Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(10)

“Good. Then let’s discuss your limits. What will you absolutely not do? What are you unsure about? And do you have any medical—or emotional—problems I should know about?”

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to think worth shit with her leg rubbing his cock, he turned slightly toward her as if paying attention—which angled him enough to avoid the full-on pressure. Limits. All right.

“No permanent damage. No scarring. And I’d prefer not to talk in a falsetto.” He considered. “I don’t know you well enough for whips or anal shit.”

“Well reasoned. Bondage?”

Oh hell. He could feel his muscles tense.

In the low lighting, her eyes seemed more gray than blue. “That looks like definitely no restraints.”

After a second, he nodded. “I’d probably not do well if you put me in something I couldn’t get loose from.”

“That’s good to know.” She leaned forward and took his hands in hers. Her callused palms were a jarring contrast to her delicate fingers. “How about pain? You seemed rather…interested…in getting your ass whipped.”

“Mistress, if pain pleases you, I’m willing to give it a try.” He heard his words hang in the air. Fuck, had he said that to her? But yeah, he had. And meant it too.

The surprised pleasure in her eyes and the way she squeezed his fingers was as satisfying as the timeless moment of a perfect shot.

“All right, we’ll keep it within those limits and see what happens,” she said.

He had to say, he got off on her quick decisiveness. No waffling back and forth. No “Are you sure you want to?” or expecting him to read her mind and know what she wanted. She told him right up front how she felt and what she expected of him. Fucking relief.

As if to emphasize that, she reached up and removed the elastic band holding his hair back. “If I want your hair tied back,” she said gently, “I’ll do it.” She tucked the band into his jeans pocket. “Now go over to the St. Andrew’s cross”—she pointed to the seven-feet-high X-shaped device—“and remove your clothes. You can leave on your underwear if you’re uncomfortable.”

“That’d be a break…if I wore any.”

Her eyes lit with laughter. “In that case, I get a treat, don’t I?”

The soft grunt of pain she gave when she tried to move her leg from his lap reminded him of her sore ribs. Crazy woman. He put a hand under her calf and eased her foot down.

He straightened and realized she’d braced herself on his shoulder. Her mouth was only an inch from his, and her breath was scented with strawberries. Hell, he’d already won a punishment. What was one more? He closed the distance and brushed his lips against hers. Oh yeah.

Before he could take more, she’d gripped his hair and pulled his head back. “Ben,” she chided. “I think you know you’re overstepping your bounds.”

“Mmm.” Damn, she had soft lips. And a strong hand—her hold on his hair was damn tight. “Perhaps you’d better lay out the rules of engagement, Ma’am.”

“All right. First, we’re not a D/s couple, so these rules are only for the dungeon.”

His swift regret at the limitation was surprising.

“You employ the proper terms of respect already. Remember to speak only when asked—or if there is a matter affecting your safety. No touching unless given permission. The safeword here is red, which means the scene stops completely. Use yellow if you need something but don’t want a complete halt.”

Forget that halt shit. “I suppose it’s green for all systems go?”

“That’s right. I should ask if you have a problem with my hands—or anything else—on your cock and balls.”

I’d have a problem if you didn’t touch me. A sense of caution amended the words to a polite, “No problem at all, Mistress.”

“Excellent. Now do as I said.”

A stint in the military pretty much wiped out modesty and his sojourn in a hospital had eliminated the rest. In front of the St. Andrew’s cross, Ben stripped down. He had a massive erection, but he figured the good Mistress might’ve been annoyed if he hadn’t been aroused.

A black suede overnight-sized bag sat nearby. She’d have her so-called toys in it. His anticipation grew.

Hips swinging gently, she sauntered over and his mouth watered. She was slender, but her curvy ass would fill his big paws nicely.

In turn, she was looking at him with…enjoyment. Unlike some Masters he’d seen, she wasn’t impassive, but openly showed that she appreciated what she saw.

No, idiot, you can’t flex your muscles for her.

Her hand ran down his chest, ruffled the hair, and traced a puckered scar on his right side. “Bullet?”

Luckily, the insurgent had only hit him with a high-velocity ball or he’d bear a fist-sized exit wound. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Her fingers pressed deeper. “It fractured your rib, I see.” Without waiting for his reply, she continued. Soft hands over his belly, around his back and shoulders. Down his arms. His legs. She found all his scars and every bone he’d ever busted. Hell, his doctors had never checked him over so thoroughly.

“Spread your legs.” She tugged on his pubic hair. Cupped his balls and massaged lightly. Her hand closed around his cock—his docs had never done that—and it took every single piece of control not to shoot his wad.