Not quite ready to examine the bright, hot spark of hope he’d gleaned from Cleo’s rant, he decided instead to address her submissive needs. It was clear she could use some re-centering.
“I do intend to hold you to the terms of this contract. As such, you’re still my slave at the moment, and I’m still your Master.”
He waited a beat, daring her to contradict him, silently praying that she would not. He was pleased when she managed to mutter, “Yes, Sir,” though he could almost hear her gritting her teeth as she spit out the words.
He pointed to the brightly colored woven throw rug beside the bed. “Kneel on the rug, submit position. I want you to close your eyes and take a moment to breathe.”
Cleo’s eyes widened for a moment, a mutinous expression flashing across her face. But, to his relief, it was gone as quickly as it had come. With a deferential nod, she lowered herself gracefully to her knees.
The Masters Club submit position involved kneeling forward, forehead touching the floor. The knees were spread, ass lifted slightly, arms stretched in front, one hand resting atop the other, the upper arms cradling the sub’s head. Similar to yoga’s “child’s pose,” the position was not difficult to maintain for extended periods of time. It allowed the sub to assume a submissive posture while easing into a relaxed state of mind.
Getting to his feet, Jack quickly stripped out of his clothing and tossed it aside. A spanking could be a punishment, delivered in hard swats without sensuality. Or it could be sublimely sensual—a reconnecting between Dom and sub, the process made intimate by skin-on-skin touch and shared sensation. As her bottom heated, so, too, did his palm. And with her lying over his legs, she could feel the rise of his desire. Just as he could test hers by running his fingers along her hot, silky cleft.
Once he was naked, he took a seat on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor.“Who do you belong to at this moment, Cleo?” he asked in a calm voice.
She hesitated a second, during which his heart plummeted. Did he really want to drag her kicking and screaming, symbolically speaking, through the remaining days of their contract?
No. He did not.
But nor was he ready to give up. Despite the pain her words had caused him, he was also grateful that she’d torn the wool from his eyes. He’d been so focused on his own loss that he failed to see the gift that had been offered him upon his return to the Masters Club. He’d viewed Cleo as another thing to work through and get over, as a result of his own guilt regarding his feelings for a woman who wasn’t his wife.
“You, Sir,” she said, pulling him back to the moment. Her voice was subdued and hard to read, her face hidden by her position. But at least she’d responded.
“That’s correct,” he replied. “Now, come get what you need.”
She rose slowly, her beautiful, long hair tousled around her face and falling over her lush, rounded breasts. Her lips parted slightly as she took in his naked body. Obediently, she moved to him. Jack patted his lap in invitation. Averting her gaze, Cleo lowered herself over his bare thighs.
His cock responded with a throbbing twitch as their bodies made contact. He had a sudden, fierce urge to throw her down on the bed and claim her, caveman style. It was certainly within his rights per the “bloody contract” to do so. But it wasn’t what she needed. And whatever else he was, for the moment at least, he was her Master. As such, his obligation to her came before his own selfish desires.
Forcing himself to focus, he trapped her slender legs between his. Reaching for her wrists, he extended her arms out along the mattress. Her pert, rounded little bottom was perfectly positioned over his lap. Without warning or preamble, he brought his palm down hard on her right cheek.
Cleo gasped and stiffened.
“Relax. Don’t resist me.”
He smacked her again, a matching swat on the left cheek.
She sighed, long and breathy, and her coiled muscles loosened, if just a little. Yes. This was precisely what she needed to re-center herself. And he needed it as well.
Listening to her vent just now without interruption or protest had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life. A myriad of emotions had nearly overwhelmed him as she admitted a lingering, pining love for him that he’d honestly had no idea she’d harbored—certainly not to that degree. And then her fury at his obtuseness, and her heartbreaking regret and guilt over Annette’s death, over which she’d had zero control.
He was no longer entirely sure if she loved him, hated him, wanted him to stay and claim her for his own, or to get the hell out of her life for good. As he pondered her revelations, he continued to spank her with firm, steady strokes. He kept it up until her bottom reddened and his palm stung.