Hard to Serve: A Hard Ink Novella

  “Do you mind people watching you, Mia?” he asked, stroking his erection, his fist knocking against her ass.

  “No, Sir,” she said, her voice strained with arousal. Goosebumps erupted on her neck and shoulders. Interesting.

  “Do you like people watching you?” he asked, guessing at the answer from the way her hands clenched against the wall.

  She released a shaky breath. “Yes, Sir, I do.”

  Damn. Damn. He’d always been very visual, and watching and being watched had always gotten him hot. And she liked it, too. This woman was flipping all his switches. One by fucking one. “What a dirty girl you are. You want people to see my cock sliding into your pussy? You want them to hear you screaming and coming?” He stepped closer and guided his cock between her legs.

  “God, yes. Sir.”

  Damn, he loved the honesty in her voice, her reactions, her body. “Then let the whole fucking club watch, because I can’t wait to bury myself in you.” He penetrated her wet heat, inch by scalding inch, until he was balls deep. Jesus Christ.

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” she babbled, pushing back on him.

  He gripped her hands hard. “Be still, goddamnit.” Because he was strung really fucking tight right now, and it had been months, and she was pushing him. Hard.

  Sonofabitch. This one was trouble.

  Of the best and worst kind.

  Tilting his hips, he slowly withdrew, and then he hammered home. Slowly withdrew, then hammered home. Her anticipation of the deep thrusts vibrated around them like a physical thing, and her screams of pleasure were going to live in his dreams.

  “Feel how you take me,” Kyler gritted out, his mouth still against her ear, his hands and body still pinning her to the wall. Withdraw and thrust. Withdraw and thrust. “Take me, Mia.”

  “Yes, Sir. Yes, yes.”

  Words demanded to be voiced, words Kyler really shouldn’t say. But they came out anyway. “Whose pussy is this, Mia?” Hard thrust.

  “Yours, Sir,” she said. No hesitation. It fucking slayed him.

  “Louder. Let them hear you.”

  “Yours, Sir,” she shouted.

  Satisfaction roared through him like a drug he’d mainlined. He wrapped his arm around her throat in a classic chokehold. “And whose throat is this?”

  “Yours, Sir. Oh, God,” she cried out.

  “That’s. Fucking. Right.” Without any warning, he wrapped his other arm around her belly and lifted her, her pussy still impaled on his cock. Carrying her against him, he took about ten steps backward to plant his ass on the couch again. He sat at the edge so he could lean back with her on top of him, and so he could use his thighs to hammer his cock into that sweet cunt.

  Arm still tight around her neck, Kyler placed open-mouthed kisses against her ear, her cheek, her temple. He absolutely loved her weight on top of him, her thighs falling open on the outside of his.

  “I want your hands on me. Anywhere you want,” he growled. “Now.”

  Moaning, Mia’s fingernails on one hand dug into his forearm where it gripped her throat. Her other arm fell back to wrap around his head, her hand in his hair, gripping and pulling. Fuck.

  He choked her tighter, and her pussy clamped down on his cock. He wanted her to come again, to come all over him, to absolutely soak his cock and balls with the pleasure he gave her.

  He grasped the vibrator and reached around to her clit. She screamed when the vibrations hit her, the orgasm making her back bow against him, her tits pushing out and demanding attention. With his free hand, he grasped a nipple, squeezed, twisted. And the orgasm just kept going.

  Finally, she slumped on top of him.

  “We’re. Not. Done.” He pushed her off of him. “On your stomach.” He barely let her lay down on the couch before he was on her, his weight covering her, his cock right back inside her, his hand clamped around her throat and forcing her head back.

  “Oh, Master Kyler,” she rasped, the sound tortured because of the way he was holding her. “Harder, please.”

  “Harder where?” he asked, moving inside her.

  “Everywhere, Sir,” she said. “Please.”

  “Yeah, I know what you need.” Handling her throat as hard as he was willing, he cut off her breathing almost all the way, his hips snapping against her ass as he nailed her. And she took it. She took all of him. His weight. His hold. His cock.

  He felt the vibrations of her strangled scream before he heard it. And then she was coming. Coming hard. And so was he. The orgasm rushed down his spine and exploded outward again, just absolutely shattering him in the best possible way. He moved through it until he couldn’t, until he just had to give in to the bone-bending pleasure. He had only enough awareness to remove his hand from her throat, and then his muscles relaxed until she was bearing all of him. Every last piece of him.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he finally gritted out, his chest heaving. “Stay right there, baby.” With effort, he eased off of her and stood. He disposed of the condom and the used vibrator in their respective receptacles behind the couch, then pulled up his jeans, leaving them undone. And then he retrieved a blanket from the shelf under the table. Returning to Mia, he crouched beside her. “Sit up for me?”

  Her eyes were glassy, expression slack. She complied, but her movements were sluggish, imprecise.

  Kyler pulled the blanket around her shoulders, checking her throat for marks as he did. Some redness, but no bruising. He sat next to her, then shifted her into his lap. She was limp on top of him, and he took a moment to tuck the blanket closed over her skin wherever he could. “Talk to me, Mia.”

  She swallowed once, twice. “I…um…”

  He stroked her face. “Are you okay?”

  A shudder wracked through her. “Yes, Sir,” she whispered.

  “Look at me, please,” he said, cupping her cheek in his hand. And he thought he’d been shattered. Damn, she’d dropped hard, hadn’t she? Submissives often achieved a psychological state during an intense scene, particularly one involving pain, that made them feel floaty or euphoric or detached. But afterward, they could crash down from that high. Hard. Kyler imagined the choking did that for her, in spades. “I’m going to get you some food and drink, Mia.”

  She nodded.

  Kyler pushed a button built into the corner of the table. Within a minute, a tall, thin male submissive named Jon, serving as a waiter, appeared next to the couch. “How may I be of service, Sir?”

  “Please bring us two bottles of water, a glass of orange juice, and a plate of the cookies,” he said, stroking Mia’s hair.

  “Right away, Sir.” The man disappeared.

  “Just rest for a minute,” Kyler said, cradling her against him. “I’ve got you.” The fact that she’d achieved such a high with him made him feel ten feet tall—and made him pretty fucking protective toward her, too.

  The waiter returned within a few minutes. “Here you are, Sir,” he said, placing their order on the table.

  “Thank you, Jon.” The man departed with a nod. Kyler grabbed the waters and handed her one. “Drink this, Mia.”

  Sluggishly, she tilted the bottle to her lips. Swallowed. Then drank more greedily.

  When he was satisfied that she was perking up, he took a long pull from his own bottle. “Better?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sir.” She wiped at her lips with the back of her hand. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Kyler said, reaching for the juice and cookies. “Have some of this, too.” He placed the plate on her lap and handed her the glass.

  “Oh, my God. Are these chocolate chip?” Her smile warmed and reassured him.

  Kyler chuckled. “Is there any other kind of cookie? I mean, really.”

  Mia laughed and shook her head. “I agree completely, Sir.”

  “Good. That’s always the best course of action.”

  She barked out a throaty laugh around a bite. “Oh, is that so?”

  The sparkle was back in her dark eyes again, easi
ng the tension in his shoulders. He waggled his eyebrows as he enjoyed his own bite. “Mmhmm.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You better,” he said, winking. Though his brain was already questioning whether she’d need to keep anything in mind where he was concerned. Because those red flags? They were waving at him like fucking crazy.

  He liked Mia, as a submissive and as a person. And he barely knew her.

  Don’t get attached.

  Right.

  And there was one way to ensure that.

  So even as Kyler gave her the aftercare she needed—and that he needed to give her—he already knew the truth. This was the only time he was playing with Mia. It couldn’t happen again.

  * * * *

  At work on Friday, Kyler was feeling antsy, restless, bored out of his fucking mind. The pile of paperwork covering his desk beckoned his attention, but it was the absolute last thing he wanted to be doing.

  He wanted to be out on the streets, investigating a case, dominating Mia.

  Wait.

  What. The. Fuck.

  Get your fucking head screwed on right, Vance.

  Problem was, his head was screwed all right. Not even forty-eight hours had passed since he’d seen Mia into a cab outside Club Diablo, the public part of their business, and Kyler couldn’t stop thinking about her. About how fulfilling playing with her had been. About how many times she’d made him laugh as they’d sat talking for the better part of an hour after their scene ended. About how hard it was to see her go—especially knowing he wouldn’t be seeing her again. At least, not as her Dom.

  And that was the other part of the reason he couldn’t get her out of his head. Assuming he did see her again at Blasphemy, she was going to be playing with someone else. And that…that really fucking sucked. And pissed him off. And had made him a miserable sonofabitch to be around.

  As if being assigned to a desk buried in paperwork wasn’t making him miserable enough. And his shooting practice hadn’t gone as well as he wanted earlier today, either.

  Damn it all to hell.

  He needed a distraction of the non-Blasphemy kind. Because if Mia was there tonight, the last thing he needed was to see her—or see her with anyone else.

  Kyler debated, and then an idea came to mind. “Luck be on my side,” he said as he found Jeremy Rixey’s number in his contacts and dialed. The guy was a fantastic tattoo artist and owned the Hard Ink Tattoo shop across town. It had been closed for most of the summer following an attack that left a big part of the building damaged, but they’d reopened full time just last week.

  “Jeremy Rixey here,” he answered.

  “Jer, it’s Kyler Vance. How are you?”

  “Yo, Detective. I have all my hair again so everything’s good.”

  Kyler laughed and respected the hell out of the guy for being able to joke about it. In the same shooting incident that had injured Kyler, Jeremy had been pistol-whipped, and the brain injury he’d suffered had necessitated surgery, so his head had been shaved. Kyler had seen Jer at his older brother’s wedding a few weeks before, but his dark brown hair had still been pretty short. The guy had been through a lot. “Hair is good.”

  “Hair is damn good. I think half my personality was in my hair,” he said, voice full of humor. “But I’m sure you didn’t call to talk about my stunning good looks.”

  “Well, if there’s any chance you have an opening tonight, I’ll talk about your good looks as much as you like,” Kyler said, forcing nonchalance into his tone when he really wanted this to happen.

  “Oh, yeah? Uh, I should be done with my last client around 8:30. If that’s not too late, I could work on you then,” Jeremy said.

  “Don’t you close at nine?”

  “Yeah, but after everything, you’re family. You in?”

  Kyler nodded, really appreciating the sentiment. The Rixeys were good people. “I’ll be there.”

  “Great. I’ll let everyone know you’re coming,” Jer said. Everyone meaning his brother, Nick, and the whole group of people Kyler had teamed up with to take down some of the worst scum operating in Baltimore—hell, in the world, given the worldwide scope of their criminal operations.

  “Sounds good,” Kyler said. He’d no more than hung up, for the first time all day feeling a little bit of contentment, when potentially bad news arrived at his desk.

  “Vance,” Captain Burkett said, dropping into the chair beside him. “Commissioner Breslin would like to see you at five.”

  “What for?” Kyler asked. “And why do you look like you’ve just been to war and back?” The guy was looking rough—tired eyes, haggard expression, sloped shoulders. This investigation wasn’t just tough on Kyler, was it.

  His captain gulped at a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Because that’s what this place is sometimes. And you know exactly what the commissioner wants to talk about.” The man arched a brow.

  “Fine,” Kyler said, giving a tight nod. It would be his first time meeting Breslin one-on-one. The guy might be a hardass, but Kyler respected that the man was trying to bring some order back to a department that had been spinning out of control, so he had to be a good guy on some level. “You should take some time off, Cap. You kinda look like hell. And this is coming from a guy who knows what hell looks like, so…”

  Burkett shook his head. “I’ll take time off when I retire.”

  Kyler chuffed out a doubtful breath. “And when will that be?”

  “When I die.” Burkett winked and left.

  Time crawled until a little before five, and then Kyler found himself in a posh waiting room outside the commissioner’s office. Kyler had even put on a jacket and tie over his dress shirt. Good first impressions and all that.

  “Detective Vance? Commissioner Breslin will see you now,” Natasha, his receptionist, said. She gestured toward the carved wooden door.

  Heaving a deep breath, Kyler got up and went inside.

  “Have a seat, Detective,” Breslin said from behind his own desk. Standing at the window, the older man was looking out at the grit and gleam of Baltimore.

  “Yes, sir.” Kyler took a seat, and then the commissioner turned and took his own place at his desk.

  The man had graying brown hair, a distinguished face, and dark eyes. His voice was gruff and his bearing was authoritative without being arrogant. “I’ve asked you here today because I’m trying to meet everyone in the department individually. Best way to get to know the place and, more importantly, the people. How long have you been with BPD, Detective?”

  Kyler definitely respected the leadership style this represented. An organization—any organization—was only as strong as its people. “Little over ten years, sir.”

  Breslin flipped open a folder in front of him. “That’s a long commitment.”

  “I love what I do. Worked my way up from rookie cop.” Kyler laced his hands over his gut.

  “And you come from a police family, too,” Breslin observed, his gaze on the paperwork in front of him. No doubt there was also information about the investigation in there.

  “My father, uncle, and grandfather were all BPD.”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting any of them,” Breslin said. Kyler didn’t respond, because the man’s expression said he had something on his mind. Finally, the commissioner nailed him with a dark stare. “Given your long service here as well as that of your family, you’re exactly the kind of officer we want on board. So I’d like you to tell me about the events that led up to your injuries this past May.”

  Kyler gave a tight nod. “I was attending the funeral of a friend’s friend. The deceased was a criminal affiliated with the Church Gang, but I was there out of respect for his sister, who had only recently learned that. Some of the deceased’s associates showed up, and a gunfight broke out.” That was the shortest, sweetest version of the story Kyler could manage, so he shouldn’t have been surprised when it wasn’t enough. After all, you didn’t get to be a police commissioner withou
t having a finely tuned barometer for BS.

  “Uh huh. Now tell me the rest of the story.” The guy tilted his head, his expression calling bullshit on Vance’s whitewashed version.

  Problem was, Kyler was hamstrung in what he could say for a lot of reasons. The longer version was that Nick Rixey and some of his former Army Special Forces teammates were friends of Kyler’s godfather, who’d been killed helping them investigate the conspiracies that’d gotten them ambushed in Afghanistan, ousted from the Army, and attacked by Baltimore’s Church Gang, who was working with a handful of dirty military officials to smuggle and sell Afghani heroin. When Miguel had been killed, Kyler and his father had promised their assistance to Nick’s team. It was what Miguel would’ve wanted. And Nick deserved the help, especially because the investigation he and Miguel had been running proved that the gang had a number of dirty cops in their pockets, too. But Kyler couldn’t say all that. He couldn’t admit that he’d essentially protected the team, hidden their investigation from the authorities, and helped cover up the real cause of the damage that had been done to the Rixeys’ building. Because it would violate the nondisclosure agreements they’d all signed with the CIA, who’d come in at the very end to assist Nick and his team.

  It was a fucking complicated mess.

  So he said what he could. “This is all in my statements, sir. My godfather, Miguel Olivero, who’d been my father’s partner, had called me in for some assistance with his private investigating business. Miguel was working a case that had something to do with the Church Gang and had gotten in over his head, especially when he identified some cops on the gang’s payroll. Problem was, they cut him down before I learned all the details. I was in the middle of trying to figure it all out when the gunfight at the cemetery happened.” This was the story Nick’s CIA contact had helped Kyler devise. And Miguel wouldn’t have minded one bit providing cover for Kyler this way. In fact, Ky could almost imagine Miguel chuckling up in Heaven and patting them all on the back for conceiving of such a good plan.

  The thought set off a pang in Kyler’s chest. He missed the old man like hell, and he knew his father did, too. Miguel had been a constant presence in both of the Vance men’s lives. His loss left a big gaping hole that hadn’t begun to close—and maybe never would.