Hope you all are doing well. I will be either heading to DragonCon this weekend or battening down for Hurricane Earl – we’re waiting to see which way he’ll turn. And of course next weekend, I’ll be at Lora Leigh’s RAW in West Virginia. Theeennnn, the weekend after that, I’ll be at Authors After Dark up in New Jersey. Hope to see some of you at these events!

Also, for those of you particularly interested in Knights of the Board Room, Jon’s story, Afterlife, was turned in today. I’ll keep you posted on a release date, and hope to put an excerpt on the site once I get the thumbs up from my editor. :>

Okay, now I’m really going. Have a great September!

Oh, PS on that – the winner will be announced this Thursday, so don’t delay!

* * * * *

Jessica put her hands on his knees, sliding over the bone to the firm joining point of the muscles that layered his thighs. All her senses were open to the nth degree, such that the nerve endings in her fingers registered each element of the terrain. Smooth, slim bands from the knees, tributaries that ran down to those wide muscles leading up his inner thighs. She hooked the opening in the towel, tugged enough to have it loosen at his waist, then slid her hand under, enjoying the pleasure of first finding him by touch, whispering over his testicles, then to the heat and life of his cock. Her hand closed over the thick base root, resting the side of her hand on the heavy sac beneath it. With the other hand she pushed the towel back, revealing the impressive length and breadth of him. She felt a surge of quaking delight at the viscous fluid collected at the top, waiting for her parted lips.

Can you imagine it, habiba? They are all watching, the most powerful vampires in the world. Their servants stand still behind their chairs, yet every eye is on you, on whether you will serve me well.

There is only you, Master. She repeated the thought, letting him feel the resolve in her, the simple truth of it. She nuzzled the top of his cock, touching the tip of her tongue to that wet slit, her hand tightening and sliding upward, letting him feel the friction. “Nothing else will matter to me.” She spoke, so she could breathe heat on him. His fingers twitched on the chair arm, and it made her lips curve, even as her heart tightened with such love she thought it could crack from the pressure. “It will be only you, even if…even if one of them orders his female servant to kneel behind me, turn on her back so she is laying between my knees, which she pushes open wider to accommodate her, so her mouth has access to my pussy.” Male interest in a female’s mouth on another female’s flesh was eternal, and she used it to ease into the other idea. “And another Council member gives an order to her male servant…”

A thread of tension ran up his thighs then, but she slid her hand over one of them, her knuckles stroking, then dipping to cup his testicles in her hand again, caress them as she tilted her head to trace the flare of the broad head with her tongue, a slow circle.

She’ll tell him to kneel, spread the legs of that female servant, and drive into her. But as he does, he slides his arm around her back, lifts her up and she curls her arms over my hips to steady herself as she uses the angle to put her mouth on my pussy, start eating it for their viewing pleasure…and yours. While he fucks her slow, deep, building her response as she is driving mine. You’ll be able to feel it, not only in my mind, but in the way I suck your cock, how hard it is for me to concentrate as she nibbles on my clit, sinks her delicate tongue deep into me, that place that craves the far more substantial thrust of your cock.

“Jessica.” His voice was a growl. “Suck me.”

She took him in, stretching her lips to get over the broad head, making a mewling noise of pleasure in the back of her throat as she slid down his length as far as she could go at this angle, her hips off her calves. She’d given him the image, but now there was only him to her, no ability to maintain any other focus. She sucked him deep, hard, then came up slow, the way she knew he liked it. Mason was as good at using denial to prolong his own response as he was at administering it. He knew the power and pleasure of making her work for his release. She hungered to feel it, to feel that powerful hand convulse on her hair, pulling hard and painful at her scalp as he drove up into her mouth, pumping his seed into her. Some sense of her punishment lingered in this, such that she knew she couldn’t hope to have his cock sinking deep into her cunt this first time, joining them together the way she needed so desperately.

Work for it, my sweet slave. Earn it. The Council is watching.

It’s only your approval that matters to me, Master.

His fingers grazed her nape, tugging on her hair, a gentle affection, but with a hint of strength to it as well. She savored the taste of that thick shaft in her mouth, going down then back up again, sliding her tongue all over it, random erratic patterns, then settling into a deep, rhythmic pump, vividly imagining it shoving into her wet heat, the muscles of her pussy sucking on him in a torturous drag every time he withdrew, then came back in. The intimate tissues between her legs contracted at the thought. Sometimes, when he didn’t have her hands pinned or bound, she could let her fingers slide over his buttocks, feel those muscle groups tightening and releasing, increasing the drive of his thrusts.

She should have known the danger of planting a seed in Mason’s head. With only a brief mind touch for warning, Amara’s hands settled on Jess’s hips, gripping to lift her up, changing her angle so she was tilted further forward. Levering Mason’s cock to a more horizontal drive into her mouth, Jess braced one hand on the floor with the other still gripping him firmly, determined not to break her rhythm, even though she knew what was coming. Mason of course had to do his best to scatter her concentration, sending her the image so she saw Enrique come behind Amara, slide her robe off her shoulders. As he did, he bent to press an open mouth to her throat, his hand tangling in her hair roughly. Her hands, returning to Jess’s hips after the robe was removed, tightened there, responding to the provocation. Then he slid an arm around her waist, another over her firm, high breasts, and turned her in a flexible, graceful movement. When he lowered her to her back between Jess’s spread thighs, his smooth, lean and tan muscles flexed with the movement.

Enrique wore only a pair of cotton trousers, but now he shed them, kicking them to the side and leaving himself as naked as his wife. His dark eyes were hot on the curves of her body, the way she instinctively spread her legs, bending them at the knee, an open invitation to the man who claimed her as husband, through whose eyes the vampire who claimed her could see all that she was offering. It made Jessica shiver, all the layers of possession and meaning in the relationships between them.

Having trouble focusing, habiba?

Not at all, my lord. She renewed her efforts, gave him a light nip on the velvet stretched skin, stimulating that taut vein that ran up the base of his shaft.

Then we shall have to try harder.

Jess’s moan vibrated against his cock as he showed her Enrique’s view when he knelt between Amara’s legs. The servant seated his erect cock against her damp flesh and then pushed it in, the slick lips of the labia giving way, the channel pulling him in so he slid in to the hilt. Putting his hands beneath Amara’s back, he lifted her like an offering, bending to lick one nipple as her mouth found Jess’s pussy. Her slim but strong hands curved back over Jess’s hips, her thumbs pressing into her buttocks.

Amara was well-versed in lovemaking skills of all kinds, a trained consort as well as dancer. Plus she was a woman, who well knew what made a woman respond. She also had the ability to merge into Jess’s mind through Mason’s, particularly if he was facilitating it, like now, allowing her to pick up the current of Jessica’s arousal—when Jess needed the oral stimulation to be rough or gentle, a consistent or erratic stimulation.

Jess’s hand constricted on Mason’s thigh and she gave a hard, uncontrolled pull on his cock as Amara’s tongue circled her clit, pulling it into the cavern of her mouth. Then Jess quivered at Amara’s breath of hot, teasing air, her response to Enrique pushing even harder into his wife’s body, a long, demanding thrust that bumped her nose against Jessica’s labia. Mason’s hand moved to Jess’s hair now, tangling his fingers in it and tightening there, pushing her down deeper on him, bringing his own demand into play..

Jess couldn’t close her eyes on the images, but neither of course could Mason. All three of his servants, two on their knees and one on her back, arranged to serve and please his senses. Enrique pumping into Amara’s pussy, so wet they could hear the sound of it as he reached his hilt and withdrew again. Amara’s upper body flushed and breasts full and quivering, the nipples hard and needy, still marked with his mouth. Her back and throat arched both to receive him in her body and to give her a better angle to tease and lick Jessica’s cunt, using those relentless third mark and dancer’s muscles to hold herself, as well as the strength of her husband’s hands.

Mason showed Jessica herself, kneeling between his legs, her mouth working his cock, the thick breadth of it glistening with the moisture of her mouth as she slid up and down, sometimes going all the way to the tip, then sucking the head in again, teasing the edge of it with her tongue. Her slim shoulders were bowed forward, the line of her spine curved up as she serviced him, too tempting for him not to trail his fingers along the bumps of vertebrae, caressing the pale skin. Her hand on his thigh moved upward with her effort, bracing herself against his ridged abdomen, fingers curling in, thumb caressing the smooth pubic area right above his turgid length.

He was huge now, and she wanted him inside of her so badly, but she had to prove it, had to give him this. Earn it, sweet slave. The words drove her, inspired her, held her in thrall. She treasured the rasp of his breath, the tightening of all those splendid muscles, the fact he was using them to drive his cock into her mouth more forcefully, such that she was having to concentrate to keep pace, and concentration was getting very difficult.

God, Amara was too damn good at this, and the little hitches and breaks caused by what Enrique was doing to her, pushing her toward the edge of control, just added to it, a mix of chaos with skill, a devastating combination that was having a domino effect on all of them.

It’s not enough. The thought hit her mind like a desert sand storm, and then Mason had her under the arms, lifting her away from Amara, the vibration of the woman’s mouth still rippling through Jessica’s cunt as he put her upon that large cock and drove her down, with ruthless passion.

The feeling was indescribable, the mix of the two sensations enough to have Jessica grabbing onto his shoulders for support. But those amber eyes, like fire upon all her exposed flesh, demanded, wanted more.

I will direct your movements, habiba. Put your hands on your breasts. Cup them, tease the nipples, display yourself for me.

She obeyed, and immediately cried out as he took over the movements of her body, lifting and then shoving her back down on him, as if she were no more than a doll he could direct at will. A climax was spiraling up, irresistible, from that joining point. She cupped her breasts, and the moment she squeezed the nipples she imagined his mouth upon them, the pressure of his suckling hold, the unexpected score of his fangs. She couldn’t help the thought, but her mind as well as her body wasn’t her own now. She was all his, a creature purely of his pleasure, and she gave herself to it. The rub of his cock against her clit, how he filled her inside, the idea of his mouth on her nipples…

More than anything, she wanted to wrap her arms around his broad, sheltering shoulders, bury her face against all the thick, copper-silk of his hair, and let the feelings and sensations take her. Let him take her, wherever he would.

Do it, habiba. Let me feel the beat of your heart against mine, and trust me to take us home.

She immediately complied, letting out a soft cry of joy and arousal both at that meeting, for he banded his arms around her as well, wrapping them together, her upper torso flush to his, bone, muscle, sinew, and the life sustaining organs beneath, all moving and reacting in sync. Her fingers slipped over the scarred lines of the tiger tattooed high on the back of his shoulder, even as his fingers spread out over the one on her back. A tiger gazing through a bamboo forest of scars, a reminder that the tiger was always there, watching over her, making sure those scars had no hold upon her.

As she closed her eyes and put her face into his hair, she slid her fingers into it, gripped his neck and inhaled everything about his beloved, familiar scent, the danger and sex, the love and safety of him. All hers. Her vampire.

Sweet slave. My beloved. Though she’d expected him to keep the same pace, she wasn’t surprised that, bonded this way, he slowed them down. He showed her Mara and Enrique were gone, having taken their finale elsewhere. As aroused as they both were, she expected that wasn’t much further than the room at the top of the stairs. The lights were dimmed, all the things in here in shadows, so it was just candles and stone walls. Fire and earth, and her and Mason.

He held her banded in his arms that way and moved inside her. Slow, slow pushes deep, to the hilt, then equally slow withdrawals, controlling everything. She made tiny cries, letting him know how excruciating it was, how close she was, as sensation rippled along her cunt from his advance and retreat, a rolling rhythm like the gradual movement of waves far out from shore. As he kept doing it, his cock convulsed inside of her, his expression tightening as she lifted her face, stared into his. They held gazes, each feeling the sensations of the other as Mason opened his mind to her, let them feed on one another. He was very close to release, as was she, but he was prolonging it, a quiver in all those fine limbs, wanting her begging.

She could hold out a little longer, knowing he would want to test her limits, because that was his nature. But not much longer. His eyes glinted, knowing it, as he brought her down, driving in deep again. “Oh…” She gasped, hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging in.

“Drink from me, habiba.” The demand was hoarse, feral. “I want to feel you nourish yourself from me. I want my blood on your tongue when you come.”

She’d gotten better at it, learning how to use her canines so it wasn’t as difficult to break through the skin, but she knew any pain she caused him was outweighed by what it offered to both of them. She put her mouth to his throat, her breath clogging as it changed the angle, drove him deeper, and then she bit.

Rich, metallic, life giving. The visceral bond between vampire and servant, the stuff that could restore her energy even if she was grievously wounded. She knew. He’d given her his heart’s blood once before, and it had nearly killed them both, but he would do anything for her.

Anything but live without her.

And she understood then. He would do anything for her, but if she loved him as much, she had to do the same.

As she licked the blood from the wound, swallowing, she made herself say it, though she had to do it in her mind, the idea too difficult to say aloud. I will abide by your will, my lord. Whatever it is. I want…to be with you, but if your heart cannot bear the fear of it, the fear of seeing me exposed to others…I will serve your heart and soul, as much as I serve your body. I love you and will learn to take joy in every command you give me, as an expression of your love for me.

His arms confined her further, and he turned his head to take her mouth in a kiss then, tasting that blood as he’d desired, one hand coming up to cup the back of her head. As he did, he moved her down, then up, then increased the pace, holding the kiss as they rose and fell, as fire moved up her thighs and centered in her loins.

“Mason…” She gasped it against his lips. “I can’t—”

“Come for me, habiba. Prove your devotion and obey.”

She was already going over, but she clamped down on him with her inner muscles, wanting and needing to bring him with her. Please, my lord, don’t let me go alone.

She arched back, a scream breaking from her lips as the sensation took over, gripping her relentlessly, all the denied pleasure, all the stimulation, coming together so her pussy rippled and spasmed upon him, her hands now claws, digging into his skin. He abandoned finesse, hands vising on her hips once more, bruising, punishing, and as she writhed upon him, scream going to shriek, he began to release. The hot jets of seed drove her up and over again, before the first wave had even finished.

There was nothing so primal, so basic and clear as this, being taken by her Master, his amber gaze lifting to fasten on her face, take in her every expression as she took in his, the fierce pleasure, the uncontrolled flood of desire that not only came from his cock, but from the heat emanating off of him, washing over her, making her buck, writhe and rock, undulate and grind herself on him with total physical and emotional abandon. When his hands stilled her enough to take one of her breasts in his mouth, sucking on her powerfully as he was still coming, her shrieks went into mindless wails. The climax kept thundering through her, incredible, building waves. She trusted him to hold onto her on the tossing storm waves, even as she gloried in knowing he was in that storm right along with her, his muscles shuddering, his cock still hard and pumping.

As they were finally driven to shore, her arms fell limply around his shoulders again, her face against the side of his. He banded his arms around her once more as well, holding her so close they were a tangled pillar of flesh, one of those intricate sculptures inspired by the Kama Sutra, its celebration of the joining of two hearts at all levels of existence. She never wanted to move.

“It is a closed circle, habiba,” he said at last. She noticed his voice was thick, both with residual passion and something more. “You will stay here, because you love me too much to see me worried and fearful for you. I will take you, because I cannot bear your loneliness and fear for me when I am away.” His hand traced her face, lifting it, and he drew her back so her bottom was pressed deeper against his thighs. She made a small whimper at the feel of him shifting inside of her. His eyes darkened as she pressed her mouth to his palm, biting him gently, but then she brought her gaze to his, putting her trembling fingers on his mouth, teasing a fang, following his jaw, trailing along his brow.

“But when it comes down to it,” he rumbled. “I cannot deny my servant’s wisdom, or the eight hundred years of my own.” Those amber eyes held hers. “There are always things to fear. As you said earlier, there is never enough time to love, and so to let fear steal one single moment of loving you…that is something I would be a fool to permit.”

“And you are not a foolish man.” She whispered it, but her lips curved, inspiring a quirk from his own tempting mouth.

“Perhaps not. But it’s also my experience that fools love the best and deepest of any of us. So maybe I will strive to be a fool, and give up my wisdom to love you with everything I am.”

She was overcome, but she knew her Master well, that hint of a smile. Cocking her head, she gave him a dubious look, though she knew it couldn’t diminish the telltale adoration in her eyes. “Give up your arrogance? Your know-it-all attitude? I don’t know, my lord. That might even be beyond your significant capabilities.”

“You think so?” He settled back, lifting a brow, his knuckles sliding along one of her breasts, stroking. “Perhaps the same could be said for a woman giving up her stubbornness, her belief that she always knows best.”

“But we do, my lord.” She blinked at him innocently. If her limbs had had an ounce of coordination right now, she would have hopped up, instigated one of their playful cat-and-mouse games that he could easily win but he always indulged, letting her play until he was aroused enough that the play became something else. As if he expected her to try regardless—and he might have been right—he surged up from the chair with her held securely in his arms.

“None of that right now.”

“I think you far overestimate my stamina, my lord.”

“Not at all.” He hitched her in his arms, a quick bounce that made her grab onto his neck, hold him closer. “But I might test your weakened state by taking you to the beach. We can discuss who’s right. While I hold you underwater.”

“You know third marked servants can’t drown.”

“I know that full well, habiba.” He gave her a wicked look. “Perhaps you can occupy yourself with something down there until I decide to let you up.”

Jessica let the bubble of laughter take her, content to be held as he carried her toward whatever he next had planned for them. Maybe he would forgive Mara and Enrique fully and let them join them on the beach. They’d eat dinner out there, the cook would make cookies for desert, and Mason would taste the sugar and chocolate on her lips as they all lay out under the stars, naked and wet. Mara would tell stories of desert djinns and treasures hidden in the sand, and Jess would lay with her head on Mason’s chest, feeling his heart beat and knowing there was no greater treasure than her desert tiger.

He was right. No fear should steal away the precious time they had, and she was determined to honor that, with every moment she was given with him. She would give him her faith, and they would banish fear forever.

Remember, we’ll have another drawing in the August newsletter, so keep a lookout for it! Thanks everyone who entered, and as always, thank you for the kind comments that many of you include about my characters and their stories.

Counting down to Vampire Trinity on September 7… Just a tiny bit more than a month to go!

* * * * *

Perhaps it was because of how vulnerable she felt right now, how stripped down to the soul, but if he brought himself to completion, gave his essence to the waves and the sand, rather than to her body, it would be as sharp and devastating a rebuke to her heart as anything else he could do. She equated it with his choosing to leave her behind, not letting her share every part of his life. He was her Master, her life and will his to command, yet it wasn’t that simple. She loved him; she had demands of her own, so many of them having to do with her deep-seated need to serve him.

Those tears touched her lips, suppressed sobs fair choking her. He’d proven his point. He could break her down to this, to pure need and pain, no rational or sensible thoughts in her mind, only emotion. Please don’t…

That feeling came again, that he was at the deepest level of her soul, a tender, quivering thing he held in his strong grasp. But this time that sense spread out through her, holding all of her, so strong an impression it felt like actual physical contact. She could smell him on her skin, feel his heat, even the pressure of his fingers on her flesh. This was what he could have done for Farida, if he hadn’t been magically blocked from helping her during her tragic end. She could have suffered not a moment of true fear, and even more than that.

Jessica realized the sting of the thorns had disappeared, though they still dug into her flesh. She couldn’t feel the hold of the manacles. It was as if she’d stepped inside of him, and nothing being done to her body could affect her…though the pleasure he gave her remained, a lovely, writhing coil that made her soul dance and undulate against his, a seductive dance. And she felt his ethereal response, a blast of male heat that twisted around her like a lazy tornado of glittering particles, making her part her lips and taste him on her tongue.

As a vampire, he’d always had this power, this sorcery, and now he let her experience it as the miraculous gift it was. It was a magic she’d never seen exercised by a vampire before, had never even heard about it.

It is because it is only possible when the servant trusts the vampire so much that she completely surrenders to him, habiba, at every level of her existence. She fears nothing…no pain, no emotion, so long as he holds a claim on her.

He hadn’t expected it either. She heard it in his tone, a thickness to it that suggested she might not be the only one awestruck and too choked up to give voice to it. They simply rode that feeling together. As she drifted in a haze that was nothing short of miraculous, she wondered if this was what they meant when they said a servant followed a vampire into the afterlife. Because this was more than him being inside of her. She was inside of him, they were melded together as if once, long, long ago, before they’d first been created as two separate beings, they’d started this way, two souls entwined in the cradle of their creation.

“No…” she whispered it, because though she felt no pain or the abrasion of her restraints, she could still feel their hold, and the one at her waist was being removed. She didn’t want Amara to take them off. I’ll wait for my Master to remove them. I’ll wait as long as he wishes, if I have to stay this way for days and days…

A fanciful and entirely foolish idea, habiba. What kind of Master would do such a thing to your beautiful skin?

She opened her eyes, dislodging more tears clinging to her lashes, and he caught them on his fingertips. “Your devotion terrifies me,” he said, his voice a low, unsteady rumble, his amber eyes so fierce and wild, as if he thought he might need to fight something off to protect her. It made her want to touch him, but the cross still held her. “All I want is to keep you safe,” he continued in that same raw voice. “You’re so fragile and delicate to me, a treasure so easy to destroy, and yet your love makes you determined to throw yourself against every rock, including my will. If anything shatters you, habiba, it will shatter me. Do you not understand that? Can you not find the mercy to see why I can’t take you where I can’t keep you safe?”

Still so deep inside of him, she could feel it, that deep darkness Lyssa had warned her about, a darkness capable of destroying far more than himself if it was stirred up again. The vampire tiger with the soul of a desert djinn.

“I don’t know how to resolve it, my lord,” she said, just as softly, as those tears kept falling. He continued to collect each one on his fingers as she struggled for the words. “I feel it, I do, and it tears me to pieces to cause you such pain. But…perhaps…” Just as there is a wisdom that vampires have about what their servants need, things we ourselves don’t understand… As your servant, I know for certain, with everything I am, that my place, my destiny, whatever it is, is to be by your side, always, for everything you face. Then she spoke aloud again, staring up at him. “Whatever each of us faces was meant to be faced together. And to deny either of us that is to deny what is meant to be.”

He cupped her cheek with that large hand that could almost cover the side of her face, and she pressed her lips to his palm, her wet lashes marking him. “Stay here,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m not leaving this room.”

She saw Amara was gone. He moved to the doorway, and with one switch, he cut the torchlight in the room. Then the stairwell light was gone as he shut the heavy oak door, plunging them both in total darkness.

A third-mark could see in the dark, as long as there was some component of light, however dim, but with no windows, there was none. This is what Raithe had done to her, shut her in a dungeon with no lights, marked her with blood and let rats and roaches crawl over her. Whereas before tonight she might have cringed, struggled against the terror, now she drew on that certainty of Mason being inside her. With a savagery that could match his own, she used it like a scythe, severing herself from even a hint of such fear. She wasn’t alone in the darkness. She never would be, not ever again.

His touch on her ankle brought a soft sigh to her lips. “Afraid that I might see you weeping, my lord?” she asked, a tremor in her voice. “I feel your emotions inside of me.”

In answer, his mouth touched her leg, just above her ankle bone. To do that, he had to not only be kneeling, but bent forward, a position of total obeisance. When he lingered there, his mouth grazing her insole, her emotions matched the strength of his. She was the one bound at his behest, helpless to his will, yet he was giving her this, an act of servile devotion, a message so clear that it didn’t need to be said.

As much as she was his slave, so, too, was he hers.

He made his way up her calf, but he took a very long time at it, teasing his way down to her foot and back up again, caressing the back of her knee with his tongue in a way that shot her focus back to her unabated desire in full force. It was like he’d pulled her out of warm water in an underground spring into the cold, brilliant shock of ocean waters under a heated sun. She realized then that he’d unlatched the manacles around her ankles, and freed the rose stems there as well.

As he worked his way up her thighs, he did the same to the stalks he’d wound around her upper thighs, used his fangs to slice the ones that he’d drawn along the crease of hip and thigh from her waist. As he did, his lips were so close to her mound, her aroused clit, she let out a moan, then a full cry as he didn’t deny either of them, sliding over to give her a slow, wet lick there, sealing the heat of his mouth over her clit to gently suckle it. He teased her labia and the opening below with the tip of his tongue, sliding into her for a languid exploration. With his mouth, he drew the soaked rose bloom from her, and she sensed from his shifting he’d carefully set it aside. She knew he’d do what he’d promised. Preserve it, and ever after when she saw it in his gallery, she’d remember this and remember every feeling, every fervent desire.

Then the basket clamp was removed, withdrawn from inside of her and replaced with his tongue, punctuated by her shuddering sigh. She was in such a chaotic haze of the physical, emotional and spiritual, she didn’t move, not even to strain toward him. Her nerves were compact and dense with sensation, her muscles holding her utterly still so she could feel everything he did to her.

He moved away at last to lick the places the thorns had dug into her, soothing her skin. Then his hands were at her waist and he straightened, his body pressed against her as he cut the stems at her back, and sternum, so that everything fell away except the collar of thorns he’d worked around her throat. Now she did move. Tightening her stomach muscles, she used them and the brace of the cuffs holding her arms to lift her legs, twine them around him. He wore only a towel, wrapped low around his hips. The salt water on his bare skin brushed her breasts, the pressure of his chest rocking the clamps and tiny rose buds up in a way that had her strangling another agonized sound of pleasure. As he cupped her face with both hands, he kissed her mouth with unutterable tenderness. Slow, his tongue moving in deep, coiling around hers, no rush, nothing but the two of them in that mind to mind, heart to heart, soul to soul, perfect merging.

When he lifted his head, he removed the stems around her biceps, then her forearms. Only the wrists and forehead were left. That and the clamps.

Deep breath, my love.

She drew it, and he removed the clamps at the same time. Even with the rose buds buffering them, their bite had been cruel, and she sucked in deeper at the rush of pain, but his hand dropped then, massaging her clit, balancing it. And when you join me in my bed for my dawn sleep, I will suckle and soothe them, massage healing balm into them with my own hands.

She would be content if he fell asleep with his mouth on them instead, her arm around his wide shoulders, her other hand stroking his hair. Her Master, her terrifying, ferocious, yet incredibly tender and loving Master, held in her arms like a sleeping babe, so she might bring him comfort for every fear he had.

Ah, habiba. The thought won her another kiss, and he removed the binding across her forehead. Then, at last, his fingers slid over her wrist, flicked the binding free there, then the other. His arms stretched out to meet hers, body leaning into her, holding her still pilloried, only now with the restraint of his hands, his fingers tangled with hers. She tightened her legs over his hips, holding him even closer, and rubbed herself against his hard, blessedly unrelieved length beneath the Egyptian cotton.

Temptress.

I need you, my lord. She spoke against his lips, wanting the sound of the whisper in the darkness. “Please. I need you inside of me. I’m begging you.”

I cannot resist your pleas, but first…

He slid his arm around her waist then, and she clasped his shoulders, giving an ecstatic mewl as she was able to hold him at last, his chest tight against her sore breasts, his ribcage brushing her abdomen, her thighs locked around his hips. He carried her through that darkness as easily as he would carry a child. When he sat her down on one of the stools at the bar, she heard him opening something like a briefcase. She hadn’t remembered there being a case there, but of course she hadn’t been entirely cognizant of anything but him for quite some time now.

She blinked as he lit a taper candle on the wet bar, giving her a dim flicker of light. The first thing she wanted to see was him, and she immediately lifted her fingers to his face, traced the strong bones of his jaw, his brow, his lips. He allowed it, watching her every movement, the slight, tremulous smile that lifted her own mouth.

“I love you so much, my lord.”

Those amber eyes darkened, and he took hold of her wrist, pressing his mouth hard against her palm, so hard he gave her a tiny nick with his fang. He was always so in control, that unintentional blood draw told her how moved he was. Then she saw what he’d brought her and she was overwhelmed.

“You proved to me beyond doubt tonight that you don’t need this,” he said, lifting the collar before her wide eyes. “But if you will accept it, then perhaps it will always remind me of your devotion, your trust and faith in me.” He paused, held her gaze, so much in his eyes it almost burned her skin. “And maybe that will give me the strength to yield to your will, this once, and believe that Allah will help me protect what surely must be one of his greatest treasures. I know you are mine.”

She gave up the attempt to hold back any more tears. The one inch circlet, with the metals patterned to look like a tiger’s skin, was perfect. As he unhooked the closure, which looked like a tiger’s talon, she noted the amber pendant dangling below it. She reached out, cupping it in her hand, and looked at the unusual swirling pattern inside of it, two intertwined crimson spirals.

“My blood and yours, habiba. The clear amber was infused with it by a very special jeweler, one who also blessed it with a great many protection spells. The collar will lock on your neck, and only I have the key to remove it.”

“I’ll never ask you to do so,” she promised. She raised shining eyes to him. “Please, Master. I accept it with all my heart. Please put it on me.”

When they’d put her on the cross, Enrique and Amara had removed the temporary slim silver collar. As much of an impression as that accessory had made on her, it was nothing next to the weight and significance of this one. If he was placing a ring on her finger in front of an assembly made up of the entire disapproving vampire world, including the Vampire Council, it couldn’t mean more.

It fit her neck closely, holding it as lovingly and irrevocably as his hands might. After he latched it, he picked up the key strung on a silver chain. He was going to thread it over his head one-handed, but when she reached for it, he let her do it, dipping his head so she could guide it down, using both her hands to free his long hair from it, guide the chain to his nape. The key slid down that provocative track of collarbone and sternum, resting at last between the flat planes of hi pectorals. Leaning forward, she kissed the key, and the heated skin beneath.

He slid his hands beneath her arms, lifted her off the bar. Holding her only on the strength of those arms, he backed them up, until he’d reached that heavy oak chair again. Lowering her to her feet, he gently but firmly set her from him. When she lifted her gaze, she saw the stern, steady gaze of her Master.

Her eyes automatically lowered and her knees bent, taking her to a kneeling position before him. She didn’t even have to consciously send her mind the command. As he took a seat in the chair, the towel parted high on his thigh, giving her only a shadowed view of what it concealed.

“Come take me in your mouth as you desired to do, my sweet slave. Prove your devotion to your Master. Prove to me how intent and uninterrupted your focus would be, if I commanded to your knees, to do this before the whole Vampire Council.”

It could be the whole Council, the whole world. As far as she was concerned, from this moment forward, with that collar on her throat and all it symbolized—whether it was just the two of them in a blissful moment like this, or in the middle of the Vampire Gathering—there was only him.

* * * * *

I only fear losing you, my lord.

For wasn’t that truly the fear that crept through her mind, spread out until it seemed the terror of it was coursing through her very blood? The fear that whenever he left this estate, she would never see him again? She’d lost so very much in her life, and he’d given her back passion, happiness, laughter…love. She wouldn’t survive losing that again, and she wondered how he’d borne it for three hundred years, when he lost the first woman who had brought that to him.

“You brought it back to me, habiba. And the third mark binds us. You will never lose me. Wherever I go…”

“I follow.” She stared up at him. But fate could play terrible tricks, couldn’t it?

“Ssssh.” He leaned in then, pressed a kiss to her forehead, to her cheeks, then across her lips, teasing her when she tried to strain for him, for a deeper connection. Instead he played his tongue over hers, traced her mouth, gave her a tiny nip on the corner before drawing back and picking up another bloom.

“Something to take your mind from such nonsense.” Putting that bloom in her opposite hand, he cut the stem and wound it over the other biceps, once again cinching it in for that delicate sip of her blood. God, she wanted the penetration of his fangs as much as she wanted the penetration of his cock. They meant the same thing. She was his, to give whatever he needed, however he needed.

Now he was trailing the next bloom over her breast, covering the nipple and teasing it with the thick cluster of petals, a contrast to the sharp tiger teeth. Leaning forward, he pinched that clamp, removed the one on the left side. As the blood rushed in and her breath sucked in hard at the pain, he soothed it with his mouth, suckling her, letting her feel the barest graze of his fangs before he replaced his mouth with the rose’s sweet stroke.

During those few moments, as she drew in deep, shuddering breaths, she felt him sink to an even more intimate level of her soul, further than he’d ever gone before. She’d known of a vampire’s power to do that to a thirdmark, reach so deep, into such dark places, that on a mere whim, the vampire could tear apart the servant’s mind, break her in a hundred different hellish ways. Feeling his power to do that was truly as terrifying as she’d heard. It was like having one’s soul skewered by a steel spit, sensing that implacable will throughout it. As helpless as her body was, when restrained like this.

But it was Mason there, the implacable weight of his will. Her Master. She loosened her grip on the roses in her hand, realizing she’d crushed them. More petals drifted to the ground around her.

He removed the other clamp, nuzzled and cosseted that nipple the same way, but then he took two small tea rose buds, positioned them over her nipples and replaced those tiger teeth. The pressure was far less, buffered by that floral cushion, but the teeth bit into the buds’ thick layers, sending the sweet fragrance up to her nose.

He broke off the heads of three more roses, lifting them over her head. She lifted her face as much as she was able, closed her eyes as the petals pattered down over her face, her bare shoulders, several landing on her breasts. Then he wrapped the first stem around her throat, his hands collaring her there, a firm pressure for several delicious moments before it was replaced by the constriction of that stem. It was longer than the other two, but he wove the next two stems into it, creating a collar of intertwined pieces that pricked her in a random pattern.

She was licking her lips, needing him as he worked so close to her the fabric of his jeans’ leg brushed her knee. His amber gaze was intent, absorbed in what he was doing. It held captive any words she might have, because she was being treated as a true slave, expected to be still and compliant beneath his hands, his wishes, no matter what. She’d never felt so fulfilled, and yet needing-to-be-filled, all at once.

But as she watched him, she also could appreciate the creative artistry of the Master who’d claimed her. There was a small bundle of long wires that had been slipped into the vase, probably another of Mason’s silent instructions to Amara. Using the wires and tiny clips to split, connect and tighten the hold of the stems, he was weaving her into a web of slim, sharp rose stalks. The next one attached to the collar went straight down her sternum. Two more branched out from that piece to curve under each breast. They passed under her arm and were reconnected to the collar in the back.

He had to move closer to position that one. It brought him right up against her. As she made an incoherent moan in her throat, he pressed an absent kiss along her temple, then he tightened that connecting piece. The thorns bit into the tender flesh under her breasts, making her nipples tingle hard in their rose and silver constraints. The strands of thorns around her throat pulled against her windpipe, reminding her of that restraint. At the same moment, he slid one finger over her clit, a passing, unexpected caress that ricocheted through her like an electrical shock, but far more excruciating in intensity.

She bit into his flesh, the muscled pectoral beneath the stretch of his T-shirt, and heard his dangerous growl as she tried to puncture him through the heavy weight cotton. But he didn’t draw back. He let her mouth him through the cloth, turn the bite into a random, erratic pull at the shirt with her teeth. She wanted it off, wanted to taste him. Instead, he hooked another stem to the binding he’d created in the back, down to her lower back. There he connected two more long green stems and brought them to in front, crossing over her hip bones, arrowing toward her pussy.

He stepped back then. As she watched him with greedy eyes, he connected two stems to that connection point just above her mons, and threaded them along the crease between thigh and pussy, along the metal clamps on either side of her labia. She contracted on the rose bud he’d placed inside of her. As she did, he circled those stems around her upper thighs and reattached them at the labia with the help of those diabolical little clips. One more tightening, and here, too, he drew blood.

Stems now passed under her breasts, up and down her back, over her hips, through the juncture of her thighs and around the tops of her thighs. Around her biceps and throat. Though the cross held her fast, the delicate strength of the rose stems were what had her trembling the hardest now.

Blood was trickling down her breast from the punctures at her throat. Two streams, one coming from the thorn at her shoulder, the other closer to the collar bone, on an intent, slow trek down her sternum. As she watched, the one from her shoulder made its way with sensual accuracy toward her nipple. Before gravity could slide it away from that goal, the tea rosebud clamped over it caught the flow, the blood staining the petals, outlining the ruffled tip.

Her eyes closed as her Master took care of the other stream, catching it with his mouth at the point right between her breasts, his hard jaw teasing the curves. He suckled the blood off her, licked his way back up to her throat, his tongue tracing around the puncture point and setting off fireworks in those sensitive nerves along her neck. Fighting her restraints to turn her head toward him, she caressed the side of his face, his hair, with her cheek. She sought any part of him she could reach with her lips, but then he’d drawn back again.

Two roses left. He put the stems around her ankles, above the restraints, and she was caught up in a storm of reaction when he knelt with his lithe grace to taste the blood there, workimh his way up to where the ones around her thighs were likewise producing small streams.

Bleed for me… She was bleeding for him. She would give him every last drop if he demanded it.

“If I ever asked such a terrible thing, I would expect you to do your best to stake me, habiba.” He glanced up at her, those amber eyes ablaze with passion. “For I would truly have lost my mind.” Keeping his eyes on her, he followed that track with his mouth until he was high up on her thigh, his hands on her bare hips. So she was locked in his gaze when she saw his fangs, and let out an enraptured cry when he pierced the femoral, the fast rush of lifegiving blood enough to send a squeezing, incredible surge of reaction into her pussy. Her clit spasmed and her mouth opened, sucking in air, trying for the words.

“Master…I can’t…”

You won’t come, habiba. Not yet. Those metal pieces won’t let you.

And by all the fires of hell, he was right. It was the nearest thing to an almost climax she’d ever experienced, but the constriction, the tight hold that wouldn’t allow any movement, prevented her from going there. But she was gasping and making the sounds of a climax, tiny, near screams, choking sobs as the sensation passed over her like a coquettish wave, just out of her reach. Heat swept her limbs, a feverish shudder that had her pleading.

“Please…my lord.” She didn’t know how many times she repeated it as he drew nourishment from her thigh, his other hand idly stroking the other leg. He was leaning into her, one knee bent on the outside of her knee, the other on the floor between her spread legs, so his groin was firmly pressed against her calf. He was always an impressive size, but perhaps it was her state of near hysterical lust that made him feel far bigger. His self-control was driving her mad, but as if she’d turned a key in the door, he yanked her into his mind.

What lay behind the self-control took her to a whole different level of madness. She was immersed in a raging storm of male lust, a flash of images and emotions, all the things he wanted to do to her, things that could strain her to the endurance of her mind and body. They battered her, sent her reeling. Then, after that brief immolation in the flames, he let her fall back from that door, closed it again, leaving her shaken.

He was closing the punctures with the coagulants all vampires possessed, and now he rose, his tumultuous gaze sweeping over her in a way that had her swallowing sound again.

“You’ll stay with her.”

Jessica blinked, realizing her whole world had narrowed to him, to the point she was insensible to anything else. Amara was back, and she had no idea when the woman had arrived. She knelt beside his chair, her hands folded, head bowed.

“You will not communicate with her in any way. Your only job is to watch over her. You will tell me if she is in any discomfort that is unacceptable to me.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Mason’s gaze slid over his other servant, then came back to Jessica. She stared at him. He couldn’t possibly leave her, not like this. She was dying, her body consumed by desire so ravenous it was a dragon, about to swallow a virgin damsel in one bite. Perhaps it was the look in his eye that brought that comparison to her whirling mind.

“Good. I’m going for a ride on Coman. I’ll be back in awhile.”

* * * * *

It wasn’t until he disappeared around the corner of the stairwell that Jessica really believed it. For a moment, it overcame her, such that she wanted to rage like a temperamental child, scream curses after him. He was leaving her alone in this state…and in this dungeon, tied to this cross. Amara was here, but…

No. He wasn’t leaving her. The feverish euphoria of her denied and bound state refused to let panic take the upper hand. His mind would be with her every second. She knew him, knew he wouldn’t let her suffer a moment of true fear. He wanted to see if she could trust him, trust her Master. He was punishing her, yes, but he was doing more than that.

It took a good few minutes to work all that out, however, since her mind was so immolated with lust, disbelief and trepidation, that thinking in any linear way took supreme effort. Amara kept her gaze down, only flicking it up every few seconds to check on Jessica’s status, though she eschewed any direct eye contact, following Mason’s command to the letter. Whatever he’d said to them, apparently Amara wasn’t pushing any boundaries.

That was Jessica’s job, and she’d accomplished it, hadn’t she? Spread and bound, aroused and teased by rosebuds, thorns, nipple clamps, clit compression. Punctured with tiny floral fangs in six or seven key places, and the inside of her thigh still throbbing with the tantalizing impression of his mouth. She should have known, however, that he wasn’t nearly done tormenting her – and that he didn’t have to be in the room to make it worse. All those images in his head…the lingering impression of brutal lust and an all-encompassing need to take.

Jorge already had Coman’s bridle on, but Mason apparently hadn’t requested any other tack. He let her into his mind’s eye as he swung up on the horse. Coman must have been reflecting his master’s state of mind, because when Mason mounted, the horse was cutting a circle, ears laid back, but apparently the savagery of the two males were in accord, since Coman was more than willing to be turned toward the beach. They took the dune at a canter, but when they hit the shore, Mason let him have his head.

As he crouched low over the horse’s neck to steady him, they thundered across the sand. Every reverberation of the horse’s hooves thrummed through Mason’s thighs, his aching balls and hard cock. His mind was pummeled by visions of wanting to take Jessica off the cross, take her down to her knees and possess her utterly, the way Coman’s instinct would take a mare in heat. Those teeth to the neck, the pressure of the male body pressing dominantly down on the female’s. Mine, mine, mine…

Jessica closed her eyes, immersed in it, aching and short of breath. My love…

She didn’t know what made her call him that, but whispered from her lips, responding to the emotion under the fury. He was angry that she’d forced his hand in this. More than that, his own savage reaction, as her blood began to flow and she began to beg him, had driven him out here, to try and control a need for her that ran as thick and hot as hers did for him. His mind didn’t tell her that, but the fire pumping through his blood, that she picked up from the glimpse of his mind, told her.

He slowed the horse at last, made the loop and came cantering back. Coman shook his head, snorting, his sides lathered. Mason slid off him, tied the reins on his neck and sent him back toward the stables with a slap on his flanks and a mental signal to Jorge that the horse was coming for a rubdown.

Then he stripped. T-shirt, jeans, a mere two items that left him completely naked before the waves, feeling the cool evening breeze play off his skin, ripple over his thighs, his erect cock. He glanced down, giving her a full scale view of it. She’d been right. It was larger than even usual, the tip damp with fluid, his testicles smooth and tight. She wanted to touch him, close her hand over him, see if her fingers would reach around that impressive girth. Take him in her mouth, all the way to the back of her throat, let him punish her that way if he wished.

Instead, he walked into the tide line, laid himself down on the sand and let the foam laced waters wash over his thighs. She shivered, though the tropical waters were still warm from the day’s sunlight. She let out a small, plaintive protest as he took himself in hand, began to stroke himself, jerk at his cock with strong, clever fingers, knowing his body well.

No, my lord. Please…let me.

He was imagining it as her hand, her mouth, her wet, sucking cunt. Her on top of him right now, his hands driving her down on his length. He’d watch her eyes grow wide and vulnerable, her throat straining out screams of pleasure and agony, the climax powerful enough to destroy them both.

Part of your punishment, Jessica. You will get this later. When you know for certain what kind of Master I am, and submit fully to that knowledge.

No… She was protesting not his words, but the fisting of that cock. Her pussy clenched anew, unable to create any friction with that metal frame inside of her, just the taunting whisper of the damp rose petals. That excruciating near-climax feeling once again swept over her, making her cry out, pull against her bonds as he let her feel what he was feeling, the rolling power of that climax coming up through him. Whenever he came home from his travels, he spilled his seed inside of her first, nowhere else. Now he was going to give it instead to the sea, an offering to long-haired sea sirens who would taste the salt of him and wish that they could lure him out to them with their songs, where they’d forever make him their captive.

There is no song but yours I will ever hear, habiba. Only you.

Every part of her was taut, and she was having trouble breathing, straining against her bonds. He wasn’t too far away from her to see. He could see everything through Amara’s eyes if he wished.

Please, my lord. Let me… Come back to me here. I beg you. Take me however you wish, even deny me, but do not torment me like this. I can’t bear it. I need you. You will tear my soul in half. Please, please don’t.

His hand stilled. What if I make you suck me to completion, but refuse you a climax, not just today, but for the next ten days, while I continue to torment you however I wish, keeping you aroused and wanting?

I will want to stake you in your sleep, she admitted honestly, but I will obey anything you desire, my lord. However, though it took an effort so great it made tears roll down her cheeks anew, she managed to find that resolve in the center of her besieged heart. The determination that had not dimmed throughout the past few interminable and ecstatic hours, but instead burned more brightly than ever.

Anything except being left behind. It’s you who taught me what being a vampire’s servant truly means. I’m here for you—for the protection of your heart and soul, even your body—and when you leave me, you deny me the right of being your full servant, of being all those things to you. I don’t care what others may do to me – it will never be as unbearable as spending a moment without you.

* * * * *

On that thrilling and terrifying note, he released her, stepped back and took a seat in that oak chair on which she’d earlier imagined herself, riding his cock before voyeuristic eyes. “Come here.”

Rising to her knees, she closed that distance naked, leaving the robe behind. On impulse, right before she would have been between his knees, she bent, her eyes on where the frayed cuff of his jeans brushed the ankle of that long, finely shaped male foot. She stopped above it, her hair falling down along the insole. It was an amazingly subservient desire, to kiss his foot, yet his words, the hint of total Mastery he might finally decide to exert over her, summoned it from that pool inside of her that seemed full of such surprising cravings.

As her mouth closed that distance, pressed against his flesh, he shifted, his hand touching her head. “Jessica.” His voice, the rich timbre, had a hoarse note to it.

“I’ve missed you so much, my lord,” she said softly. “I understand what you are saying, and I didn’t mean to try and force your hand. But, if you love me, please stop leaving me behind. I can’t bear it.”

He sighed. “You are as stubborn as a mule. Come up here.”

She straightened, put her hands on his knees. Sliding his hands under her arms, he effortlessly lifted her to his lap, one hand sliding over her thighs, the other cupping her breast. She automatically parted her legs, giving him access to what was between them, though he didn’t touch her there yet. The mere touch of his hands in such intimate proximity was enough to have her body twitching, her nipple jutting into his palm. She could feel his arousal under her buttocks, and wanted so much to squirm against him, rub that hard cock.

“Be still.” He anticipated her, a hint of steel in his voice. “You’re in enough trouble already. You tease me, try to top now, and your punishment will be even more severe. Be still a moment and let me hold you. As I said earlier, you are a curse on my days. And the greatest blessing of my life.”

Thinking of how he’d drawn out the wait, taking that shower, eating the fruit, she thought that curse and blessing went both ways. But she was still in his arms. Whatever else he did to her tonight, this moment, this was everything. His strong body surrounding her, his breath on her temple, those tempting lips so close.

“May I ask…how will you punish me, my lord?”

“However is necessary.”

As he held her for several more moments, she stayed silent as he’d commanded, absorbing his touch, the way it felt to be held by him. Whenever he came home, she needed that surge of anticipation, being able to run into his arms, feel his embrace. To see the way his amber eyes lit with pleasure at her enthusiasm. It told her he needed it as much as she did. Just like his reassuring mind-touch when she’d said her prayer of thanks to have him home, this, too, was a reminder that, whatever transpired in this room tonight, he always thought of her first, what she needed. What they both needed.

“All right, then.” He lifted her off his lap. “I want you to go to the cross and put yourself on it.”

And just like that, the reassurance fled.

The St. Andrew’s Cross, the item in the room that held the most nightmares for her. The blood he’d made so warm now froze in icy fear. She had as much power to control or stop her reaction as an infant trying to stop a car hurtling toward her. For all her imaginings while she waited for him, for all she was sure she’d bolstered herself enough, the first hint of actually doing it, and five years of memories slammed down around her like cage walls. That same despicable sense of helplessness paralyzed her limbs.

No. Damn it, damn it, damn it…The wail came from deep inside. She was better than this, better than this knee jerk reaction. He’d been right. He’d known. Hadn’t she just acknowledged it? He always thought of her first, what she needed. Wanted.

He might be right, but he didn’t understand how inadequate it made her feel. She’d fought to survive, but if she couldn’t be the type of submissive she longed to be to him…it wasn’t just that she wanted to be able to go with him to Council. She wanted to have no fear of anything he might demand of her. She wanted to finally be free of Raithe. Until she was free of her fear, it was as if she was still partially under Raithe’s mastery, not wholly Mason’s.

“Jessica.” He’d risen from his chair, towering over her. His hand curved around her nape as she stood there so rigid and cold, suffering. He pressed his mouth to the crown of her head, then he bent, scooped her up. He was going to take her back to his bed. He’d lock this door, she was sure, chain it so she could never come back in. No, knowing Mason, he’d have it destroyed, turn it into another billiards room or whatever other room his huge estate didn’t have, so it could never torment her again. Maybe an indoor swimming pool or a private movie theater. Damn it. She blinked back tears, her temple on his shoulder, her arms wrapped hard around him.

“I gave my slave a command, and she did not obey. At some point tonight, she’ll be punished for that.”

He wasn’t moving toward the door. He was moving toward the cross. Her hands clutched his shoulders, despite herself, and he made a murmur in his throat. It was the sound he made when she slept in his bed during the day, if she woke from a nightmare, a calming sound she’d also heard him use with the horses. When he reached the cross, he closed his hand over one of hers, loosened her fingers. As he held her wrist, his fingers lapping over her knuckles, he took her hand to the dark teak wood, laid her palm on it, his own pressing down on hers so she felt the worn smoothness.

“So many servants have found mindless pleasure here, habiba. The servants of my guests, of Council members…Amara and Enrique have both spent time here, spread and restrained for my pleasure, their bodies gleaming with sweat—sometimes blood— quivering between pain and ecstasy, their eyes glazed and feverish, helpless to my desires. You’re becoming more aroused, just thinking about it, and jealous, because you want to be the one serving me here. You despise yourself for your fears. You think you are cowardly and somehow fall short of how strong you should be for me.”

He turned his gaze to her then, the amber eyes holding so much weight it almost squeezed down on her heart, her lungs, made it hard to breathe. “You do not have any idea how deeply angry such thoughts make me.”

He let her feet down then, continuing to hold her waist, her arm. “Step onto the foot rests, and put your heels, shoulders and hips against the cross. Face toward me.”

He stepped back then, withdrawing his touch. He was still close. If she reached out a hand, she could lay her palm on his broad chest, feel muscle and the heart that beat beneath it. He was here, beside her, and he was waiting. If she stepped toward him, she wasn’t sure what he would do, but she sensed he would be one step closer to calling all this off. He’d gotten her here. She had to close the final step, in either direction.

As she warred with that decision, his attention shifted to the cross again.

“Amara has done far more time here. I do not know why it’s the female slave who will goad the Master more, be more daring, as if begging to be restrained, whipped or caned, but Enrique never pushes me nearly as much as his wife does.” His gaze returned to Jessica’s face and his brow rose. “You have already eclipsed her.”

Jess set her jaw. “Perhaps because I refuse to be less than the other part of your soul, my lord.”

“And nothing challenges a man as much as the voice of his own soul. That is a blade with two edges, habiba. You are testing my patience. I gave you a command. It is the last time tonight I will repeat myself.”

It was a leap of faith, and he was perhaps the only one in the whole world who understood how far a leap it was for her. Closing her eyes, she made that step. She had to take a breath, lay her palm against the smooth wood to steady herself. But she’d done it. There was less than a handspan between her body and the cross.

“Now all the way on.” A touch of gentleness beneath the steel. She put her bare foot on the right side rest, turned to face him. Closing her hands on the portion of the cross near her hips to balance, she positioned the other foot in the correct place. Now her legs were spread apart, past shoulder width. She knew there was an adjustable bolt underneath the small of her back where he could increase that span if he desired.

“Put your wrists in the channels above your head.”

He could have guided them there, but she feared nothing when he touched her, and he knew that. He was making her face her fears. It was a beautifully made cross, with ornate scrollwork carved in the sides, and instead of being flat, the thick crossed pieces had shallow channels so the limbs and body were somewhat cupped inside the restraint system. When she laid her arms in the channels and fitted her wrists into the more narrow section which still had enough room for a man’s wrists as well as a woman’s, she nevertheless felt the threat of further restraint to come.

As she reached up to do his bidding, she was conscious of how he watched the stretch of her upper body, the arch of her ribs, the rise of her breasts as her breathing elevated.

Stepping forward now, he bent and secured the first ankle. Down here, play was with thirdmark servants, those who had the strength to break thin straps in moments of frenzied abandon, so chain was used. It pressed into her skin, held her fast, and tightened up as he secured it with a twisting latch. One limb only. All the others were free, but she began to tremble again, caught between fears from her past and something else, something responding to the touch of his hands on her ankle as he bound her.

He’d told her where to put her wrists, but he was here, so close. His long copper hair fell over his shoulder, brushed her thigh as he bent. She wanted to reach down, wanted to touch.

Did she twitch, or did he see her intent in her mind? Before her wrist could so much as shift, he was holding it, keeping it pushed in that channel, his body a bulwark against hers as his face bent close.

“You will be still.”

The feel of his clothed body against her, over six feet of solid muscle and a Master’s will, overwhelmed her. He kept her attention as he secured that wrist the same way. Then the other. The apprehension was spinning outward, cutting though her stomach lining, making her fingers curl. She could do this. She could.

Why do you feel you must do it alone, Jessica? He straightened from the other ankle, her limbs now secured at the four points. Speak to me, from your heart. Do not think.

“I need your help. Master.” He was right. She didn’t call him by that title much, except in not-so-subtle challenge, but it was different in this moment, and the flicker of his gaze registered it.

“Yes, you do. That is part of what you need to trust. You are frightened. But no matter how frightened you get, Jessica, I will make you serve my will tonight. Do you understand? You have no choice in this. As your Master, all choices are mine.”

“Y-yes.” She stared at him, reeling at such a stern declaration. No choices. She was his to do with as he would. Just like Raithe. But not. She had no choice but to trust him now.

“Very well.” There were additional restraints on the cross, and now he employed them, putting straps over her thighs, her waist, above her breasts and then across her forehead, his hands lingering on her hair before he added an additional secure strap to her upper arms and elbows. She was completely immobilized now, spread open, and there was no part of her that wasn’t shaking.

He wasn’t done yet. Turning, he moved to the armoire in the corner, one that held all manner of even more terrifying things. He opened two of the smaller drawers, and when turned he was holding a set of small clips, a glittering silver chain attached to nipple clamps, and a pair of smaller metal pieces she couldn’t readily identify.

Her body jerked in spasmodic reaction, a tiny note of panic caught in her throat. Giving her an even look, he moved to an intercom across the room, as if her trembling and such sounds were of no concern to him. When he pressed the transmitter, Jessica was startled to hear the voice of Hector, the groundskeeper. “Yes, sir?”

“Hector, I need you to pick out two dozen white roses from the garden. Various sizes. I want the blooms half opened, and cut a foot of stem. Make sure they have thorns.”

“Yes, sir. Where do you want them brought?”

She saw Hector every day. Would Mason have him come here, see her like this?

“Give them to Amara. She will bring them to me.”

The flood of relief was something she couldn’t hide, and when his expression settled into those stern, unrelenting lines, she cursed herself. She’d proven once again that she couldn’t—

“I would strongly suggest you not finish that thought. You’re not listening, Jessica. Hector will not bring the roses here, because no man will see you like this. None but me. Not now, not ever.”

He was back in front of her now. He’d moved swiftly, in that startling way vampires could, where even a thirdmark couldn’t follow them. It made her jump, because she was already tense, but then he cupped her breast. His gaze was on it, his thumb passing idly over the nipple. While it immediately drew up into an aroused point under his familiar touch, she knew that wasn’t his intent. His expression, his attitude, said he was touching her breast because he wanted to touch and fondle what was his alone to enjoy. And though she still quaked in the grip of her past fears, something else wound its way through that cold pool, something warm and serpentine, wicked and pleasurable at once.

He still held the nipple clamps. Like everything else Mason used in this room, they were handcrafted, the clamps fashioned as the jaws of two tiny silver tigers with glittering green eyes. They were like the tattoo on her back, the one that had transformed her scars into a declaration of her loyalty and devotion to him, the deepest reassurance possible. His and his alone. He meant that.

“You are learning, habiba.” As his voice dropped to a husky murmur, he took her nipple between forefinger and thumb, squeezing slowly, with greater pressure as he lifted his attention to her face, watching her breath draw in as he increased the vise, restricted the blood flow to it.

“I haven’t…seen those before.”

“I had them made for you. I didn’t anticipate using them so soon.” When he withdrew his fingers, the sensation shot straight to her pussy, then contracted there, hard, when he replaced his touch with the tiger’s jaws. Her breath sucked in. “Oh…”

“Yes, it hurts. But it is a pain I know you will embrace. More than once, you have climaxed when my fangs pierced that lovely pink circle around your nipple, when I licked your blood from it.”

She couldn’t find words, but cried out when he began that squeezing pressure on the other nipple, giving her the warmth of his fingers for that protracted moment before the second one went on. She writhed the tiny amount allowed against her multiple restraints, her throat arching as she pressed against the forehead strap.

“Ssshh…be still. Feel it spread out from your nipples. You are getting so wet. I can smell your cunt readying itself for me. You already want my cock there.”

“Yes…”

“You will be waiting a long, long time for that. Your punishment and my pleasure.”

There was a chain connecting the clamps, a y-chain whose silver tail ran down her belly and teased against her clit. Now he used one of those metal pieces he’d brought, attaching it to the end of the chain. The piece looked somewhat like a steel curtain pin. But she quickly understood its use when his fingers pressed down around her clit, pinching it up high so the narrow and long u-shape could slide along the base of that nerve rich center on either side. When he got the metal piece positioned and then released the sides, it instantly compressed her clit inside its grip. She whimpered at the sensation, but he paid her no attention, because he wasn’t done with this phase of her torment.

She moaned outright as he positioned the second metal piece. It was shaped like two crossed U shapes, forming a basket shape about the size of the broad head of a man’s cock. There were four smooth and rounded prongs on the edges. He slid the basket portion inside her pussy, stretching it open, and those prongs, like the clit clamp, pinched down on her labia on the outside to hold it inside of her. With her pussy spread open that way, she felt warm air enter that space, caressing her. Blood was throbbing down there, her arousal heightened by all the restrictions and manipulations, and she knew she was all but panting. Her eyes coursed hungrily over Mason. He was hard and thick against his jeans, but he moved with utter calm and control, as if he had all the time in the world.

In fact, he returned to his chair then, adjusting it so he could face her, peruse her at his leisure. Even at the sound of footsteps on the winding stairs, he didn’t so much as flicker an eye lash in that direction. She kept staring at him, her body so needy for him that she knew her hips were twitching against their restraints, shamelessly wanting to emulate the rhythm they would experience if he was thrusting into her.

“Lower your eyes, Jessica. You don’t have permission to look at me again until I command it.”

God, the cruelty of it. But it was diabolical as well, because it meant all her focus was now on what was happening in her body, and knowing he was taking his pleasure of viewing her, his property, his slave, as long as he wished. Amara was probably going to bring him the War and Peace she’d thought about earlier, along with those roses.

“My lord.” Amara’s soft voice, and Jessica heard something being placed on the table next to him, the roses in a heavy crystal vase perhaps. A tinier clink followed. “I also brought you a glass of wine, as you requested.”

“Thank you. That will be all.”

Short, dismissive. He hadn’t forgiven yet. Jessica had almost forgotten what events had led to this moment, and truth, she couldn’t really lend any thoughts to it. It was the oddest feeling, those tiger teeth holding her with such incredible discomfort, but discomfort that had her nipples large as cherries, throbbing for the soothing touch of his mouth, and her pussy opened up and clamped down at once, as if she’d been widened for a cock, but since no cock was there, she was dripping her arousal on the floor between her spread feet, a small, viscous pool.

Mason rose. She heard the rustle of his clothes, and knew it was deliberate, since he could move without any noise if he wished. When he stopped before her, she saw he had three white roses in his hands. He took the middle one, a bloom almost as wide as her hand even half-opened, and touched it to that pool, collecting her moisture off the otherwise pristine floor. She wasn’t supposed to lift her eyes, she knew, but she sensed him smelling it, could imagine those handsome nostrils flaring, taking in her scent, even perhaps touching his tongue to collect a drop off the silken petal, as he would if he put his mouth between her legs. A little cry came from her throat, incoherent need.

“Yes, you taste sweet, habiba. You and this rose together…it would win new prizes from an international rose competition. Smell yourself, and know that I find this the most prized of all scents in my garden.”

Putting the bloom to her mouth, he teased with it, and she did smell her scent in the exotic fragrance. She wanted to kiss that taste on his lips. Wanted to put her mouth everywhere. Oh, God, she didn’t know it was possible for pleasure to become agony.

“We are only getting started. You were right, what you thought earlier. Raithe didn’t know that true torture lies in an intricate working of pleasure, denial and pain. But you will know this. You’re already feeling the hint it, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “Yes, Master.” There was no challenge or manipulation now. Here in this place, under his command, there was no other acceptable way to address him. She embraced the title, embraced everything about him.

He lowered the rose then, slid it between her legs. She cried out harshly, the mere feel of it sliding over her compressed clit, then teasing into that opening between her spread labia, almost unbearably exciting. He pressed the rose partially up into that open channel of her pussy, twirling it idly, so it felt like tiny, silken tongues lapping at those slippery walls. Her body shuddered, convulsed, and she couldn’t keep track of all the noises coming from her throat, a symphony of involuntary responses to his stimulation.

“Lovely. I love to hear you sing.”

When she thought her brain might just shut down from all the sensations he was inflicting upon her, he changed tactics. He drew a tiny knife from the pocket of his jeans, one with a slim, silver blade that flashed out at the touch of his finger, and cut the stem. Setting that on the table, he gathered the rosebloom in his palm, compressed it, and then began to insert it into her stretched pussy. The bud was so large that, once there and released, it spread out against that metal frame, filled her. Her muscles held it, twitching along the silken sphere, contracting upon it. One petal had been dislodged and fell on her foot, a tiny caress.

“That will stay there for now. Having it stroke you in response to your barest movement will make you wetter. You will saturate it, and when you climax upon it, I will take it and have it preserved, glazed and put under glass, so it will go in my gallery, where I can gaze upon a very rare species of rose, Jessica’s Pleasure, whenever I wish. But you need pain, too, don’t you, my sweet slave?”

She couldn’t nod with her head held the way it was, but she was all his. Her mind had no sensible thoughts. He wasn’t bringing her toward climax. He was spinning an enchantment to keep her in such an intense state of arousal a climax might be torture when he was done, an overload of pleasure no one could survive.

“Oh, a thirdmark can, habiba. No worries on that. You are far more resilient than a mere human. But then, you always have been.”

He’d brought the second rose up to her wrist, caressed her pulse around the chain. Then he made her close her fingers around that bloom, hold it as he cut that stem. She watched that silver blade move, imagined him drawing it along her flesh, and the thought rippled across her nerves. But she couldn’t anticipate what he would do next. He pocketed the blade, and slid the stem beneath her forearm. She gasped when he used a pair of the small clips to turn it into a manacle there, cinching the thick stem tight enough the thorns bit into her flesh. And then he cinched it an extra half inch and she moaned as they pierced flesh, drawing blood. It was a hint of what his fangs felt like, sinking in, and her body responded accordingly, jerking against the pain and aching arousal at once.

Tears were gathering in her eyes. Not tears like Raithe pulled from her. This was destroying her, bit by bit. In some vague, hazy part of her mind, she realized she’d ceased worrying about Raithe from the first moment Mason had put the silver tigers upon her. Everything in her had centered upon him and what he was doing to her. Her Master was breaking her down, cell by cell, because when he was done, she would trust him utterly. Raithe would hold nothing in her mind but her contempt. Not even that. There was no room for that, for anything other than Mason.

“Look at me, Jessica.”

When she brought her wild gaze up to him, she met eyes of pure red and gold fire, his mouth tight with male lust and determination that inundated her with their heat. A thin trickle of blood was working its way down her arm from where those thorns were biting into her. His gaze went to that tiny flow even as he spoke, his voice a tiger’s growl.

“You thought, when I picked you up, that I was going to take you out of here. And I was.”

She swallowed, tried to form words. “W-why didn’t you?”

“It was your own thoughts, habiba. Your belief that a part of you would forever be Raithe’s slave if you couldn’t get past the fears. I told you at the beginning, I would tolerate no other male’s claim on you. Particularly that male’s. Who, if he’s not rotting in Hell, when I get there, I will find him and drag him to the eternal fires myself.”

She believed it, the dangerous edge in his voice.

“On my way home, you imagined me doing things to you…floggings, brandings. I could never take a whip to your soft flesh, or give you the searing torment of fire. But I can turn your yearning into the deepest suffering imaginable, an ache that goes on and on, binding your soul tighter and tighter, until you are pleading for mercy, yet not really wanting it, all at once.”

The tears rolled down her face, but she didn’t want him to stop. Maybe that was why she was crying. His hands cupped her face, thumbs spreading the moisture of those tears over her dry lips, and brought her eyes back to him again.

“There are twenty-one more roses behind me, habiba. You will feel the prick of all their thorns, the silk of their petals. You will bleed for me, come for me, beg for me. But in the end, I will bring you to utter stillness, because you will simply be mine. I will take your soul, chain it to me, and you will never fear anything again.”

I’m happy to report that A Vampire’s Keeper, Elisa and Mal’s story, was turned in to my editor today – woot, woot, woot! Today I’ll celebrate with a shower, a trip up the road to have lunch with my husband, and a movie tonight (Whip It, with Ellen Page. Never seen it, looks quirky and fun). Tomorrow I’ll jump feet first into Afterlife (Jon’s story, next in the Knights of the Board Room series), and Fairy research for Jacob and Lyssa Part III.

Counting down the days until Vampire Trinity’s early September release? I know I am! Looking forward to giving you all Part II of Gideon, Daegan and Anwyn’s journey together. In the meantime, I’ll have another segment of the ongoing Mason and Jessica vignette posted at the blog and fan forum by no later than Friday or Saturday, if all goes well. Hope that helps with the wait!

For those of you in the U.S., I wish you a happy Fourth of July weekend. Long live the red, white and blue, and all the ideals it represents! :>

Monday, June 14, 12noon Central to 12 midnight, I’ll be blogging at bittenbybooks.com about vampires. Come answer one of my questions and win a $50 Amazon gift certificate + one book title! Or, if you don’t want the certificate for some reason, you could win your choice of FOUR of my titles! The questions are fun, and Bitten by Books is a great site to find more books for your To Be Read list, so come on over. And, additional note, if you RSVP to this link, http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=25733, you get 25 additional entries in the contest!

And, if you can’t make that, and/or you’re not tired of me yet, on Thursday, Jun 17, I’ll be over at Over the Edge Book Reviews. They’ll post an interview with me that day, but 7-9pm EST that night, I’ll be on a live chat. And of course I’ll be giving away Vampire Mistress, or the book of the winner’s choice, if that winner would prefer something else. Bring your questions or whatever else you’d like to talk to me about, and we’ll have a great time.

Hope to see you at one or both. All right, on to the Lori Foster write up!

This year was the second time I’d attended RAGT, and as before, it was a pleasure. It’s a very low key atmosphere. Most of the event takes place in the main ballroom, where authors set up at round tables and readers are free to move among the tables to visit with the authors of their choice, get books signed, etc.

Please forgive my inept picture taking, but above was my table. Four authors were allowed at each table, so I had the delight of sitting with Cheryl Dragon, Desiree Holt (and her lovely daughter Amy) and the writing team of Violet Summers. I also came home with Cheryl’s Sexual Misconduct and Desiree’s Cocked & Loaded, so I’m looking forward to reading those when time allows.

I had the pleasure of meeting some new people, as well as touching base with past friends. I won’t be able to cover them all here, but let me hit a few.

Though I’ve talked with her many times via email to coordinate my book reviews with Long and Short of It / Whipped Cream Reviews, this was the first time I’d met Chris, who handles a lot of the administrative load for this wonderful site. She was so cheerful and enthusiastic, and gave me two keeper quotes that I’ve written down to keep for future smiles. First One: She’s an obsessive compulsive person like myself, only she categorizes it as CDO. “That’s OCD, in alphabetical order, as it should be!” (as any obsessive compulsive knows – lol). In describing my mermaid series to another reader as lighter than my usual BDSM fare, she characterized Jonah of Mermaid’s Kiss thusly: “He won’t tie her [Anna] up, but he’ll hold her down.” Priceless.

After the joy of meeting readers/reviewers, probably my second favorite thing about these conferences is the chance to talk to aspiring authors and authors on different rungs of the career ladder, so we can share information and help each other. I was greatly flattered to be approached by Kestra Gravier and thanked for the inspiration my work has provided her. Since we met last year, she’s been published by Siren Publishing and has a provocative free story over at Oysters and Chocolate called “Hangar”. On top of that, I had the joy of seeing J.A. Saare, who is a particular friend and strong supporter of my work. Her husband was brave enough to attend with her, and I consider her quite fortunate, since he’s kind enough to run out and buy my books for her (laughter). Seriously, they seemed like a wonderful couple. She and Wendi Zwaduk tag teamed me later to discuss books. On a normal day, I’m about as energetic as a sloth on Ambien, so being in the middle of their creative energy was a pure shot of adrenaline. Though I only had a pleasurable moment to chat with them, it was great to also see both Judi Fennell and Stephanie Julian again. (Judi and I did a mermaid workshop at Authors After Dark last year.)

I also discussed the pros and cons of balancing writing vs. family and dayjob demands with Ashley Ladd. Finally, Mary Hanson (pictured here) was attending the conference to absorb all lessons, big and small, about the writing journey. I hope to hear more about her work in the future. 

Saturday night, the wonderful DeNita Tuttle and Author Island hosted a pirate party, complete with fun pirate-related party games. Below is a great picture of Dotty in great pirate wench style. Dotty is one of my long term readers (who brought her delightful friend Lisa), and she’s posing with the fabulous two-woman writing team of Violet Summers. My friend Laura of Topaz Promotions (and a vital part of TwoLips Reviews)  decided that I completely suck at trivia games, particularly those that require a working knowledge of books. I couldn’t argue at all, seeing as I read an embarrassing dozen books a year these days due to all the editing/deadlines. It’s okay, though – she said she loved me anyhow. And I did mildly better on the historical pirate trivia games, thanks to the extensive research I did over ten years ago for Legacy of the Raven. (Nope, that one’s not yet published – a backburner labor of love, an epic fantasy novel that crosses historical romance with fantasy in the time of the Golden Age of Piracy.)

Anyhow, here’s another shot, featuring Pam, another fabulous reader, and the incomparable Stephanie Burke – known fondly as “Flash”. She and I had a marvelous conversation about her story idea involving a shape shifting sheep. At least that’s how I remember it – it was a crazy weekend (laughter).

One of the particularly nice things about the Lori Foster event is how much it is geared toward benefitting local charities. There was a wide variety of raffle baskets brought by authors, readers, and other book-related organizations. My vampire basket had a giant stuffed bat, the entire Vampire Queen series, and a $100 Barnes & Noble gift certificate, but it was hardly the most amazing basket – there were Kindles, Ipads and other things raffled off as well. All in all, the raffles raised about $5758 for One Way Farm. Money was also raised to support the troops and the local animal organization, Animal Adoption Foundation.

Anyhow, those are the highlights. Games, great conversations, good deeds, and a celebration of books and writing. Definitely a weekend well spent. All those who were there – I wish I could mention you all – thanks for making it such a great time!

* * * * *

Though he’d said his plane would land soon, she knew his definition of soon and hers were different in this instance. It was a good thing the third mark gave a servant’s body even more stamina, not just for exertion, but for stillness, because it took him several hours to get home. She’d actually expected it to take longer, so she’d gone into a near trance, keeping her eyes down, focused on her naked body as he commanded. But she wasn’t idle in that trance.

While she waited, her mind rewrote the words he’d spoken in her mind. And each time she did, she crafted them into a new scenario where she would serve at his pleasure. At first, she imagined just the two of them here, alone. He had her locked on a wheel rack, her body arched up toward him, muscles straining, and he was dripping candlewax over her breasts, tiny, artful patters of drops where she flinched and trembled at each heated touch. He would do it until the curves, the sensitive nipples, were fair molded beneath waxes flavored with vanilla, sandalwood, smoke. And then he’d smooth his fingers over those moldings, denying the skin beneath his touch, taunting her as he circled the tip of a hard, wax-coated nipple.

But she needed to be braver, and so she was. The next fantasy, she was here with him, but others were watching. He attached clamps to her nipples and clit, ran three silken ribbons from each of those attachments and gave the ends to nine in the audience. She had to dance for him as if they were alone, feeling the pressure of those ribbons tighten and slacken depending on which way she turned, how she undulated her hips, arched her back, lifted her foot and turned into the silken restraints. Eventually, he had all the ribbons again, and he bade her stand still as he increased the pressure on those tethers, pulling at the clamps on clit and nipples until the pain and pleasure were excruciating, until she begged him for mercy, to let her come to him. When he gave her permission, he had her turn, wrap herself in the ribbons, so that when she reached him she was immobilized. Then he laid her on a table where they could watch her, reach out and…

She had to back away from that one, move onto another. She’d also kept those nine watchers in the shadows, their faces blurred. She had to do better than that.

There was an oak chair in this dungeon room, a large chair for a powerful man. The kind of chair that would have been placed at the head of the table in a great hall, and it might in fact be from a medieval time period, for it had artwork reminiscent of that era carved in the tall back. In her next scenario, he sat in the chair and lifted her onto his lap, guided her down onto his cock, holding her back against his body as he faced her outward. The hands came, those faceless guests coming forward to cup her breasts, stroke her hair, her face. Fingers teased her parted lips, invaded and explored her mouth, and Mason whispered to her to suck on those fingers. Then they slid down her stomach, a wet trail, and painted that moisture on the stretched lips of her sex around his cock, stimulating the sense of fullness inside of her.

She realized she was imagining all those hands as his hands, as if she were in a room full of Masons, so every touch was his, no matter from which direction it came. She tried to imagine those hands as the hands of strangers, and found she had to accelerate it, like fast forward on the movie player. Then she had to take some time, breathe, get her nerves under control. She had to do better than this, damn it.

She kept going though, thinking up scene after scene, even venturing into dark areas of pain and restraint that made things inside of her stomach flop uneasily, while other parts of her body responded in an altogether different way as she imagined him doing the restraining, inflicting the pain.

If she kept up at this rate, she was going to have a new version of 1001 Nights laid out in her mind, just like Scheherazade. Only instead of trying to stave off her Fate at her lord’s hands, she was welcoming it. However, if he didn’t get here soon, she might just die from an explosion of bottled-up lust.

She was doing it to herself, of course. As she crafted her erotic stories, even with the jittering of nerves, arousal ebbed and flowed. Her nipples hardened into points under her gaze. What had dried in tracks on her smooth legs dampened anew as moisture gathered in her pussy, trickled along the pocket of her thigh, teased her knee cap. A few times during her more passionate imaginings, a shudder gripped her like a convulsion. If she tightened up enough, she might send herself over, just from her visions. But she of course refused herself. That was her Master’s decision.

He was silent in her mind, but now that he was in range, she hoped he saw every heated moment of every scenario. If he would talk to her, he might embellish them with ideas of his own. Not just to share as a story, but as a promised future reality where he would add the ruthless carnality of his vampire nature to the mix, taking each fantasy to an even deeper, more intense level. She was ready for it. She was sure of it.

She’d reached fifty-six detailed erotic vignettes and staved off several near misses in bringing herself to orgasm when she suddenly felt him. He was home.

His presence in the house was the difference between a gray shadow, half-dream state and full-bodied color and life, sweeping through her. She gave a soft prayer of thanks for his safe return, for the fact he was a part of her life. It was something she did every time he came back to her, and though he didn’t yet speak to her, or give her leave to speak in his mind, he let her feel the reassuring touch of his presence, responding to that fervent thanks with a brief sense of tenderness. No matter how she’d goaded his temper, he loved her. She knew that was what was most important, and she was willing to do whatever he wanted from her, but she couldn’t retreat from this. Tightening her chin, she knew she’d fight him on that, if she had to do it.

As soon as she had the stray thought, the tenderness became something different, heat with a dangerous edge. Despite his acknowledgment of her prayer, his feelings about what she’d done had not mellowed or abated. He was an extremely old vampire for his kind, and despite his reclusive nature from the vampire world, in some ways he was even more unyielding on matters of obedience and respect than the other Council members. She also knew he had a way of considering things from all angles, exploring his options thoroughly before he decided exactly how he would handle a situation. And he’d had three hours to decide how he would deal with her.

Though he didn’t speak, he did open a visual channel into his mind for her. He went to his room first, rather than coming to her first thing. He blocked her from his thoughts, but she saw him leave the suitcase on the bed. Enrique would put things away for him, of course. Mason slid off his tie, the silk of it slipping through his long fingers. Through his eyes she watched as he unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it off his shoulders, giving her a glimpse of the tiger tattoo sketched into his flesh, marked with his blood to hold it there. She swallowed on a dry throat at how that tiger rippled as he tossed the shirt over a chair. He unhooked his trousers, a simple, casual gesture that sent her pulse rabbiting. She could only see through his eyes, but she could imagine how they dropped low on his hips. He was moving with that catlike way of walking he had, that striated terrain at his abdomen shifting as he moved into the bathroom and–for the love of fucking God–turned on the shower.

She’d stirred herself to near climax by imagining all the different ways she could serve him, be taken over by him. One of them had featured her on her knees in his shower, taking him in her mouth, the head of his cock pushing deep into her throat. Her eyes were shut from the spray of the water, everything focused on his scent, the heated steam, the clutch of his hand in her hair. Only she wasn’t really there. She was here, looking through his viewpoint as he ran soap along his broad chest, then down, sliding his hand around the base of an enormously erect cock rising from between powerful thighs, a nest of heavy testicles. Her pussy contracted on itself, weeping anew, and her palms were sweating as she held them in tight fists.

She wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t cry out or plea. This might be Mason underscoring the control he held as her Master, which, in a torturous way, was an encouraging sign. This was part of her punishment. Still, the size of that erection said he’d most definitely been listening to the different stories she’d imagined. Fifty-six vignettes, filled with salacious details that, for as indepth as she’d thought they’d been, didn’t come close to this mind-view of his body. She’d missed having him sheltering her at night as she slept, how often he touched her and allowed himself to be touched. And now here he was, so close it felt like she could reach down through his gaze and caress that hard organ, the line of hip and thigh. She wanted to be pressed up against him, nipping that chest, curling her hands in his wet long hair, the long copper strands gone to near black in the shower. She’d reach around to soap the muscular buttocks and his hands would close over her wrists as she tried to tease the seam between. His smile, the light in his eyes, could make her heart stutter. He loved it when she played with him like a mischievous child.

But now she experienced all that through this screen, this distance, that left her hands and her body empty. He was too far away, and she couldn’t bear it another moment. She wanted to get up, run up those stairs, run to that shower. She didn’t though, but it was a near thing. She was breathing fast, a sob catching in her throat.

He didn’t linger overlong there, thank all the gods. He pulled on jeans and a close-fitting long sleeved tee, pushing up the sleeves. He didn’t bother with anything beneath the denim, and she knew just how good his lower body looked in it. As an Old World male, he wore dress clothes as easily as many men wore jeans, though he looked devastating in both. She preferred him in Bedouin robes most of all. When his arms closed around her, she could find his body through the wide sleeves or open front, if he only wore a tunic. But tonight, the jeans and knit shirt that delineated that mouthwatering physique worked for her.

He still didn’t come to her. He ordered a glass of wine from the kitchen staff, and partook of it by himself in the dining room. He asked them to light the brace of candles on the table and spent some time studying the tapers while he sipped the wine. As he considered the way the ivory wax dripped down the sides and pooled in the silver catch tray, she wondered if he was imagining her first scenario, dripping hot wax on her flesh. As he studied the flame, Melinda, one of the kitchen girls, brought him a small sampling of fruit and cheese. His gaze shifted and alighted on a peach half, the mauve-orange deep color. The fruit was so ripe it glistened with the juices along where it had been cut just now.

Oh, holy hell.

Jess swallowed as he picked it up, turned it over to the peel side to stroke that light fuzz that was like a woman’s skin. When he returned to the fruit portion, he slid his finger along the valley where the pit had been cut away, leaving just a channel of slick flesh to taste. As he traced that area, he put pressure on it, making the juices swell around his fingertip. It made his knuckle, start to glisten, the way it did when he slid his fingers inside of her, stroked the walls of her pussy and made her writhe under his clever touch.

When he brought the peach to his mouth, she couldn’t see through his eyes, but she was tormented by other senses. He nibbled at it, licked and sucked the juices away, and she felt every stroke of the tongue, the prick of his teeth, in the sound of his enjoyment of the fruit. He loved watching her climax from his mouth, and he did it often, sometimes waking her from sleep with his lips between her legs, his tongue pushing into her pussy and swirling her into pleasurable waking.

“My lord…” She’d made the hushed plea before she could help herself, and spoken aloud, the syllables echoing in the chamber.

He didn’t respond, but he did put down the fruit and take another swallow of his wine. Then he rose and left the room. If he wandered off to his favored reading room to give War and Peace a leisurely perusal, she swore she was going to find something pointy and wooden and go after him with a vengeance.

The brief moment of desperate humor disappeared, though. He was in fact headed for the dungeon, and as he came in her direction, that silent, pensive intensity became something else. Studied, focused and deliberate, more than a hint of dangerous heat coming off of him. Mason was not a dramatic or overly vain man. She already knew the shower, the wine and fruit had not been idle teasing. He’d been making a point, driving up her need to an excruciating level simply because he could demand that from her. He could demand it from her eternally and endlessly. For the first time since she’d launched her goal to get Mason to remove the kid gloves, she realized he’d always known just how to dish out a Master’s torment. In fact, she had a feeling he could make Raithe look like an amateur. Whereas Raithe had copped out, using terror and pain, Mason could destroy a woman utterly with mere sensual command of all her senses, taking over her mind and soul at once.

He didn’t speak to Enrique or Amara, either. That sent a trickle of nervousness through her, because she had wanted to hear the rumble of his voice, get some sense of his mood from it. His silence gave things a more ominous tone. Had he spoken in their minds, or sent them off with a look that told them they were dismissed and he would handle their part in this later? Regardless, she heard the sounds of their retreat, leaving her alone with him…and this dungeon room.

She started trembling in earnest the moment he started down the stairs. He was barefoot, but he wasn’t less intimidating out of his shoes. She made herself stay as he’d bade her, eyes down, robe pooled about her naked form. As he’d ordered, Mara had turned up the heat, so all during her wait she’d felt the warmth of the vented air at her back. Now, though, she wished the room had been cold. She wanted to give him that gift, rely on his body alone to drive the cold back, bring warmth back to her skin.

He’d stopped in the doorway, and she felt his gaze on her now. She could hear her breath, the quick patter of her pulse. Oh, how she wanted to look at him, drink in every inch of him with her eyes. She could smell his scent, that unique musk, a male cologne and Mason mix that reminded her of desert sand and hot sun, jasmine blooms.

Having you shiver with cold would not please me, habiba. As your Master, I will not permit you a moment of distress.

She didn’t want to do anything to keep him from touching her one second longer than necessary, but she reminded herself of the stakes here, what she had to win. “If that’s the case,” she said softly, “then I’ve failed you, my lord. Because every time you leave me, I feel nothing but distress. Until you return.”

Silence. She closed her eyes, holding onto her resolve with everything she had, for in a minute she would abandon it just to feel his arms around her. Then he muttered an oath in Arabic, low and vicious. Before she could think of how to reply, or if a reply was even necessary, he was in front of her. As she opened her eyes, she had a glimpse of those bare feet, the columns of his thighs and what they cradled in denim between them. He kept her pressed down on her knees with a hand that coiled into her hair. She reveled in that single touch. Oh, how she wanted to lift up on her knees, catch her fingers in his belt loops and press her mouth against that line of taut skin just above the waistband, dipping beneath the hem of the shirt.

Lock your wrists behind you, habiba. You have no permission to touch me.

She obeyed, but then those hands tangling in her hair pulled her back with enough strength she felt his ability to snap her neck. It conveyed his temper, even as it put her in a position to look into his face.

But she didn’t. She made herself keep her eyes down. It would drive her completely crazy to sit here, to experience him through all her senses but sight. He could make her do this for hours until she might be weeping with the desire to look at him, but she still wouldn’t lift her gaze until he commanded her to do so. She would prove her devotion, her commitment to him, the fact she could obey him without question or thought, no matter what she was asked to do. Anything to stay by his side.

Even in her mind, she knew that sounded too desperate, too raw, but she would hide nothing from him. He might pick up that note of distress, but everything she was thinking was true. The desire to submit, surrender to a Master, was a part of her soul Raithe had exploited and warped. His most heinous crime against her was making her believe it was wrong. Mason had healed that, had brought that part of her to a depth and intensity she kept wanting to take deeper and deeper, every day. Looking at that way, it was really all his fault she had this limitless need to serve him, right?

Okay, she’d pushed it with that one. The next creative oath was fervent enough to tell her she was in serious trouble. She just wasn’t sure what kind yet. It wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t have done this if she couldn’t handle the consequences. She was ready for that. But she wasn’t ready for his next words.

He tightened his grip, pulling at her scalp, his thumb pressed just beneath her ear. “On the way here, I realized you were right about one thing. I haven’t fully asserted myself as your Master. Otherwise, you would not have so utterly mistaken what I require from you.”

The velvet growl of his voice was stern, unyielding. It was a note she’d heard him use before with Enrique and Mara, but never with her. Not yet. Now that it was turned full force in her direction, it gave her anticipatory shivers, but the words themselves stopped her in her tracks.

“M-my lord?”

Instead of answering, he jerked up her chin with two fingers, filled her gaze with fierce amber eyes and the planes of a ruthlessly handsome face. It was a flash impression, for a moment later, he clamped his hot and demanding mouth over hers.

Oh, God. Bliss. It didn’t matter that the kiss was relentless, brutal. He wasn’t just demanding complete submission from her. He was taking it, with the erotic thrust of his tongue and the strength of his hand, sliding from her chin to take a firm grip of her throat, holding her in place and controlling the kiss entirely.

This was an entirely different energy from him, something she’d only caught hints and promises of…until now. While she couldn’t deny feeling a trickle of apprehension from it, it wasn’t a shadow of Raithe. It was the sensual thrill of fear a submissive was supposed to feel from a Master like this. She couldn’t stop the tremor through every muscle in her body, but she could open her mind to him fully, hope he was seeing how it was different with him.

Just his hand on her throat and their mouths touching, yet she fairly screwed her clasped hands into a knot at her back trying to keep them there. Her thighs were so slick she thought she’d never been so wet without a climax. She whimpered into his mouth, reveling in those strong fingers, the overwhelming mouth.

When he lifted his head, she could barely remember what he’d said, but at his stern, uncompromising stare, she forced herself to recall it, moistening her lips to speak, though it was little more than a whisper. “Wh-what have I mistaken, my lord?”

“The reason I do not take you with me to Council meetings has nothing to do with your past. For all that I cannot tolerate knowing that you still struggle with your nightmares—”

“But you make them better.”

“Jessica.” He pressed that clever mouth to her temple, his hand squeezing. His fingers were so long they could almost reach her nape. “If you speak without leave again I will gag you with the thickest phallus I can find on that wall, one long enough to press into the back of your throat, remind you of what it’s like to take my cock there. I would get a particular pleasure at seeing those clever lips of yours stretched hard around it when you climax.”

He knew her terror of sexual toys, but he called one forth now, gave her the vivid image of him making her open her mouth for it, take it all the way in and then remain still as he strapped it around her head. The fear she felt dissipated at the sensual imagining of his hands, the way his eyes would dwell, hot and desire-filled, on her face, lingering on her lips.

“Now,” he continued, a dangerous predator’s purring edge, “you will listen and hear your Master. The reason I do not take you with me is this. I will not tolerate another man’s hands on you. Period.”

Enough savagery was injected into his tone that instinct kept her still, though the astounding words themselves froze her in place, their meaning wrapping around her heart, a binding and confirmation at once.

“When Lyssa and Danny brought Jacob and Dev here, certain things were different that night. But still, I warned you even then.” He shifted, letting her see he was studying the room around them. “While all of this was not a wise course of action, it was goaded by what you correctly sensed. As you have grown more confident in your trust in me, my desire to be a more lighthanded Master has steadily evaporated. And perhaps you are ready for that. We will see. But first, we will get one thing very clear.”

He tilted up her face so she was so close to those eyes that amber flame was all she saw. “You are mine. As I told you from the plane, when I saw Enrique’s hands on you”—now he changed his angle, bringing her head down so his breath whispered over her cheek—“I was ready to tear him to pieces.”

She knew he was a lethal opponent, had seen that side of him in life threatening situations. But even having seen that, the male holding her now was revealing the animal side of his nature more decidedly than she’d ever experienced. It was all directed at her, the full weight of it.

“I am not like other vampires, habiba. Have you forgotten? Three hundred some years ago, I handfasted with a Bedouin girl. There was a reason who and what she was appealed to me. Though I don’t agree with the brutality, the abuse of power that can come with restricting women’s lives, I have a full understanding of the male need to protect what he considers his, on every level. It’s part of who and what I am. Do you understand me?”

“Y-yes. I think so.”

“Yes, what?” His tone sharpened, another delicious and new thrill.

“Yes, Master.”

“I doubt you actually do. But by the time we are done in here, you will. You will be very, very clear on what kind of Master I am.”