“Thanks for the suggestion.” The insult went nowhere this time. Not with the ice shield in place.

As Janae smirked and left to bid her father good-bye, Abby glanced at her mother. “Bet you’re glad she doesn’t visit often.”

“I always hoped she’d stop resenting us, but it’s not going to happen. Poor Harold has no idea how nasty she is, and I never had the heart to tell him.” Her mother gave her a repentant look. “I’m sorry she made your high school years so miserable. I should have taken her to task or something…”

Abby shrugged. The insults—and losing any boy who showed a hint of interest—had been painful, but she’d survived, and after Janae, sarcastic professors were a piece of cake. “It’s not your fault. We both avoid confrontations.” Even now the thought of someone yelling—of Dad yelling—made Abby cringe. But Mom had suffered the worst. Abby had been a child and able to escape to school; her mother had never been able to get away.

“I feel as if I should—”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Abby patted her mother’s hand. “Having you happy, and having Harold and Grace in our lives, is worth putting up with a bit of bitchiness. Someday someone will give Janae a wake-up call. It won’t be us, but that’s okay.”

Chapter Seven

Friday night, at a table in the upstairs club room, Xavier watched Michael conduct a violet wand scene. The older Dom wore a contact pad, and the electricity passed through him. As sparks leaped from his finger to the submissive’s bare ass, the well-rounded woman squirmed violently on the bench, trying to evade the bite of the current. Good entertainment for the crowd.

Xavier glanced around the room, pleased with the number of members present. Even at midnight the dance floor was packed, the bar and tables busy.

There was Abby, over by the door. As his spirits lifted, he shook his head ruefully. Although a Dom needed to be able to read his own emotions like a book, the knowledge gleaned wasn’t always comfortable.

She’s a member of the Dark Haven staff, not my submissive. He should remember that. When her gaze met his, he motioned to her.

Looking all around, she crossed the twilit room, so fair-skinned and blonde she almost glowed. The show on the stage halted her completely. Although the music of Terminal Choice from the dance floor drowned out the faint sizzle of the wand, the submissive’s yelps came through clearly. Abby’s rapid retreat indicated her opinion of electrical play.

As she drew closer, Xavier frowned. Her gray eyes were reddened, and the translucent skin beneath showed dark circles. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks.” She caught his raised eyebrow and added a hasty, “My liege.”

He understood her difficulty with the automatic respect. Although he’d topped her in one scene, he wasn’t her Dom, and she didn’t have the habit of calling every Dominant “sir” that many submissives acquired. However, he did insist his staff be respectful.

“I’ll give you one more night to improve your courtesy,” he said gently and saw her brows draw together as she mentally added, Or what? He didn’t answer her unspoken question. Explaining consequences served well at times, but silence could be far more effective…if the submissive possessed an active imagination.

He could see hers was hard at work. She really was delightful. “Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

After nodding acceptance, he shifted his attention to her attire. She’d ignored his directions about her clothing. Again. “Abigail, return to the desk and remove either the bustier or the skirt. Put your collar on. Return here.”

Her mouth opened, closed, and a flush lit her cheeks.

He turned his gaze back to the stage in an open dismissal and punishment. Her footsteps trailed away.

A few minutes later he heard her stop beside him, and he glanced up.

Collared. Naked from the waist up. He’d have let her wear something slightly less revealing if she hadn’t defied him. Her arm muscles were rigid, as if she had to quell the need to cover herself, and her face turned an enchanting red.

He’d forgotten how enjoyable the modest ones were. This one blushed more beautifully than anyone he’d ever seen. “You have gorgeous breasts, little fluff. I’m pleased to share your beauty with my friends.”

Her mouth tightened—not a normal reaction to a compliment, and neither was her clipped, “Thank you, sir.” Expressionless, she kept her gaze on the stage.

She was quite the piece of work. “When talking to a Dom, it’s good manners for the submissive to be on an equal or lower level. That means if he’s sitting, you kneel.”

After a moment of obvious reluctance, she knelt in front of him with an awkward charm. He studied her, trying to read how she felt. He could see a hint of shock—that of a career woman ordered to kneel. Yet her nipples had tightened, and her back arched. Did the little feminist find it exciting to be at his feet? Quite likely. Perhaps someday he’d tell her how it pleased him to have her there.

For now he had other subjects to pursue. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, invading her space. Taking a slow breath, he inhaled her delightful fragrance, like a brisk spring with a hint of flowers. “Tell me why you chose to remove your top rather than the skirt.” After all, she’d probably worn panties and would have been more covered.

She shrugged. “It was easier.”

His mental deceit detector clanged. “I’d prefer an honest answer.”

Her gaze never met his. “It seemed less naked.”

WHY WON’T HE stop prying? As Abby shifted her weight, trying to find a comfortable position on the hardwood floor, her breasts wobbled. Without the bustier, her stomach’s roundness was in full view. Janae’s you’re fat comments from earlier still lingered, and now Abby’s mental armor chilled with every glance that probably held disgust.

The weight of Xavier’s attention bowed her shoulders, but at least it couldn’t penetrate the ice around her. Why wouldn’t he just leave her alone?

“Let’s try it this way,” Xavier said, his tone even. “Tell me your thoughts as you decided which garment to keep on and which to remove. All.”

Lay out her reasons like an exam paper to be graded? She felt the ice around her thicken to keep his influence minimized. “That was it. Really.”

“Abby. Look at me.”

The firm command sliced through her, and she tipped her head back. His eyes were black. Intent. The demand in them chipped at her armor.

“Keep looking at me,” he said softly. His knuckles brushed down her neck, down her chest. His hand was warm, melting the ice around her as he cupped her left breast and weighed it in his big palm. Her nipples tightened painfully, making her toes curl. As he circled the areola with his thumb, his gaze kept hers trapped. She swallowed as the rush of heat inside her blasted away her defenses.

“That’s right.” His voice was soothing; only she didn’t understand what he meant.

He leaned forward and kissed her firmly. “Your inability to share your thoughts and emotions is something we’ll work on. But this time I’ll help. When you tried to decide what to remove, your first thought was that you wanted to show off your breasts.”

A startled laugh broke from her and made the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle.

His hand shifted, sliding under her neglected breast to caress…to heat. “That would be no. Actually, since you’re female, your first thought was probably that one part of your body is less attractive than another.”

He’d plucked the worry right from her brain, and she jerked slightly.

“Yes. Tell me how you feel about your breasts, little teacher. Three adjectives, please.”

She tried to look away, to get some mental distance to think. His free hand curved under her jaw, an iron trap holding her face up. He’d not let her escape. A shiver shook her as the feeling of exposure went from external to internal.

“Abby?”

Breasts. Her breasts. “Heavy. Nice.” She did like her breasts. Although there were times… “Awkward.”

“Awkward?” One eyebrow rose, and humor glinted in his eyes. “I’m looking forward to discussing that one.”

Hell will freeze over first, thank you very much.

Despite her silence, he smiled. “Oh yes, we will. We also need to work on letting you view yourself in a better light.” He stroked one breast, then the other. “They’re more than nice. My adjectives: lush, lovely, responsive.” He tugged on a nipple, and heat sizzled a path to her groin. “Your nipples are… Hmm. Like fragile, pale-pink roses on a canvas of snow.”

Even through the flush of delight from the compliments, she stared. Men didn’t use poetical phrases, especially a man who looked like a leaner, deadlier, darker Rhett Butler—an aristocratic pirate.

His smile flickered, undoubtedly at her expression. “I had an excellent private school education.”

What would she bet that his elusive and faint accent originated in a European private school?

He gave a very Gallic shrug, and his expression lightened. “I want three adjectives for what your skirt covers. Ah, no, I’ll make it more difficult. Three descriptive words for your hips and ass. Three for your pussy.”

“What?” Her attempt to lean back was defeated when his fingers tightened on her jaw.

“Now, Abigail.” A note of steel entered his tone.

The pit of her stomach dropped. Under his hands, his indomitable gaze, she couldn’t think. The words spilled out. “Fat. Ugly. Jiggly.”

His expression didn’t change. “All right. Your pussy?”