Risk & Reward

By Jenni Michaels

Matthew Bryson spends his days working quietly and wishing for a chance to explore another side of himself. When he gathers the nerve to post on a BDSM message board, Matthew meets Evan Haynes, a Dom recently removed from the scene after a messy break-up with his boyfriend/sub.

Evan and Matthew enter into a tentative D/s relationship, but only Matthew receives gratification. Still shaken from his experience, Evan refuses sexual reciprocation from Matthew, afraid he’ll grow too close. While Evan is the perfect Dom to satisfy Matthew’s needs, he finds it harder than he anticipated to keep Matthew at a distance, and it eventually becomes more than he can bear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
• Release date: Jul 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781627988025

Book preview

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Chapter One

OF ALL the half-formed thoughts pinging around Matthew Bryson’s head like so many pinballs as he stared at his computer screen, the only one that seemed to be formed of actual words was: I should hire a decorator.

It was a stupid thought to have, and Matthew knew it was a stupid thought to have as soon as it floated into his head, but he latched onto it with desperate fingers anyway, going so far as to stand up and wander around his apartment, cataloging all the reasons he needed a decorator.

The apartment was small and beige and filled with the sort of bland and ordinary features one expected from a cookie-cutter apartment just on the edge of the nice part of the city. There was a tiny kitchen he rarely used and an enormous fridge filled with frozen meals that he used quite frequently. Attached to the kitchen was a long living room filled with comfortable beige couches and beige carpeting, and down the hall were two bedrooms. One held his bed, his dresser, and a wingback chair he’d been given by his mother for no reason he could determine, and the other was full of unpacked boxes and frames without pictures. Matthew had vague plans to turn it into an office one day, whenever he got around to it. There were two and a half bathrooms, and why he needed more bathrooms than bedrooms was a question he’d asked his Realtor, but she’d just given him a pat on the shoulder and handed him the lease. That had been two years ago, and Matthew still wasn’t sure how to go about filling up the space.

A decorator. Matthew nodded and turned in a slow circle. To decorate.

He slid back onto the stool at his kitchen counter, reaching for his computer to pull up a search for local decorators, but his browser was still open to his in-box, and he sat, frozen, staring at the message.

He ought to delete it. He should delete it and never think of it again. Hell, he probably should never have sent his own message to begin with. But he wasn’t going to do any of those things. He knew it as clearly as he knew up from down. He wasn’t going to delete it, not now. Not when he’d finally found the courage to seek out what he wanted. What he’d wanted for as long as he could remember.

Hi, M. I saw your message on the boards. I’m local to you. I’m not in the scene or anything, not a professional Dom, just a guy who likes the same thing you do. What are you looking for?

E.

Matthew bit down on his bottom lip, his finger hovering over the delete button. Not a professional, the guy had written. Was that a good thing or a bad? Hell, were there even professional Doms around here? And what did that entail? Was offering up your services to dominate someone in bed even a legal profession?

Oh my God, Matthew said, slamming his laptop shut and scuttling away from it. He dropped his head into his hands and tried to focus on breathing.

This wasn’t happening. There was no way this was happening. He hadn’t posted on a BDSM message board that he was looking for someone to teach him the ropes, as it were, and he hadn’t gotten a reply from someone called E., and this whole thing just was not happening.

Because things like this—BDSM chat boards, mysterious e-mails from people Matthew didn’t know—those things didn’t happen to people like Matthew.

Burnt waffles and misplaced dry cleaning, those happened to Matthew. Student loans and a boss who always smelled like his wife’s perfume, those things happened to Matthew. Blinds that needed cleaning. A washing machine that seemed to eat socks. It was the way his life always had been—just this side of ordinary, a shade before boring, both feet on the ground at all times—and it was the way his life would continue to be.

I’m going to do some work, Matthew announced to the empty apartment. And when I’m done, this whole thing will all have been a dream. Right? Right.

He carried his computer into the living room and set it up on the coffee table, spread out some files, and folded himself down on the floor. The carpet was soft under Matthew’s bare feet as he slid them under the table.

Numbers. Let’s look at some numbers.

For half an hour, he stared at the same file, and when he couldn’t stare at it any longer, he clicked back over to his e-mail, where the message was every bit as real as it had been before.

What are you looking for?

And that really was the question, wasn’t it? Matthew had no idea how to answer it. It had taken every ounce of his courage to post his introductory message on the Males Seeking Males section of the chat board to begin with—all of his courage and a third of a bottle of rum. He’d felt a little pathetic when he’d done it, but how the hell else was he supposed to find someone who would be willing to help him figure it all out? You couldn’t very well bring someone home from a bar and surprise him with handcuffs and a whip, could you? And he needed to know. It had been a thought lingering around the hazy corners of his consciousness for as long as he could remember. Every time he went to bed with someone who dug their fingernails into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks or nipped just a little too hard at his hip, he’d surged up into it, even though he knew he should push back, should say no, this far, but no farther. It was what was safe… what was expected.

It was a puzzle he didn’t have all the pieces to. And he was sick of it. He was sick of not knowing.

I’m not sure, he typed back. Like I said, I’m brand new. I have questions and—I just want to know. Once and for all. I just want to figure out who I am. I don’t know how else to figure it out.

No sooner had he returned from grabbing a bottle of water than his computer dinged and an e-mail popped up in his in-box. Heart racing, Matthew squatted down and clicked on the message.

I understand. It can be really complicated. Are you looking for someone to talk to, someone to answer your questions? Or are you looking for a more hands-on arrangement?

It seemed so simple, really, when he was just typing it out. Fingers flying over the keyboard like every other day of his life. Only after he hit the send button did he look at his message and understand what he was asking for.

Hands-on. I don’t know how else I’ll be sure.

There was plenty to occupy his time that evening as he wandered around his apartment, picking things up and putting them down in different places. Matthew just couldn’t seem to settle on any of it. He watched a few shows he’d been saving on his DVR, managed a bit of work, and made a shopping list that included something besides frozen pizza and bagels, though the lettuce would just wilt and the carrots would probably be hard and dried-up by the time he remembered they were wasting away in the crisper. His empty in-box taunted him, and though he tried not to check his e-mail more than once every hour, he gave up on it as the sun slipped behind the glass-and-metal high-rises to the west. Abandoning any sense of respectability, Matthew carried his laptop to bed with him, where he stripped down to his boxers and found his copy of The Brain That Wouldn’t Die on his hard drive.

This is how you spend your Saturday night, he said, pulling the covers over his lap and settling back into his pillows. No fucking wonder, Matthew.

He idly watched the film, having seen it too many times to be either amused or horrified, and let his mind wander. How was it possible he’d scared this guy off in the span of seven minutes? He hadn’t even sent a picture. Hell, this guy didn’t even know his name. That had to be some kind of record.

It was with that thought that he drifted off to sleep, computer perched precariously on his lap, and it was with that thought that he jerked awake when his in-box chimed, signaling a new message.

I’m not sure how to do this. Should we meet?

I can send you my picture?

 Oh crap, Matthew whispered. He stared at the message, trying to keep his heart from pounding right out of his chest. Crap.

Half-asleep and too out of it to