Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 93751 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93751 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
She’d been quietly disappointed that he’d yet to volunteer for a one-on-one training session with her, though she’d intellectually recognized it was probably not a wise idea. The sexual attraction she had thought had been developing between them would have made things…complicated.
But then had come that session outside with the trainees Tuesday afternoon. The way Mason had appeared out of the blue and taken charge of her had been both terrifying and sexy as hell. The pain when he’d released the clamps had caused actual stars to dance before her eyes, though it had soon been replaced by the euphoria of released endorphins.
The deliciously terrifying part had come when he’d closed his mouth over her nipples, first one and then the other, licking and suckling her in a way that made her weak in the knees. The attraction she’d tried to tamp down since he’d made her come that first night in the dungeon had burst into flame.
Then he’d pressed himself against her from behind, his cock hard as a bar of steel at her back as he’d bitten her neck. It had all been too much to handle. It was the shock of her own fierce desire, more than what he’d done, that had made her pull abruptly away.
He, too, had seemed to come suddenly to his senses. She had seen the way his face had closed down as he’d turned away from her. She’d very nearly begged him to stay—to give her another chance. But pride, common sense and lingering confusion had kept her silent.
Since that afternoon, everything had changed between them. She still didn’t know what to do about it or how to feel about it. When they worked together in the kitchen now, he was all business, directing her to chop, peel, scrub, clean, plate and, occasionally, handle a side dish on her own. Conversation, when it happened at all, had become neutral, not a hint of the playful innuendo she’d enjoyed during those first few days.
Whatever had been smoldering between them had apparently been snuffed out, at least as far as Mason was concerned. She told herself this was for the best. It was too soon, and she was way too far out of her league. She would be nuts to get involved with a man who had made it clear he was looking for a 24/7 slave girl, if he was even looking at all. It would be a recipe for disaster for both of them.
She tried instead to focus on getting the most out of her remaining few days at The Enclave. If nothing else, the experience had definitely reawakened her creative mind. Dozens of possible plot scenarios were now swirling through her brain, which she typed into her laptop each night before curling up in her single bed in the slave quarters. Now that she was experiencing firsthand some of the things she’d spent the last decade writing and dreaming about, she was excited to return to her work, sure she could create something more authentic than she had previously.
Now, as she got to the bottom of the slave quarter stairs, she saw Lia curled up on one of the chairs in the communal area, her face in her hands. The girl was frequently in trouble and spent much of her time in the punishment cage or put on display in the living room after dinner, forced to hold some difficult position while everyone around her ignored her.
Hannah had tried once or twice to engage the girl during free time, both concerned for her and also very curious why she was making things so difficult for herself by constantly disobeying the Doms. Lia had been monosyllabic to the point of sullenness. Hannah would have been insulted by her rude behavior, had the girl not reminded her of her own daughter during a particularly heinous period of her teenage years.
Zoë had been a delightful child, open, sunny and easygoing. She’d been an excellent student and a good big sister to her younger brother. Then she’d turned fifteen and morphed almost overnight into a sullen, moody, disrespectful and rebellious girl.
Zoë had, without permission, dyed her hair a harsh black with a purplish sheen. She’d started wearing raccoon-like eye makeup and black lipstick and wore clompy Doc Marten boots and a perennial sneer. Worse, she’d snuck out several times at night, not coming home until well after her eleven p.m. curfew, reeking of weed and discontent.
Thankfully, the phase had been short-lived. Zoë had eventually confided she’d been trying to impress a Goth boy at school with whom she’d thought she was madly in love. That, plus raging teenage hormones had caused her, to use her words, to go temporarily insane.
“You guys were so good about giving me ‘my space,’” Zoë had told her later. “I was actually kind of waiting for you to tell me to knock it off so I could stop pretending to be something I wasn’t.”