Girl by Eden Bradley

crying for him. And this man’s smile is every bit as stunning as the rest of him.
    “Aimée, I want you to talk to me. That’s why I took your collar off. You are still mine.” He pauses, watching me, his gaze searching my face, but I don’t know what he’s looking for. “Do you want to be?”
    I hadn’t realized it was up to me. And perhaps it’s still not.
    “Yes, Master! Please.” I am trembling all over.
    “Then talk to me. I know this is…unprecedented under the circumstances. But this is my House, and I make my own rules. Understood?”
    “Yes, Master.”
    “Good girl. Are you cold? Here.” He takes an angora blanket, woven in shades of maroon and gold, from the arm of the sofa and wraps its softness around me, his fingers pausing on the bare skin of my shoulder.
    It occurs to me that he understands how difficult it is for me to talk with him while I am still a naked slave, after the terms of this place have been ingrained in me for the last week, or however long I’ve been here. Deeply ingrained, which is his clever intent, and my mind is having a terrible time wrapping itself around this sudden shift.
    Suddenly he leans in, his face very close to mine. “I must tell you this—that I don’t know exactly why I brought you here, why I feel the need for you to talk to me as if you weren’t simply another one of my slaves. But you aren’t.” He sits back and drags tense fingers through his hair. “Goddamn it, you aren’t. And I’m as confounded by this as you appear to be.”
    I’m really shaking now. I don’t know what to think, where to look, except at him. He is too handsome to be believed. So utterly masculine. Still exuding dominance like a pheromone. When he takes my hand I nearly yank it back. But I would never do such a thing.
    “Aimée, don’t be afraid. I need to know you. Tell me something…”
    “Tell you what, Master?”
    “I don’t know. Anything. You were born in Paris, weren’t you?”
    “Yes, Master.”
    “Where in Paris?”
    “Saint Germain-des-Prés.”
    “Ah. A child of privilege. Your family is wealthy? That always makes for a very particular kind of slave. Maybe that explains your perfect posture, the grace of your movements.”
    He runs a fingertip along my collarbone, up the side of my neck slowly, and I want to lean into him. I want to purr. Except that I’m still too shaken up by this turn of events.
    “Or maybe that’s simply you ,” he says. “Tell me how many Masters you’ve had, what your kink life has been like.”
    “I have been owned twice before. Once, briefly, by a Mistress in Paris, once by Master Graham, who sent me to you.”
    “And in the time between?”
    “I’ve played at the clubs. I’ve bottomed for many people. But it never fulfilled me.”
    “Why not?”
    “I have a need to be owned, Master.”
    “What else?” he demands, and I know I can’t be so brief with him. He truly wants to know .
    I fold and unfold the edge of the blanket between my fingers, but when I see him noticing I stop. “I’m…not sure I’ve ever thought it all the way through. When I was with my Mistress in Paris, I was too young to appreciate it.”
    “Sometimes when we’re very young, we need to get out and try different things, experience life. Experience submission on a variety of levels.”
    “Yes, that was exactly how I felt.”
    “You look surprised that I would understand. But I was once in the same position, you know.”
    “You were a slave?” I cannot keep the shock from my voice.
    He glances away, runs his hand over the high arm of the sofa, and I see the muscles in his forearm flex, making the dragon tattooed ripple over the bone and sinew. The black and gray detail and shading is exquisite. “Yes. A long time ago. In this very House.”
    He remains quiet, pensive, and I don’t dare disturb him. I want to know this story too badly, and I’m afraid if I speak, if I move, it will break the mood, and he won’t tell me anything