Kim tried to sit up to go help, but Master R held her too firmly. “Shhh,” he said under his breath.
Jessica stormed over to the scene. The short blonde walked right into the area, said something to the dom, and started to undo the submissive’s restraints. The man, a lean Englishlooking type, shoved her away. She pushed him back, shouted something. And he grabbed her.
“No.” Kim fought the arms around her.
“Stop. Now!” Master R growled in her ear.
She obeyed automatically, then was horrified at her idiocy. What am I doing? She went limp.
“I thought we’d taught her not to interfere,” the Overseer said in a nasty voice.
“After a scene, the girl doesn’t think too clearly.” Master R added coldly, “She’ll learn.”
“I’m sorry, Master,” she whispered against his neck.
A tiny pinch on her butt said he wasn’t angry.
A hefty dom in a gold-trimmed vest walked over—probably the dungeon monitor. The cruel dom scowled, talking to him. Jessica ignored them, busy trying to release the little submissive.
When Master Z showed up, all activity in that area came to a stop. Man, he was more effective than a police siren.
Relieved, Kim glanced around. Master Sam had left and was almost to the scene. The Overseer studied the commotion with an…odd…expression on his face.
Kim turned back. Nothing much different. The English-looking dom pointed at Jessica. Color darkening, she yelled back.
Master Z covered her mouth. A second later, he jerked his hand away, and his expression turned to granite. He moved, and Jessica landed hard on her knees. Fisting her hair, he ruthlessly trapped her head against his thigh. Oh boy. She’d actually bit Master Z? God, was she in trouble.
Master Z didn’t look down. Face still frighteningly cold, he spoke to the jerk of a dom. The man took a step back.
“Appears the situation is under control,” the Overseer said. When he glanced at Kim, she closed her eyes, burying her face back against Master R’s neck and tuning everything out except the feeling of strength surrounding her. Breath goes in. Breath goes out.
“It’s been an interesting visit,” the Overseer said. “Especially seeing your slave so obedient. Really, Raoul, you’d net a handsome profit if you sold her back to me.”
Master R laughed lightly. “Not worth the work it would take to start over again.”
A pause, as if Dahmer wanted to keep trying; then he said, “Training is a bitch, isn’t it? I’ve been doing some recently, since I still have one of the slaves you met. The redhead didn’t get bought. Older slaves don’t sell well, so I can only hope training will make her more enticing.”
Linda—going to auction? Oh God. But maybe that was good. When the FBI took them down, she’d be rescued.
“Couldn’t hurt,” Master R said. “I take it the young one got sold?”
“More’s the pity.”
Holly. He’s talking about sweet, hopeful Holly. Kim tried to sit up, and the arms around her contracted until she had trouble breathing.
“Oh?” Master R asked politely. “What happened to her?”
“Far as I can tell, the idiot owner got carried away with seeing blood. He beat her to death.” The Overseer gave an exasperated sigh. “We made a profit, of course, but—”
“Yes, that’s a waste.” Master R sounded as if he didn’t care at all, and Kim hated him. Tears spilled from under her eyelids. How could he be so cold?
She slowly realized his muscles under and around her were rigid. He was holding himself in check, holding her there as well. His anger was almost palpable.
“Until the auction then,” the Overseer said. “I’ll have an area set up to your specifications.” A thump sounded as he set his drink down. “I’ll call you a day or so before to give you the specific date and time. I look forward to seeing how impressed the buyers are with your scene.”
Silence. She tried to hear if he’d moved away, but the room was too noisy. So she kept herself stiff and quiet. Waiting.
A minute later, Master R let loose, cursing long and low in a stream of Spanish.
She’d never heard him sound like that or seen him so furious.
When she moved, he stopped, and the fury faded from his face. “Gatita, I’m sorry about your friend.” He wiped away the tears sliding silently down her cheeks.
The loosening of his grip released the sobs that had piled up inside her like a thunderstorm. Oh God, Holly. Please God, not Holly. She was too young. She’d told stories about the antics in her dorm at college. About her mother who lived in Alaska. She’d been so homesick and scared; she’d cried herself to sleep every night. How could she be dead?
Kim tried to curse like Master R but could only cry. She wanted to leave, to hide somewhere quiet, and he wouldn’t let her go. Anger rose, engulfing her. He hadn’t saved Holly; he was a man. I hate you. Her fists stung as she hit him, harder and harder. She choked on the names she called him. As he muffled her screams against his leather vest, she cried some more.
“What the hell happened?” A man’s voice.
Kim tried to stop crying, to shut up, and couldn’t.
Master R didn’t tell her to be quiet, simply kept holding her. “The bastard told us a slave was whipped to death. The women were friends.”
Kim shook, inside and outside. She knew how a whip felt, the tearing of skin, the slicing agony. How scared Holly must have been, pain and more pain. Better it had been me.
“Hell.” The man paused. “You want to get her out of here?”
“No. I can’t drive and hold her. She needs to be held right now.”
Kim’s crying slowed to hiccups, and she leaned against him, exhausted.
“Be careful, buddy. You look too concerned about a slave, and everyone nearby heard you swearing.” His voice lowered. “Don’t forget we still don’t know who selected our subs for the Harvest Association. He might not be here tonight, but…”
“A good reminder,” Master R said softly. “Thank you, my friend. I did forget.”
Kim pulled a shuddering breath into her lungs and sat up.
The giant dom bartender was frowning down at them, heavy brows drawn together. He tossed Master’s toy bag and her clothing onto a chair, then met her gaze. “Back with us, love? Good. Keep your master from letting his temper loose.”
His conviction that she had that power was like a stepping stone away from her sorrow. She needed to stay in her slave character, and she had to look after her dom. “Yes, Sir,” she whispered. As she wiped her eyes, she plainly saw Master R’s rage.
The big dom was right. Master R wasn’t keeping his face under control.
“Master,” she said softly. “We should leave. Will you put my leash on and lead…so I can follow?”
He looked down. His fingers were infinitely gentle as he touched her cheek. “Tesoro mío,” he said under his breath. “Yes, let us go home.”
* * * *
“Did you get my goods back?” Christopher Greville spoke politely into his cell phone. It might be late to call, but he couldn’t rest without knowing if Dahmer had succeeded.
Over the past day, he’d come to realize that he was pleased the cunt was still alive. This way, he could deal with her himself—could give her a very slow, excruciatingly painful death.
“No, the owner isn’t interested in selling.” Dahmer sounded irritated. “I thought he’d jump at making a profit.”
A whip of rage struck. Greville’s pulse throbbed painfully in his temple. Who was this fucking buyer? “In that case, just pick my merchandise up.” Kidnap the bitch. “You’re an expert at that kind of business.”
“I will. But only if I can succeed without causing any…upset.”
“I don’t give a damn about—”
“Management reacts poorly to bad publicity.”
Greville hesitated. Last month, when a naive buyer fell in love with his slave and tried to inform on the association, the Harvest Associa
tion’s reaction had been…extreme. Removing them would have been adequate. A bullet. Simple enough. But no. Instead, the buyer and slave had been spread-eagled and restrained on the bed, one on top of the other; then the house was set on fire. Before the fire trucks arrived, the entire neighborhood heard them shrieking as they burned to death.
A bad way to go. He’d thought it funny at the time, but Dahmer’s warning was…perhaps…valid. “Do what you can.”
“I will. If I can’t pick the goods up neatly, I do have another possibility to fall back on, if needed. Be patient, please.”
Patient! Greville stabbed the Off button as fury seared his nerves. The need to hurt something was so strong he tasted it, but he forced himself to stay at his desk. If he started whipping the slave downstairs, he’d not stop until she was dead.
Since he was a premium buyer, the Harvest Association didn’t enforce the delay when he killed a slave, but losing two within a short period wouldn’t be wise.
He waited until his rage had died slightly. Enough, perhaps. Then he rose and headed to the basement. He needed to hurt her, to hear her screams rise to desperation, shriller and shriller.
* * * *
His gatita was exhausted. After carrying her into the house, Raoul tucked her into bed and then changed into regular clothes.
Looking down at the silky black hair surrounding her pale face, he felt the heavy foundations of…something settle slowly into place. He cared for her. Too much. With his history—with hers—this affection could only be a mistake, as foolish as building a bridge without considering the wind. He needed to back away while he still could.
Her eyes opened. She stared at his bedroom, her relief to be home obvious. Hearing about Holly had been too much, like stretching copper wire past the fracture point.
“How do you feel?” he asked, wanting to touch her. Comfort her. Yet hadn’t he just told himself to pull away? Stupid Sandoval. She’d slipped past his defenses so easily.
“Okay.” Her chin rose. “I’m fine.”
As she attempted to appear strong, to lie to him with her body and her words, irritation scraped his already raw nerves. “Do you ever tell me the truth when you’re not feeling well?”
“I—” Her brows drew together even as her arms wrapped around her waist, comforting herself as if she didn’t believe he could do a good job. “I think I know myself.”
“Why do you not trust me enough to be honest?” He set his jaw, knowing—knowing neither of them was thinking clearly—yet after what they’d shared, having her lie to him was like a stab in the back.
When her mouth firmed, he prepared himself for another untruth. Perhaps that was good; he’d have an excuse to leave her here with her dishonesty, her inability to be the submissive he wanted her to be—his inability to accept her even if she was. This was a way to pull away before they both got hurt. He started to turn—
“I—I’m sorry.” Her fingers pushed the blanket into folds, straightened it out again. “Mom didn’t—my father was cruel, made fun of her whenever she complained—so she stopped. And I learned—” She bit her lip and stared at the covers. Folding. Straightening. “I don’t mean to lie to you. It just slips out.”
Dios. Raoul took a step forward, even as his brain told him to leave. To back away before he had more cables binding him than he could escape. “Kimberly…”
“I’m not fine, Master. At all.” She looked up finally, and her eyes swam with tears. “I’m scared to be alone. Only I’m going to cry some more, and I didn’t want you to have to…”
“To get all wet?” Nothing in the world could have kept him from sitting on the bed and pulling her into his arms. “Sumisita—cry. I’ll hold you.”
Her shoulders were already shaking. So fragile to bear what she’d been through, and now to add grief to the mix. His own heart ached when he remembered the young victim, Holly. If he ever gained the opportunity to fight the slavers, some of them would die. But for now, his duty was to be a little subbie’s support and comfort.
She cried for a long time, long enough to soak his T-shirt, and so violently that a couple of times she’d started to gag, and he’d shaken her out of it.
When her crying finally stilled and only an occasional shudder coursed through her body, Raoul’s arms were still wrapped firmly around her. The tightness was gone from her muscles; the horror had faded from her eyes. “All right?”
“I’m fi—” She choked on a laugh and amended, “I’m better. Thank you.”
“Good.” He tilted her head up and kissed her, tasting the salt of her tears, the sweetness of her lips. She softened under his careful assault, then kissed him back, as if she needed the distraction—the affirmation of life—as much as he did.
He slid her off his lap, laid her against the pillows, and took her mouth again. His fingers tangled lightly in her hair, firmly enough to remind her who he was yet not rough enough to resurrect bad memories. He’d learned how to walk that tightrope over the past weeks. As he hardened, he deepened the kiss.
She wore nothing. The conviction that a submissive’s body should be accessible to her master reverberated through him. For tonight at least, he would accept his role.
He ran his finger over the scar on her ribs, then up. Her breast fit into his palm, lush and soft. He pulled back far enough to watch her. He couldn’t trust her to tell him if she was afraid or repelled, and he was no mind reader like Z. But when he studied her face, the changes of her muscles and her hands, he’d discover if she was fearful—or aroused.
Tonight, everything he saw spoke of desire: her lips and nipples reddening, the flush on her cheeks, the hitch in her breath when he cupped her breast. His gatita had responsive nipples, not overly sensitive, but sweetly erogenous zones. He licked a circle around one and then blew on it, smiling as it peaked.
“What are you smiling about?” she asked, her gaze on his face as soft as her hand in his hair.
“Women’s breasts are fascinating. The way they wobble and move. How your nipples bunch up as if they had a mind of their own.”
She rolled her eyes, then gasped as he pinched the neglected nipple into action.
“Of course, men have their own independently acting parts.” He pressed his hard cock against her thigh.
She lightened his heart with a tiny snicker and stole it altogether when she set her hand on his cheek and asked, “Why can you make me laugh, even when I’m naked and a little scared?” She pulled his tear-dampened shirt away from his skin. “Seems like all you get from me is wet clothes.”
He abandoned her long enough to pull the shirt over his head and toss it aside, then removed his pants. He put her hand back on his shoulder. “Touch me, cariño.”
Her soft palm ran over his chest, then paused when he pushed her legs apart.
“Look at me.” He’d been careful to avoid the missionary position, never wanting to make her feel pinned down or restrained by his size or body. Tonight—tonight, with her emotions still high and the bond from their scene strong between them, he’d push her further and try to replace the sordid memories with brighter ones.
He moved his body over hers, staying poised above her, but putting no weight on her. Fear widened her eyes. Her hand flattened against his chest to push him away.
“Look at me, sumisita mía,” he repeated softly.
Her gaze met his, and the tenseness slid from her body. “Master R,” she whispered, confirming what her sight told her.
“Yes.” He smiled and bit her chin, enjoying the sweet gasp. “I want your hand on my cock. Touch me, gatita.”
Still holding her eyes, he took her hand and put it on him. At the sensation of her small fingers curling around him, his shaft surged even fuller with blood. “You have a soft touch. Stroke me,” he directed.
Not looking away, she moved her grip up and set her fingers on top of his piercing. Her thumb wiggled the part on the underside.
The sensation was so heady, his eyes closed for a moment as he fought
himself. This one, the one woman who needed his self-control the most, was the one who challenged him more than any other. Pulling his attention from the glide of her fingers around him, he balanced on one arm and his knees and reached down between her thighs. No weight on her yet—just his size looming over her was enough for the moment.
He smiled when his fingers touched her pussy. How she kept herself shaved bare for him, without him having to order it, was a delight. His voice came out low and ragged. “You’re wet for me, gatita.”
Her olive cheeks darkened with a flush, enough for keen eyes to note. Despite the slickness, her clit was still hidden in its hood, and he considered teasing her with a toy, then knew he wouldn’t move from this spot. Tonight was for their bodies only, no ties or cuffs, no toys.
Of course, the lack of tools didn’t mean he couldn’t indulge in a little mental bondage. “Spread your legs farther apart,” he said.
Kim stared up at Master R, a shiver running through her. He was so big, could easily hurt her. And now—
“Must I repeat myself?” he asked, his voice lowering to a smooth threat. His eyes were dark, dark brown.
Her knees separated more, her folds pulling apart, exposing her. He smiled and swirled his finger around her opening, spreading the wetness. So wet. She shivered as he dipped his head, taking one nipple into his mouth, even as his touch edged nearer her clit. Needed more. Her hips tilted up slightly.
His head lifted. He studied her for a long moment. “No, you get only what I choose to give you. I will not tie you tonight, sumisita mía, but you will put your left hand so…” He firmly curled her fingers around one of the metal swirls on the headboard. “Your legs stay open—no matter what I do.” He smiled into her eyes. “Your other hand can continue to please me until I say otherwise.”
Her pulse picked up.
“Do you understand?”
Mouth dry, she managed a nod.
“Kimberly?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He shook his head no.
Her voice became huskier. “Yes, Master.”
“Much better.” He rewarded her with a slow kiss, a demanding one. When his tongue took possession, she could only think of the last time his cock pushed into her, filling her like that. He abandoned her mouth and inched down her body. A tiny bite on her nipple fragmented her mind. A light pinch on her clit made her gasp. Both pains, so similar, sent need streaming like a riptide between the two points. She was still tender from his attentions during the scene, and his fingers were slightly abrasive…and it only pushed her higher.
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