The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(48)

V kept going, pushing open the glass panel and stepping into the concrete corridor that ran all the way down to the parking area to the right and all the way down to the pool and target range to the left. Drawing a long inhale through his nostrils, he scented Tohr and Xcor . . . and no one else, thank fuck. If Fritz decided to come down here and clean? V was going to send that butler back to the kitchen to service an order of fifty-two footlongs for Hollywood. No doubt Rhage would be overcome with gratitude.

The problem with living in a huge household with lots of help was that sometimes discretion among staff and the natural circadian rhythm of vampire sleeping patterns didn’t go far enough. You wanted real privacy, the kind that meant you weren’t just alone with someone, you were isolated from everybody else.

Lowering his head, he got to moving again, his eyes locking on the worn, steel-toed tips of his shitkickers. The training center’s medical clinic was something he had built his Jane as a kind of engagement/mating present. And actually, they’d done a lot of the work together. She had helped with the drywall of the build-out, and she had planned all of the treatment spaces from the examination and recovery rooms to the OR itself.

As he came up to her section of the facility, all of the doors were closed. Except for one.

The last one was cracked ever so slightly, the kick-stopper deployed against the tiled floor, a two-inch seam of glow revealed in the gap to the jambs.

V put his gloved hand down to his erection. He couldn’t help it—

The hiss he let out seemed loud as a car horn.

He knocked. When there was no answer, he pushed his way in.

The patient room was lit with black candles on tall stands, the pinpoint flames agitating as he walked in.

The hospital bed had been stripped and moved away from the wall; it was now in the center of the room, the foot of the mattress facing the door. All of the other furniture, the chair, the rolling table, even the framed painting and wall-mounted TV, had been removed.

Swallowing again, he toed up the door stopper, and as the panel eased shut, he turned off his phone. There was a little closet, and he put the cell in there, on a shallow shelf. After that, he pulled his black muscle shirt out of the waistband of his leathers and took the thing off. Stretching his arms over his head, he arched back, trying to loosen the tension locked along his spine.

When he undid the buttons of his fly, his arousal jumped out—

Oh. So he’d come sometime during the trip down here.

The orgasm hadn’t even registered, his erotic anticipation was so great.

Bending low, he peeled the leather down his thighs, and when he got to his calves, he realized, Mensa member though he was, that he’d forgotten to unlace his shitkickers. He took care of the problem quick . . . and then he was kicking the heavy weights off his feet and shucking his pants. The last thing he had to remove was his socks.

Even though he was a neat freak, except for the living room of the Pit, he crammed his clothes into the bottom of the closet—

As he turned around, he stopped.

V did not move. Except for his cock.

It kicked at the front of his hips.

Across the warm glow of the clinical room, Jane, his shellan, was in her ghostly form, nothing but a shimmering shadow that distorted the flat wall she stood in front of.

Without a word, she pointed to the hospital bed.

V opened his mouth and began to pant. On legs that felt seriously unreliable, he did as he was commanded, going over to the mattress.

The institutional-grade five-point restraints were laid out across the latex bottom sheet—

With a groaning curse, he orgasmed again, jets of come shooting out of him, speckling the floor. Just the sight of the black nylon straps with their buckles and hooks was enough for him—and this time, he felt the release.

But it did nothing to drain him. He was a well that was going to take hours to empty.

And he needed this.

Instead of going around to the side to lie down, he all-foured it, mounting the foot of the bed and prowling up to get in position, his erection bobbing, the tip of his long sex brushing the latex sheet until he wanted to scream in frustration.

The good kind.

When he was where he needed to be, he stretched out on his back. That was when he started shaking badly enough to rattle his molars. This was the hardest part for him. Even though he knew who he was with, even though he had asked for this, even though this was what he required . . .

He was a Dom for a reason. Loss of control was the fundamental fault line in his psyche, the earthquake that tore him apart.

And that was the point.

When he was ready, when his arms would listen to his mind’s command, he stretched one and then the other out at a ninety-degree angle, laying the backs of his hands on the far sides of the heavy cuffs. Down at the other end of the bed, he moved his legs apart, placing his ankles on one, and the other, of the straps there.

And then he had to hold it together. As his chest pumped up and down, and his eyes watered, and his heart thundered, he had to force himself to stay in place.

While his mate, the woman he loved, watched him.

The longer she watched, the harder he had to work to keep ahold of himself.

“Fuck,” he said as his jaw locked. “I can’t . . .”

Time went eternal on him, and he felt hot tears seep out the corners of his eyes. Deep inside, he hated himself for what Rhage had seen in him. He hated the petty jealousy over a relationship Butch didn’t have anymore . . . with a human man who was no longer in his roommate’s world, much less his life.