Free Chains and Canes by Katie Porter

red streaks. Naya shuddered, shivered. “ Sí , Daniel. You too. Dios , yes, thank you.”
    He looked down. His fingers were digging into the tender, pink flesh of Naya’s ass. He was gripping hard enough to leave bruises too. Marks of his own.
    But that was a lie.
    Only because you told me to.
    He stiffened, chin lifted to the ceiling, and sank deep. His orgasm seared every nerve and obliterated thought. He couldn’t see past the splashes of gray and bright, sparkling white. He was spent, but sensation layered over sensation when Naya came too. Her cunt clenched around his prick. She ground back against his hips. Cussing. Moaning. Crying again.
    His erotic angel.
    Remy had gathered her hair in his left fist. His right hand was back where he needed it most. He pumped his cock. Sweat dripped between his pecs and down his rigid abs, and made his biceps glisten. Tendons flexed from his forearms to the caps of his shoulders.
    “Don’t move,” he growled at Naya.
    When he next yanked her hair, she cried out. Her neck arched, and she lifted that rounded, bruised little ass. She was lithe and flexible, but he never gave her enough slack to get away.
    “Sir!”
    “You don’t want me to stop.” Remy’s voice had dropped an octave. “You don’t. You wanna make me happy, chère . Gonna make me happy. This is how. This .”
    “Please, Sir.”
    Daniel stretched over her shaking body until he twined his fingers with hers along the back of the couch. He met Remy’s blistering stare. Naya was right. They all knew what was happening. Daniel could’ve retreated after his orgasm. He could’ve watched Remy finish, or even walked away altogether. Instead, he layered over Naya in blatant invitation. He wanted to finish this as they’d started. The three of them. Surprises and mind games and the best fucking sex he’d ever had.
    With a whisper barely louder than an exhale, Daniel said, “Yes.”
    Remy gasped and groaned, cussed and cried out—some combination. His come streaked along Daniel’s back and Naya’s side. A shudder and a low, slow, “Fuck,” accompanied the slowing tempo of his strokes.
    He released Naya’s hair and collapsed onto the couch. His breathing was still ragged when he smiled. “Well, well now,” he said, his voice a tempting tease once again. “Wasn’t that a surprise?”

Chapter Eight
    Naya entered the club through the rear employee entrance, which was not the first thing to amp up her nerves that morning. The first thing had been groggily groping her way to the bathroom after the third blare of Daniel’s snooze alarm. She’d given him two more before dragging him to his feet for a ten a.m. meeting and, later, for a redeye to London.
    Dios mío , her back. Her ass. She’d stood holding a hand mirror. Every angle revealed physical proof of what Remy had done. Her skin was streaked with color—splashes of red and pink, with darkened speckles. She touched her ass, which was still that gratifying mix of stinging and numb.
    She’d never taken so much.
    Remy had lit a fuse beneath her beautiful, tidy life with Daniel. The question now was when or even if those explosives would detonate and what the damage would be.
    Now she would see him again, only seven hours after he’d left their apartment. They would meet in a professional capacity, although she hardly knew what that meant. They’d sparked sex and something more volatile from the first seconds of her audition.
    She passed the rear-most rehearsal rooms. It contained a pair of Latin dancers in the middle of a salsa routine that should’ve come with a stand-by fire crew. Naya watched them until her presence was noticed. The man broke his hold and stalked toward the sound system to turn down the music.
    Naya gripped the strap of her duffel. The weight of it rested along her spine. Softly stinging reminders would be there for days, giving her a private thrill. “Sorry, I was looking for Remy Lomand.”
    “He’s always in the middle room.”