“Let’s get you in a bath. I’ve got a couple of things I’ve got to do today, babe, but one of the prospects will be outside, and any time you want to head out to do your thing, just message me and let me know where you’re going, and then tell him. Do you already know your plans?”
He lifted her and took her on through to the grotto, where he sat on the edge of the tub, Seychelle still cradled on his lap. The water poured in, and he threw healing salts in. “When you’ve soaked for twenty minutes, I’ll come back and apply more lotion.”
“Eden Ravard has a card game today and needs a fourth person. I told her I’d join her. As usual, her sister, Nina, can’t make it. Another emergency. She seems to have them a lot.”
“You don’t think they’re real?”
Seychelle shrugged. “Nina annoys me. She’s older than Eden by quite a few years but acts like Eden should do everything for her, and Eden does. In any case, Eden asked me to go shopping for her and come early to help her prepare the snacks for everyone. After that, I promised to go visit Dirk and Harriet Meadows. Then I thought I’d go for a walk on the headlands if it wasn’t late before I came back here. Unless you want to stay at the cottage tonight.”
He couldn’t miss the hopeful note in her voice. “We could do that. Master and Player sent a text asking if you might want to join them tonight at the bar. Nothing big, just for fun. If you’d rather not, or you’re tired, we’ll just meet at the cottage.”
She slid off his lap into the hot, steamy water, wincing as her bottom came in contact with the salt water. He’d placed the cushioned ring so she could lower herself onto it, but she was going to be sore. He wanted her to remember this lesson and any lesson afterward. He wasn’t like the others in the club, and he knew that—other than perhaps Maestro, who believed the same way he did.
“We’ll see how I feel,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
Savage lay with his head on Seychelle’s belly, his arms wrapped around her hips, listening to the sound of the waves and her steady breathing as she slept. Most nights, he couldn’t sleep. He’d been that way most of his life. He’d spent too many nights in that damn hellhole, freezing, expecting to be dragged out any moment to be used by the “instructors” at the school. Sleeping lightly was a habit. Self-preservation. He had to know what was coming at him at all times.
Sometimes he slipped out of bed, and if they were at the other house, he practiced with the various whips. No way was he ever going to leave permanent marks on her skin—unless she wanted his name there, declaring she belonged to him. That was far down the line. That would hurt like hell where he wanted to put it. Just the idea of it could put his cock into a frenzy that made him so full and hard the scars threatened to tear apart. Sometimes the pain was excruciating, and he needed the relief of her scorching-hot, tight sheath, just to milk him dry.
He fucking loved her. She was doubting herself, thinking something was wrong with her and he wouldn’t love her the way she was. He could see her rejection of her sexual needs. The more he developed them, the more ashamed, guilty and embarrassed she became. She put that shit on herself, not realizing he had taken what little tiny kernel of interest she had and developed it quickly. That was his expertise. He’d tried to explain that to her, but the more she got off on it, the more she took on herself.
Savage rubbed his bristled jaw gently over her belly. He’d made the decision to back off training her for a few days to see if that helped to give her peace of mind. He’d pushed her pretty hard with the tawse. Part of that had been selfish when he’d seen how she’d reacted. She was incredible. Everything he could ever want in a woman. He meant what he said to her. If they couldn’t go any further, he would find a way to live with what they had. He wouldn’t lie to her or himself—it would be difficult at times, but he would do it because he loved her more than he needed to have whip marks on his woman. He’d live with handprints and flogging welts. He’d have to be careful when he was at his worst, because some of his floggers were as bad as, or worse than, his whips.
The other reason he had pushed her was knowing what was coming up so fast. He would not be using any other woman to take the edge off when the monster came out. It was Seychelle or no one, so it had to be Seychelle. He was doing his best to come up with a plan to take it easy on her, knowing if he didn’t train her body, she wouldn’t be ready, and she needed to be. The monster was coming, and he couldn’t stop it. That wouldn’t be quite the same thing as handling him when he was in the mood to play.