by His Slave
Leaving Rio to his treat, Mace headed for his bedroom. Thanks to a distraught woman’s insistence on seeing whoever had interviewed her mother for a Hunted piece, he was more than an hour late getting home. The woman had been furious, declaring that the journalist writing the piece should have been sensitive to her mother’s emotional state.
“My mother’s sister was killed by a monster,” the woman had pointed out around her tears. “There isn’t a day she doesn’t relive that terrible time. To be asked to describe how it felt to learn the killer was Aunt Viola’s ex was unconscionable. You tell that damned reporter that thanks to her, my mother’s not sleeping again.”
In the end, he’d gotten the woman to agree that the chance of someone recognizing her dead aunt’s ex would increase when incensed readers saw his picture and read about the hell the family was still going through.
Cheyenne was writing the piece.
Despite his growling stomach, Mace couldn’t put his mind to throwing something together. Instead, he pondered what it had been like for Cheyenne to hear a woman sob about her murdered sister. No wonder Cheyenne fantasized about giving up control and responsibility when off the job. Given similar circumstances, he might feel the same way.
No, he wouldn’t, he admitted as he stood with his hand on the drawer holding his dom equipment. He knew what it was to be helpless, to live a nightmare. Coming out intact on the other side had required shutting down his emotions and embracing control.
Enough with the journey into his childhood! What he had to concern himself with tonight was how to deal with Atwood.
Opening the drawer, he took note of what it contained, not that he didn’t know what he was after. Telling himself he was simply doing what had to be done, he selected a collar made of silver links resembling a dog chain. Sitting on the side of the bed he’d come close to putting Cheyenne in, he pulled out his cell phone.
“There’s going to be something in your desk when you get to work tomorrow,” he told Cheyenne as soon as she said hello. “You’ll know what to do with it.”
“Mace, what is this about?”
“Maybe my helping you transition into what you think you want to be. Maybe job security.”
“That doesn’t make any—”
“Just do it.”
Mace wasn’t at his usual early-morning spot by the front door when Cheyenne arrived the next morning, thank goodness. Instead of taking the crowded elevator, she opted for the stairs. Once she started climbing, she realized that while she didn’t have to engage in gossip and chitchat here, the claustrophobic space brought back memories of what had happened between her and Mace.
Not like thoughts of him didn’t blindside her no matter where she was or what she was doing.
You’ll know what to do with it, he’d said. As a result, she’d spent the night half convinced she’d find a battery-operated dildo in her desk. Realizing he’d tapped into her ragged physical state was unnerving. He had to be crazy to think she’d slip into the bathroom at work and pull down her panties so—
A catch in her side distracted her, and she managed to reach her floor with just a tad of juice on her panties’ crotch. Her cubicle consisted of three portable walls and an open space next to a short hall. Fortunately, no one was in the hall, and she didn’t share her cubicle. Sitting down, she, not for the first time, wondered when and if she’d be promoted to an honest-to-goodness office. Edge might be a slick publication, but the powers that be believed in Spartan surroundings for most of its employees. All flash on the outside and no substance beyond the public area.
Resigning herself to what was, she started opening drawers. It wasn’t until she got to the bottom one on the left that she spotted something that hadn’t been there yesterday. The brown paper bag was anonymous in the extreme. Resting her hand on it, she looked up to reassure herself that she was still alone. Then she opened the bag and took out its contents.
A slave collar. Made of links of chain. Silver. Choker length. Not slender enough to pass as ordinary jewelry. A not so unobtrusive ring welded into it.
Oh, shit.
As she reached for the interoffice phone, disbelief slid into embarrassment followed by a tingling hopefully no one would know about.
“You can’t be serious,” she said when Mace came on the line.
“Deadly serious.”
His tone told her this was no joking matter. “If I wear it, people are going to know what it represents. They’ll point and talk behind my back.”
“Let them.”
“Why?” she demanded. “I thought you believed in separating your personal life from the professional one. You can’t want me telling folks it came from you.”
“What you say’s up to you. My only stipulation is that you put it on, now.”
Feeling weak and other things she needed to keep to herself, she fingered the collar. She had no doubt that like the one she’d worn at Indulgences, this would remain locked around her neck for as long as Mace wanted.
“You aren’t going to tell me what this is about, are you?”
“I’m trying to decide. For now the only thing you need to know is that your master is making this request of you.”
“Request? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Okay, command. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
I don’t know. “I have to do it today?”
“Now. Cheyenne, just do it.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” she said and hung up. Thinking he might call back, she tucked the collar in her purse and headed for the bathroom. Two women from the art department were in there, their expressions somber.
“You can’t keep avoiding the calls,” one was saying. “Those collection agencies are relentless.”
“I call back, but all I get is recordings. How am I supposed to—”
Leaving the women to their conversation, she headed for the stall farthest from them. She sat on the toilet and clutched her purse to her, her lips numb. If she could, she’d wait until she was alone, but who knows how long the women would be in here. They might ask if she was okay.
Well, she wasn’t. Or maybe the truth was, she was more than okay. Turned on.
Staring at the closed door, she retrieved the collar. She’d worn a button-down blouse and slacks, which meant her throat and even a hint of cleavage was in sight. She supposed she could button the blouse all the way, but the garment hadn’t been designed with maximum modesty in mind. Besides, she’d be failing Mace if she hid the collar—his collar.
Her fingers tingled so much she almost dropped the piece of jewelry but managed to drape it around the back of her neck. Now came the hard part. Putting off the inevitable, she noted weight and substance. The collar wasn’t ornamental. There was nothing fashionable about it.
Just get it over with!
Teeth grinding, she pushed the ends together. The instant she did, energy raced through her veins. She sucked in air that smelled of too much freshener.
A distant door opened and closed. The room went silent.
Standing, she shuffled out of the stall and over to the bank of sinks with a long mirror behind them.
There she was, collared. Her pale skin looked vulnerable and trapped, the links dragging and the ring resting against the base of her throat.
“Oh, shit.”
Someone looking on might surmise she was horrified, but in truth, she loved knowing she was bound to Mace in inescapable ways—even if he didn’t feel the same way. Closing her eyes, she fingered the solid links.
17
“We intend to keep this short, ladies and gentlemen,” Robert announced as he and Atwood entered the conference room. “All of you have deadlines. Never let it be said that management got in the way of meeting those deadlines.”
From her place at the opposite end of the table from where Robert and Atwood always sat, Cheyenne noted that Atwood’s cheeks were somewhat flushed. Gossip was he was having trouble regulating his blood pressure, but more gossip center
ed around the opinion that the man imbibed, a lot. Whichever it was, she was glad Robert was running the meeting.
“It occurred to us”—Robert nodded at Atwood, who was staring at some papers in front of him—“that although there’s a lot of talk about Edge employees being family, reality is that each of you is so focused on your own responsibilities that you might not be aware of what your fellow journalists are doing. In an attempt to remedy that, I’m asking each of you to spend a few minutes talking about your current project.”
Sighing, Cheyenne shifted in her seat. If anyone had noticed her collar, they hadn’t said anything, although if the tables were turned, she would probably keep her mouth shut. She’d been wearing it for no more than an hour and already she felt changed. Mace didn’t have to be anywhere near for her to sense his presence. Most distracting, certain parts of her anatomy insisted on reminding her of the activities that had taken place between them.
As Mace’s slave, she’d obey his every command. Hell, he could walk in the room and order her to strip and splay herself on the table and she wouldn’t take time to breathe before complying. A pat on the head for a job well done and pride would engulf her. His cock sliding into her pussy and—
“Cheyenne, I’d like to begin with you,” Robert said. “You’ve only done one other Hunted piece and that was about a serial bank robber, which financially inconvenienced the banks but wasn’t particularly compelling for our readers. This one—what’s the killer’s name?”
“Carl Schulz,” she supplied. Giving herself a mental shake, she pushed Mace and the incredible things he was capable of to the back of her mind.
“Oh, yes, Schulz. You’ll be turning in the finished product before the end of the day, right?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you fill us in on the police investigation, your interviews with family members, everything you’ve done.” The corner of Robert’s mouth twitched. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like you to stand up. How tall are you, an even five feet?”
“Five feet one.”
Both wishing she could crawl into a hole and feeling a bit like an exhibitionist, she stood. All eyes turned to her. A few expressions didn’t change, but most fixed on her collar. Eyes widened. Robert nudged Atwood, who muttered something and then leaned forward.
No one asked about her new decoration, but she sensed the unspoken questions as she described Carl Schulz’s violent attack on his wife followed by more than a year in hiding on his part. Viola Schulz had filed for divorce and taken out a restraining order on her estranged husband, not that pieces of paper had stopped him from coming through Viola’s sister’s back door where Viola had been staying while trying to pull her life back together.
“Her family has been traumatized,” she said. Thinking of the haunted look in Viola’s sister’s eyes killed the energy humming through her. “I’m not holding back in the telling. Readers need to know how important it is to get him off the streets.”
“In other words,” Robert said, still staring at her throat, “you’re writing an impassioned article.”
“You’re damn right I am. He didn’t have to kill her. She wasn’t asking for much, just her half of the house when it sells. They have two children, fortunately grown, who’ll spend the rest of their lives dealing with what happened to their parents.”
“Give him hell,” someone muttered.
“Where do I sign up for the lynch party?” someone else asked.
“String the bastard up by his balls.”
Robert clapped his hand on the table. “Do you see the potential there, Cheyenne? If you write as well as you just spoke, which we know you can, you’re going to have people all through the country turning over rocks looking for Schulz.”
Nodding, Cheyenne started to sit down.
“Just a minute,” Robert said. “Our young lady here might be vertically challenged, but her journalistic skills make up for that. I have no intention of leaking information. All I’m going to say is, she’s now working on something that’ll knock more than people’s socks off. As your one and only hint, take a close look at her necklace.”
“If looks could kill,” Atwood told Robert when just the two of them remained in the conference room, “I’d be picking out your casket. She didn’t appreciate you saying that.”
“I knew she wouldn’t.”
“Then why—”
“I wanted to leave no doubt in her mind that I understand the meaning and purpose behind the collar. She did squirm a bit.”
“I loved seeing that.”
“What I don’t understand”—Robert pinched the bridge of his nose—“is what prompted her to put it on. If she wanted to remain under the BDSM radar scope, she went about it the wrong way.”
“It wasn’t her idea. Wasn’t Mace’s either.”
“What are you talking about?”
Even with his alcohol-produced haze getting in the way, Atwood loved the look on his partner’s face. “I had a talk with Mace,” he explained. “Gave him the impression that we’re questioning his expertise in a certain area.”
“What the hell are you talking about? If you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”
“I don’t have to do any such thing. However, since it pleases me to do so, I’ll explain. Our nominating Mace for a position at the Blind Spot puts our necks on the line. Before we take that step, we need to be absolutely sure we’re offering him what he wants and needs.”
Lips thin, Robert shook his head.
“Elementary my dear, elementary. In essence, I asked Mace if he had the balls to make Cheyenne jump through his hoops. Her sporting his slave collar answers that question.”
“Shit.”
“Shit as in good?”
A smile as broad as Robert ever offered transformed his features. He slapped Atwood on the shoulder. “Damn good. You know, I’m becoming more and more convinced that Mace is as much of a bastard as we are.”
“He’d see that as a compliment.”
“What about her? Think she’d agree?”
Atwood belched, the taste of booze coating his tongue. “Doesn’t matter.”
“What are you doing? Damn it, Mace, I don’t—”
“Shut up. Getting what you want no longer matters. Now it’s my turn.”
Less than a minute ago, Cheyenne had opened her door to let Mace in. But instead of handing her what he’d decided was appropriate attire for tonight as he’d said he’d do, he’d grabbed the front of her dressing gown and torn it open, popping several buttons as he did.
She could have screamed. Her neighbors would have heard. Instead, caught up in her sudden nudity and Mace propelling her backward out of the living room and into her bedroom, she’d remained silent. Despite her struggles, he’d thrown her onto her bed and flipped her onto her stomach. Now he was wrapping rope around her elbows, forcing them so close they nearly touched. Mixed in with confusion and fear was a heady dose of expectation. Losing use of her arms this way was, hell, sexy. Her breasts ground into the coverlet, sending shards of energy through her.
Don’t let him know.
“What is this?” she asked, turning her head so her face wasn’t in her pillow. “What about Indulgences?”
“We’re going there.” Done with knotting the rope in place, he patted her ass. A sigh pressed against her teeth. “Just not the way you thought.”
“No!” she exclaimed as more rope went around her wrists. “Don’t I get any say in this? What if I don’t want—”
“Want? You’re a sub. You do what your master tells you to.”
Oh, yes. “Wait.” Although she tried to pull free, her tethered elbows made that impossible. “You’re not going to take me there naked. Mace, I don’t want—”
A rag being shoved into her mouth stopped her in mid-sentence. As if that wasn’t enough, he wound electrical tape around her head to seal the rag in place. That done, he went back to binding her wrists. Helpless. And turned on.
The final ropes wen
t around her ankles, forcing her legs so close together she knew she couldn’t stand. Not that she wanted to.
Helpless. Needing him.
He rolled her onto her back.
“Here’s how things are going to go down,” he told her. “At least in part. There’s more to the back rooms than you know, maybe more than you want to know. But you’re determined to write those damn pieces, and I’ve committed to making your experience authentic.”
Watching her with his head cocked to the side and his entire body yelling masculine, he closed a hand around her left breast. At first it was all good, everything she’d ever wanted her make-believe dom to do to her. But Mace kept squeezing, pressing tighter and tighter until the good was replaced by pain and a wave of fear. She struggled to escape.
“I love your breasts.” Still holding on to the first, he cupped her other breast. “They’re natural. Sensitive and responsive.”
Still not comprehending the reason for Mace’s rough treatment, she forced herself to lie still. Fortunately, her breasts had recovered from his earlier treatment, but it wouldn’t take much for that to happen again. Was this playacting on his part, a role he’d become an expert at?
But what if he’d stepped across the unspoken line?
“Something for you to chew on,” he continued. “I have no doubt you’ve been looking forward to tonight. The chance to dive into a sub role—well, here’s the rub. There’s no games being played tonight. This is the real thing.”
Eyes wide, she stared up at him.
“Didn’t expect that, did you? Not after everything you’ve heard about BDSM being about equal rewards and the sub holding the real power.”
Releasing her breasts, he stood and walked out of the room. Before she could gather her wits, let alone try to formulate a plan, he was back carrying his jacket. He reached into a pocket and pulled out what might be the same leash he’d used on her earlier. After clipping it to her collar, he dug into another pocket. Out came a Magic Wand. Watching her, he plugged the heavy-duty vibrator into the nearest socket.
