That, right there, could steal a man’s breath.

But.

She was a Mistress. There was where the problem came in. The woman had a rep. Not only was she a Domme, but also a f*cking sadist. And although she played with quite a variety of submissives, the ones she kept around tended to be a type: mid-twenties, slender, model-gorgeous. The club members called them Anne’s “pretty boys.”

Settling down with his back against a shelter post, he put a boot on the bench and propped his arm on his knee. Scars ran down his muscular forearm, more across his thick knuckles. Even as a teen, he hadn’t been “pretty.”

Lotta hard miles since then. In fact, he’d scared more than a few females.

But he hadn’t scared Anne.

He grinned. She was a take-no-prisoners, never-back-down, bossy woman. And f*ck, he got off on that. Before last night, he’d hoped that if he had a taste of her, got a little closer, his curiosity would be satisfied. Instead, like the first shot of a fine whiskey, she’d teased his appetite.

Now he’d set his sights on the woman.

And—as his team in the Rangers had witnessed—he never missed.





“…a cane works well for that,” Anne said to Olivia as she walked into the Shadowlands. They’d been arguing over their favorite discipline methods on the walk in from the parking lot. “Check this one out.” Anne held up the extra-long black cane which she’d chosen to embellish her Maleficent costume.

“Jesus, woman, I thought I told you to stay in bed.” The growling voice came from her left.

The other Domme’s eyes widened.

Anne’s spine snapped straight, and she turned to look at Z’s security guard.

Rising from his seat, Ben scowled at her. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re—”

She lifted her chin.

He stared at her, muttered, “Fuck,” and dropped into his chair. Still scowling, but silent.