In Training

by Michelle Robbins

  "He isn't what he seems. Please slow down."

  It wouldn't do any good to confess she and Seth had been in daily contact since the night of the Dungeon Romp. By now she was certain she knew what she was getting into: slave training with an ex-slave master. "We've talked. And my neighbors would pound him into a pulp if I scream."

  "There's a side of Seth that you don't want to meet," Liz warned.

  "I'll be fine."

  "Do you remember your safe word?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Of course I do. How could I forget?"

  "You'd be surprised," Liz muttered.

  She heaved a sigh. "Stop worrying."

  "I can't. I feel responsible. Seth's a fantastic slave trainer, but he can be an asshole."

  Light speared through the curtains as a car turned into her driveway, the headlights going dark as the engine switched off. Abby's stomach tightened and turned over, releasing a flurry of butterflies that escaped on a hiccup. Her breath tangled in her throat. A car door opened, then closed. Footsteps traversed her footpath. The soft chime of the doorbell tumbled through the house.

  "Liz," Abby hissed into the handset, "he's here."

  "Oh, hell," said Liz, sounding resigned. "Remember, no playing on the first date."

  She ended the call. Struck with sudden shyness, Abby eased toward the door. Somewhat short, she stretched onto her toes and peeked out the window. There stood Seth.

  High lightning flickered in the sky, silhouetting his dark form. The dusky lights painted him in shades of gray and purple. He wore a dark blue shirt and jeans. The car was black and low slung; exactly the type his email had told her to expect.

  The doorbell sang again.

  Abby jumped, her phone falling from her hand to the floor. She cursed and swooped it up, the action somehow freeing her from her unexpected paralysis. Reality set in and she realized she needed to let him in.

  The doorknob wouldn't turn. What the...

  She wrestled with the deadbolt for a moment before managing to throw open the door.

  "I'm sorry. My phone fell and I had to..." Her apology stalled out.

  He was gorgeous. Not in a classical sense, not like Brad Pitt or Gavin Rossdale, but in a rough-hewn, totally masculine way. A body packed with muscle filled out the casual clothing. Not gym-chiseled...no, the body of a man who worked outside. He had a strong jaw and straight nose, a level gaze and broad shoulders, and a shy dimple that appeared on the right side of his mouth when he smiled and raised his hand in greeting.

  "Good to see you again, Abigail."

  Rain fell around them, but Abby barely noticed. Carried on the brisk wind, it dampened clothing, hair, and the entryway tiles. The hint of a brogue danced across her skin, bringing shivers. The slight touch of Scotland in his voice, that little bit of exotic in his baritone, shivered across her skin.

  "Abby is fine," she said as a matter of habit.

  He nodded. "I'm here to consider you for slave training. Are you ready?"

  Her knees wobbled. He said it so comfortably, as if there was nothing exceptional about BDSM slavery. There probably was nothing exceptional about the proceedings to Seth. He'd told her that in the past he'd been the local community's slave trainer. No doubt he'd done this a time or two.

  Danger loomed in the darkened clouds filling the horizon. Thunder rolled in from the distance. She found her courage and stepped aside, letting the door widen. "Come in."

  Seth eased inside and closed the door behind him. He took up a lot of space. Not in size exactly, but in presence. A lot of strength resided in Seth...and some impatience.

  "Oh! I'm sorry. Please, may I take your coat?"

  "Thanks." He shrugged his way free.

  Rain sparkled on his jacket, highlighting his hair and dampening the floor, accenting a ripple of fabric, muscle, and leashed power. She ran her gaze across the revealed body, her cheeks warming as her blood throbbed and her breath hitched. Their hands brushed as she took the offered jacket, causing a bolt of lust to twist her stomach.

  She turned from him and opened the closet door, selecting a hangar for his jacket. "Taylor. That's not my idea of a Scottish name. Is it Scottish?"

  "Liz has been carrying tales again."

  Startled, she glanced over her shoulder toward Seth. "Was she not supposed to tell?"

  "I do not hide my heritage."

  Abby managed to hang the damp jacket and close the closet door without any further awkwardness. She turned to him with a smile. He'd moved deeper inside the house and was currently examining the art decorating the hallway wall. He stood beside an oversized oil painting, gazing at it as though the answers to the world's questions lay in the mix of blues, teals, and whites.

  "Taylor is my stepfather's name," he said. "My mother remarried an American after my father died."

  Shock rushed through her. Her cheeks warmed. My God, she thought, could there be a more horrible way to open a conversation? "I'm so sorry."

  "I'm not. He was a drunken bastard and quick with his fists."

  Worse and worse! "That's horrible. No child should be forced to live with that."

  "Aye," he said.

  A tone of finality chilled his voice and dismissed her concerns, as well as the topic. Into the room crept the distant sound of thunder and the deceptively soft patter of rain. He examined the art, while she examined him. The shadow of whiskers darkened his chin and jaw. A diamond stud gleamed in one ear. While most inhabitants of Portland were as white as vampires, he had a bit of color. Did his job include working outside?

  A slight movement of his head broke her study, the rise of his chin and the flare of his nostrils as if he tested the air.

  "Dinner?" he asked.

  "Yes, homemade lasagna. I hope you like Italian food."

  "I like it fine."

  Abby blinked at the tepid reply. She'd worked for hours to prepare this meal and had hoped for some praise for her homemade sauce, hand-pressed pasta, freshly grated cheeses-- Okay, she hadn't made the mozzarella cheese by hand, so sue her. She tried again. "Well then, I hope you're hungry. The meal is homemade."

  "I could eat."

  Twice! She'd mentioned it twice, and twice he'd dismissed her efforts! Liz had said Seth could be an asshole, but she hadn't mentioned that he was an asshole. Well, two could play this game. She'd be happy to feed him, prove to him what she was capable of in the kitchen, then show him the door.

  Slave trainer. She sniffed. Asshole.

  Forcing a smile onto her face, Abby filled her spine with iron and started for the kitchen with a confident stride. "Wonderful. Let's get started then, shall we? Would you mind opening the wine?"

  "We won't be drinking wine."

  She nearly stumbled as she stopped.

  "A soda will be fine. Or ice water," he said.

  Rooted to the floor, her mouth hanging open in shock, she stared at Seth and furiously blinked, hoping the nightmare would fade away. No such luck. Seth continued to stand in her living room, staring at her and acting like he could tell her what to do inside her own home.

  She wrenched open the 'fridge and pulled out two cans of soda, setting them onto the counter with a decided thump. The snapped-open cans give voice to the hiss of displeasure boiling in her chest. Ice cubes tossed into the goblets rattled vengefully. She hoped he was allergic to something in the salad dressing.

  "Abby?"

  Seth leaned against the kitchen doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest and a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "We're here to discuss the potential of us engaging in a master and slave dynamic. I need you to be clearheaded and fully aware of your decisions. There will be no using alcohol as an excuse. That wouldn't be safe. Not for you or for me."

  Anger drained away like water in an unstopped bathtub, bubbles of ire dissipating somewhere beyond her grasp. She couldn't argue his logic. She offered a glass of soda like an olive branch.

  "You have an excellent point," she said.

  Seth barked a short laugh and accepted
the glass. "My points usually are."

  "Modest, aren't you?"

  "It's my best feature."

  She chuckled as his fascinating half-smile made an appearance, the one that revealed the small dimple in his right cheek. Adorable!

  The laboring oven had warmed the kitchen. A pearl of sweat eased down between her breasts. She took a slip of cola and located her oven mitts, using the blue-and-white protection as she eased the pan of pasta out of the oven and onto the stove. She thumbed off the power.

  "Would you mind tossing the salad? It's in the 'fridge next to the dressing."

  Moments passed before she realized that the refrigerator door hadn't opened. She paused in the midst of serving a portion, one hand balancing a plate, the other wielding a spatula full of lasagna. Cheese stretched deliciously from the tray to the utensil, tomato sauce dripping onto the counter.

  Seth had taken his seat at the head of the table and was busy examining her fourteen-lemon centerpiece. He looked up when Abby spoke, his cool gaze unwavering. She froze in place, her eyes on his until the splat of lasagna hitting the countertop caught her attention. The red, cheesy blob of pasta and meat oozed toward the counter's edge.

  She grabbed for the paper towels.

  "Take your time, li'l one. I'm in no rush."

  Seth's voice held a weight of command. Seth wouldn't be doing any serving. In fact, the only directive he'd obeyed had been the one to enter her house. From that point on, she realized, he'd been quietly ensuring his dominance.

  The slave consideration has already begun.

  Abby's hands trembled as the realization hit home. The idea terrified, yet it was what she'd craved all her adult life. It was why she'd invited Seth into her home.

  It felt wholly natural to turn from the main dish and take the salad fixings to the table. She smiled and drizzled the dressing onto the crisp leaves and small bites of artichoke hearts. She filled his dishes with edible creation after edible creation, her heart warming with each smile he gave and each sound of approval.

  Throughout the meal, he proved educated, literate, and held an unusual style of humor. They found common delights in favorite authors, movies enjoyed, and deep discussions on the metaphysical and spiritual world. They laughed as they traded life stories, both of the heartbreaking and humorous kind. He, at last, praised her efforts, and Abby bit her lip against the urge to burst into tears.

  He returned the conversation to the reason why they were there.

  "I can see we're going to get along fine," he said.

  Nodding to himself as much as to her, he stacked his plates neatly and set them aside, revealing his left-handedness. Steel blue eyes regarded hers with an intensity that curled Abby's toes.

  "There are a couple of questions still to cover. Of primary importance to us both is our health. Two weeks ago I was checked out by professionals and am clean of any diseases. Sexually, I will not infect you with any unwelcome transmittables. I have a certificate of proof, if you require."

  Chapter 3

  Abby flushed. She choked, grabbed her glass and took a hefty swallow of cola, which only caused her to cough harder. Tears welling in her eyes, she flapped her hands in front of her face and gasped for breath.

  He smiled, amused. "It had to be said, and better clearly and honestly than not."

  "Another excellent point," Abby said on a wheeze.

  "Yes."

  He waited while she gathered her composure: wiping her eyes, patting her dimpled cheeks, breathing deeply in a way that caused her spectacular tits to heave. He locked his back teeth and refused to divulge his hunger. Now is not the time to show weakness, he reminded himself.

  After a few more deep breaths, Abby set down the napkin and straightened her shoulders. "I, too, have recently passed a healthy body report," she pronounced.

  Excellent. Now we can proceed.

  He began his investigation. How long had she been in the kink lifestyle? What had brought her to the BDSM community? How involved in local events was she? What were her personal kink practices? What were her hard limits? What was her position on floggings? Canings? Blood play?

  He answered each question himself without prompting, giving Abby a glimpse into the sexual interests of a man comfortable with his sexual needs, offering her insight into the man he was and the master he would be. He made his decision in his usual way: without hesitation.

  "We seem to be a good match sexually."

  * * * *

  Abby's gaze dropped. He needed to know one more thing before he made that decision. Her fingers worried the napkin in her hand for long moments before she raised her eyes back to his. It's for the best, she told herself. He needed to know, just in case he wanted to opt out.

  "Let me show you what you'd be working with." She rose to her feet and walked into the living room. The soft tread of Seth's footsteps followed. She leaned into each lamp as she switched them on. The early night had fallen as they'd eaten, normal for early spring in the Pacific Northwest, but within moments, light chased away the shadows.

  Keeping her back to him, she pulled off her shirt and unhooked the purple-and-black lace bra, which she let fall. She covered her breasts with her hands and took a couple of bracing breaths. Then, straightening her shoulders, she turned to face Seth and dropped her hands to reveal her shame.

  Along with the fine things that were Abigail Harrison was something she was ashamed of every day.

  "They're not pretty," she said, as the harsh living room lights revealed the boat-anchor designs made by a surgeon's scalpel. Forced to clear the unusual huskiness from her voice, she nervously stated the obvious. "They're scarred."

  Seth's gaze lingered on the display. Tilting his head to the side, he stepped closer and brushed his fingertips across the swell of her breasts. He touched with care, as if acknowledging an open wound visible in her psyche, even though the physical incisions were long healed.

  He palmed the weight of them, one in each hand, stalling Abby's breath. Warmth rushed through her veins. Her nipples tightened into hard nubs.

  "What happened?"

  Her teen years had been spent being laughed at by her peers for having boobs the size of watermelons. Her huge tits had caught the unwanted attention from pedophiles like her stepfather to fetishists who lusted after the breasts instead of the woman. She'd hated her oversized breasts so badly she'd had a doctor shave off five pounds of breast tissue. "I had reductive surgery."

  "Back pain?"

  "Lots of pain," she said, but not all of it was physical.

  He was silent, touching and examining, his breathing slow and composed. He traced the tiny, silvery lines with tenderness and care. While the surgery had greatly reduced their size, it hadn't erased her self-hatred.

  "They're ugly, aren't they?" Her voice quavered on the question.

  His eyes flicked up to meet hers, revealing a dark flash in their depths that he quickly muted. "The scars? They are barely visible."

  He obviously needs glasses. "But see them here...and here?" She pushed her flesh this way and that, showing him the path of the surgeon's scalpel in a wholly masochistic exhibition of body loathing.

  Seth caught her wrists, pulled them away from her body and stacked them at the small of her back, holding them there for a moment as his eyes caught hers and levied an unspoken message. She sucked in a startled breath and held her position as his hands dropped from hers.

  He resumed the caresses, brushing Abby's skin with the backs of his hands before dancing his fingers across the landscape of her areolas. She shivered.

  He licked one fingertip and brushed it across a nipple, pulling a whimper from her. Flash-fire raced between her nipple and her clit. She bit her bottom lip and swallowed a moan.

  "Can you feel that?" he asked.

  "Yes," she managed to answer, her voice gone husky again.

  The sound must have pleased Seth, if his satisfied smile was any indication. He cupped both breasts, flicking each nipple with a thumb. "And that?
"

  Her suddenly weak knees threatened to give way. "Yes. Oh, yes."

  He bent and took one aching bud into his mouth. Abby arched into his touch. Delight zinged along her nerves, coalescing into the heated focus of Seth's mouth drawing on her breast. She pressed into the lash of his tongue, her toes curling into the thick carpet. Seth pulled her against his hard body, the thrust of his erection like a ridge of steel against her abdomen.

  He nipped softly. She became sensation, taking in everything--the sound of her blood racing in her veins; the sparkles of light behind closed eyelids; his scent, totally masculine, earthy, and with a hint of cigarette. He squeezed gently. His mouth moved between each nipple, licking, nipping, and suckling. He slid his hands down and flexed them into the curves of her ass, as she helplessly pressed herself against him.

  A hungry mewl broke from her throat. She speared her hands into his hair, relishing the texture--clean and soft, silky and strong--and he released her. She rocked on her feet, struggling for balance both mentally and physically. Her eyes widened at the sight of the frown marring his brow.

  His eyes, cold with displeasure, caused an ice storm to shudder down her spine. She dropped trembling hands, wrapping around her stomach to hold herself against the unexpected chill. "What? Did I do something wrong?"

  His answer was to catch her chin with both hands and cover her mouth with his.

  Startled, she inhaled her shock, and he breached her lips with his tongue. He tasted like the Italian spices from dinner and something else...something earthly and primitive. He licked into her without a shred of gentleness, plundering her mouth with a low growl. She shuddered, surrendering to the onslaught, accepting his possession with moan of submission.

  He adjusted his mouth's placement on hers, tilting her head to his satisfaction, and feasted. Another moan poured from her as she surrendered, shuddering. His tongue tangled with hers, dominating, retreating, pushing inward again to repeat the process.

  He stormed her awareness. Her world spun. Then he pulled away with a moan of his own. She struggled for balance in the sensual mist that fogged her mind.

  His teeth nipped her chin and jaw. She leaned into the sensual storm. His fingers tweaked her nipples, bringing shivers and gasps. His tongue made a hot sweep along the skin between jaw and neck. She bared her throat to his teeth. His voice rumbled, bringing shivers and a pebbling of her skin. His breath stirred the wisps of hair beside her ear.