Cuffed & Collared Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cuffed & Collared

  Publication

  PRAISE FOR AUTHOR

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Coming Soon

  Also Available

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Also Read

  Thank You

  Cuffed & Collared

  by

  Samantha Cayto

  Book Three

  Boston’s Brave

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cuffed & Collared

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Samantha Cayto

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com

  Publishing History

  First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-816-7

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-818-1

  Published in the United States of America

  PRAISE FOR AUTHOR

  Samantha Cayto

  DOUBLE THE RISK

  Boston’s Brave

  “Great plotting, interesting characters, and hot sex—of course—will keep you reading.”

  ~Judy Parr

  “The sex scenes were hot and passion-filled.”

  ~Robin, Sizzling Hot Books

  BLUE HEAT

  Boston’s Brave

  “Great book couldn't put it down.”

  ~Patrick C.

  “A hot story of an undercover cop and M/M sex.”

  ~Richard F. Casson

  CATCHING EAGLE’S EYE

  SEALs Going Hot

  “Two hot military men, need I say more? This read captures your interest from page one. Between the characters and the story, you can’t go wrong with this pick.”

  ~The Color of Ink

  “Wow! Loved this book, it was great from start to finish.”

  ~Nanee’s Review

  Prologue

  Her victim quivered beneath her, a mixture of fear and excitement. Soon, his movement would change. It would become more frantic, a desperate attempt to avoid the agonizing pain, and his feelings would be pure terror. Or, would they? Perhaps he would enjoy this final act of submission. Maybe it was what he had been looking for all along.

  She didn’t know, and sometimes, like now, right before she began her serious punishment, she wondered was it really possible to derive pleasure from pain? All her victims seemed to believe so. They craved the sensation. They wanted to be at her mercy. They begged for it. Some even paid for it.

  But no, she couldn’t imagine it. That feeling was not for her. She was a Domme, a sadist as some might call her. She was destined to inflict pain, not receive it, and she loved doing it. She loved every stroke she delivered, every grunt and groan and, yes, scream she pulled from her subs, especially at the first moment they realized she had changed the rules of the game. That moment when they understood she had turned play into reality.

  Her breath quickened in anticipation. Her cunt tightened, and her body flushed with heat. She was wet with desire as her sexual excitement mounted. This was it. It was time. The urge to find her release was strong, yet she restrained herself. Rushing things ruined the fun. She needed to be patient, to take her time, let it last. And she could, she would, because she was the best.

  She was the Mistress of them all.

  Chapter One

  Sergeant Regan Malloy squatted beside the king-sized bed to get a better look at the victim’s face. He was such a handsome man, and unlike the rest of his body, this part was unmarred by violence. She wasn’t going to insult the poor bastard by saying he looked peaceful in death, but she could say he looked relieved. After all the pain that had been inflicted upon him, she could imagine he had welcomed the moment of death. With the crime scene well-documented, she felt free to reach up and unstrap the gag from the back of his head and pull it away from his rigid mouth.

  “You know what we have here, don’t you?” a voice asked behind her.

  Regan looked over her shoulder at her partner, JoJo Mathers, an African-American woman several years her junior. “A serial killer.”

  “Mmm hmm,” the woman replied through tight lips. Her gaze was fixed on the victim, thirty-eight year old Joseph Xavier Bennington, III.

  As she stood, Regan looked at the man, too. He lay face down, covered in nothing except welts, cuts, and a large quantity of his own blood, on his massive and stylish bed. The killer had tortured him with a variety of as yet unknown devices for hours, by the coroner’s estimation, before neatly castrating him. Regan couldn’t tell just by looking, but she’d bet anything the ME would find the poor man’s private parts stuffed inside his rectum. A final act of violation and contempt by the killer, before, in a perverse act of mercy, lifting Bennington’s head and slitting his throat.

  The M.O. was precisely the same as used in the murder of Eugene Morales. Even with only two victims to go by, Regan was sure they had a serial killer on their hands.

  She turned to her partner. “Two men, both good-looking, fit, socially active yet single, wealthy and with powerful jobs. Both were killed in their own beds, tied up and gagged, but with no signs of forced entry or a struggle, implying they let their murderer into their homes and probably their beds as well. And having done so, they were both tortured to death in a sadistic, sexual ritual, and raped, although with what is unknown. Morales was straight by all accounts. We’ll check it, of course, but I bet Bennington was too.” Regan shook her head. “We can’t blame these on a Ted Bundy or a Jeffrey Dahmer. This time, it’s one of our own.”

  “You’re convinced it’s a woman,” JoJo observed as they walked away from the bed and the sad remains of Joseph Bennington.

  “I’m certain of it.” Regan was. It only made sense, and the idea turned her stomach more than any crime scene ever could. Being a woman who had achieved a measure of success in a profession still dominated by men, she felt strongly that women had a duty to wield their power wisely. If they didn’t, the world would be no better off than it was with only men in charge.

  “It seems pretty clear,” she continued, “that we have a killer among the Femdom crowd. We know Morales was into the scene, and if we can determine that Bennington was as well, we should be able to establish what clubs, groups, and friends they had in common. Ugly as it is to have a second victim, it may give us the break we need for both murders.”

  They walked into the hall and headed toward the living room. The victim’s apartment was a fancy and expensive one located in a high-rise building near the Theatre District of Boston. Although Regan’s knowledge of quality in furnishings and art was limited, she knew the price of real estate and could tell the guy had been loaded, with refined tastes, just like the first victim. Apparently their killer liked to prey
on the well-heeled. Was it resentment for the wealthy, or was she one of them?

  “Go ahead and bag him,” she said quietly to the attendants waiting in the living room.

  “I guess the best source of information now may be his friend,” JoJo said with a toss of her head.

  Regan followed the direction to the far side of the room into a dining space. Seated at the long, elegant table was the man who had called in the crime. Kyle Ramsey, according to the young uniformed officer beside him. The kid was giving the witness as much privacy for his grief as possible while keeping an eye on him. Until he was questioned, Ramsey was technically a suspect.

  “I’ll talk to him,” she said to her partner. “Why don’t you start digging through the victim’s effects?” Although she phrased it as a suggestion, as the senior detective of the two, she was in charge.

  The other woman nodded. “The vic had the second bedroom set up as a home office. I’ll start there. Good luck with Mr. Hottie,” she added with a smirk.

  “Please,” Regan sneered in response. This was hardly the proper time to drool over a man, even though JoJo was right. The witness was as gorgeous as his unfortunate friend. When she first arrived on the scene, she’d caught a glimpse of him. Tousled blond hair on top of a face made of perfect angles. From afar, his male beauty had been easy to see. Close up, it was even more so. His profile would have done any coin of the realm justice, so straight was his nose, so square his jaw. Every plane was refined, yet not soft. Majestic was the word that came to mind and sexy, of course.

  With the possible exception of her three gorgeous cousins, Regan only saw faces like that in magazines, not in real life. Then again, she ran with rough and tumble kind of guys. A man like this was out her league and a good thing, too, because she was working a case, and he was part of it.

  Regan approached the dining table on soft cop feet as if she were stalking prey. In truth, she was, although it was the killer she sought. This man with his hands clasped tightly together on the table top, head down, jaw clenched, was probably only a means to an end. But you never knew. Cops took nothing for granted.

  He must have heard her approach. When she was only a few feet away, his head jerked up and he stared right at her. She was careful to keep her steps steady and her face blank, but, oh mama, did Kyle Ramsey pack an extra wallop up close. Given the color of his hair, she would have expected blue eyes or maybe green. Ramsey’s eyes, however, were a deep, rich, earthy brown. Although they were a little red from crying, they still had the capacity to entice and arouse. Oh, yeah, this guy was definitely fuckable.

  Regan adjusted her leather jacket to make sure her sudden interest wasn’t showing by way of erect nipples before she stopped at the table. Ramsey stood in greeting, startling her. She wasn’t used to such gentlemanly behavior, but she wasn’t bothered by it. Her mother had always told her there was nothing wrong with good manners so long as they weren’t being used as a substitute for genuine respect.

  “Mr. Ramsey, I’m Detective Sergeant Malloy of the Boston Police Department.” She held out her hand, glad her voice was clear and didn’t betray the effect he had on her.

  “Sergeant.” His voice was deep and mellow and a bit rough with emotion.

  His obvious grief over the death of his friend was even more appealing. Maternal instincts rose to mingle hotly with her arousal. She wanted to wrap her arms around the poor man and sooth away his hurt. She could picture pressing his cheek against her breast while she ran her fingers through that tangled flaxen hair.

  “Sergeant?” His voice was stronger this time, and it snapped her out of her reverie.

  Regan coughed once to clear her throat and her head. What an idiot she was being. Now was hardly the time for hot fantasies about a man, especially when the body of his friend was being wheeled out behind her. Ramsey’s gaze flicked in that direction, and he briefly closed his eyes. He opened them again and focused on her this time.

  “I need to ask you some questions, Mr. Ramsey,” she said, her mind now firmly fixed on her duty.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Please have a seat.” She gestured toward the chair he’d occupied before she arrived and took her note pad and pen from her pocket. Flipping to a clean page and clicking her pen ready, she noticed he wasn’t moving. She felt annoyed at his immediate lack of cooperation before realizing he wasn’t sitting because she was still standing. Okay, now his manners were getting on her nerves. She liked to move when questioning someone yet knew she’d get more from a relaxed witness. So she sat with a suppressed sigh.

  “Go see if Detective Mathers needs any help, officer,” she said to the kid in uniform. Her line of questioning was going to be dicey and most likely embarrassing to Ramsey. Another person hanging around and listening would only make it more difficult.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the officer replied and walked away.

  With a silent, deep breath to steady herself, Regan looked straight at the man sitting beside her and tried not to get lost in the deep brown of his eyes.

  Concentrate on what she’s saying, not on how she looks. Even as he admonished himself, Kyle knew he was wasting his internal breath. Sergeant Regan Malloy was impossible to ignore. Not even the memory of his friend lying dead in his bed was enough to keep this woman’s proximity from stirring his blood and his cock. Christ, had she seen his hard-on? He didn’t think so. She had stared him directly in the eye the whole time they stood, piercing him with her strong, intelligent gaze. This was a woman who took no shit from anyone, he could tell.

  He understood his reaction to her was partly fueled by his heightened emotions over his friend’s death and an almost desperate need to be distracted. Anything that could supplant in his mind the hideous images of what he’d found would be welcome.

  Sergeant Malloy certainly fit the bill. She was tall and lean with a high, firm rack that caused her leather jacket to jut out. Although cut short, her auburn hair was far from boyish. It was doing wild things around her oval face. She had kelly green eyes and pale skin with a smattering of freckles around the bridge of her small nose. Irish, of course, with a name like Malloy, and yet she didn’t look like a sweet, friendly girl from the Emerald Isle. She looked like a tigress on the hunt, and she was. She was hunting a killer.

  “Mr. Ramsey,” she began in a low voice that held only a hint of a Boston accent. “What exactly was your relationship with the deceased?”

  Shit! At the reminder of why he was there, the images of blood and gore returned. His eyes began to water again. He blinked back the tears. He had cried enough, although strangely he felt it would be okay for him to let go in front of this woman. As strong as she appeared, he knew he wouldn’t be embarrassed to be less than stoic with her. Strange, he had never felt that way before about a woman.

  Still, it would be counterproductive to give in to his grief. Time for that later when he was alone. Right now, he had to help the police catch the butcher responsible for this horror. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat to ensure his voice was strong.

  “Jazz and I are—were—old friends and also law partners. We’re both at Mayberry and Howard.” He had to look down at the table, the one he helped pick out. It was easier to talk if he didn’t look at her.

  “Jazz?”

  “Sorry, I meant Joseph. Jazz was his nick name.”

  “I understand.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her scribbling in her note pad. Her fingers were long, but the nails were short, not the useless painted talons like other women’s. “How is it that you came to find him?”

  “Uh.” He snapped his concentration away from her fingers and back to her questions. “He didn’t come into the office this morning, and he didn’t call. That wasn’t like him. His secretary was beside herself, because he had missed a client meeting. She couldn’t get hold of him. I tried, too, and then I decided to come over.” He paused to gather his wits. It was harder to talk about than he thought it would be.

  “How did you get in?”r />
  “I have a key, for emergencies, and I guess it’s a good thing I do.”

  “Yes, it is.” He liked how her voice remained low and matter-of-fact. It was soothing.

  “Anyway, I was worried. I used my key when he didn’t answer the doorbell. I…” His voice caught, and it was a struggle to continue. “I could tell as soon as I stepped into the entryway that he was dead. I followed the smell into the bedroom.”

  Kyle had to stop again, and he hated how weak he was being. Christ, he thought he was tougher than this. His father certainly would be disappointed if he could see how his son was choked up and nauseated over the memory of his mutilated friend. But he was. He had never seen anything like it, not even in the movies, because he never went for that sort of entertainment. He wanted to be stronger. He really did. He simply couldn’t.

  “Here.” A glass of water appeared on the table beside his hands. He looked up into the detective’s concerned face. He hadn’t even noticed she’d gotten up he was so wrapped in his misery. “Have a few sips. It helps.”

  “Thanks,” he whispered and did as she suggested. Once again, he tried to avoid staring at her. She was proving to be a distraction, and he needed to pull himself together to answer her questions. “Sorry,” he said and was happy with how steady his voice had become. “I found Jazz on his bed. I knew enough not to go into the room and disturb any evidence, so I came back out here and called 911 on my mobile phone.” He shrugged. “That’s really all I can tell you. I mean, I have no idea who would do something this vile to him, or anyone.”

  “Was Mr. Bennington married?”

  “Divorced, no children. God, someone should tell Felicity before she hears it on the news.”

  “We’ll take care of notifying next of kin,” the cop assured him. “Unless you are particularly close to Mr. Bennington’s ex-wife?” The question was asked without innuendo.

  Kyle shook his head. “No, not at all. I haven’t spoken to her in the three years since they split up. She’s friends with my ex, though.” The admission surprised him. Why had he bothered to bring up Julie? Was he trying to tell this cop he was available? How crazy was that? She wasn’t his type. He liked sophisticated, demure women, not an obvious ball-buster for all her compassion. And even if she were the kind of woman he went for, she was working a case, not angling for a date.