Saving Sara (Masters of the Castle) Page 18
It was their last day together. And like last days always do, it came to an end.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jackson hated sunrise. He never used to. Frankly, he’d never been awake three mornings in a row at an hour when he could actually see it, but this was his third morning of holding Sara while his fingers played lightly upon her skin. She was slumbering, softly snoring—he’d never tell her that—with her legs tangled in his, her small hands braced against his chest and her head pillowed on an arm that had gone to sleep so long ago that it was so far beyond pins and needles, it was numb.
His arm didn’t matter. The point was, for the third morning in a row, he watched the sun come up and he hated it because there was nothing he could do to stop it. Three hours from now, the buses would come for her. And there was nothing he could do to stop them either.
That sucked.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Leaving was really a very quiet event. Sara waited at the very rear of the line, waiting to put off boarding the bus for as long as she could.
“You’ve got my email,” Jackson said for the umpteenth time.
“Yes.” The slip of paper he’d written it on was folded neatly in her back pocket.
Sara clung to Jackson’s hand, watching as the other clients drank in their last looks of the Castle before climbing onto the bus destined to take them back to town, where a very modern strip-mall had been converted into a receiving depot, complete with a Starbucks coffee shop, a short-term parking lot for those who drove in and shuttles that ran back and forth from the airport for those who flew.
“You’ve got my cell number,” Jackson continued. The luggage was almost completely loaded into the outer compartments. Gradually, those still waiting to embark dwindled down to the last few stragglers and Sara. “I’m serious. If I don’t get a call at least once a week, I am coming after you. Are you flying out?”
“No, we drove.” Unbidden, her gaze went to the bus windows were Robert was sitting, watching them in turn and, no doubt, holding her a seat near the rear of the vehicle.
“With Dickwad?”
“Please don’t call him that.” She said it flatly, not censuring, not really even upset. She wasn’t looking forward to the long ride home. Judging by what she could see of Robert, the ordeal promised to be neither pleasant nor quiet.
“Sorry,” Jackson said without remorse. “You know, if you live close enough to drive in, I could drive you home.”
Sara tried hard not to be tempted by that. She took a deep breath, looking away from both him and the bus. “Jackson…”
“Unless, of course, you’re looking forward to reconciling with your boyfriend.” Now it was Jackson’s turn to look away. He didn’t seem at all happy about that possibility.
“No.” Sara shook her head. “That ship has sailed, I think. For both of us.”
“Good.” He wasn’t remorseful about that, either. “You can do better.”
“Let me guess: you?”
“Excellent suggestion.”
She tried not to laugh and failed. “Jackson…how is this even supposed to work?”
“It starts with us rescuing your bag and me taking you home.”
“It’s a six-hour drive.”
“That’ll give us plenty of time to talk about your new living arrangements.”
“I can’t,” Sara said, but the prospect was too tempting for her to protest very hard.
“Sure you can,” Jackson said as she followed him to the rear of the bus. They were just in time to rescue her bags before it was buried behind the last few suitcases.
“I have a job.”
“Do you like it?”
She was quiet too long. “It’s a job.”
Jackson shrugged, first with his eyebrows, then with his shoulders. “The Castle’s always hiring.”
“I have a life,” Sara protested. “I have friends, neighbors…”
“You can email old friends and make new ones, you’ll always have neighbors in this place, and the funny thing about life is it pretty much follows you wherever you go. Come on, baby, if you really want to put the brakes on this, give me an excuse that means something.” Picking up her bags, Jackson looked at her, waiting patiently for her to say something. Anything. “Can’t think of one, can you?”
Unfortunately, she could. She could think of half a dozen, at least. But all of them sounded hollow and none of them felt real. “We barely know one another.” It was all she could think of to say, but even that wasn’t exactly true. They probably knew more about one another than most people did after months of dating.
Jackson managed to keep his smile, but an ominous sobriety had crept into the back of his dark eyes. “Is this where you try telling me what I feel isn’t real again?”
“No. I am definitely not going to say that.”
“Good. Because I don’t think you’re going to like having to bounce around on the front seat of my truck for six hours with a hot, sore butt.” Jackson tipped his head and held up her luggage. He stretched out one leg, making a point of taking that first step away from the bus as slow and as drawn out as possible. “Tell me to stop, Sara. Give me an excuse. I’m going to count to three and then you’re stuck with me.”
That was a lousy threat. She could already imagine spending the rest of her life “stuck” with Jackson. It didn’t look anywhere near as awful or as impossible as it should.
“One,” he drawled.
She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Admittedly she wasn’t trying very hard.
He waited, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. “Two, three,” he said without pause and turned around. He looked back along the bus windows until he found Robert glaring back out at him. “You, sir,” he pointed and then thumbed his nose, “have a great ride home.”
“Be nice,” Sara said as he came stalking back to throw a possessive arm around her shoulders.
“Hell no.” He drew her in to plant the kind of kiss that could curl an unsuspecting woman’s toes, enflame a rival’s jealousy and sear permanent marks upon the intertwined souls of two lovers until the end of time.
“Oh my God,” Sara moaned when their lips came apart. “This is so crazy. What are we doing?”
“We’re taking it one day at a time, baby.” With his arm around her neck, he led her toward the rear of the Castle, where the employees’ hidden parking lot and his truck were waiting for them. Jackson’s grin grew with every step. “We’re taking it one day at a time.”
The End
Maren Smith
“Hi, I'm Maren. I'm 30, married to a wonderful, dominant man, and have five four–legged children: two dogs and three cats. I love strong, authoritative men–men who are both ready and willing to leave the lady of their choosing red–bottomed and weeping for her own good. Writing has given me the wonderful freedom to explore my spanking side without feeling “weird.”Even better, with the invention of the Internet, I can write what I love and know it will be appreciated by people with the same interests.”
CONNECT WITH MAREN SMITH
Blog: http://badgirlscorner.wordpress.com
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Email: thetarantularanch@yahoo.com
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OTHER BOOKS BY MAREN SMITH
B-Flick
Black Sheep
Daughter of the Strong
The Diva
Enemies
The Great Prank
Jinxie’s Orchids
Katy Run Away
Kindred Spirits
Life After Rachel
The Miner’s Wife
Mistress
Morogh the Demon
Mountain Man
My Lady Robin Hood
The Next Ex
Saga: Constance’s Story
Spanking Tails I thru X
The Suffragettes
Treasure
Varden’s Lady
Masters of the Castle Series:
Holding Hannah (Book One)
Kaylee’s Keeper (Book Two)
Saving Sara (Book Three)
Please enjoy Chapter One of Holding Hannah, by Maren Smith
CHAPTER ONE
“Shit,” Sam said as soon as he was close enough for Marshall to hear him over the cacophony of hammers, saws, coordinated shouting and all the cursing that went along with sixty workers and a fully operational re-construction site. “It’s Goodson again.”
“Yeah, I recognized the car.” Passing the building plans to his foreman, Marshall turned to watch the car park. Sam looked up at the castle—their castle—a fifteenth century monstrosity of cool gray stone, lovingly shipped block by block from its native Scottish soil on three different boats before finally meandering its way, first by train and then by truck, into this long-abandoned Ohio wheat field. The outside was almost complete. Only the outer walls and towers (and a smattering of outbuildings, but they’d get to those when they could) were still under construction. The interior renovations had started, but there was still a lot left to do. The stairs had gone up just last night and over half the marble had yet to be laid, but give it another month…just one more month of sixty hard-working men, most of them future guests and volunteers…and the Castle, Marshall’s life-long ambition and Sam’s fondest daydream (first, at age six because he was just nerdy enough to want to be a knight when he grew up, and then later on in early manhood, when his kink had grown in and all he could think about was wanton maidens being spanked and deflowered in the most deliciously depraved ways) would be ready for play.
That is—if they could somehow convince Inspector Goodson to sign their remaining operating licenses and permits.
Zoning and construction had been embarrassingly easy to get by comparison. Those inspectors were all business, making their tours of the site, checking off all concerns on their clipboards with minimal interest in the end game. Hell, not only had the Fire Marshall passed them, but he and his wife had already quietly signed on as guests during the Castle’s opening weekend.
But not Goodson. Oh no. Not Goodson.
This was his third visit to the partially completed Castle and their first appeal. Apparently, Goodson had a problem with BDSM and now, if Marshall couldn’t convince the county inspector to grant all their licensing and use permits, the Castle would not be opening for business.
Sam took a deep and calming breath, swallowed back the urge just to walk out there and punch the sanctimonious prick. Instead, he let Marshall walk out ahead of him to greet the man who had made it his single-minded goal to destroy not only the two of them, but every one of the six core members who had risked their entire financial futures to make this dream a reality.
Having parked, Goodson was just getting out of his car. Noticing he was being watched, the inspector smiled broadly—a crocodile smile if Sam ever saw one—and raised his hand in greeting.
“Who’s that with him?” Sam asked, suddenly noticing the woman trailing along in Goodson’s shadow.
“I don’t know.” Marshall raised his hand in turn. He even managed to smile, albeit through gritted teeth (something Goodson wouldn’t be able to see from there) and his sharp blue gaze drifted past the inspector to the slender brunette. She was small, barely coming to the top of Goodson’s shoulder. She must be familiar with job sites. Although she wore a dress suit (pants would have been better), at least she had the sense to wear flat shoes. The parking lot hadn’t yet been graded and graveled; heels would have sunk all the way in and could have resulted in a broken ankle within steps.
“Just say the word,” Sam growled into his best friend’s ear. “I can have Casey and that big-ass strap-on of hers down here in ten minutes. Another ten after that, I guarantee we’ll have our permits.”
Marshall almost laughed. “Not if he enjoys it.”
“Ha. Twelve ounces of jalapeno lube says he doesn’t enjoy anything for days.”
Now Marshall did laugh. “And the brunette?”
Sam looked at her, turning her ear to something Goodson was saying and tugging at the sleeve of her business jacket as if she were trying to hide her arm from view. There was a story there, and his Dom’s curiosity perked to know it. He looked her over, as if seeing her for the first time all over again. She was a pretty little thing. He was a great admirer of pretty little things. Too bad she worked for the enemy. He smirked. “We’ll tag-team her.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Ha. But now you’re thinking about it too, aren’t you?” Sam lowered his voice because both Goodson and the woman were close enough now to overhear them. His dark eyes roved her one last time, but then he snorted. “Heaven help us if she’s anything like Goodson. I’d probably need an icepick just to crack those pretty legs open.”
Marshall grunted, a non-committal sound, and Sam, burly arms folded across his chest and one finger stroking idly back and forth across his lip, found himself wondering if it might not be worth the effort.
Please enjoy Chapter One of Kaylee’s Keeper, by Maren Smith:
CHAPTER ONE
“This is fantastic!” Selena stepped off the tour bus grinning, her blue eyes wide and sparkling. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
Disembarking behind her, Kaylee gave her new friend a nudge on the shoulder to keep her moving and then stepped down onto the gravel parking lot beside her. She knew her own expression could not have been any less awed. The Castle looked just like…well, a castle. The medieval stone-block structure towered atop its earthen plateau, surrounded by sparse acres of grassy meadows, which were in turn surrounded by tall, leafy trees. Condemned as a derelict (according to the six-panel photo-packed brochure, which Kaylee had faithfully read the whole way here), it was spared the indignity of the wrecking crew by an anonymous overseas buyer. Dismantled on the moors of its native Scotland, it was moved—first by cargo ship, then train, then truck—until it arrived at its new home in America, where building authorities nickel and dimed and permitted all restoration attempts half unto death before finally—finally!—allowing its noble reconstruction. And now, here it sat, a grand and historical site, slightly out of place in this remote Ohio valley and ultimately considered by the kinky-inclined to be the resort to end all fantasy resorts.
Multinational banners snapped and waved in the breeze along the parapet walls. The massive iron portcullis was raised then the drawbridge lowered; beyond that, the cobble-stone courtyard of a bygone era awaited its most recent busload of vacationers. There were wooden carts, horses neatly stabled amongst round bales of hay and sacks of grain. Leather harnesses, pony whips and riding crops that sent tiny thrilling shudders racing up her spine hung casually about. It was truly awe-inspiring, not to mention a little bit scary, but Kaylee was not immune to the historical romanticism attached to every crenellated tower, high-arching doorway and ghastly grinning gargoyle.
“We are going to have such a good time,” Selena squealed, clutching at her arm and hugging it.
Kaylee certainly hoped so. In fact, she had every expectation that she would have a fabulous time. Fantasies fulfilled, the website had claimed. Anonymity assured, the brochure vowed. Safe, sane, consensual play was advertised on every ad and every page. The reviews (and not just those posted on the Castle’s website) had raved that this was a "must go" place, and Kaylee had saved her pennies for almost two years, mentally debated for six months, changed her mind no less than two dozen times then finally purchased, not the ten-day package or even the five—she just didn’t have enough money for that. What Kaylee had, though, was still her
dream come true: three full days in a kink-oriented castle that promised to be the vacation of a lifetime.
Singles or couples welcome. Bed, board and costumes provided. Consensual atmosphere strictly enforced. Art gallery, gift shop, group activities and how-to panels available, and on the last day of every month, a masquerade ball. She wouldn’t get to see that, darn it, but everything else…
Beside her, Selena screeched another excited squeal and grabbed her hand; behind her, a man wanting to disembark cleared his throat. Kaylee quickly got out of the way and they moved to stand in line with twenty other people while their suitcases were unloaded from the outer luggage compartments. En masse, they then headed for the main gate.
This many people all tromping across the drawbridge at one time sounded like the marching of a small army, and it sent a gaggle of women in maid costumes (some quite modest, some anything but) scampering from the courtyard where they had been setting up chairs in a semi-circle near the front door. They assembled into a hasty line at the bottom of the main steps, looking as one to a tall, butler-like figure waiting at the door. His hands were clasped behind his back and a neat cluster of birch switches peeked out from behind his leg. At a gesture from him, the line of maids retreated up the steps and vanished into the house. The last maid through the door received a snap on her skirted fanny from that birch-switch bundle. The maid barely made a sound, but Kaylee felt that snap all the way across the courtyard. Her bottom tightened, tingled, suddenly so sensitive that she could feel the scraping fabric of her panties and jeans with every step she took.
Beside her, Selena’s fingers clutched at Kaylee’s arm, squeezing as she squealed yet again. Her face was flushed; her eyes, bright. That single swat put a bounce of excitement in both their steps as they passed under the shadow of the iron portcullis and into the cobblestone courtyard.