Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(33)
Author: Cherise Sinclair

The other male she hadn’t yet met. Pleasingly lean shape. About her height. Buzz-cut blonde hair. He wore only a pair of dark-red biker shorts.

When he saw her looking at him, he flushed from his upper chest to his forehead. His gaze dropped.

Very nice.

“Good to see you getting back to normal,” Raoul said in approval.

“Really,” she said, adding a hint of ice.

Sam chuckled. Unlike Raoul, he tended to mind his own business. She’d always liked the old rancher.

“I heard rumors that you’d played with Ben, and I was worried.” Raoul’s dark brown eyes met hers. “I know firsthand how disastrous it can be when a Master takes on someone who isn’t a real slave.”

Her irritation died under his obvious worry. “You don’t need to—”

“Anne.” Cullen’s usually easygoing tone was chilled. “Ben is looking for you.”

She straightened. “Is that right?”

“Aye.” Cullen leaned an arm on the bar, getting in her face. “Everyone likes Ben, you know.”

“This is true.” And she had no plans of playing with him again. “Listen, Cullen—”

“My friend, the man is vanilla,” Raoul said.

He made it sound as if she’d gone after a virginal eighteen-year-old, not an ex-soldier in his mid-thirties. She kept her tone reasonable. “I think the operative word here is man.”

“Seems to me the operative word is sadist —which you are,” Cullen said as if he didn’t trust her not to damage a submissive who didn’t want it. To know if a man was vanilla or not.

That hurt. She could battle it out with them, but what would that prove? Especially since she’d already ended matters with Ben.

She slid off the barstool.

Sam’s eyes met hers and the corner of his mouth lifted. He understood. Sadists had a rep.

She nodded at him, took a step back, and bumped into someone.

From the size of the hands steadying her, she recognized Ben even before he spoke. “Mistress Anne?”

Ignoring the way Cullen and Raoul stiffened, she turned. “Ben, what can I do for you?” Even as she told herself to be cold, the sight of him lifted her spirits and filled unacknowledged hollows.

Hands at his sides, he smiled down at her. “Ma’am, if you’re available, could I ask you for another scene?”

She tsk-tsked. “I think you know that submissives don’t push themselves forward in this way.”

The hint of challenge in his gaze sent a current of electricity running between them. “Ma’am, since I’m not a member of the club, I didn’t think Z would let me sit over there”—he motioned to the subbie area—“and make cow eyes at you in hopes you’d favor me.”

She choked. The blond young man in the area was doing exactly that. “I…see.” Then, deciding to toss her fellow Masters under the train, she nodded toward Cullen and Raoul. “Your friends informed me that you’re vanilla and shouldn’t do scenes. Are you vanilla…pet?”

He straightened, as if he’d needed to add another inch to his height. Without a glance at the Doms, he snorted. “I didn’t realize I had to ask anyone’s permission but yours.”

“I believe that is correct,” she said gravely.

To her surprise, he sank down onto one knee. Yet, he was still so large that he simply exuded menace. “Mistress Anne. Please?”

The singing in her blood wasn’t new. It was pulled from the depths of her spirit, a weft across the mundane world into the very different one of dominance and submission—and was a celebration of the moment a submissive gifted her with his power as a man might hand over his cloak. Of the moment he entrusted her with his body and mind and soul.

She’d been a Domme for years and yet the wonder never diminished.

Leaning forward, she laid her palm along his face. The smooth skin meant he’d shaved before coming. This wasn’t a sudden request; he’d intended to play.

His clothing confirmed her supposition. Although he’d balk at the skimpy attire some male slaves favored, he’d removed his shoes and socks in compliance with Z’s “submissives go barefoot” decree. His fairly new jeans were admirably tight. His form-fitting gray tank clung to the heavy slabs of pectoral muscle.

His gaze met hers—such a bad submissive—and she could see the plea. The need. He wanted her to take the control from him.

But…under all that, she could see something else. The desire and need that he’d shown her in her bed. The pull that she must resist.

Because Raoul was right. This submissive wasn’t a slave. And his heart needed to be guarded, even if her protection was against her own self.