Sub for the Lion

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2017 Angelique Voisen

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-211-0

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Karyn White

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To my readers, I hope you enjoy Jax and Lance’s story as much as I loved writing it.

  SUB FOR THE LION

  Angelique Voisen

  Copyright © 2017

  Chapter One

  Lance

  Looking at the furniture and toys in the private dungeon before the session depresses me. I reach out and touch the cool and twisted chains of the erotic swing set in the center of the room. I remember Curtis’s laugh, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief, the way his tempting lips formed the word “Sir”. He always said it like a dare, a challenge.

  When painful memories threaten to overwhelm me, it’s best I take a step back. Too bad every item in this room reminds me of him, of my dead mate. We picked every single one, debated, pored over the details. The lion in me wakes, restless, sorrowful as fuck.

  Nausea hits me, and I stumble over the heavy oak desk and plant my palms on the surface to catch my breathing. My lion itches under my skin, begging to be let out. The playroom’s windowless. Thank fuck for that, because the apartment looks out to the nature park across the street.

  I know with my condition, I should move. Somewhere to the city maybe, where there are no woods to tempt me into shifting one last time and eventually letting go of my human half.

  “What am I doing?” I whisper, staring at the items I’d laid out on the desk in a straight row. Curtis and I seldom used the desk. He never had a thing for discipline, not the way my new boy does.

  Jax.

  I mouth his name on my lips as if the single syllable can give my animal inner peace.

  I don’t know what made me agree to take him on for four sessions, one session per week, at eight on a Friday evening.

  Josh and Duke are owners of Thorn, the queer BDSM club Curtis and I used to frequent. I’ve known the power couple for decades, and one of the few I consider my friends. They were the ones who reached out to me last week, inquiring if I was interested in training a new sub.

  After Curtis’s death, I drifted away from the scene. I only agree to sessions when my beast begins to test my control, like now.

  I run my fingers over the paddles, floggers, and straps, debating which one to use. My mind wanders back to last Friday, when Josh and Duke invited me to their private office, making introductions.

  The memory remains vivid in my mind, because Jax didn’t bother changing out of his uniform after being discharged by the Army. Clean-shaven, handsome boy, with dark shadows under his eyes.

  Boy. I suppose I can only call him that once we’re alone. According to the file Duke and Josh gave me, he’s twenty-two. Prior to enlisting, Jax played with several experienced Doms in Thorn, moving from one to the next, as if he were restless, searching for answers.

  I fish out the phone in my back pocket, debate on cancelling the entire thing, coming up with some absurd excuse. Then I remember Jax quietly standing in the corner of Josh and Duke’s office, dark blue eyes the color of an angry storm. He looked far away, seemingly detached from reality.

  I took stock of him, noticing the scars partially hidden by his plain shirt and jacket, the way he shifted from one foot to the next. An old injury maybe. A snarl had caught in my throat, and despite being human, he’d met my gaze.

  Those eyes staring back me, look so similar to mine.

  Back then, I’d thought one broken man could fix another.

  Before I can type a message on my phone, it beeps. A message from Jax, telling me he’s going to be five minutes late because of traffic. I can use this as reason for punishment, get the ball rolling.

  Duke and Josh had left their office, and Jax and I had spent the next few hours highlighting his hard limits, talking about what would work and wouldn’t.

  I lean against the desk, tapping my fingers impatiently on the wood. On the swing, Curtis’s ghost smiles at me, and I freeze.

  Emotion clogs my throat. This won’t do. I used to be a good Dom, a sucker for rules. Now, I’m a wreck. Josh and Duke certainly think I’m capable enough to conduct these series of sessions. Disappointing them is one thing. I don’t want to disappoint myself.

  For the past few days, Jax’s eyes had haunted me, follow me in my dreams. I had thought then, that if I couldn’t save myself, at the very least, I could save one young man.

  Jax might have seen his share of horrors in the desert, but he’s young, has a future ahead of him. Josh and Duke tell me Jax’s fit and healthy for a scene. All the scars Jax sustained have healed, but I of all people know internal wounds take longer to mend.

  I don’t reply to Jax, letting him think I’m mad. Curtis’s ghost is gone, and I’m thankful. I know it’s all in my head, but seeing him pop out fills me with relief. It’s a selfish thought, wanting my former mate’s spirit to linger in this world, but I can’t help myself.

  The doorbell rings moments later. I check my watch. Eight-ten. Jax’s ten minutes late. I take my time, exiting the room. I pause by the mirror near the living room. There are more streaks of gray in my blond hair. I keep it short these days, because Curtis preferred it long.

  A proud mane for a lion, Curtis often joked.

  I cast aside thoughts of Curtis from my mind. Five years and not a second goes by that I don’t think of him. He used to preoccupy my every waking moment … until I saw Jax.

  I wanted to outright refuse Duke and Josh, to tell them to leave me the fuck alone and let me grieve. But cats, even the big ones, are curious by nature, so I agreed.

  Reaching the doorway, I take a deep breath and peer through the peephole. Jax’s wearing casual clothes, jeans filled with holes and a plain white shirt.

  He shifts from one foot to the next, staring at the frayed welcome mat in front of my door.

  My inner lion becomes wide awake, like a curious and lazy predator eager to start the hunt for a mate.

  Mate?

  Fuck no. I take deep breaths until the beast retreats further inside of me, before opening the door. Jax stares at me, not saying a word, as if not quite believing I’m right in front of me.

  “You’re ten minutes late, boy.” I use my flat, no-nonsense voice.

  “I apologize … Sir.” Jax adds the last word like an afterthought.

  He lowers his gaze. When I don’t back away to let him pass, he blinks, shuffles, clears his throat. Fuck, but the sight of him awaiting for instructions and yearning for my approval makes me rock-hard. I can smell it in the air, his longing and mine. Combine the two and what I may get is an inevitable explosion waiting to happen. The moment I saw him that office, I knew I wanted him. Too much perhaps.

  Jax bites his lower lip, finally meets my gaze. “What else do you want?”

  I suppress a smile. There is it—the spark of defiance I need to see. I can’t work with someone who’s completely dead inside. The war broke Jax, took important pieces away. These sessions will help bring him back to life. I hope, anyway.

  If he craves pain, a firm hand and voice, then I’ll serve it to him on a platter. God knows I have nothing left to give to anyone.


  I debate making him wait and stew on the front step a little longer, until he starts second-guessing himself and wondering about the mistakes he’s made. Instead, I find myself eliminating the distance between us, until there’s only an inch of space between our bodies.

  He holds his breath, eyes wide as I lift his chin, rubbing my thumb over the day-old stubble there. Jax parts his lips, makes a helpless moan in his throat—telling me plenty. Back in Duke and Josh’s office, I’d asked the list of customary questions, save one.

  Is sex on the table?

  Jax didn’t reply immediately, so I’d taken it as a “no”.

  Except now, I smell his arousal in the air. The temperature seems to change, and I can see the pulse point on his neck leaping, his heart starting on a staccato rhythm.

  I stare at the tanned expense of his neck—in particular, the spot joining neck and shoulder. No doubt I’m starting to look like a starving lion. I can’t go to that place though, can’t think of marking him as mine, because where would that path lead to? Disaster. I’m not fit to be anyone’s mate. I lost Curtis and shifters mate for life, so why am I feeling these intense emotions towards a broken soldier, a human stranger?

  “Sir?” he whispers. This time, he says the word uncertainly.

  Much better.

  I imagine taking those lips, wonder if Jax would yield to me or fight.

  Fuck no. I’m better than this. Kissing seems so old-fashioned, so vanilla, and yet I want to taste Jax, feel the heat of his tempting lean body, crushed against my huge frame.

  I brush my fingers over his bottom lip. The texture’s soft, slightly wet, perfect. Jax begins to lean into my touch. I should take a step back, let him in. Conduct the session. Late at night, when I’m alone again, then I can afford to wonder about what could have been.

  A growl rumbles out of my chest. My lion doesn’t agree with that idea at all.

  Then Jax says the wrong word, completely obliterating my resistance.

  “Please.”

  Fuck. How can I resist him any longer?

  I shift my hand to the back of his neck, tug him close until our chest and groins brush. He rubs himself at me, like a cat in heat, denied so long of touch. I give him a punishing kiss, all roughness and bite, but that only triggers his response.

  His hands are all over my body, and I let him explore. His touches are hesitant, inexperienced, as if he hasn’t been with plenty of guys. The thought only fuels my want. If he wants a real man, then that’s what he’s getting.

  Jax begins to lift the hem of my shirt, but I pin his wrists one-handed, in front of his body.

  I prod my tongue against his lips and he opens up, so I can deepen the kiss.

  I know where this is heading, but I can’t seem to stop. My lion’s pushing me to drag Jax into our den and make sure Jax never leaves without our mark on him. I’m drowning in sensation, burning from the inside out with desire, and I’m not sure I can stop myself from spiraling downwards.

  Chapter Two

  Jax

  I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed this way before. I’m so thoroughly consumed by it, he disables my ability to form logical thoughts. Ironic how I debated about cancelling this session all week long. I know he’s a good Dom. Josh and Duke vouch for Lance, and so do plenty of subs in the club.

  Getting one session with him is impossible. A full four is unheard of. One look at the grizzled, massive Dom with streaks of silver in his golden hair, and I know he’s trouble with a capital T.

  Being in Josh and Duke’s office with him felt like a test of my will.

  I wanted to do so many things. Touch that cropped hair, wonder if it felt so soft, see him without his shirt on, feel his hand on my skin and seeing it turn pink, then red. Oh God. The list is endless. I also imagined those lips—the bottom with an old scar at the corner—taking mine, like he’s doing now.

  I never expected to receive that last wish. As soon as he starts the kiss, Lance pulls away. The motion’s abrupt, leaving me wanting for more. I pant, blushing.

  Lance’s hooded eyes are unreadable. They appear amber under the light, and I wonder if that’s the natural color. His stoic mask is back in place. Half of me is grateful; the other is the opposite.

  “What the hell, man? You lead me on like that and pull away after?” I demand. I know I’m being disrespectful, bratty even, but I don’t care.

  His golden eyes gleam with amusement. What the fuck?

  Lance crosses his arms, making the muscles in his impressive forearms, biceps, and triceps bulge. I swallow, aware I’m staring at them. Being a Dom can be difficult, but one who’s a shifter as well?

  It takes years of practice for a shifter to perfect control both in the playroom and to keep his animal side at a distance, according to Josh and Duke. But Lance’s control is far from perfect. I’ve seen that for myself when he kissed me until it felt like my insides melted.

  “Do you want to come in, Jax? Or you can still leave,” he finally says. His words feel like dare, but I don’t back away from challenges that easily. If he thinks a kiss can scare me, he’s wrong.

  I let out a huff. Before burning out from my time in the army, I’d been a good sniper. I took out enemies from a distance, guys Lance’s size. Unlike other soldiers, I was always in control of the situation, forced to make critical decisions on the fly. Now, I want, no need, to let go with someone capable of taking me to subspace, where I can float, forget about my PTSD.

  “I want to continue. Sir.” I fling the word “Sir” like it’s an inconvenience.

  “A word of warning. Once you walk past that door, there’s no turning back, unless you safeword, but I don’t think you’re the kind of guy who uses his safeword often, no?”

  I clench my fists by my sides. He knows I’ve never once used my safeword. True, I’m not a painslut and I’m pretty new to the scene, but I’m proud of being able to push myself to my limits. Take what a Dom wants to give me.

  “I’m sensing a little conflict from your end, Sir. Are you sure you’re not the one who’s insecure?”

  “Come in and find out what I do to boys who need a little lesson in discipline.”

  “That’s like, so cliché.”

  Lance smiles, waiting like a patient hunter. I think he can stand there all day for me to make up my mind. With a shaky breath, I put one leg forward. It feels like crossing some kind of threshold.

  “Lock the door behind you. Strip. Leave your clothes, shoes, and belonging there.” Lance turns his back, an expectation of obedience in his commands. Nothing less from a pro, I suppose.

  With trembling fingers, I take off my jacket, hesitate over my shirt. Lance knows about the old scars, but I can’t help but be self-conscious about them. Just like that, my mind drags me to the past, back to memories I want to forget, but am never able to.

  Shutting my eyes, I feel the blast of heat and sand on my face. I remember my entire body coiling up in tension from my vantage point on that rooftop, so focused I didn’t notice the man creeping up behind me, knife in hand. The old wounds, despite having healed, flare up. Phantom pain.

  I see our bodies colliding, tussling on the ground, knife rising, cutting across my uniform to reach skin. By the time the rest of my unit found me, I was bleeding out, wishing I could die. They called my survival a miracle, but the faceless man wielding the knife still haunts my dreams.

  I shudder.

  “Don’t keep me waiting, boy.” Lance’s voice jerks me awake.

  I open my eyes, aware he’s watching me, assessing every action. I swallow, wondering what he sees.

  “For ten minutes late, you’ve earned yourself ten swats. Each minute of delay adds up to your punishment,” he continues.

  “Are you for real?” I say before I can curb my tongue.

  “Absolutely. That’s fifteen now. Fourteen,” Lance says, checking his watch.

  Swearing under my breath, I yank off my shirt, self-consciousness disappearing. I pull down my jeans. Boxers fo
llow. After kicking my shoes, I wonder how many minutes piled up. Lance wears a disproving look. He’s looking at the mess of my belongings on the floor.

  “Tidy them up.”

  I growl under my breath and stoop to fold my clothes. It takes me a couple of minutes, probably because I’m seething the entire time. The shoes, I place beside the neat and folded clothes. I look back at him, wondering why I’m hungry for his approval.

  “Good enough. Follow me,” he snaps. I take one step forward, but he glares. “Bad boys crawl.”

  Lance places emphasis on “crawl”. Face burning, I drop to my hands and knees. My body craves the humiliation though, judging by my hardening dick. I approach him, tentative, and halt in front of him.

  “Wait here,” he says.

  I wait, wondering how long he’ll take. Seconds feel like minutes, but he returns. Something brushes against my shoulder, and I blink, daring to take a peek at it. It’s soft but firm, the end of a leash, I realize.

  “Up, boy.”

  I fall to my knees, heart racing as I see the plain leather collar in his hands.

  “While you’re here, you’ll wear this collar and remember that for this hour, you’re mine,” he says, the words a little rushed, as if the prospect excites him, too.

  “Yes, I understand, Sir.” I mean every word.

  I expose my neck as he buckles it around my neck. The leather sits nicely against my throat, and I shudder when he lifts the band, to thumb the pulse point on my neck.

  Lance’s hand descends on top of my head. I steel myself for a blow, a harsh word. Instead, Lance weaves his fingers through my hair, presses my face against his denim-clad groin and whispers the words I long to hear.

  “Good boy.”

  I shut my eyes, enjoying the syllables on his mouth. I can feel the bulge in his jeans. So tempting to pull the zipper down with my teeth, see his impressive dick up close and taste him on my tongue. He jerks my hair back, as if he knows what I’m thinking of.