Made to Order by Brigham Vaughn
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I have been wanting to write Donovan and Tyler’s story since they appeared in Three Shots. I adored their antagonistic encounters and knew there was a great story lurking there.
Thank you to Helena Stone, DJ Jamison, and Allison Hickman for your excellent beta feedback. I appreciate you all so much. Thank you also to Rebecca for her fantastic edits, and Rebecca, Melissa, and Julie for their amazing proofreading. I couldn’t do this without all of you!
Although I always strive to tell realistic and accurate stories to the best of my ability, BDSM is both complicated and dangerous and this is a fictional portrayal of the dynamic. If you are interested in exploring kink, do your research and reach out to knowledgeable and trusted people with experience before diving in. This is not meant to be a How To.
Thank you to DJ Jamison for coming up with the brilliant title (seriously don’t know what I’d do without you), and all of WBs for the endless brainstorming and feedback. You’re the best!
As always, a big thank you to all of you readers who make this possible. I couldn’t do it without you either!
I have a lot of new and exciting plans in the works after this, so if you’d liked to keep up with them, please sign up for my newsletter or join my reader group.
Happy Reading!
ONE
“Have you found any new men to tie up lately, honey?”
Donovan Ryan rubbed his forehead. “Grandma June, can we not discuss my love life? Please.” This was not the first time they’d had this discussion, nor would it be the last, he suspected. June Frazier was the sweetest, loveliest human being on the planet. But she had no filter whatsoever.
“I just worry about you.” She took a seat at the table across from him in her sunny yellow kitchen, a gentle frown wrinkling her skin.
“You’re worried your grandson isn’t getting kinky enough?”
She shrugged, the bangles on her arms clanking musically. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a perfectly normal part of life and sexual expression. I just want you to be happy.”
“I know that. And appreciate that you’ve always been so supportive. But do we have to talk about it?”
“Pffft. Your grandfather and I—”
“And you can stop right there,” Donovan said with a chagrined smile. “I am thrilled and delighted that you and Grandpa had an amazing sex life together, but I do not need to know the details.”
“Fine. But my question still stands. Have you met anyone?”
“I haven’t.” He nibbled on a lemon shortbread, enjoying the sweet-tart hint of sugary zest in the midst of all the buttery richness. “I work all the time.”
“I know you do.” Her frown deepened. “I don’t like that. You should get out more.”
These days, Donovan’s grandmother had a much more active social life than he did. She was the one out with her friends most days of the week. Despite her age of seventy-eight, she was spry and mentally sharp. She still drove, and so far, he hadn’t seen any issues with her reflexes slowing, thanks to the yoga and Zumba classes she attended at the studio downtown. He was convinced that one of these days, he’d have the wrestle the car keys out of her hand. She’d probably be 103 before it happened, but for now, she was healthy, active, and a social butterfly.
“You know I love the restaurant,” he protested.
“Yes.” She smiled proudly at him. “And I couldn’t be more pleased you’re executive chef at the Hawk Point Tavern now. Not to cast aspersions on Frank, but the man only knew one technique: frying.”
“They only had the bar side open then and he was a fry cook. He did his best.”
The owner of the tavern, Rachael Bradford, had inherited the business from her father, David. Apparently, at the time of David’s death, it had been a nice little bar. David’s dreams to expand from bar food into a full sit-down restaurant had gone unfulfilled until a few years ago, when Donovan came on board.
Frank had been happy to retire, and together, Donovan and Rachael had renovated the previously vacant half of the building and opened an adjoining restaurant. David Bradford hadn’t lived to see his own dreams become a reality, but Donovan was glad he’d been able to help Rachael fulfill them for her father.
Since they opened, the restaurant had quickly flourished into an upmarket place serving a seasonal menu of new-American cuisine in downtown Pendleton Bay.
Donovan had grown up in the nearby city of Fort Benton, Michigan but he’d spent most summers in Pendleton, staying with his grandparents while his parents went off to work. He hadn’t minded.
Donovan had loved to run along the beach of the bay, enjoying the cool waters of Lake Michigan and collecting the shells that washed ashore. He’d loved baking with Grandma June and going fishing with Grandpa Harold.
He remembered the sizzle of butter in a pan and the sharp scent of lemon and fresh herbs, along with the aroma of roasting freshly caught rainbow trout. His grandparents’ kitchen was where he’d discovered his love of cooking and they had both encouraged him to pursue a career in it, even when it meant defying his parents.
“I still appreciate you helping me get to this point,” he said. He reached out and took his grandma’s hand. She squeezed it, her blue eyes twinkling brightly behind her hot pink glasses.
It wasn’t that Kate and Phillip Ryan were unsympathetic to the idea of their son chasing his dream of becoming a chef. They’d just worried about him. The long hours. The low pay. The career that was worlds away from their day-to-day lives as defense attorneys.
They’d struggled to understand why anyone would be willing to work under the conditions of a restaurant kitchen. They’d encouraged him to find something more stable. To go to a university instead of culinary school. It hadn’t been a dramatic thing, no threats to cut him out of the will or anything like that, just a pervasive sense of concern and disappointment.
Which was also difficult. Donovan had wanted to make them proud. They’d come around eventually, particularly when he’d been hired as the sous chef at Plated, an upscale place in Fort Benton. And they certainly were proud of him now, as part owner and executive chef of the Hawk Point Tavern. But it was his grandparents who had been his staunch allies from the get-go, and Donovan would always be grateful.
June smiled at him. “Of course. You know I support you no matter what. Which is why I worry you work too hard. It’s all well and good for you to love your job, but if you can’t have a social life …”
Donovan groaned. “I know, I know.” But he spent six days a week in the kitchen. Sunday evenings and Mondays were really his only time off. And even then, it wasn’t unusual for him to stay late or come in when he was supposed to be home relaxing. The arguments against his career had been valid but Donovan had never been able to imagine doing anything else. His worst day as a chef was better than any he could ever hope to have in an office. He came alive in the sizzle and heat. In the chaos, he found peace.
“It’s not like I have time to go out and meet people. And my, uh, tastes do limit my options,” Donovan admitted.
His grandma had found out he was kinky in the most awkward fashion imaginable. Well, maybe not the most awkward fashion. He’d been fully dressed at the time, at least.
“Happy twenty-eighth birthday,” Grandpa Harold had said, giving Donovan a hug. “Thanks again for inviting us.”
Donovan had smiled warmly at his grandfather. “Of course! I wanted everyone who mattered to me to be here.” His friends and family mingled in the apartment, chatting and laughing over the food he’d made, and a swell of happiness went through him. They teased him about catering his own party, but cooking was his way of letting them know he loved them. That he appreciated them in his life.
“We should probably get going. It’ll be dark soon.” Harold looked around. “Where has the love of my life gone off to this time?”
“I’ll go find her,” Donovan said, patting his grandfather on the back. Not that his grandmother could have gone very far in his condo, but she had a tendency to wander off to read the books on his shelves or poke around in his kitchen. He slipped out of the living room where everyone else was gathered, brushing his fingers against Jude Maddox’s as he passed him.
His boyfriend turned to him with a smile, grabbing his hand and squeezing briefly before letting Donovan continue. He peeked into the dining room, then the guest room to find them empty, before discovering his grandmother standing in the bedroom he and Jude shared.
She had a thoughtful expression on her face as she stared at the wood and leather trunk at the foot of the bed.
“Is that a Joseph Lynch piece?”
Donovan’s eyes widened. “Yes. How do you know his work?”
“Well, he sells it at the farmers market and the craft fairs around the area. He’s quite well known.”
Right. Joe made wooden furniture and accessories that weren’t kinky. Donovan had a few of his olive wood cutting boards, spoons, and spatulas in his kitchen, but in certain circles, Joe was better known for his gorgeous paddles and spanking benches.
Or, in this case, furniture that was kinky and vanilla. A spanking bench/storage trunk that looked perfectly tame. The straps along the sides looked decorative instead of useful for restraint.
She turned and smiled at him. “I haven’t seen this design before but he does brilliant work. So multifunctional.”
“Yes, the storage and seating is nice.”
She gave him an unamused look over her turquoise glasses. “Sweetheart, I may be old but I’m not enfeebled. I know what these are used for.”
“Spare pillow storage?” he said weakly.
“Bondage.”
“How do you—” He gaped at her for a moment, then shook his head. “No, scratch that. I don’t want to know.”
She chuckled. “Your generation thinks you invented being kinky. BDSM practices have been recorded as far back as early Mesopotamia. That’s 4000 BCE. This is nothing new. There’s just more information out about it.”
Donovan pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know you’re a former sex-ed teacher, but this is not something I want to talk about with you.”
She shrugged, amused. “You always were too much like your mother.”
Which meant tightly wound. Kate Frazier-Ryan was a fiery redhead with a low tolerance for bullshit—just like Donovan—but significantly less free-spirited than her mother.
“Anyway, Grandpa wants to head out. I came to fetch you.”
“Yes. He does hate driving late at night now.” She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I won’t embarrass you further. But let me just say, this isn’t the first time I suspected you were kinky. You think those pamphlets and books got left out for no reason?”
Donovan thought of the ones he’d surreptitiously snuck into the guest bedroom to read under the cover of darkness as a teenager, wanting to understand why he felt a pull to the things he fantasized about. His head had spun with information as he read about consent and safety, all informative and non-judgmental. It had helped guide him toward being an ethical Dom and sadist, while most people in his shoes were fumbling their way through it with a wing and a prayer. He was grateful. He’d just had no idea her providing it was intentional.
“I thought they were for school,” he said weakly.
“You think Pendleton High would have let me teach high schoolers about BDSM? No. I had to fight to get as much info about AIDS and contraception into my lesson plans as I did. I battled it out with the school board more times than I could count. No, my dear, I left those out for you.”
Donovan couldn’t fathom what had made his grandmother realize that about him, before he’d really been sure of it himself. It had gone a long, long way toward making sure he got some good, healthy information instead of whatever he gleaned from porn. But it was still vaguely horrifying to realize.
Donovan cupped his grandmother’s face. “I love you for that. But please, let’s never, ever talk about this again.”
Now, ten years later, she smiled at him from across the kitchen table. Clearly telling her that hadn’t worked. He suspected it never would.
“No munches around?” She took a sip of her coffee.
“The closest is in Fort Benton. And on a night I have to work.”
“There are apps, right?”
Jesus, she even knows about kink apps. Which was even more alarming when he thought about the fact that she’d been widowed almost a year now. She’d loved his grandfather to pieces, but Donovan also knew she was a vibrant, active woman and … No, Donovan was not going to let his brain go there.
“There are,” he admitted. “Not as big a selection of people on the apps here as there was in Fort Benton. Smaller town, smaller dating pool.”
She let out a little sigh. “I was so sorry to hear about you and Jude.” She reached out her hand, resting it on his, her fingernails a vibrant shade of pink that matched her glasses.
“Me too,” he said with a sigh. “But we wanted different things.”
She looked at him shrewdly. “In the relationship or in the bedroom? Or were those two things intertwined for you two?”
“They were intertwined,” he admitted. “We weren’t meeting each other’s needs anymore. And it got ugly.”
She frowned. “I am so sorry. He seemed like a good man.”
A lump rose in Donovan’s throat. “He is. I loved him a lot. But …”
They’d just no longer worked. Jude’s switchiness and desire for an open relationship chafed at Donovan’s dominance and desire for monogamy. And after a while, working together at the restaurant and trying to navigate an increasingly fraught romantic relationship had spilled out into an ugly argument over a rack of lamb.
Donovan had quit his job and ended his decade-long relationship on the same night.
So ugly. So very, very ugly.
He still cringed thinking about it. His bridges in Fort Benton had been burned, accelerated by a jilted ex with an axe to grind and an executive chef suddenly short-staffed.
Donovan Ryan was persona non-grata in Fort Benton these days.
So, he’d retreated to Pendleton Bay, lured in by the soft comforts of his grandmother’s understanding and the promise of a new direction for his career. It had been a good change, if a little lonely.
He covered his grandma’s hand, trapping her soft fingers between his. “I’ll find someone when the time is right,” he said.
She smiled at him, and it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, or the feel of cutting into a perfectly poached egg yolk. “I know you will, sweetheart.”
