MASTER_-_Eden_Bradley-final_formatted Read online

I nod to them both, then turn and leave the room before I lose control. My knees tremble as I walk down the carpeted stairs to the lobby.

  God help me, I feel like such a fool. I was a fool, thinking I could storm into their room and take them back without losing anything. Without giving up any part of myself. I knew Christopher had me backed into a corner to some degree, that he’d want to make me pay for my arrogance and carelessness with their feelings, but there was no way I could have foreseen that he’d go this far. That he’d demand this much as penance. I’ve loved him for so long, and so much more than I was ever able to admit—

  Until Aimée came along and forced me to open my heart for the first time in years. Maybe the first time in my entire life. I knew I loved him, and yet I closed myself to it, pushing my feelings for him to the farthest corners of my mind, my heart.

  And now I love her as fiercely as I love him, and I want desperately to be with them both. But on Christopher’s terms? Unthinkable.

  Isn’t it?

  For the first time in years, I doubt the viability of having what I want, and the idea absolutely crushes me. Then there’s the complication of figuring out how I handle this new man who is now me, this man so filled with emotion I can barely tolerate it. Emotion I have no idea how to manage. It’s what I’ve been struggling with since I sent them both to the Primal Ranch. I was fighting it, but I simply can’t any longer and it scares the hell out of me. I don’t know what I’ll do if they won’t accept me as Master.

  Anything. I will do anything.

  That’s how I feel, but I don’t know if it’s possible. Becoming a slave again goes against everything I’ve come to believe about myself. Becoming Christopher’s slave? I’m not even sure I’d survive. Once more, I am shivering all over, full of uncertainty as my carefully constructed world comes crashing down around me in the wake of the questions: Can I? Will I? How can I refuse, if that is truly the only option?

  CHAPTER TWO

  All of these thoughts rush through my tortured mind at a thousand screaming miles an hour as I make my way through the hotel lobby and out into the hazy Monterey sunshine. I don’t know how to calm down.

  I just breathe in the salt air and try to clear my head while I wait for the valet to bring my car around—a black F-Type R Jaguar coupe. I’ve always loved cars, and this one is spectacular. When I get in, I step on the gas a few times simply to feel the engine purr. Heading south, I drive directly to the Casa Palermo in Pebble Beach. It’s one of my favorite hotels, but I don’t think even its stunning coastal setting, lovely Mediterranean architecture and luxury suites will soothe my darkened soul today. Nothing will, until they come to me. No, that’s only half the truth. I won’t be soothed until and unless they come to me wanting to be with me in the only way I can imagine. And yet...

  No.

  I try to keep my mind as empty as possible as I go through the rituals: handing my car over to the valet at the Pebble Beach hotel, tucking the ticket into my breast pocket, moving through the front courtyard and inside to check in at the desk.

  “Good morning, sir,” a fresh-faced young woman says in greeting. “How may I help you?”

  Sir. A nice touch that usually makes me smile. But not today. Instead I simply nod and hand her my American Express black card.

  She takes it, taps the keys on her computer, then looks up at me, her cheeks flushing. “Mr. Attwood—how nice to have you with us again. Your usual room, the Palermo Suite, just happens to be available, sir. Or would you prefer something a bit cozier? I should have two other rooms open by three o’clock.”

  “The suite will be just fine. Thank you…Julie,” I finish, glancing at her name tag.

  Her cheeks burn a little brighter, and I recognize the nearly palpable whiff that might almost be perfume—a delicate mixture of desire and an unconscious tendency toward submission.

  Yes, something I tend to naturally bring out in people. And yet…

  No.

  She clears her throat. “Will you have luggage, sir?”

  “There’s a bag in the trunk of my car. Have them send it up.”

  “Of course. Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asks, blue eyes sparkling, dark lashes batting.

  Not unless you want to come up to my room and let me beat you until you cry, until you come, until I manage to work some of this unbearable tension from my body.

  But I only try to smile, holding back the wolf inside me that loves to eat pretty girls like this one alive. Or is it only a sheep in wolf’s clothing?

  No. Hell no.

  Mustn’t let Christopher get to me. But he does. He has.

  “No. Thank you.”

  The Palermo Suite is the best this hotel has to offer, and they’ve skimped on nothing, from the two marble fireplaces to the French doors opening onto the private courtyard with a gleaming, blue-tiled Jacuzzi and fountain, the high, rough-beamed ceilings, the enormous four-poster bed. I’ve always liked it for its privacy and function. The personalized services rival any of the best hotels in New York. But I am too overcome with concern, with the sharp edges of my shattering heart, to relax into the luxury. The shards pierce me, flesh and soul. This promises to be a very long day, a long night, perhaps a long week. There’s no way to know—or to know how much I can bear.

  There’s a tap on the door, and I let the bellman in. He sets my black overnight bag down, and offers to send a valet to unpack for me and build a fire, which I decline. It is, after all, a summer day, and even here on the coast it’s fairly warm, now the fog has burned off. And I have an odd quirk—I prefer no one but my personal slaves handle the contents of my bags.

  Once I remove my coat and hang it up as meticulously as I do everything, I’m unsure of what to do with myself. Is this one of those situations in which I speak with a confidante? But who would that be? Alexa? One of my other cohorts in the world of refined kink? Isn’t that how we think of ourselves? We are the sexual sophisticates of the world, the deviant aristocrats. But there is also too often a certain coldness, a remoteness, in our circles, and none of these people are anyone I’m close to.

  I think of my brother, Daniel. He was the one person I was ever truly close to, and he’s been gone for more of my life than he was in it.

  Can’t think about him now.

  Not now, when my mind is in such chaos. When the chaos in my life began and ended with him—or at least it had ended for a time. Then Master Stephan got sick. And now…this.

  I open both sets of doors to let the sea air into the room, stretch out on the bed and close my eyes. I have no idea how long they’ll make me wait—if they come to me at all. But even if it’s an hour of this suffering—suffering as I’ve never endured, even in my years in service as a slave so long ago—it will be far too long. For the first time since I lost Master Stephan, I’m not certain how I will survive. This is a loss too grave to bear.

  I will somehow, of course. I always do.

  Aimée.

  Christopher.

  “No,” I mutter through clenched teeth to the empty room, knowing how useless my fervent prayers are now.

  And I know for the first time in years what it is to be utterly powerless.

  It’s been two days. I’ve made calls to see to it that my House is in order, the slaves worked, then I finally gave in and called the Ranch and asked Victor to take over the House for a while. If they do come, my two loves—and perhaps even more if they don’t—I’ll need to take a leave of absence. It could be a long one. The House, which has been my life all these years, is too much to think about in my current state.

  I lingered in the Jacuzzi much of the day yesterday and again today. I napped in the wan sun, sat up all night with an untouched whiskey in a crystal glass, trying not to think, which has been a spectacular failure. I can think of nothing but the two of them—together, which is a comfort and a torture all at the same time, but not with me. Not. With. Me. And the more time that passes, the more I feel in my gut they will never come back to me,
that I will have to go on without them, which is more of a mind fuck than I’d ever expected.

  And so it is with great surprise that I answer my door not to a maid delivering towels, but to Christopher and Aimée. I’m nearly as shocked simply seeing them fully dressed—particularly her, whom I have only ever seen naked other than collar and chains. He’s in black leather pants that fit his muscular legs like a rock star, and a loose-fitting t-shirt with a Misfits band logo on it. And Aimée…she’s wearing a dark skirt that hugs her body and flares just above the knee with a beautifully tailored blouse in a shade of dusky pink that sets off the blush on her lovely cheeks and the pale red satin of her long hair. So sophisticated, except her fine stilettos are high enough that only a woman who has practice walking in “stripper heels” could manage them. I almost want to smile.

  Instead I say, like some inarticulate fool, “You’ve come.”

  Christopher nods and walks past me into the room, Aimée trailing behind him, her delicate hand in his. Closing the door, I draw a breath before turning around.

  “Sit,” he orders her.

  She settles on the edge of the sofa, spine straight, chin lifted, palms resting on her thighs. Her focus is on him, as if she’s awaiting another order. She probably is. But in a moment I see the brief flick of her green gaze on me.

  “Aimée.” His voice is only the slightest bit stern.

  He is so much the Master at this moment. He’s stern and harsh, and there is as much rawness in him as there is when he’s the slave. Power used to the ultimate possible zenith, yet done correctly in every way. And in some way, despite his great care in acting responsibly in that role, he is still a rebel, and always will be. It is an intrinsic part of who he is. And always utterly in control. I’ve never told him how it makes me shiver with some unmet longing. I’ve never fully admitted it to myself. What is happening to me? One small seed of utter anarchy planted, and I’m losing my mind.

  I force myself to be present in the moment. They’ve come to see me, after all, and here I am daydreaming!

  “May I offer you something to drink? I can call my personal valet here at the hotel—”

  “No,” Christopher cuts me off. Then he adds, “Thank you.”

  He motions to Aimée—a small nod of his sculpted chin—and she goes to the sideboard, picks up the shining ice tongs, adds a few cubes to three glasses, then opens a bottle of sparkling water and fills the glasses. Every motion is full of the exquisite grace with which she does everything. I’ve seen this in her even while she is being punished. Will I ever see that again?

  There’s a small, lancing pain in my chest as she turns to hand me a glass. When our fingers brush, my body lights up with need.

  Once Aimée has handed a glass to him, Christopher demands without preamble, “So, tell me where you stand.”

  “I came looking for you, so I believe that part is obvious. You know I want both of you back. On the terms I outlined, of course.”

  “The only ‘of course’ is that you understand the terms are the ones I set.”

  It’s my turn to demand. “Do you think you can intimidate me into some sort of specific, response? Into what you’d like me to say?”

  He locks gazes with me, pursing his lips for a moment. “Yes.”

  That simple answer, the look in his eyes, makes me just sort of fall apart inside. It’s as though my heart has been locked in a stern and unforgiving—and largely impenetrable—cage for years. Maybe forever. And something is finally breaking through. I don’t like it, damn it. I don’t like the way my body is responding, everything going hard all over.

  Damn it.

  “Christopher,” I start, then have to pause, smoothing my hair from my warm forehead. I try again, not knowing what might come out of my mouth. The words are quiet, difficult to say. “All I know is, my heart broke when you two left my House.”

  “You fucking forced us out!”

  His words cut like a knife. “Yes. I didn’t know what else could be done, and I thought it was best. For the two of you. For me. I saw what was between you from the instant you saw each other—don’t think I missed it.”

  “You miss nothing,” Aimée says softly, still keeping her gaze averted.

  “It’s my job to do so.”

  His eyes spark with anger and passion, a fire threatening to consume what’s left of my sanity. “Don’t give me any bullshit about you doing your damn job, Damon.”

  “I had to let you go. Even as a master of mind fuck, this was more mind fuck than I could take. I needed time to think.”

  “What conclusions has your well-fucked mind come to?” he asks. He’s trying to appear casual, leaning against the edge of a console table, but I see the tightness in his fine jaw, in the set of his broad shoulders

  “That I want to be with the two of you. Enough that I’ve left the House in other hands for the moment and swallowed the pride that comes with being a Master in order to come find you, to ask you to come back to me.”

  Christopher reaches out and lays a hand on my shoulder, and once more that barely discernable shiver at his touch runs through me—and I see it hasn’t gone unnoticed.

  “That’s not going to fucking happen. So tell me, have you considered my proposal?

  “Christ, Christopher. How can you ask me such a thing? How could I possibly do it, even if I wanted to?”

  God, how the hell did I just phrase that question? Even if I wanted to? What is going on in my head? I do not want to. Absolutely not. Utter madness.

  And yet the if is hanging in the air…

  “You’ve been a slave,” Christopher says. “You spent a number of years in that role. We both know you can handle it. We both know the desire is still there, even if it’s locked down tight. But I see it. I see it as a puzzle to be solved.” He leans in, until his breath is warm on my cheek. “I can solve that puzzle, Damon. Oh yeah, don’t you doubt it.”

  My fists clench, and it’s all I can do to maintain a calm demeanor. It wouldn’t do to allow him to see that this conversation is making me sweat. It won’t do for me to see it.

  Fighting the urge to tug at my collar, I say, “I don’t doubt your capabilities. I was a slave once, yes, and such a long time ago it seems like once upon a time. But now? Hell, no. I wouldn’t even know how.”

  His hand slides up until it’s wrapped around the back of my neck. My skin goes hot under his palm, and I hate him a little for it—but I love him for it even more, maybe.

  Fuck.

  “That’s the beauty in this,” he tells me, his tone low, gravel on velvet. “I know exactly how. I know just what to do with you, Damon—don’t you worry about that.”

  “That is not the point.”

  “That is exactly the point.”

  I shake my head. “The point is, this request is completely insane!”

  “No,” he murmurs against my skin, making me flush all over, “the point is, I can see the pulse pounding in your neck. I can feel the tension in your body, the wanting. I can smell it on you.” He brushes my cheek with his. “I’d bet my left nut you’re hard as a fucking rock under your perfectly tailored Italian slacks, aren’t you?”

  I want to say yes. I can’t do it.

  “Tell me,” he demands, his voice low and stern and impossible to resist, somehow.

  “I… Yes. Yes, all right?” I rub a hand over my hair. “Fuck. But that doesn’t change anything.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  That shattering sensation crashes over me once more, as if I am coming apart on the inside. I think that’s exactly what’s happening to me. I’m breaking. But his hand at the back of my neck is reassuring. Christopher is perhaps one of the few people on the planet who could make me feel safe.

  A rush of yearning pushes its way through the holes the breaking apart has left in its wake, becomes some palpable thing that coats my body, calms my mind, and leaves me reeling all at the same time.

  Some part of me wants to do this. To serve him, be his slave.
Because if this is the only way I can be with them, regain their trust, how can I refuse?

  Jesus.

  “Tell me,” he commands. “What’s going on in your head right now?”

  “I’m thinking if I agree to this—and I’m not saying just yet that I will—how would you suggest I go about it? I’m not you, Christopher, with your divine flexibility in these matters, your ability to shift seamlessly between roles. I have no idea if I can do it effectively, and if not, what would be the point? There would be no real power play. It would only be to redeem myself with you, and I’m not certain that’s a good enough reason, or impetus enough to get my head into the space it would need to be in. I wouldn’t know how to cope with that sort of struggle, where to even begin.”

  “You begin,” he says, exerting the slightest bit of pressure on the back of my neck, “simply by giving yourself over to me. It really is that simple. Isn’t that exactly what you’ve told countless slaves yourself over the years?”

  “Yes, but… I am no longer the slave. No, it’s impossible.”

  “Is it?”

  He slides his hand up, until his strong fingers grasp my hair at the roots, then pulls firmly. And it’s like liquid fire in my legs, my stomach. But most of the heat is gathering in my cock, and in my chest, where some strange transformation is taking place. The sensation is both new and familiar at the same time. Pleasure runs rampant through my body. And pride is falling away, like bits of broken china, until I realize the shell I’ve built around my heart, around my own need, has been that fragile the whole time.

  I haven’t dared to look at Aimée during this exchange. I do so now, and find her green eyes gleaming with tears and desire. Something in me still loves to see her cry, craves it, but in that moment I discover I don’t have to be the Master to enjoy it. Because I am most definitely not at this moment—not with Christopher challenging me in all his glorious and irresistible strength.

  Jesus fuck. I am not the Master.

  “Aimée,” Christopher says, not taking his gaze from my face, “what would you think of Damon joining you in service to me? Of the both of you being mine?”