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His eyes burned, they were so intent. “You should be, little girl. If we do this, it’s you and me. Master and slave. Your abject submission whenever we’re together. I like control. I also like to hurt my slaves.”
“I like to be controlled, and hurt.”
“I might ask for things you don’t want, things you don’t like.
I’ll expect you to do them anyway. Those are my terms.” He withdrew his fingers and wiped them on her leg, and squeezed her thigh. “Think for a minute before you say yes, because none of this is a joke.”
Sara paused. What if he asks me to do something I don’t like? But she liked everything about Jason. Everything about his body, his words, his expressions, even the fact that he enjoyed giving pain. Ever since she’d met him, some peace had settled over her, some knowledge that he was her perfect complement and that they belonged together. He knew exactly what to do with her. How much to hurt her, how much to soothe her. How to bring out the strange creature inside her that didn’t respond to normal love and sex. She wanted to give all of herself to him because he understood her as no one else had ever understood her.
“I want to serve you,” she said, because it was the simplest expression of her feelings. “I want to be yours. Even if we have to hide.”
“And none of this is because you feel you owe me? Because I brought you here and showed you this new life? Because you’ll have a whole new life in Paris. Are you sure you want to spend it tangled up with me?”
“Why are you warning me so hard? Don’t you want me? If you don’t want to be my Master—”
“You know I want you,” he interrupted in a quiet but sharp voice. “I want you more than I should. I’m warning you ‘so hard’ because I scene hard. In public, we’ll have to keep up appearances, play happy supervisor and artist. In private, I’m going to turn you inside out. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
She stared at him, at the warning in his eyes. He could warn all he liked. In her heart, she was already his. “Yes, Master. I’m sure it’s what I want.”
He let out a breath and she did too, the wrought-up breaths they’d been holding. Around them, people continued chatting and drinking, living their normal lives. Life had just turned over—inside out—for Sara. She’d officially agreed to a Master/slave relationship with the beautiful man sitting across from her. She had no anxious feelings, no second thoughts.
He touched her fingers where she clung to her drink. “Come. Now. Leave that. I’m taking you home.”
He swept her jacket off the back of her chair and wrapped it around her shoulders, and then downed the rest of his drink in one great swallow. When he finished, he put the glass on the table with a bang. To Sara, it sounded like the door of her past slamming shut. He took her hand, wrapped it tight in his fingers, and led her from the bar.
On the street he let her go. They were close to the theater, close to the Cirque dorms and headquarters. Their co-workers were all around them, people Sara could recognize as performers and athletes even without their costumes. A few times Jason greeted people, but it wasn’t the type of greeting that invited them to stop and talk. She was glad because she felt anxious to be alone with him. Her desire must have been written all over her face, clear as day for people to read.
Finally, he led her to a stoop and through a door to a narrow stairwell. She followed him up two flights of stairs to a burnished mahogany door. It was an old building, a style she’d come to recognize as classic Parisian. He fumbled for keys and undid the lock, and only then did their eyes meet.
Had there ever been such an intense shade of blue? He said her eyes were pretty but his own were much more beautiful. He grasped her shoulder and then her neck, and practically dragged her inside. He trapped her against the entryway wall, his great body looming over her.
“Master,” she whispered.
“Oh God.” On the heels of that prayer, his lips descended over hers. She’d thought herself prepared but she wasn’t really prepared for the intensity of his kiss, his rough embrace. His thumb stroked over the racing pulse at her throat, while his other hand yanked up her skirt. She responded clumsily, trying to match the passion and skill of his lips. This wasn’t sweet or romantic. This was possession.
“Open wider,” he said in his Master voice. Or maybe it was just Jason’s voice, demanding and firm. She obeyed and he slid his tongue between her teeth, over her tongue. She felt a delirious, warm ache in her center and she wiggled closer against him, right against the thick, upstanding shaft outlined by his pants. His hands were all over her, pulling, twisting, trying to find the fastenings of her dress. He slid fingers beneath the neckline as if to tear it open.
“Please,” she squeaked. “This dress isn’t mine.”
He slowed, letting out a breath. “Tomorrow, then, we’ll go shopping for dresses I can rip off you.”
She showed him the hidden zipper on the side and he helped her shimmy out of it. The bra and panties came next, pretty but practical undergarments that had been waiting in her room the night she arrived at Cirque. “If they’re not what you like, I’ll get others,” she said. “Whatever pleases you.”
He silenced her with a fingertip to her lips. “I like nakedness. I want nothing between you and me. I like naked slaves.”
Naked slaves. Plural. She wouldn’t be his first slave, nor probably his last. He might have other slaves here in Paris, women he used for his pleasure. She couldn’t be upset about that. He hadn’t known she existed a month ago. A week ago. She shook her head, willing those thoughts away. She had to stay in the moment, available to serve her Master. He twisted his fingers in her hair and wrenched her head back. She shuddered, staring up into his burning gaze.
“Undress me,” he said through bared teeth.
It was an order, taut and firm. Her fingers trembled as she hurried to obey. She pulled off his sweater, revealing a finely tailored, expertly starched button-up shirt. Oh no, buttons. She undid them as best she could while he kissed her and pinched her nipples. Beneath the fabric of his shirt lay an undershirt, and beneath that, a sculpted wall of abs that bunched as she touched them.
“Keep going,” he said. “Naughty, distractible girl.”
He pushed her hands down to his belt and she unclasped the woven leather. It was supple and soft, and it gave her feelings only a slave-type person would understand. How old had she been when she started reacting to things like belts and canes inappropriately? When she dawdled over it, daydreaming, Jason drew it from the loops himself and doubled it over in his hand. “You really are distractible. Keep going.”
He did the slightest flick of the belt against his thigh and her heart rate doubled. She started on his pants, undoing the button and easing down the zipper. “Do you want me to hang them up?” she asked.
“I want you to fucking take them off.”
He was getting impatient. When she slid them down he kicked them away and she was left with the mouth-watering sight of his hard cock outlined by his tight boxer briefs. The sight of his huge manhood created powerful feelings of submission inside her. She wanted to touch it, lick it, worship it on her knees.
“Be careful,” he said with a knowing glint in his eyes. “You got in trouble for taking without asking before.”
Sara licked her lips. Maybe not the best time to remind her of their first sizzling encounter. She was dying of arousal. Was that possible? She was pretty sure it was. She slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs and removed them carefully, respectfully, so she couldn’t be accused of “taking without asking.” She placed them by his pants, and then sat back on her ankles and went still, because she wouldn’t do anything without his permission. He’d told her he liked control, and she really, really liked to be controlled.
“Look at me.” She felt the belt nudge under her chin and she tilted her head up to see all six-feet-plus of her lover towering over her, strong and tan, as finely wrought as a statue. “Open your legs,” he said. “Straighten your back.”
She obeyed, trying not to flinch as he traced her shoulders and breasts with his doubled-over belt. Oh, those fingers. They were wrapped around the buckle, clenching it, beautiful and broad knuckled. She had a thing for hands and fingers, maybe because she was a trapezist and locating and grabbing fingers was integral to her continued existence.
“Focus,
” he said, tapping lightly at one of her nipples. “Eyes on Master.”
Her gaze flew to his and he nodded in approval. “Listen, little girl. This is an old building with very thin walls. No matter what we do, you have to be quiet. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Now, I want you to go to my bedroom. I want you to crawl there on your hands and knees.”
She started to obey, then realized she had no idea where his bedroom was. “Which way, Master?”
“You have to find it.”
Ohhh. A game. She could crawl around on her knees for an eternity if he enjoyed it. But then, she’d forgotten about the belt.
Whack!
It caught her right under her ass cheeks, a hot slap of fire. She cried out more from the surprise than the pain of it, and he whacked her again. This time it was painful.
“Hush,” he said. “I told you to be quiet. Be a good slave girl and go to my bedroom.”
She set off in the crawling version of a run. It would be a lot easier to be a “good slave girl” if she knew where she was going, and if he wasn’t following her around with a whippy belt. His place was huge, unfamiliar, and there seemed to be doors looming in every direction. She didn’t think his bedroom would be near the kitchen, so she went toward the other side of the house. She found a coat room first, and received a resounding smack for her trouble. She swallowed her yelp of pain and shut the door and went to the next one. A bedroom, but it was sparsely furnished, with a small bed. Definitely not his. But she was in the location of the bedrooms, thank God. The belt kept falling, hard smacks interspersed with lighter ones, her burning ass a moving target for his game.
