Page 46 of Seven Nights

Fury whips across Katelyn’s face. I don’t know if it’s because I picked a woman or because of Martinique’s choice of words. Both, I imagine.

My gaze jumps past pet to the large, red-haired male suddenly filling the door behind her. His brawny, tanned chest is bare but covered in a darker mat of red. Tight leather pants grip his lower half. He carries his formidable frame like the Dom he is.

“Your escort, pet,” I say and tilt my chin.

She glares at me without offering so much as a glance over her shoulder.

“Mac is your escort,” I say, stepping close. “You will touch no one, no one will touch you. Beyond that, you’re smart enough to figure out how I expect you to behave.”

My gaze narrows as I speak. “I don’t tolerate brats, so don’t act like one.”

She turns, gaze down, her body shaking.

Mindful of the brief he’s been given, Mac directs Katelyn out the door without placing a hand on her.

I turn to Martinique. She smiles and extends a key card.

“Suite seven.”

“Put her on the cross,” I order. “Give her my rules. Keep the blindfold on.”

* * *

Ten minutes later,I stand in front of an X-frame with the brunette strapped and squirming. Although I entered the room quietly, she knows I’m here. The longer we wait in silence, the worse she squirms.

“You’re quite responsive, aren’t you?” I ask at last, my voice no more than a whisper.

She vibrates a little harder.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Tell me your safe word again.”

“Dan-dandelion.”

I frown. She can blow on me all she likes, her wishes still won’t come true.

“A fine safe word,” I assure her. “Now keep your mouth shut except to moan or use it on my cock.”

Her expressive nod earns her a point for not speaking the answer.

Stepping closer, I run my hands along her spread legs. Martinique has dressed her since the selection process. Thin lace panties cover her pussy. A matching black strap conceals her breasts.

Taking a small pair of scissors, I slowly snip the top away. This cutting of the clothes is one of my things. Only I am going out of order. My natural tendency is to warm the flesh first. A few smacks with an open palm, the tails perhaps. I start outside the line of clothes to know how the flesh marks for a particular sub, but then I move on to the covered areas and then onto the scissors.

I am going out of order, I realize, because of Katelyn. Because she is not here. Because I have never taken a whip to her and may never have the chance.

This sub doesn’t know and doesn’t care. She shakes in anticipation with each slow snip of the fabric. Her muscles flex. The scent of arousal from between her legs reaches my nose as her lips part and her tongue darts out to lick at their dryness.

The lace falls to the floor, revealing nipples the color of newly ripened watermelon. I brush a finger against one and earn a throaty moan.

She is clearly enjoying herself. So far, she is the only one.

I select a pair of nipple clamps from the shelf next to the cross. Staring at the juncture of her thighs, I click the metal clamps together. The black lace grows darker. Her hips do a little dance. I reach under the lace, my fingers spreading her juices.

More than a submissive, the woman seems to be a slave in need of a master. I run my gaze over her flesh, looking for, and finding, signs of old abuse. My already limp dick retreats a little deeper into my pants.

This woman needs rescued, not used.

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