Ice Queen (18 page)

“
Are
they trophies?”

The question was so soft, he almost missed it. Tyler tenderly cupped her face, brought those unsettling blue eyes back to his face. “No, angel.”

“Don’t… Why do you call me that?”

“Because.” He leaned forward, his hand slipping up her back to unerringly trace the scar tissue of the design burned there, now concealed under the robe. “Someone 112

Ice Queen

drew you wings a long time ago and you’ve been trying to decide whether to fly away ever since.” His hand moved to her waist, up to cup her breast, his thumb toying idly with the nipple chain. “And because when I look at you, I think you’re a gift from God.”

Before she could think too much about either explanation, Tyler directed her attention to her plate.

“Go ahead and eat. We’re going to do a few less intense things this morning. At least that was my plan until you came in with other ideas.”

“I don’t know why I did that.” She stared at her food, a flush rising on her cheeks.

“I do.” He put a fork in her hand, got his own plate and joined her at the table.

He enjoyed the way she examined the veggie protein links, picked one up, sniffed, raised her brows.

“Mac turned me on to them. You know, Violet’s Mac?”

“He’s a vegetarian? He looks like he eats raw meat for breakfast.” Tyler grinned. “That’s an understatement. But yes, he’s a vegetarian. I’m suffering from the typical high cholesterol of too much good living, so he’s been giving me some tips.”

She ran an appraising eye over him, a Mistress’s look, so much a part of her she was probably unaware of it, or how it made his blood heat. “You don’t look like a person with high cholesterol.”

At the sudden flare of desire in his eyes, Marguerite quickly lowered her attention to her breakfast. Whole wheat toast spread with fresh blackberry preserves, a vegetable omelet sprinkled with Gouda cheese and cut tomatoes, three wedges of pink grapefruit arranged in a fan shape alongside and the protein links. He’d put it all on an aquamarine plate sitting on a linen placemat. A tiny bundle of wildflowers in a small water glass was the table centerpiece. Simple, pretty, everything placed for maximum aesthetic effect. She wondered if it came naturally to him or if it had been an attempt to please her. Both possibilities made an impression and she wanted to look at him again, so she raised her lashes to do just that.

He was leaned back in the chair in the casual posture he seemed to favor, his leg straightened out so it flanked her, the other crooked. It drew her eyes to the part of him that she’d so recently had in her mouth, a nice curve of testicles, a cock of impressive shape and size. The view stayed as pleasing as her gaze rose, covering the well muscled chest and abdomen, the dark hair of his head gleaming with threads of silver at the temples. Those broad shoulders, long arms, the capable fingers holding the coffee cup to his lips, taking a sip as he watched her watching him. The shadow of a beard.

She’d had some beautiful men at her mercy and she’d appreciated that beauty.

Their smooth muscles and unscarred bodies, most not yet showing any of the effects of age and experience. But she couldn’t tear her gaze away from Tyler’s. He had scars.

Such as the one on his chest, a jagged cut near his abdomen. Another round scar just over his right pectoral. His hand rested on the table next to his plate, and now she 113

Joey W. Hill

tapped her finger on a small half-inch white ridge on one knuckle. “Where did you get that?”

“You just looked at every scar on me. If you ask about the one most likely to be a childhood scar, how am I going to impress you?” She cocked her head. “Do you want to impress me?” She had trouble swallowing her mouthful of eggs at the flash of teeth, at what a true, boyishly mischievous expression did to that face.

“I think I’m succeeding.” He ran a finger down her wrist, with a raised brow to tell her he registered her increased pulse. “You know why you’re fascinated with me, when you’ve had so many pretty boys at your beck and call? Because you’ve never trusted yourself with a man.”

She withdrew her hand, lifted her cup of juice. “That’s a very arrogant statement, assuming a great deal about me you don’t know.” He circled her wrist with his hand when she put the cup back down, drawing her hand back out to the center of the table. “I’m a very arrogant man,” he agreed. “Why don’t you tell me more about yourself, then, so I don’t make assumptions?”

“I’m eating.”

“So talk and eat. Have you thought about why you begged me to touch you earlier?

In your own sessions, you don’t seem to think a sub needs to touch you to experience the fullest pleasure.”

When she pulled against him, he simply tightened his grip, holding her fast.

“I didn’t beg,” she said.
Not exactly.
“But even if I did, that’s part of what it’s about.

Denial increases pleasure and in order for denial to work that way, you have to be aroused to desperately want what you’re being denied.”

“So if I’d been a better Master, I would have denied you.” She gave him a sweet look. “That’s up to you. I would never presume to tell a Master what to do.”

“Smartass.” His teasing surprised her but then her tartness vanished as he leaned forward. Despite herself, her gaze was drawn to his mouth. To its inexorable progress toward her, until it hovered just above her lips. She couldn’t form the words to remind herself of her rule, let alone him.

“Anticipation is not a bad thing.” His breath caressed her lips. “But a memory keeps you warmer longer.”

He sat back, just as slowly. From his satisfied gaze, she realized she’d parted her lips in anticipation. She pressed them together, closed her fingers into a fist by the placemat, trying to tamp down the annoyance that he could pull this from her so easily.

Anger that came from his manipulation, his ridicule of her resolve.

“Tell me why you didn’t touch Brendan after you finished branding him. I could tell you wanted to.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

114

Ice Queen

“Yes, you can. Marguerite, the way you feel inside about things isn’t a matter of national security. Just tell me. Why are you so afraid of emotional intimacy with your subs, angel? That’s where you can find the real Nirvana.”

“Why don’t you answer the fucking question about your hand first?” Tyler’s gaze snapped to her face. Not by any vocal inflection did she indicate the heat behind the crudity she’d injected into the sentence, but her eyes were hard and bright, the set of her shoulders tense, danger signs he was beginning to recognize. He’d pressed on a nerve. Casually, he laid his hand down on her forearm, tightened his grip when she began to draw back, held her there, felt the heat spread under his palm.

“I was in a knife fight,” he said mildly. “My opponent swung wild, I had my hand up, he clipped my knuckle, took a flap of skin off. Didn’t have time to treat it for several days, so it didn’t heal very pretty. Why do you avoid intimacy with your subs?”

“I’m not looking for that. I don’t crave that.”

“Don’t you? What’s so bad about it?”

She stood up, her hand still in his grasp, so she pulled against him. “You promised I could have my two hours for tea. I want it now.”

“Sit down, Marguerite.” When she didn’t move, he reached up, feathered a hand on her face. “Please sit down.”

“We covered this last night. Don’t play me, Tyler. I’m not a submissive you have to crack open to teach her to find fulfillment under your Will.”

“Aren’t you?” He saw the shock course over her features, a remarkable tremor. She firmed her jaw.

“You know why I prefer boys to men? Because boys haven’t learned to be bastards who take and take, who think they have a right to your secrets. They’re just grateful for what you can give them. Let go of me.” She snarled it this time and raised her other hand. He caught it, neatly twisted and tumbled her into his lap in the chair, her arms crossed over her chest, his arms bound around her.

“Let go of me.”

“Tell me why you wouldn’t touch Brendan.”

“You son of a bitch, I want you to let me go.” She struggled, kicked out at air, loosening the robe so it fell off her shoulder.

“Answer the question.”

When she tried to bite his arm, he caught her hair in his hand, his grip unshakable, stilling her. “I won’t hurt you, Marguerite. You can have as many tantrums as you want. In your own words—answer the fucking question.”

“Why can’t you leave anything alone? What do you want?”

“I want an answer to the question, that’s all, angel. A Master asks a sub a question, she’s expected to answer.”

115

Joey W. Hill

The training.
This was supposed to be about the training. He was remembering it but she couldn’t even figure out what her purpose for being here was anymore.

Marguerite closed her eyes, a shudder running through her. “Please let me go.

Please.”

“Just say the words. They’re there, on the tip of your tongue. You know the answer.”

“I can’t hold him.” She forced it out of a raw throat.

“Why?” He asked it after a quiet moment, his breath close to her ear. Somehow his grip had eased her back, so instead of being rigid against his embrace she was sinking into it, into the curve of his body, how they had spooned together through the night.

“What’s wrong with holding a man in your arms, Marguerite?”

“Because once I start touching them, holding them, I won’t stop, they’ll end up holding me. They’ll take. I can’t let them take…”

“Ssshhh…” He let go of her wrists, pressed one hand to the side of her face, shifted her so her body was turned, cradled in his lap. He urged her head down on his shoulder, stroked her hair, ran his fingers soothingly up and down her sternum, revealed by the open robe. When his fingers brushed the nipple clamp of the right breast, she winced. He stilled, registering that he’d felt the reaction. Pressing carefully around each one, he released the clamps. She drew in a breath at the rush of tingling pain.

“You did it too tight, baby.” He bent his head. Brushing the robe out of his way, he covered her right nipple with his mouth. Cupping her breast in his hand to increase the sensation, his fingers traced idle circles on her flesh as he suckled her with soothing pressure. His other arm held her body close, his forearm warm against her back.

Marguerite closed her eyes. Her hand found its way to his head, threaded through his short hair, stroked it. He held all of her easily, the same way he’d carried her and overpowered her just now. The devastating tenderness he was lavishing on her breasts, soothing her sore nipples, drained her protective anger away, left her with no desire but to be quietly there, docile. Raising his head at last, he brushed his lips along her chin.

“When they go back on, I’ll do it. I won’t let you hurt yourself, Marguerite. It’s a Master’s job to take care of you, protect you. Now, is this so bad? Being held?”
Yes. Because it makes things break inside.
His tenderness was like a single operatic note, shattering the delicate stems of wineglasses.

“Relax.” He kept her in the span of his arm but adjusted himself back alongside the table so he could pick up his fork, scoop up some egg and bring it to her lips. “Take a bite. I rarely slave over a stove and I want my efforts on behalf of a beautiful woman to be appreciated.”

“This is…difficult.” She took a deep breath, thinking that was the understatement of the world, the way he was keeping her rolling over from one emotion to another.

Automatically she opened her mouth, took the bite, chewed, swallowed.

116

Ice Queen

“A Master doesn’t just take, Marguerite. He gives, too. Care as well as pleasure. I like holding you like this. Not just because I like the way your ass feels rubbing against my cock.” He smiled that quick smile. “But because I like holding you in my arms, feeling you relax. Which, though you haven’t done that yet, you’re more relaxed than you were.”

“Are you instructing me?” She sounded cranky, even to herself.

“Maybe I’m reassuring you that this is normal. The way you’re feeling. And I won’t abuse your trust. Whatever you need to be or do to get through this, to figure it out, I won’t shake off and I won’t judge you or share with others what happened here.”

“You like it when a woman bares the darkest parts of her soul to you? So you can have power over her?”

“I like it when she gives me the gift of her trust. When a woman like you eventually does that, I know I’ve earned it. The power comes from giving a woman pleasure, watching her become helpless to me, hearing her beg for more.” His eyes lingered on her in a way that made her feel anything but annoyed, but she tried to hang onto it anyway.

“But why do you want her trust? What do you want to do with it?”

“If not abuse it?” He tightened his grip on her when she tensed. “Sshhh. Be still.

That’s the only reason you can think of for a man to want a woman’s trust? So he can take advantage of her? Marguerite, think about why you do what you do at The Zone.

What is that about? What did you tell me?”

She refused to answer, staring out the window. Rather than press her to look at him, he reminded her of her own words. “Everybody tries to make a connection to someone else. And I don’t mean acquaintances, friends. We look for a connection to a soul.”

He ran his fingers through her hair, tangling there idly. “Good friends, lovers, subs, even sometimes with family… We enjoy time with them but usually move on after a while. But when we find that one person whose heart we want to win, we’ll pledge everything we are or ever will be to get it.”

“Sounds like a marvelous fantasy. An adult fairy tale.”

“Sounds like hard work, the kind of hard work for which the reward is ten times worth the effort.”

Her radar picked up something different in his tone. Her gaze flitted up to his face.

This time she was intrigued to see
his
eyes turn away from direct contact with hers. “I think you relax more when you argue with me,” he said abruptly. “You’re not sitting like you’ve got a flagpole up your backside any more.” She was in fact sitting quite comfortably now. While he was talking, she’d settled in, so her arm was threaded under his, touching his waist through the slat of the chair, her fingers hooked loosely in his waistband. His body was strong and solid beneath her, the bare muscle of his stomach pressed against her silk-clad hip.