Page 23 of Dare to Love Again

“All work and no play make Jack and Keiran dull boys.”

His response was a scowl, not finding Dupree funny at all.

“Don’t refuse until you see her. She’s lovely, and sweetly submissive, though rusty after this long dry spell.”

“How long?”

“Five years.”

“Damn, that’s an eternity for a submissive to be on her own. The poor lass is stuck.”

“Precisely what I said. You’ll take her on, then?” Seeing his hesitation, the devious matchmaking master dom pushed harder. “Who better than you, Saint Keiran, to help her find herself again?”

It was actually worse than that. Dubbed “Patient as a Saint Keiran” by the club submissives when one particularly annoying smart-ass masochist—or SAM, for short—tried testing him during a scene.

He had a penchant for the single tail, but a whip in the hand of a short-tempered dom was a dangerous combination. Though her sharp tongue had tested his resolve, he’d hang up his whip for good before administering more pain than he was comfortable giving. Instead, he dragged out the scene, making her writhe with stinging licks of fire all over her body, withholding the cutting marks and welts she seemed to crave, keeping her on the edge of orgasm for over an hour. She was begging his pardon along with his permission to come, by the time he finally relented. During aftercare, she’d been dewy-eyed and appropriately submissive, but that SAM hadn’t played her games with him since.

“I’m on the verge of canceling her membership, which I don’t want to do.”

“Why would you?”

“It seems the youngsters don’t mind being gawked at as long as they get to gawk in return.”

“You had complaints about her watching? What the fuck?” He shook his head. “LA. They sure grow ’em odd out here.”

“Complaint—as in one.”

“What?”

“I may have given her the impression there were more.”

“May have?”

Eric shrugged. “I do what I must. Especially when I see a submissive struggling. She needs a firm, highly skilled, not easily flustered dom—not a hothead. You’re one of the few single masters I’d trust with her. I’m asking you to take her on as a favor to me.” He picked up the file and extended it to him again.

This time, he paid more attention, reading the label aloud. “Esme Spade. An unusual name. Is it short for something?”

“Esmerelda, according to her file, but mainly we discussed why she’s a spectator in life rather than a participant. She’s too young for that; it’s a waste. And five years is too long to grieve, no matter the tragedy. She needs to dive in again full tilt.”

“After this much time, she likely needs professional grief counseling, as well as a dom.”

“I was thinking along those same lines. I’ve enlisted Valerie’s professional skills, so you’ll have her expert help, though indirectly. Don’t expect her to share. You could strap her to the St. Catherine’s wheel and take your whip to her and she still wouldn’t talk. You’d be a dead man by my hands for trying, though.”

Keiran chuckled softly. Eric was as protective as he was enamored with his petite subbie wife. “No worries in that corner, my man. And I haven’t said yes. I’ll give it some thought, but no promises.”

“I sense she’s ready to move forward, but isn’t sure how. When you see the way she lights up, especially while watching a scene between a committed pair, you’ll understand what I mean. And when you see her auburn hair, creamy white skin, Irish green eyes, and curves, you’ll think you’ve been transported back to Belfast.”

“Spoken like a Sassenach racist,” he muttered. “We’re not all stereotypical Mickey Rooney’s you know.”

When the master dom’s eyes rose to his dark-brown hair, which Keiran knew shone red under the lights broadcasting his heritage, he muttered, “Cheeky Viking bastard.”

With Nordic eyes and patrician features, some of Eric’s antecedents undoubtedly hailed from the Northern Isles, so the label wasn’t off base. He laughed, unfazed. “I’ll set up a session.”

“I have not agreed, man.”

“You will.”

“We’ll see, but no matter how it pans out, you owe me.”

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