Claiming Cleo (Masters Club 2)

She couldn’t say any of this, however. It had always been a one-sided love affair—she understood that with stark clarity. But she was no longer that lovesick, foolish girl. She had moved on. She was happy in her adopted city with her new owners. She served at their pleasure, not his.

Cleo forced herself to meet his searching gaze. “Forgive me, Sir,” she said, her words catching in her throat. She made an effort to modulate her tone to something more respectful. “I’m sorry if I’ve behaved in a way unbecoming to my status. I promise to do better and give you the experience you paid for at auction.”

Master Jack winced at this last, admittedly calculated, jab. Good. Let her words be a reminder to both of them. However amazing that lovemaking in his hotel suite had been, this whole thing was just a temporary setup. All she had to do was stay in the game for a few more days and stick to the rules. Then the guy would be gone, and good riddance.

He let go of her and took a step back. “Let’s cut the crap, Cleo,” he said with an impatient frown. “You’ve been holding back in one way or another since I got here. There’s something going on beneath the surface, and you’re going to tell me what it is.”

When Cleo said nothing to this, he continued, “Something’s set you off, and I don’t believe Rowan or Smithson are to blame. This is between us—you and me. So, talk to me. Tell me the truth. What’s going on?”

She stared up at him, mute. He didn’t understand what he was asking of her. No way was she going to share her deepest secrets and failings with the man who had so casually, even if unknowingly, broken her heart and then stomped on it for good measure. She was required to obey, to give her body and her obedience to all Doms in the Masters Club, including this one. But she’d be damned if she opened herself again for more pain. She might owe him her temporary submission, but she didn’t owe him that.

“Nothing, Sir,” she finally managed, aware he expected an answer.

His eyes widened with evident incredulity, his mouth falling slightly open. “Nothing? That’s what you’re telling me? Nothing’s going on?”

She fixed him with a steady gaze, visualizing an impenetrable steel cage where her ribcage was. “Nothing, Sir. I’m fine. Again, please forgive any distress I may have inadvertently caused you.”

Master Jack snapped his mouth closed, his brows furrowing. “Damn it, Cleo. We were connecting—really connecting, weren’t we? But now you’ve stepped so far back I can barely see you.”

“I’m right here, Sir,” she maintained, aware she was being obtuse. “Ready to serve you as it pleases you.”

His eyes flashed with anger as he stared down at her. While her submissive soul was instantly contrite to have made her Master—temporary or not—upset with her, her rebellious heart remained defiant.

He regarded her a moment longer and then said brusquely, “Clearly, you need some quiet time to think.” Placing his hands on her shoulders, he swiveled her away from him and propelled her to the corner of the room beside her wardrobe.

“You’ll stand in this corner,” he informed her, “forehead to the wall, hands on your head, legs straight, ass out. You’ll stay that way until you’re ready to talk. You may not move or speak until you’re ready to tell me what’s really going on in that head of yours.” He smacked her bare ass for emphasis.

“Go on,” he said, his tone hard, his expression implacable. “Move.”

Tears stung Cleo’s eyes as she forced herself to obey. There was barely room between the wall and wardrobe for her to squeeze in. When she put her hands on her head, her elbows brushed the wardrobe on one side, the wall on the other. She bent forward at the waist until her forehead made contact. Humiliation coursed through her. Just how long did he intend to make her stand in the corner like a naughty little kid?

She’d stand there until she dropped, but no way was she going to spill her guts to the object and subject of her distress. Jack Hartford was about to learn just how stubborn Cleo Chapman could be.

~*~

Jack flopped back on Cleo’s narrow bed. He had an excellent view of Cleo’s perfect body wedged between the wardrobe and the wall. Her legs were shapely, spread as wide as they could go in the narrow space. Her small bottom fairly begged for a good, hard spanking. For a moment, he considered getting up to give her just that, but decided against it. She didn’t need more stimulation right now. She needed a timeout. How long that timeout would be was up to her. He’d wait her out, as long as it took.