I can feel my face scrunch in confusion.
He waves to the window and the labyrinth garden beyond. “A wedding like your mother’s. A garden. All your friends.” Then he comes over and crouches in front of me. “And I promised to make all your dreams come true.”
He’s trying to be sweet but he’s only making it worse.
He didn’t say anything about love.
This is just another way he’s trying to take care of me. It’s like that Cancer Wish foundation for little kids, except for grown-ups. He thinks this is what I always wanted, so he’s trying to give it to me before I… Before I…
I can’t help the little cry of anguish at the thought of the pity wedding everyone’s thrown together for me.
And I’m sorry, but no matter how much I love them all, I can’t go through with the farce. I can’t be the good little bride like my mother was.
I can’t pretend that someday Logan’s devotion won’t turn sour. Those flowers out back will wilt, and all that’s beautiful about our love will turn ugly and destructive.
“No.”
I look up in confusion at Logan’s declarative statement.
“What?”
“No to whatever is going on in that head of yours.”
“You don’t know what I’m—”
“You don’t want to get married today, fine. But I’m done with this bullshit between us.” He makes a decisive swiping motion with his hand.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
He pulls his cell out of his pocket and hits a button. “Hey Armand. Yeah, the wedding’s off. No, no, Daphne is just not feeling up to it today. She’s fine. I promise. We just need to postpone for a few weeks.”
Logan ignores my indignant scoff and the daggers I’m shooting his way. He smiles and chuckles and says, “Yep.” And then a few seconds later, “Yep.” And then. “Will do. Talk soon.” Then he hangs up the phone and turns back to me like he hasn’t been secretly collaborating with one of my friends behind my back.
I open my mouth to confront him but he’s already talking. “Now,” he puts a fist to his chin. “What are we going to do with you?”
I can’t help the outraged noise that escaped my throat. “Nothing. You aren’t going to do anything about me because you aren’t the boss of me.”
A dark light enters his eyes and burns with intensity. “Aren’t I? In the bedroom at least? Even you admitted I was Master there.”
My mouth drops open. “I— That was— You’re taking everything out of context!”
“Am I? Or am I just finally starting to make a helluva lot of sense?” Logan grins at me.
Then he picks me up and hauls me off to the bedroom.
I squeal and, as he slams the bedroom door shut behind him, protest, “Logan, we can’t! All our friends are downstairs.”
“There’s no Logan here,” is his calm response. “The Master is in. And kitten, you’ve been a bad girl.”
Ten
Logan
“Take off your robe and lie down on the bed,” I order.
Daphne’s eyes are wide, but as I face her and cross my arms over my bare chest, my Resting Dom Face firmly in place, her body relaxes.
I don’t know if she realizes how much she responds to my commands. Her gaze lowers and the tension flows out of her body. Her shoulders soften and her movements become slow and graceful, more languid as she harnesses her incredible intelligence and focuses on obeying me.
The way she responds makes me feel ten feet tall. I fall into my own headspace, that godlike realm of the Dom where I notice every wrinkle on her brow, every microexpression and eyelash flutter, every flinch and every excited tremor. I see everything and everything I see, my entire world, is Daphne.
This is good for us. Maybe it’s time to impose more rules. Power exchange, twenty four seven, three sixty five. The thought is very tempting.
But there’s a reason I’ve been taking it easy on her. Holding myself back. Even though I just saw her naked in the bath, when she drops the robe, I internally wince at how thin she’s become. How frail. Not that she isn’t beautiful as ever, but the disease has ravaged her body.
The beast inside me calms. Turns from a violent predator ready to wreak its will and wreck his prey—in the best way—into a gentle lion. I still hold all the power—the control Daphne gives me—and I will use it to protect and care for her.
But she still needs to know she belongs to me.
“You’ve forgotten who’s in control,” I say as I gather her damp hair and braid it so it’s out of the way. She lies on the bed as ordered and the only sign she’s disturbed is the rapid rise and fall of her chest. I splay a hand over her collarbone, between her breasts. “I’m going to remind you. Breathe, Daphne.”
I coach her to breathe deeper and deeper, my voice low and patient. After a few minutes, I take my hand away, and she continues breathing slowly into her diaphragm. Her eyes are half closed, but I cover them with a blindfold anyway.
“You’ll see what I want you to see,” I say when she makes a small noise of protest. “You’ll move when I tell you to move. Right now I want you to relax and focus on your breath.”
I pause a moment to watch her obey. Even more slender than usual, Daphne is stunning. Her dark hair contrasts with her ivory smooth skin. Her lips are pursed in a way that tells me she’s annoyed at the blindfold. The blindfold chafes me more than it does her. Covering her lovely green eyes should be a crime.
I slide a box out from under the bed and contemplate my options. The rope I disregard. Even though it’s gentle and soft, I don’t feel like restraining her. The nipple clamps will also remain in their fancy wooden box.
Instead, I grab a black box that holds several vials of oil. I pour the contents of the first bottle onto my palms and rub them together briskly to warm them up.
Daphne’s skin is petal soft. The final bits of tension ease out of her as I squeeze her shoulders, massaging carefully. Her limbs seem so tiny and fragile, like a bird’s. My hands warm her flesh as they rub every inch, reacquainting themselves with her body, every curve and hollow.
Well, almost every inch. When I reach her pussy, I pass by it, massaging down her legs. I spend a long time rubbing her feet, enjoying the way she coos. But even while she’s ooohhhing and aaahhing, her hips are riding up as if to present her pussy.
I stop massaging abruptly and slide a pillow under her hips, propping her up. She lies there, waiting, offering up her sex.
I reach for the black box again. This time, I select an oil that should make her extra sensitive. The kind I paint carefully onto her labia, using a thick brush. With every pass, her hips tighten further, until she’s rocking subtly upwards.
“Logan,” she moans as the bristles stroke her sex. “Please touch me.”
I say nothing.
“Master,” she whispers, then clears her throat and tries again. “Master, please.”
“You want me to touch you?” I set aside the vial and the brush, and lay a hand on her midriff. “Here?”
“No. Lower…”