She nudged her nose against the underside of his jaw. “It’s okay. Let’s do this.”
“You’re certain?” Unconsciously he licked his bottom lip.
“Yes, as long as it’s you. Only you.” And only for you. I’d only ever do this for you.
He accepted the knife.
Ballaj led them over to the platform. Stupid thing was waist high on her and had no stairs. Her master helped her up before effortlessly following. The man had the grace of a tiger.
He turned and called out something to one of the slave-assistants who’d brought in the platform and the man tossed him a piece of white fabric. He caught it in his off hand with ambidextrous ease. A cool, biting, chemical scent wafted to her as he wiped the knife. Always clean your toys, she thought as she positioned herself between the two posts.
Looking out at their audience, she waited to be shackled. The chains and manacles reminded her of her first master’s dungeon and she quickly forced that thought away before it overwhelmed her. She couldn’t think about that.
Her master needed her to be strong now. She could do this. He wasn’t like her first one. This wasn’t that dungeon. She was not there. This was not then.
She sensed her master behind her before his hand touched her shoulder. “Look at me,” he ordered quietly.
She turned around. His expression was impossible to read, so many different emotions hovered there, everything from the dominant lust to…a flickering shadow of remorse. She had the sudden urge to tell him everything would be okay, as if he were the one who needed reassurance.
“Restrain her,” Ballaj prompted.
“No. She doesn’t need that.” Although he was answering Ballaj, his burning eyes never left hers.
Murmurs of surprise came from the group.
“You’re not serious. You haven’t even trained her to heel properly. You think she won’t try to escape from being cut open?” Ballaj sounded incredulous.
“She’ll stand free, of her own volition.” He gave her a small smile while his gaze continued to hold hers. She smiled back. They’d show this group something, all right.
Again the gasps of shock, and Ballaj’s disbelieving, “Not under knife-play?”
“Yes.” He reached out and stroked his fingers across her eyebrows, repeating the action as he said, “Close your eyes.”
She obeyed. His touch was soothing and she relaxed into it. His lips brushed her cheek. He kissed her, a little chaste kiss, once…twice. At the corner of her mouth, he kissed her again, pulling away before she could respond. His hand stroked her forehead, smoothing her brow once more.
“Now don’t move. I don’t want to damage you accidentally. But you’re not bound. You’re not trapped. You want this to stop, you say so. We’ll walk away.”
“I understand.”
His hand stroked across her shoulder, down her arm, in a slow, sensuous motion. “I’ll take care of you.”
“I know. Do what you will,” she whispered.
He stroked her hair back to lay bare the side of her neck. His lips, hot and tender, kissed the sensitive skin behind her ear, sending a shiver up her spine. “Don’t say things that will encourage me.” He nipped her earlobe.
“I mean it. Make that bastard eat his words.”
He chuckled against her neck.
“What?” she asked, confused by his mirth.
“Our minds work similarly. Though yours is less bloody. I wanted to make him eat his own hands.”
“Metaphorically that works for me.”
She knew the lights aimed at the platform had intensified when sudden heat poured onto her body. She snuck a peek through partially opened eyes, noting how darkness cloaked the rest of the room. From out there, somewhere, Ballaj’s disembodied voice quietly announced that the play had begun.
Her master took a step back and raised the knife so it appeared in her line of sight. The blade shown bright and clean. As he brought it toward her face, she closed her eyes again and took a deep, calming breath.
The dull side scraped lightly down her cheek and then caressed the line of her jaw. Cool metal pressed briefly against her closed lips before slipping over her chin and down her throat. Just above her slave collar, its progress stopped.
The edge of the blade rested against her throat. She held perfectly still, breathing only in shallow hitches. The metal subtly pressed into her skin, not breaking it, not even hurting, just pressuring her muscles and making her feel every one when she attempted to swallow. She didn’t move away from the pressure.
He grunted his approval and then the blade continued on its journey. At the base of her throat, he turned the knife and its point traced her collarbone. He was using just enough pressure to scratch a thin line that barely hurt but probably drew blood.
When the point hit her tunic’s neckline, the knife turned again and the flat of the blade ghosted down the front of her top to rest over her left nipple. With tiny circular motions, he teased her, shooting sparks up her nerves. Her lips parted as her breathing quickened.
Then the heat of his breath mixed with hers. Their lips must be almost touching. She lifted her chin, hoping to find his mouth, but he remained out of reach.
The knife was moving again, following the curve of her breast under before it twisted and the point of the blade caught and pierced the cloth of her tunic directly over her heart.
“Do you trust me?” he asked, his words a hot glide of air upon her lips, his voice sounding like he had swallowed sand.
She thought her pulse would shake her apart. Could he feel its beat telegraphed along the blade?
Without opening her eyes, she tilted her head all the way back, exposing the extended line of her throat in what she hoped was a universal gesture of submission. “Absolutely.” She didn’t even know where the certainty of her trust came from, but she had no doubts. He was a good man.
She sensed movement, and he must have leaned toward her because in the next instant his hot breath puffed against her exposed throat. His tongue, warm and wet, licked over her fluttering pulse point. Then his teeth fastened on the muscle joining her neck and shoulder. She tilted her head to the side, offering him greater access.
With the tip of the knife still gently indenting the skin above her heart, he bit down on her neck. His teeth were sharper than she’d expected and she sucked in a gasp of air, jaw clenched. The pressure from his mouth grew into an acute ache and she knew he was marking her skin. A hurt little yelp crawled past her gritted teeth. At the sound he stopped. The point of the knife also withdrew.
“Turn around,” he ordered, his voice hoarse.
She obeyed. With a touch at the back of her skull, he prompted her to bow her head. He parted her hair, brushing it forward to uncover the nape of her neck.
Then the flat of the blade slipped beneath the neckline of her tunic. He twisted the knife, lifted its sharp edge against the fabric, and the snick of parting fibers ripped into the room’s silence as he dragged the blade down until her tunic was completely severed. The two halves parted. Cool air met her back. Gooseflesh prickled up her spine and down her arms. She heard the rustle of various audience members shifting in their seats.
Warmth registered before the realization that it came from his hand. He had placed his palm between her shoulder blades. Her muscles had automatically guarded at the touch so she concentrated on relaxing them as she held still and waited for her master’s next move.
Her skin had healed nicely, thanks to his medicine. He had a blank canvas upon which to work. Like her skin was back when she had been kidnapped from Earth. Her first master had so enjoyed that prospect, and his right to slash it to his tastes. She quickly buried the thought. This master wasn’t like him, wasn’t like the rest of these brutes. Anything he did, she could handle.
He gave a low grunt, like he had decided something within himself. Suddenly she felt his lips, warm on the nape of her neck. The light contact sent tingles racing up her scalp.
“I’m goin
g to draw my initials. Have I your permission?” The question rasped from deep in his throat.
He said draw but he meant carve. It didn’t matter. “You don’t need my permission.”
“I know. But we have a pact. I won’t break it without your permission.”
“Yes. Do it.”
He moaned softly and nipped at the nape of her neck. “Thank you.”
The knife stabbed into the skin over her right shoulder blade, forcing its way into her, and pain spiked out from the wound. She winced, her teeth snapping on her bottom lip as she tried not to cry out. She tasted blood.
“Not sharp enough,” he snarled. The blade clattered to the floor. He shifted behind her. “I’m using my knife,” he murmured against her neck, his voice rough and deep, his breathing hard and fast. “It’s extremely sharp. You won’t even feel it at first. Stay still.”
His knife? He carried a concealed knife around? Of course he did. Why was she surprised? All she said was, “Yes, Master.”
He was right. His blade sliced through her skin as if she were formed from softened butter and she didn’t feel it at first. Her warm blood welled up and slipped out to trickle down her back leaving niggling tickle before the pain arrived.
Deciding a whimper or two wouldn’t go amiss, she unclenched her jaw. The sob that wracked her at his next cut took her by surprise and was in no way the controlled noise she’d hoped to make. Her sound elicited a feral groan from him and he swore under his breath before again biting into the nape of her neck.
His teeth hurt her and yet in an odd way the piercing sensation felt sweet. Even better when his hot mouth closed over the bruised flesh and he kissed her. That was going to leave a mark. She leaned back into it nevertheless.
He pulled away and she whimpered as two quick slashes crossed into a previous gash, but she didn’t move. The flat of his tongue pressed against the wound. The moist pressure felt strangely soothing. Then he was kissing the collection of cuts, his slightly chapped lips catching on her split skin. She fought not to flinch.
One of his hands gripped her shoulder, steadying her. “Almost complete,” he murmured into her ear.
She steeled herself. A twist and slice later, he was breathing praises to her control. She wanted to bask in the heat of his breath against her flesh but he stepped back. Just as she wondered why, a quiet flutter of applause reminded her of their audience. He was displaying his handiwork. She smiled. They’d shown that Ballaj bastard, all right.
Her grin turned into a gasp at the feel of his tongue, warm and slightly rough, lapping up the escaped trickles of blood trailing down her back. Then he attacked the arrangement of cuts again, this time with more kisses.
Her eyes flew open and she mewled, not meaning to, but shit that stung. Suddenly his arms wrapped around her and pulled her tight against his torso. Unavoidable proof of his arousal prodded against her lower back.
She gasped, her heart skipping. His arms were like iron. Fleetingly she wondered if he could crush her. She had never really thought about how strong he was before. He was always so gentle with her she had forgotten he could pose a threat.
His embrace wasn’t frightening, though. That twisty, prickly sensation in her stomach wasn’t fear. Nor was it entirely nerves. And it should have been.
The way he clutched her to him, the way he kissed her neck, the low, needy sounds rising from deep in his throat, all his movements betrayed a fierce longing. And the audience approved. Whispers of encouragement to her master, sighs of pleasure, the subtle creak of wobbling chairs, a muffled symphony leading her to conclude this display was intended to end in full-on sex. She should have been terrified, ashamed, and suffering.
That reminded her of her wounds, which must be bleeding, though she was feeling no pain. Nor did she care about those voyeurs out in the dark. She had pleased her master. His approval gave her the strength to face anything.
She wouldn’t think about the likelihood his arousal came from the blood and the situation, and not her specifically. This was her chance to feel like a sex kitten. On Earth, she was average. Just another wallflower. Here she’d been regarded as a punching bag, until this man. This man who was holding her like he would never let her go. This was her chance to make him come apart.
Wriggling against him provoked a raspy moan from his lips. Encouraged, she focused her efforts, canting her hips and sinuously rubbing against his trapped erection. A gratified rush rolled through her as he nipped the skin of her shoulder and swore. His body quivered against hers and she imagined he was attempting to maintain self-control.
She could shatter that. The way he’d reacted to sounds she made, she had a good idea of what he’d like to hear. Building from a tremulous whine in the back of her throat, she unleashed a series of breathless, plaintive cries. His control cracked.
Rough and involuntary, his hips started to rock into her. He set up a quick rhythm, all the while nuzzling her hair, her cheek, her neck. As his lips caressed the bruised and bleeding bite on the back of her neck, his muffled groans took on a keen, desperate edge.
The tone reverberated deep in her belly, blossoming into an ache that refused to be denied. Just as he wanted her, she yearned to satisfy him. She slipped into his rhythm, enjoying the feel of his excitement as his hips thrust against her. Her heartbeat spiked at the appreciative growl he gave in response, a sound she almost missed as the audience joined their rhythm, too, clapping and stamping their feet in time to his thrusts.
As the stomping grew louder, faster, and he met their pace. They were part of something larger than themselves, a wild dance, and she surrendered to the primal, visceral response it tapped within her. A surge of wetness flooded her core. The haste with which her body prepared itself was embarrassing. She moaned softly, begging for him to take her, not even realizing at first the wanton sounds were hers.
His knife was still clutched in his right hand. It flashed under her nose, since his arms encircled her. The long, wickedly serrated blade glinted where it wasn’t dimmed by blood. Her blood. But he held it pointed away from her, a threat to anyone approaching them, not to her.
“Mine,” he snarled against the bitten skin of her neck, his voice thick and thrumming with urgent need that set her every nerve tingling.
Suddenly the world whirled. It took her a second before she realized he had spun her behind him, protectively, and now held his knife at shoulder height and arm’s length up against Ballaj’s throat.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A thin line of blood dripped from where the blade had begun to slice into the skin of Ballaj’s throat before her master had stopped. Ballaj’s eyes looked like they might pop from his skull. She guessed he had climbed up on the platform to declare something, or maybe just to get a better view. Apparently, her master did not like unannounced visitors. Or being interrupted. Or both.
Whimpering, Ballaj lowered himself to his knees, the knife following him down. The sibilant hiss of whispers reached her ears; her master and Ballaj were talking to each other, but they spoke too quietly for her collar to detect and translate the words. Then her master withdrew his knife and stepped back, saying something about how next time he’d wear his rank.
The audience was applauding and calling for more. Though she glanced into the raucous darkness only a moment, by the time her attention returned to her master, he had secreted his personal knife and jumped off the platform. He stood looking up at her, reaching out his hands to help her down.
With one hand holding her shirt firmly in front of her, she sat on the edge of the platform. His hands closed on her hips and she slid off into his arms. He made sure she was steady on her feet before he took her free hand, his fingers interweaving with hers, and without a word or a backward glance led her out of the room and out of the club.
* * *
When they got back to his flat he took her straight to the washroom and cleaned her wounds. His touch was brisk and efficient, like dealing with injuries was a common routine for him. Then he
led her back out to the couch.
“Sit there. I’ll get the medkit.”
She perched on the edge. When he returned, he sat at her side and immediately started applying an ice-cold liquid to the wounds on her back. He was using a bendable, soft brush, but each stroke stung and she hissed between her teeth.
“That pain can’t be helped,” he stated.
“Oh, I understand. I’m fine.”
After he had painted her cuts, he stuck something soft, like a pad of gauze, on her smarting skin. The bandage stayed there. Whether it was the liquid or the gauze she didn’t know, but something had a painkiller in it because gradually every part of her body became more comfortable.
The cushion shifted as he stood. Silently, he strode off, presumably to put the medkit away. In a moment he was back, carrying a glass of water. He held it up to her lips.
“I’ve got it.” She took the glass from him. Her hands shook more than she expected, but she managed to drink. It surprised her how delicious the cool water tasted.
After a few sips, he retrieved the glass from her and set it on the floor. Then he sat beside her and gently drew her into his arms. His movements were strangely awkward and it took her a moment to realize he was attempting to not touch her back. She helped, settling herself sideways on his lap with her cheek against his shoulder.
“You did very well tonight,” he said, his husky voice flowing over her while his arms held her tight. “Thank you. I…I think you know I enjoyed it. A great deal. For that I owe you an apology.”
“Nah. ‘S fine,” she mumbled. Irrational pride coursed through her veins. She had given him pleasure. He said it himself. Her place with him had to be secure. Everything was fine now. Her body relaxed, cozy-warm, and her mind began to drift.
He pillowed his cheek on top of her head. “You were so strong. And brave. My perfect slave. The things you make me feel…” His sentence cut off. He swallowed. “You’re a brave, little—”
Wicked Beloved Page 5