Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(54)

Down on one knee, she ran her hands over his tight calves, the leanly contoured muscles of his thighs, inhaling his masculine musk. His cock was almost flaccid—significant proof of his state of mind.

Let’s see how long that lasts. She unzipped her leather jacket and skirt. Beneath them, she wore an elastic black tank, a thong with ribbon ties—and thigh-high boots.

His eyes widened.

“I intend to beat you, subbie,” she said, keeping her voice husky—which wasn’t a problem. He really did have the sexiest body she’d ever seen. Her usual slaves were classically gorgeous males possessing streamlined, beautifully sculpted musculature. This oversized body in front of her was scarred. With heavy slabs of muscles. With forbidding, blunt features.

The man simply radiated power and strength.

And he’s all mine.

For tonight.

To erase her own tenseness, she went up on tiptoes, arched her back, and reached toward the ceiling.

His pupils dilated slightly.

But the stretching wasn’t all for show. This scene wouldn’t be a short one, and a good flogging took time and work.

They were both in this for the long haul.

Leaning against him, she rubbed her body over his and let him catch her scent, as she would with a wild animal. Slowly, she ran her hands over his back and ass, waking his skin up with pats and strokes and scrapes of her fingernails.

“I do love this body you’ve given me to play with,” she murmured. “Are you ready for me to start?”

It took a second for him to respond. He still wasn’t fully with her. “Uh. Yes, Ma’am. Sure.”

He was so not like her Ben, and his palpable despair simply broke her heart.

Taking his face in her hands, she gave him a slow kiss. Not for the scene, not for control—just because she needed to remind him she cared. And that he was alive.




Mistress Anne’s lips were a touch of life in what felt like a dead world. Ben knew he was letting her down, but he just…couldn’t…get with the program. He felt as if he were trudging through the Everglades, his boots heavy with mud. The muck pulled him downward, the air was too thick, the dense foliage blotted out the sun. There was no escape. He would walk and walk forever and never get out.

Mouse was gone. His friend—

The scent of leather reached him. Softness danced over his shoulders and stroked down his back. He opened his eyes.

The Mistress was teasing a black, multi-strand whip across his shoulders, his chest, his ass. Soft and fragrant. The flicking of the falls across his back was as light as a spring rain.

The strands slapped over his torso and legs in a rhythm that matched the beat of the country music.

Slowly, the slapping sounds grew louder as the blows increased in force. His skin seemed to glow with the heat.

When she stopped, he was almost disappointed, in the same way a person regretted when a massage ended.

She studied him for a minute, and her lips curved up slightly. “Better.” Her hand flattened on his chest, and she leaned against him as her tongue ran over his lower lip.

Then she fisted his hair and took his mouth roughly, driving her tongue inside.

His body heated with a rush. She tasted of chocolate and peppermint, like sex and sin, and he breathed her in, feeling as if the sun had shot a ray of sunlight through the darkness.

Her hands held his face in that way she had, so she could look into his eyes. Hers were a clear gray-blue, like the starkly bare sky after a winter rain.

“I’m going to hurt you now, Benjamin. If you move, if you tear loose of your restraints, I’ll be disappointed in you.”

“I won’t, Mistress.” The words emerged before he even thought about them.

“Your safeword is red, subbie. Use it if you need to.”

“I won’t.”

Her hands stroked down his chest, riffling his hair. When she pinched his nipples with sharp fingertips, his blood started to race as if someone were cranking open the floodgates.

And then she reached between his legs. She cupped his ball sac in her warm palms, squeezing lightly. And forcefully. She rolled his actual rocks between her fingers, increasing the pressure until he felt sweat breaking out on his skin. Felt his cock stir.

“Such a bad cock, not jumping right up for its Mistress.” Her disapproval made him hang his head. Want to apologize.

She slapped his limp dick—slapped it, for God’s sake—with the tips of her fingers. To the left, to the right, each smack stinging. Shocking.

Jesus. He tensed his legs, trying to stay in position as the blows increased to the point of pain.

To his disbelief, his cock filled and rose.

Curling her sure fingers around him, she stroked his dick, up and down. The heady reward lasted far too short a time.

She picked up the flogger.

The first hits landed on his shoulders, worked down his back, avoiding his spine and kidneys. His ass took some serious pounding. And his skin went past the glow to a burn.

After a while, she stopped and slapped his cock.

“Fuck!”

“Silence, subbie,” she murmured and smacked his dick again.

He bit back a curse and was rewarded with a long, wet kiss. Jesus, she could kiss. His arms ached to hold her.

He lost track of how many times she went through the cycle. His back and ass felt as if he’d backed into a furnace; his cock stung and throbbed.