Ice Queen (14 page)

Her eyes had transitioned from frost to outright arctic snow and he made a mental note of where the sharp implements on the table were. Of course if she decided to dump the tea on his groin he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop that, based on the open position of his body to her, a calculated risk he hoped he wouldn’t regret.

“Are you finished playing psychotherapist? Can you just get to the part where you prescribe me some mind-numbing drugs to keep me from having to listen to your bullshit?”

“I believe you’re supposed to ask for permission before you speak.”

“May I speak, then?”

“You may.”

“Go to hell.”

“Hmmm…” He considered her, his eyes drifting downward. “Is your bra front-closing or behind? Answer me and I’ll change the subject.” She swallowed, a muscle in her jaw twitching. “Behind.” He touched the front of the starched stiff fabric of the dress shirt she wore and slipped a button, then another. She began to tremble again.

“You’re shaking, angel.”

“I can’t stop.” Her voice wobbled, even as her body got more defensively rigid.

“I know. It’s normal. You haven’t handled many first-time subs. They tend to get shaky.”

“Even when they’re just pretending?”

He glanced at her. Spreading open the fabric, he worked it off the point of her shoulders but no farther, intending to increase the sense of constriction on her upper body. “Arch for me, sweetheart.”

She did, stiffly. His hands slid into the shirt and to the back, spanning her rib cage.

It brought her into his light embrace, his chest close to her breasts.

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Her cheek brushed his shoulder and the side of his neck, suggesting that it might be comfortable to lay her head there, relax in his embrace, see what that felt like.

Marguerite felt torn between rage and lust and something softer, far more difficult for her to manage.

“You know—” his fingers were on the hooked clasp, “sometimes holding on to someone for just a moment can make you feel more connected.”

“A hug, to make us feel on equal footing?”

His free hand clasped her throat, tilting her chin up with the pressure of his knuckle so her head was at somewhat of an uncomfortable angle. His lips were just over hers, his fingers tracing that hook in the back. “We’re not equals, Marguerite. For this weekend, I’m your Master.”

The catch released and the bra loosened. He shifted his grip, took the straps just off her shoulders and then tugged downward, bringing the bra into a roll of cloth just under her now bare breasts. It was a dishabille pose, her hair on her shoulders, clothes not nearly removed and her upper body tangled in them, giving him easy access and her little freedom of movement. “You’ll look at me now, Marguerite.” When she raised her head, her features rigid in protest, he drew back, studied her, his gaze slowly traveling down her throat to the breasts now bare to his gaze. Then he picked up his fork, speared some of the spinach and red lettuce salad. It was cool to her overheated senses when he put it between her trembling lips.

“This is a raspberry vinaigrette dressing. The salad has dried cherries, parmesan, slivered almonds and some other things I think you’ll like.” He didn’t make her say anything further, simply took his time, examining her body at his leisure as he fed her one bite at a time, moving from the salad to a sweet cornbread, crumbs tumbling down her front. Then back to some more of the soup.

Simple, nourishing food of excellent quality that told her Sarah took very good care of him. As her anger ebbed in the quiet, it made her wonder what it would be like, to care for a man like Tyler.

He’d been helping himself to an occasional bite and abruptly she lifted a hand, rubbing a thumb at a corner of his mouth where some of the dressing glistened, a small piece of basil he’d missed. Even as she did it, she felt the constriction of the sleeves of her shirt, the straps of the bra pressing into her upper arms and remembered she wasn’t supposed to lift her hands.

But he let her do it, his eyes intent on her. He waited until she was finished, then he took her hand in his. “You need to remember my commands, or I’ll have to think up new ones that you can remember better.”

Instead of placing her hand back under her thigh, he guided it over the leg, turned it inward, his cupping hers. Sliding her fingers under her body at the juncture of her legs, he made the heel of her hand press her clit. The pressure tightened her thighs causing her to exhale sharply, an unfamiliar sensation springing just above and beneath her touch. She forced herself to keep her hips still.

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“Full enough?”

She nodded.

“Good. I’m in the mood for dessert. Keep your hand where it is.” He put down the spoon and cupped her bare breasts, inserting the one hand in between her side and the arm she had holding herself. He weighed the curves in his palms, kneaded. She shuddered as his thumbs brushed over her nipples and they drew tighter under his touch. His eyes flared with desire but his tone stayed mild, as if they were in an elegant restaurant.

“Be still, let me touch you. You should be open to my desire to caress you at any time. At this dinner table, in the garden, in the bedroom, everywhere I command.” She worked so hard to keep everything under control inside her but here was need rolling up and over her, tumbling her like an ocean wave, pounding upon her. Anxiety rushed in, the inability to breathe. Only moments ago, he’d been prying into her life as if he had every right to her secrets. Now she was sitting here yearning for more of him.

She lunged back, as far away from his touch as her limited position allowed, her hand closing into a fist on the handle of the fork. Gasped as his much larger hand clamped down over it, held her there. She could not move her hand, his strength literally pinning it to the table, holding her arm so it immobilized the rest of her. The tension of muscle in his thigh against her hip told her he was more than ready to combat any other movements.

“Breathe, angel,” he said. “Breathe. Look at me.
Look at me
.” He snapped the command apparently to jerk her attention to him. Once he had it, his voice immediately softened. “Let go of the fork. Focus on my voice, my commands.

That’s the only responsibility you have, remember? To obey my commands.” Her breath rasped out of her. When her hand tightened on the fork, the strength of his grip increased, not hurting her but making it clear she would not move that hand if he didn’t want her to do so. “You let go of that fork, turn your hand over and lace your fingers with mine. Or else we’ll go directly to the spanking lesson.” Didn’t he understand? He was acting like this was normal, when she was so close to everything being white noise, inside and out, a void of nothing, a buzzing that would drive her insane.

“Breathe.” His other hand held her opposite arm to her side but now his hold eased, his amber eyes intent on her face as he watched her reactions closely. “I know violence rides very close beneath your civilized veneer. Too close. I know that the tea ceremony and the careful rituals at The Zone all help to keep it leashed, but it doesn’t take that much to snap that leash, does it? You can run wild with me, let it all out. I can handle you. But you won’t use it to drive me away. Let go of the fork and hold my hand.

Breathe. Deep breath.”

It was coming easier now, the oxygen in and out of her lungs, the prickling heat of the rage no longer irritating her to the point of insanity. It was because of his voice. She 85

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was holding on to it, using its rich tone to steady herself, its mixture of implacable demand and soothing calm.

“Tyler.” She closed her eyes. “Talk some more. Please.” He gave himself a moment just to look at her, his ice queen. So somber and tense, believing this was something she had to survive and tolerate instead of experiencing.

Savoring.

He wanted to do several things. He wanted her to trust him enough that he could curl her up in his arms, take her to a quiet, dark room and simply hold her until the nervous vibration of her limbs and the sick panic in her eyes were gone and no longer tearing at his heart. But to do that, he had to get her to believe he could protect her from her fears.

“I’ve got a better idea.”

He released her hand and her arm and put his hands back inside the shirt, around her rib cage. Placing his mouth over her left nipple, he drew her in, suckling, moving his arms all the way around her to bring her to the end of the chair such that his knee came to rest against her mons.

Her fingers on the outside hand clutched at air then latched on to his thigh, her back arching as his grip increased, holding her to him, allowing him to nurse her sweet taste. He’d never felt skin so smooth. The nipple in his mouth had an exotic flavor, the tight point as aroused as he could wish.

She was making silent little puffs of air through her nose as if fighting her vocal cords, forbidding them response. Her body was a rubber band drawn to maximum stress beneath his touch. Rocking his foot, he rubbed the bones of his kneecap up and down her clit. Slow strokes, and imagined his tongue doing the same. He promised himself he’d taste her there before the weekend was done, see if this same flavor was between her legs or if it was something even sweeter. He nipped her with his teeth and she gasped, her hand rising to grip his hair. Lowering his hand, he unhooked the opening of her slacks and pushed down the zipper, moving inside and searching past the wrinkled fabric of her tucked shirt to find the lace and silk of her panties.

Neither boxers nor briefs then. Despite her frantic tugging on his hair, part uncontrolled passion and part denial of what he was doing, he slid two fingers into her heat. His thumb worked her clit in circles as he continued to keep her trapped with one arm around her back, his mouth on her breast. When he ran his tongue in between them and moved to the other one, he saw in the corner of his eye that she was staring with glazed eyes at the distended nipple wet from his mouth. Her hips were making tiny jerks against his hand, and he heard her voice, tiny, breathless noises, a word.

“No…no…no…”

“Yes.” He growled it against her flesh, maddened by her resistance, knowing she was responding to him as he’d never seen her respond to anyone. He would have all of it, all of her. He began to move his fingers inside her, teasing the silken walls, keeping up his massage on her clit. Her body gathered. Something in her eyes said she couldn’t 86

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go over, was too terrified of where he was pushing her. Then she released the fork with a clang of metal against the table and grabbed his upper arm, her fingers digging into him.

He made his decision and broke her rule. Letting go of her breast, he covered her mouth with his, making that ultimate connection to drive her to climax. Rising up so he was half over her, he pushed her back in the chair so it was on two legs. Her hands clung to his shirt at his waist just above his jeans as he felt the soft slippery bud of flesh quiver, harden, heat beneath his touch.

“Come for me, Marguerite,” he whispered roughly.

There was nothing easy about it. She reacted as if her mind was fighting every wave but the body would not be denied. She bucked, small movements on the chair, her grip slipping to his thighs, clutching at his hips as the orgasm took her so violently that she broke free of his mouth. When she tucked her head under his chin a small moan came out of her. She pressed against his chest, holding back the sound as she jerked, her breath shallow and fast.

It reminded him of the aftermath of a seizure, the disorientation, the twitching of the limbs. A moment of unease gripped him, making him wonder if he was in over his head after all.

Then he remembered his words to Violet. Something or someone had made Marguerite into this. But he believed that her strength and the intriguing combination of items she’d become were in spite of those circumstances, not just because of them.

He could handle this. They both could. Because at least for this weekend she was his. And he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.

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Before she could recover her wits and try to re-weld her considerable shields in place, he bent and lifted her up in his arms, guiding her arm so it was around his neck.

Her other hand stayed curled in his shirt front as he lifted her, turned and moved out of the living area toward the wide staircase to the second landing.

“What are you doing? Why are you—”

“Carrying you.”

“Put me down.” Her voice was weak, her body still moving with sexy convulsive shudders that made his cock even harder.

“That’s ‘Put me down, Master’, and it should have a please at the front and a question mark at the end.”

Marguerite ground her teeth. “Would you please put me down?”

“No. Just hold on.”

She tightened her grip but realized immediately she was quite safe. She’d never thought of herself as a woman who could be carried, because of her height and just…

Well, because it had never occurred to her. Since he wouldn’t release her she was forced to experience being held in a man’s arms, a man apparently strong and balanced enough to carry her up the stairs two at a time with nary a break in pace. It put her body in close proximity to his, of course. Her arm around his neck, her side pressed against him and the cloth of her open shirt crumpled in between. Her breasts were still bare, such that he was indulging himself in a thorough study of their liberal movements caused by his strides.

“You should keep your eyes on the road,” she said, noting how far up the stairs they were.

“Marguerite, in another minute, I’m going to gag you.”

“I thought we’d already covered restraints.”

“First off, there may be overlap in the requirements that will bring restraints into play again. Second, a gag is not a restraint. It’s a life-saving device to keep me from strangling you. Hush now.”

“My suitcase—”

“Robert put it in our room.”

“Our room. What—” She closed her eyes at his look. Sucking in a deep breath, she made a concentrated effort to try and conform to the rules. “May I ask a question?”

“You may.”

“Why would we be sharing a bedroom?”

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“You know the answer to that. Being a sub is about being available to your Master’s desires at all times.”

She would be sharing the same room with him, possibly the same bed. And while she’d laid down the rule of no sex, how could she have anticipated or even framed a rule of “no intimacy”? She would have been better off allowing sex and then perhaps he wouldn’t have put so much effort into the other. Or perhaps the best way to have avoided the trap was not to have faced the hunter at all.

He took her into a bathroom large enough to be a master bedroom. With its separate sauna and hot tub it reminded her of the kind of bathhouse the Romans might have favored. Towels stacked next to a tray covered by a hand towel drew her attention to a shallow square tub filled with steaming water about three feet deep. He lowered her to her feet as effortlessly as he had lifted her and she found she needed to hold on to him a moment to steady herself, the aftereffects of the orgasm still affecting her.

“I’m going to undress you and lay you in that pool, massage your muscles with the jets.” He drew her forward and uncovered the tray, revealing a gleaming line of shaving implements, lotions and creams. “And when you’re lying there relaxed, I’ll spread your legs and shave your pussy. Make it smooth for my touch. Preparing and handling a sub’s body intimately is a critical part of being a submissive and a pleasure to a Master.”

He was sure she had no idea she’d gone as white as a sheet. Calling on the streak of ruthlessness that he’d employed before in the face of a sub’s fear, he used it now with calculated, benevolent intent. Knowing the woman in his bathroom was off balance because the world she’d known was tilting on its axis, he was determined to have her tumble safely into his hands.

“Think about your subs. Those preparations you’ve chosen to do yourself.

Understanding what they were feeling as they submitted to your touch, knowing everything you did to them was your Will. Because it brought you pleasure and them pleasure as well. All right?”

She nodded, a bare movement, her gaze on something distant. Using a finger under her chin, he lifted her face. “Unlike some Masters, Marguerite, remember, I want you to always look at me when I speak at you.”

When she raised her lashes, those clear pale eyes focused on his. His heart lurched at the visible attempt to keep panic under wraps. This was more than a Domme wary or even anxious about losing control. From her violent reaction at the table, he knew it sincerely frightened her.

Taking both of her hands, he held them, encasing ice in warmth. Letting her feel the pressure of his fingers. “I’m going to undress you now. You’ll stay still, only moving when I tell you that you have permission to move. Tell me you understand.” She nodded again, a quick jerk.

When he unbuttoned her cuffs and took the shirt off then the bra, Marguerite couldn’t help but notice the gentle strength of his hands. She often shied away from 89

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being touched by adults, though she could manage the casual cordial touches that typified Southern relations in her tearoom with clients like Mrs. Allen. The few times a man had touched her she’d been neutral about it, uncertain or decidedly uncomfortable.

This felt different, this slow glide of skin over skin, again that heat sinking into her, the power that could take her over, force her physically to do what she didn’t think she wanted to do.

Her unfastened trousers were low on her hips and he slipped those down her legs, circling her hips with one arm to steady her, his palm comfortably braced on her buttock as he removed her shoes.

While she did prepare her subs herself to a certain extent, she knew that he was aware she mainly focused on restraints. This intimacy she did not do. She usually had her subs undress themselves if they were not already restrained but oddly it did not seem servile for him to be attending to it. It felt like he’d taken the reins from her and was handling everything. Keeping it personal.

When he took her slacks over her feet she had nowhere but his shoulders to place her hands for balance, so she cupped one palm over the solid bone and muscle, feeling the fabric of his shirt, the shift of his body as he removed her panties. His thumbs slid intimately into the crease between thigh and pubis, making her feel the slick moisture there because of the startling climax he had pulled from her body. It wouldn’t happen again. He’d caught her off guard. Her experiencing sexual pleasure wasn’t one of the requirements and she needed to exercise better control. He probably thought her a poor Mistress, so quickly gotten off.

Why did she care what he thought? And why was she vacillating between professional pride and female vulnerability?

“You’re thinking so hard there’s smoke coming out of your ears.” He rubbed his thumb over her clit, making her gasp. “You’re still swollen there. You’ll arouse again in no time. You’re so beautiful, angel.”

She blinked, surprised. She hadn’t anticipated romance but it was in his face and voice as he looked at her. The sternness of a Master was in the set of his jaw and eyes, the resolution. That, along with the proprietary gaze he directed over her body created resentment but she knew that was knee-jerk and likely based on fear. Below that was something else, something that left her a little breathless and weak-kneed, an altogether perplexing reaction for her.

His gaze descended, lingered on the ragged scar just below her knee, an oblong, rough-edged mark.

“Looks like a bone came through there.” He went lower, to the second one at her shin. “And there.” His fingers touched it. “Part your thighs for me.” Determined not to hesitate, she took one step out, as rigid as a soldier. But it seemed her muscles could not help tensing as his touch followed the inside line of her thigh.

She had to will herself not to clamp her thighs shut. “Clasp your hands behind your back, Marguerite.”

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The classic sub pose, allowing the Master unimpeded access to touch anything he wished. Legs spread, arms self-restrained and out of the way. His thumb and forefinger gently pinched her clit again, then he combed through the soft down of clipped hair over her pussy, his attention traveling up to her breasts, now tilted up from his ordered pose.

“You’ll be lovely shaved.”

“Why is it that men like a woman’s pussy so bare?”

“To see it better, of course. And because a woman reacts so much more intensely when the skin is exposed to the least amount of friction. You keep yours nicely trimmed, though. Why do you, since you rarely take your clothes off at The Zone?”

“I…I like the way it feels. Shorter.”

“Hmm. Well, it’s about to be not only short but gone.” When he pressed a control, she watched amazed as a stone square slab rose up in the center of the bathing pool until it was about six inches from the surface of the water. There were eye bolts embedded along the sides. Then he drew a full head mask from between two of the bathing towels. The mask only had one opening, for the mouth.

“When I lay you down on that tablet, I’ll put this on you and bind your legs, arms and upper torso securely using those bolts.” His voice was mild, inexorable, his eyes pinning her in place. “Once I have you immobilized with the mask on, I’ll tilt the stone tablet so your head and upper body just past the breasts will be below the surface of the water. Your hips, pussy and ass will be just above it, elevated so I can do a better job of removing the hair.” He picked up a soft rubber tube and mouthpiece. “This will allow you to breathe.”

She stared at him. “Well, I guess when I said do it all at once…” She broke off, took a step back. Then another. “I… No. Please don’t make me do this.” Her fingers curled into fists, ready to fight, to claw, to do whatever needed to be done.

He sat down, a hip on the edge of the bathing pool, studied her with an expression that was far too compassionate. “You’re not a prisoner here.”

“Yes, I am. Because I know I have to do this as long as you’re asking it. But if you don’t ask, I don’t have to.”
I won’t have failed. I’m not a coward.

He nodded. “I can see how you’d see it that way. But Marguerite, listen to me. I know how hard this is for you. It seems daunting, terrible. But remember what we talked about earlier, what this whole weekend is about?”

“Letting go of control.”

“Yes. But more importantly it’s about trust. I have to keep reminding you of that.

Learning that you can trust your Master. Can you trust me?” She opened her hands, drew in a breath. He waited on her. Gave her the time and space to pull it all back together, steady herself. At length, she lifted her gaze to his.

“I want to.”

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“All right, then.” Tyler resisted the overwhelming urge to draw her into his arms, hold her close until she realized she didn’t always have to manage her fear alone. “I’m going to do a little more explaining. I didn’t choose this idly, or to make you panic. The whole process I described centers you on just one sensation. Physical touch. You’re aware of your total helplessness. The only thing that tells you what’s happening is my touch on your body. And gradually your thoughts will float away and there will only be sensation. When that happens, your fear will float away. You’ll start to feel pleasure in that stillness. ‘God is in the silence’,” he reminded her. “It was your scroll that made me think of it.”

“In the empty space,” she murmured.

“You can do this, because you aren’t doing it alone. I won’t leave you for a second.

You’ll feel no pain. You’ll sense nothing but my hands on you, your Master’s hands your only focus.”

She closed her eyes so she could say it, a child’s question. “You won’t leave me there?”

“You have my word, angel.” He touched her mouth with his fingers and she opened her eyes to find him in front of her. “I won’t be more than two feet from you at any time. I swear.”

“You’re not doing the things I expected. Making me call you Master, get on my knees and suck your cock.”

He winced. “Is that how you do it with your subs? Just strip, let me tie you up and I’ll torment you until I get you off?”

She looked startled, then inclined her head. “Touché.”

“That said, with male subs it is likely more physical,” he acknowledged. “What they want is simpler. They don’t necessarily play a lot of games with themselves about sex. Women are more emotionally complex. Sometimes they don’t know what it is they want until they feel it, and it can change from session to session.” He smiled. “It makes being a heterosexual Master very challenging.

“There’s a time and a place for passion, the rise of possession in its rougher forms.

But a submissive’s surrender is a sweet, sweet gift. And perhaps a male sub comes to it in a more primal state. Most Masters enjoy the process of wooing, of winning that gift.

And every woman is different.”

“You must think I’m incredibly foolish and weak.”

“Anything but.” And he said it with an instant fierceness that warmed the chill inside her. “Marguerite, most Masters and Mistresses face this training with trepidation.

They slog through, maybe enjoy some aspects of it, but they’re always uncomfortable with giving up their control. You’re obviously terrified at a bone-deep, phobic level.

And yet here you are, doing it anyway. In my book, that’s damn brave. And your opening up to me specifically means a great deal. Come on then.” He took one of her cold hands in his. “It will be all right.”

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Such a simple reassurance but one she held to as he guided her to the side of the tub and picked up the head mask. “Lift your arms and twist your hair up so it will be tucked in and won’t get wet.”

He reached out as she complied, ran a hand down her side, over her hip. “You’re lovely, Marguerite. I’m hard just looking at you, just breathing in your scent. Put your arms at your sides now.”

It was silly but the sensual compliment did reassure her, warm her. He eased the hood down over her head, laced it securely so she felt the restriction on her neck, the sides of her head, nose and ears. Darkness descended and noise became muffled but discernible, which she knew would end when he had her head under the water.