"The four-legged or the two-legged horses?" Miranda teased, except she wasn't smiling. Ana must have looked confused, because she quickly waved her hand. "Never mind. It's a date. We'll go to the stables." One last kiss, even hastier than the others, then Miranda ducked through the door and was gone.
Ana was left standing in the middle of another woman's house, her lips tingling, her heart sinking with disappointment, and her body still humming from the sensual vibrations of the Miranda, now lying forgotten on the kitchen table.
* * * * *
This is it. That's what the text had said, but Miranda didn't feel panic until after she left her apartment. She made it to the second floor landing and was almost to the stairs when she saw Marshall shoot out of his office in full Master of the Castle regalia. His stern black leather breeches and boots, the stark white of his medieval shirt, and the elaborate black nobleman's jacket warred with the modernity of the duffel bag he carried slung under his arm. His change of clothes. He couldn't wear medieval clothing in the hospital ICU. People stared at them hard enough whenever they went out in public, without adding their working costumes into the mix.
Spying her, he paused to let her catch up, and didn't say a word about the fact that she was in normal clothes instead of her housekeeper's uniform. "Sam's bringing the car around the front."
Miranda felt her first real glimmer of fear then. Marshall never allowed modern vehicles out front where guests could see them. Only the shuttle buses, and only once a day. "What happened? Do you know?"
Marshall shook his head. They hurried side by side down the curving staircase, pushing past a group of giggling schoolgirls at the bottom of the steps.
"Ladies," Marshall said, in his sternest tone. It made the 'girls' blush and laugh, but the admonishment had been given by rote, a habit borne from years of slipping on his Master's persona. These days, he wore it as easily as he wore his ceremonial leathers but Miranda could tell he was preoccupied, even if the schoolgirls didn't.
As they crossed the drawbridge, Sam peeled into the circular parking depot where usually only the shuttle buses were allowed. His speed and recklessness scared her, too. Sam, as a driver, was one of the most cautious men she knew, but he barely slowed down long enough for her and Marshall to get in. He also took those winding dirt roads back to the main highway fast enough to leave a choking dust cloud trailing behind them.
"Don't get pulled over," was all Marshall said. Marshall, who never tolerated recklessness of any kind, took his seatbelt off long enough to change his clothes in the front seat while they drove.
That was the last thing any of them said until they reached the hospital and Sam dropped them off at the ambulance entrance. "I'll be in as soon as I find a place to park."
From there, Marshall fell into step behind Miranda. She knew the way from here better than any of them, having walked this maze of sterile halls in the last few weeks more times than she cared to recount. The nurses in ICU seemed to be waiting just for them, which set off Miranda's internal panic alarm all the more.
"What's happened?" she asked at the desk.
"I'll call his doctor," the nurse offered. She spoke too gently, with too much sympathy. Miranda couldn't make herself wait for him. She went to Don's room, but with every step all she wanted to do was flee as fast as she could go the other way. She had been a nurse once upon a time, oh, it felt like an entire lifetime ago. She'd quit specifically because she couldn't bear any more loss. Control, power, hope. Miranda needed them all, and the nurse's tone gave her none.
She stopped in front of the sliding glass door. She didn't want to open it. She didn't want to walk in and see 'This is it' in the flesh. She didn't want to see Don, or what remained of Don, lying still and cold in that medical bed. Her heart writhed beneath her breasts as she teetered between anger and fear.
Marshall took the lead then, opening the door for her. His warm hand found the small of her back as he slipped past her, neither forcing her in nor shutting her out. His touch gave her the courage to enter long enough to see for herself whether Don still lived or if he finally had died.
His monitors bleeped, measuring out the stubborn beating of his heart—erratic beats, Miranda saw with dismay—and the tempo of his breaths—shallow breaths, aided by the oxygen mask that covered his gaping mouth and nose.
She approached his bedside, reaching for his fragile hand. "Don?"
He can still hear you. How many times had she said that to other patients' families? Hearing is the last sense to leave.
She caressed his fingers, but his eyelids didn't so much as flutter. His hand lay in hers, limp and unresponsive. He might have been asleep, but no sleep came with this gray-skinned pallor or machine-aided breaths.
Sam appeared at the door, slipping into the room despite the ICU's posted regulation about two visitors per patient. They weren't even family, technically speaking. But Miranda had been here so often, and no one said no to Marshall.
Maybe it was mere minutes, but it felt like hours—hell, it felt like days; time in hospitals never passed the way it did in the regular world—before a man in dark slacks and a white lab coat knocked quietly at the sliding door. He slipped into the room. A young man, far too young it seemed to be wearing a nametag reading 'Dr. Rhiel', or to be the bearer of the kind of news his expression was steeled for.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Rhiel began, sliding his hands into his coat pockets as he looked at each of them in turn. "About two hours ago, he became unresponsive."
"What does that mean?" Marshall asked.
"Your friend is in a coma," Dr. Rhiel explained. "His body is shutting down."
"Do we have options?" Sam quietly asked.
The young doctor shook his head. "He asked that no measures be used to prolong his life. His family has been apprised of his change in status and they have expressed that no further medical extremes be taken. And to be honest, there isn't anything else that I would recommend. His organs have been failing for days."
A wave of shuddering weakness moved right up Miranda's legs, buckling her knees. She almost fell, but the side bars on the bed bumped against her back and she caught herself. "Isn't there anything we can do?"
"Yes." Dr. Rhiel met her gaze with unflinching sympathy. More damn sympathy, but at least this kind didn't make her feel weak. "We can wait, we can talk to him, and we can say our goodbyes. At this point, that's what we can do."
Dr. Rhiel left after instructing them to summon a nurse if necessary.
"I'll stay," Marshall said, drawing a chair up to Don's bedside, opposite to where Miranda stood holding his hand.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "I'll stay."
"You have a guest," Marshall reminded her.
"You have a thousand of them!" Miranda shot back. She couldn't remember the last time she had allowed her temper to show. Not because she deferred to anyone, but because she preferred her emotions to remain private. But Marshall was right. She had Ana to think about. Ana, who had never been to the Castle before, who had come all this way to be with Miranda, who had just come out of a bad situation and who was seeking nothing more than a little validation that she wasn't 'wrong' or 'sick'. As much as Miranda needed right now to be with Don, to hoard every last precious second she could before he was taken from her, Ana needed her, too. And as much as she wished it otherwise, she physically could not be at the hospital and at the Castle at the same time.
"My guests aren't personal," Marshall said gently. Coming to her side of the medical bed, he circled around Sam to steal her hands from Don's. "There's a young lady in your home who's depending on you, and who doesn't deserve to be abandoned on her first trip to a strange place. You're the only person she knows."
A comforting pressure squeezed her fingers, but it came from the Master of the Castle instead of the only man she had ever loved with all her heart.
"Go home, Miranda."
"I won't leave him alone." Miranda blinked, retreating into stubbornness.
"No
t for a single minute is he going to be alone," Marshall assured her. "I'll stay the night. Sam can spell me in the morning. We'll take turns, however long this takes, and we'll call you when things change."
Miranda shook her head, angry at herself for the rush of guilty relief she felt because she wouldn't have to stay. Don would have understood, but in that moment, she knew she was the worst kind of friend anyone could have.
"Come on." Sam came around the bend, sliding an arm around her shoulders.
Miranda stiffened her back. These were three of her best friends in the world. In the four years they had spent living together, working together, at the Castle, they had seen all of each other's ups and downs. She had been a shoulder to lean on, sometimes even to cry on, but she was a Mistress of the Castle first and foremost. She was always careful never to let anyone see beneath that façade. Only Ana, and only online.
"It's all right," Sam said, letting her lean on him until she could pull herself firmly back together again. She couldn't go home like this, not when Ana had already been through so much. She had to be strong. She had to be the steady, comforting Mistress. If it were anyone else, Miranda would have detached herself, found another Dominant to take over for her, secluded herself away and probably cried until her broken heart withered and there were no tears left inside her to shed.
But this wasn't anyone else. It was Ana, and Miranda could no more give her away than she could allow Ana to witness her in a moment of weakness.
"It'll be okay," Sam said again, once they were out of the hospital and heading for his car.
Miranda knew better, though. Right now, nothing was okay, but for Ana's sake—and her own—for a little while at least, Miranda could pretend. She had to. There was, quite simply, nothing else she could do.
CHAPTER NINE
Alone, Ana sat at Miranda's dining table and glared at the ocean of paperwork spread out before her. In the desk across the room, her cell phone rattled out yet another phone call she had no intention of answering, and yet again, she had to swallow back her guilt.
She picked up her pen, found the first page, and looked at the Miranda wand. Her inner core fizzled, quivering with unmet physical need. Grumbling, she focused on her Castle application. How did Miranda expect her to concentrate after that display?
Name, address, phone and internet contact information. Easy. The second part was a little more difficult, though. Visiting alone or with others? She'd come by herself, but she was (apparently) staying with someone. 'I'm visiting Miranda', she wrote on that line. What program interests you most? Noble, Nursery, Schoolgirl, Service, Dungeon… Ana's head spun. She left that blank until Miranda could explain what the programs were and help her decide. Whatever it was, she hoped it involved at least one or two more of those delicious spankings.
The afterglow of Miranda vibrations settled toward her bottom. She squirmed in her chair, wishing she could still suffer some heat and maybe even a little soreness. Miranda's few swats had promised an expert hand, literally, and Ana couldn't wait for her to come home so she could experience round two.
She was a great kisser, too. Ana blushed. She closed her eyes, once again feeling Miranda's cool, strong hands taking down her pants before drawing her down to settle across a lap that promised more than just stability during playful chastisement. It promised safety, too. What a relief it was to know for certain that the reality of spanking was every bit as hot and heady as her fantasies had led her to believe.
Oh, and everything that had come afterward! From the kiss, to the way Miranda's hands had gripped her bottom, throwing her down on the couch while her soft, seductive mouth grew increasingly more ravaging.
Maybe they had a pirate program here at the Castle. Ana wouldn't object at all to spending the next eight days being a well-plundered wench, so long as it was Miranda doing the pillaging.
Ana tried to concentrate on her paperwork, but her hot cheeks and pulsing sex were making it difficult to concentrate. She was tempted to pick up the Miranda and see what some of the other settings could do.
Do you desire sexual contact with your partner during your stay? Yes. No. What kind? Though no one was here to see it, Ana still covered her face. She had to be as red as pickled beets.
Sexual orientation? Ana circled lesbian as a sparking pulse of growing arousal thumped between her legs. Warm wetness spilled down through her. She squeezed her thighs together, as if that could dam the flow. Whatever emergency had pulled Miranda away, she hoped it concluded soon. She couldn't wait for her to return. Miranda, who exuded dominance the way other women breathed, and who kissed as if the world could burn without them noticing.
Please check every fetish you have experienced. That particular list took up the entire rest of the page. Ana didn't recognize most of the alphabetized items. She checked spanking and Hitachi wand. Oral—her blush deepened—both giving and receiving. Vibrator—yes. Dildo—yes. Not that it did anything for her. Of course, she'd said that about the Hitachi too, and look what had happened. She squeezed her thighs against another surge of heady pulses. Maybe it wasn't the device itself, but who wielded it that made the experience vastly more pleasurable.
Strap-on—that effectively halved her desire. Ana hesitated. If she had to be honest, yes, she did have experience with one of those. But how much should that one occasion count when she hadn't enjoyed it at all? As staunchly as Peyton had fought exploring Ana's spanking fantasies, when it had come to Peyton and her desire to experiment with a strap-on, Ana had eventually given in… and she'd hated every second of it. It hadn't felt like love at all, only pounding.
Did Miranda like strap-ons? Would she use one on her, or would she listen when Ana told her no? She stared at the list of fetishes, wondering if she'd even be able to tell Miranda no, or if she would, as she'd so often done with Peyton, give in just to keep the peace.
Growing more uncomfortable, Ana abandoned that question and quickly turned the page to stare at another identical list. Check any and all activities you have an interest in trying.
Ana checked spanking a second time, but there was a very real knot of dread twisting in her belly now. She had a history of leaping into relationships before she really got to know the person. Look at Peyton. One chance meeting in a coffee shop, and a few short dates later, they were living together. What did it say about her that Miranda was her longest running acquaintanceship—eight months of conversation, joking, teasing… flirting—and then suddenly where was she? In a sex resort, of all places.
What did she really know about Miranda anyway? Ana fingered the remaining pages of the incredibly long questionnaire before glancing into the living room at the jungle of plants overflowing every available surface. The sight of all that greenery actually soothed her. Heaven in Horticulture. Whatever else Miranda might be—whatever her likes and dislikes, sexual proclivities notwithstanding—Ana knew this side of the woman she was staying with. This was the side Ana had fallen for, one chat window response at a time.
Getting up from the table, she ventured down the hall to the bathroom. She washed her face, letting her mind clear a bit and her discomfort over the questionnaire flow through her fingers and down the drain. Patting herself dry with the sunshine yellow hand towel provided, she stepped back out of the bathroom… and stopped. The living room was filled with the bright, fresh greenery that supported the part of Miranda that Ana knew best. But there was another side of her, the more private side—Ana turned her head, looking through that slightly ajar door to her left, to the corner of the queen-sized bed where Miranda spent her nights—that she didn't know very well at all.
She would actually be very upset if someone did this to her, but even so, Ana still ventured close enough to be able to push open Miranda's bedroom door. She hovered at the threshold, drinking in the sight of the four-poster bed, the lacy white coverlet and matching pillowcases, and the dressing table with an attached mirror that climbed the wall so high it almost reached the ceiling. Shelves lined either side of th
e reflective glass, each one sporting an assortment of knick-knacks, small pictures in frames, mementos of a past Ana could only admire out of context.
She should not be in here, and she knew it. Invading another person's privacy was not a spanking offense. It was much more likely to cost her Miranda's friendship, and even get her sent away on the first bus home. Still, prickles of anticipation crawled up her legs as she slipped into Miranda's room. She'd just look around. She wouldn't touch anything.
Tucking her hands into her pockets, Ana approached the mirror. She glanced over the knick-knacks and photos. A fragile glass rose with a single emerald-green leaf and a bright, bright red bud sat on the lowest shelves alongside a funny little frog on a lily pad, and what might have been an anthropomorphized alfalfa sprout or a green sperm, it was hard to tell. On the shelf below that was a photograph of Miranda and an older man. Their stance together, although comfortable, did not suggest the intimacy of lovers and there was no family resemblance, so Ana wasn't inclined to think the man either her father or brother. He was probably just a friend, but she found herself wishing she knew the story behind them. Silver handcuffs and some articles of jewelry were neatly arranged on another shelf, while on the opposite side of the mirror, what looked like a small collection of journals tempted her curious fingers. Walking into Miranda's bedroom was one thing, reading her private thoughts in her journals were another, and that was a line she wasn't ready to cross.
Ana backed away from the dresser. Crossing the room, she peeked into the closet instead. Like the rest of her room, Miranda kept it very neatly. It was a huge walk-in, divided between ordinary clothes on one side, and extraordinary on the other. "Extraordinary," meant Gothic, leather, and pleather outfits. Her shoe collection lined the walls, with a pair of plain white sneakers that would have fit into Ana's unglamorous wardrobe so easily. It made her feel connected to Miranda, having the same taste in humble shoes. But that was only one pair amid dozens of examples of much more exotic footwear—stilettos, ankle boots, knee boots, thigh-high boots, spiked boots, golden gladiator-style sandals that laced all the way up the leg, animal print heels, platform shoes, and high heels that promised a broken ankle at the first wrong step—it was overwhelming. Miranda had more shoes than anyone Ana had ever met, and most looked like work shoes. Castle shoes.
Ana Adored: Mistress of the Castle (Masters of the Castle) Page 10