Defensive Zone (The Dartmouth Cobras #2) (2 page)

And he was probably right.

"You're never late for anything, Asher." She
gave him a sideways glance and smirked. "I wouldn't want to be
responsible for ruining your
perfect
image."

"If I gave a shit about my image, I'd stay
away from you." Asher grinned. "Come on. You've gotta get all
prettied up. The sister of the bride should look her best,
right?"

Pulling off the careless act was easy with
Asher. She tossed her head and shrugged. "This is me. Would you
expect any less?"

"Nope." Asher hooked his arm to hers and
brushed his free hand over the front of his dark blue suit jacket.
His crisp, light toned cologne tickled her nose as he gazed
longingly towards the entrance. "You know, it's too bad your father
doesn't like me. He's got this Hugh Hefner thing going for him. I'd
so drop you for him as a sugar daddy!"

"I
did
not just hear that!"

Asher smirked. "I've never done vintage."

"TMI, Asher." She tugged him inside, casting
a pleading glance to Cedric who stood by the doorway, silent as a
shadow. "Will you talk to him?"

"Why?" Cedric hunched his shoulders and
followed a step behind as they made their way through the house.
"He does who and what he wants. I'm just here to look pretty."

Uck, why do I bother?
But at least
Cedric's remark shut Asher up. He let her go and slung his arm over
Cedric's shoulders. Thirty minutes later, Asher parked his towncar
in front of the condominium, then went inside with Cedric, straight
into their room, and shut the door.

Silver paused in the hall by the door,
wondering, like she always did when Cedric got like this, if she
should have said something. What exactly, she didn't know. Cedric
and her didn't talk much unless it was about legal stuff.

Asher can handle him. Go get ready.

Closing down and dealing with routine stuff,
like getting all dolled up, cleared her head of all the drama with
both her boyfriends and her father. Time to forget how sick Daddy
was. And how miserable Cedric seemed sometimes. A mist of sweet
perfume, a bit of powder to on her face to illuminate her
complexion, one would think she didn't have a care in the
world.

The gilded vanity mirror before her reflected
an utterly perfect face and body. Her bright green eyes were fake,
but everything else was real, despite her agent's frequent hints
about getting a boob job. She turned from side to side. Yep, her
pert breast in the snug pink mesh tube top would get the guys
drooling even though they weren't huge. She smoothed her hands over
her loose hair and took a deep breath.

It's Oriana's day. All eyes should be on
her.

Little wisps rose from her pale gold locks
and she scowled. After spraying hairspray on a bristle brush, she
brought it up and clenched her teeth when she noticed the brush
shaking. She was shaking. She had to get a grip. A
lot
of
the members of the BDSM club where her sister was getting married
were players on the hockey team she now owned. If she was going to
prance around in front of them looking like a whore, she better act
comfortable with the image.

Not a whore. A sub.
She snickered. As
if any man could dominate her. She might pretend with Asher and
Cedric, but that was just a game. A role she played when she was in
the mood. Granted, she'd directed her sister to a Domme book when
she'd had problems with her ex, but that was just because Paul
seemed like the submissive type. Or a cheater, but she hadn't had
the heart to tell her sister that. Men who didn't want sex either
weren't interested in the woman they were with or they needed
someone else to take charge. They could also be gay, but she knew
enough gay men to rule Paul out. What she didn't get was how Paul
had resisted Oriana. She had a natural beauty that might not make
it on the runways, but made men think of more than fucking.

The brush clattered on her dresser top. She
braced her hands on the ledge and bowed her head. Was she really
going to get all worked up about this? Her sister was happy and
Silver was happy for her. Oriana needed the ring. And the
collar.

Silver Delgado needed none of that. She was a
self-made woman and she had two men who . . . cared about her. She
was in control of her own life and that was exactly how she wanted
it.

Her pink silk clutch caught her eye. She
opened it and took out a small vial, sealed with wax and full of
white powder. Gritting her teeth she shoved it back inside the
purse and grabbed a lollypop from her stash.
I don't need that
anymore.

But she
did
need a drink. The cherry
flavor felt cough syrup thick on her tongue. She plucked it from
her mouth and shouted. "Cedric, bring me the rum!"

A couple of minutes later, Asher strode in
and handed her the bottle. She smiled and fingered the buttons of
his black silk blouse, hoping to distract him from a lecture. He
had a thing about women drinking too much.

He took her purse and dumped the contents on
the dresser. Picking up the vial, he gave her a sideways glance.
"You're still hanging on to this? You know if you get hooked again
I'm not fronting the dough. It's a disgusting habit."

"I know that." She shoved her makeup and
stuff back into her clutch without looking at him. "Don't worry. I
just keep it around so I know it's there. If I don't, I start
wondering where I can find more. It's complicated."

"Whatever. Are you ready?" He put his hands
on his expensive black jean clad hips. "You look good."

"Thank you." She turned to the mirror and ran
her hands over her thighs to make sure her pink booty shorts didn't
ride up. Archer wasn't looking, but sometimes he did. He might be
gay, but for some reason he was still interested in her. Which made
him bi as far as most of his friends were concerned, but he joked
that he wouldn't go
that
far. She was different. Not just
another pussy.

She liked to think she was special. He loved
Cedric. And just maybe loved her too.

"I've never played the Dom in front of
anyone." Asher tucked his thumbs into his pockets and rocked on the
heels of his shiny Italian loafers. "Anything I should know?"

As if I know?
She slid open the top
drawer of her dresser and grabbed the collar that went with her
outfit. Pink and black studded leather. She held it out to him.
"You do just fine showing the leatherguys that you're the
'top'."

"That's not the same and you know it."

All right, the dick chastity belt that Asher
made Cedric wear to their meetings—which she couldn't attend—was a
bit more than she wanted, but dominance was dominance, no? She just
didn't want to seem available. She stuck the lollipop back in her
mouth and wrinkled her nose.
Not to the 'real' Doms
.

"Just pretend you own me. Okay?" She shoveled
all her belongings into her purse and sucked harder on the
lollypop. "This is about Oriana."

"That's funny." Asher lifted her hair off her
back and laid a soft kiss on her shoulder. "Because dressed like
that, I'm thinking you'll get most of the attention. Which is
exactly what you want."

"No it isn't! This is how subs dress!"

"For their
Master's
pleasure. So he
can show off." Asher shook his head. "Why don't you wear that
little red number you got from your shopping spree in Italy? It's
quality and it's what I'd have you wear if you were really my sub.
This outfit costs less than my socks."

"You're such a snob." She held her hair out
of the way and let him put on her collar. "And I'm not your sub, so
you don't get to tell me what to wear. That dress makes me look
like a streetwalker."

"And this doesn't?"

"Fuck you!"

Asher laughed. "Not tonight, angel-face. I've
already had my fill. Had to make sure Cedric was sated before I
locked his cock." He chuckled at the face she made before leaving
the room with a nonchalant. "You know I don't like sharing
him."

Like you'd let me forget.
Cedric
wasn't even allowed to play with her much unless Asher was in the
mood to watch him take her ass. Her thighs clenched as she recalled
the last time. As usual, sex was good with either man, but . . .
well parts of her were neglected. Asher stimulated her clit to get
her off, acting like it was a chore. Her 'girly bits' did nothing
for him. Of course, she had plenty of toys when she wanted to feel
full in the most basic way, but it wasn't the same. For once it
would be nice to have a man want her as a woman.

Which could happen tonight if that's what she
really
wanted. Asher wouldn't stop her from going home with
another man, he wasn't possessive of
her
. The thing was . .
. damn, finding a man at a BDSM club?

Taking a deep breath, she leaned closer to
the mirror and tapped her bottom lip with a finger to make sure her
lipstain was dry. Then she applied a generous coat of gloss and
smacked her lips.
Perfect.

She uncapped the rum and moved the lollipop
to one side of her mouth so she could take a few good swigs from
the bottle. Sweet fire burned through her and she closed her eyes
to absorb it. Once the sensation faded she felt calm. In
control.

Maybe, this time, she could be the one who
did all the right things. She'd always been the trouble-maker, the
wild one, too irresponsible for anyone to ask for anything from.
Maybe if she could prove she'd changed, daddy wouldn't regret
putting his faith in her. For once maybe
she
could be the
good one.

You're going to a kinky club to watch your
sister essentially marry two—three?—guys. And then there's your gay
boyfriends. If you're going to be the good one, shouldn't you dump
them and find a 'normal' guy?

Well, daddy didn't need to know what she did
for fun. She took another swig from the bottle and winked at her
reflection.

Never said I'd be
that
good!

* * * *

Leather, sex, and . . . carnations? Dean
Richter rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then undid
the top button of his black dress shirt. Blades & Ice, the
notorious hard core BDSM club—
his
hard core BDSM club—looked
like it had been attacked by Martha-fucking-Stewart. White ribbons,
flame colored bouquets, and a woven wood arch. Tim had opened the
place at 5am so Max Perron, the groom, and, more importantly, the
Dartmouth Cobra's best assist man, could set things up for his
wedding. Max had been perfectly willing to rent a hall, but Tim had
insisted the club was the perfect place for the ceremony.

Thanks, Tim.
Dean leaned over the bar
across from the insanity and glared at his half-brother, who'd
dragged the entire staff into decorating.
I'm going to make your
wife twist your ball sack with rubber elastics, bro.

A whimper drew his gaze to the doorway of a
playroom just off the bar area.

Sloan Callahan, the Cobra's captain, forced
Oriana Delgado, bride-to-be, to her knees. "You're spoiling the
surprise. Max won't be happy."

"Please don't tell him."

"Give me one reason I shouldn't."

Oriana licker her bottom lip and her tone
turned husky. "You're hurting me, Sloan."

Letting out a strangled laugh, Callahan
released her. "Tease. We'll have our fun after the ceremony, not
before."

"So we can't do
anything?
" Oriana
undid the top button of Callahan's leathers. "At all?"

"Not unless you want to be upgraded from the
flogger to the whip, love." Callahan smoothed his hand over
Oriana's loose, shimmering bronze hair. "Dominik decided that was a
fitting penalty."

"Oh no!" Oriana giggled and pulled the zipper
down with her teeth. Her tongue darted out over the head of his
cock. "To tell you the truth, I think he said that because he knows
I'm ready."

Callahan's bare chest and stomach muscle
tensed as he wound her hair around his fist. "Are you?"

Rather than answer, Oriana slicked Callahan's
dick with her lips and tongue, taking him so deep Dean couldn't
help but stare.

Damn. Out of Delgado's daughters, she's
the last one I would have thought could . . .
He tore his gaze
from the pair and tapped the bar for another beer. No matter how
often Oriana came to the club with her men, he still couldn't quite
fit the image of the 'sexually retarded' woman—as her ex-boyfriend
and his ex-coach, Paul Stanton, had called her—and the beautifully
submissive woman he'd come to know, in his head. Paul Stanton was
the retard.

Then again, she wasn't submissive enough for
his tastes. As long as she didn't break the club rules, it didn't
really matter, but sometimes he found himself scratching his head
when he saw what Dominik Mason, the Cobra's best blueliner and the
man who'd collar her after Perron married her, put up with. Mason
was a damn good Master—how could he let Perron and Callahan be so
lax with discipline? The diminutive sub liked to top from the
bottom, and even though she was usually reprimanded, Dean knew with
Dominik alone she'd have been broken of the habit.

That's what you get for sharing a
woman.
He inclined his head to the scrawny bartender, who wore
nothing but a leather cup and straps, and took his beer. Leaning
one elbow on the bar, he surveyed the room with mounting disgust.
The whole thing stank of a spoiled sub getting her own way. Only,
Oriana
wasn't
spoiled and her Doms had tormented her
excessively to get her to spill the details of her dream wedding.
Which had been fun to watch. But the results had him on sugar
overload.

"Bad time?" A young man in a stylish, yet
understated black suit—likely tailored to fit over those massive
shoulders and long frame—took a seat across from him and gestured
to the bartender for some of what Dean was having. His crew cut and
the hard edge that stole some youth from his face gave him the
appearance of a soldier on leave. A faint French accent and an easy
smile lightened his stalk demeanor. "I have to admit, this isn't
what I expected."