To Command and Collar (Masters of the Shadowlands, #6)(29)

“Very good.” He rubbed his knuckles over her cheek, his gaze tender. “Is there anything you need now or want to say?”

Why would a master ask a slave something like that? And why did it make her feel…off balance? “No, Sir.”

“No? Then let me show you the parts of the house you missed.” He took her hand in his, leading her.

On the second floor were three guest rooms and the master bedroom. At the end, he opened a door and showed her a sitting room overlooking the ocean. “This is your private area for when you need a place to be quiet. If you’re in here, I’ll know you want time alone.”

Before her relief had taken hold, he set a finger under her chin, lifting her face to give her a level look. “Having a space to use doesn’t mean you’ll be permitted to hide in here, Kimberly. As with all things, that is up to me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” His hand cupped her cheek, and gaze on hers, he lowered his head. A flutter like butterfly wings tickled in her chest, but she didn’t move. A brush of his lips, a slide of his tongue on her lower lip followed by the nibble of teeth. Her mouth softened, and a tiny flicker of heat sparked to life low in her belly.

Not forceful. Gentle, teasing kisses from firm, velvety lips. His palm was warm against her cheek, his knowledgeable mouth on hers, but nothing else touched her. He didn’t even try to push his tongue in, just led her, step by step, into responding to the kind of kisses she’d experienced as a girl, before French kissing had come along.

He pulled away as slowly as he’d advanced, his gaze still intent but…oh, so much warmer. As was she.

She stared at him, setting her hand over her quivering stomach.

The corners of his eyes crinkled, but he didn’t speak, just ran his thumb over the moisture on her lower lip and then took her hand.

He led her downstairs to areas she’d already seen. The foyer and great room, dining area and kitchen, TV room. When he headed toward the south side of the house, her skin went cold. His dungeon. No. I don’t want to go there.

Ignoring the way she hung back, he opened the door and flipped on the overhead light, filling the area with brightness, erasing some of the menace. “Walk around the room three times. Look at everything,” he said in exactly the same tone as when he’d instructed her to do leg presses.

Every fiber in her urged her to flee, but she took one step through the door. Her knees shook as she forced herself to continue. He didn’t follow. She glanced back.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, just watching.

Okay then. Hands fisted at her sides, she managed to get one foot to move, then the other. The taste in her mouth, the way her skin went cold—at age six, she’d gone in a Halloween haunted house. Screams and moans, cobwebs and skeletons. She’d frozen, unable to move until her furious and shamed father had dragged her out and yelled at her for being a coward. “Moores are not cowards.”

But they are sometimes . Yet she pushed herself on, across the empty side of the room, then toward the equipment. Her feet stopped. Breathe. Breathe. She forced her legs forward, tasting blood from where she’d bitten her tongue. She made it past the St. Andrew’s cross and a bondage table. Her stomach almost revolted when she saw whips—so many whips—coiled snakelike on a shelf. A glass-fronted cabinet displayed gags. Masks. God. Pass that one quickly. She came even with Master R.

He held up one finger. “Two more.”

A throne chair with no bottom. A sink and counter. She detoured about chains dangling from the ceiling rafters. Then reached Master R.

Two fingers.

The room was well-equipped, nicer than some of the clubs she’d played in. Leather padding on almost everything. A sawhorse spanking bench. Master Raoul.

Three fingers.

She stopped in front of him and shivered, thinking of all the horrible things behind her. Now what?

“Kimberly, we’re not going to play today.”

Oh, thank you, God. Her shoulders loosened as the tenseness disappeared. “Thank you, Sir.”

“However, I do want you on that. Facedown.” He pointed to the waist-high bondage table, and she froze. He waited, then lifted his chin, his jaw hard.

Don’t make him mad. She crossed the room, ignoring her inner coward that kept screaming, Run, run, run. After she climbed onto the table, she lay on her stomach, every muscle rigid with fear.

“Good, gatita. You’re conquering yourself and doing very well.”

He took her arms, laying them at her sides, and massaged her shoulders with strong fingers. As her muscles relaxed, she opened her eyes and craned her neck to look at him. No lust in his face, just the focused attention he brought to everything he did. “Sir?”


“Master, gatita.”

“M-master, what are you doing?”

He snorted. “Massaging all your tired baby muscles. What does it feel like?”

Oh. “Nice.” Except for the need to run away and hide. “Thank you. Master.”

He worked his way down her body, and she knew he did it to get her accustomed to his touch, but it was effective. She tensed when he dug his fingers into the aching muscles of her buttocks, but he didn’t do anything sexual at all. Down her legs. Her feet. She moaned when his thumbs dug into her arches.

“Turn over.”

Her eyes popped open.