To Command And Collar

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.” Mama 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.”