To Command and Collar (Masters of the Shadowlands, #6)(19)

“Kim. Everyone calls me Kim.”

He smiled, and for a second, she saw the dom he was. Self-confident. Powerful. He would do what he wanted.

A shiver ran through her. “You really are a dom, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.” He released her chin and brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “But you’re safe, chiquita. The only slave I want is one whose dearest wish is to be mine.”

He wanted to own a slave? A chill settled deep in her bones.

* * * *

An hour later, Raoul pushed his keyboard to one side and rested his forearms on the massive oak desk. The design for a new waterfront area in Belize couldn’t keep his attention.

Could Kimberly tolerate being a slave? He wasn’t a harsh master, but he wasn’t a pushover either, and since he’d acted like a cold bastard for the Overseer, turning into a hearts-and-flowers master wouldn’t cut it. Honesty would serve both him and Kimberly best. After all the upheavals in her life, she’d need the stability—the reassurance—of consistency.

He looked up at a sound from the door.

She stood there, her face pale, but chin up and standing straight. Brave little subbie. Satisfaction welled in him as he noted her cheeks had started to round out. Gabi’s cooking and pampering had put some weight on her.

“I’m ready to talk,” she said. “Is this a bad time?”

“This is fine.” He rose and saw her force herself to stand still.

In the doorway, he put his hand on her back, touching her as he’d avoided doing before. He felt her tremble. His brows drew together as he realized he was seeing her in two ways: as a hurt woman and as a willing sub. How had his mind ever received the impression she was willing? Yet there had been times in the slaver’s dungeon, when their rhythms had come together, and she’d unconsciously accepted him as dominant.

He paused, then turned toward the stairs, steering her up past the second floor to the third and into the tower room. Their discussion should be in a private place. Intimate. Not his office. And the great room was for guests.

Here, the steeply angled roof formed two sides of the square room, but the front and back walls were all glass, giving a breathtaking view of the sea to the west and his gardens to the east. The floor was a rich brown pile, the off-white sectional soft and welcoming. The toys for bondage and play stayed hidden inside the sturdy ottoman and bombé chest by the wall.

“This is beautiful,” she said, walking to the window with the ocean view.

So are you, little submissive. The light of the afternoon sun glinted off her straight black hair, bringing out brown tints, and silhouetted her slim figure. Under the loose-fitting clothing, she had a pretty body, he recalled. So thin, yet still graceful with nicely curved hips. He pointed to the sofa, saw her hesitation, and patiently waited for her to take a seat.

What should have been eagerness to obey—and probably had been once—was fear instead. His heart ached that anyone could treat a woman so harshly. He sat on the sturdy square ottoman, knee to knee with her, the sofa back keeping her from retreating farther. “We’re going to talk about what I expect and what you will do. And we’ll get to know each other, gatita.”

“What’s gatita mean?”

“Little cat. Kitten.” He tugged on her black hair. “Baby cats often have blue eyes, and when I was young, I had a black kitten with big blue eyes.”

She smiled. “You called me chiquita.”

“Little girl.”

She didn’t like that. “You said pobre-something means poor little baby.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s an awful lot of littles, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps.” He displayed his hand. “Big.” He set hers next to his, so small and delicate contrasted with his thick, blunt fingers. Why did holding her fragile hand raise every protective instinct he had? “Little.”

When she huffed in exasperation, he captured her other hand and leaned forward. “Now, tell me what happened when you were a slave.”

His unexpected question felt like a kick to the stomach. Talk about it? No way. Kim attempted to withdraw, and his fingers tightened. “Excuse me?” Her mind shifted, trying to detach from her body.

“You heard me, Kimberly. Until this is over, I will be your dom—your master. I will expect you to follow orders. Your body will be available to me—”

She froze.

“No, not for sex,” he added with a sigh. “But my hands will be on you at times. You need to become accustomed to my touch so you’re not jumping.”

She managed a nod. I knew this. I did. Why did it seem much more intimidating when she was looking at those powerful hands?

“I expect you to tell me when something bothers you—and things will. I need to know what to avoid, and I can’t help you if you can’t share what happened.”

Go into it? Talk about it? With him? His fingers were hot against her skin as the ice crept into her hands.

“Share with me, Kimberly.” His voice was a grave baritone, the slight Spanish accent softening it. “When did they kidnap you?”

“A-about maybe seven weeks ago.” The pain, horrible pain from the Taser, then a sting. The world going fuzzy, then she awoke to terror. A nasty kick when she threw up, a slap when she cried too loudly.