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“You know,” she said, taking a step toward the door. “Maybe I should just go—”
“No, please,” John said urgently, cutting her off. He blew out a breath and rubbed at his face with his hands. She’d never seen him look so vulnerable and, in spite of herself, her heart went out to him.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, sounding defeated. “That was out of line. I’m just… I need…” He looked at her, his gaze beseeching. “Please. Just give me a few minutes.”
“All right,” she agreed.
How odd it felt to be the one in control. It felt rather good, actually. It allowed her to relax, at least to a degree. John no longer had any sway over her. She didn’t have to walk on eggshells, terrified of displeasing her Master.
They walked together to the kitchen. It was a lovely, large space with state-of-the-art appliances, though with its original wide-planked wooden floors and old stone fireplace, it still kept the feel of an old country kitchen. She glanced toward the table, startled to see her floor cushion still waiting beside his chair at the head of the table.
John, apparently following her gaze, said softly, “It’s still there, waiting for you, Rowan.”
What the fuck? Oh, that pesky inch… This was probably a mistake. She should have just grabbed her things and left, as Eric had recommended.
Before she could retort to his wildly inappropriate remark, John backtracked with, “Sorry. I was kidding. Zero expectations. I just…I just haven’t picked it up, is all.”
He waved toward the table. “Please, have a seat.” He moved toward the counter. “What can I get you? Coffee or wine?”
“Coffee,” she replied, relenting once more.
“Great,” he said quickly, as if afraid she might change her mind. “Coming right up.”
She sat at the table, glancing down at the floor cushion as John busied himself with the coffee. She fancied she saw the ghost of her former self kneeling there, naked save for her slave collar, nipple jewelry and cuffs as she waited for her Master to feed her.
Rowan felt a pang of regret for that girl, who had been so eager to believe that Master John knew what was best for her. She’d been so caught up trying to please him that she’d forgotten who she was.
John came to the table with two mugs of coffee and the pastries. He took his seat and pushed the plate of sticky cinnamon buns toward her. “I got them just for you,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. “I know how much you love them.”
“Thanks,” she said, unable to resist accepting one onto her plate. She took a sip of the excellent coffee and then bit into the delicious roll.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it? Sitting across from me, instead of where—” He stopped himself abruptly. She was certain he’d been about to end the sentence with, “where you belong.” Instead, he amended it to, “where you used to kneel when you were my slave girl?”
She shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
He frowned, as if he’d been expecting more of a response. Leaning toward her, he placed a hand on her arm. She resisted the impulse to pull away, instead staring down at the long-fingered hand with its perfectly trimmed and buffed nails, and the expensive, heavy gold watch on his wrist. How different from Eric’s large, blunt fingers, whose calloused tips had run over her body with such delicious intent only a few hours before…
John pulled his hand away and cleared his throat. “Rowan, I’m so sorry for how things ended between us.”
Rowan glanced sharply up at him, startled by this bald admission. She was unprepared for the look of raw anguish that crumpled his features as he stared at her with pleading eyes. This was a side of John she’d never seen, or imagined was even possible. She almost felt sorry for him.
“Me, too,” she replied.
He leaned toward her, sudden hope shining through the pain. “I admit, things went a bit sideways at the end, and it was my fault. But we could try again, you know. I still love you so fucking much. It would be different this time. No slave contract. No strings.”
“John, no!” she cried, shocked.
“Don’t dismiss it out of hand,” he urged, his tone persuasive. “Come on. Admit it. You had a great gig here. Free room and board, your own studio, the chance to serve a Master who understands your need for total submission. Maybe we did need a break. I get that. I pushed too far, too fast. But you’re still the same sub girl who fell in love with me. Let’s not let one mistake ruin everything.”
One mistake?
“It’s my fault,” he continued, his voice gaining confidence, as if he actually believed she might go along with this. “I shouldn’t have left you alone in the cage overnight. It’s true that you definitely needed some serious correction, but I never should have let my feelings influence your punishment to that degree. It’s just”—he held out his hands, palms upward—“what you did. What you said. You have to admit, that was a low blow.”
