Wicked Ties

Book 1: A Wicked Lovers Novel

by Shayla Black

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Suspense; Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

When a stalker ratchets up his attempts to get to her, cable sex talk show host Morgan O'Malley turns to Jack Cole-a self-proclaimed dominant-for help. Though Jack is a bodyguard, Morgan feels anything but safe in his presence. Because slowly and seductively, Jack is bringing her deepest fantasies to the surface. And when he bends her to his will, what's more shocking than her surrender is how much she enjoys it and how she starts to crave his masterful touch. A willing player in Jack's games, Morgan knows that his motives aren't pure. But she has no idea how personal they are.

Release date: January 2, 2007

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 352

Sample

Titles by Shayla Black

FOUR PLAY

Table of Contents

 

Titles by Shayla Black

Title Page

Copyright Page

 

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

 

About Shayla Black

An Excerpt from His To Take

Chapter One

HAVE you ever wanted to put yourself in the hands of a man whose sole purpose is to give you pleasure?

The words flashed across Morgan O’Malley’s laptop screen. She sucked in a sharp, shocked breath. She’d met this man in an online chat room less than three minutes ago. How could he know that?

He must have guessed, had to have guessed. She hadn’t told him anything about herself, not one single thing, except her name and the fact that she wanted to interview him for her cable TV show.

But even through her stunned silence, he kept peeling back the layers of her secrets.

Do you want a man to see inside you, all the way to your fantasies, the darkest ones you don’t even tell your friends about, and make every one of them come true?

A surge of arousal coiled in her belly. Her palms began to sweat. Morgan swallowed hard.

In the silent living room shadowed with the many colors of dusk, Morgan squirmed on the black leather sofa, shoving desires she didn’t dare admit to the back of her mind.

This was business. He was business. It wasn’t a good idea to have the hots for the next interview subject for her show. It might be late-night cable talk, but Turn Me On was her job, her brainchild, her little rebellion . . . her life.

Besides, aching for a guy whose real name she didn’t know, whose face she’d never seen—whose lifestyle she shouldn’t even ponder—was just dumb.

So, Master J, is that what a dominant does? she typed in response, determined to keep the conversation light. Dish out fantasies?

One of the things, he responded at length. But that would be oversimplifying the relationship. His most important goal is to earn his partner’s trust. Trust is important in any relationship, but especially in one involving Dominance/submission. Without that, how can a woman freely put herself in a man’s care and know that her well-being and safety will always be first? How can she know her master will understand her so he can make her every wicked fantasy come true?

Dominance wasn’t just about tying someone to the bed and screwing them into the mattress? Surprise wrinkled Morgan’s brow. Trust, care, understanding—she had to admit, that all sounded like a fantasy in itself. Certainly, she’d been lacking those qualities in her relationship with her ex-fiancé, Andrew—especially the understanding.

Trust allows a woman to connect with the primitive part of her that craves the utter surrender of being at her master’s mercy, despite not knowing if his plans for her involve pleasure, pain, or both.

Morgan couldn’t deny that Master J intrigued her even more now than when one of the production assistants, Reggie, had given her his bio.

Toggling to her email, she opened the bio she’d been given and scanned it again.

A member of the BDSM and D/s scene for nearly ten years, Master J is experienced in all facets but continues to learn. He owns a personal security company and has been bodyguard to senators, international diplomats, and athletes. A West Point graduate, he also served in military Special Forces as a team leader before being honorably discharged.

Morgan clicked the email closed. The paragraph revealed a lot about the man whose words made her shiver with dark fantasies. Self-discipline, honor, strength. Yet the blurb said very little at the same time. Who was this guy? Could he really bind and tease a woman into making her beg?

Morgan? Her name flashed across the screen. You still there?

Sorry. Just thinking. Clearly, I have a lot to learn about in order to do the show properly. I guess I thought it was all about velvet ropes and handcuffs.

It’s about that, too.☺

She laughed, pushing down the ache curling in her belly . . . and lower. A little curiosity didn’t make her depraved. Definitely not. It was just interesting to see how the other half lived.

But it’s also an exchange of power and trust, he typed. A woman chooses to give her master dominion over her body and her mind. She surrenders her flesh and free will to anything and everything he desires.

What sort of surrender? a voice inside of her demanded to know. A thousand dark images pushed themselves into her brain from the depths of her fantasies: her kneeling to this stranger’s cock, him ordering her to spread her legs wide so he could simply look at her, her bound to his bed as he prepared to take whatever he wanted.

Disturbed by the shocking turn of her thoughts, she shook them away. And ignored her rapid breathing.

Lots of people had bondage fantasies at one time or another, she’d read. Having one or two herself was normal, no matter what Andrew said.

Morgan squirmed against the leather cushions again, ignoring any extra moisture between her legs.

But a D/s relationship is also about a lot more, Master J typed.

How do you put someone in manacles, blindfolds, and dark rooms but still earn her trust? How do you develop an emotionally gratifying relationship when one person has all the power?

It’s not like that.

Morgan’s gaze stayed riveted to her screen as she waited for more. For a long, silent moment, she held her breath . . . but nothing. Master J wasn’t going to reply further. Just like in the bedroom, she supposed. He had the power to give or withhold.

Finally, a longer reply appeared in the little chat room window.

Sorry, but I’ve had an urgent call. Have to go. If you feel I have the background to assist with your show, let’s meet. I’ll answer your questions then. Someplace public, so you don’t worry I might be a serial killer luring you into danger. I can talk faster. I’ve mastered a lot, but not typing <g>. I still hunt and peck.

Morgan scuttled her impatience. Not hard when the man made her smile at his jokes.

I understand, she answered. Can we meet tomorrow at 3? I Googled and found a place that seems to be popular there in Lafayette, called La Roux. Know where that is?

Cher, I’m a native. I know every crack in the sidewalk around here.

Morgan smiled and typed, Cher? I’m not that tall or old enough to have had a singing career since the 60s!

LOL. It means dear in French, he translated. I’m Cajun, so I grew up speaking the language.

Morgan read his reply and ignored the little flutter in her belly. Flirtation was a French thing, and he’d been raised with the culture. It was as natural to him as breathing, no doubt.

<blushing> I’ve lived in Los Angeles too long, I guess. I’ll see you then?

You will. How will I know you? Lots of pretty girls in Louisiana. I want to make sure I reveal my innermost secrets to the right one.

He was a charmer, Morgan bet. He’d have to be with his interest in wielding whips and chains. Certainly, most “normal” women would run screaming in the opposite direction at the thought of a little pain and a lot of obedience with their sex.

I’ll be wearing a straw hat, sunglasses, and a big, boxy coat, she answered.

Sounds more like a disguise, Master J returned.

He had no idea. And she wasn’t advertising the fact she had a stalker. Morgan only hoped the reason she needed a disguise would be caught and start rotting in hell soon.

See you tomorrow, she jotted back.

Au revoir.

The message on her screen told her moments later that Master J had left the private chat room. With a sigh, she moved to close the chat room window.

Her hand trembled. No, her whole body trembled, despite the heat snaking under her skin.

She was tired, that’s all.

Tired doesn’t make you ache in very personal places, the voice in her head taunted. Tired doesn’t make you wet.

“Tired makes me hear pesky voices in my head,” she grumbled.

She tried to push Master J, the man, aside and focus on the questions she’d ask him tomorrow. The show’s outline had to be in soon, and she wanted to be prepared to launch her second season with a bang. Already, she had a growing cult following. With the right material, the show could skyrocket.

Which meant she had to keep her eye on the prize and focus on work.

But after ten minutes of staring at an empty screen, Morgan admitted that Master J wouldn’t leave her mind. What was it about him?

Other than the fact that he lives out the fantasies you’ve ached about?

Morgan shook her head, determined to ignore the maddening little voice. She was curious, not deviant. No matter what Andrew said or her mother would think.

With a sigh, she reached for the phone and dialed the number of the production assistant in Los Angeles.

“Reggie,” she said when he answered. “Hey, I talked to this Master J guy you hooked me up with, and I read his bio. I’m meeting him tomorrow. What’s his scoop? Learn anything new?”

“Yeah,” returned the older man, his voice scratchy from his two-pack-a-day habit. “I did some calling around Louisiana, asked people at bondage clubs if they’d ever heard of him, just to make sure he’s legit. He checks out.”

That was a relief—but it wasn’t. Reggie had quickly become like a surrogate father to her, and she trusted him. But ignoring her curiosity about Master J would have been much easier if Reggie hadn’t been able to vouch for him. If only she could have written him off as another crackpot who wanted to talk about sex on TV.

Morgan bit her lip . . . but her inquisitive nature won out. “What did everyone say about him?”

“A bunch. He’s casual, not heavy into the lifestyle but fairly regular at a few clubs. Apparently, he has a way with women and a reputation to go with it. More than one person I talked to said that he could make Mother Teresa beg to be tied down and fucked. He definitely wants a woman submissive. Hey, you’re not interested, are you?”

“What?” Morgan’s heart skipped a handful of beats. “Me? No!” She scoffed. “Why would I want a bully who gets off on making a woman feel inferior?”

“You sure?” Reggie sounded skeptical.

“Do I seem like the type to get into this sort of stuff?” she countered.

Reggie said nothing. Distress coiled through Morgan.

A rattling of the lock at the front door had Morgan’s head zooming in the other direction. She sighed with relief when her half brother Brandon shouldered his way inside.

“Gotta go,” she told Reggie. “I’ll call you after I’ve talked to this guy tomorrow.”

“Hey, little sister,” Brandon greeted as she hung up.

Shoving the conversation with Reggie out of her mind, she rose and stepped up on tiptoe to hug him. “Hi. Good day?”

His aristocratic mouth pursed into a frown. “Not exactly. I have to go to Iraq for the next three weeks.”

Surprise, and if Morgan was honest, trepidation punched her in the stomach. “Iraq? I thought you sat behind a desk most of the time.”

“Mostly, but there are exceptions.”

“Oh, wow . . . Why Iraq?”

“Classified.” He gave a bitter laugh. “You know the drill . . . I can’t say where I’ll be or what I’ll be doing. I won’t be near a phone or computer for most of the time. Morgan, I don’t want to leave you. It’s dangerous, and I know you’re afraid.”

She swallowed. Brandon had already done so much by taking her in, despite Daddy Dearest’s ire, protecting her from the scum who stalked her. She was afraid, but she couldn’t let Brandon feel guilty for doing his job.

“I’ll be fine.” She’d think of something—she had to. “I’m busy with work. It’ll be fine.”

“If anything happens, I think you should call Dad.”

Morgan gaped at him, holding in a sarcastic scoff. “He may be your dad. He’s my biological father—the one who’s been denying I exist for the last twenty-five years.”

Brandon sighed. “Morgan, you know how it is with politics, especially in the South. If people knew he’d had a fling with a barely legal volunteer while he had a wife and three little boys at home . . .”

“I know, it would ruin the senator from the great state of Texas.”

“They’re talking about a bid for the White House in 2012.” Sympathy and regret tangled on his attractive face.

“Exactly why I can’t call him. Not that he’d take my call, anyway.”

“He would if you were in danger. Dad can protect you.”

Morgan had her doubts but said nothing. “Too bad we can’t just tell him I’m your fiancée. It’s working with everyone else.”

“Hmm. If our actual relationship ever came to light, we’d have to admit to incest or lying. Not fun choices.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I don’t think my sick stalker knows I’ve left L.A., so he has no idea where to find me.”

Nodding, Brandon started to sift through the day’s mail. When he came to a big manila envelope, he frowned. “Does anyone know you’re here in Houston?”

Other than Master J, whom she’d met online all of fifteen minutes ago, Reggie, and a few close friends back home? “No.”

Anxiety thundered across Brandon’s face. “Someone here knows you. This was in the mailbox. No name, no postage. It was hand-delivered.”

He held out the package to her, and Morgan took it with dread boiling in her stomach. She knew that handwriting.

Dear God, how had he found her here? And so quickly?

No!

Hands shaking, breath short, she opened the envelope and extracted the contents. As she did, red rose petals with moist centers and dead edges fluttered downward, skittering across the blond hardwood floor. They looked faintly like fat drops of blood splattered all around her.

Morgan gasped. He knew she was here. How had he found her?

Then her gaze fell to the photos. Pictures of her, one arriving at LAX the day she’d fled to Houston. The next of her in Brandon’s backyard wearing thin sweatpants and a tank top, with nipples teased hard by a cool morning breeze. The last, a photo of her in her sage silk-and-lace shift with matching robe, kissing Brandon’s cheek as they stood in the driveway before he left for work. Just this morning.

Fear biting at her belly, Morgan didn’t protest when Brandon grabbed the photos from her numb fingers. He flipped through them with a snarled curse.

“These are from your stalker, aren’t they? He’s been here. Son of a bitch!” He raked a hand through his brown hair, ruffling the banker’s cut. “I’m calling the police.”

God, she wished it were that simple. “They can’t do anything. The police in L.A. told me he was going to have to do something illegal before they could spend any energy finding him. Taking pictures isn’t against the law.”

“He’s been on my property.” Brandon held up the photo of her in the backyard of his rambling Houston home, his big fingers wrinkling the photo. “My backyard is private. The only way he could take this picture is by trespassing. There’s a law broken.”

He grabbed the nearest cordless phone and dialed 911. Morgan just shook her head.

While Brandon was right, she doubted the Houston police were going to be any more motivated to do something than the cops in L.A. Whoever this was hadn’t stolen anything, vandalized anything. He hadn’t hurt anyone—yet. Morgan could feel his anger building in the frequency of his contact, the fact that he’d followed her to Texas. And the police wouldn’t care what her gut told her.

Brandon hung up the phone. “They’ll be here soon.”

Morgan just shrugged . . . and tried to calm the panic bubbling inside her.

With nothing to do but wait, she started to shove the pictures back in the envelope. When she encountered an obstruction, she realized something else lay inside. She stuck her hand between the layers of paper, perplexed. Usually the disturbed bastard only sent pictures—disconcerting, disturbingly private pictures, but nothing more.

Not today.

Out of the benign brownish envelope, she yanked a scrap of paper with a scrawl of ugly black writing.

 

You belong to me. Only to me.

 

Morgan swallowed a huge lump of fear. Now he was communicating with her. To her. Conveying his possessiveness, his fury that she might have another man in her life. This lunatic didn’t know that Brandon was her half brother. He’d bought the cover story Brandon had concocted, as much to explain her presence at his house to others, as to warn off her overzealous psycho.

While the thought of being alone scared Morgan, part of her was glad Brandon had to leave tomorrow. If something happened to him, it wouldn’t be because her stalker had decided to get the “competition” out of the way. In the three weeks Brandon would be gone, she’d figure something out, find somewhere else to go, so that when he returned, she didn’t endanger the only one of Senator Ross’s sons to give a rip about her.

Maybe, like Reggie suggested before she left L.A., she needed a bodyguard . . .

“You really have no idea who this creep is?” Brandon growled, staring over her shoulder at the note.

“None.” She shook her head. “I wish I did. I have no disgruntled coworkers that I’m aware of. My ex-fiancé left me, not the other way around.”

“Someone who’s watched your show? A fan who doesn’t know where to draw the line?”

Morgan shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve received odd fan mail before, but nothing this threatening or privacy-invading.”

“I’m going to find someone to get to the bottom of this, kiddo. I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he vowed.

At times like this, Morgan wondered how she and Brandon were descended from the same loins as Senator Ross’s other sons. They were nothing like the man and his other greedy, power-hungry offspring.

“Damn it,” he cursed suddenly into the silence. “I wish like hell I didn’t have to go tomorrow. The car is picking me up at o-five hundred, and the timing couldn’t be worse. Shit! Uncle Sam can be a demanding mistress.”

Morgan didn’t know exactly what Brandon did; he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. From things he’d said in the three years since he’d found the skeleton in their father’s closet and tracked her down, she’d guessed he was in Intelligence. She had no idea who for.

“If you hate the job so much, and you want to run for office as badly as I know you do, why don’t you just do it?”

For the first time she could remember, Brandon wouldn’t meet her gaze. He turned away, fists clenching.

He unclenched them with obvious effort, then said, “I can’t.”

THE following day, Morgan dropped down into a wrought-iron chair at a little sidewalk café in a quaint cluster of unique shops. The February afternoon hung thick, lazy, and surprisingly sultry all around. Fighting off exhaustion after a nearly sleepless night, she glanced at her watch. Three o’clock. She’d made good time on her drive from Houston. Master J should be here very soon.

Her stomach tightened at the thought.

That wasn’t the only reason, though. She also felt eyes on her, watching, assessing, probing. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She looked around, scanned the crowd. Nothing.

Morgan took a deep breath, trying to quell her uneasiness. It wasn’t hard to imagine that if a psycho would follow her from Los Angeles to Houston, he’d go the extra mile to trail her to Lafayette. She was probably safe sitting here in the middle of a sunny public square, but if he recognized her, he’d see her with Master J and make assumptions that would make him even angrier than the appearance that she was marrying Brandon. Then when night fell, and she was alone in Brandon’s house . . .

No, she couldn’t think that now. She would have to keep this all business, so that if her stalker identified her and watched this meeting, he wouldn’t assume there was anything sexual between her and Master J.

She adjusted the scarf and hat to make sure they completely covered her hair and pushed the sunglasses up on her face. Maybe she was being paranoid. No one should be able to recognize her like this. Maybe after this interview, she would slip away to that cozy European-looking bed and breakfast she’d seen on her way into town and catch up on sleep so she could figure out how to shake this stalker.

A waiter came by with a wide smile, white teeth stark against his ebony skin. Morgan did her best to smile back as she ordered iced tea.

Once he’d gone, she tugged the boxy, lightweight coat she’d dragged out of Brandon’s closet down over her hips and flipped up the collar. The waiter arrived with her tea. She checked her watch again. Five after three. She’d give Master J another few minutes. Sitting here in the open, vulnerable to the sick man who’d been following her . . . suddenly it struck her as very unwise.

“You must be Morgan.”

The deep whisper came from behind her, delivered right in her ear. His warm breath cascaded down the side of her neck, and she gave an involuntary shiver.

She started, turned, stunned anyone had been able to sneak up on her, as jumpy as she was. But he’d been utterly silent.

And he was breathtakingly gorgeous.

Thick, dark hair teased his broad forehead. An angular jaw and cleft chin dusted with a five o’clock shadow shouted his masculinity with all the subtlety of a sonic boom. His wide mouth curled up with an expression that looked half smile, half challenge. But, oh, his eyes. They captured her. Accented by a sweep of black brows, those knowing eyes of his watched her, as if he could see deep inside her. As if he knew all her secrets.

Allowing her gaze to wander south didn’t help tame her pulse, either. Master J stood about six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a body of well-honed muscle evident under a tight black T-shirt that made her think of a mountain with its solid, quiet permanence. No one could move a mountain. No one was going to move this man either, unless he wanted to be moved.

Just staring at him jolted her with attraction and a healthy dose of lust.

Thank goodness their time alone would be limited to this one meeting in public. Otherwise, Morgan didn’t think she could be responsible for her behavior.

She swallowed, trying to find her voice. “Yes, I’m Morgan.”

When she stuck out her hand, he didn’t just shake it. Too simple. Tangling his gaze with hers, he bent and brought her hand to his mouth, placing a kiss on her fingers.

Oh, dear God . . . Fire raced up her arm, turning her heartbeat into a staccato chug. He lingered, a hot breath caressing the back of her hand, his fingertips teasing the sensitive center of her palm. Tingles burst across her skin, up her arm.

His effect on her didn’t end there. Instead, the impact of his presence, his touch, dove deep inside her, where an ache began to pulse gently between her legs. As if her clit needed to announce the fact that her libido wanted to get naked with this man.

Business, business! The demand chased itself in her head.

With a discreet tug, Morgan pulled her hand free. Master J smiled as he sat beside her—rather than across—and scooted his chair a few inches closer. She tried to ignore her awareness of his thigh brushing hers, the tingling under her skin.

“Thank you for meeting me here, Mr . . . what would you like me to call you, since I don’t know your name?”

That grin seemed to taunt her with her own uncertainty and his wicked knowledge of their forthcoming sexual discussion. “For now, just call me sir.”

“Okay. Yes, sir.”

The moment the words were out of her mouth, Morgan realized how sexual they sounded. How sexual he’d intended they sound. Not just deferential, though they were that, too. But around Master J, she just couldn’t seem to muster enough air to power her voice beyond a husky murmur.

What would it be like to call him sir in private?

Despite the dark sunglasses shielding her, his dark eyes seemed to dance with the knowledge of her every thought, every sinful feeling, as he held her gaze, as if he could read the desire all over her face.

Morgan used the untouched tea in front of her as an excuse to look away and scoured her brain for a safe, neutral topic.

Hard to do that when she’d invited him here to talk about sex.

“So, according to the bio I received about you, you’re in the personal security business. A bodyguard?”

“Exactly.” He shrugged those deliciously massive shoulders. “I guard a lot of politicians and their families, diplomats, an occasional athlete.”

“You meet a lot of interesting people, I’m sure. Do you work with celebrities?” she asked.

A hint of humor curved his wide mouth to something nearing a smile. “Too flaky. Politicians are liars, but at least you know what to expect. You Hollywood types are either paranoid, self-absorbed, or as psycho as the people stalking you. No thanks.”

Morgan couldn’t decide if she was annoyed or amused. “I’m none of the above.”

“Give it time.” He winked.

Incorrigible described him perfectly. A hint of arrogance laced with a healthy dose of sex appeal and teasing humor. The mixture went down real smooth, thanks to his flirtation skills and a hint of Southern charm. No doubt, he was lethal to a woman’s common sense. Morgan swallowed.

The waiter came by, and Master J ordered a cup of thick Louisiana chicory coffee. She shuddered when the waiter brought it to their table moments later.

“Tell me more about your show.” His words should have been an invitation, but Morgan heard the subtle command in them. Not harsh, not driving. But his voice held a note of steel—one that made her stomach tighten . . . and her womb clench.

“Turn Me On combines interviews and facts to explore various facets of sexual life for both established couples and the newly dating, from the vanilla to the way out there. Last season, I did a show one week about sex etiquette on a first date, another about ‘friends with benefits,’ then followed it up with couples who had tattoo fantasies. This will be my second season, and I was thrilled to be renewed. Since the network provides cable programming geared toward women and couples, I think it’s a perfect fit.”

“Hmm. Tell me about this season’s shows.”

Again, another subtle command. “Well, we’re still at the ideas stage, but we’re definitely pursuing shows about boudoir photography, couples massage, erotic finger painting and—”

“And Dominance and submission.”

Morgan swallowed. She’d been caught up in her enthusiasm for the show and almost forgotten they were going to discuss that topic. The topic that fueled her shameful late-night fantasies.

“Yes.”

He quirked a dark brow at her expectantly, somehow managing to look sharp, displeased, and nonthreatening all at once.

Puzzled, Morgan stared. What did he want?

“Yes, sir,” she vent