her, with all the luxury amenities Ms. Lamont provided.
The carpeted stairs were silent under her shoes as she made her way to the first floor. One woman, decked out for the weekend, stood alone in the lobby.
She barely wore a corset and matching hot pants, had metal bands wrapped around her wrists and ankles, and sported an eternity collar—a metal band only removable with a key—around her delicate throat.
Cold fingers of unease tendriled through her. She’d seen—worn—those bands before. Tremors worked their way up from her feet and she tried to shove them aside. Take deep breaths. Remember what your therapist told you. Metal cannot hurt you. People cannot hurt you unless you give them the power to.
She was sure lots of Masters used eternity collars on their subs.
The woman stood by the unobtrusive front desk, head down, arms at her sides, surrounded by luggage.
Not her problem. She forcibly started for the stairs, reaching the first landing before the front door opened and cold wind rushed in. Turning, she saw Ms. Lamont enter.
“I’m so glad you made it here before the storm,” she said, holding the door open.
“Yes,” a cultured voice replied, “the roads will be impassable for at least a day. Damn shame.”
Damn shame. Disobedient slaves don’t get aftercare.
She shuddered and grabbed for the rail. The man walked through the door wearing a fedora and pinstripe suit. She knew that gait, that voice.
She wanted to throw up.
Master Joseph snapped his fingers and the woman ran over, took off his fedora, and bowed her head. “Bags.” He pointed upstairs.
Hope couldn’t hear the woman’s response, but she knew it by heart. Yes, My Liege . The slave, loaded down with luggage, headed for the opposite staircase and started to climb, straining every step.
Ms. Lamont continued her conversation with Master Joseph, but no real words filtered through to her.
Garnering every piece of willpower she possessed, she managed to turn on the steps and make her way upward. One foot in front of the other, one inch at a time, she finally found herself on the second floor, but the memories still suffocated. Her pulse thundered in her ears and she could feel the blood beating against her wrists and neck.
My Liege, I’ve been a good girl. My Liege, please make love to me.
Room 209 loomed in front of her. Not remembering and not caring how she’d made it to her room, she fumbled for her key and unlocked the door.
Hell, she’d been so wrong to keep this from her therapist.
“Gabe,” she gasped before she was sucked back in time by the memories.
Chapter Six
Gabe toyed with his glass, watching snow fall outside his bedroom balcony doors. So much for leaving early. He’d been tentatively optimistic about this weekend, but he’d gone and fucked that up. So stupid, pushing her about that scar, but he couldn’t let it go. Just like he’d pushed too much in their relationship.
She needed a keeper, dammit, and here he was, ready to reapply for the job. Only she wouldn’t admit to needing it. And if he were being honest, maybe she didn’t now. Maybe she had made that much progress.
With a sigh, he set down his water and fell into the posh leather chair facing the balcony. Good thing he’d brought paperwork with him. At least the weekend wouldn’t be a total loss.
But that would have to wait until he’d talked to Kat. He owed Hope this recommendation. Grabbing his key card from the little table by the door, he braced himself for seeing Hope. His mind flashed to the worst-case scenario—Hope with another Top for the weekend—and he didn’t like that one bit. He relaxed his jaw, shook the tension from his shoulders, and let the door click shut behind him. Always closing doors, huh.
With an angry mental shove, he slammed a door in the face of his guilty conscience. See how she likes door slamming now.
Halfway to the stairs, an open door across and down a story caught his attention. Prickles crept up his
The carpeted stairs were silent under her shoes as she made her way to the first floor. One woman, decked out for the weekend, stood alone in the lobby.
She barely wore a corset and matching hot pants, had metal bands wrapped around her wrists and ankles, and sported an eternity collar—a metal band only removable with a key—around her delicate throat.
Cold fingers of unease tendriled through her. She’d seen—worn—those bands before. Tremors worked their way up from her feet and she tried to shove them aside. Take deep breaths. Remember what your therapist told you. Metal cannot hurt you. People cannot hurt you unless you give them the power to.
She was sure lots of Masters used eternity collars on their subs.
The woman stood by the unobtrusive front desk, head down, arms at her sides, surrounded by luggage.
Not her problem. She forcibly started for the stairs, reaching the first landing before the front door opened and cold wind rushed in. Turning, she saw Ms. Lamont enter.
“I’m so glad you made it here before the storm,” she said, holding the door open.
“Yes,” a cultured voice replied, “the roads will be impassable for at least a day. Damn shame.”
Damn shame. Disobedient slaves don’t get aftercare.
She shuddered and grabbed for the rail. The man walked through the door wearing a fedora and pinstripe suit. She knew that gait, that voice.
She wanted to throw up.
Master Joseph snapped his fingers and the woman ran over, took off his fedora, and bowed her head. “Bags.” He pointed upstairs.
Hope couldn’t hear the woman’s response, but she knew it by heart. Yes, My Liege . The slave, loaded down with luggage, headed for the opposite staircase and started to climb, straining every step.
Ms. Lamont continued her conversation with Master Joseph, but no real words filtered through to her.
Garnering every piece of willpower she possessed, she managed to turn on the steps and make her way upward. One foot in front of the other, one inch at a time, she finally found herself on the second floor, but the memories still suffocated. Her pulse thundered in her ears and she could feel the blood beating against her wrists and neck.
My Liege, I’ve been a good girl. My Liege, please make love to me.
Room 209 loomed in front of her. Not remembering and not caring how she’d made it to her room, she fumbled for her key and unlocked the door.
Hell, she’d been so wrong to keep this from her therapist.
“Gabe,” she gasped before she was sucked back in time by the memories.
Chapter Six
Gabe toyed with his glass, watching snow fall outside his bedroom balcony doors. So much for leaving early. He’d been tentatively optimistic about this weekend, but he’d gone and fucked that up. So stupid, pushing her about that scar, but he couldn’t let it go. Just like he’d pushed too much in their relationship.
She needed a keeper, dammit, and here he was, ready to reapply for the job. Only she wouldn’t admit to needing it. And if he were being honest, maybe she didn’t now. Maybe she had made that much progress.
With a sigh, he set down his water and fell into the posh leather chair facing the balcony. Good thing he’d brought paperwork with him. At least the weekend wouldn’t be a total loss.
But that would have to wait until he’d talked to Kat. He owed Hope this recommendation. Grabbing his key card from the little table by the door, he braced himself for seeing Hope. His mind flashed to the worst-case scenario—Hope with another Top for the weekend—and he didn’t like that one bit. He relaxed his jaw, shook the tension from his shoulders, and let the door click shut behind him. Always closing doors, huh.
With an angry mental shove, he slammed a door in the face of his guilty conscience. See how she likes door slamming now.
Halfway to the stairs, an open door across and down a story caught his attention. Prickles crept up his
Similar Books
