He frowned at her. “When you were little and scared, who did you run to?”

“Mom.” What did that have to do with anything?

“Not your father?”

Like he would have helped. Her laugh sounded…odd. She shook her head.

“Why?”

How to explain their family? “He… When I was younger, he treated me like a son. Boys don’t get scared.”

“No?” His mouth twitched. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Her mouth dropped open, and her brain started to kick in, erratic as a motor with some salt water in the fuel. Other fathers hugged their children…both sons and daughters. They’d comfort them and hold them if a baseball smashed into them or when a big dog chased them. Her father hadn’t been…fatherly.

“At first, he treated you like a son. What happened when you grew older?”

Her own fault. Her own choice. She didn’t regret it. “I decided I was female and started dressing like one. Helping my mother. So I was…nothing to him.”

Master R was frowning again. “You would have been a beautiful little girl. How could any papá not be proud?” His knuckles stroked her cheek, and she…yearned.

“I guess you had a good father,” she said.

“I did.” His fingers ran through her tangled hair. “Kimberly. Terror can make us like children. If you didn’t run to your father—a man—to comfort you, and considering your experiences with men recently, I understand why you hid.” His level gaze held hers. “But, chiquita, you must understand that while you are here, I expect you to come to me and share your fears. Even if I am the one causing them.”

Why did his uncompromising look make her heart stutter? “Yes, Master.”

The corner of his mouth curved. “I like all the Masters I’m hearing right now, slave.”

She flinched, chilling as if arctic water was seeping into her core.

His eyes narrowed. “This is the type of thing we discuss.” He paused. Then his voice hardened. “Slave.”

He rarely called her that horrible word. Surely he couldn’t understand the effect on her. How could he?

Now he expected her to talk as her insides shriveled like a jellyfish on dry sand. Can’t talk. She pulled in a breath. Must talk. I’m braver than this. Her shoulders straightened a little. Gabi would tell her to pull up her big girl panties and spit the words out. “The word. Slave.” Could she bleach her mouth out? “I never liked it even…before. Now it makes me sick to my stomach. Ugly.” She bit her lip and forced the rest out. “When you call me that, it’s…worse.” As if her security blanket had a snake on it.

“Mmm.” He picked her up, tucking her easily onto his lap and against his chest.

Every muscle in her body relaxed at the enveloping comfort of his embrace. A reward. He was rewarding her for her honesty. Manipulative? Kind of. But she’d take it.

“You don’t look sick when you say master.”

“It’s not the same—not ugly.” She rubbed her cheek on his chest; his faded T-shirt was soft over his solid pectorals. His masculine scent mingled with that of the laundry soap and had come to mean safety. “I like the master word.” She considered and added, “Although sometimes I want to throw things at you when you make me use it.”

His laugh sounded different, deeper, when her ear was pressed to his chest. “Bueno. Is submissive better than slave?”

“I guess.” She tried to imagine him calling her that. “It’s kind of blah.”

“Mmm. Perhaps sumisa—or even sumisita? It means little submissive in Spanish.” He shifted her so her face snuggled into his neck. “Someday we’ll discuss why I think the word fits you.”

Sumisita. It sounded…sweet somehow. He’d called Gabi chiquita a couple of times, so that term didn’t seem very special. Gatita was…more hers. And sumisita was more…ownery. His way of saying “mine.” “I like that, Master.”

“Good.” He tipped her face up. His approving kiss made her feel as if her boat had entered the harbor.

“I put a blank journal in your sitting room,” he said. “And a limit list as well. You know what that is?”

A list of BDSM activities where a submissive could check off what she might be interested in trying…and what she absolutely wouldn’t do. Sometimes a club dom would hand her one. She nodded.

“Fill out the list, and we will discuss it.” He tapped her nose. “I doubt we’ll actually play much, but we have reached the point where I need to know more about what bothers you.”

“And the journal?”

“Is mostly for you. Faith agreed you should use it.” He paused. “I want you to write one page for me every day, and we’ll read it together each night. The rest is only for you; I won’t ask to see the other pages.”

A journal. Bleah. “I get Faith’s reasons. But why a page for—to—you?”

“To avert problems like today.” He stroked her hair gently. “There will be things you need from me. Thoughts you can’t speak but might be able to write. So. You will fill the page, even if your words seem foolish to you. Clear?”

“Yes, Master.” Homework. Frigging what-I-did-on-my-slavery-vacation homework.

“Such a pout,” he murmured and kissed it right off her lips. His lips were warm, firm, controlling. His hand tightened in her hair as he took her mouth, punishing before he finished in gentleness.

Her head swam as if she’d downed three quick drinks.

When he pulled back, his gaze smoldered with as much heat as she had simmering inside. His expression hardened. “Now about what you took from the toy cabinet…”

She buried her head in his neck. Oh God.

“Bring them here and lay out everything neatly on the ottoman. For your punishment, you will pick one of the toys—just one—which I’ll use on you sometime in the next few days.”

“When?” she whispered.

“Wrong response. Try again, sumisa.”

“I’m sorry, Master.” More. She should say something more. “Whatever Master wishes.”

“Very pretty.” He kissed the top of her head and set her on her feet. “Off you go now…and, Kimberly?”

Trying to remember what all she’d taken—that huge dildo, definitely don’t want to pick that—she turned. “Yes, Master.”

His lips quirked as if he was trying not to smile. “Next time when I say we will play, I do not mean hide-and-seek.”

Chapter Seven

A few days later, Raoul practiced in his dungeon with the door locked. Using a whip was a skill a dom couldn’t afford to let grow rusty, not if he didn’t want to mark up the bottom.

He’d watched from the tower room as Kimberly walked on the beach with Gabi. The sun had glinted off his sumisita’s dark hair. Her tan had darkened from her frequent walks, and her skin glowed with the return of her health. Kimberly had shoved Gabi into the frothing surf, her face alight with laughter. To see her so carefree lightened his heart.

And having her out of the house meant he could practice. Although the crack of the whip probably couldn’t be heard outside the dungeon, he’d take no chances. She didn’t need to know how much he enjoyed bullwhips.

After stretching up until his arms and shoulders were loose, he started. An empty space on the wall held various practice targets—today newspapers were between the wide clamps. He worked on slicing delicately through only the top layer of paper. At intervals, he’d lash the adjacent piece of suede, checking that the cracker on the end barely raised the nap.

What was there about the crack of a whip that was so erotic?

His phone rang. After finishing his swing—only a fool pulled a stroke—he took the cell from his pocket. A private number. His gut tightened as he answered. “Sandoval.”

“Raoul, it’s nice to hear your voice. This is Dahmer…the Overseer. Is this a good time to talk, or should I call back?”

“Your timing is excellent.” Raoul reminded himself of what must be brought up. The location. Referring Sam.

“How is the merchandise working out? Any problems?”

Raoul forced a laugh. “Well enough, although buying…used…wasn’t my smartest choice. The previous owner left some dents.”

“Not surprising. The prior owner has a temper. But I’m happy everything else is good.”

“Yes. In fact—”

Dahmer cleared his throat. “Phones are—”

“Not a problem.” Paranoid bastard, as Buchanan had said. “I have a friend who admired the merchandise. He’s rough on his playthings and hopes to purchase something sturdier.”

“Well.” A pause. “We do have an upcoming event. Perhaps if he qualifies, he might attend.”

“He’d enjoy that.”

“As I did with you, I’ll need to see your friend in action. It decreases the chances of…ah…unexpected visitors.”

He meant cops. “Speaking as a buyer, I appreciate the precautions.”

“Is there a location you prefer? Your house or a Tampa club?”