Make Me, Sir

Cherise Sinclair Make Me, Sir

Masters of the Shadowlands 5

Warning

This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

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Author’s Note

To my readers,

This book is fiction, not reality and, as in most romantic fiction, the romance is compressed into a very, very short time period.

You, my darlings, live in the real world and I want you to take a little more time than the heroines you read about. Good Doms don't grow on trees and there's some strange people out there. So while you're looking for that special Dom, please, be careful.

When you find him, realize he can't read your mind. Yes, frightening as it might be, you're going to have to open up and talk to him. And you listen to him, in return. Share your hopes and fears, what you want from him, what scares you spitless. Okay, he may try to push your boundaries a little-he's a Dom, after all-but you have your safeword. You will have a safeword, am I clear? Use protection. Have a back-up person. Communicate.

Remember: safe, sane and consensual.

Know that I'm hoping you find that special, loving person who will understand your needs and hold you close. Let me know how you're doing. I worry, you know.

Meantime, come and hang out with the Masters of the Shadowlands.

– Cherise

cherisesinclair@sbcglobal.net

Chapter One

Her eyes puffy from crying, mouth set with determination, Gabrielle Renard walked down the hallway of the FBI’s Miami field division, hunting for the correct office. There it was. She stopped and took a careful breath- I can do this-then straightened her shoulders and shoved the door open.

It was a typically bland room with coffee-stained, brown carpeting and off-white walls, and the scent of sweat, coffee, and overly musky cologne sure didn’t help her stomach. A metal desk with a computer occupied the right side. On the left, two men sat at a small conference table, papers strewn across the surface.

One had his back to her, and with dismay, she realized why the cologne smelled familiar. Agent Preston Rhodes. Only three or four inches over her five feet five, the pale, brown-haired creep had the whiny personality-and the morals-of the hyenas in The Lion King. During her one-month stint in Tampa last year, he’d even tried to coerce a victim’s sister into bed.

The other man had black hair and eyes, an olive complexion, and deeply carved lines bracketing his mouth. He frowned at her and asked, “Can I help you?” in a clipped New England accent.

Rhodes turned in his chair and scowled at her. “What are you doing here, Renard?” He glanced at the other man. “She’s a victim specialist with the Miami field office.”

Ignoring him, Gabi spoke to the dark-haired agent. “Are you in charge of the investigation of the women kidnapped in Atlanta?”

Renard glared. “What the-”

The man silenced Renard with a look. “I’m Special Agent Galen Kouros. Why?”

“I want to be one of the decoys.” And you’re going to let me.

“Do you now? Just how did you happen to hear about them?” His icy voice sent an answering chill up her spine. She let her own anger wash through her.

“One of the kidnapped women is a friend, and her mother called me after your visit.” Weeping hysterically, begging for help from Kim’s FBI friend. Gabi had driven to Atlanta for information from Kim’s mom and also the local FBI office. None of it had been good. Gabi looked away, blinking back tears. “I found out another young woman had been kidnapped and shot.”

“The only details released to the news were that a woman had died of a gunshot wound on the freeway. How did you get more?” The agent leaned back in his chair, studying her.

“There are rumors here and there.” Especially in the seething Atlanta field office. Not so easy here. But during her brief stay in Tampa, she’d discovered that one of the secretaries loved to gossip. She’d also told Gabi that Rhodes’s very appropriate nickname was Dickhead.

Kouros pointed to a chair across from Rhodes. “Sit.”

New Englanders could be so brusque. He needed to meet a southern gentleman and learn some civility. But she obediently took a seat.

“Tell me what you know. All of it.”

“A total of four women, including Kim, were kidnapped in Atlanta. All members of BDSM clubs. The last one escaped on a freeway by running out into oncoming traffic. She died of a gunshot wound before the ambulance arrived. But she managed to tell a trucker a few things.” She must have been in agony. Terrified. Gabi swallowed.

“Go on,” Kouros snapped.

“Apparently the kidnapper said more women were to be kidnapped in Tampa.” She frowned. “Um, the last delivery of women is August twenty-ninth, and then they’ll hold a slave auction.” They’ll sell Kim. She gathered her thoughts. “You’re putting female agents as decoys in four Tampa fetish clubs, hoping the kidnapper will target one.” It seemed a little far-fetched. Why would he go after them and not another woman in the club?

“You’re remarkably well-informed.” He hadn’t moved as she talked, his stillness a contrast to Rhodes’s