To Command and Collar [Masters of the Shadowlands 6] (7 page)

Chapter Four

That evening, Raoul made Kimberly fix stir-fry while he sat on a tall chair at the kitchen island, sipping a beer. The way she moved was as beautiful as the way she danced. No motion wasted, everything in order. But the multitasking was making his head hurt. When he cooked, he’d fix one part; when it was done, he’d prepare the next. The little slave had several different preparations going on at once.

The slight smile on her face pleased him. Cooking was a comfort to her. He’d remember that.
Once the meal was on the table, he took a chair, holding up a finger to stop her before she sat down. As she stood beside the table, he helped himself to a bite. The flavors were excellent— strong and well balanced. “Very good, chiquita.”
“Thank you, Sir,” she said in a distant voice. She’d withdrawn emotionally from him since their talk. He understood. He tended to do the same, but it couldn’t be permitted. If she bottled up her anger and fear, he wouldn’t be able to read her or help.
“You sound unhappy.” He rested his arm on the back of the chair, deliberately letting his gaze wander down her body, the loose blue T-shirt, the baggy shorts. She’d put her hair into a long braid, and he missed seeing it free. “I think I have been a tolerant master so far. I even let you wear clothing while you were cooking.”
When her eyes widened, he frowned. At the sale house, she’d shown skill in serving drink and food. In dancing. She’d kept her eyes down, knelt gracefully, spoken only when told. Had she received more training than that? She’d said she was left alone after her kidnapping and then was sold to a sadist to be used for whippings and sex. After her return to the Overseer, she’d spent most of the time healing.
She not only had received little training, she might have no realization at what being a true full-time submissive entailed. He rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. If she hadn’t been so emotionally fragile, he’d probably enjoy this. He loved teaching.
He’d loved being a master, at least until a while after he’d married. His mouth tightened. That was in the past and nothing to be repeated.
When she took a nervous step back, he wiped the anger from his expression and his mind.
Eyes on the job, Sandoval
. He pointed to the chair beside him. “You may join me this evening at the table.”
As she sat down, her face was easy to read. Yes, she had much to learn.
“There may be times I prefer to feed you myself, and then you will kneel beside me and take food from my hand.” When a shudder ran through her, he studied her for a minute, trying to read her. Too many emotions there. Fear. Disgust. But was that a hint of anticipation? “The Overseer said you were in the lifestyle before this. Do you know anything about Master/slave relationships in real life?”
“Uh, not much. I dated a few doms, but that was mostly…uh, sex. Fun. Nothing else. I always thought women who wanted to be slaves… Well, it’d be like wearing a sign that said KICK ME. It’s disgusting.” An odd combination of revulsion and pain twisted her mouth.
If she had no experience, why such disgust? From someone else’s past? “So…before all this…you liked giving up control during sex. Perhaps to completely enjoy it, you need someone else in charge?”
Her cheeks pinkened delightfully. “I guess.”
He smothered his smile. “Some women enjoy giving up control for longer periods, not just in the bedroom. There are those who find that making others happy, especially their doms, fills a different kind of need.”
From the cynical twist of her lips, he saw she stuck to her opinion: slave equaled doormat.
“A good relationship is a two-way street, gatita. Submitting and serving is equaled by a master’s need to take control, to protect, to make someone happy.”
She not only didn’t believe him, but she also dropped her gaze again, shielding herself from him. Something else he would not permit. He set his fingers under her chin, lifting her face to his scrutiny, feeling the way she wanted to pull back.
This wasn’t going to be easy for either of them, especially if she wasn’t honest with him. Even worse, if he happened to misread her body language during a scene—assuming the Overseer required one—they could have a major problem. “A purchased slave would not have a safe word to stop an activity because they’re afraid, but I am uncomfortable without one. So, if you should say ‘cramp’ or complain of one, I will know you need a break or are having problems, and we will talk.” He grinned. “Yet it won’t look like I’m giving in to something most owners would ignore.”
The relief in her eyes appalled him. To feel grateful for the most basic of BDSM considerations. Well, they definitely had much work to do. He released her.
As he ate, she pushed her food around, her nervousness obvious in the way her eyes checked him constantly and her muscles tensed each time he moved.
Once finished, he leaned back, stretching his legs out before him. “I have two basic positions I wish you to know right away. We’ll work on the others later. The first is
kneel
, and you did very well with that one. The next is called
display
, and it’s what I requested you to do in the dungeon.” He raised an eyebrow.
She shook her head. “I’m not sure I remember.”
“Stand up.”
After a second of hesitation—something else to work on—she rose.
“Good.” Leaning forward, he tapped her inner thighs to have her open her legs farther, and stood to adjust her position. “Hands laced behind your neck.” He waited for her to comply.
Under his touch, she trembled, and her gaze dropped away. Curling his hand lightly over her shoulder, he waited to see if she was still with him. After a few seconds, her blue eyes cleared, and she looked directly at him.
The trusting had begun. He stroked his hand over her cheek. “You’re very lovely, gatita.”
Her brows pulled together, and she gave him a skeptical stare.
“Do not look at your master as if he’s an idiot.”
A surprised smile flickered over her lips.
Raoul drew his finger down her jawline. “Your skin is beautiful and very soft. Touchable.” He continued down her neck to above her breasts. “Your breasts are beautiful—full and high.”
Her breathing stopped, her lips pressing together. But she maintained her stance.
He trailed his finger between her breasts, not pressing at all, so the fabric of her shirt kept his touch from her skin. When he reached her stomach, he felt the shiver even through the khaki material of her shorts and knew she was aware of him…as a master. As a man.
He said softly, “Your waist curves in and then out to hips that were made to cradle a man, soft thighs to hold a man between them.”
The color rising in her cheeks wasn’t entirely from fear, yet it was far too soon to even attempt to touch her in any sexual manner. “You may relax. Hands at your sides, palms forward.”
In all reality, pretty as she was, he’d prefer to avoid it altogether. Nonetheless, every dom instinct in him wanted to act, to try to heal the damage, and as she was under his care, he must do what he could. So he would move slowly with small touches, verbal play.
“Now, you will remember to ask to speak, no? If we are having a conversation, permission is understood. Address me as Master or Master R or Sir. Nothing else. This, I saw, you have already learned.”
He noticed she’d never called him Raoul either, even at Gabrielle’s home. Did she think of him as the enemy then? Or as her master?
She nodded.
“Most of your responses should be simply, ‘Yes, Master’, but if you’re particularly enthusiastic, you may say, ‘It will be my pleasure, Master.’”
Her expression showed doubt that anything he suggested could ignite her enthusiasm.
“You are to care for the house and meals. A housekeeper comes in on Thursdays to stock the kitchen and do general cleaning. I’ll introduce you, and you may take on overseeing her.”
“I’ll oversee someone else?”
Her incredulity made him grin. She was so very unused to the dance between dominant and submissive. His lips tightened. And that was because she had experienced only the raping away of her power rather than the joy of giving it into loving hands. “A slave might have clothes or not, speech or silence, no responsibility or much. Nothing is set in stone.”
He held her gaze with his and could see her yield to his voice, his authority. Something constricted inside him—she feared his control yet wanted it. How deep did her need run? Light submission…or complete? “The only consistency in the relationship is this: the master decides.”
“But—” Her shoulders hunched defensively.
“That makes you anxious, gatita. Why?”
“I won’t know… I need to know what—”
Did she fear arbitrary punishment? “We’ll go over what I expect from you. The rules. I will never punish you for something you didn’t know or didn’t understand, Kimberly. That isn’t my way.”
Some of the worry faded from her eyes. But not all. Her gaze was focused on the floor.
He considered what he knew of her. Not nearly enough.
“I need to know…”
she’d said. Needed to know what to do? Some people—and a high percentage of submissives—wanted clear-cut rules. Preferred their duties laid out, liked schedules and lists. He was somewhat that way himself, as were many engineers.
“I think I understand,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll list out your responsibilities.”
The tensed muscles of her shoulders eased. The whiteness around her mouth started to pinken.
Much better. He added, “At breakfast every morning, we’ll plan out your day.”
There it was. He’d won an actual smile.

* * * *

Kim had been left alone to clean the kitchen—
thank you, God
—and the time putting dishes in the dishwasher and wiping down the dark granite counters helped settle her nerves. She scrubbed at a stubborn stain, still a bit shaken by her reaction to Master R. When he’d talked to her in that dark rich baritone, telling her she was lovely, talking about her breasts, well… Apparently her hormones hadn’t gone into hibernation after all. Only she wished they had.

The thought of having sex ever again filled her with ice. And panic.

I’m fine. Just keep my emotions calm and cool
. She imagined picking up a heavy shield, like something Lancelot would carry. Nothing could get through it.
She stopped in the doorway of the TV room. Like the rest of the house, it had creamy stucco walls and terra-cotta tile flooring. The end tables and entertainment center were of dark wood, a waist-high brick red vase stood in one corner, and throws in autumn colors made the room cozy. A painting of a gorgeous old world sailboat hung over the leather couch where Master R was reading a technical magazine.
He glanced over and smiled. “Barring any other instructions, when I am sitting, you will join me by kneeling at my feet, half-facing me, eyes down.
That’s disgusting, her cynical part said. But her inner self…was silent. That wasn’t right. Shouldn’t everything in her disagree with subservience? A tiny shiver went through her as she knelt, grateful for the softness of the Oriental rug.
“Very, very pretty, chiquita,” he said softly. “I’d never planned to have a slave in this house”—he hesitated, and his jaw tightened for a second—“so most of the floors are tile and will be uncomfortable for you. If there is no carpet, you may use a pillow.”
Had he owned a slave in a different house? She looked up, almost spoke. “Permission to speak?”
“Good. Add Master onto the end, please.”
“Permission to speak, M-master.”
He leaned forward and cupped her cheek, his brown eyes frighteningly serious. “It pleases me when you call me that, Kimberly. I thought you should know.” He held her gaze, his look reaching deep, deep into her, melting the ice in her center.
She swallowed past a dry throat.
He waited, still touching her, his thumb stroking her jaw.
“Did you have a s-slave before?”
“Mmmhmm. After college, I had a slave for about two years before I moved here. She preferred to stay in that city, so I helped her find a new master.” The movement of his slightly rough thumb stroking her skin lulled her into relaxing…until his expression hardened, the warmth in his eyes disappeared. “The woman I married was my slave as well.”
Kimberly pulled away. “Married? But—”
“I’m divorced, gatita, for almost three years now.”
The bitter twist to his lips made her want to pat his hand in comfort. “What happened?”
He leaned back, putting more distance between them. “The usual things that break up a marriage.” His voice made it clear the subject was off-limits. Pretty unfair considering the way he’d probed her life.
She had one last question. “Did your wife do all right once you let her go? After being a slave, could she still function?”
The humor returned to his face. “Because a woman places her power in my hands doesn’t mean she’ll give it to anyone else. My wife was CEO of her own company. She ripped young executives apart without ever raising her voice.”
Wow
. That was… He was screwing with all her preconceptions. Pretty rude. “And your first slave?” Slave—the word sickened her.
“She makes an excellent living as a real estate agent, specializing in million-dollar-and-up properties.”
Not comforting to know he apparently had liked being a master and having a slave. But, oddly enough, it was reassuring that two women had willingly given themselves over to his care…without being kidnapped. Sold. “They cooked and cleaned your house too?”
“No, gatita, that’s what housekeeping services are for. I only assigned you those responsibilities since you have nothing else to do. As it happens, I enjoy cooking and will take a turn on weekends, as I used to do.” Amusement danced in his eyes. “And when I didn’t want to cook, then my slave did, wearing only an apron. As will you.”
Oh boy.
“Now, fetch the book you were reading earlier, and you may join me on the couch.”
When she came back with her book, he didn’t look up, just murmured, “Remove your shirt and bra first, please.”
She stared at him.
He turned a page.
She’d agreed to this. He hadn’t wanted her to do it. But clothes were a…a defense. Her own kind of chain mail.
I don’t want to.
He appeared so relaxed, his attention on his reading. Another page turned.
Swallowing down tears, she pulled her T-shirt off, then her bra, and stood waiting.
He looked up then. His gaze ran over her, nothing in his expression except approval at her obedience. “Good, gatita. You took a big step. Now come and sit beside me.” He patted the couch.
She sat gingerly beside him, stiffly upright until he pulled her to his side. Her fingernails dented the cover of the book as she waited for the inevitable groping, the attack…
His heavy arm settled on her shoulders, and his fingers curled around her upper arm. He shifted, settling her against him more comfortably, and then picked his magazine up.
After a minute or two, he sighed. “A
slow
breath, please, Kimberly. You are not running a race.”
Oh
. Her pulse pounded, but she managed to even out her breathing, from racing to maybe a jog. After another minute, she lifted her book. The room was cool enough that where his body touched hers felt…nice, warm against her bare skin. His hand occasionally stroked her arm.
Another minute or two, and she actually read a few of the words in her book.