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  Turning a chair around so that its back faced the table, he straddled it and dug into his own plate. For a moment, she was able to observe him without his returned regard. Black hair that looked softer by morning night. More tousled than unkempt. His features were definitely coarse—a bit too large for his face—but they suited his presence. Too much, exactly right.

  Suddenly he looked up; her mouth went dry. His eyes were exactly as she remembered them: black, bottomless, and terrifying. It was just as well she couldn’t see him last night. Those eyes would have seen too much.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  Gingerly, she picked up the fork. How long had it been since she held one?

  He cocked his head, watching her as if she were a curious experiment. She tightened her fingers and stabbed a piece of egg. The tines made a loud ringing sound against the plate, and she winced.

  She put the whole thing in her mouth and set the fork back down. The egg was thick and creamy and so foreign. It coated her tongue, and she forced a breath through her nose. God, she had swallowed so much worse than this—why not this? But she couldn’t. Get it out.

  And then a hand was over her mouth, not tightly just a touch. A stroke down her back, calming her. “Take it easy,” he said. “Swallow it. There you go.”

  When she had gulped it down, he returned to his seat as if nothing had happened.

  She blinked the tears from her eyes and stared down at the food in dismay. It was three times what she normally was fed. Did he expect her to eat the whole thing? She would throw it up. And then what would he do to her?

  A scrape of the chair against the wood floor drew her attention to him. He put the chair beside hers and sank. Her eyes widened; his were dark and forbidding. It was too much, all of it: the food, his presence.

  “Half,” he said.

  She blinked.

  “We may not get through all of it today, but you’ll eat half of what’s on the plate. We’ll work up to the rest another day. Deal?”

  This was a negotiation? Of course, she couldn’t actually say anything back so admittedly her bargaining position was poor, but she wasn’t used to being asked for her opinion. She wasn’t used to giving it. She frowned.

  “I’m going to take that as a yes,” he said, spearing another piece of egg.

  At the touch of the food to her lips, her mouth opened. It was trained into her, and she swallowed.

  “Good girl.”

  She ate two more bites before fidgeting. Already she felt full, so full. Normally her discomfort wouldn’t matter, but something was different now. Strange and exciting. She wasn’t saying no exactly, but she didn’t want this.

  The egg touched her lips, and she parted, only slightly. He raised his eyebrow.

  Quickly she ate, strangely deflated. Her streak of rebellion was very small, but it didn’t go unnoticed. He paused, examining her. Her heart raced in anticipation. Would he punish her now—or later? She almost wanted it. At least then she would know what to expect from him. At least then this confusing charade of normalcy would come to an end.

  His large hands closed around her arms, and she winced. But no pain came. Instead she was enfolded in warmth—surrounded. She sat on his lap, held by him, fed by him, and she ate. If she paused or floundered, he would rub her back in slow circles. His touch was calm but sure. I’ll make you feel better, it said, but you’ll still do what I say.

  But strangely, she found it easier to eat like this. Maybe because she could feel the steady beat of his heart and knew he wasn’t angry at her. Maybe because his warmth and strength were used to shield her, not hurt her.

  More than that, he seemed to recognize when she needed a moment, and he gave it to her. He was reading her cues, she realized. It was amazing; it was beautiful. Terrifying. He could hurt her so much worse than the others. He seemed to know what she was thinking even without her words. He knew what she was feeling. And hadn’t she stopped talking to protect herself from such a thing?

  No, that wasn’t right. She didn’t stop talking, she couldn’t speak. She had never spoken. It was just easier that way. Best not to think about it.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asked with a tap to her nose.

  Her gaze snapped to him and then away, as if he could see.

  He sighed and set the fork down. “I’m thinking of calling the Coast Guard. They ought to be able to pick you up, drop you off at the mainland.”

  She tensed all over, broke out into a sweat. The mainland. Where was that? Who would take care of her there? No, she didn’t want that. She had angered him, but how? He’d been upset after last night, but he had still fed her after that. It was only when she couldn’t speak that he wanted to send her away. Stupid slave. Broken slave.

  But she could still please him. How to show it? She shook her head, just a quick shake.

  “No?” he asked.

  Clumsily, she took his hand in both of hers and brought it to her neck. Wrapped it around herself. His grip firmed for just a moment before his hand fell away.

  “No,” he repeated. “I know what you are. I know what you want. But I don’t do that.”

  Anymore remained unspoken, but she heard it.

  She slid off his lap, falling onto her knees. Begging for him to keep her, despite her silence.

  “Stop that,” he said, but his voice was more husky than angry now. “You’re not my sub.”

  She wasn’t his, but she had woken up in his home. Not his, but he had fucked her. And maybe more telling than all of that, he had fed her, taken her onto his lap, helped her. A man didn’t do that for a woman who didn’t belong to him.

  But she wasn’t so stupid as to say any of that aloud, even if she could have spoken. As usual he seemed to hear it anyway, his eyes flicking to her plate and back to her.

  “Okay,” he said. “I can see how you might have gotten that impression. But I’m not looking for a relationship, and especially not one…like this.”

  Her mind raced, looking for a way to convince him. Slowly, her gaze fell down over his broad shoulders, his red plaid shirt, his jeans. The bulge in his jeans. He said he didn’t want her, but his body betrayed him, just like hers did.

  She reached for him; he caught her wrists in a tight grip.

  “What do you want, subby?” he asked, low and suggestive.

  Looking up, she was caught by the intensity of his eyes. Black and electric. His stare alone seemed to touch her, reach inside and bring her to life.

  Her breath came in small pants, and he looked down at her lips.

  “You can’t want this,” he groaned, but he let her hands go. It was permission; in this position, it was an order. She undid his jeans and his cock, heavy and hard, fell into her palm. It throbbed once, and she floundered. Did he want her to touch him first? Or since he was already hard, should she put him in her mouth? She couldn’t fail in this, not with him on the verge of sending her away. She looked up, for instruction, for approval.

  The corner of his mouth turned up, the only smile she had seen from him. “Of course you would stop. You’ve been begging me, practically fucking me with those sexy blue eyes, but now you’re going to think about it. Sometimes I think you get off on being contrary.”

  She shook her head, hard, to tell him no, she wanted to please him, but that only seemed to prove his words. He chuckled. The sound stirred something in her, something rusted with disuse.

  “Then suck me, sweet girl. I know you know how.”

  She put her lips to his cock on the last word, a kiss to match the name he’d called her—sweet. Then she licked, and the salty tang of him burst onto her tongue. Finding the underside, she pleasured him, because he was right, she did know how. So well, too well.

  This was different than all those other times, because she wanted this. And this was his cock, his pleasure. It didn’t matter what he looked like, only that he seemed to want her and inexplicably she wanted him. What did she care about a man’s anatomy? Well, if s
he had any preference it was for a smaller cock, because she’d be less likely to gag. He was big, but she wouldn’t hold it against him.

  Her breasts were pressed against the insides of his thighs as she fought to get closer, to take more of him, and she felt his muscles flex with every flick of her tongue. She laved the underside of his cock, and he jerked in her mouth. She swallowed him, and he groaned. She felt like she was sailing, fine-tuning the sails with her ministrations but ultimately at the mercy of the sea.

  His thumb found her collarbone and swept back and forth, back and forth. “Christ, you’re good at this. You know that, right?”

  She paused and looked up at him, her mouth still full with his cock.

  “Surely the men told you all about your hot mouth, your wicked tongue. Didn’t they?”

  He had to know she couldn’t answer, but even the true question seemed unspoken. His eyes were dark with lust. And troubled, by something she couldn’t comprehend.

  He tangled his fingers in her hair and tightened. “You could own a man like that,” he whispered.

  His words surely weren’t true; they were a puzzle. But maybe, yes. She swirled the tip with the right amount of suction that they always liked, and he let his head fall back. She found his balls, cupping them, rolling them, and he pumped his hips into the air. She wasn’t stupid, for all that they’d called her that. She wasn’t slow, though sometimes she felt that way. He was like any man; all he wanted was pleasure. That’s what he must have meant. She could stay if she pleased him; yes, she knew.

  When his hips jerked in a rhythm, it was time. She found a steady slide, in and out. The whore’s technique; well, that was appropriate for her. Get him off, finish him a million times, so why did it feel different this time? Why did she feel so cold?

  His semen was a warm splash at the back of her throat. She forced it down, trying to find appreciation in his shout. He’d lost control; they always did in that moment. She’d never figured out what to do with it, never really wanted to usurp them, but she knew men were brought low during climax.

  As he fell back against the chair, his still-hard cock slipped from her mouth wetly, a trail of come stretching between them. She reached with her tongue to catch it, but it fell to the wood floor. Immediately she leaned in to lick it up, hopefully before he saw her and got too angry, but he stopped her.

  “What are you doing?”

  Her gaze drifted to the floor, that damnable wet spot that meant she hadn’t followed the most basic of rules, she hadn’t swallowed all of the come, she hadn’t appreciated the gift.

  “Leave it. I want you to leave it there.” He definitely wasn’t angry now, or even aroused. She recognized the look in his eyes now—sadness. “Touch yourself. I want to watch you make yourself come.”

  She shifted her weight where she knelt. This had been a small part of her training, near the beginning, when she could still have an orgasm. Sometimes it had worked; other times she had faked it. But the way his black gaze stripped her, she wouldn’t be able to do that now. He was relaxed, prepared to wait, but all his attention was on her.

  She pulled the dress up around her waist, exposing herself. But then she was already so bare, what was once more? Her fingers found her clit, rubbing tentatively at the sensitive skin there. She felt a pinch of pain at the rough treatment but nothing like arousal. Nothing like pleasure.

  She pressed harder, hurt herself faster under his intent gaze.

  “Stop,” he said.

  He squatted in front of her and replaced her hand with his. His fingers swirled around her clit then skidded down along her sex. “Dry, dry as a fucking bone. And curled up tight. Are you afraid of me?”

  She felt herself throb against his hand.

  “Or maybe you’re not afraid of me, and that’s the problem. Is that what you need to get off? A little fear?” He slapped her lightly, the pain small but the sound loud. “A little pain?”

  Her hips rocked against his hand, but what was this? Hadn’t she dreamed, hoped for a day without fear—without pain? Now he’d offered her regular sex, painless sex, and she was too broken to do it.

  His forehead came to rest on her shoulder, and her breath caught. It was a show of weakness, or it should have been, but he was so large, so intense, that it seemed to give support instead of take it. His palm cupped her below, just resting, feeling.

  And then he began to speak. “I’ve got you. You’re all turned around right now. Confused right now, but you’re with me. I love these breasts; did you know that? So pale and sweet. Large too, for your body but I like them. They stand up proud. The only part of you that seems proud, sometimes. And your waist is too small, but it makes me hard anyway. I love to look at it, especially from behind, the way it flares out into those hips.”

  Her body had relaxed, fallen loose in his embrace. His hand was still on her sex, and she was still dry, but she was relaxed. It was a start. She understood what he was doing. It was just another way to play with her, to manipulate her. Probably he didn’t even mean the words, but it felt so good to believe.

  He wanted her. He saw her. And if it were only her body that he saw, it would be enough. Maybe that’s all there was left. But she didn’t need to think of that, not when his hand had started a subtle roll against her skin, and he was still talking to her.

  “I dreamed of you riding me at night. So dark, with only the faint light of moonlight on your breasts as they moved with you. It wouldn’t be about what we could see though, but what we couldn’t. You, panting above me. The sucking sounds of your cunt.”

  Somewhere around the word sucking it had happened: she’d begun to move her hips along with his hand. There was a rhythm there, a build. More, please, yes.

  “I’d open my mouth and reach for your nipple, blindly because they’re so dark. Rosy now, but black in the night. Your breasts would bounce against me, and I’d follow, turning my face, feeling with my tongue until I latched onto one and sucked.”

  There was the word again, different slightly but the same response. Sucked. She’d sucked a million times, hundreds of faceless cocks, and it hadn’t meant a thing, but then he spoke the words. Soft, husky. Imbued with the promise of pleasure she felt now at her core. In her cunt. She tightened there, and his hand sped up, purposefully rubbing her clit. No pain now, no pinch, just relief.

  “But here’s what I really want to know. When I’m ready to come, I’ll grab your hips and start thrusting up inside you. I won’t be able to help it. And you’ll grunt every time I do it, just a quick exhale. All automatic. And it’ll hit a spot inside you so perfect that you won’t be able to help it. You’ll come around me. Gripping me, spilling your liquid all over my cock and down my balls.”

  She gripped him now, his fingers in her cunt. She spilled over him now, wet and needy. Faster, almost.

  “But what I want to know is, will you cry out when you come? Would you speak for me then? What would you say?”

  She came, she rocked, she lost her breath and found it again. She’d been given a gift, ungrateful. There was pleasure there and pain. Sweetness and betrayal. She bore witness to it all and mourned in silence.

  “Shhh,” he said. “Shhh.” And she realized she was shaking. There were no words for it.

  She’d never… she’d never…

  “It’s okay, little girl. I know you can talk.”

  She shook her head, her eyes shut tight, her head tucked into the crook of his neck. She’d never be normal again.

  “I know you can talk because I heard you do it. When I found you, you spoke to me. You said you wanted to go home.” He gave a rough laugh; it vibrated through her. “I tried to send you away, but damn you. I couldn’t.”

  He crushed her to him tightly. “You’re not going anywhere now.”

  Chapter Four

  She followed the sound of destruction to the shed. Everything out here seemed rustic, though in truth it was sturdy and sleek to the touch, the shed almost as big as the house itself. She stood ou
tside the door and stared at the sliver of light at the edges. She could return to the house, and he would never know she had strayed from his orders. But if she obeyed him, he would send her away. He’d already told her so.

  Dust wafted in front of her face, making her sneeze. The buzzing sound stopped.

  Master appeared at the door. He did not look pleased. “I told you to stay inside.”

  She looked down at her bare feet, coated with dust from the walk.

  “Maybe you can come in. As long as you stay where I put you and don’t ta—” He chuffed a small laugh, and something inside her relaxed fractionally. “Okay, girl. You can stay.”

  He opened the door wide to let her in. Orange glow suffused her vision, slowly sharpening into piles of furniture filling the room. There were tables, chairs, bookcases, and desks. As she looked closer, she could see that each piece had a small amount of engraving drawn into it. Somehow, the carvings didn’t take over the piece—they looked as though they belonged there.

  He pointed at a stool. “You can sit there.”

  She climbed onto the stool, running her fingers along the side, where vines were worked into the wood, complete with roses and thorns that pricked her. Beside her was a vanity with a carving at the base of the mirror.

  There was a woman on a cliff, forlorn and haunting. Then out at sea, a ship caught in the storm with a single man at the helm. Penelope and Odysseus, she waited for her husband while he fought magic and nature to return home. Her throat felt tight. Her master’s hands should terrify her, with their ability to hurt or restrain, but those hands had made this.

  He returned to the worktable and began sanding a large contraption. At first she wasn’t sure what it was. Her mind flew to some old style machinery for weaving, but that didn’t make sense. She examined the lines across, the padding on the bottom rung—oh. It was meant to restrain a woman. She swallowed hard.

  What would he do to a slave he bound there? There was so much she didn’t know about him. Everything, really. She knew he ate sparingly for his size, he lived simply. She knew his hands were coarse but precise when they carved into wood, when they held her body down.