As Van pummeled into her limp body and pawed at her breasts through the bodice, a wet sheen glazed her eyes. When a lonely tear escaped, she looked at Josh, startled. She quickly brushed it away on her shoulder and averted her gaze.
His chest hitched. She didn’t want this. His belief in that didn’t mute the pain as Van buried himself deep inside her and released with a revolting groan. But it renewed his faith in his ability to expose her goodness and gave him the strength to keep fighting. For her.
Two days later, he lay on his stomach, stretched over her mattress, his nose burrowed in her sheets. Her familiar womanly scent warmed his inhales as the strikes of her cane pommeled his backside.
The passing of time had warped into an ugly mass of emotions, the intensity and direction of his thoughts changing as frequently as her masks. He flailed between hating her, wanting her, fighting her, and praying for her. And through it all was the incessant urge to screw her. The latter formed a knot of guilt in his stomach. After witnessing Van’s treatment of her, his arousing thoughts were selfish.
The air whistled. Crack.
Burning pain stole through his thigh and cut his breath. He held tighter to the chains connected to the wall.
Crack.
His tender skin flinched, shuddering away from the hurt. But the warmth that remained spread tendrils of heat to his groin. When her footsteps clicked over the floor, he loosened his muscles, anticipating her next hit.
Crack.
The impact stabbed his backside, flexing and quivering his gluts. His lungs labored. He relaxed into the lingering twinge, and his arousal mounted.
Crack.
He ground his pelvis against the mattress, seeking relief. He tried to muster the shame in it and failed. He’d reached that place in his head where the pain transformed into a lofty phenomenon, his body floating through an immersion of sensations, every nerve ending devouring her attention. He rocked his hips.
Her knee pressed between his spread legs, and her hand wedged beneath his groin. She gripped his erection and stabbed her fingernails into the throbbing, sensitive skin. “Slave will not rub Master’s property against the mattress in a sexual way.” Her tone was as cold as the absence of her hand as she stepped away.
Crack.
Fire seeped into his bones and smoldered in his joints. He thrust his arousal against the bed, wanting more. It was strange how badly he longed for her full focus on him, only him, whether or not that attention came with pain.
Her fingers grabbed the hair on the back of his head and yanked, exposing his neck. Her lips caressed his ear, and his penis throbbed. “Stop. Grinding. Your dick.” She released him with a shove. “Kinky fucker.”
Crack.
Ahhh. He melted into the heat of her strike. He couldn’t remember what the infraction was that led to the current punishment. Couldn’t recall what day it was. Didn’t care. It was during these highs that he trusted her implicitly. And ignorantly. The flow of his thoughts whispered in jumbled bursts of nonsense, his give-a-crap drifting beyond reach.
The mattress dipped as she knelt on the edge.
Time passed. He might’ve dozed. Somewhere along the edges of his drowsiness, her phone beeped. When he opened his eyes, her knees hadn’t moved.
He licked dry lips. It would’ve been delusional to expect leniency from her after every punishment, but sometimes, while the pain ebbed, she gave him a small window of sympathy. Sometimes, during these moments, he tested her. “Come here.”
She sighed, and it was sexy, soft. His lips floated into a smile. At least he thought they did. Her gentle response surprised him as much as it had the first time he’d given her the same order. In those rare moments when she came to him tenderly, it didn’t last long before the detached Mistress appeared again. Still, he wanted her, craved her body against his, and this time she obliged.
Black pleather encased her from chin to ankle, and she wrapped all that material around the length of his side, stroking a hand over his sore muscles, soothing him as he fell out of the sky.
It was the only time she held him, and he didn’t try to understand her intent. He simply savored her tender attention, turning his head to peer into her eyes.
In place of a mask was an expression he hadn’t seen since Van had sex with her in front of him. Beneath the yellowing bruise around her eye was pure, unrestrained fear. It paled her complexion, hardened her jaw, and flattened her lips.
“Liv?” He raised his head, his stomach hardening. “What’s wrong?”
She recoiled, clutching a cell phone to her chest. In the next breath, her face blanked, her tone equally vacant. “I’m failing. I’ve tried everything I can think of.” She released a shuddering exhale. “You’re the worst slave ever.”
He wanted to laugh at that, but something was wrong. She hadn’t let up her grip on the phone. “What’s going on? What are you doing with the phone?”
She lowered it, staring at it like it was about to detonate. Then her eyes flashed to the door. “Mr. E is on his way upstairs.”
Chapter 20
Josh was treated to the soft strains of Liv’s a cappella as they stood side by side before the door in her room. She stared at her phone, perhaps waiting for a text. He stared at her profile, trying to capture the quiet words woven in her melody. Something about hounds and chains and teams. The tune was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
Her dark chestnut hair was smoothed into a ponytail that swung over the toned lines of her arm. Black vinyl painted her limbs and torso, giving her a sleek, wet look. The catsuit was so compressed, he could’ve spanned the cinch of her waist with two hands. He knew her costumes were intended to intimidate and hypnotize, but her musical voice held that power all on its own.
Her lips froze mid-verse, her attention locked on the phone’s blank screen in her hand. “Where are your eyes, boy?” The stiffness in her neck matched the aggravation in her voice.
She wasn’t pleased with his wandering eyes, but his last punishment had ended with her body curled against his. It gave him enough temerity to break more rules. He watched her beautiful, expressionless face. “What does this visit from Mr. E mean exactly?”
She turned, facing him with her back to the door and her stony eyes packed with grim promises. He considered it an accomplishment to stand before her, as he did every day, with his wrists wrapped in chains, every inch of his flesh bared and unprotected, and his backbone proudly intact.
Her scrutiny leveled on his raised chin, and her brown eyes melted for a millisecond before hardening again.
“I saw that.” He was being reckless. Despite the bumps and bruises riddling his body, the threat of her whip had lost its edge. But she could still threaten his parents. Or have sex with Van. His jaw locked, smacking his teeth together.
“You saw nothing, boy.” Her stillness suggested a disciplinary strike would follow, but her expression was hesitant, as if distracted by some inward conflict.
He stepped closer, raising his hands between them, the coil of chain around his wrists a reminder that he wasn’t the enemy. “If your boss is right outside this door, why are we in here?”
Her throat twitched as if she’d stifled a swallow a second too late. “Eyes down.”
Of course, she wouldn’t answer him. He’d have to make a guess and read her reaction. “He’s out there with Kate. Van’s probably catching him up on her training. When that’s done, he’ll text you to open the door, so he can inspect his new property. Do I have the gist of it?”
The flash of her eyes told him he’d guessed right. “On your knees. Now.”