Page 70 of Their Master

A jolt of some emotion—surprise? Anticipation?—ran through his big body, but he simply nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Smith stretched out in his chair and stroked himself as he enjoyed the mouthwatering spectacle of his servant preparing his mistress for his use.

They made an attractive pair—Luke towering and bulging with muscle and Moira so slight and fairylike. The juxtaposition of Moira naked and Luke fully clothed in his blacks was likewise a sensual contrast.

Smith savored the way Luke’s massive but gentle hands cuffed, strapped, and restrained Moira, until all she could move was her head.

He was a very lucky man—he knew that. He might have searched London for years and never found two treasures like the gorgeous pair before him.

When Luke held up the gag, Smith shook his head. “Not tonight. Nor the blindfold,” he said, smirking at the relief on Moira’s face and filing her reaction away for future use.

“Raise her arms a bit more,” he instructed Luke. “Yes, that’s good,” he said, once the straps were pulled tautly enough to stretch her just to the point of discomfort.

Smith put down his drink and stood to better inspect her. She was slender, but her muscle tone was sleek and hard. The scars on her shoulders and back sent a bolt of fury through him each and every time he saw them.

He had counted them—the ones he could see—and Onions would receive triple that number when Smith finally got his hands on the man. Ninety-nine strokes would be a great deal for a body to bear. It might kill him.

He turned away from that satisfying thought and looked up at Luke, “Fetch the lighter of the German floggers and a leather thong.” He went closer to Moira while Luke left the room, running a light hand over her prominent, delicate ribs.

She was breathing raggedly, her lips slack and parted, the expression in her eyes one he recognized intimately: she was slipping away from herself—from her cares—already.

Lucky, lucky Moira.

Smith ran a finger through her wet, swollen folds and groaned at the feel of their mingled juices. He lifted the finger to her lips and she sucked him into her mouth, her eyes hazed, lids drooping.

Smith felt Luke approach and removed his finger with reluctance, tugging the sash on his robe and shrugging out of it before taking the flogger from Luke.

He spread his feet and stared at Moira while Luke dropped to his knees and wrapped the leather thong around his cock and balls.

Her sea green irises had receded like an outgoing tide, leaving only twin black pools of desire. She moistened her lower lip with the tip of her pink tongue, the gesture making his cock jerk in Luke’s firm grip.

Her slack, lazy expression shifted into a smug smile—a smile that told him she was perfectly aware of the power she had over him, and that she merely needed to flex to make him pant and beg like a dog.

Smith chuckled. Fuck, but she was delicious.

He tore his gaze away from Moira and looked down, wondering why Luke was still on his knees.

The huge man stared up at him, his eyes burning with raw yearning and some other emotion—

Good Lord!

Smith gaped in stupefaction at the familiar face—a face now wearing a very unfamiliar expression. Was that…love?

Luke’s bland mask slid into place and he stood.

But it was too late: Smith had seen the truth and Moira had been right.

Bloody hell.

Playful sexual humiliation was one thing, but taunting somebody who’d allowed their emotions to become involved? That was torture.

“You may go,” Smith said coolly, more displeased with himself for his misjudgment than with Luke for his disastrous lapse.

Smith looked up to find Moira watching, always watching.

Unlike the man he’d just dismissed,hermask never slipped. Maybe that was because it wasn’t one. Maybe she really felt no more for Smith than what she showed him: occasional amusement and desire.

Rather than bother him, that possibility only made him want to disturb her placid surface more than ever.

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