To Command And Collar

The next day, Kim stepped out of the guest room onto the long balcony overlooking the gulf. Master R had an interesting place in a beach-house-meets-hacienda way. It was two-story stucco except for a small third story, like a tower, and curved in a C shape around the patio up from the sandy shore. With huge arched windows and balconies everywhere, the inside seemed to merge into the outdoors.

She squinted against the bright sunlight that reflected on the water. Almost noon. She’d hidden in the bedroom since breakfast.

With a sigh, she dropped onto the dark red cushioned chair. Bare feet on the iron railing, she leaned her head back, immersing herself in the feeling of the moisture forming on her skin, the ocean breeze, the heat of the sun. Waves lapped quietly on the sand, the gentle gulf surf nothing like that of her energetic Atlantic. A gull circled, screeching.

Oh, she’d missed the ocean. The rhythm of her life had been marked by the tides, starting on her father’s fishing trawler to her work as a marine biologist. But slaves were shut inside, never to see the sun or hear the surf. Worse than any drug addict, she’d craved the sound and smell of the shore.

She’d probably scared Master R with her reaction last night, but apparently he’d understood. He’d laughed.

He can laugh. He had a great laugh. Braced by the knowledge, she’d made it through yesterday evening without panicking. She’d been quite proud of herself.

A noise came from the room behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder. Sitting with her back to a door felt as if she asked to be attacked, but she forced herself to stay. To try to relax. To ignore the certainty a stranger would come out of nowhere and grab her. Knowing Master R was in the house helped…at least with the stranger-abduction fear.

It sucked to have so many fears she had to name them.

Would Master R create more terror than he eased? A tremor ran through her. I don’t know him at all. Aside from insisting she eat supper with him, he’d left her alone last evening, letting her get used to his house, to losing Gabi’s support…although Gabi had called about every half hour to check on her. Kim smiled. Sweet Gabi.

But Master R apparently realized how terrifying his presence was-not for anything he’d done, but because he was male. A dom.

He was even more careful with her than Marcus had been. Like last night when she’d had a nightmare. Nothing new. Usually Gabi would hear her screams and wake her up. This time it had been Master R.

“Kimberly.” His voice had entered her dream, where she was pinned down, unspeakable things…pain… “Kimberly!” Such a smooth voice. The horrors reverberated through her in the slaps, the burning. “Wake up, chica!” A sharp command. A master’s voice. Her eyes had snapped open. A man in the doorway. Another scream, awake now, but the lights were on, and she saw-after a minute-the man who had bought her. Freed her. Master R.

He’d waited until she said his name before entering, then fetched her a glass of water from the bathroom. Pulled up a chair. Let her drink and shake. He hadn’t touched her once, and his presence had turned comforting. Did he know if he’d loomed over her, she’d have gone into hysterics? That she couldn’t stand being touched right then, not after the nightmare of so many men?

He’d watched her, patient and quiet, then picked up the book she had on the bedside table and simply read to her in that voice, dark with a twist of accent. No nightmare could compete with Raoul Sandoval reading Huckleberry Finn.

So she really was better. Maybe the spark of her very self hadn’t gone out. Maybe she wasn’t filthy inside, deserving of everything done to her and more. Only she felt dirty. Ugly and ruined. She blinked against the welling tears. Would “filthy slut” echo in her mind forever?

The psychologist hadn’t made much progress with her feelings of self-loathing. Or with helping her to figure out what came next, after this was over. How could she go back to her job, knowing someone might grab her again? That-

She heard a footstep and jerked around, heart jackhammering against her ribs.

“Easy, gatita.” Master R stopped. Waited, his eyes steady on hers.

“Sorry.”

“You have the right to be jumpy.” He squatted beside her chair, tilting her chin up to wipe her cheeks with his fingers. “And to cry. No matter how strong you are, I think you will be in tears often for a while.”

“Are we going to start…?” She couldn’t finish, hated how pitiful she sounded.

“When you are ready, Kimberly, come downstairs and we’ll talk.”

“Kim. Everyone calls me Kim.”

He smiled, and for a second, she saw the dom he was. Self-confident. Powerful. He would do what he wanted.

A shiver ran through her. “You really are a dom, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.” He released her chin and brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “But you’re safe, chiquita. The only slave I want is one whose dearest wish is to be mine.”

He wanted to own a slave? A chill settled deep in her bones.

* * * *

An hour later, Raoul pushed his keyboard to one side and rested his forearms on the massive oak desk. The design for a new waterfront area in Belize couldn’t keep his attention.

Could Kimberly tolerate being a slave? He wasn’t a harsh master, but he wasn’t a pushover either, and since he’d acted like a cold bastard for the Overseer, turning into a hearts-and-flowers master wouldn’t cut it. Honesty would serve both him and Kimberly best. After all the upheavals in her life, she’d need the stability-the reassurance-of consistency.

He looked up at a sound from the door.

She stood there, her face pale, but chin up and standing straight. Brave little subbie. Satisfaction welled in him as he noted her cheeks had started to round out. Gabi’s cooking and pampering had put some weight on her.

“I’m ready to talk,” she said. “Is this a bad time?”

“This is fine.” He rose and saw her force herself to stand still.

In the doorway, he put his hand on her back, touching her as he’d avoided doing before. He felt her tremble. His brows drew together as he realized he was seeing her in two ways: as a hurt woman and as a willing sub. How had his mind ever received the impression she was willing? Yet there had been times in the slaver’s dungeon, when their rhythms had come together, and she’d unconsciously accepted him as dominant.

He paused, then turned toward the stairs, steering her up past the second floor to the third and into the tower room. Their discussion should be in a private place. Intimate. Not his office. And the great room was for guests.

Here, the steeply angled roof formed two sides of the square room, but the front and back walls were all glass, giving a breathtaking view of the sea to the west and his gardens to the east. The floor was a rich brown pile, the off-white sectional soft and welcoming. The toys for bondage and play stayed hidden inside the sturdy ottoman and bombe chest by the wall.

“This is beautiful,” she said, walking to the window with the ocean view.

So are you, little submissive. The light of the afternoon sun glinted off her straight black hair, bringing out brown tints, and silhouetted her slim figure. Under the loose-fitting clothing, she had a pretty body, he recalled. So thin, yet still graceful with nicely curved hips. He pointed to the sofa, saw her hesitation, and patiently waited for her to take a seat.

What should have been eagerness to obey-and probably had been once-was fear instead. His heart ached that anyone could treat a woman so harshly. He sat on the sturdy square ottoman, knee to knee with her, the sofa back keeping her from retreating farther. “We’re going to talk about what I expect and what you will do. And we’ll get to know each other, gatita.”

“What’s gatita mean?”

“Little cat. Kitten.” He tugged on her black hair. “Baby cats often have blue eyes, and when I was young, I had