Chains and Canes

By Katie Porter

Wealthy businessman Daniel Baker doesn’t have a creative bone in his body, but he knows art and craves beauty. Contemporary dancer Naya Ortiz, his fiancée of three years, embodies both. His protective commitment to her happiness extends to hiring Dominas to satisfy the sexual masochism she craves.

The balance of their relationship is tipped when Naya dances with reckless Cajun choreographer Remy Lomand. His magnetism as a Dom carries over to a backstage encounter that leaves Naya breathless—and Daniel unable to look away.

Remy knows the deal. The fancy people want to play with a disposable boy toy. He’s fine with that…but not with letting Daniel remain a bystander. As their sessions intensify, Remy guides Daniel’s awakening as a sexual submissive. Their no-strings threesome reveals the physical connection Daniel and Naya have lacked—and the emotional depth Remy fears.

When Remy and Naya tirelessly work to found a professional dance company, Daniel is left on the outside looking in. And although he and Naya are ready to submit to Remy for the rest of their lives, the man they call Sir may not want their love at all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094453026

Katie Porter

Katie Porter is the award-winning writing partnership of Lorelie Brown and Carrie Lofty, which began in 2010. Both are multi-published in several romance genres, and both are RITA-nominated. U.S. Army veteran Lorelie is a law student, true-crime devotee, and avid knitter. With an MA in history, Carrie is a tutor and textbook editor who loves movies and backcountry hiking. They live in the Chicago area.

Book preview

1

S he’s a star, you know.

Daniel Baker looked up from the portfolio of accounting reports he’d been in the middle of presenting to Declan Shaw. Declan took all business appointments in his spare, elegant apartment rooms above his pride and joy, Club Devant. Chelsea had never seen a nightclub as innovative and professionally respected as Devant, even as its dancers entertained patrons each night with a spicy mix of burlesque and Broadway.

One wall of Declan’s apartment was wired floor to ceiling with nearly two dozen flat-screen TVs. The club’s signs, You are being watched, were no joke. Declan kept a very, very close eye on what went on in every corner of Club Devant.

At the moment, he was staring at the largest screen at the array’s center. Daniel stared too. He’d never been able to look away from Naya when she danced.

I’ve been telling her that for years. He smiled tightly. I’ve also been telling you that if she ever set foot in your club, you might as well send all the other girls home.

Declan watched with an astute eye as Naya Ortiz practiced a jazz-funk number. This isn’t her forte, is it?

Contemporary and Latin.

Not sure it matters. She’s got this one down cold.

Daniel stood from the desk covered with proof that Club Devant, after a bit of a financial dip, was on its way up. It helped that Declan had picked up the incredibly popular pairing of Lizzie and Dima. "She’s a natural. Picks up just about anything. The chorus at Sweet Charity was rubbing the shine off her. About time she spread her wings."

What kept her there so long? Declan leaned back on his sofa, arms stretched along the back. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

Her.

Daniel watched his fiancée of three years as she clicked off another trio of intricate steps. Her feet moved like lightning—an echo of the Latin dance she’d been exposed to from a toddler onward, raised in a modest Puerto Rican neighborhood in Brooklyn. It hadn’t taken her parents long to realize she was pure potential. Dance classes had followed, as well as a private arts high school.

No matter her training, she never lost her smile and playful sensuality. That combination of skill, humor and breathless sex appeal shielded a core-deep layer of vulnerability. Daniel had been caught by surprise within moments of their first meeting.

He loved her.

She’s talented. He turned to Declan when Naya had finished her rehearsal on the club’s main floor. And yes, she can be a star. It’s a matter of her learning that. She’s been in one chorus or another for as long as I’ve known her. That she’s here at all has taken months of persuasion.

You did good. Declan stood. With the flick of a button on a deceptively simple remote control, all of the screens went black. If she can survive Remy and his choreography, she’s hired. That’s a big if.

Through his undergrad years, and as he’d earned his MBA, Daniel had parlayed his brother Louis’s brilliant tech innovation into a multimillion-dollar company. Daniel continued to use a sizable portion of his income to combine his first love—the arts—with the satisfaction he’d found in helping Louis make the most of his talents. Daniel had believed in his brother when no one else had, just as he believed in Declan and Club Devant. He enjoyed focusing his resources and dedication on those who made the world a more beautiful place.

Naya was such a person, but so was Declan, who dreamed of a club that combined class with sexy innovation.

Daniel appraised the man who, across almost ten years of association in the arts community, had become a close friend.

I told you, she already has the job. Be stubborn if you want. Just leaves me the opportunity to say I told you so. He nodded toward the spreadsheets and one particularly unsettling notice of late payment to the alcohol distributor. But back to business, yeah?

"Business is your specialty, Declan said, slapping him on the back. I’m sure things are fine."

They must make an odd-looking pair, with Daniel in his Dolce & Gabbana wool suit and Declan in a pair of leather pants and a sheer red short-sleeved Henley. Daniel had always liked the contrast. He could walk among the most eccentric, gifted artists in the world, mostly because, like Declan Shaw, few knew a damn thing about managing their brands, their finances, their fiscal futures. They needed him, but they never seemed to realize how much he needed them—their vitality and pure creative energy.

Daniel’s life would be a gray, pathetic little thing without their color, which was why he worked so hard on risky ventures his business colleagues could never understand.

Declan, this is serious.

Maybe his tone of voice broke through Declan’s studied disinterest. The skin around his ice-blue eyes tightened, and his mouth compressed. Although forty, only five years Daniel’s senior, the Irishman sported close-cropped hair almost entirely silver. It made him appear debonair rather than old. That didn’t mean age had brought wisdom. He had been a brilliant dancer and remained a respected choreographer with a keen eye for talent.

If Club Devant failed…

No. He wouldn’t let that happen. Although Daniel didn’t have a creative bone in his body, he knew what he liked. Knew what moved him. He did his best to apply plain ol’ business acumen to promoting the world’s treasures. Keeping them safe.

Club Devant was such a treasure.

I know things have been shaky, Declan said quietly. We’ll figure out… The upturn will stick.

Daniel sighed. It was the best he could do for now, just like convincing Naya to audition for a place at Devant was the best he could do with her. Her deeper desire, to lead a dance company of her own one day—Daniel hadn’t brought that up in over a year. Baby steps, he repeated to himself, despite the constant kick of frustration. He’d never known anyone so tenacious and gutsy who also harbored a streak of self-doubt as wide as Times Square.

Besides. After stepping into the hall, Declan locked the apartment door behind him. If you want to take on a hard case, try Remy. I’m nothing compared to our resident train wreck.

How do you mean?

Let’s just say that when I took him on as the club’s choreographer, he didn’t have an address to fill in on his W-2s. He had a black eye, and the strap of his duffel was patched with duct tape. For two months, he took his pay in cash.

Why chance offering him a contract?

Somewhere between Louisiana and my doorstep, he graduated from a performing arts high school. A scholarship student like Naya. A year later, what I know about him boils down to how he moves and who he fucks. Declan grinned. Believe me, we’ll be cheating ourselves out of something incredible if we miss your girl dancing with him.

Daniel gave himself a mental shake. Sure.

A hallway separated his private quarters from a line of three rehearsal rooms, all of which were in use. A blare of Latin music from one made Declan smile. You could always blame Lizzie and Dima for driving me to ruin.

Glad to be rid of his momentary muddle, Daniel laughed. They bring in three times what you pay them, and you know it. Hiring a pair of ballroom world champs was the best decision you’ve made in years.

And they’re fun to watch.

Unless you mean on stage, I’ll have to take your word for it. You’re like a perverted leprechaun.

Declan flashed a smile over his shoulder as they descended to the club’s public face: the main floor. Pervert I’ll stand for. Leprechaun, though? Come now, Daniel. You can do better than that.

Maybe he could’ve, but not when he caught sight of the performance stage. Black, sleek flooring was bordered by red velvet curtains and the glare of gold, red and blue lights. What looked like a fashion runway bisected clusters of tables. All were empty except for a few female dancers either waiting their turn to audition or hoping their performances were enough to land a spot on the club’s regular roster.

They could all pack up and go home.

Because Naya, his angel, really was a star. He hadn’t been exaggerating. When she finally believed that, she’d set the sky on fire.

Unlike the other dancers who wore skimpy tap pants and all manner of flashy sports tops, Naya never fell back on her wardrobe—or even her astonishing body—to earn her place. She took too much pride in her professionalism. That meant a pair of black Lycra leggings and a form-fitting T-shirt.

She saved skin for performances, for Daniel and for the Dominas they hired to satisfy Naya’s need for the release caused by intense pain. She was a masochist. He was no sadist. Yet their relationship was as loving and as trusting as any on the planet. How else could they have learned ways to gratify her extreme desires, rather than fret about how Daniel couldn’t satisfy them?

He stopped cold.

Having already shown off her audition solo, Naya stood waiting for the music. She stared down the man opposite her on stage—and lowered her eyes.

The man was Remy Lomand.

Naya’s gesture of submission was one Daniel had only seen within the safe confines of their bedroom, when she offered her back and ass for a skilled woman to abuse.

Daniel managed to find a seat at one of the rear tables close to the bar. His fingertips had gone numb. His body was on full alert, although he couldn’t have pinpointed the source had the stakes been his next breath.

Naya’s eyes snapped up. All submission gone, she silently clashed with the choreographer.

We should sit up front, Declan said with a puzzled frown. My table? Best view?

The music started. Daniel waved him off. Forget Declan’s VIP seats and his wall of flat screens. This was the real thing, and Daniel was entranced.

His angel was dancing with the devil himself—a Cajun devil who moved with the grace of a predator. The routine he’d choreographed for the paired half of the audition was almost kitschy. It offered no apology for being rude and raunchy. It was purely, beautifully filthy.

Lungs hot, blood pumping, Daniel loosened his tie before placing his palms flat on the red-lacquered table. He’d seen Naya sweet, fiery, cheeky, even sultry. He’d never seen her so outrageously sexy. At least not while she danced.

Remy caught her wrists and thrust their arms straight overhead. They were close enough to share a kiss. But Remy didn’t kiss. Daniel jumped in his seat when the man bit. After catching Naya’s lower lip between his teeth, Remy fashioned a satisfied smile.

Well, well. Declan still stood next to where Daniel struggled for air. That wasn’t part of the choreography.

Was that a good thing? A bad thing?

Can’t tell. Doesn’t matter.

Their onstage fight continued. Naya slid free of Remy’s possessive hold. With hips still clad in plain black Lycra, her supermodel strut pounded out a bam, bam, bam beat. Her body said come and get it. Far be it for a predator to refuse. Remy wiped his brow as if to rid his skin of sweat. Paired with a sly expression, he pantomimed what Daniel already knew: it’s hot in here.

Remy was strong and lithe. Built for dance. Ragged jeans barely clung to his hips. Only when he lifted his arms, or when Naya clutched at his black tank top, did he offer glimpses of toned v-lines that angled below the loose denim waistband. His near-black hair was smashed into some cross between bedhead and a mohawk he’d let grow too long between haircuts. A good half foot taller than Naya, he was even more commanding when he moved.

With sharp intent, he caught up with her on the left edge of the stage. All power and blunt seduction, he pressed his groin to her ass. She bent low from the waist, swished her dark hair and grinned when he grabbed a hunk in his fist. He tugged upright.

A smack on her ass. A bite on her neck.

They fed off one another. Naya twisted out of Remy’s arms and executed two perfect pirouettes before dropping to her knees. He stood over her and grabbed her shoulders. He pulled. She rose. They melted together until their lips tempted fate one more time.

Kiss her. Bite her. Smack her again.

Daniel’s neck flared hot as if scorched by a blowtorch.

Naya slapped Remy’s cheek. They shared a salacious grin. Then boom—two counts later, they jumped into a pattern of steps that straddled the line between hip-hop and salsa. They matched every pulse, every nuance. The perfect synchronization dared the audience to decide which parts of the performance had been improv and which had been planned for maximum effect.

Still didn’t matter.

Daniel couldn’t tear his gaze away. He’d watched Naya dance since before they were a couple, almost four years previous. This marked the first time he was frustrated that he couldn’t watch both partners equally. He’d never wanted to devote as much attention to the male dancer.

What the fuck am I watching?

Daniel let the performance wash over him. Hips and hands and music and sex and wanting them to take it further. The pair wound up on the floor, with Naya stretched long and lean beneath where Remy straddled her waist. Daniel had never been possessive of how she moved when she danced, even with other men. She was his angel, and he loved knowing such a rapturous woman belonged to him.

But at that moment…

In front of everyone, under garish lights on a stage of sleek black, he wanted Remy to strip her. Control her. Hurt her.

She wants it so much, and I can’t give it to her.

Remy cradled her skull and pulled her into a half-seated position. His muscular thighs still straddled her waist. The music slammed to quiet. They held the pose as all but one light winked out.

Both of them breathed so fiercely that Daniel could see their chests rise and fall—could practically hear them sharing the same oxygen. In the shadows, Remy slid a lock of hair back from her forehead.

Then they were standing, in perfect position to take a bow. The houselights came up.

Dancers and bodyguards and a few early bartenders were their only audience, but the pair earned well-deserved applause. A few of the women began to pack up their duffels.

Declan turned. His mouth quirked. You were right. She’s hired.

Toldja. Daniel managed the reply, although his throat was parched and his cock was thick, throbbing, greedy.

I’ll get you a drink, Declan said, his smile deepening. And a copy of the video.

2

Naya Ortiz had danced with countless male partners since she’d turned fourteen, the year a boy from the Ukraine enrolled in her great aunt’s dance studio in South Brooklyn. Kolya had been his name. He’d certainly learned to lift. Sometimes she’d teased him that he was the students’ own version of Coney Island’s Cyclone. Twenty girls waited in line for their turn to get thrown skyward and spun in circles.

She felt that way now. Remy Lomand’s audition choreography hadn’t included any lifts, but he might as well have plunged her into a spiral drop.

He held her hand as he led her stage left. In the dark behind the thick scarlet curtains, he pushed her against the nearest wall, front to front, as if they were still on stage.

We’re not dancing anymore, she said, hands on his shoulders. You have other girls waiting.

Don’t want no other girls.

Naya couldn’t hide a shudder that scared the holy hell out of her. She was engaged. Daniel was somewhere in the club right that moment. If he had any idea how that dance had affected her… He was a generous man. Powerful and patient and so fucking sexy. Sure, they’d tested limits. Once they’d included another man.

A total disaster.

That guy had wasted two hours trying to turn her on. Remy Lomand had needed less than two minutes. Jesús Cristo. Again she was thinking of roller coasters and rides she didn’t want to end.

I’m sure you have other dancers to audition. She had endurance like an Olympic swimmer. After all, Broadway demanded resilience. But her words were breathy and out of step with her thoughts.

Remy’s hands had slid to her hips as if they belonged there, even after the music stopped. Auditions are over, girl. What’s your name again?

Naya Ortiz.

Well, Mademoiselle Ortiz, you just embarrassed the competition and made me the envy of every poor shit here. He grinned. They were concealed in shadows, but that flash of white teeth was unmistakable. That might include some of the gay boys.

So you’re not gay?

He pushed her hair back from her neck. His soft exhales dove down inside of her. Rather than feathering across her skin, the feeling was deep and concentrated. He kissed her where goose bumps tickled her throat. She could feel his smile. I take what I can get, darlin’. Right now, that’s you.

Naya laughed. Outright laughed.

He jerked back as if she’d decided to reenact the improvised slap from their dance.

Way to make a girl feel special, she said, still feeling effervescent and airy. You deserve every bit of the annoyance on your face. She ducked under his arm. If I’m hired, I want to hear it from Mr. Shaw.

He does what I tell him.

I doubt that.

She was walking away, smiling, feeling bright as a soap bubble in the sunshine, when he caught her around the waist. Spun. Pressed flush. This time he didn’t work with slow brushes of lips against skin. He caught two tangled handfuls of hair and twisted.

Naya gasped.

Dangerous.

That was the most coherent thought she could conjure when he began to push her, slowly, with firm intent, toward the floor. Her loose, damp hair became his tool as her knees folded under the rush of submission. She sank into the sensation of it, the rightness, as rational thought was replaced by almost joyous excitement. Dimly she registered the press of hardwood against her kneecaps, but most of her senses—most of her world—focused on the intent way Remy Lomand stared down at her.

She’d barely had the chance to look at him before her audition. Just a general assessment: great arms, sloppy dresser, fuck-worthy Cajun accent. The shadowy backstage accentuated the hollows beneath his cheekbones, his lower lip and the graceful sweep of his brows, one of which was pierced by a silver bar. A swatch of bright light caught the line of his jaw where bristling stubble was a shade lighter than his nearly black hair.

When it comes to which dancers to hire, he does what I tell him. I’m through with girls who won’t listen. That slippery-smooth accent was like hot honey. It should’ve been sweet and slow, but Naya burned with every syllable. "You’d listen, chère. He tightened his grip on her hair, even giving her head a little shake. Wouldn’t you?"

Naya was spinning and lost and oh, damn. So fucked. He’d needed one dance to learn what a few boyfriends had never discovered. He’d needed one dance to learn what had taken her four months to discuss with Daniel.

After another fierce tug, he laid one hand flat against her cheek. And if you didn’t listen, my slap would land right there.

He smiled at her soft moan, and she felt it happening—that moment when she gave up on being here. No matter what they’d tried, she and Daniel had never found that moment together. It should’ve been so simple. Step one, a little rough treatment. Step two, get her on her knees. Step three…

Make me beg and scream.

He’d wanted to make her happy, but he could never bring himself to be the one to hurt her. They left that to the professionals. It was enough.

She and Remy wouldn’t make it to step three, not backstage—although he appeared a breath away from making it happen whether she wanted him to or not. Even thinking that was enough to drag another little moan from her throat.

He hauled her up and held her to his chest when she staggered. Against her mouth he whispered, We’re gonna have fun. I can tell.

I’m a dancer. She pushed away, less steady this time. But she was angry. "I’m done right now if you’re going to pull that macho mierda with me again."

Here or after hours? His grin was either the most enticing or the most maddening thing she’d ever seen.

Despite knees that felt like chocolate left in the sun, Naya preferred the risk of falling. To stay within his orbit was far riskier.

She breathed in, breathed out, and found some measure of balance by the time she returned to the club’s main floor. In four hours, the place would be packed with patrons. Now it was bare of all but the staff. Disappointed dancers straggled out the door, while a few arrived for the night’s performances.

Remy had been right. The auditions really were over. Had the decision been that clear? She’d felt like she was dancing with a live flame, so maybe that was her answer. She’d seen the best dancers in the world look like wet toast on stage, and she’d seen her untrained aunts and uncles throw sparks off one another at huge Puerto Rican family weddings. That sort of chemistry couldn’t be manufactured.

Except what Remy had tried backstage made her wonder if she should consider the job at all. Daniel had wanted her to branch out and take chances. That didn’t include dropping to her knees at the first hint of a dominant personality.

Her cheeks were hot. She couldn’t see straight—not from passion this time, but from embarrassment.

Daniel.

The man she loved. The man who’d believed in her for years, especially when her own confidence lagged far behind.

He was sitting at a table toward the back of the seating area. An individual bottle of Perrier was open in front of him. She walked closer, feeling like her skin was cellophane. He’d see right through her and know what she’d done in the moments between taking a bow and emerging on the main floor.

Come sit, he said quietly.

There. That was his authoritative voice. That was a voice to make men shake with fear—the deep, rumbling power she longed to hear when they made love. He was the money maestro. The marketing miracle worker. He was the man who’d transformed a tiny business housed in a working-class Baltimore garage into a multinational phenomenon.

Daniel Baker was authority in a three-piece suit. It just never translated to the kinky side of their sex life. They’d tried over and over to make that leap, but the gulf between his protective adoration and her craving for pain was too wide.

Naya made to pull a chair out and sit beside him, but he urged her down onto his lap.

She inhaled sharply. She caught his chin and looked straight into his clear eyes. Daniel. You have something to tell me?

You know I’ve always liked watching you dance.

Shifting slightly, she enticed a groan from his stiff lips. Stiff, like his cock. No wonder he hadn’t stood to greet her. He was as hard as metal, as hot as bright-red coals. She kissed him softly, then licked until he opened and drew her tongue inside. He palmed her ass and adjusted her body so that she straddled his lap. Cock to pussy. Mouth to eager mouth. They combusted as if they were back in third-date, gonna-get-laid-tonight territory.

You got the job, by the way.

Naya jerked her head and found Declan Shaw standing just behind Daniel. Arms crossed, he was smiling in a gently smug way.

She tried to