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"Well, it does. But I'm a woman who likes backups. That bracelet says you're mine all the time, whether we're watching TV, I'm at work, or you're under me, being ridden until I wear you out." Unzipping the top of the small cross-body purse she wore, she produced a worn strap coiled in a neat circle. It was the collar she'd put on him for the pony play scene.
She'd surprised him again. When his gray eyes latched onto it with a raw hunger that took her breath, she had to fight to maintain her composure. "I don't need you to profess your love for me," she said. "But I want one honest answer. Let's put it to rest. Is this still about getting back into The Zone?"
She saw calculation happening amid the storm clouds. She refused to let it hurt, or create a sinking disappointment in her. She'd said it herself. He still had a long way to go, but they'd only get there step by step, moving forward.
"There's no wrong answer except a lie," she said. "You lie to me, now or ever, I will make you regret it. As many times as needed to teach you the lesson that you will never get away with that with me."
His gaze flashed at the challenge, and she had to suppress another smile when he slid his fingers along her shoulder in a sensual caress. An insolent one.
"What about you, Mistress?" he tossed back. "Am I still just some challenge to prove how badass you are to all the other Mistresses? The one that can bring the problem child back in line?"
"You've never been a child, Marius," she said seriously, tapping his sullen mouth. "That's the part they missed, no fault of their own, because you excelled at masking it and giving them what they wanted. Until suppressing all that other stuff started to surface and you turned mean."
She wrapped her fingers around his throat and shifted closer, pressing her breast against his chest, her mouth to his ear. As he stilled, she spoke with smooth conviction. "This is your real collar, my hand upon you, keeping you in line with a touch, a reminder of your submission to me. The collar, the bracelet, a cock harness...all of those are just symbols of this."
As she tightened her grip on his corded neck, his facade dropped. It revealed the man she'd seen break, the night of his father's execution. One she'd also watched hold a kitten in his hands. And pound on a man with breathtaking rage.
For good or bad, his most honest moments were his most brutal ones, the moments that had shown her who he was, as well as who he could be. Not because she could change or fix him, but because if he had someone to love him, truly love him, someone he would let himself love back, he could find his way on that path himself. She had faith in it, just as she'd told him.
"So much of what makes a healthy power exchange is the inner child, our deepest longings, fears and needs," she murmured. "Your inner child died a long time ago, Marius. Went dormant. But you're bringing it back to life. And I love watching it happen under my control."
He gripped her wrist, an unspoken message requesting her to ease back. As she did, he surprised her by moving off the bench, dropping to one knee before her. The significance of the gesture caught her breath, but he'd forgotten she'd set her beer on the walkway and his foot hit it. Though he managed to catch it as it wobbled, some of the beer slopped over his hand. He shot her a lopsided grin. "Pretty smooth and suave, right?"
"I'm all a-quiver." She brushed his face. "Why are you kneeling to me, sweet boy?"
He lowered his head, gazing at her feet.
"I'd like to wear your collar, Mistress. I care about getting back into The Zone. I miss it, miss the work, miss the connection, the way I felt there. Like I belonged. But that's not why I want to wear your collar."
"Good." She managed to sound calm, though her heart tripped. "Because that's not why I offered it. You were a challenge and a mystery to me at first. I expect that's the way a lot of good relationships start. But whether you get back into The Zone has nothing to do with me wanting you to belong to me." Letting the collar unravel, she slid the strap along his shoulder, a provocative tease. "Lift your chin."
He did. Even with the fastest image capture equipment currently on the market, no one could have caught all the emotions that went through his gray eyes in a blink. She didn't register them with her own vision; she felt them. He was light and dark and all shades in between, but those emotions could twist into the same arrow, pointing toward what he needed and wanted. The energy in his body gravitated toward her and that collar.
"Has a Mistress ever collared you like this? Not just as a prop for a scene?"
"No, ma'am." His voice had that roughness again, and when she shifted forward on the bench, spreading her thighs to flank him, he moved into the triangle of space. She threaded the strap around his throat. Most subs wouldn't touch their Mistress during such a moment, but she didn't correct him when he put his hands on her hips. He needed the contact, and she liked it too.
Did he notice that she allowed her cheeks to flush, her fingers tremble? Could he hear how her heart thudded extra beats? Since he dipped his head against her hand after she buckled the strap, she thought he did. She caressed his collar bone beneath the collar's hold, and the coarse hair curling near the base of his throat. She'd left only a finger's breadth of space and was pleased with the flare in his gaze at the constriction when she tugged on it. She also saw the momentary glazing that so many subs experienced when a collar was put upon them, as they turned inward to that deep-seated need to be owned and got lost in it.
She closed her fingers on the strap. It had been a long, long time since she'd claimed one for her own. And those relationships hadn't had half the impact on her senses that this man had had in such a short time. She told herself to get a grip and let go.
Let go of the collar, not the man. Maybe not
ever.
"We'll work out what this means as we go, depending on what you need and I need," she said briskly. "And want. But for now it means that when you're wearing it, I don't expect to have to stay on you about the things I've made clear from the beginning. You're honest with me, and you don't bullshit or charm me." She tugged the D-link, pulling on the back of his neck, and clamped her knees on either side of his kneeling body. "When you want to take this off, you ask permission, unless it's a matter of your immediate safety. Your first job is always to take care of yourself, because you belong to me and I expect my property to keep itself safe and undamaged."
Her lips twitched ruefully at the flicker in his eyes. "Or relatively undamaged." She twisted her fingers in the strap beneath the D-link. "I know you fight for money. But fighting to deal with your emotions ends now. Anytime you want to take on a fight because of your feelings, not your bills, you call me first. I will handle whatever's happening in your head. If I can't, you can get to a fight afterward. But first option belongs to me. I'm your first drug of choice. Agreed?"
His gaze coursed up her body to her tight mouth and sharp eyes, and desire flared hot in his own, responding to the implication. "I can do something those fights can't, and you know it," she purred. "Wear you out, make you beg and take you down. And it won't hurt the next day. Well, not quite as much."
He smiled and moved closer. She spread her knees wider in accommodation. When he kissed her, he didn't ask, the need in his face overriding everything else. She was okay with that, because the right part of his soul had asked, and her own had given permission.
This was her boy.
She decided they'd walk back to the hotel, because she had somewhere else she wanted to stop. A tattoo parlor, one she'd researched on line for its five-star reputation. As she stopped in front of it and nodded to Marius to hold the door for her so she could precede him into the establishment, he raised a brow. "Decided you want to get that exclusive property tattoo already?" he asked.
"Tempting, but for the reality I want something a little subtler. Sit there." She pointed to a scarred metal chair, part of an ensemble of half a dozen of them. One was occupied by an older man in jeans and leather biker vest who looked like he was a regular visit to the parlor, if his spirited debate with one of the other tattoo artists about one of the popular reality shows was any indication. That artist, as well as two others, had customers in their chairs or on padded tables, depending on what body part was getting tattooed. Other people milled around, chatting and relaxed, friends of the artists or maybe waiting their turn--or both.
