To Command and Collar [Masters of the Shadowlands 6] (12 page)

* * * *

Master R had been awfully quiet since yesterday, Kim thought as she took her beach walk. Was something wrong?
Had he gotten upset that she’d retreated to her private sitting room right after Gabi’s visit? But after talking some fears over with her friend, she’d needed to regroup. Maybe Gabi had told him to give her time alone?
He hadn’t seemed upset at supper last night. Just silent.
Still, before bed, he’d read “his” designated page in her journal and laughed at her insulting description of his temper. He’d hugged her for sharing how she felt like a piece of meat in the
inspect
position. So he probably wasn’t upset with her. If anything, he’d been gentler than normal. Sweeter. Snugglier.
Okay, she wouldn’t worry until he told her she needed to. Instead, she took a breath, enjoying the tang of the salt air. In the distance, laughing gulls circled over something on the shore, squabbling and diving. Farther out, pelicans flew in a line, probably heading toward Clearwater.
The air off the water tugged at her T-shirt, blew her hair in her face, and lightened the humid heat a little. The wind off the Atlantic in Savannah was much more effective. She remembered the welcome ocean breeze when she’d go out on the trawler with her father. Her father…
She frowned, remembering Master R’s questions about him. Had she ever run to Father for comfort? Hardly. He’d been a gruff man, dark in both nature and appearance. His Native American mother had gifted him black hair and wide cheekbones; his father had left him the fishing boat.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts. His life had revolved around the trawler, and until her rebellion, so had hers. But she’d hated how horribly he treated Mom.
“Fat cow.” “Can’t do anything right.” “Stupid as a stump.”
Mom had worked like a…a slave for him, and he never said thank you. Never noticed unless something wasn’t perfect.
One day, Kim had yelled at him for calling Mom names. He’d backhanded her into the wall. After that, Kim stopped pretending to be his
son
. She’d gone out for cheerleading, worn makeup and pretty clothes. He’d called her a whore and a stupid slut. God, she’d hated him sometimes.
She stopped and frowned at a small sand castle. A red bucket lay nearby. High walls, a moat around it. No bridge. Smart kid. Keep the world out and stay within. Much safer that way.
Kim turned and headed back, shaking her head. Odd how she’d hated her father, yet her mother never had. It had taken Mom years to regain her independence and stop doubting everything she did. They’d both worked their asses off after he’d died, drunk, in a car wreck. The stab of pain hit her unexpectedly. His life had been the stupid trawler, and when the boat had died, so had he. Mom hadn’t been enough to live for. Neither had Kim. Hell, they were only women. Slaves.
Not slaves
. Mom was an office manager at a real estate firm now, and Kim was a marine biologist.
So there, Father. We’re better off without you
. That hurt too. Mom should have…have left him, shouldn’t have taken his abuse.
How could a wife suffer as many restraints as a collared slave?
Kim snorted.
And gee, look at me now. I’m a slave, just like you were, Mom.
When she returned to the house, Master R would put those cuffs on her wrists. And she’d feel torn. Like she wanted them. Hated them.
She sometimes hated him too, but she was starting to want him more. Need him. She worked to win his smile, loved it when he laughed.
Don’t go down that liking path, Kim
. First, he was just doing what had to be done to get the slavers. Second, he’d want his girlfriend to be a slave.
That’s so not me. So, Ms. Romantic, do not get attached. He’s another team member like the FBI agents. Clear
?
She looked up at the house and stopped.
Master R stood at the foot of the steps to the beach, leaning back on the railing, arms crossed on his chest. Just watching her.
That was nothing new, but the way her heart leaped… Now that was a problem.
Dammit, heart, didn’t we just have a talk? Weren’t you listening?

She detoured around the weathered chair on the shore and paced toward him, trying to ignore the delight fizzing in her veins like frothy surf. When she reached him, she dropped to her knees, in exactly the correct position, and bowed her head.

“
Muy bonita
,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “You are so very pretty.” He grasped her arms and lifted her to her feet with that effortless strength that took her breath away. “Now, I need to talk with you.”

Wasn’t that what a man said to his wife when he was going to ask for a divorce?
Honey, we have to talk
? She grinned. At least, not being married, she’d sidestepped that one. “Yes, Sir?”
“The Overseer called yesterday.”
“The—” Her knees buckled. He tightened his hands on her arms and held her up, his brown eyes steady on her face. A cold sweat broke out over her skin, and her heart raced until her chest hurt, hurt bad. Maybe she was having a heart attack, and her air was all gone and—
He shook her once, making her head jerk on her shoulders. “Kimberly!”
She gasped in a breath, then moaned as her eyes fixed on the house.
He’d come here. Maybe he was already here
. Her lungs squeezed down again.
“Look. At. Me.” Each word was accompanied by a ruthless shake.
Her gaze returned to his face.
“There. Much nicer.” He smiled, the tiny lines beside his eyes crinkling. “Did you know your nose is pink?”
“Have you gone crazy?”
“Have you gone crazy,
Master
.” Still gripping her arms, he bounced her, obviously testing if her legs would hold her up. “I’m perfectly sane, thank you. Kimberly, we meet him at the Shadowlands next Saturday for drinks. For a civilized conversation. He’s not going to run amok and slaughter the club members like chickens.”
His bland tone made her choke on a laugh, but she gave him a dark look. “So little you know.” Her legs started to work, and she stood under her own power.
He leaned against the railing again, clasping her waist and pulling her between his long legs as he liked to do. Why did that make her feel safe instead of trapped? His eyes were level. Intent. “There’s something else, gatita. We will do a scene at the Shadowlands. A fi—” He broke off and said, “An erotic one.”
She was the
Titanic
hitting an underwater iceberg. Hulled. Sinking into the freezing water. “A scene?” In front of the Overseer? The burn of anger—of betrayal—drove the ice away. She hit his wide chest, once, then over and over. “No. No. No!”
His hands were still around her waist; he didn’t move as she pounded on him.
Her fists slowed. “No,” she whispered. She’d agreed only to pretend to be his slave, not to do a scene with him. But then she saw the tightness of his jaw. Not anger—unhappiness. She pulled in a shuddering breath. “Tell me why.”
He curved his hand around her nape in support. Comfort. “During my initial interview, Dahmer said they bring in people to do scenes for the entertainment of the buyers, and I thought that might be another way to get into an auction. The night I bought you, I agreed to an audition during the follow-up visit.”
“I vaguely remember hearing you.” But she’d hurt badly enough that their conversation was a blur. Vance had mentioned it at Gabi’s house too. “There’s a waiting list though.”
He sighed. “That’s the problem. He wants someone for this coming auction. If Sam’s referral falls through, this might be the only chance to get in. I’d use an FBI agent at the auction, not you. But next weekend”—his jaw tightened—“Dahmer expects to see you.”
Me. Do a scene. With the Overseer watching.
Master R started to speak, and she pulled away. “Just…just give me a minute, okay?”
He nodded, and she walked toward the waves. A few tiny plovers skittered in front of her, their bird feet leaving shallow tracks on the sand.
Okay, Kim, put it all in order
. Neatly. First, he wanted her to do the scene this weekend but wasn’t planning to make her attend the auction. Good.
The original plan had always been for the Overseer to see her. That was the point of the follow-up visit. Doing a scene with Master R wouldn’t be that different, would it?
Only he’d said
erotic
. That meant…his hands on her. Arousing her. She hugged herself against the cooling breeze. He’d been touching her, washing her. Intimate but never sexual. He often kissed her.
I do pretty good with all that.
Actually, sometimes she almost wanted more, but then she’d freeze. Really, she just wanted to stay celibate and icicle cold for a while. A few years.
If Master R refused to audition, how could he justify it? They’d be at a BDSM club. And she’d be there. No excuse came to mind, since no slaver would care if his property had the jitters.
She scuffled the sand over her toes, letting the warmth sink into her skin. Could she do this?
Well, a lot of her fears concerned the Overseer, but she’d put those in a mental box.
Stay closed, box
. So what was really bothering her?
She stared at the rain clouds forming into a mass. Her nerves were because Master R would be touching her. Deliberately trying to arouse her. In front of people. The Overseer.
He’d never gone sexual on her before—what if she panicked? Let him down? It’d almost…almost be easier if he’d actually done some of that intimate stuff, like that day in the weight room. She shivered, remembering the feel of his fingers between her legs, pushing inside her. She’d been wet.
The waves lapped at her toes as she walked. She watched how the water gave way to her feet, and yet the same substance carved canyons in the earth. Strength could be found in the determination to get where a person needed to go. In just keeping on.
I need to go home, and that means I need the slavers in jail
. She had to keep on.
Master R was still waiting when she walked back to him. He waited even longer for her to speak.
“I understand why we should do the scene.” She swallowed, tasting the briny air. “I’m scared I might panic.”
His eyes filled with tenderness. “Is there anything that would help?”
“I think you’d better…touch me some. Before.” Her face heated, her blush a dead giveaway as to what she meant. Six days until then. Maybe she’d be ready.
“I think you’re probably right.” His lips curved, and he stroked a finger down her hot cheek. “It will be my pleasure.”
Oh boy.

* * * *

Kimberly bent over, trying to catch her breath, sweat dripping from her face and trickling between her bare breasts. Her sadistic, nasty master had increased the length of her workout today, for which she was maybe a little grateful. Since yesterday when he’d told her about the Shadowlands scene, the hours dragged as if to build her dread to a mountain she couldn’t climb. Over breakfast, Master R had assigned her a long list of tasks and complicated meals. He obviously planned to keep her too busy to think. He’d even put her to work in his home office this morning.

Major eye-opener. With such a beautiful beach house, he couldn’t be poor, but the dom owned an international engineering company. When she wondered how he could take so much time off, he smiled and said if employees couldn’t handle the work, why hire them?

She was grateful he worked from here. Knowing he was in the house let her relax. His calmness helped too. He never got frazzled. Not that he was particularly easygoing— his Latin temper showed, especially when they talked about the slavers.
But he didn’t worry about little stuff or things he couldn’t do anything about.

She was a worrier. And worse, she wanted to do things perfectly so she could get approval from—she scowled—from her father and everyone else.
Master R didn’t expect perfection from her. Just her best, and he’d push her until he got it.
In his office, he had a framed calligraphy on the wall.
“Strive for perfection in everything you do. Take the best that exists and make it better. When it does not exist, design it.” Sir Henry Royce
. Yeah, that was so her master who was also an engineer.
He never made her guess if she’d pleased him. If she did, he showed it. If she didn’t, he told her how to do better. She never had to worry about clothes or her performance or even what to do next.
Or how to deal with…interpersonal relations.
Dating had always been a nightmare. From questions of clothing:
What should I wear to look pretty but not like a slut. Should I dress up? Or would it be better to look casual?
To behavior:
Should I touch him? Let him hold my hand? Ask him in for a drink, or would he think I’m easy? Sleep with him on the second or third date or not? Let him grope my ass on the dance floor, or does that make me look like a slut?
But here, Master R picked out her clothes—or made her stay naked. Choice over.
For behavior? He decided what he wanted from her and said so. No decisions to make. That was so restful.
And boy, he definitely decided how interpersonal stuff would go. Last night, he’d pushed her into the pool. When she’d surfaced, trying not to spit curses at him, he’d said they’d play tag. Every time she caught him, she could claim a kiss. If she took too long to catch him, he’d spank her.
Great incentive.
Chasing after him—and he didn’t make it easy—made touching fun. Not scary. After she caught him a few times, she was definitely aroused. Damn, the man could kiss. Then he upped the stakes to “copping a feel,” only whenever she put her hands on him, he duplicated her movements, putting his hands on her. She was giggling and hot and—
“Stop daydreaming and do it all again.” Master R’s sexy baritone made her straighten.
He was lying on the weight bench and not even looking at her. His dom radar always told him when she slacked off.
Drown him in high seas anyway.
She watched him push the bar up. Giant metal plates clanked on each end, and his chest muscles and biceps bunched and turned to granite under his tank. God, she could almost see testosterone oozing from his pores instead of sweat.
“Kimberly.”
“Yes, Master.” She launched into the last street-fighting combination he’d taught her. Block, knuckles to the Adam’s apple, other hand—fingers to the eyes. One-two. She saw the fat guard on the floor, screaming in pain. She did it again. And again.
Until she tripped and landed on her hands and knees. “Suck water,” she muttered.
“The last move appeared a bit clumsy.” Lying on his back, he was watching.
She giggled and sat her bare butt on the rubber matt, pushing back the hair that had escaped her braid. “How come you’re so good at all this? You said from street fighting?”
“You’re stalling.” But he sat up, wiping his forehead with the towel. “We lived in a rough area when I grew up. When my brother joined a gang, he taught me what he learned from them.”
Brother
? She frowned. He’d talked of a sister and his mother. “I don’t remember you mentioning a brother.”
His face—so sad. Before she considered, she’d joined him on the bench. She put her arms around him and then froze, thinking she’d overstepped her bounds.
But he pulled her in, holding her tightly, his cheek against the top of her head. After a minute, he sighed. “Thank you, gatita. I needed a hug.”
“What happened?” She stayed, not letting go.