Chapter 2
Chapter Two
She stands in the doorway of the study, naked other than the requested steel collar and the fleur de lis design—the symbol that she belongs to this House—burned into her succulent flesh, right over her heart.
And for now, Sandrine belongs to me. But as dedicated as the Girl is, there’s always been a bit too much sass in her. I plan to take care of that tonight.
She’s standing with her hands clasped behind her back, her brown hair so long that the curls at the bottom are probably brushing against her delicate wrists.
She’s smaller than her sister. Gorgeously curved, both of them, with the tiniest waists and lush breasts.
I wanted them the moment I laid eyes on them.
That feels like a fucking thousand years ago.
Focus.
“Come here,” I order her.
She complies, of course, stepping daintily toward me, the long chain leash rattling a bit as it drags on the floor behind her.
I think this is what we all love about her, those of us with a dominant streak—that she’s so dainty and feminine but she can take anything the best male power bottoms can, she and her sister both.
Don’t think of her now.
No, this moment is all about the Girl before me.
“Girl, do you have any idea what I’m going to put you through tonight? Yeah, that’s right. I’m the Master of the House. Surely you’ve heard?” My hand slaps over her mouth. “Nah, you’re not to speak, Girl. Did I give you leave? I think not.”
Her hazel eyes go the tiniest bit wide as I shift my hand so my fingers cover her nostrils, too, cutting off her air.
And this pleases me so damn much, I can’t help but slide around behind her and press on her carotid artery with my other hand.
When she goes limp from the lack of oxygen, I ease her down to the floor with an arm around her ribcage.
I take a moment to admire her lovely form on the rich carpet, then remove the collar and leash, setting them aside before I slap her awake.
Her lashes flutter, and she rouses, smiling—the Mona Lisa smile that I know means she’s about to give me trouble.
She wouldn’t pull that shit with any other Master, but we’ve known each other far too long, she and I.
Which is one reason why I called for her tonight, rather than one of Mistress Clara’s pets.
“Oh, but you know I like that,” she says in her lilting French accent, the corners of her mouth quirking.
I slap her face again, hard this time, my handprint a satisfying blush on her pretty cheek. “Bratty little minx,” I tell her.
“Yes, but you prefer me this way. You always have.”
I hustle her to her feet and pull her across the room so quickly she barely has time to resist. Of course, being her, she finds a way, so I kick at her bare, vulnerable feet with my heavy black boots, and she lets out a satisfying little yelp as she goes down.
But I haven’t let her go, so she doesn’t make it to the floor.
“I can play this game all night, Girl,” I tell her as she steadies on her feet once more.
“So can I,” she answers smartly, a glint in her eyes.
I have to laugh then, because we’re both speaking the goddamn truth.
“Oh, we’re gonna have us some fun, ain’t we? And by ‘we’, I mean me, my darlin’ Girl.”
I take her hand and pull it to my lips, lay a gentle kiss across her knuckles, grinning at her.
She bats her long lashes and smiles. That smile could seduce anyone, and it would me, as well, if my damn heart weren’t with her sister.
No.
I train my focus on her again.
“May I have this dance?” I ask her, all the false gentleman.
Her brows draw together, and I love that I’ve rattled her a bit.
But I only release her hand to open the top of the ottoman and pull a blindfold from the storage compartment there.
I tie it quickly around her head, making sure she can’t see, then I go to the elegant cabinet against the wall and remove a short singletail whip.
I can hear her breath as it steps up the pace a bit. I’m sure she’s wondering what my cryptic remark might mean.
I pull out my cell phone, which I’ve already synced to the room’s speakers, and choose what I want from a playlist. It’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody”, because I find it amusing. And as the first notes play, I sling the whip at her bare feet.
“Oh!”
I nearly laugh aloud as she dances away from the sting of the whip.
And as the music continues, with Whitney belting out the lyrics, I continue to flick the wicked tip of the singletail at the Girl’s feet.
She dances around the room, trying to escape, and several times I have to grab her so she doesn’t break any of Damon’s pretty antiques.
And I can feel the grin spreading on my face until my cheeks hurt.
Finally she explodes. “Jesus, Gilby!”
I give her a sharp smack with the little leather whip across her bouncing breasts.
“It’s Master now.” I smack her again. “Say it.”
“Jesus, Master Gilby!”
Without a word I shove the mouthy slave to her knees on the floor, and using my boot, I press down on the back of her neck, leaving her delicious ass high in the air.
And I’ll admit I’m an ass man as I use the whip to make a lovely crisscross pattern across her curving buttocks before I go at the tender bottoms of her feet.
“Fuck you, Master Gilby,” she says from between clenched teeth.
“Mad at me, are ya?” I demand, amused as hell. Amused at her response. At the fact that I am literally the only one she’d ever dare speak to this way. But I do appreciate a reason to punish a slave, and she knows it well.
Instead of answering, she spits on the rug, fucking little cunt that she is. But this is also what I love most about her.
I shove her cheek harder into the very spot she spat on. “Lick it up.”
“No.”
I lean into my boot, crushing her cheek into the softly piled wool. “Do it.”
She starts to whine, and I won’t fucking have it.
I remove my booted foot and use one hand to hold her face against the spot of her spittle on the carpet as I kick her knees apart.
Then I take the studded leather handle of the whip and press against her tight asshole.
She moans, but at this point she knows better than to move.
I have a reputation for savage anal play, and she knows my intention, I’m certain.
“No lube for you, Girl,” I tell her as I work the tip of the handle in. And once it moves past that first tight ring of muscle, I thrust the length of it up her pretty ass.
“Ohh…”
It’s a moan of both pain and pleasure, but right now I need to bring her pain.
I pull it out, then thrust deep and hard, and despite her ass having years of rough training, I know the metal studs hurt like hell.
I begin to fuck her ass fast and hard, then faster, harder, ramming the handle into her. And when I look over her shaking shoulders, I can see tears on her cheek.
“Ah, yeah, that’s it, Girl. You know how I fucking love a pretty Girl’s tears. It may be one of my favorite things in the whole damn world.”
“Your favorite thing is my sister,” she says.
She fucking dares to say it!
“What the fuck?” I demand.
I give one final shove, then yank the damn whip handle from her ass and pull her to her feet. I press my face so close to hers, if I’d been wearing spectacles, her breath would have fogged them.
“Don’t you dare, Sandrine. Don’t you ever fucking dare say anything like that to me.”
“It’s true,” she insists in a low tone. “And you should have her.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Girl.”
“No. And I understand if you punish me for it. I can take it. But I want my sister to be happy. And in the six years we’ve been here, this is the first chance I’ve had to say something, the first chance for you to do something about it.”
I release her so fast she nearly falls to the floor, catching herself on a table.
I turn from her, not wanting her to see my face. I know my expression is too damn torn. My fucking heart is torn.
“Go,” I tell her.
I sense her step closer behind me.
“Gilby?”
I shake my head, just a small motion, but she sees it.
“If I must.” She lets out a small sigh. “Thank you for the attention this evening, Master.”
I hear her quiet footsteps as she pads from the room, and fist my hand in the heavy damask curtains draping the tall window.
“God. Fucking. Damn it.”
I go to the bar and pour myself a finger or two of gin. I toss it back, pour another, and grip the crystal glass in my hand. And fuck, I am not this fancy sort of man. This is not my natural state. Why the fuck did Damon ask me to do this?
I’ve long suspected he knows at least some of what I feel about Giselle, but if he does, would he have left me in charge?
Maybe. He’s turned into a damn romantic, that one—not that I’d ever tell him so.
And not that I blame him, given the life he’s made for himself with Aimée and Christopher.
But he knows me. He knows why I brought the sisters to him.
Some of it, anyway. There’s no one who knows the whole damn truth but me, and it’s burned in my gut all this time when I let it.
Most of the time I can shut it down, which means shutting down everything.
I know most folks consider me a coldhearted, merciless bastard, much of which is true.
I’m a rough fucking sadist, and I pride myself on it.
I take great glee in making a slave beg, sob, bleed.
But now that I have this place to myself and the slaves under my charge, I’m the one who’s fucking bleeding.
“God damn it,” I mutter aloud, quickly crossing the room, leaving the glass of gin behind.
I make my way down the back stairs to the garage, where Damon’s Porsche and his new BMW 8 Series Coupe are parked, as well as the black Lexus sedan I drive. We keep a van for transporting slaves at a rented garage around the block, but these beauties are the ones I love.