You’re never safe.
Angie put her arm around Sam. “Come on. Let’s get you inside. You’re trembling.”
Sam let Angie lead her back into the bar, and Billy brought her ice and a new staff T-shirt. They were babying her, but Sam didn’t have it in her to protest at this point. She just wanted to give her statement to the police and get the hell out of there so she could put herself back together.
The cops arrived a short time after that and took all of their statements. Sam doubted they would be able to find the guys by description alone, but she hoped the van may give them a good lead. Either way, she didn’t think the men would come back to the bar. They were dumb but not brain-dead. The staff would recognize them. Everyone had seen at least one of them during the altercation with Gibson. But she’d ask Marvin, the bar owner, to pay for extra security for the next couple of weeks anyway.
By the time she got in her car to go home, she felt numb. Hollow. But as she drove toward her place, that numbness gave way to anger. Anger at the men who’d attacked her. And anger at herself for panicking so completely. She was not that person. She was the girl in her Krav Maga class who had taken down an instructor twice her size. She was the domme at the Ranch who had men willing to kneel at her feet. She was not going to be the girl to go home to her empty apartment and cower behind the locked doors and jump at every sound. That wasn’t who she was anymore. She couldn’t go back to that.
So when she got to her apartment, she grabbed the suitcase she’d packed for her vacation and added another black bag that was meant for only one place.
Tonight she didn’t need to be alone. Tonight she needed to be in charge.
She tossed the bags in her trunk and got on the road. The Ranch was only an hour away. She couldn’t get there fast enough.
Gibson leaned back in his chair, taking in the sights of the common room at the Ranch, unable to focus on any one thing. This was the spot where people came to catch up and maybe find a partner for the night. No nudity was allowed in here, but some people pushed the edges of that with strategically placed bits of leather or vinyl. Others didn’t go for the fetish wear and were dressed like he was—casual, nothing different from what would work in a vanilla club.
Gib usually found the scenery interesting, the interplay between people entertaining. But he couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm tonight. He had no idea why he’d even bothered to come out here after his run-in with Sam earlier tonight. He’d made a reservation for one of the cabins out here a week ago, hoping to distract himself from the raven-haired domme. But after seeing her tonight, it made everyone here look about as exotic as Wonder Bread. And that was saying something considering the table next to him was having a negotiation conversation about fisting. And the table in front of him had two dominants in full drag having a drink before they performed in one of the entertainment rooms. When this was boring, Gibson knew he was in trouble.
He was just about to give up and leave when someone new stepped into the room, catching Gibson’s attention with his unmistakable presence. Grant Waters, the owner of the place, made his way around the room, greeting people and shaking hands. The big cowboy didn’t seem to forget a name or a face, and everyone seemed happy to be acknowledged by the guy. But there was no mistaking his intimidating effect on those around him. The formerly raucous conversations turned to murmurs, and everyone seemed to sit up a little straighter.
Effortless dominance. Like something primal in everyone’s DNA recognized the alpha in the pack.
Gibson envied it. He had no trouble commanding respect in a boardroom. At work he was the leader in his department and enjoyed being at the helm. But here, he often found the role exhausting. He could enjoy it. He could get turned on. But lately he’d been finding it more work than it was worth. He wasn’t stupid. He knew he wasn’t a dyed-in-the-wool dominant. Or maybe not even a dominant at all. He’d been around his brother long enough to know what one looked like, and he knew what lurked in his own fantasies. But even accepting that, Gibson couldn’t relinquish the control. The thought of—well, he couldn’t even think about it.
Which is why he’d had to walk away from Sam. She wanted more from him than he was capable of giving. Deserved more. He could bottom for a night or two, had done it. He’d discovered his masochistic streak years ago and had paid for private sessions with a domme when the need for that kind of release would build up too much. But those were transactions. A bloodletting of sorts. He still held the control—informing the domme what he was there for. And he never surrendered or really let go. He got his enjoyment from taking the pain. That was all.
Sam wouldn’t be satisfied with that. She was a new domme, but he’d discovered how easily she could affect him when they’d trained together. She would want more than his physical submission, she’d want to get in his head, would want his full commitment to the role. No way. He’d learned to deal with the fucked-up wiring his childhood had left him with, but he wasn’t going to base a relationship on it. Couldn’t.
Maybe if those cravings came from a pure place, he’d be okay with it. He didn’t look at the other submissives at the Ranch as if they were screwed up. People were kinky just like people were gay or bi or asexual. It was a part of who they were. He wished his desires were like that—just something that was. But he couldn’t help but see the imprint of his father on all this. His dad had taught him with violent fists and degrading words that you could never show weakness. Victory was in taking it and never flinching, in not giving the other person the satisfaction of getting to you. You could not break.
And Gibson never had. He’d had sessions with dommes where he’d been blind with the pain but he never let go, never orgasmed in session, never went to that place he knew others sought, that oblivion of subspace. He couldn’t surrender. The gratification was in surviving it.
But Sam wouldn’t want that. She’d want his full surrender.
It was something he didn’t have to give. Just thinking about letting go like that put a pit in his stomach.
Grant stopped by his table and clapped him on the shoulder, breaking Gibson from his thoughts. “Hey, stranger, haven’t seen you around in a while.”
Gibson glanced up, trying to clear the scowl he felt himself wearing. “Hey, man. Yeah, work’s been crazy. Kade opened up a new Mediterranean concept and the launch has sucked up all of my time. How’ve you been?”
Grant smirked. “On the verge of a nervous breakdown. Charli’s pregnant and for some reason, she thinks she can continue on with her life as normal and has dismissed my plan to keep her locked in our bedroom and off her feet for the next six months.”
Gibson laughed, knowing the overprotective Grant was probably only half joking about this plan. But Gibson also knew Charli, and there was no way that woman would put up with being Rapunzeled. “I can’t imagine why she’d have a problem with that. But congratulations, that’s fantastic news.”
“Thanks.” He took the seat next to Gibson. “So are you here for a paid session or something else? I’m only asking because Elise, the woman in white over in the corner, is a new member, and I’d rather pair her with someone who’s a veteran.”
Gibson peered over in the direction Grant had indicated and found a pretty redhead scanning the room, her nerves evident in the stiff set of her spine and tight hold on her glass. Everything about her said newbie. Everything also said submissive. Gibson should’ve jumped at the opportunity. She was attractive, and he enjoyed training new members. But trying to drum up excitement tonight was like rubbing two wet sticks together and expecting a fire. “I’m not sure what I’m here for, to be honest.”
Besides his brother and his friend Pike, Grant was the only other person who knew about Gibson’s occasional private sessions with the paid dommes.
Grant gave