IN HIS HANDS
Raven McAllan
Copyright © 2017
Chapter One
She should be in a rush. Instead, she stood and ignored the heavy downpour known as black rain that indicated typhoon weather. There was little enough time to get home before all public transport was suspended for the duration, but Caness still didn’t move. It might be her last day at work before she went freelance, but she’d still had obligations and left late. Now she wished she wasn’t so bloody conscientious, but it was ingrained in her psyche. Or imbibed with her mother’s milk. Finish what you start.
However, a Hong Kong typhoon was not to be messed with.
Her long red hair, so at odds with her vaguely oriental looks, had left its plait once the growing wind caught it and was now plastered to her skull and hung almost to her waist. God knows what sort of a mess it would be when it dried. Corkscrew ringlets no doubt. Her once pristine and demure work suit was fast becoming tight, and more sexy than suitable for a day of meetings. Nevertheless, Caness Clacher remained steadfast as she stared into the gallery window at the glorious barbaric and unique jewelry she saw there. No doubt it cost a king’s ransom.
What? She blinked and looked closer to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. No, it was there all right, and it was what she thought at first glance. Silver fetters, of twisted strands, which looked as if it were a collection of barbs. On closer inspection Caness could see the barbs were an illusion, and there were no sharp ends to mark or tear the skin. Wrist cuffs and a thick collar completed the set.
She salivated, and her pussy muscles contracted as she thought how she would feel wearing them. Them and little else. She moaned softly—talk about making her completely wet. Her underwear was now as damp as her outerwear. How come she’d never seen things like that in here before? She walked this alley with its expensive designer shops, art and craft galleries, and boutiques every day.
Usually in a rush.
Nothing before ever caught her eye and made her slow or stop to look more closely.
Just this.
In black rain, and a rapidly approaching deadline of no transport until the typhoon passed. She must need her head examined.
“Lovely, isn’t it? It would suit you, Caness.” The velvet tones with a hint of an accent she couldn’t place curled around her like a warm security blanket. They were so mesmeric her mouth became dry and her clit tightened into a painful throbbing nub. Lord, she hadn’t felt such an instantaneous reaction since her first date with the school lothario, and that had ended once he’d opened his mouth and talked rubbish.
“That and nothing else,” the stranger said with a definite note of authority in his voice. “On your knees, before me.”
Her legs began to dip before she came out of her reverie and straightened. What the hell? Had she really been going to assume the position of a perfect sub, in public and no doubt in a puddle? Caness shook her head in amazement and the stranger stepped back to miss the water that she scattered with her actions.
“Er…” It was several seconds before the fact registered that not only did he know her name, he’d pronounced it correctly—Kennis. Most people said it like the French city, which was infuriating to say the least. Nevertheless, it was better than the Mandarin Chinese name her Hong Kong born mum (one quarter Chinese and three quarter English) and Scottish dad had given her. .
One translation, little sister was acceptable, but the other, bestowed on her because of her chubby cheeks as a baby, meant little plum. Her elder brother —omnipotent, or strong in every area—was equally not enamored with his name and chose to be called Anthony. Neither of their parents could give a definite answer as to why they had chosen Mandarin names for their children. The last time she asked, a year or so earlier, her mum just shrugged and looked at her dad. He’d raised one eyebrow, her mum had blushed, and they’d left soon after. Not before she heard her dad tell her mum he’d sort that sass out later.
“Shall we put it on you?” the stranger asked. “Will it work?”
“What?” She came back to the present and stared at him. What did he mean work? She didn’t think she’d ask him, not then. She ignored his questions and gave him one of her own instead. “How do you know my name?”
The stranger laughed. “I was at Hong Kong University with Anthony until he left and went on his search to find himself.”
“He did,” Caness said defensively. Her twin had decided medicine wasn’t for him, went to California and—true to the definition of their Scottish surname—became a stonemason. “Find himself.” She looked at him more closely and a faint glimmer of awareness flickered. She remembered him. Just. He’d been around a couple of times with Anthony, but she had never spent long enough with him to really get to know him. All she had were vague impressions of a tall, enigmatic man who said little but never took his eyes off her. Even then he’d oozed dominance and her body responded, although she had no idea what her response meant. Now she did and wasn’t sure if it excited or scared the hell out of her. No doubt time would tell.
“I know, I was there last week,” he said now.
What on Earth was his name? She searched her brain. Peter? Patrick? Paul? Phillip? Something like that.
“His work is amazing,” the not so much of a stranger went on. “I’ll bring some back to show as soon as I can arrange it. Anthony told me you were here. I didn’t expect to see you staring through my shop window, getting soaked to the skin, though. Come on in and dry off.”
Caness looked at her watch. “Shit, I can’t,” she said with genuine regret. She itched to stroke the set and see what else he had to show. “If I don’t get on the MTR damned quick I’ll miss the bus home. The warning went ages ago, and it takes me over an hour at the best of times. Sodding typhoon stops everything.”
He looked down the alley toward the main road, where the traffic was queuing in a never-ending stream of vehicles pouring past, even if it was at a slow, slower or stop-and-start pace. “Everything?”
His raised eyebrow made her chuckle. “Almost everything. But the two hour ‘get home or be stranded’ warning was over an hour ago. I’m on borrowed time. Fuck. Look, Mr. Whoever, nice to meet you, and all that, but seriously I ought to go.”
“You ought to be spanked for language like that. Don’t let me hear it again. Unless of course you want a spanking. That would be my pleasure.”
To judge by the gush of liquid that dampened her panties yet again, it would be her pleasure as well.
Oh lordy. “Look you still haven’t told me who you are, so this seems a bit stalkerish, and well, scary. Corporal punishment scary.”
His eyes widened, and he waggled one long finger in front of her face. An intricately carved ring of twisted silver shone in the ever-increasing gloom. “You don’t really think that. I watched your face when you realized what this jewelry was for.” He took hold of her chin and pressed a swift kiss to her lips. Before she even registered what he intended to do, he’d moved back and straightened. “Patrick Lim at your service. Now, pet, get your sweet booty inside, and let me lock up.”
So I wasn’t far wrong.
“This is yours?” She gestured at the gallery.
“All mine.” He patted her bum, somewhat harder than a gentle ‘move it’ tap, but not a full-on spank—more was the pity. “I don’t ask twice and I do expect to be obeyed.”
He does? Lord almighty. “What are you?” she blurted, and could have cut her tongue out at her tumbled breathless words. They would set a good impression—not. “Are you a silversmith?”
He turned and did that bloody sexy one eyebrow raised thing again, before he inclined his head. “A Master.” He invested the word with something indefinable. Whatever it was made her swallow and drop her gaze to his feet, clad, she’d bet her week’s salary, in Gucci loafers.
“Oh, I like that.” His words were soft but the intent in them made her lift her head and briefly shut her eyes.
If he meant what she thought he meant, she was in big trouble. Caness shook her head again and wet strands of hair flicked water towards him, splattering his suit and cheeks. Droplets ran down her chest and pooled in her cleavage. That was all she needed.
He watched one errant raindrop chase another across her skin and under the neck of her blouse. “That is where my tongue should be.”
What?
“Look,” Caness said desperately. “I’ll be fine if I go now. I don’t want to take you out of your way.”
“Rubbish.”
He took her hand and, to her amazement, she found herself meekly following him inside. Caness started to look around, and a barked, “Not now,” stopped her. She stood and watched him instead.
He turned toward the window, and lifted the silver jewelry out. “Give me five minutes and we’ll be on our way. And before you come up with excuses, I know where you live. Glorianna Villas in Sai Kung.”
“How? No don’t tell me: Anthony told you.”
Patrick pulled the window blinds down, and locked the door. “Amongst other things.” He looked over his shoulder at her as he moved into a back room. “Here you are, catch.” A second later a fine linen towel flew through the air toward her. Caness caught it automatically.
“He worries.” His voice became faint, and she heard the clank of a heavy metal door. Presumably he was putting the jewelry in the safe. It must be worth thousands.
Damn, I’d love to have tried it on. And spend half an hour just looking. Some of the display appeared so unusual she itched to take her time and savor it. However, it wasn’t about to happen. One day, I hope.
“What other things?” she asked suspiciously as she tried to dry her hair, cleavage, and legs. Wet stockings were the pits, but there was no way she was going to take them off. No doubt he’d come back in and see her with her skirt bunched up around her ass and her lacy underwear on show. Caness was a great believer in the motto, “if you look good under your camouflage you’ll feel good and act it.” She might have to present an image of a banker on the outside—whatever that image was—however, what she wore underneath her prim and proper suits was anything but.
“That you’re denying your true needs because there’s no one strong enough to take you on.”
Bloody Anthony lives up to his name.
“He’s just jealous he hasn’t got a Sir.” She stopped as she realized what those words showed. “Um, I mean…”
“I know what you mean, and who’s to say he hasn’t?”
She gulped at the expression on his face. Stern, confident. Oh fuck he’s not… No, Anthony was gay and happy to admit it. In his last letter he’d said that he wasn’t going to sub for just anyone. It would have to be someone special. Somehow, she didn’t think Patrick was that one. If he were, Anthony would have told her, surely? They were open with each other.
“Does he?”
Patrick walked across the room in a few strides and took her chin between thumb and forefinger.
“He’ll tell you what’s going on when he wants to…” He tightened his grip and forced her to look him in his eyes. The deep dark blue was mesmeric. “It’s not me, pet.”
Pet? I’m not imagining things then.
“I have someone else in mind.” He let go of her chin, removed the towel from her unresisting fingers, and took hold of her arm. “Come on. Let’s go whilst we still can.”
So he is a Dom, and he has a sub waiting for him? That made her heart sink, except…
No, he said ‘someone in mind’. What is he keeping back? What’s Anthony not telling me? We’re close. Or we were. He hadn’t mentioned Patrick in his last e-mail; the one she’d received a few days ago. Who does Patrick have in mind? Am I worried or excited?
Whatever, it was all mighty suspicious.
Why did she smell rodents? Big ones.