Point made, they spent the money indulgently, donated to charity, and gave an ample sum to the family of the murdered guard and his niece. It also funded the elaborate dungeon in the room next door. The irony of that was bitter sweet.

Wil stepped so close to the camera, she could count the follicles of his eyelashes. He fluttered his eyes, his cheeks puffing up. "We'll see you in a couple weeks? And you'll give me the tat I emailed to you?"

The mermaid with a skeletal face and huge tits? What a goofball. Damn, she missed those guys. "Yep. Two weeks." They would spend the rest of the winter in L.A. while The Burn recorded their new album.

"Good deal." Wil's arms reached up, and the image on the screen shook as he wiggled something on the camera. "Signing off."

The screen blinked to black.

Jay reached back, grabbed her waist, and shifted her until she stood between his legs. Wrapping his arms around her hips, he tucked her belly against his chest. The gold in his eyes gave way to darkening shades of brown as he stared up at her. "How was your day?"

"Crazy busy." She touched his dimple, lost in his heavy-lidded eyes. "I really need to go in more often to keep up with the schedule."

"Nonnegotiable. I fucking dread the one day a week separation as it is."

No sense arguing it. They were leaving in two weeks.

He walked the fingers of one hand around her waist and inched up her thermal shirt. "Any memorable tats today?" His lips shimmied over her naval.

"Mm." She closed her eyes, shivered against the smooth texture of his mouth. "Some guy from Montreal asked me to ink the letters S E X E. One letter on each finger."

"Sexe?"

"Sex in French, I think." When he arched a brow, a laugh bubbled out of her. "True story, I swear." She pushed her hands through his hair and circled her thumbs over his scalp.

He closed his eyes and moaned. "I'm still waiting for my answer from this morning."

A thrill trickled through her. "I gave myself a tattoo today."

His head jerked back, and his wide eyes collided with hers. "Where?"

She shrugged, biting her cheek and squirming with the itch to blurt.

He searched her face and lowered his gaze to her neck, lingering there, heating her from the inside out. His eyes burned over her breasts, her belly, all the way to her toes, as if he could see through her long-sleeved shirt and cargo pants. He pursed his lips. "Remove your clothes."

Emptying her expression, she did, fumbling as excitement sparked her pulse. When she stood in only a pair of red cheeky panties, he ran his hands over every inch of her flesh, spinning her around and lifting her arms.

He looked at her panties, her eyes, back at her panties, and shoved them down her legs. With a nudge of his toes on the insides of her ankles, he spread her stance apart, hesitated, and sat up. "You'll give me your answer to my proposal, and you'll tell me where the tattoo is." His jaw tightened, and his chest lifted. "Go to the dungeon. Put your back against the tower."

Turning toward the door, she let her smile stretch so wide her cheeks ached as she dashed down the hall and into their playroom.

At the center of the room, a wood beam rose from the concrete floor and disappeared into the ceiling. She backed against it until her ass touched one of the two horizontal bars bolted to the tower. She positioned her feet at either end of the lower bar, buckled the shackles around her ankles, and rose to her full height.

His soft, steady footfalls announced his approach in the hall. She gripped the bar at her back, her breath rushing out in noisy pants.

Clad in only his too-tight-to-be-legal leather pants, he didn't look at her as he padded into the room. Her heart skipped a beat. Master Jay carried his authority with a confidence that quickened her pulse and fluttered her stomach.

Pacing along the wall of implements, he dragged out his decision, torturing her as he fingered every flogger, butt bruiser, whip, and cane. Finally, he removed the well-used leather belt, his favorite impact toy, the sandpaper long peeled away.

In three long strides, he stood before her, top button undone at his waist, belt dangling from his hand, masculine vitality heaving in waves from his rock hard body. "What's the answer?"

His timbre was growly and demanding. Holy shit, he was sexy. Impatience flooded through her, tempting her to capitulate so he'd fuck her already. "Find the tattoo, and I'll give you the answer."

He reached around her, opened the collar affixed to the tower, and secured it around her neck. He did the same with the shackles attached to the horizontal bar at her ass, strapping them around her wrists. "What's your safe word?"

"Huntress."

Stepping back, his eyes lingered over every trussed inch. With a flex of his bicep, he swung the belt.

Fire spread from each slap on her thighs. Sweat beaded on his golden complexion. His muscles swelled through his swings, and his leathers strained to hold his arousal.

Her own urging rushed through her groin, leaking free of her pussy and drenching her inner thighs. Sweet mother, she wanted him to peel off those pants and slam into her, fast and bruising.

He locked eyes with her, and the belt thudded to the concrete. Groping the waistband of his pants, he shredded them in the next beat of her thumping heart. Then he was on her, plunging his dick between her legs, gripping the bar for support as he thrust faster, deeper, slamming into her cervix.

Charged quakes zinged through her womb, stirring her body into a fast-approaching release. She teetered, hanging from the binds, the power of his hips banging her into the tower.

With a rush of exhausted air, she gave into the orgasm, shaking with the force of it. A moan ripped from her throat, and he smothered it with his mouth, biting her lips and curling his tongue with hers.

He pulled out, halting his own release. He squatted at her feet, eyes on her throbbing pussy. "Is it here?" His probing finger wouldn't find it, but she used the reprieve to catch her breath. His exploration moved deeper, and she grinned at the image of tattooing her own vagina. Unsuccessful in his hunt, he shifted behind the tower and spread her cheeks.

A ragged laugh burst from her chest. "You must think I'm a contortionist if you're checking my asshole for ink."

"Stubborn brat," he mumbled as he lifted her feet as much as the shackles would allow, bending her toes, checking her soles.

"You're getting closer." Not.

He stood, yanked on her hair, probed her scalp, and released her with a huff. "Fuck this. I don't need to ask. You're marrying me and that's that." He spun and tagged his pants from the floor.

"What are you doing?" Was he done? His erection disagreed.

Tugging something out of his pocket, he held it up to her face, pinched between his finger and thumb. A point-cut diamond caught the dim light, casting a glimmer over her vision. Black curling flames engraved the inside of the silver band. The design mirrored his tat, a symbol of their pasts, their future.

She sucked in a breath. "When?"

He trailed his fingers along her left arm, over the wrist cuff, and interlaced their hands. "I commissioned it while on the plane from New York. It's been in my pocket for a long time."

"Why didn't you give it to me this morning?"

"I didn't know where my pants were, and I was quite comfortable." He leaned his weight against her and captured her lips, his tongue rolling with hers in a sensual dance. "Marry me."

Without waiting for a response, he shifted toward her outstretched arm and uncurled her fingers. The drum in her chest was so loud she was certain he could hear it. With her palm open and facing him, he slid the ring down her finger and stopped.

His lips parted, and their eyes collided. She nodded, floating into his gaze, their dreams, her promise.

A smile blazed over his beautiful face as he looked back at her hand, at the word permanently inked on the inside of her ring finger.

Yes.

The End.

About the Author.

Pam Godwin lives in the Midwest with her husband, their two children, and a foulmouthed parrot. When she ran away, she traveled fourteen countries across five continents, attended three universities, and married the vocalist of her favorite rock band.

Java, tobacco, and dark romance novels are her favorite indulgences, and might be considered more unhealthy than her aversion to sleeping, eating meat, and dolls with blinking eyes.

COMFORT OBJECT.

ANNABEL JOSEPH.

Nell, an out-of-work professional submissive, is desperate to find a job when she meets handsome film star Jeremy Gray at the restaurant where she works. He says he needs a personal assistant, but the work contract he shows her details not organizational duties, but sexual ones. Jobless and homeless, Nell agrees to work for him anyway, on the promise that he will pay for her to finish her college degree when her stint as his "assistant" is complete.

The start of their formal Dom/sub relationship is rocky, but they soon fall into a mutually satisfying, highly sexual routine. They play vanilla boyfriend and girlfriend in public, while Jeremy uses Nell as his kinky comfort object behind the scenes. Then a stalker threatens their secret lifestyle, and their contract may not be strong enough to hold them together.

"Annabel Joseph has once again written an amazingly intense and exhilarating novel. Powerful in presenting the lives of adults living a life imbued in varying levels of BDSM and rich in emotion and drama, Comfort Object is sure to become a favorite read for those who enjoy a book of great depth and substance."

-Blackraven Reviews.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

Question me now about all other matters, but do not ask who I am, for fear you may increase in my heart its burden of sorrow as I think back; I am very full of grief, and I should not sit in the house of somebody else with my lamentation and wailing. It is not good to go on mourning forever.

-Homer's The Odyssey, Book 19, 115-120.

Chapter One.

Mr. Gorgeous.

He was beautiful. No, beautiful was not the word for it. He was godlike, breathtaking, astounding, life-changing. I'd been working at the Eden Fetish Club for five years now, and I had never seen a male specimen like this come through the door. He was golden. His faded jeans fit perfectly over his taut, muscular ass, and his black tee concealed a sculpted torso. He was at least six feet two, maybe taller, with wavy dark hair that framed a classically handsome face. Prominent jaw, and the kind of full, sensuous lips that made me think naughty thoughts. His eyes were set deep and communicated an animal sexuality. Even the way he moved reeked of sex. Everyone in the main dungeon, dominant and submissive and undecided, turned to look as he walked by.

He walked around for a while, taking his time, checking people out. He was shopping. Everything ratcheted up. Scenes got louder, harder, more intense. Doms' voices got more authoritative, subs' cries and moans grew more heartfelt and deep. He was new, he was unattached, he was shopping, and he was something else. Was he a top? A bottom? Both? Neither? Who cared? Everybody wanted him.

I was getting my ass thoroughly beaten by a client when the stranger's gaze fell on me. I wondered if he found me attractive at all. I had a nice body, petite and curvy. My heart-shaped ass was a favored target for Eden's doms. My pussy was waxed bare, and I wore the typical submissive's uniform at Eden-a skimpy garter belt and a black O-ringed collar at my neck. I had red hair, which helped me stand out in a crowd, but my eyes were probably my best feature. Besides their unusual pale green color, they looked slightly ethnic, slanted and wide set. I could drop my lashes over my eyes or peer up and bat them innocently. I had long ago mastered the pleading, vulnerable look.

I turned them on the new guy and saw a flicker of interest. My "master" for the moment, a regular named Jack, wasn't too pleased to see my attention wander and tried to regain it by laying the strokes on a little harder with the flogger.

I tried to concentrate on the job at hand, being his devoted slave, because he was paying me to be, but it was difficult. As I writhed and sobbed under Jack's blows, I knew, guiltily, that I was putting on a show for him. Yes, I wanted him to want me. Beauty was desirable, but oh so rare in clubs like these. Jack, bless his heart, had long since passed his prime. But Jack was a great dominant and a loyal customer, so God, I tried to concentrate on him. I took my job seriously. I really tried to be a great sub to everyone who wanted to play.

When Jack finished with me thirty minutes later, Mr. Gorgeous was still standing there, watching me come down. Everyone else had gone back to their own scenes. It was clear now he'd made his choice. I was his choice. I was a little jittery about it, which was silly, being a professional sub.

Focus, Nell, you idiot. He was not Prince Charming, and I wasn't Cinderella. I was a professional working at the Eden Fetish Club in Los Angeles, and what I was looking at was just another job.

Mistress Amelia glowered at me from the corner, where Jack was bending her ear and gesturing at me in annoyance. Her eyes said it all. This better be good. Forget about poor Jack. I'd better convince Mr. Gorgeous that playing at Eden was a lot of fun, that he should come back all the time. Having regular members like him could draw more business, attract more submissive women. There were never enough subs. Mistress Amelia's cherry red lips pursed into a strict line.

Make it work, bitch.

I walked up to the client and got a noseful of fresh, outdoorsy smell, like he'd spent the day at the beach. He was even more delectable close up. His shoulders were so broad, and his arms had that perfect bulge of muscle... Focus!

I gave Mr. Handsome my best submissive greeting: a sweet, soft murmur with my eyes cast down. Would Master like to spend some time with Little Nell? My only limits were the club's limits: no fluid exchange and no severe marking or bloodletting. I was available to play publicly, here in the main dungeon, or in one of the private, themed rooms. Schoolroom? Hospital? Boardroom? Harem? Interrogation room? What did Master wish?

Master Gorgeous wished to play privately, he said. Mistress Amelia wasn't happy about that as I led him toward the hallway, but the themed rooms were there for customers, so what could she say? I asked which of the currently available rooms he wished to play in, and he shrugged and said he didn't care.

Okay.

I wasn't sure what that meant, that he had no preference. He only kept staring at me with those eyes that seemed to be weighing, measuring, analyzing more than anything else. They weren't warm eyes. They were businesslike, in a strange but not a scary way. I'd actually never felt more like a sex worker, although I suppose that's what I was. I realized then that must have been his fantasy. Pick out a sex worker and dominate her. Cool. I could understand that kink.

I led him to the first open room we came to, the harem, one of my personal favorites. Along with the de rigueur hooks, trestles, benches, chairs, and display of disciplinary tools on the wall, there were piles of pillows, a very cozy sofa, and a massive crimson-canopied bed. I'd cuddled with many a dom after taking a sound whipping on that bed, watching the garish scarves and curtains blow in the breeze of the ceiling fans shaped to look like palm leaves.

Somehow I doubted this dom was into cuddling. Actually, as the door closed behind us and he looked at me, I could tell, with a certainty born of experience, that this gorgeous, staring, studying man wasn't a dom at all. I was suddenly a little thankful for Joel, the club-appointed chaperone who stood in the shadows to monitor the safety of every private scene I did. I had long since ceased to feel embarrassment around Joel, but feeling thankful for his presence was a totally new thing. What did this guy want? I went down on my knees and waited.

He just looked at me a long while. I finally murmured, "Would Master like me to suggest ways to best make use of my submissiveness?"

"No," he said tersely.

"I'm yours," I answered in reply and waited on my knees patiently. He looked over at Joel.

"So the rules apply here too? Privately? No sex?"

"No sex, not with the staff," boomed Joel from the corner.

Too bad, I thought. He wanted sex, and Lord in heaven knew I wanted to give this man sex. All women should have given this man sex, and probably did. Any woman walking the planet would have given it up for this piece of maleness, so why this rigmarole, why come to a club and try to buy it? Why? Because he wanted kinky sex. Sigh. I wanted kinky sex too. It had been far too long.