Page 64 of Winter’s Fire

Though he’d already asked the question half a dozen times, Logan was still compelled to give his girl one more chance to back out of what they were about to do.

The emcee, a stunningly attractive Domme dressed in white tie and tails, had just introduced them, prompting a round of applause that was just dying away. Lucy squeezed his hand as they approached the centre of the resort’s open-air restaurant, where a low stage now occupied the dance floor. “Of course I’m not sure. But we can’t back out now, and I trust you, Sir.”

“Good girl.”

She looked incredible—he’d thought it the moment she stepped out of the bedroom at the bungalow. Her hair was arranged in some intricate updo, she’d called it, to keep it well away from the impact zone of the floggers, and her makeup was striking, almost theatrical.

Beneath the cloak, she was all but naked, her modesty just about preserved by the skimpiest excuse for a thong he’d ever seen.

The thought tore him in two. He loved her body, loved playing with it the way he had before they’d made their way to the venue for the demonstration, but at the same time he hated having to share it with the licentious crowd who’d packed the restaurant this evening. Okay, they weren’t just here to leer at his woman, but it sure as hell felt that way.

Logan kept tight hold of her hand as she ascended the couple of steps up to the low stage, then followed her. He’d have given anything to take her away from this, to follow the scent of the ocean to the gleaming white beach and lie down with her on the soft sand, make love among the palm trees until the sun came up.

Instead, he had to share the intimacy of her first flogging with a bunch of drooling strangers.

The St. Andrew’s Cross stood in the centre of the stage, thrown into the spotlight by the dozens of small lights fixed around the perimeter of the dais. It was one hell of a public platform, in front of what seemed like every guest in the damn resort.

His reservations multiplied as Lucy took her place in front of the cross, her head held high. What kind of a Dom was he, putting her through this?

The kind who was humbled by her trust and open honesty, the way she looked at him as he bound her wrists in the cuffs dangling from the upper limbs of the cross.

“Ready?”

“Yes, Sir.” Again she looked at him. “Let’s do it.”

Her fingers curled around the short chains that fastened the cuffs to the cross, the only outward sign of any apprehension. With her arms raised, her body was only partly exposed to those sitting at the sides—thank Christ there was no one straight ahead of them, and the cross itself provided reasonable cover for her delectable curves. He unfastened the cloak, bundled it up and tossed it to the emcee.

Murmurs of appreciation rippled through the audience. Logan’s jaw clenched, along with his fists. As if she needed their approval. His intention to prepare her, he stroked her back and shoulders, but in truth, he needed the contact, to tell her without words how much she meant to him. Not just for agreeing to go through with this, but for being the woman he loved.

“It’s just you and me,” he murmured close to her ear. “Nothing exists beyond the stage. Just you and me.”

“You and me, Sir.” Her breasts rose and fell with a deep, controlled breath. “You and me.”

He leaned in to kiss her. She raised her head and responded with such sweet passion, his heart ached.

“Logan, I—”

“Yes?” Was she going to call red?

“Nothing. It can wait.”

Her lips curved in a small, tremulous smile, then she adjusted her position as he’d shown her before they left the bungalow.

She started at the initial contact, but she was ready for the next. He warmed her up slowly, kept it light with a loose rhythm, until he was satisfied she was ready for the intensity of Florentine.

With the first flourish of the twin floggers, Logan finally blanked out their now silent audience, his concentration solely on his sub, just as it should be. The rhythmic slapping of the tails against her skin was mesmerising, and in the stage lighting, set to mimic the flickering of flame torches, she glowed with an inner fire that almost stole his breath away.

~~*~~

Logan cradled Lucy in his arms and carried her back to their bungalow. Her eyes were closed, and her head lolled against him. He swallowed the lump from his throat, still reeling from the depth of emotion he’d experienced in response to her public submission to him.

His soul had recognised the exact moment subspace claimed her. The tension had eased from her limbs, and her fingers had loosened around the chains. Murmurs skittered briefly through the crowd, and a few strokes later, he’d given the emcee the prearranged signal to bring a halt to the show. The spotlight on his sub had been extinguished, and with the emcee’s assistance, he’d released Lucy from her bonds and wrapped her in a soft robe, several sizes too big. The emcee had tucked the lapels more closely around Lucy.

“Thank you for your demonstration, Master Lucan.”

“It was our pleasure. Glad we could help out.”

“She’s a pretty little thing. You should be proud of her.”