To Command And Collar

temper loose.”

His conviction that she had that power was like a stepping stone away from her sorrow. She needed to stay in her slave character, and she had to look after her dom. “Yes, Sir,” she whispered. As she wiped her eyes, she plainly saw Master R’s rage.

The big dom was right. Master R wasn’t keeping his face under control.

“Master,” she said softly. “We should leave. Will you put my leash on and lead…so I can follow?”

He looked down. His fingers were infinitely gentle as he touched her cheek. “Tesoro mio,” he said under his breath. “Yes, let us go home.”

* * * *

“Did you get my goods back?” Christopher Greville spoke politely into his cell phone. It might be late to call, but he couldn’t rest without knowing if Dahmer had succeeded.

Over the past day, he’d come to realize that he was pleased the cunt was still alive. This way, he could deal with her himself-could give her a very slow, excruciatingly painful death.

“No, the owner isn’t interested in selling.” Dahmer sounded irritated. “I thought he’d jump at making a profit.”

A whip of rage struck. Greville’s pulse throbbed painfully in his temple. Who was this fucking buyer? “In that case, just pick my merchandise up.” Kidnap the bitch. “You’re an expert at that kind of business.”

“I will. But only if I can succeed without causing any…upset.”

“I don’t give a damn about-”

“Management reacts poorly to bad publicity.”

Greville hesitated. Last month, when a naive buyer fell in love with his slave and tried to inform on the association, the Harvest Association’s reaction had been…extreme. Removing them would have been adequate. A bullet. Simple enough. But no. Instead, the buyer and slave had been spread-eagled and restrained on the bed, one on top of the other; then the house was set on fire. Before the fire trucks arrived, the entire neighborhood heard them shrieking as they burned to death.

A bad way to go. He’d thought it funny at the time, but Dahmer’s warning was…perhaps…valid. “Do what you can.”

“I will. If I can’t pick the goods up neatly, I do have another possibility to fall back on, if needed. Be patient, please.”

Patient! Greville stabbed the Off button as fury seared his nerves. The need to hurt something was so strong he tasted it, but he forced himself to stay at his desk. If he started whipping the slave downstairs, he’d not stop until she was dead.

Since he was a premium buyer, the Harvest Association didn’t enforce the delay when he killed a slave, but losing two within a short period wouldn’t be wise.

He waited until his rage had died slightly. Enough, perhaps. Then he rose and headed to the basement. He needed to hurt her, to hear her screams rise to desperation, shriller and shriller.

* * * *

His gatita was exhausted. After carrying her into the house, Raoul tucked her into bed and then changed into regular clothes.

Looking down at the silky black hair surrounding her pale face, he felt the heavy foundations of…something settle slowly into place. He cared for her. Too much. With his history-with hers-this affection could only be a mistake, as foolish as building a bridge without considering the wind. He needed to back away while he still could.

Her eyes opened. She stared at his bedroom, her relief to be home obvious. Hearing about Holly had been too much, like stretching copper wire past the fracture point.

“How do you feel?” he asked, wanting to touch her. Comfort her. Yet hadn’t he just told himself to pull away? Stupid Sandoval. She’d slipped past his defenses so easily.

“Okay.” Her chin rose. “I’m fine.”

As she attempted to appear strong, to lie to him with her body and her words, irritation scraped his already raw nerves. “Do you ever tell me the truth when you’re not feeling well?”

“I-” Her brows drew together even as her arms wrapped around her waist, comforting herself as if she didn’t believe he could do a good job. “I think I know myself.”

“Why do you not trust me enough to be honest?” He set his jaw, knowing-knowing neither of them was thinking clearly-yet after what they’d shared, having her lie to him was like a stab in the back.

When her mouth firmed, he prepared himself for another untruth. Perhaps that was good; he’d have an excuse to leave her here with her dishonesty, her inability to be the submissive he wanted her to be-his inability to accept her even if she was. This was a way to pull away before they both got hurt. He started to turn-

“I-I’m sorry.” Her fingers pushed the blanket into folds, straightened it out again. “Mom didn’t-my father was cruel, made fun of her whenever she complained-so she stopped. And I learned-” She bit her lip and stared at the covers. Folding. Straightening. “I don’t mean to lie to you. It just slips out.”

Dios. Raoul took a step forward, even as his brain told him to leave. To back away before he had more cables binding him than he could escape. “Kimberly…”

“I’m not fine, Master. At all.” She looked up finally, and her eyes swam with tears. “I’m scared to be alone. Only I’m going to cry some more, and I didn’t want you to have to…”

“To get all wet?” Nothing in the world could have kept him from sitting on the bed and pulling her into his arms. “Sumisita-cry. I’ll hold you.”

Her shoulders were already shaking. So fragile to bear what she’d been through, and now to add grief to the mix. His own heart ached when he remembered the young victim, Holly. If he ever gained the opportunity to fight the slavers, some of them would die. But for now, his duty was to be a little subbie’s support and comfort.

She cried for a long time, long enough to soak his T-shirt, and so violently that a couple of times she’d started to gag, and he’d shaken her out of it.

When her crying finally stilled and only an occasional shudder coursed through her body, Raoul’s arms were still wrapped firmly around her. The tightness was gone from her muscles; the horror had faded from her eyes. “All right?”

“I’m fi-” She choked on a laugh and amended, “I’m better. Thank you.”

“Good.” He tilted her head up and kissed her, tasting the salt of her tears, the sweetness of her lips. She softened under his careful assault, then kissed him back, as if she needed the distraction-the affirmation of life-as much as he did.

He slid her off his lap, laid her against the pillows, and took her mouth again. His fingers tangled lightly in her hair, firmly enough to remind her who he was yet not rough enough to resurrect bad memories. He’d learned how to walk that tightrope over the past weeks. As he hardened, he deepened the kiss.

She wore nothing. The conviction that a submissive’s body should be accessible to her master reverberated through him. For tonight at least, he would accept his role.

He ran his finger over the scar on her ribs, then up. Her breast fit into his palm, lush and soft. He pulled back far enough to watch her. He couldn’t trust her to tell him if she was afraid or repelled, and he was no mind reader like Z. But when he studied her face, the changes of her muscles and her hands, he’d discover if she was fearful-or aroused.

Tonight, everything he saw spoke of desire: her lips and nipples reddening, the flush on her cheeks, the hitch in her breath when he cupped her breast. His gatita had responsive nipples, not overly sensitive, but sweetly erogenous zones. He licked a circle around one and then blew on it, smiling as it peaked.

“What are you smiling about?” she asked, her gaze on his face as soft as her hand in his hair.

“Women’s breasts are fascinating. The way they wobble and move. How your nipples bunch up as if they had a mind of their own.”

She rolled her eyes, then gasped as he pinched the neglected nipple into action.