To Sir Read Free

boots squeaking against the cement floor. “Yeah.” He sat hard on a bar stool, and Dusty put a half-empty bottle of their private stash on the bar in front of him. Chase grabbed a glass and poured three fingers of Scotch. They didn’t have a liquor license, and simply having the booze in the club was a risk, but Dusty kept it under lock and key, and they were the only two who knew it existed.
    Chase took a healthy swig, and Dusty clapped him on the bare shoulder. “Sorry, man.”
    Chase could hear the true concern in his friend’s voice. Many a night had he suffered through a lecture from Dusty on how he needed to find the right fit, to get over Suzanna. He’d been trying, really.
    “This sucks,” he said, taking another gulp of the dark liquid. It burned its way down his throat, and he tried to clear his head. Suzanna had left him over five years ago, and he still hadn’t managed to find a permanent sub. A few women had been good fits for a couple of months, but no one long-term. He’d started to give up hope, taking any new sub in the area up to the “light” section of his club, the one members had dubbed heaven quite some time ago.
    Dusty shook his head, his long straight hair swishing around his face. Chase had heard many a Dom gush about Dusty’s tuggable hair. “I know, dude, but don’t worry about it. You’ll find her.”
    The confidence in Dusty’s eyes gave Chase a glimmer of hope. “You sound so sure.”
    Dusty came around the bar to sit on the stool next to him. “I am sure. But enough of this crap.” He yanked the glass away from Chase. Only his old friend would risk the wrath of the Master, as they called him around here. “We need to talk shop, so nut up and put your girlie problems aside for a while.” Dusty was almost as good a business partner as he was a friend.
    Chase groaned, running a hand through his short hair. He didn’t want to deal with the business. The fucking bureaucracy was killing him. That senator had Chase in his sights, along with the entire BDSM community. The man clearly believed it was 1950 and sexual deviance was to be run out of town by any means necessary. According to the latest letter, Chase was the root of all the evils in town, and the success of the club, along with its growing membership, was Chase’s fault and the result of his brainwashing the good people of Spartan, Nevada.
    “What now?”
    Dusty sighed, and Chase knew it couldn’t be good news. “They’re trying to file an injunction against the club to cease and desist any and all activities on the grounds of ‘sexual and physical abuse’ on the premises.” The line was delivered without emotion, but it was like a blow to the gut for Chase. How could his friend be so fucking calm with this shit?
    Chase was ready to explode. No wonder Dusty had moved the Scotch glass well out of his reach. This club was his life. If they took it, he didn’t know what he would do with himself. His hands balled into fists, and his nails bit into his skin. The pain gave him something to focus his rage on. He wanted to strangle that damned senator.
    * * * *
    The dream was back. Liz clenched her thighs together, heat surging through her body. With her eyes closed in ecstasy, she waited, holding her breath for what he would do next. She knew she was dreaming of her fantasy man again, and she didn’t care. She was tired of fighting the wickedness inside her. She wanted to give herself over to the darkness. Here in her mind, where it was safe, where she could be sheltered and loved by the man who tormented her, she could let down her guard and allow the sinful desire to consume her.
    Please , she begged herself, willing her thoughts to settle. She would let herself go. She had to. Or she risked losing her mind.
    He ran a feather down the length of her body, from the tips of her fingers to the bottoms of her bound feet. Soft leather bindings stretched each limb tight as she stood with her back to the wall. He circled