To Command and Collar-Masters 6 Read online

  Master R started to speak, and she pulled away. “Just…just give me a minute, okay?”

  He nodded, and she walked toward the waves. A few tiny plovers skittered in front of her, their bird feet leaving shallow tracks on the sand.

  Okay, Kim, put it all in order. Neatly. First, he wanted her to do the scene this weekend but wasn’t planning to make her attend the auction. Good.

  The original plan had always been for the Overseer to see her. That was the point of the follow-up visit. Doing a scene with Master R wouldn’t be that different, would it?

  Only he’d said erotic. That meant…his hands on her. Arousing her. She hugged herself against the cooling breeze. He’d been touching her, washing her. Intimate but never sexual. He often kissed her. I do pretty good with all that.

  Actually, sometimes she almost wanted more, but then she’d freeze. Really, she just wanted to stay celibate and icicle cold for a while. A few years.

  If Master R refused to audition, how could he justify it? They’d be at a BDSM club. And she’d be there. No excuse came to mind, since no slaver would care if his property had the jitters.

  She scuffled the sand over her toes, letting the warmth sink into her skin. Could she do this?

  Well, a lot of her fears concerned the Overseer, but she’d put those in a mental box. Stay closed, box. So what was really bothering her?

  She stared at the rain clouds forming into a mass. Her nerves were because Master R would be touching her. Deliberately trying to arouse her. In front of people. The Overseer.

  He’d never gone sexual on her before—what if she panicked? Let him down? It’d almost…almost be easier if he’d actually done some of that intimate stuff, like that day in the weight room. She shivered, remembering the feel of his fingers between her legs, pushing inside her. She’d been wet.

  The waves lapped at her toes as she walked. She watched how the water gave way to her feet, and yet the same substance carved canyons in the earth. Strength could be found in the determination to get where a person needed to go. In just keeping on.

  I need to go home, and that means I need the slavers in jail. She had to keep on.

  Master R was still waiting when she walked back to him. He waited even longer for her to speak.

  “I understand why we should do the scene.” She swallowed, tasting the briny air. “I’m scared I might panic.”

  His eyes filled with tenderness. “Is there anything that would help?”

  “I think you’d better…touch me some. Before.” Her face heated, her blush a dead giveaway as to what she meant. Six days until then. Maybe she’d be ready.

  “I think you’re probably right.” His lips curved, and he stroked a finger down her hot cheek. “It will be my pleasure.”

  Oh boy.

  * * * *

  Kimberly bent over, trying to catch her breath, sweat dripping from her face and trickling between her bare breasts. Her sadistic, nasty master had increased the length of her workout today, for which she was maybe a little grateful. Since yesterday when he’d told her about the Shadowlands scene, the hours dragged as if to build her dread to a mountain she couldn’t climb. Over breakfast, Master R had assigned her a long list of tasks and complicated meals. He obviously planned to keep her too busy to think. He’d even put her to work in his home office this morning.

  Major eye-opener. With such a beautiful beach house, he couldn’t be poor, but the dom owned an international engineering company. When she wondered how he could take so much time off, he smiled and said if employees couldn’t handle the work, why hire them?

  She was grateful he worked from here. Knowing he was in the house let her relax. His calmness helped too. He never got frazzled. Not that he was particularly easygoing— his Latin temper showed, especially when they talked about the slavers.

  But he didn’t worry about little stuff or things he couldn’t do anything about.

  She was a worrier. And worse, she wanted to do things perfectly so she could get approval from—she scowled—from her father and everyone else.

  Master R didn’t expect perfection from her. Just her best, and he’d push her until he got it.

  In his office, he had a framed calligraphy on the wall. “Strive for perfection in everything you do. Take the best that exists and make it better. When it does not exist, design it.” Sir Henry Royce. Yeah, that was so her master who was also an engineer.

  He never made her guess if she’d pleased him. If she did, he showed it. If she didn’t, he told her how to do better. She never had to worry about clothes or her performance or even what to do next.

  Or how to deal with…interpersonal relations.

  Dating had always been a nightmare. From questions of clothing: What should I wear to look pretty but not like a slut. Should I dress up? Or would it be better to look casual?

  To behavior: Should I touch him? Let him hold my hand? Ask him in for a drink, or would he think I’m easy? Sleep with him on the second or third date or not? Let him grope my ass on the dance floor, or does that make me look like a slut?

  But here, Master R picked out her clothes—or made her stay naked. Choice over.

  For behavior? He decided what he wanted from her and said so. No decisions to make. That was so restful.

  And boy, he definitely decided how interpersonal stuff would go. Last night, he’d pushed her into the pool. When she’d surfaced, trying not to spit curses at him, he’d said they’d play tag. Every time she caught him, she could claim a kiss. If she took too long to catch him, he’d spank her. Great incentive.

  Chasing after him—and he didn’t make it easy—made touching fun. Not scary. After she caught him a few times, she was definitely aroused. Damn, the man could kiss. Then he upped the stakes to “copping a feel,” only whenever she put her hands on him, he duplicated her movements, putting his hands on her. She was giggling and hot and—

  “Stop daydreaming and do it all again.” Master R’s sexy baritone made her straighten.

  He was lying on the weight bench and not even looking at her. His dom radar always told him when she slacked off. Drown him in high seas anyway.

  She watched him push the bar up. Giant metal plates clanked on each end, and his chest muscles and biceps bunched and turned to granite under his tank. God, she could almost see testosterone oozing from his pores instead of sweat.

  “Kimberly.”

  “Yes, Master.” She launched into the last street-fighting combination he’d taught her. Block, knuckles to the Adam’s apple, other hand—fingers to the eyes. One-two. She saw the fat guard on the floor, screaming in pain. She did it again. And again.

  Until she tripped and landed on her hands and knees. “Suck water,” she muttered.

  “The last move appeared a bit clumsy.” Lying on his back, he was watching.

  She giggled and sat her bare butt on the rubber matt, pushing back the hair that had escaped her braid. “How come you’re so good at all this? You said from street fighting?”

  “You’re stalling.” But he sat up, wiping his forehead with the towel. “We lived in a rough area when I grew up. When my brother joined a gang, he taught me what he learned from them.”

  Brother? She frowned. He’d talked of a sister and his mother. “I don’t remember you mentioning a brother.”

  His face—so sad. Before she considered, she’d joined him on the bench. She put her arms around him and then froze, thinking she’d overstepped her bounds.

  But he pulled her in, holding her tightly, his cheek against the top of her head. After a minute, he sighed. “Thank you, gatita. I needed a hug.”

  “What happened?” She stayed, not letting go.

  Raoul didn’t want to talk about the past. Not in the least. The ache of loss—of guilt—never went away.

  “It still bothers you.” She rubbed her head on his shoulder. Naked little submissive trying to comfort her master—she awed him with her courage and care. “Share with me, Master.”

  Share. She wanted openness. Honesty. They might be doing this to capture the slavers, but the bond of trust between them was real. He’d required she share her emotions and had pushed her to tears when needed. He could give her no less in return.

  “He died.” His arms tightened for a second, before he regained control. “He was only fifteen. I was twelve and thought he was God and followed him everywhere.” Mamá had yelled at Manuel, told him gangs were bad. “His gang was outnumbered in a street fight with another gang. Manuel told me to hide.” Raoul had obeyed, then peeked out from the pile of empty grocery boxes, the stench of rotted fruit surrounding him, his heart hammering enough to choke him.

  “Twelve. God, you were a baby.”

  He frowned. “Old enough. I should have”— forced Manuel to leave, gotten the cops, fought beside him—“Three of them attacked Manuel.” They seemed huge, knives flashing, yelling curses in Spanish. A knife opened Manuel’s arm, his T-shirt ripping, red running down his wrist. Raoul hit the knife-wielder from behind, knocking the boy to his knees. But another backhanded him like a fly into the garbage. “I tried. Dios, I tried to get them away from him.” Scrambling up, punching, kicking, it was as if he wasn’t even there. They’d surrounded Manuel, cutting him from behind every time he turned to fight one. Raoul yelled, grabbed a gangster’s arm, bit down. “They knocked me away, concentrating on him. Nothing I did helped.”

  “You couldn’t have been that big, not at twelve.”

  “Skinny. Weak. I liked books. I was useless to him.” He’d crawled back the last time, crying, grabbing one’s leg, and hanging on. Manuel had stabbed that one. Raoul had felt the blow through the gangster’s body, the shudder of pain. When he tried to scramble away, a brutal kick in the gut laid him out. He couldn’t breathe. More came, stepping on him on the way past. He’d heard his brother scream. That high scream—not a man’s voice. So young. Too young. “By the time I got to my feet, Manuel was dead.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible. You were only babies. But you tried to help.”

  Blood everywhere. So many cuts. He’d failed his brother. Been useless. Weak. Never again. Once his injuries had healed, he’d traded his bike for a set of weights.

  Her arms clamped around him, holding him as if she could keep him together, her fears pushed aside. Sweet gatita. He rubbed his cheek in her soft hair and said, “So I know how it feels to be weaker, sumisita, and not able to fight back. When I got my first job, my money went for self-defense lessons. I searched for the nastiest street-fighting teachers I could find.”

  “That’s what you’re teaching me.”

  “That and getting you strong enough to use it.”

  She pulled back, glancing around the weight room. “You work out almost every day. Does that mean you still feel guilty, like you let him down?”

  He stiffened at her slicing accuracy. “Maybe.” He hadn’t been able to save, to protect. “Sí.”

  “You’re such an idiot!” She shook him, actually shook him. “You were twelve. And outnumbered. Even if you’d been huge, could you really have won?”

  Raoul frowned. Looking at the fight from a more experienced viewpoint, he knew there had been too many. No matter what he might have done, they’d have killed Manuel. “No.”

  She rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. “You know, if you’d been older, they’d probably have killed you. Your mom would have lost two sons.”

  A clever blow. His mamá—bearing the death of one child had been enough. Raoul sighed. He doubted the guilt would go away completely, but it had lightened. He stroked a finger down her cheek. “Thank you, gatita. For the hug…and the insight.”

  She smiled at him. The tears in her eyes were for him and Manuel.

  Had he ever known anyone as sweet? However… “You still have to practice for another fifteen minutes.”

  Her sigh was expressive.

  Trying not to grin, he kissed her pouting lips. “No more stalling.”

  Before starting each set of blocks and strikes, Kim visualized her opponent. For the first time, Lord Greville and the Overseer had company, ugly street toughs who’d kicked a little twelve-year-old. Killed his brother. Who’d left him with so much guilt it radiated like heat waves from him. Scum-sucking jerkwads. She worked out silently, furiously, until she had to put her hands on her knees and pant to get her breath back.

  A chuckle. Master R pointed to the bare floor around her. “I think they are all dead, gatita. Good job.”

  She grinned. “Thank you. I’m ready for a new set of—”

  The doorbell rang.

  Shaking his head at the way she’d frozen in place, Master R said, “Don’t worry, cariño.

  It’s only a special messenger delivering your clothes for this weekend.” He pointed at the shorts and loose top she’d worn for Faith’s visit. “Put those on and come out and meet him.” Him. “You’re sure?” Her voice shook, and she bit her lip.

  He didn’t give her trouble over questioning him. “You’ve got two minutes to dress. We’ll be in the great room.” After tugging on her braid, he walked out.

  Two minutes? She wiped down with a towel and dragged on her clothing, then hurried down the hall. Master R had taken his usual seat on the big leather sofa. A dark-haired man sat across from him. Expensively tailored black slacks and black silky shirt. A little older, maybe forties. He rose as she entered.

  “Z, sit down,” Master R chided. “She’s in training.”

  “Indeed, I forgot.” The man smiled and resumed his seat.

  Staying well out of the stranger’s reach, Kim sidled over to Master R. She knelt very, very gracefully at his feet and lowered her head. He made the tiny noise he used for approval, and she relaxed.

  “Z, this is Kimberly.” Master R stroked her hair. “Gatita, this is Master Z. He owns the Shadowlands and is Jessica’s master.”

  Oooh, this was the creative dom who managed to keep feisty Jessica in line. She looked up and had to wonder if the silvering hair at his temples had been caused by his sub.

  He studied her in turn, his gray eyes seeming to slide into her soul. She pressed closer to Master R’s legs. “You’re doing very well,” he told Master R, which seemed strange since she hadn’t done anything to elicit his opinion.

  “I hear you’re visiting my Shadowlands this weekend, little one. I brought you a present.” With a faint smile, he held a brown paper bag out to her.

  A present? She started to reach for it, paused, and glanced at Master R first. He nodded permission, so she rose and brought the package back and then knelt again.

  “Open it,” Master R said.

  A present. She gave the strange dom a suspicious look. If this is a flogger, I’m heading for the bathroom and locking the door.

  It wasn’t a flogger. She pulled out a very short silk satin dress, black with white lace at the bottom and top. A tiny heart-shaped white apron. What the…? Hey, he’d brought her a French maid’s costume. A pricey one.

  Master R checked the bag and removed white fishnet stockings. “Nice.” His smile included her as he told Z, “Neither of us was comfortable with her being naked in front of the Overseer. This should work perfectly.”

  Her eyes stung, and she hastily lowered her head. She hadn’t told Master R, but the dread of that had made her sick a couple of times. The maid’s outfit was skimpy, but even a small amount of clothing made a difference. Master R had known. He’d felt that way too. A breath. Two. She managed to give her thanks to Master Z.

  His gray eyes softened. “You’re very welcome, Kimberly.” He turned his gaze back to Master R. “I brought something else. I understand you might not be comfortable with this, but I believe it’s necessary.” He handed a second bag to Master R.

  Master R opened it, and his jaw tightened until she could see the rigid tendon in his cheek. He stared at the other man.

  Oh boy. Kim didn’t move a muscle. If he turned that look on her, she’d melt into a terrified puddle on the floor.

  Master Z merely chuckled. “It’s just leather, Raoul. And if you’re not going to go with a standard naked slave, you need to make your ownership very clear. Kimberly, what do you think?”

  He’d asked her a question? She peeked at Master R.

  His fury had disappeared, leaving weariness behind. He upended the bag over the coffee table and a variety of…of slave collars spilled out. Studded dog collars, ones with D-rings and chains, thinner ones with padlocks, a thick silver one that looked horribly uncomfortable, a dark red leather, a black leather with silver decorations.

  Never. The thought of one going around her neck made her stomach turn over. Never. Absolutely never would she let… Her thoughts jerked to a halt. “Make your ownership very clear,” Master Z had said. The Overseer would be at the Shadowlands. Looking at her. But no one touched a collared master’s slave.

  She swallowed, straightened her shoulders, and faced Master R. “I think I’d like to make it obvious to everyone—to h-him—that you own me.” She laid her fingers on the black leather collar, feeling as if she touched a snake. “This would go best with the outfit.”

  Master R watched her for a second, eyes dark and unreadable, then gave Master Z a cold look. “Hijo de puta.”

  “I know, Raoul.” Z glanced at his watch and rose. “My time’s up, and I have an appointment.” He smiled at Master R. “As we tell our subs all too often, what you want and what you need aren’t necessarily the same thing.”

  Master R walked him out and returned, the cold still in his eyes.

  Kimberly tried not to flinch. If he was mad, she wouldn’t be able—

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at her. “My anger is from the past and nothing to do with you. Why don’t you run upstairs and shower? Take some time for yourself.”

  “I’d like that.” She rose and bowed her head. “Thank you, Master, for your care.”

  He made a noise as if she’d slapped him instead of thanking him. Then he sighed and stroked her hair. “Go, sumisita.”

  Chapter Eight

  On Tuesday, muggy evening air formed a damp cloak over Raoul’s skin as he took a seat on the patio. The outdoor lights flickered on, and the pool turned a clear blue around the young woman swimming laps. Kimberly looked strong and healthy. And she was never happier than when near the water. That was why he’d created erotic pool tag for her, and why their protracted make-out time last night had been on the beach.

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