She’d been unsure if their new arrangement would soften things so much that their encounters would lose their thrill, but the opposite happened. When he was in charge of her all the time, his mastery became an ongoing, diluted thing. When he had only two hours, his mastery became sharp and cutting as a knife. For those two hours he would consume her, and then, just as quickly as he took over her and turned her inside out, he would set her free. It was a roller coaster ride of ups and downs, of danger and then sudden safety that left her reeling and hungry to do it all over again.
Now, tonight, he was taking her to his famous back room at the Citadel to play. He hadn’t been to his back room in weeks and so no one else had been there either. At work, word had gotten around that he was returning to the Citadel since his daughter was away. People caught Valentina in the corridors or backstage at the theater and asked her, Is it true? He’s coming back again? Are you excited? Scared? Can I come?
But she had no control over who could come or not come, or what might happen in her Master’s back room. No one had control but Mr. Lemaitre. That was what was so exciting about the whole thing. That, and that she was going to be there as his primary slave.
Last time she’d been in his back room, she’d had to watch him with his other slaves, and she’d been so jealous. She’d marveled at their self-discipline and the way they suffered to please him. Now, she knew she could match them in self-discipline and sacrifice, and that made her proud.
As Valentina waited in her Master’s cavernous bathroom, she ran a finger up and down one of the ribs of her black velvet corset. He’d given it to her at dinner, turned it over and shown her the copper-orange thread outlining the boning, thread chosen because it matched her hair. It was impossible to see the thread from the outside because the velvet was so plush, but Valentina loved the secret of it inside, right against her skin. He’d also had her name stitched along the side seam, not Valentina, but La Vampa, her circus persona. She’d almost cried when he showed her. She’d taken it and crushed it against her heart and told him she would keep his gift forever. The corset had hooks for wide black garters, six of them, and he’d given her black silk stockings to wear with seams up the back. He laced her so tight she felt squeezed and hugged by the garment, so tight that he had to do the garter hooks for her, kneeling at her feet.
I love you, she thought, looking down at his thick black wavy hair. I love you. I love you.
She wished she could say it out loud. Her Master had put on one of his favorite Handel concertos, turning up the volume on his fancy, whole-home audio system that made it sound like the orchestra was right there, whatever room you were in. In his granite-walled bathroom, the music echoed and seemed to dance in the air. Her Master hummed along at parts, tilting his head back as he shaved.
I love you. The phrase repeated in her head to the accompaniment of the music. His body was so strong and sexy. His hands, his brows, his lips, his ass, his cock flaccid and resting on a thatch of dark hair. Every single thing about her Master was fetish-worthy. She’d been with a lot of men—a lot of men—but none of them had ever affected her as he did. None of them had ever made her feel breathless and excited like this. Just being near him, being in the same bathroom with him as he dressed...
“Une image dure plus longtemps,” he said.
She blinked at him when he turned to her. She’d learned a lot of French, but found herself too distracted to translate at the moment.
“Take a picture, it lasts longer,” he repeated in English. When she continued to gape at him, he smiled and said, “You’re staring.”
“I can’t help it.” Her insides felt as warm as her face. He picked up a white towel from the counter and wiped away the last traces of shaving cream, and applied the sandalwood-scented lotion that permeated her dreams. What was it about a man grooming? She watched his chest and arm muscles contract as he put away his razor and straightened his lotions and bottles. The music in the background swelled, notes chasing one another and then blending into a resonant harmony.
“This is so perfect,” she blurted out.
He turned away from her to go into his dressing room. “What’s perfect?”
“This,” she called. “This moment. This music and my corset and stockings and...and you.”
He came out wearing a pair of black leather pants that clung to him in all the most compelling places. “You’re excited about le Citadel?”
She sucked in a breath, staring at his hard chest, his abs, the trail of dark hair disappearing down the front of his low-waisted pants. “It’s not...no. That’s not what I mean. I mean this moment feels perfect. So many times when I’m with you, everything feels perfect.”
His eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “Sometimes when I’m with you, things feel perfect. Other times I want to strangle you. This is life, I suppose.”
She didn’t know what gave her the bravery to speak. Perhaps it was the intimacy of being invited into his bathroom to watch him shower and shave, or the intimacy of watching him dress, or those damn leather pants. “I wish we could stay like this forever,” she cried in a rush. “I feel most perfect when I’m with you. I don’t want to be your slave for a month, and then another month, as if it’s the dates that matter. I want to be yours, all yours, forever and ever my whole life.”
The more words she spilled out, the more her voice rose in intensity. By the end it was practically a shriek. Would he be angry at her outburst? Dismissive?
No, he laughed. Not a sweet, agreeable laugh, but a harsh mocking laugh that felt like a punch to her heart.
“Valentina, you’re so outrageous. So ridiculous sometimes. The things you say.”
He disappeared back into the dressing room, leaving her to clutch her chest in agony. Ridiculous. Ridiculous? She stood up f
rom her perch on the edge of his bath tub and stormed after him into the dressing room.
“You hurt my feelings. You just stabbed my feelings to death.”
“To death, eh?” he echoed, nonplussed. “I’m sure you’ll have some new feelings in a second or two. You always do.”
“You mock my feelings?”
“Yes, I mock your feelings.” He turned to her as he pulled on a shirt. “When you fling them at me willy-nilly all hours of the day, it grows tiresome. And a little mock-worthy, if you must know.”
Her mind swam with such hurt that she wasn’t sure for a moment what to say. She’d bared her heart and all he did was laugh and belittle her. “You gave me a corset,” she said. “A corset with my name embroidered inside. You have feelings too.”
“I gave you a corset because it pleases me to see you wear it. It makes me horny.” He paused to pinch her nipple beneath one of the molded cups. “And it has your name embroidered inside so you don’t lose it when you leave it behind after one of the myriad sexual encounters you’ll indulge in once I set you free.”
Her hand shot out and cracked across his face. The slap echoed in the starkly organized dressing room, over the barreling notes of the concerto. Both of them froze. He stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Slowly, he rubbed a palm against his cheek, over the red imprints of her fingers.
“Vesuvius,” he murmured. “You little bitch.”
“I love you,” she said. “I love you.”
Again, that horrible, mean laughter. This time, when her hand shot out to slap him, he caught it in midair. “Once is enough. Don’t do this. You will lose everything you’ve gained.” He held her hand there between them, his expression serious as death.
“What have I gained?” She tried to yank her hand back but he wouldn’t let go. “What have I gained, Master? I love you and you won’t love me back. I care for you, I adore you, and all you do is mock me and laugh at me.”