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He twisted away from her so they were facing one another. Fuck. He shouldn’t have said anything. He hated the pitying look of sympathy on her face. “The water’s getting cold,” he said brusquely. “Let’s finish up.”
He rinsed off while she soaped herself. When they climbed out of the tub, Ellen rushed to the linen closet. She returned with two towels. “May I dry you, Sir?”
Normally, he would have acquiesced, appreciating the submissive gesture. But at that moment, he really just wanted to get some clothes on.
He took one of the towels from her. “I’ll do it.”
He felt better once he was dressed. Snow was falling again outside. He built up the fire while Ellen prepared breakfast. She was quiet as they ate scrambled eggs and toast. She kept glancing at him as if wanting to speak.
Eager to avoid any further discussion of his military past, and also genuinely curious, he said, “So, tell me more about your career. I remember you said your first book started as a college thesis? Why children’s books per se?”
Her face became animated. “My nephew, Luka. He was my older sister’s first child. He was having a lot of trouble with the birth of his little brother. Luka was only two and a half when Aaron was born. He deeply resented being usurped from his solo position on the throne of parental adoration,” she added with a dimpled grin. “But he didn’t have the words for what he was feeling. I was trying to come up with my senior thesis and my sister is the one who suggested I try writing and illustrating a book for Luka to help him cope. I never dreamed it would result in a career.”
Damon couldn’t help but feel a stab of envy. His career path had been mapped out for him before he was born. Ellen had followed her passion.
He could almost hear his mother’s voice, reminding him to take his lemons and make lemonade. And, in truth, he’d done that. He’d received an excellent education, and learned a lot while in the army, enough to start his own successful company.
He checked his work email while Ellen cleaned up. The Middle East security project was a go for next week, all the parties in agreement on direction and focus. Flights had been arranged, tickets obtained, agendas finalized.
Satisfied, he turned his attention to Ellen’s website. “Whoa,” he breathed as he scrolled through her work. He hadn’t expected to be as impressed as he found himself. The illustrations were really, really good. They were fun, with bright and playful colors, expressive faces and simple, clear lines. And the stories were sweet and funny, the underlying lessons gently offered.
“These are great,” he said sincerely when she came into the room. “You’re quite the talent.”
“Thank you, Sir,” she said, looking both shy and pleased.
The morning passed pleasantly. She was right—a little break from the constant intensity of their time together was a good thing. He grudgingly acquiesced when she asked if she could give him a foot massage, not wanting to be a stick in the mud. He’d never been especially comfortable being “done to.” It was one reason he loved to take the reins in a D/s relationship—he called all the shots and maintained all the control.
But as she stroked, rubbed and pressed the soles of his feet, he forgot his reservations. His entire body relaxed, tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding easing away.
“Oh, man,” he moaned. “I could totally get used to this.”
He must have drifted into a doze, because he was awoken by the dueling aromas of melting butter and chocolate, and the sound of popcorn popping.
Ellen appeared a moment later, the oven mitts on her hands her only clothing. He did enjoy the visual perks of owning a beautiful slave, even if it was only for a week.
“Oh, good,” she said. “You’re awake. I hope you don’t mind.” She nodded toward the large picture window, outside of which the snow was still falling. “Given the weather, I thought we’d have buttered popcorn and hot cocoa for lunch. We could watch a movie on your laptop.”
“That sounds perfect,” he agreed. “I’ll let you choose the movie, as long as it’s not some sappy romance.”
He should have known better than to give her control over what they watched. She chose something called Wonka, babbling on about some movie she’d loved as a kid and how this was the prequel. It was a musical, for chrissakes, about some magical chocolatier dude trying to make it in depression-era England.
In spite of the ridiculous subject matter, Damon found himself surprisingly absorbed in the story, which contained evil bad guys and plenty of drama. And even the musical numbers were fun and rather spectacular, he was forced to concede.
“See,” she said when it ended. “I told you it was awesome. We should watch Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory next.”
Damon chuckled as he shook his head. “Uh, that would be a no.” He closed the laptop and set it aside. “One musical is about all I can handle, no matter how engaging.”
She made a cute little pouty face. Jesus Christ. What was happening to him? He was turning to mush.
To distract himself, not to mention regain control, he turned to Ellen, who was snuggled beside him. He reached for her throat, easily spanning it with thumb and forefinger. Her eyes widened in that delicious combination of primal fear and erotic desire.
“Do you trust me, slave girl?” he asked in a low voice.
“Oh, yes, Sir,” she breathed, her eyes fixed on his.
“Good. Because it’s time to return to the playroom. I’m going to strap you again into the horizontal stockade. There’s a fuck machine waiting with your name on it. And this time”—he applied pressure just beneath her jaw, momentarily cutting off her ability to breathe—“no safeword, no stopping.”
Chapter 22
