Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(86)

Her black stretchy tank was his favorite—tight enough she went without a bra and her cleavage was emphasized by the sheer black lace around the neckline. Her outfit looked even sexier now that she’d removed the gold-trimmed vest she’d worn as a dungeon monitor.

How did she manage to look like a wet dream and still deliver that gut-clenching sense of menace?

Even Ghost, who was manning the security guard desk tonight, had given her a respectful look.

Ben reached the top and followed her down a quiet hall. Downstairs was where all the action was, right? “Why upstairs?” he wondered under his breath. Did she not want to be seen with him? Aside from not being her normal choice, he wasn’t a particularly good slave either.

Although he hadn’t spoken loudly, she answered. “Because you shouldn’t have to deal with the discomfort of scening in public on top of the nasty things that I want to do to you.”

Jesus. His jeans were way too f*cking uncomfortable now.

She stopped at a door and let him open it for her—a habit he liked. She might be magnificently dominant and one of the deadliest women he knew, but she enjoyed letting him behave like a gentleman.

Wasn’t there an old saying about the perfect woman being a lady in public and a whore in the bedroom?

Anne was a lady in public and a ballbuster—literally—in private.

With a smile, she trailed her hand over his bare chest as she walked past. “And, since I don’t indulge myself for all to see, the privacy is for me as well.”

Indulge. Refined language that meant he’d get to go down on her or f*ck her.

A private room had advantages without a doubt.

He closed the door behind him and checked out the surroundings. Sure wasn’t the western room they’d used before, but more like the clichéd “harem” décor seen in old black-and-white movies.

Of course, the Shadowlands took the theme to a whole new level.

Opulent. Lavish. Darkly erotic.

Showcased in the center was a mahogany-fretworked canopy. Its golden draperies half-concealed a wide lounge.

Ben looked up. The ceiling was painted maroon and stenciled with elaborate designs. Under his bare feet was a silky Oriental carpet in golds and reds. Amazing. The whole room sang of carnal heat—and his blood was picking up the tune.

At the door, Anne turned a dial, dimming the brass-and-amber candelabra lights on the metal-trimmed dresser.

As Ben checked out the X-shaped St. Andrew’s cross in one corner, his image in the ornate mirror on the wall duplicated his movements. Great—he could watch himself getting his ass beat.

He eyed Anne. “So…am I the sultan or the eunuch, Ma’am?”

“Well, Benjamin, let’s check.” She reached between his legs, fondled his solid erection, and cupped his balls.

The surprise was a shot of hi-test octane to his spine.

“Mmm.” Her appreciative hum made his chest expand. “You’re definitely not a eunuch. I do believe all your equipment is functioning nicely.”

His blood pressure rose. If she kept stroking him like that, he’d show her every function he had.

Then she gave his testicles a toe-curling squeeze and moved away to set her toy bag on an ebonized-wood Moroccan chest. “Strip off the jeans, please, Benjamin. Then lie down on the chaise longue there.”

“No restraints, Ma’am?” He could try the bondage shit. He would. For her.

“Not this time.” As she pulled two floggers and a short, ugly black whip from her bag, her half-smile was…worrisome. “I don’t think you’ll move a muscle after I begin.”

His feet halted at that. In fact, his gas pedal was stuck on empty until she jerked her chin at the chaise.

Fuck, she was going to mess with him all right.

Yet, as he walked across the room and drew in slow, deep breaths, his mind eased into acceptance, sliding down into a quiet place that was both erotic as hell and almost meditative. The combination was unsettling. She’d hurt him in a way that wasn’t…quite…pain, dealing out sensations that’d transmuted inside him into something new. Something f*cking carnal.

Sometimes the burn was that of an intense workout, one where his muscles were pumped and screaming to stop. He loved a good exercise rush—but working out never gave him a hard-on like this.

Or made him want to put his arms around the weights and kiss them senseless, to drive himself into—

“Ben.”

“Right. Sorry, Mistress.” Stripping didn’t take long since all he’d worn were jeans. He set them to one side and stretched out on the unusual furniture. Fairly comfortable. Wide enough for his shoulders. Even had an armrest on the right side.

A man had to wonder what’d happened to the second armrest.

At the St. Andrew’s cross, Anne was setting up her instruments of pain and pleasure. Then she dipped into her toy bag one more time, removing a pair of scissors, a towel, and a small brush and comb.

“You going to cut my hair?”

Both of her dimples showed. “That depends on your answer.”

He liked his hair, but… Man up, Haugen. “If my long hair bothers you, go ahead, Ma’am. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had short hair.”

Her laugh was low. “I wasn’t talking about the hair on your head, guard dog.”