To Command and Collar (Masters of the Shadowlands, #6)(8)

Her body warmed under his touch. Her skin did; her core stayed icy. He repeated the process, rubbing the strands of the flogger over her. He’d chosen medium weight, deerskin leather, not one with knotted strands, thank God.

He flicked the ends, and they pattered against her back like fat raindrops. She jumped, then relaxed as the rain of the flogger continued, even and smooth. Almost comforting.

He moved to her front, hitting her lightly. “Where are you from, Kimberly?”

Doesn’t matter. I’m in hell now. She stared over his shoulder at the wall of whips and floggers.

“Kimberly?” he repeated in a deeper voice.

Her words stuttered out as if dredged from the ocean depths. “I…from Atlanta.” No, that was wrong. Mom’s in Atlanta. Why do I feel so lost? “I work in—”Savannah. The strands hit her breasts, and she jumped, feeling something unwelcome bloom inside her, something more than pain.

“You do have a little bit of a Southern accent.” He stopped and studied her for a minute. His eyes… How did he make them change from gut-chillingly mean to snuggly kind? He stepped forward, again close enough for her to feel the heat he radiated, and then stroked a hand down her hair. “Little slave, I’m going to ask you a question. Whatever you answer, there will be no judgment or anger on my part. I simply need to know how you want this to go.”

She frowned. Why did he keep wanting to talk? But she could answer a question—as if she had a choice. She nodded.

“Bueno.” He hesitated a moment, as if searching for words. “I think I can make you respond.” He curved his hand over her cheek and brushed her lower lip with his thumb. “Make you enjoy the flogging. Make you come. Or I can simply flog you until you scream in pain. I… That is not my way.” His eyes darkened, his jaw tight with anger—but not at her, somehow she knew. “You have had much taken away. To be forced to respond might be more damaging than enduring the pain. So I will let the choice be yours. Which would you prefer?”

She hadn’t had an orgasm since her capture, but his touch and the authority he wore so comfortably yet used in an almost…caring…way were drawing her. A prisoner effect, undoubtedly, to cling to the one man who treats you like a person. As he waited, so horribly confident in his skills, she had the gut-twisting suspicion he could make her come. Here. Make her reveal her inmost self in front of the slavers. The Overseer. She shook her head and whispered, “No.”

“No to what?”

“Don’t make me… Just hurt me, okay?”

“You don’t want an orgasm. You’d rather have the pain.” He waited for her nod of confirmation, and his mouth twisted as if he tasted something foul. “Then I will ask this of you. When it truly hurts, please scream. It’ll get us both out of here sooner.”

No. She wouldn’t make a sound. Begging, screaming, whimpering was admitting defeat. With each beating, she hung on until the pain overwhelmed her and flattened her mind into pure instinct. Now he ordered her to give in early?

The little piece of her that was still Kimberly said no. Never.

Yet he’d given her this choice, tried to make this easier for her.

Or was his kindness a trick?

She couldn’t keep her own arguments straight. “Okay.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

“Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master,” she added so quickly her tongue faltered.

“Very nice.” His mouth curved before he kissed her again, his lips warm against her cold ones. When he stepped back, his posture altered: Clark Kent to Superman. The concern he’d shown disappeared from his face.

Why had she revealed so much—told him anything? He’d played her for a fool.

He moved with controlled power as he shook the flogger out, then disappeared behind her. Blows hit her upper back, on each side of her spine, on her bottom. The tails thudded lightly across her skin in a steady slow rhythm. Then faster.

All too soon, her back and bottom began to burn. He remained behind her, building up to a thorough flogging.

“You’re damn good at that, Master R,” the Overseer said, his oiled, knifelike voice making her cringe. “But I’m surprised you’re not f*cking her, like the other two.”

“Please, call me Raoul,” he said, never missing a stroke. Everywhere he hit was starting to really hurt.

And then he changed his stroke so only the tips struck her skin, and the tapping sensation changed to stinging. Much, much worse. Her hands fisted.

“I rarely f*ck in public,” Master R said. “If she’s not talented now, she can learn.” His voice sharpened. “Right now, I want to hear what she sounds like when she screams.”

Through the swirling redness in her brain she caught his slight emphasis on the word. Scream. He’d told her to scream.

No. Never.

“Let’s try the cat.” The blows stopped. Footsteps. A different swishing sound. Her courage fled. A cat-o’-nine-tails. She tried to brace herself.

It hit, ripping across the skin on her upper back like claws. Left, then right. Oh God! Her

jaw clamped shut, not letting the sound out. She stared at the wall, her shoulders on fire, and could almost hear his voice: Do it.

His next blow was harder. She felt the sting and burn of torn skin. Scream, Kim. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.