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But things were different now. Master Jack was different. She was different, and she was ready for something more, at last. If only she could somehow beam the two of them away from this place to somewhere intimate and private.
Happily, Master Jack quickly dispatched the bloke and returned to her. Crouching down in front of her, he took her face lightly between his hands and looked into her eyes. “Hey, there. You okay?”
“Yes, Sir,” she replied, though fatigue had suddenly descended like an anvil, pressing her down.
He bustled around her, releasing straps and cuffs, and helping her up from the bench. He took her dress from his bag and slipped it over her head. Leaning down, he pushed the hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ears with such tenderness it actually brought tears to her eyes.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
Chapter 23
When Jack awoke the next morning, the bed beside him was empty, the covers thrown back. “Cleo?” he called, thinking maybe she was in the bathroom. There was no answer.
Had he given her permission to leave the bed in the mornings before him? No, but neither had he precluded it. They hadn’t really discussed basic home protocol between Master and slave. Come to that, they had yet to negotiate a M/s contract, with rules and expectations clearly laid out.
Though he felt he was ready to do that, it hadn’t been part of the bargain. She’d been hesitant to drop everything and fly home with him. He’d convinced her by promising to keep it low key.
Just come back for a week or two. Give us time to connect.
He needed to be careful. He didn’t want to rush her, or manipulate her by pushing her sub buttons. If she decided to stay, it had to be a decision she made with a clear mind.
He ran his hand over the sheets. They felt cool, as if Cleo had been up for a while. Annette had loved to sleep in on a Sunday. She always asked to sleep in her wrist cuffs, loosely bound together with an elastic fabric chain that had plenty of give. Though he was usually gone in the morning before she stirred, on the weekends she would never have left the bed without permission.
It suddenly occurred to Jack that Annette’s cuffs and chain were probably still in her nightstand drawer. He’d been meaning to clean out all her stuff for a while now—it was past time. But, somehow, he’d never gotten around to it.
The fact was, he hadn’t spent all that much time at home since her passing, after that initial period of blind grief. He’d preferred to bury himself in work and then decompress at the club. The impromptu trip to New York had been his first vacation since Annette.
What the hell was he doing?
Why was he thinking about Annette, instead of Cleo?
Maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to bring her to the home he’d shared with his late wife. Perhaps a neutral location like a hotel would have been better.
But, no. He had wanted to bring Cleo more fully into his world, and that included his personal space. It was important they connect in all aspects of their lives, not just in the rarified atmosphere of the Masters Club.
Throwing back the covers, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet. As he came out of the bathroom, the wonderful aroma of frying bacon and fresh coffee wafted up the stairs. Grabbing a pair of pajama bottoms from the bureau, he pulled them on and headed down.
He stopped at the kitchen doorway to take in the scene. Cleo stood at the stove in a bib apron a size too large for her petite frame, naked beneath, her feet bare. The welts he’d given her the night before at the club were still visible, though already faded to a series of pink horizontal lines on her pert little bottom. The sight made his cock stir.
Cleo turned as he entered the room, her face breaking into a smile that warmed him to his toes. “Good morning, Master Lazybones. I’ve been up quite literally for hours. I was hoping that by starting breakfast, the smells would wake you. Looks like I succeeded.”
“You did, indeed,” Jack replied, grinning back. “What’s cooking? Smells great.”
“I’m making you a full English breakfast—back bacon, fried eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms, and buttered toast.” She reached for the carton of eggs waiting on the counter. “How many eggs for you, Sir?”
Jack shrugged. “One or two? I don’t know. I don’t usually eat much breakfast.”
Cleo looked aghast. “Even on the weekends?” she cried. “My aunt just dropped her harp and fell off her cloud in shock.” She lifted her face to the ceiling. “Don’t worry, Auntie Dorie. I’ll make sure he gets his proper English Sunday breakfast.” Looking back at Jack, she flashed another of those adorable, dimpled grins.
