Chapter Fifteen

Raoul was grateful when Dahmer finally showed up in the ballroom. Following the Overseer, he steered Kimberly toward the doors. She didn’t need to see any more. Bidding had started on the third woman whose screaming and fighting caught the buyers’ attention like bloody flesh attracting sharks. As he walked into the quiet foyer, Raoul gave a silent sigh of relief. The crying slaves had kept him tensed with the need to protect.

“Before you set up for your scene, I need you for a moment upstairs.” The look in Dahmer’s eyes was still…off.

Raoul tightened his hand on Kimberly’s leash, pulling her closer. “Is there a problem?”

“No. Well, yes, in a way there is.” Dahmer led them up the wide stairs, the dark red carpeting like a waterfall of blood. He opened a door directly across from the staircase and motioned them inside.

Raoul glanced around at the richly furnished sitting room. To the right was a small table and chairs on an Oriental rug. Against the far wall was a hand-carved buffet with a serving tray and the remains of a meal. Oddly enough, the corner held a portable dog kennel. On the left…ahhah. A lean man waited in an armchair by the window, the lamplight glinting off styled light brown hair. Two men—bodyguard types—stood behind him. He would be the reason for Dahmer’s detour.

As Kimberly stepped into the room, she gasped and gave a thin moan.

Raoul spun, grasping her shoulders. “What?”

“Lord Greville,” she whispered, her eyes going glassy with panic, her breathing like a steam engine.

Raoul slapped her sharply across the face, rocking her back on her heels. Fisting her hair, he pulled her head back so the only person she could see was him. “You are mine. You do not react to any other master,” he told her through gritted teeth…and saw reason return to her eyes.

She blinked tears of pain away, and he let her lower her head. “I’m sorry, Master.”

“Better,” he grunted. He glanced at Dahmer, letting his irritation show. “What’s this about—aside from trying to destroy the work I’ve put into this slave?”

“I apologize for not explaining earlier, but I wanted you to view the undamaged beauties downstairs first.” Dahmer’s gaze lingered on the scar visible beneath Kimberly’s harness. “Which ones did you find interesting?”

“I have a slave, thank you.” This wasn’t going well at all. Kimberly’s former owner had given Raoul a dismissing look, then hadn’t taken his eyes off her. From the hand-tailored suit, the Italian shoes, the sheer pampered posture, Greville wasn’t used to being denied anything. And he wanted Kimberly.

The hatred burning in his blue eyes sent cold streaming up Raoul’s spine. He saw murder in that gaze.

Raoul took a firm grip of Kimberly’s arm and whispered in her ear, “He seems a little angry. Some people are poor sports about being poked with a knife, no?”

Her shocked laugh lightened his spirit. Brave, brave Kimberly. “Dios, I love you,” he said under his breath, not realizing he’d spoken until he saw her face. The dawning glow outweighed her fear.

When she looked down hastily, he squeezed her arm lightly. She needed to hold up awhile longer. Somehow.

And he had to keep her away from Greville. The FBI would arrive eventually, but if her previous owner got his hands on her, she might not survive that long. Stall. Stall and stall.

Dahmer took a seat on the couch and motioned to the chair across from Greville. “Please sit. I’m sure we can reach a meeting of the minds. Raoul, this is—”

“Greville, I assume.” Raoul assessed the bodyguards with a glance. One had puckered scars across his face and neck. The other had a shaved head with a death’s head skull tattoo on one side of his neck, a swastika on the other. They wore white shirts, dark slacks. No weapons visible. They’d probably received the same pat down as the buyers—so weaponless—but from their stances, they were well trained.

Not good odds. He was no Chuck Norris. Stall. He took the chair, caught Kimberly’s gaze, and glanced at the floor beside him.

She knelt at his feet and kept her eyes lowered.

“Hello, fuckhole.” Greville spoke directly to her, trying to get her to meet his gaze.

“You do not address my slave without permission,” Raoul snapped.

Greville’s face reddened with rage.

“Raoul.” Dahmer held up a hand.

“This is not the professional standards I was led to expect from the Harvest Association. What kind of shoddy scam are you running here?”

Dahmer drew himself up. “Not a scam. Lord Greville simply wishes to repurchase his slave. During his…illness, his staff returned the slave for a refund. He wasn’t aware and had no intention of returning her to us.”

Raoul forced himself to lean back in his chair. “Perhaps he should keep closer track of his staff. They sound incompetent.” This is not going to end well. If he got Kimberly out of the room, could she hide until the FBI arrived?

* * * *

The attendants were too damned efficient, Sam thought. In answer to his request, one had quickly wheeled a mobile St. Andrew’s cross into Linda’s slave space. So much for his attempt at stalling.

After turning the woman to face the X shape, he secured her wrist cuffs to the upper rings. The other blank-faced attendant handed him a cane and dragon’s tongue whip.

He set them down, out of his working area, and considered how to go about wasting time until the FBI arrived. Unfortunately, anything he did would have to be genuine. The assistant had positioned the cross so bystanders could see the marks he’d put on the slave’s back.

Well, then. He had a masochist who preferred him to the others, he had equipment, and he obviously had time. Apparently he had a scene to do.

His concentration narrowed.

He stepped behind the woman and ran his fingers over the pretty spattering of freckles on her shoulders. “Linda,” he said quietly. “Are you ready to begin?”

Under the freckles, her muscles tensed. She nodded.

“When I ask you a question, I want to hear your voice, girl,” he said in an even tone, setting up the rules of the game. His hands curved around her wrists, adding to her sensation of restraint as he pressed his groin into her from behind, then let his whole body meld with hers, pushing her ribs against the wood in the middle. “You can call me Master if you need to beg.”

He threaded his fingers into her short hair, tugging her head to one side so he could close his teeth on the curve between her neck and shoulder. He bit down firmly, enough to hurt. Waking her to her helplessness and his intent. The beast inside him moved forward; his body felt larger, stronger.

“If you yell, ‘Mercy, Master,’ I will…perhaps…give you a break,” he growled, sickened and aroused at the same time. He never worked without a safe word, without consent, but to save her from worse, he’d have to do so—or at least appear to do so. “Say it now.”

“Mercy, Master,” she whispered. Even her lips looked soft, slightly puffy. Kissable and damn fuckable.

“Good,” he grunted. He rubbed his hands over her arms and shoulders and down her back, pleased with the gentle hollow at the base of her spine. A big-arsed woman, his British friends would say. His favorite kind. He slapped that white ass, one cheek, then the other. Not hard, just enough to warm the skin, stroking the sting away before striking again. He hadn’t bothered with trying to fasten her ankles to the legs of the cross, not with one shackled, but he set one boot between her feet and shoved them roughly apart.

“I want you open to me,” he said in a raw voice and was hell of pleased to see a flush rise into her face. His eyes narrowed, meeting hers, and she flinched and dropped her gaze. Submissive. God, she was a beauty.

Pushing the noise of the auction from his mind, he filled his thoughts with only this woman. He slid his hands over her ample curves, over her rounded stomach to her God-bethanked breasts. Heavy in his cupped palms, spilling over the sides. Fucking her would be like burying himself in a down quilt, surrounded by feminine softness.

He pressed his chest against her back, delightfully surprised when she didn’t cringe away. When he rubbed his erection on her reddened ass, he heard the smallest moan—and hell with it, he needed to know. He put his hand on her pussy, unsurprised to find she’d begun to dampen. “You’re wet, girl.”

“I’m a slut.” The self-loathing and misery in her voice pissed him off considerably. Raoul had mentioned something about this.

He growled in her ear and pressed his cock between her buttocks. “Feel that, missy? A man’s dick rises with the smell of a female, with the sound of a woman’s voice, with the dawn, at the sight of pretty tits, at the touch of…anything. No one calls us names because our cocks aren’t under our control.” He cupped his hand over her—nicely—bare cunt, playing in the dampness. “So when a woman’s pussy reacts on its own, why would I call her a name?” He sucked on her earlobe, surprising a shudder out of her, then ran his scratchy cheek over hers, giving the so-sensitive nerves there a hint of pain. And her juices responded.

“I’ve been doing this a long time, girl,” he said, using her own arousal to slicken her vulnerable clit. “And I’m not only good at it, but we—you and me—we have something between us.”