Page 4 of Mastered By Lust

Cupping my chin carefully in his hand to avoid my bruises, he says, “Take off your shirt and follow me to my bedroom, baby girl. You were naughty. I’m going to punish those beautiful nipples of yours until you come.”

* * *

Dmitri

Danica sends me home with a plate of brownies. She says if they stay at her place, either she’ll eat them all—or “that traitorous bastard of a roommate Elias will eat them and he doesn’t deserve my brownies.”

So I take the fucking brownies.

But my gut is churning. No way can I handle eating.

Leah’s upset. At Gage, at me, at everything. She smiled and pretended everything was okay with Danica, but I didn’t buy it.

I don’t think Danica bought it, either, but she chalked it up to the big reveal that Gage Fucking Jannik is also Gage Fucking Hawthorne.

I want to fix things with Leah, but I don’t know how. Or maybe I can’t.

Maybe I don’t deserve to.

Once I’m in the house and the brownies are sitting on the counter, I sit on my couch. Leah’s spot again.

I won’t jerk off this time, though. Things are too shitty to even think about it. She’s probably at his place right now. He lives in some fancy penthouse. Nobody’s ever been there. Betty teases him about it sometimes. Calls it his “introvert castle” and his “masturbatory mansion” because he doesn’t allow company.

But he allows Leah.

Someone bangs on my door. I jump, startled. It’s after ten—who would be coming here so late?

Cautiously, I make my way to the door. Standing to the side, I say loudly, “Who is it?”

“It’s Patrick, buddy. Open the fuck up. We need to talk.”

I open the door to see my cousin standing on the stoop. His light brown hair is hidden beneath a dirty ball cap, his t-shirt torn at the shoulder seam. And his left eye is swollen so badly, he can’t even open it.

“Patrick.” I gesture him inside. “What the fuck happened?”

He doesn’t move. He just looks at me, his right eye sharp. “It’s fucking time to make good on those promises, cuz. Our plans just got set into motion.”

2

Gage

I love the way Leah goes pliant in my arms. She’s utterly perfect and she doesn’t even know it.

Or perhaps she is learning.

“Shirt off, little girl,” I repeat.

She pulls back slightly and lifts the fabric over her head. I look back at the picture windows that take up the entire wall of the living room. Too much exposure.

“Bedroom,” I say. “Now.”

“Yes, Sir.”

I want to be more thanSir.I consider my options. Master? That doesn’t feel right. But I do wish to own her in some way—to call her mine. It’s less an urge to own her and more a desire to be completely responsible for her well-being. I want to orchestrate her happiness and her protection.

She walks down the hall, a teasing sway in her steps. Her bare back looks smooth and kissable. Her ponytail reveals the tattoo between her shoulder blades. It’s a stylized design of a flower with a butterfly. It’s quite pretty. I wonder what significance it has for her, if any. It doesn’tneedsignificance, but I suspect Leah would choose a design that is meaningful to her, rather than something she likes purely on an aesthetic level.

When we reach my darkened bedroom, she starts to flip on the light.

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