Bound to Submit Read online

  “Oh, God,” she said again, shaking her head at this madness.

  “What the hell am I even thinking?” But as she settled back in bed, she had to admit that during the minutes she’d spent thinking about Griffin, she’d almost forgotten about everything else.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Master Griffin arrived early for his evening shift at Blasphemy feeling restless, though he didn’t know why.

  Actually, that wasn’t true.

  Tonight, he was scheduled to work the registration desk for the first two hours and then he had a bondage demonstration with Tara, a submissive with whom he’d occasionally played over the years. She loved Shibari, the Japanese form of rope bondage in which Griffin specialized, so she enjoyed doing scenes with him, but what she wanted was a 24/7 Master/slave relationship. Since that wasn’t his thing, they weren’t ever going to be more than just friends.

  And Griffin wanted someone for more than just friends, just scenes, just sex. Badly.

  He’d had a chance at that once and he’d screwed it up. Big time. He hadn’t seen what he’d had right in front of him then, but he’d sure as shit had seen it a million times since then, after it was too late to grab the incredible opportunity—the incredible woman—he’d let slip through his grasp.

  Griffin made his way through the basement security and reception rooms to the main part of the club. Blasphemy was located in a big, formerly abandoned church that he and his eleven partners had purchased and rehabbed. The main part of the floor was situated in the long, rectangular nave, which still retained much of its original beauty and elegance, with massive stained-glass windows above, thick marble columns, a vaulted ceiling, and the remains of old frescos on the walls. Groupings of leather couches and chairs sat here and there, interspersed with dungeon furniture, some of which he’d built with his own hands, and other play areas. Griffin could still picture what it had looked like when they’d first visited the site—the floor littered with debris and trash, some of the beautiful stained glass shattered, the old pews overturned and broken, and a flock of pigeons claiming the space for their own.

  Griffin crossed the big space to the large circular bar made of marble and iron in the center of the floor, where he found Master Quinton already setting up. “Hey,” Griffin said, sliding onto a bar stool.

  “G, how the hell are you?” Master Quinton asked, extending his hand.

  They clasped palms and Griffin nodded. “Can’t complain. You?”

  With light brown hair and eyes, Quinton always wore a mischievous expression that appeared to be a moment away from breaking into a big smile or laughter. Right on cue, the man grinned. “I learned earlier today that I’m a new uncle, so I’m doing fucking awesome.”

  “Well, damn, man. Congratulations,” Griffin said, adjusting the black leather cuff on his wrist. The style of it was almost medieval, with its ornately embroidered gothic ‘M’ and the way it knotted on the inside of his wrist. Each of the twelve Masters of Blasphemy wore one. “How’s your sister-in-law doing? How’s the baby? Boy or a girl?”

  “My brother said Amy came through it like a total champ. And the baby’s a girl. Nine pounds, four ounces. They named her Quinn.” His expression was pure pride. The guy was practically beaming.

  Griffin’s eyes went wide. “For you?” Quinton nodded. “That’s something, Quinton. Congratulations, again.”

  The other man pulled out two glasses and quickly poured shots of whiskey. “Raise a glass with me?”

  “Gladly,” Griffin said. They threw back the amber liquor, and Griffin savored the hot, spiced bite of it. Just as he settled the glass on the marble bar top, footsteps rang out from behind him.

  “Master Kyler, you’re here early,” Quinton called out, a big smile shaping his face. “And with the lovely Mia.”

  Griffin twisted on his stool and took in the couple as they approached. Kyler and Mia had been together for about two months, but you could see in the way they looked at and moved around each other that it was a forever thing.

  Kyler smiled, his expression more relaxed than it had been in months, his blue eyes more lively somehow. “The early bird gets the dungeon first.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Mia grinned and blushed, which was adorable given how much skin and curves her leather dress revealed. When they reached the bar, they all shook hands.

  “Good to see you two,” Griffin said, meaning it. While all twelve of the Blasphemy Masters were friendly, Quinton and Kyler were the two with whom Griffin had gotten the closest over the years. So Griffin was happy for them, he really was. Master Kyler had almost made the same mistake with Mia that Griffin had years before with Kenna Sloane—thinking he didn’t want a long-term relationship and letting her go. But seeing them together, man, that kinda stung, too. Maybe that made him an asshole, but that didn’t make it any less true.

  “I’m looking forward to your demonstration tonight, Master Griffin,” Mia said. With long dark hair and brown eyes, Mia was a beautiful woman and a natural submissive. Even as she smiled at and greeted him, he could see her already slipping into her role, resisting lifting her eyes to meet his. Griffin forced his gaze away from Mia’s collar, which was easier than forcing his imagination away from the fundamental satisfaction Kyler must’ve felt in collaring a submissive and deepening their relationship to that level.

  Griffin nodded, his mind already making plans for the demonstration. He intended to put Tara in a reverse prayer position, which used intricate rope work to secure a submissive’s arms behind her back, her hands coming together between her shoulder blades. For starters. And the dark orange rope he had in mind would be a close match for her hair, creating a beautiful visual. Both the beauty of the rope work and the time it took to complete the rigging were big parts of what Shibari rope bondage was about, after all. “I hope you enjoy it.”

  The first part of the night passed in a blur of registering and orienting new members—Dominants who’d been vetted by Blasphemy’s Masters, submissives nominated by Dominant members, long-term single submissives, and provisional submissives who’d received temporary two-week passes. The unattached submissives received wrist cuffs with colored ribbons that denoted the kinds of play in which they were or were not willing to engage. Green for sex, orange for anal sex, light and dark blue for lesser and heavier degrees of pain, gold for group sex, and so forth.

  Red for bondage.

  That one always caught Griffin’s attention. That one always had him wondering if this submissive could be someone who—

  Just as often, he forced himself to cut off the thought when his brain threatened to complete it with replace Kenna.

  Because no one could do that.

  After his shift at registration finished, Griffin ducked into the security control room to find Isaac Marten, another of the Blasphemy Masters, where he usually was—manning the security desk, dark eyes constantly scanning the bank of monitors that rotated images from every part of the club.

  “Hey, Griffin,” Isaac said, running his brown hand over his short black hair. “You were busy out there tonight.”

  Griffin nodded, his gaze running over the screens and taking in the crowd’s vibe. Getting a feel for the energy on the floor. “Hey, man. Saturday night. You know.”

  “Yup,” Isaac said, checking his phone.

  Smiling, Griffin slid into at chair. “We still on Willow Watch?”

  Isaac chuckled. “Every damn minute. I’m going outta my mind.” Isaac’s wife, a woman he’d met here at Blasphemy, was due to deliver their first baby any day now, which was amazing. Though it didn’t escape Griffin’s realization that Isaac starting a family and commitment-phobic Kyler collaring a submissive were both very likely contributing to the restlessness he’d been feeling. As if the other men were both mirrors that revealed all the things Griffin wanted but didn’t have.

  “Why don’t you get someone to cover you and leave early then?

  Isaac cut a sideways glance at him. “Because she’d probably kick my ass for
driving her crazy. I offered to stay home but she encouraged me to go to work.” He used air quotes around ‘encouraged’.

  Griffin couldn’t help but laugh. “Who’s the Dom in your relationship again?”

  While flipping him off, Isaac laughed, too. “Yeah. Tell me about it. I never thought I’d be this nervous and of course she’s fine. But I can’t control any of this and it’s fucking...agitating.”

  Still chuckling, Griffin pushed out of the chair and clapped Isaac on the shoulder. “I think it’s pretty much going to be like that for the next eighteen years, my man.”

  “Jesus, I know.” Isaac scrubbed at his face.

  At the man’s right arm sat a monitor listing the players out on Blasphemy’s floor, and Griffin’s gaze scanned the scrolling list of names. Given all the private, hidden spaces where people could play, the club needed to keep an accurate head count of who had checked in each night. The list only included members’ first names, however, as privacy and information security were key concerns of the exclusive clientele here. Only Isaac, who’d designed their security systems, and Master Hale, the billionaire businessman who owned a majority interest in the club but rarely played anymore, had access to all the members’ profile information. The rest of them were on a need-to-know basis.

  “You see Tara’s name yet?” Griffin asked. He’d been manning new member registration, but existing members entered through a neighboring though private reception area.

  “Yeah. She’s been here a little while,” Isaac said.

  Griffin nodded. “Thanks. I’ll head out then. Keep me posted on Willow.” He turned away, but something new popped up on the screen and snagged his attention.

  Kenna (unattached submissive)

  If someone told Griffin that, just at that very moment, the earth had stopped turning around the sun and the disruption of gravity and centripetal force and whateverthefuck else was why he felt like he’d body-slammed a wall, he wouldn’t have been surprised. That’s how fundamentally seeing that name on the screen of Blasphemy’s players affected him.

  He finally had to shake his head to try to snap out of the shock of it.

  It couldn’t be his Kenna, could it? Well, not his. Obviously. But not Kenna Sloane, either.

  Five years ago, he’d rejected her when she told him she loved him and expressed an interest in turning their frequent playing into a more committed relationship, and so she’d cut all ties and moved away. That was all he knew. Her cell phone number had changed. Her apartment had been leased to someone new—he’d gone and checked maybe three weeks later, when he first realized he’d made the wrong call. And though she’d mentioned a sister a few times, Griffin hadn’t known what her last name was or how to find her. So after all that, why would Kenna be here now?

  She wouldn’t. The name wasn’t that unusual, was it?

  No. Thinking anything else was just wishful. And pointless.

  Because what Griffin wouldn’t do for a second chance—

  “You okay, man?”

  Griffin blinked at Isaac, whose expression was full of questions. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Just, uh, thought I saw someone.” He shook his head. “But I was wrong. It’s nothing.”

  Without another word, he was out of the control room and making his way through the back channels to the Masters’ lounge—a private space on the second floor for the club’s twelve Master members. He needed to shower and change before his demonstration. And he needed a few minutes to get his fucking head screwed on right—because Griffin had a real live submissive to take care of in thirty minutes, which meant he didn’t have time to spend time on ghosts or wishful thinking.

  Because none of those would change a goddamned thing anyway. Some regrets you just had to live with.

  CHAPTER THREE

  What the hell am I doing here?

  That was pretty much the tenor of Kenna’s thoughts as she made her way out into the main part of the club. Five weeks had passed since she’d first questioned whether submission and bondage might help her stress and pain and general frame of mind. Five weeks of not being able to put her questioning thoughts aside no matter how hard she tried. So three weeks ago, she’d called the club to see whether it would be possible to reinstate her membership. It had only taken two days for Master Hale, whose name she’d recalled though she’d never met him, to return her inquiry and let her know that the answer was yes.

  So here she was.

  At Blasphemy.

  She was surrounded by a subtle, driving, chanting music, the cries and groans of lovemaking and submission, and an erotic vibe that threatened to crawl under her skin exactly the way it had back in the old days. The Marines hadn’t left her with much time to worry about her sex life—between training and deployment, sleep had been at a premium, let alone sex. Still, on some level, she’d really missed this—this need to serve, to submit.

  The beauty of the old church combined with the decadence of the décor to create a sensation that was heady and even a little overwhelming after all this time. Kenna felt eyes running over her black PVC wet-look body suit with its plunging neckline and zip-up front, which made her even more grateful for the suit’s awesome hood—that part had been key. She wasn’t sure whether Griffin would know about her return ahead of time, but whether he did or not, she’d felt like the cover of the hood would allow her to ease back into this place at her own pace. Back into this lifestyle. This part of her old self—whatever part of that was left, anyway. The body suit was styled like a swim suit on the bottom, leaving her legs bare, but had long sleeves that mostly hid her arm until she was ready to reveal it. The black of her right hand would likely appear like part of the costume until someone looked more closely.

  Of course, if she didn’t chicken out and bail, she’d tell anyone she might play with about the arm.

  Screw that. What kind of Marine thought about chickening out?

  None.

  Get your shit together, Private Sloane! The memory of her crazy-ass gunnery sergeant’s bark eked a smile out of her.

  Right. Okay. Getting shit together right this very second.

  Besides, she was more likely going to have a face the possibility of a Dominant backing off because of her arm. Back when she’d been in the scene, she couldn’t remember ever seeing someone with an amputation at a club or play party. She could imagine some Doms might be too worried about hurting her to either want to play with her or give her want she really needed. But she couldn’t possibly be the only kinky amputee in the world, could she?

  Kinky amputee. She totally needed that on a T-shirt. Shaking her head, she hid a little smile under her hood.

  Whatever happened, what did she have to lose? She wasn’t here for love. She wasn’t really here for sex, either, though she’d have it. She was here for submission—and the incredible freedom and release from her own mind and body it had once brought her. And might bring her again.

  It was worth a try, anyway. At this point, she’d try anything to feel better, lighter, freer. Even if for only a few minutes.

  There were no seats open at the bar, but Kenna managed to find a place to lean against the marble counter, a place where she could survey the scene—and the people. She told herself she was just taking in everyone and everything, but she couldn’t hide the truth from herself. She was hoping to see one person in particular.

  Master Griffin.

  Hoping to see him and terrified of it, too.

  And she wasn’t ashamed to admit that. Courage wasn’t not being afraid. It was being afraid and doing something anyway. Or so they said.

  “Hey, there. What can I get you?” came a man’s voice.

  Kenna looked up into the familiar eyes...of Master Quinton. Would he recognize her? “Hi. Can I have an orange juice, please?” she asked, her brain reverting right back to one of her old habits. She never drank alcohol when she played because it left her feeling too dehydrated. She always stuck with juice or water.

  Master Quinton’s head cocked and his eyes narr
owed. “Coming right up.” As he retrieved a glass and poured, his gaze cut to her, moving from her face to the wrist cuff on her flesh-and-bone arm with its colored ribbons and back to her face again.

  And she took him in right back. With brown hair and eyes and a handsome face you couldn’t help but stare at, the five years since she’d left had been good to him—damn good.

  “I know you,” he said. She was just about to remind him of her name when his eyes went wide and he broke out into a big grin. “Holy shit. Kenna?”

  She smiled, pleased but a little self-conscious, too. She accepted the glass with her left hand. “Hi, Master Quinton.”

  “Damn, girl. Where have you been all my life?” He leaned onto the wide counter in front of her.

  Now she laughed. Master Quinton had always been good for that. “Ha. I don’t ever remember you wanting for...friends.” She winked at him.

  Laughing, he nodded. “Well, I can’t ever have too many friends, little Kenna. Now can I?”

  She hid her smile behind her glass as she savored a sip of the sweet juice. Master Quinton was still looking at her. “What?” she finally asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Just good to see you. You look great. I like this.” He tugged on the end of one blond curl, the long ends of her loose hair hanging out from underneath the generously cut hood.

  Once, she’d enjoyed wearing it all different colors. It had been fun. Silly. Frivolous. She hadn’t colored her hair in years. In fact, she and George had bitten the bullet and shaved their heads entirely at boot camp. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he said. Just then, someone called his name from further down the bar. Master Quinton waved but turned back to Kenna. “Master Griffin know you’re here?”

  She immediately dropped her gaze.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said. “Well, in case you’re interested, you’ll find him on the stage.” He gave a nod to indicate the area behind the bar, but she didn’t need the reminder.

  “Thank you, Master Quinton.”