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I frowned. “I guess tempting you with my body falls under the topping from the bottom category, right?”
“Yes, it does. But there’ll be no sex, at least not for a little while. We need to give your brain time to heal, girl.”
“Then why do they call it sexual healing?” I challenged with a sly grin.
Joshua laughed. “I fucking love you.”
Easing out from the covers, he stood and extended his hand.
“Coffee? Really?” I asked, curling my lips in a melodramatic pout.
“Yes,” he replied in that nipple-hardening Dominant tone.
Our simple cup of coffee turned into a huge breakfast. Tempering my impatience as we ate, I leaned back and sipped my coffee while Joshua chomped on his last bite of pancakes. With a wicked grin, he turned and glanced at the dirty pans and mixing bowls lining the countertops of the big kitchen and sighed.
“I suppose the dishes can wait,” he teased.
“Yes, they can. I’ll even help you clean up…after.”
“After? After what, little one?”
“Arrggghh,” I groaned, then flashed him a knowing smile. “After you decide if I can see the surprise in your studio now or not, Master.”
“Now you’re catching on. I think I’ve made you wait long enough.” He laughed. “Come on, girl. It’s time.”
I jumped from my chair and a sharp blade of pain pierced my skull. Quickly sitting back down, I gripped my hands around my head and groaned.
“I think you need to go lie back down,” Joshua whispered as he rushed to my side.
“No, I just need to stop acting on impulse and take it slow.”
Halfway up from the first floor, Joshua lifted me into his arms and carried me the rest of the way. Once on the third floor, he eased me to my feet and told me to close my eyes. I bit back the urge to argue, since I’d barely gotten a glimpse of his studio, and did as he instructed.
As he led me through what felt like a maze, my anticipation built. When he pulled me to a stop, my excitement swelled.
“Open your eyes, Mellie,” he whispered.
When I did, a soft gasp cooled my throat. On a tall pedestal before me sat the sculpture of a beautiful four-poster bed, painstakingly carved and glazed in a rich masculine chocolate color. A woman lay bound and naked upon an intricately etched blanket.
A slow smile tugged my lips as I realized it was an exact replica of Joshua’s bed. The piece appeared to be about the size of my computer bag: about a half a foot long, maybe a foot or so wide, and about six or seven inches tall.
She lay on her back with her wrists bound in long, braided rope, stretching her arms open wide, while her long, slender legs remained free. One knee was bent, and I followed the smooth ivory flesh to find her toes pointed and slightly tucked behind the calf of her other leg, resting on the bed. Her right hip thrust forward as if frozen in time while she writhed in ecstasy. Her shoulder blades pressed against the blanket, thrusting her full breasts and beaded nipples outward in silent supplication for her Master’s tongue, lips, and teeth. She looked so lifelike and real, I almost expected her to move and to moan.
“Oh, wow,” I murmured.
“Look closer, little one,” Joshua urged as he pointed toward her face.
Moving in closer, I gazed at her features. It was me, from the top of her head to the tiny scar on her chin, the one I got when I wiped out on my skateboard the summer I turned ten. Awestruck, I blinked and leaned in even closer. My heart skittered in my chest as I stared at the expression poised on her face. It was hauntingly identical to the overwhelming serenity I’d witnessed the night Joshua pressed me over the marble vanity and brought me face to face with the submissive inside me.
The woman on the bed was me—soaring in sexual splendor, lost in submissive bliss. Her hooded lids, heavy in seduction, partially concealed her glassy, unfocused gaze. Long, billowing curls spilled over the pillow, fanning across her delicate shoulders. Her swollen lips glistened—as if freshly kissed—parted and pursed in a silent cry to please. Though I couldn’t visibly see it, or tangibly touch it, a palpable energy emanated from the flawless figure. She was readily handing over her soul to the Master who owned and controlled her.
I couldn’t hold back my tears as I gazed at the vision of unadulterated submission.
“It’s…It’s…beautiful,” I sobbed.
“It’s you, my love. It’s the way I see you. The way I’ve always seen you in my dreams and in my fantasies.”
“Oh, Master.” Wrapping my arms around him, I wept.
My heart, mind, body, and soul had been swept away—a feat I had thought impossible—by this remarkable man. Joshua Lars had made good on his promise. He’d taken my discarded submission, sculpted it beneath his masterful hands, and brought it back to life.
* * *
