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She bet he knew that. He'd said most Doms had a sadistic side, after all. But the real surprise was finding she was more of a masochist than she'd known. His brand of sensual cruelty only made her want one thing--more.
*
When he released her, there was no choice but to be carried. She was boneless. He readjusted his clothes and lifted her off the structure, then put her feet on the floor only the second needed to scoop her up in his arms. He took her to a curtained opening she'd assumed held more tools, but instead she saw it was a small office, complete with couch, flat screen and desk. He settled on the couch, holding her in his arms, keeping her warm with his body. She was perspiring, but shivering as well, as much nerves as anything, but the cooling sweat was part of it. Pulling a throw off the top of the couch, he put it around her, though she threaded her arms under his and stayed against his body so nothing interfered with her connection to his heat, the warmth she needed most of all.
He made her drink water, eat a couple of crackers. Even on top of the trembling, occasionally her body would jerk in a new set of spasms. Tears kept spilling out of her eyes, no rhyme or reason. He wiped them with tissues, even wiped her nose because she couldn't let go of him. If he shifted, her grip only tightened. She was broken down so thoroughly she had no restraint or filter for her emotions.
He stroked his hand over her hair, cupped her skull, rocked her, spoke quietly to her. She had no idea what he was saying. His voice was the important anchor, not the content. He could have been reciting a bus schedule to her.
"Oh, God, Logan." Those were her first three words, when some rational thought returned. Her voice was high and thin. "Is it always like that?"
"No. The first time you crack open your soul, it has to bleed out all the pus and pain. It might take a few sessions, but eventually it starts to run more clean. You reach a different kind of subspace. Just as powerful, but different."
She turned that idea over in her head in a drifting, hazy way, then gave up any in-depth analysis tonight. She'd have as much chance of discovering a cure for cancer with peanut butter and bananas. "Okay."
His jaw tensed against her, probably a smile. But when she tipped her head up, she found his gaze roving her face in a way that felt . . . overwhelming. He touched her mouth, tracing it, then cupped the side of her throat, his thumb sliding over her windpipe. "That was remarkable for me, too. You were extraordinary."
"Don't," she said softly, feeling the first shard of fear. "Please don't say anything more."
He tucked her head back under his chin, increased his hold around her. "I am going to beat those fears out of you," he promised.
She snorted on a weak, hysteria-induced chuckle. Anyone else might say such a thing as a joke, a teasing threat. Her Master meant it. Meant every word. It made her stomach flip in anticipation.
Her Master.
She told herself the same thing she'd just told him. Don't.
"I want you to think about something, Madison."
"When I can think again, I'll get right on that."
He gave her a little admonishing shake, a nip of her ear. She squirmed half-heartedly. "What do you want me to think about?"
"The difference between falling in love and wanting to be loved."
Her lashes lifted. When he looked at her and seemed to see things in herself she couldn't see, that was when it was hardest to hold his gaze. She looked back down at his chest.
He didn't say anything else for awhile. She was the one who broke the silence, changing topic when she thought she could talk. "So I guess we found out I'm not a Mistress."
"Not with me, no. But we aren't, any of us, just one thing. Look at your shop. You're like a Mistress there. You take your customers' desires, push them that last step, give them permission to be who they want to be."
"That might be a stretch," she demurred, but she hadn't really thought about it that way. She traced his forearm, the layer of hair there. "I think it's the control freak thing that sometimes makes people think . . . I always want to be in control."
"It can be a gray line. Most Doms are control freaks." He brushed his lips over her forehead. "Not me."
"Of course not."
He gave her a light pinch. "Ironically, I've found a lot of female subs are control freaks. Our society demands that women succeed at so many things. The only time you let go of that is with the right Dominant personality. Maybe that kind of sub recognizes a control freak bigger and badder than herself and, like a strong alpha female in a wolf pack, she's willing to let him or her Dominate her."
She didn't have the brain function to know exactly where he was going with this, but the words resonated. Rolling her head back on his shoulder, she turned her nose to his shirt, inhaling his scent. She hoped it would imprint itself on her, just like an animal. She was in a very odd place, for sure.
He dipped his head, touched her lips with his, once, twice, then settled back a few inches. There were flecks of gold in his eyes, just like she imagined a wolf would have. "Alice said that the biggest thing you and I had in common is we never followed her relationship advice."
"She tried to give you relationship advice?"
"All the time." He grinned. "I needed it, but that didn't mean I listened, any more than you did. The relationships I tried to have outside club sessions never worked. I had a knack for picking the wrong mix. Alice called it a case of the prophet being blind to his own humanity."
"Sounds like her."
