The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(51)

He had to have the actual trapping, the tangible tying down, to keep himself tripping on adrenaline—

Jane went by him, moving over the floor like an apparition. Because she was one.

And that was fucking hot as fuck.

The moan that came out of his throat was ragged, his need denied, his body pricking with—

Jane went to the door. Turned around. Looked into his eyes.

And then, with her right hand, the one she operated with, her dominant side . . . she slowly turned the lock into place—the copper lock, the one that he had put on the door just two months before.

For exactly this purpose.

The thing was, he had sold his penthouse at the Commodore a while ago. That place, where he had had sessions with females, with males, with humans, hadn’t appealed to him after he’d mated his Jane. So he’d let his wooden worktable go. He’d given away his tools of the trade. He’d thought he’d moved on from the sadomasochism shit.

But internally, he had not changed. He still needed this outlet.

This patient room was his new playground.

Their new playground.

V started to pant as Jane returned to the foot of the bed. As she stopped, she looked up his body. Then she touched his ankles with her hands. In spite of her ghostly form, he felt the warmth and substance of his mate, and knew her for the miracle that she was, back from the dead, a gift from his mahmen, the Scribe Virgin. Tears speared into his eyes as he remembered holding her lifeless body in his arms, and staring at her cold, grotesquely white skin.

Yet she was here with him now and would be forever.

It almost made a disenfranchised son wish he’d reconciled with the female who had borne him.

“What do you want, Vishous,” Jane asked in a low voice.

“I want . . .” Fuck, he couldn’t breathe and he was pretty sure he was going to come again. “I want you to buckle my ankles.”

“Why?”

“I want you . . . to control me.”

“I already do.” Jane lowered her chin. “You’re mine.”

Vishous arched his back, his pierced nipples tingling, his single ball sac tightening, his cock jumping up and slapping back down on his abdominals. Jane was the only female who had ever seen this side of him, the only person he could really go to for this sacred space of submission, this exchange of power that ran in only one direction: to her.

In the past, he had played her role, and gotten off on it, but there had always been a detachment to the experiences—and it wasn’t until he’d known his shellan that he’d realized a truth about himself that was a shock. He had been a Dom . . . because he had wanted to be submissive.

You had to have trust for that to happen, though.

And Jane was the only one—

“I will do what I want to you. So no, you don’t get the buckles.”

V bit his lip. “Please—”

She rubbed his ankles . . . and went up to his calves. “You do not get them. You are going to keep yourself just as you are. Or things will not go well for you.”

Jane walked up to the head of the bed. Staring down at him, she played with the tips of her breasts, as if she knew what was tingling on him, and with her forefingers drawing little circles, she bit her own lip.

A mirror of him.

“Please,” he groaned.

In the back of his mind, he wondered what his brothers would think if they saw him like this, all laid out and at-the-mercy. The embarrassment nearly caused him to lift out of the trance he wanted to be in—so he stopped thinking like that.

To get himself jacked back into the erotica, he turned and looked beyond his shellan.

There, in a chair in the corner, he pictured his roommate, Butch, sitting in utter stillness. Watching with hazel eyes. And liking what he saw—

V’s cock kicked so hard, it felt like he was coming—

“No, you can’t do that right now,” Jane said. “You’re a patient who needs treatment first. I have to get my instruments.”

The panting got more intense as she turned away from him and floated to the side door that opened into the next examination room. Opening the panel, she reached in and pulled something forward. A rolling table. That was draped with a surgical cloth.

V undulated on the latex sheet, his skin catching on what was underneath him, the adhesion pulling on his ass, separating his cheeks. He moaned again—and looked over at Not Really There Butch.

“Yes,” V breathed. “I need to be examined. I need to be treated.”

His eyes rolled back in his head. And when they finally refocused, Jane was putting on a nurse’s uniform. She buttoned it only around the waist, the top half left open so that her breasts showed, the bottom half loose so her sex peeked out. Reaching to the rolling table, she picked up a—

“Mask,” he moaned. “Mask . . .”

As V started to come, and couldn’t stop, he watched her put a white latex mask up to her head. With deft hands, she pulled it down and arranged it properly over her features. The effect was as if she had shrink-wrapped her face, her lips pouffing out of a hole while her green eyes flashed out of two cuts, the rest of her anonymous. Alien. A stranger he knew and yet could not recognize.

Hot jets landed on his abs, even his pecs, too, and he had to fight to keep his arms and legs splayed out—because he wanted to do what she said. He wanted to follow commands.