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Book V of the Nature Of Desire Series
(Natural Law should be read first, for Jonathan's background.)

Originally released September 2006; re-released with new publisher/cover July 2015.

The white collar life Jonathan Powell created for himself is gone. Standing outside of Wentworth prison after serving his five year sentence, he knows he has to start over. No more hooking up with Dominant women so he can enjoy the challenge of fucking up their minds. But who knew his latest target would turn out to be a psychopathic killer who tried to off two cops? No, it wasn’t the game that was the problem. He just made some key mistakes. Mistakes he won’t make again.

Then Mistress Dona shows up to give him a ride from the prison into his new life, and his resolve goes out the window. She’s everything he can’t resist. Dona knows she has to make Jonathan understand that he has to make the right choice this time, because Hell doesn’t offer options. He has to understand and accept what surrender truly means. His only hope is a Mistress of Redemption. The problem is she may lose her soul in trying to save his.


© Copyright 2006 - All Rights Reserved

The duffel bag hit the edge of the road, sending up a puff of gravel dust that lingered, seemingly reluctant to settle in the still, humid air. The day he’d been brought to Wentworth Prison it had been hot and sticky, for Florida summers knew no other way to be, but it had not been like this. The light of the sun was harsh, painful to the eyes as it reflected on a ribbon of asphalt flanked by expanses of sand and scrub that stretched out from one horizon to another. He hadn’t remembered the prison being the only feature of this desolate wasteland, but five years was a long time to remember a detail that had been so insignificant at the time.

He could have moved back into the shadow of the guard tower to wait for the bus, but he rejected the idea. He wasn’t planning on turning around or looking at the prison ever again.

Prisoners about to be released had two choices for transport. He could catch a bus ride back to the county in which he was arrested, compliments of the state, or he could make his own pickup arrangements. Call a friend, a family member.

So he waited for the bus, not because he had any interest in going back to Tampa, but because there was no one to call. The life he’d built for himself—Jonathan Powell, successful stockbroker, upwardly mobile twenty-something—was over. Gone and ill-fitting on him now, like a costume the day after Halloween. He had enough to live on for awhile, but his old employer wouldn’t be begging to have him back. Not the accomplice to the S&M Killer, the woman who’d tried to off two cops as her final coup. He wouldn’t find a career in finance, where corporations regularly did criminal background checks as part of the hiring process.

It didn’t matter. He’d find a hotel, a shower and plan to be across the country in a week. Maybe Oregon. Mountains. Cool, green. He could hire himself out as a sub-contractor in places where new construction was booming. Once, in another life, he’d been a better-than-decent roofer. Fearless no matter the pitch, always keeping his balance. Sometimes he’d taken his lunch break up there. Sitting shirtless in loose jeans, his knees drawn up to anchor himself on the slope as he ate his sandwich, he’d almost felt at peace. Clean despite the filth that had dried in a film on his sun-browned skin from the hot, dirty work.

A loser, he reminded himself. He’d been a no-money, nobody loser then. And here he was again.

When a wavering line appeared on the horizon, he squinted. Sweat rolled down the center of his back and dampened the waistband of his jeans. Damn bus probably wouldn’t be air-conditioned, just a fan up front for the driver.

It wasn’t a bus. It was a car. A red Mercedes convertible, the top down, the driver flying along at what looked to be a smooth ninety. The exhaust turned the air around the car into a mirage, wavy lines confusing the eyes so reality vied with illusion. Then the car drew closer, became more defined. As did the driver.

A woman. A woman with dark sunglasses, red lips and dark hair whipping and tangling around her face. He could almost feel the pleasure of the wind as he stood in stagnant heat. The idea of seeing a real woman, even if it was just a flash as she passed him on this godforsaken highway, curled its way around his cock and stroked it like the touch of her fingers. With long, wicked nails that might dig into tender flesh just a little. Taking a drag on his cigarette, he savored the vision and waited.

A hundred yards away, she hit the brakes. Hard. Turned the wheel directly for him. The car screamed its fury as a ripple of flame shot out beneath the back tire treads, an impressive pyrotechnic display.

Before he could get a curse out, the car had come to a snorting, quivering halt, blowing hot air and dust across his groin and thighs.

Lifting the cigarette deliberately back to his lips, he took another drag. Held it there a moment so he wouldn’t betray a tremor in his fingers. Son of a bitch, he hadn’t expected that.

He still cared about being alive.

“You trolling for prison dick, Princess?”

One slim brow rose and then so did she, performing a sinuous wriggle to stand up on the cushioned seat of the Mercedes and prop her hips against the head rest.

His cock was going to get hard at any hint of pussy, never mind the feast she was displaying in front of him now. He’d have turned around to see if the guards were falling out of the tower, if he gave a rat’s ass. Or if he didn’t prefer the territory his eyes were covering right now just fine.

Despite the heat that was making his cotton clothes feel like impermeable raingear, this bitch was wearing a black corset, laced so tight his hands would have spanned her waist easily. What was spilling out of the top was much harder to contain. Jayne Mansfield tits, the kind that could suffocate a man and make him die happy. The latex pants were painted on, the thigh-high boots covering them having the effect of zeroing his attention on her crotch, the lips of her cunt distinct and separate under the provocative creases.

When he raised his gaze to her face, he found those lips were indeed red, full and wet. Ready to suck a man’s cock and leave him marked with her makeup like traces of blood. Her eyes were rimmed with black, her lashes thick, completing the Goth look of her attire. A triple-looped chain of silver sunbursts and crescent moon metal discs rode low on her hips, calling attention to the way they cocked against the headrest. She wore gloves up to her elbows. The only flesh visible below her face was her upper arms, the rounded curves of her shoulders, the line of her throat and slim jaw. Plus that tempting expanse of cleavage.

“The only dick I’m trolling for is yours. Nathan.”

His gaze snapped up, focused more intently on her face. “Dona?”

She inclined her head. “You’ve a good memory.”

“Not as good as yours, if you’re here on my release date.”

Not expecting to see a familiar face today, he hadn’t bothered to look past the display of high grade pussy. Now he couldn’t believe he hadn’t recognized her right off, but then she would have tied with a complete stranger as the last person he’d have anticipated showing up for him.

At The Zone, the fetish club she most frequented, she’d had a reputation for being a supreme bitch of a Mistress, able to bring a man to his knees and make him beg for anything. He’d never been able to get this close to her. The few times his gaze had found her through the dim light of the club, she’d been studying him, her dark eyes unreadable. When he’d been in a savage enough mood to try and fuck with the mind of a hardcore Mistress like her, she’d been nowhere to be found. His curiosity had driven him to seek out more information about her. Strangely enough, despite her renown, no one could identify a man who’d served her. No one had been able to offer a firsthand account so he could learn her technique. Her weaknesses.

He dropped the cigarette, ground it out and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, curling his fingers loosely on his thighs on either side of his crotch.

“So if you’re here for my dick, spread yourself on the hood of that Mercedes, baby. I’ll be happy to do you right here.”

She didn’t bat an eyelash, but her gaze coursed smoothly over him, lingering on his groin. “You always were blessed in that area. A nice, thick tool to make a Mistress sigh with pleasure. You had a good body. But prison used those muscles, made them real, didn’t it? It toughened you up good. I like your hair longer, that dangerous glint to those pretty blue eyes. You’re looking like a fine, cool drink of water out here in the hot desert. I’ve a mind to take you somewhere I can enjoy that tool and those muscles at my own pace.”

Her tone was as sultry as the weather. Her eyes, as they lifted back to his, were as relentless as the sun’s heat. He knew she wasn’t inviting him anywhere. Her manner said that if he knew what was good for him, he’d get his ass in the car.

“I’m out of that now.”

“Yeah.” Those lips curved in a mocking smile, her attention dropping back down to his erection pressing against his jeans, a reaction he’d indifferently made more noticeable by the frame of his large hands on either side of it. “I can see that.”

“I’ve seen nothing but ugly bastards with dicks for five years, and you’ve driven up in an outfit that says you’re here to give me some. So stop being a cock tease and offer it. Or fuck off.” He patted his shirt for another cigarette.

“Oh, you’re pushing it, sweet boy. Just begging for punishment, aren’t you?”

His fingers fumbled the pack the moment she said it, a trigger inside him squeezing off, making him even harder. He clamped down on the cigarette with his teeth. Feeling in the narrow confines of a jeans pocket for his lighter, he found he couldn’t get his fingers down there, his organ had gotten so huge.

“Come here.” She crooked a finger at him. It sported a long black glossy nail with a silver star appliqué that flashed, giving the sharp point of the nail the appearance of a scalpel in the glaring sunlight. His lower extremities became even more taut. He was likely going to cream himself just from looking at her.

He didn’t like the way she was looking at him. All proprietary, as though he were a dog she knew wasn’t content unless he was at a Mistress’s heel.

He didn’t want to play this game. He’d planned a simple, uncomplicated fuck with a paid whore, followed by that shave and shower. He just needed to get his uncooperative cock to understand that.

“I’m waiting for the bus.” The fucking bus that should have been here by now.

“Jonathan Powell, on public transportation.” She mocked his gruff tone. “Wouldn’t he rather be seen with a sexy woman in a fast, powerful car? I’ve already set up an appointment for your haircut and manicure. A full shave.” When her attention lowered again, he swore he felt the feathering of those thick lashes stroke his cock from twenty feet away. “Or is he running away because there’s a woman he doesn’t think he can handle?”

Her words taunted him inside the way her voice was doing outside. He perused her thoroughly, resting his attention insolently long on those luscious tits before he gave her a mocking bow.

“What the hell. For a shower and a shave, I guess I’m all yours, Mistress.”

Picking up his bag, he strode to the door of the car on her side and tossed it into the backseat under her intent regard. “Like what you see?”

“I like to study my food before I eat it. It’s called savoring, Nathan.”

“Jonathan. I go by Jonathan. Someone told you wrong at the club.”

“That’s not what you call yourself.”

Before he could circle around to the passenger side, she bent forward, giving him a view of her breasts that made him want to howl like a ravenous wolf. Reaching out, she slid two fingers deep into the recesses of the pocket of his jeans and found his lighter. She retracted it, making him hyperaware of his hard cock only an inch away from her touch. When she got it free, she fired the lighter in a mean line drive across the road so it landed on the asphalt and clattered off into the sand. Plucking his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, she tossed them in the same direction. “I’ll call you whatever I fucking want. You won’t be smoking. You’re my slave, so get your ass in the car. Nathan.”

The anger surged up in him, hot, bloodthirsty. He made no effort to hide it, narrowing his gaze. It was a look other prisoners had learned to respect. She merely waited, those breasts at eye level, dominating his vision. God, she smelled so…female. Perfume. Hair shampoo. Body spray. Powdery female deodorant. He wanted to wallow in those scents, in a woman. He despised himself for needing one like her far more than he needed a vanilla fuck.

Mistresses knew a submissive man’s needs were more complex. He wasn’t a complete whipped candy-ass like other male subs. However, he couldn’t deny fucking with a Domme’s head had taught him pleasure like nothing else had. Her standing there with that “I’m-going-to-work-you-over” smug smile on her face was more than he could resist. So he tried out a smile of his own, one he hadn’t pulled out of his hat in over five years. A smile capable of making a woman wet just from the implication of it. “May I help you back down behind the wheel? Mistress.”

With an amused look that made him feel as if she was scoffing at him, she placed her hand in his. The feel of a woman’s fingers, delicate and smooth, capable of being merciful or merciless, made his hand tighten briefly. While he absorbed his own reaction, she stood still, apparently waiting for his next move, a surprise courtesy. He almost sensed…compassion. As well as a terrible knowledge he didn’t have and didn’t want to know about himself. It raised a need in him so strong he wouldn’t give a name to it. If he hadn’t known that jerking back might unbalance her and make her fall on her ass, depriving him of his ride, he would have done it.

Instead, he steadied his mind and watched her use his weight as a counterbalance to slide back down into the seat. Withdrawing her hand with a nod, she followed him with that same inscrutable look as he circled to the passenger side and got into the car.

“You owe me cigarettes. And a lighter.” He rasped it out of a dry throat.

“No, I don’t. By the end of our time together, Nathan, you’re going to owe me everything.”

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