Brat and Master by Sindra van Yssel Page B

the fact that he was obviously in a hurry, when she looked down at his face, he seemed perfectly calm. In control. And that let her get a grip on her panic and steady her breathing. She’d been gasping, and she hadn’t even been aware of it. But obviously, he had known. She leaned against the cross, using it for support.
    He kicked the cut rope under the cross where it would be out of the way. He put the floggers back in the metal case while pulling a blanket from it. Then he pushed the case under the cross with his foot. He pulled her from the cross and cradled her, one forearm under her knees and his other arm supporting her shoulders, tossing the blanket over her bent body. She shivered up against him. “Thank you.”
    “No need,” he said. She scanned his face for evidence he was frustrated, but saw only concern—and confidence. He cared, but he didn’t look worried. Which meant there was probably nothing to worry about. She relaxed in his arms. It was nice being carried. And with the blanket on, she was even decent. There was no place comfy in the dungeon; that would have ruined the theme, Amanda supposed.
    She hadn’t been aware until now that the guys had stopped playing. They had stayed in the dungeon to watch. Keith, the one who had been strapped to the cross, opened the door for Jeremy. Keith was still naked.
    “Thanks,” Jeremy said.
    “No problem. Hot scene,” Keith said.
    Jeremy nodded and kept going.
    Jeremy headed straight for one of the aftercare chairs, a soft velvety brown one, and sat down on it with her in his lap.
    He kissed her neck, making the soft hairs on it rise. His breath felt warm. She buried her head into his shoulder, and he ran his long fingers through her hair. He feels right. So strong. Such wonderful hands.
    He scratched behind her ears, then moved farther down to give her neck a massage. Slowly, she warmed up and melted into his arms. She intended to soak it in but found herself nibbling on his neck instead, tasting him. A soft moan rewarded her. He pushed the blanket slightly downward, leaving her mostly covered, so he could knead the muscles under her shoulder blades. She was turning into a puddle, all liquid, her damp pussy and her wet tongue merely outward manifestations of her inner state. Putty in your hands, Sir. Use me.
    “I did,” he whispered.
    She blushed. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
    “But you did. And I look forward to using you again. Do you like being my toy?”
    “Yes, Sir, I do.” She turned her head to face him and bumped her nose against his chin in the process. She met his gaze. No one has ever made me feel this relaxed before. She often felt deeply submissive after a scene, but always in the back of her mind was the realization that it wasn’t entirely safe to feel that way. Either the dom wasn’t interested in more than a scene and was holding her as an obligation, or there was something that suggested he might be a jerk. With Jeremy she felt as if she could give and know that he would give back whether she tried to take or not.
    That’s ridiculous. I’ve just met him.
    Suddenly, she needed to get away. The very fact that he felt this good was a warning sign, an indication she was drunk on the endorphins and in danger of making stupid decisions. She didn’t, couldn’t love him, and if she was thinking she did, it meant she needed to leave. She pushed off the chair—and was surprised to find that she went nowhere.
    “Oh no you don’t, little toy.”
    “I need to leave.”
    “You need to not be alone.”
    Damn. He remembered that. She tried to break out of his grasp, and he didn’t budge an inch. Instead he forced her back against his shoulder and resumed his caress of her neck, pulling the blanket up. “Let me go.”
    “No.”
    She beat her hands against his shoulder, aware it probably didn’t look good to anyone watching. She knew most of the people in the club, and Jeremy knew no one but her. But she kept on, trying to