The instant tensing of her back muscles saddened him.
“Shhh.” He kept the slow movement of his hand, kissed the top of her head. “Now tell me.”
“Yes.” Her face pressed closer into the hollow of his shoulder as if she were a small animal needing shelter.
His arms tightened, reminding her that she had his protection. “Because of the way they took you?”
A tiny nod. “On my back or like a dog. Both…places.”
Anal and vaginal. “In your mouth?”
Her snort of derision held tears as well. “I bit him.” She tensed again. “And then he used…he…”
Raoul’s jaw tightened until his teeth ground together. Of course. The asshole had strapped her in a device to hold her mouth open while he face-fucked her. Cabrón. “He is unworthy to call himself a man.” Her shoulder muscles relaxed under his slow, careful massage. “If you might recall from your…excursion…into my toy cabinet, I do not own such a thing.”
“Oh.” More muscles went loose. Her breathing slowed, a small waft of warmth on his skin.
“But, although I like being inside you here”—he wiggled the soft remainder of his erection, and her responsive pussy clenched, pushing him all the way out. He grinned at her tiny sound of loss—“we might also have fun with my cock here.” He squeezed an ass cheek, making her jump. “Will you trust me to take you carefully, Kimberly?”
This was why he’d decided to speak of such matters now—to prepare her for the next step while her body resonated with an orgasm, and while his so terrifying dick was soft and melting between her legs after having brought her only pleasure.
“I—” She sighed. “Okay.”
He gave her the tiny growl he knew she’d recognize.
“Okay, Sir.” A pause. “Master.”
Satisfaction was a gentle evening rain, and headier than the wine they’d had earlier. “And?”
“I know.” Her voice was husky. “You’ll want my mouth too.”
He snorted. “Only if you promise not to bite.”
Her lips curved again, more this time. “Yes, Master.”
Chapter Nine
The next morning, Kim went down to the beach. The gulls cried overhead, and gray-brown willets foraged in the shallows. The tide was coming in, the waves slowly reclaiming the sand as she was reclaiming more of her life.
I had sex. She grinned at the sun. Its rays warmed her skin, and she bubbled with life, feeling as if she’d taken a huge step forward.
Heck, she had. She shook her head, unbraiding her hair so the wind could ruffle it with salty fingers. Master R liked her hair. Liked her skin. Said she was lovely, and his face held no untruth.
She rolled her eyes. He was her master. Why would he bother lying? It wasn’t as if he had to talk her into bed, right?
He liked her. He’d taken more care with making sure she was satisfied than anyone ever had. And then at the very end, he hadn’t stopped—he’d made her serve his own satisfaction, and that had been as fulfilling as getting off herself.
She headed for the Adirondack chair. Weathered white with age, it ruled over its section of sand like a beach throne. She dropped onto it, then squeaked. A little sore maybe?
God, she’d gotten off so thoroughly she still quaked inside. And she wanted to do it again. Wanted those strong hands on her, to feel his biceps bunching into concrete when he lifted her, to trace the ridges on his stomach. This morning, when he’d washed her—more intimately than ever before—he told her she was filling out and he liked her soft ass sized for his big hands.
He scared her and excited her and made her want him.
Want him. As the sun disappeared behind a cloud and shadows slid over the sand, a chill raised goose bumps on her arms. Life wasn’t all sun and pretty waves. The clouds came, storms drowned ships, and people moved on.
You realize he’s just doing his job, right? Don’t go all teenage-girl gaga over him. Her inner cynic’s interjection was like a cold dip in the water. And was right, unfortunately.
Master R liked her, but he was in this to shut down the slavers, not to start up a relationship with a messed-up woman. He’d never talked about being together after this was over.
She watched a tiny hermit crab peek out of its stolen shell and retreat again, hiding in the secure spiral. “Yeah, me too, little guy,” she whispered. Don’t get too far from safety. Falling head over heels in love with Master R would be…pretty much…the worst thing she could do.
He wanted a slave.
She hated even the word.
So. Once they pulled this off, she’d go home to Savannah. To her real life.
Christopher Greville leaned back in his office chair as his majordomo entered. “You rang for me, sir?”
“Dutton, when I was doing the accounts, I found a large deposit into the Owner’s account. It matches what I paid for a certain slave.”
The majordomo’s swarthy face flushed. One of the more satisfying retainers Greville employed, he handled the household accounts, which included the purchase of slaves and any equipment needed for them, like the heavy dog kennel, the whips, and gags…
Greville smiled. The new slave had arrived two days ago, a big-breasted blonde with such an ear-piercing scream that he’d been forced to gag her the first day to preserve his ears. After he and his staff had played for a while, her voice had changed to a pleasingly hoarse sound.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Dutton said. “I forgot to mention it. After much stalling, the Overseer provided a refund for the black-haired slave. The one who—” He broke off.
The one who’d dared to attack her master. To stab him. Greville ran his fingers over his gray suit, feeling the lingering tenderness in his shoulder. The memory of pain as the knife punched through his skin still brought him up short on occasion. The little fuckhole had— “Refund.” “What refund? Dahmer gave you a refund for a dead slave?”
“Oh, she didn’t die, sir. She’d bled quite a bit but was still alive when we handed her over.” Dutton’s expression faltered into worry. “You did tell us to get rid of her, sir.”
Not dead. She’d stabbed him, and she wasn’t rotting in a grave? “I meant kill her. Fuck her to death or beat her to death.” His temper surged; he forced himself to stay seated. “She’s alive?”
Dutton’s face paled, and he took a step back. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize.”
Greville stared at him and then smiled coldly. “Of course you didn’t. I obviously wasn’t clear.” He nodded a dismissal and watched the majordomo quietly leave. Incompetent bastard. He’d be six feet down and feeding the worms before this week was out.
The fuckhole was alive. Greville turned to the computer and brought up the Association numbers shared with premium buyers. After using the code to get the right phone number for the current date, he punched it in.
“Yes.” Dahmer’s number. Dahmer was a typical flunky, but an efficient one. He’d definitely improved the quality of slaves in the Southeast quadrant.
“Greville. I just discovered I received a refund from you. When I questioned my staff, I found they hadn’t disposed of the merchandise—as should have been done—but had returned it to you.”
“That’s right.”
“Their actions were incorrect. Return the merchandise to me for proper handling.” He would cut pieces from her body—a finger, an ear, a toe—and see how long he could keep her alive. Maybe let her choose which part she’d sacrifice each day. But he’d take her tongue first. And her teeth. Make a real fuckhole.
“I can’t do that. It’s been resold.”
Greville’s jaw clenched, and his voice came out raw. “Buy it back.”
A pause. “I can try. As it happens, I’m scheduled for a follow-up with the buyer tomorrow.” Dahmer sounded annoyed, as if Greville would give a damn. “But he won’t hand her over for the same price. It’ll cost you.”
He’d hear her scream. See her eyes wide with agony, fighting to escape the pain, the dismemberment. See the light go out. “Do it.”
The day for their trip to the Shadowlands finally arrived.
Pity eating like a worm in his heart, Raoul kept his little submissive busy with cooking and cleaning. In the afternoon, he’d given her final instructions on high protocol and how an owned slave should behave in public. They’d practiced until he was satisfied, and she’d felt comfortable.
“Time to leave, Kimberly,” he called. A minute later, he heard her footsteps on the stairs.
She looked adorable. The black dress laced tightly, pressing her breasts upward, her nipples barely hidden by a froth of white lace. The ruffles at the bottom came to the crease below her ass. The token white apron covered the front. Garters held up white fishnet stockings over
her lovely legs, and she wore high-heeled fetish shoes. He knew her pussy was bare, and he had the urge to toss her onto the table and take her from the rear.
Maybe he’d buy the costume from Z. But, no. She wasn’t his. The knowledge she’d be leaving soon didn’t sit well in his gut. “You look beautiful, cariño.”