Freeing Rowan (Masters Club 3)

Afterward, he met briefly with Grayson to review Rowan’s progress to that point. Grayson was pleased Eric had made headway with the new trainee, and agreed he should continue a low-key, stress-free training regime until they could meet with Garfield.

“I was able to connect with him, by the way,” Grayson reported. “He was very concerned to hear of her difficulties this morning. He’s going to cut his trip short and come home a day early. He’ll be able to get here to the Masters Club first thing the day after tomorrow.”

“That’s good news,” Eric said. He looked forward to taking his own measure of the guy.

They reviewed basic slave positions after lunch. Rowan was markedly calmer than she’d been earlier, which pleased him. She caught on quickly, executing the positions with an agility and grace he hadn’t expected. They worked together for well over an hour. He was impressed with her endurance, and with her ability to follow commands and retain information, and told her so.

He could have done a third session to further assess her pain tolerance levels and ease with various impact toys. But Rowan had handled more than enough for her first day of training.

“I think we’ll stop at this point for the day. You can go up to your room to rest until dinner. You’ll meet with either Mistress Dominique or Master Grayson later this evening to discuss any issues or concerns you might have. Does that work for you?”

She seemed momentarily startled by the question. It occurred to him she probably wasn’t used to being asked her opinion on anything. It was a direct question, however, and so she dutifully replied, “Yes, Sir.”

“Great. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Once back at his apartment, Eric couldn’t get Rowan out of his mind. While she had calmed down considerably over the course of the day, he hadn’t forgotten the terror in her eyes when she’d pleaded that no one tell her Master about her failure during the scene. Nor could he rid his mind of the image of her suddenly blank face as she’d referred to herself as a worthless cunt.

He needed to get over himself. He had no business dissecting and analyzing another Dom’s methods. If Rowan was happy in the relationship, then whatever they did was between them. If Eric was attracted to her, that was his own damn problem. It came with the territory, and he was a professional who could keep his dick in his pants and his personal thoughts to himself.

If it weren’t so late in the day, he’d have gone over to his shop to work on the antique bureau one of his best repeat clients had recently brought in. When he wasn’t training submissives, Eric augmented his income with his other passion—furniture carpentry and restoration.

He loved taking an old piece of junk and, not only restoring it to its former glory, but improving it in the process. He was a kind of artist himself, he supposed, taking something old and sometimes damaged, and turning it into something both functional and beautiful. Or at least, that was the goal.

But the day had worn him out, emotionally speaking. He didn’t have the energy to head over to his shop. Maybe something to eat would settle him down.

Just as he opened the fridge to peer inside, his cell buzzed. It was his best friend, Michael Wilson. Michael and his wife, Olivia, were longtime players in the BDSM scene. While the couple both had day jobs, they owned a small but very well-appointed BDSM dungeon in Chelsea they called Salome’s Lair. When Eric got the urge for club play, it was his favorite place to go.

“Hey there,” Michael said when Eric took the call. “Olivia’s got her monthly girl’s night out thing tonight, so I’m on my own. I know it’s super last minute, but wanna grab a bite somewhere?”

“Absolutely,” Eric agreed. “Your timing is perfect. I was just standing here staring into the refrigerator, trying to think how to make something out of cocktail onions, ketchup and something in a takeout carton I’m afraid to look at.”

They met at a small restaurant in Chinatown. Once seated with bowls of hand-pulled Biang Biang noodles in a spicy chili sauce and bottles of Chinese beer, they exchanged small talk, catching up on their lives since the last time they’d seen one another.

After a while, Michael said, “You seem kind of distracted. Is everything okay?”

“It’s that obvious, huh?” Eric managed a pained smile.

“Uh, yeah,” Michael replied, his grin sardonic. “You barely batted an eyelash when I said Olivia and I were getting a divorce.”

“Wait, what?” Eric exclaimed, shocked.

Michael guffawed. “Just messing with your head, bro. We’re doing fine. But you’re not. What’s up?”

Michael didn’t know any specifics about the Masters Club, since Eric had signed a non-disclosure agreement as a trainer there. But he was aware that Eric sometimes trained subs for a private, unnamed BDSM club in Manhattan, in addition to his private practice.