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“Please, Sir,” Cleo begged, unable to help herself. “Whip my cunt, Sir. Please.”
“As you wish,” he said, another cruel, sexy smile curving his lips. Rising to his feet, he positioned himself in front of her. But instead of the wicked bite of the whip, he moved his fingers over her spread sex. She was so aroused by the man and the circumstance that she nearly came on the spot.
His fingers danced over her swollen, slick flesh. Effortlessly, he brought her quickly to the edge of a climax. Cleo was filled with a yearning, slippery ache. Blood pounded in her ears. Her skin burned. Every fiber of her being was focused on those perfect fingers teasing her spread cunt.
Sadist that he was, he left her teetering on the brink. His hand fell away. A moment later, the whip whistled in the air. It snapped against her sex in a blinding flash of pain that instantly transmuted into dark desire. Then the fingers were back, easing away the sting with a perfect, sensual touch. She was pure sensation now, pure animal lust, grunting and begging, barely aware of what she was doing or saying.
When he finally spun her back into an upright position, Cleo was both spent and exhilarated. Her heart was pounding, her chest heaving, tears in her eyes—not from sadness, but from the surfeit of emotion that a truly intense scene always engendered.
“Wow,” she breathed as she came slowly down from her high.
Master Jack smiled. “You’re still very responsive, Cleo. It’s good to scene with you again.”
At his words, the world clicked suddenly back on.
The walls he’d effortlessly toppled rose again around her, keeping her safe. She was not going to let this man destroy all her hard work with one thirty-minute scene. No way was she going to fall into that trap—not this time.
He moved closer, lifting a hand to touch her cheek, a sudden dark pain flashing in his eyes. “Cleo. I—”
Cleo turned her head sharply away, relieved when he dropped his hand. “Thank you for the scene,” she said stiffly. “With your permission, I’d like to be let down from the wheel.”
Brandon came to stand beside Master Jack. “Shall I see to her aftercare, Sir?”
Just as Master Jack opened his mouth to reply, Master Thomas appeared on the edge of the mat. Also a transplant from Great Britain, he had been a regular at the London Masters Club. “There you are, old friend. I heard from Hayden you were in town. I’m delighted to see you back in circulation. I’ve got a terrific scenario going in the medical fetish playroom and I need a second Dom. You up for it?”
Master Jack glanced from Cleo to Master Thomas. “No, sorry. This sub girl needs aftercare.”
Cleo could almost feel his fingers stroking soothing balm over her welts as he stared lovingly into her eyes…
Keep those walls in place. Don’t let him get to you.
“It’s fine, Sir,” Cleo said quickly. “Brandon can see to me.” She kept her eyes on Master Thomas. “I would prefer that, actually.” She could hear the coldness in her tone, but she didn’t care. “Please, don’t let us keep you from your pleasure.”
“But—“ Master Jack began.
At the same time, Master Thomas clapped his hand on Master Jack’s shoulder. “That’s great, Cleo. Thanks for being flexible.”
“Of course, Sir,” she replied, studiously avoiding Master Jack’s gaze.
As Master Thomas led Master Jack away, Brandon gave Cleo a quizzical look. “Hey, is that the guy from London? The one you—”
“Just someone I once knew,” Cleo interrupted. “Ancient history.”
Chapter 2
Jack allowed Thomas to propel him out of the main dungeon, his mind scrambling to untangle whatever the hell it was that had just happened. While it was fairly common at the Masters Club to allow service slaves to see to the sub following an intense scene, he always made it a point to handle his own aftercare. It provided a sense of closure, and a chance for genuine feedback after the heat of the scene had passed.
But Cleo’s obvious dismissal had taken the decision out of his hands. That scene had easily been as intense as any they’d shared in the past. But the moment it ended, she just…disappeared.
Even before Thomas had burst upon the scene, he’d felt her withdrawal, like a flower furling back into itself in reverse time-release. He’d been a fool to think they could just pick up where they’d left off. He’d let his own wishful thinking cloud his judgment.
He thought about the letter he’d sent her several months back, in which he’d indicated it would be nice to reconnect at some point, as he was periodically in New York for business or family. He’d kept it purposefully light, not sure what her reaction might be.
She’d never responded. Had she even received it?
Not that he entirely blamed her. As he’d slowly emerged from the fog of grief, Cleo had been the one shining light that remained. Yet he’d held her at arm’s length, too self-absorbed to appreciate what she offered.
