Page 23 of A Dead Man’s Pulse (Trident Security Omega Team #1)

Chapter Thirteen

L ogan paced back and forth, his nerves on edge, and tried not to bolt from the club. “Man up, Cowboy. You can do this,” he said aloud, thankful no one else was around to hear him talking to himself. “Just fucking chill.”

Roxy was one of the pediatricians in the area who was on-call for when a child was brought into the ER after experiencing a traumatic event.

She was board certified in Neurodevelopmental Psychology, which covered all ages from infancy to geriatrics.

It made her qualified to perform desensitization therapy.

She was also adept in reading the body language of submissives during scenes.

Their first session had been a bit of a surprise for Logan—although he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Trudy had told him they weren’t going to jump right into whipping him, but he hadn’t anticipated what they’d had him do to feel more in control of the situation.

Charlotte and Roxy had set up three of the club’s leather, wingback chairs into a “U” arrangement with Logan sitting between them.

A small, empty side table had sat across from him.

For the first half hour, they’d joked with him, listened as he told them what he could about his ordeal, and gave him word and image associations, so he had something else to think about instead of a damn whip.

Then, he’d been instructed to close his eyes and find “a happy place.” Yeah, they’d actually used those words, making him chuckle.

He’d heard someone moving around as he thought of being with Dakota on a deserted island somewhere.

He hadn’t intended for her to be in his happy place—she’d just appeared.

Roxy had asked him to describe what he was feeling, and he told her about the warmth of the sun on his back, the sand between his toes, and the aroma of the suntan lotion Dakota was letting him spread over her body.

Well, actually, he’d left that last part out.

When he’d opened his eyes again, the table was no longer empty.

A black, leather whip had been sitting in the middle of it, coiled like a cobra waiting to strike.

As he’d stared at it, he was asked to describe what he saw and what it could be used for other than the obvious. That had made him think.

A rope to restrain someone.

Tie it to a tree limb and swing like Tarzan.

Shibari.

That last idea had made him think of Dakota with dozens of single-tailed whips wrapped around her naked body, bound for his pleasure . . . and hers. Yeah, he’d liked that image the best.

The next thing they’d had him do, after Charlotte had picked up the whip’s handle, letting the rest of the braided leather fall to the ground, had been to wrap his hand around hers, then direct their combined hands to run the leather up and down his arms and legs, and in between his fingers.

Every few moments, the Domme had pulled her hand out a little further from under his until she was no longer holding the whip .

. . it had been in Logan’s hand alone. Once he’d felt comfortable holding it, Roxy had held up her cell phone.

“I have a recording of a whip cracking. You’ll hear nothing else. ”

The first crack had caused the blood to drain from his face, and bile had risen in his throat as he’d flinched.

The recording was immediately turned off, and he’d been instructed to go to his happy place.

The method to their madness was to give him something pleasurable to think about instead of the horror he’d gone through.

He was learning to associate the loud crack with Dakota’s beautiful body, instead of his buddies’ tortured ones.

Each session had been run the same way, and he’d nearly jumped out of his skin when the recording began, having a few moments of panic and hyperventilation, but the two Dommes knew their business. They’d monitored his reactions and turned off the recording until he settled again.

The third day, Charlotte hadn’t been able to make the session, after being called by the police about one of her parolees they were looking to rearrest on new charges, so it had just been Logan and Roxy.

The doctor had shown him how to wield the whip, which gave him more and more control over the inanimate object and its destructive grip on him and his sanity.

In fact, he’d been the only person all week to make the leather crack during the sessions up to that point.

Roxy had demonstrated how to flick his wrist to make the leather sing as it arced through the air.

At first, he’d only let the last two inches of the whip fly.

He’d even flicked it against his arm, feeling the light sting.

As the session moved along, he let more and more of the whip sail through the air, until he’d finally been holding the handle, letting the entire length snap with only the slightest movement of his wrist.

Today, however, was D-Day, so to speak, and he hoped like hell he didn’t freak out again or puke all over the place.

Today, he’d take off his shirt, and while one of the Dommes watched his reactions closely, the other would slash the whip across his back.

He’d watched them practice yesterday and knew from his research they never broke the skin.

They usually trained using a piece of paper taped to a wall or a St. Andrew’s cross, but yesterday, they’d taken it one step further.

Before heading to the airport to return to California, Donovan had met them in the early morning hours.

He’d removed his shirt, stood face first against the large, centerpiece cross, which had been pushed to the far end of the stage, and reached up, grasping the loops of the cross’s Velcro restraints.

While China lit up Donovan’s back with the whip, Logan had sat in a chair, with Roxy at his side, her hand laying on his arm in comfort.

She’d spoken to him in that soothing voice most doctors and shrinks seemed to have, keeping him in the present and in Tampa.

He’d been amazed at how quickly Donovan had relaxed into the sting of the tail which had left red stripes on his unbroken skin.

One would think the muscular, six-foot-five man had been receiving a half-hour back massage instead.

When it was over, the petite Domme, who was about a foot shorter than the Dom, had helped him to a chair they’d placed on the stage and given him a bottle of water to rehydrate, while she applied Arnica ointment to his back.

Instead of screaming in pain, Donovan appeared stoned for a bit until he’d recovered from what Logan had been told was subspace—basically the guy had been high on the endorphins swimming through his system.

“You sure you’re ready for this, Cowboy?” Charlotte had loved his nickname and used it more often than his real name.

“I hope so.” There was no mistaking the nervousness in his voice.

The auburn-haired Roxy stopped in front of him, her expression soft with understanding. “We don’t have to do it today. You can practice with the whip some more if you’re not ready to experience it.”

“And waste a sleepless night trying to psych myself up for it? Nope, let’s get this over with, so I can eat something without throwing up.”

The women laughed at his words even though they knew he was only half joking.

Logan followed them down the wide staircase to the pit and over to the stage.

He lifted the chair Donovan had sat in the day before back up onto the raised platform as the two Dommes put down their purses and prepared everything else.

He’d been doing tons of research on the BDSM lifestyle, since being assigned to the case—some of it on the computer, but a lot of it had been during the long stakeout shifts he’d been working with Dakota.

She had been great, answering all his questions.

And, damn, just the thought of her had his dick stirring again .

. . not something he’d expect to happen moments before he’d be getting whipped, but the female cop did something for him he couldn’t explain.

As much as he wanted her in his bed, he’d enjoyed getting to know her on a professional and personal level.

The latter wasn’t as personal as he hoped, but she’d opened up to him about her background and family a little bit, after he’d offered some of his own history, sans his last tour in the sandbox.

Next week, things would change between them again as they entered Heat together as a D/s couple—there would be intimate touching going on as part of their cover.

As Roxy and Charlotte climbed the two steps to the stage, Logan’s heart began to pound and he began to sweat, even though the temperature in the club was at a comfortable level . . . cool, even.

The two women had agreed Charlotte would man the whip while Roxy would observe his responses. He knew all he had to do was shout the word “red,” and they’d immediately stop the scene and begin aftercare, but his legs still shook.

“Cowboy.” He turned toward Charlotte when she said his name in a tender, yet firm voice. “What you’re feeling is normal . . .”

Damn, I must have wimp written across my forehead.

“. . . and it doesn’t mean you’re a wimp or anything. Far from it.”

What the fuck? She can read my mind?

“Go to your happy place and start singing ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer,’ either out loud or in your head. Channel Clutch and the others. They’re double-dog-daring you to do this, and you’ll be damned if you lose a bet to them.”

During their earlier sessions, he’d told them about his teammates, but not about how they’d been murdered.

No. Instead, he’d told them what a great bunch of guys his friends had been, all the practical jokes they played on each other, and the mudslinging that always happened when they were busting each other’s chops over one thing or another.

He’d also mentioned how he’d sung that ridiculous song to screw with his captors.