Ice Queen

He concluded his foreplay fifteen minutes later, strategically when her body was starting to rouse to his touch. He wanted her panting and wanting so her mind couldn't interfere with the pleasure he could give her. It was obvious that rousing to a man's touch was new to her but he knew her to be disciplined enough to relegate it to a mere physical issue. He wanted to keep her emotions involved.



When she started to reach for her clothes, he shook his head. "Carry them."



"But Sarah...Robert."



"They know my house, my ways. And that's another requirement met, submitting to my demands in front of others, isn't it?"



"Are you trying to humiliate me?"



"Think, Marguerite. Are you trying to humiliate a sub when you strip him and open up the glass screen?"



She clutched the clothes, her brow furrowing, telling him that even when she was defensive she never let her pride keep her from thinking.



"I'm not sure. I...go on instinct most of the time. It's more feeling than thought to me, Tyler. I don't analyze it. I'm listening to something beyond voice."



"Let me take those." He removed the clothes from her grip, laid them neatly on the bench with her shoes and socks for later retrieval. "You'll just hold them in front of you like a shield. The point is not humiliation, angel, not with me. It's about your pleasure."



"And you get nothing out of it."



"It's not a war, Marguerite. Getting a slave to capitulate to her own pleasure, accepting that she desires to be Dominated, welcomes and embraces it, is the goal for both of us. And sometimes, for a very lucky Master, a sub feels that way only about a particular Dom. Now, enough questions." He took her hand, tucked it securely in his elbow and led her back toward the house. "I believe it's time for you to have your tea.



Which means reluctantly I'm going to let you go put something comfortable on once we're in the house and leave you alone for your two hours. After that, I'll come get you and take you for a picnic lunch."



It surprised her that he was going to give her space when he'd implied that he would join her for her tea times. But her surprise at that was not as strong as the unexpected feeling of disappointment, indicating that she didn't necessarily want to be without his company.



She kept her tone and expression neutral. "All this and picnic lunches, too," she observed.



"We're a full-service BDSM bed and breakfast."



As if arranged, they passed Robert in the garden, lean and tan from gardening, his face weathered and handsome with a depth of character that told Marguerite that Sarah's affection for him was well-founded. He did give her body an appreciative look with discreet courtesy as she passed him in profile, so that she felt his eyes linger on her buttocks, the movement of her breasts as they turned on the path. And of course, they found Sarah in the kitchen finishing up the preparations for their midday meal, the predicted aroma of cookies in the air.



Being naked in front of them made Marguerite vastly uncomfortable, Robert particularly, but another unexpected thought crept unbidden into her mind, keeping her steps even and measured as she passed them both. I belong to Tyler. I'm safe.



At least for this weekend.



She made herself add the last, well aware it was a conscious effort to do so, whereas the first part of the thought had simply appeared in her mind like a child's truth.



Tyler felt some of the tension go out of her as they moved deeper into the sanctuary of the house, out of Sarah and Robert's presence. Taking her hand, he laced his fingers in hers to reassure her. He'd felt an unusual compulsion to shield her with his body when he passed Robert, something he'd never felt with his submissives before. He mused on it as they made their way to the stairs.



He'd seen her start to gather her reserve around her the moment he indicated he was going to give her the time she demanded and cursed himself for a fool. He should spend that time with her. Even if the tea time could not involve D/s play, he knew it wasn't advisable to give her breathing space for the objective he was trying to reach.



But he also knew he had to do something to burn off the physical hunger in himself.



As well as the emotional hunger that he didn't want to explore too deeply. He'd never had such an ache. It was time to bite the bullet, literally. Sweat it out and take the risk of leaving her side before he did something that would destroy her trust.



Patience. It had always served him well as a Master and he needed to embrace it now. Though he felt more like choking than embracing it.



* * * * *



Before an hour had passed, she found herself restless. Sarah had laid out the Japanese boxwood tea set she'd brought and prepared the Assam tea perfectly without any instruction. Marguerite considered stealing her away from Tyler, though she suspected she'd have to mortgage the cafe to afford the salary Tyler likely paid her.



When she tasted one of the cookies Sarah had left on a plate, Marguerite decided she'd be worth whatever it might cost.



"Miss Perruquet, is the tea not to your liking?" Sarah, as if she had been imbued with special culinary empath skills, stepped into the bistro nook which was right off the kitchen area.



"It's perfect." Marguerite nodded courteously.



"Well, then..." The housekeeper studied her, her expression carefully neutral. "If you'd like, Mr. Winterman is in the range room."



"Range room?"



She nodded. "Downstairs. We have an underground level. One part of it..." She pursed her lips. "It used to be for entertaining guests, but after the unpleasantness with Violet and Mac and that terrible woman, he had it converted to a workout area and indoor shooting range."



That was interesting, for Tyler's parties in his dungeon had been the stuff of legend.



But Marguerite understood. The bust that had taken down the S&M Killer had happened at Tyler's home and almost resulted in the death of Mac Nighthorse as well as Violet. It moved her to know he wouldn't countenance using the room again for D/s play. Not when it had been used to serve a horrible, twisted version of the sexual lifestyle he approached like an art form.



"Yes." She'd take the opening to see more of the man than he was choosing to reveal. He'd said he would come and get her in two hours, fully anticipating she wouldn't seek him out. Perhaps the error in judgment on his part would give her a tactical advantage.



Sarah, oblivious, was more than willing to show her the entrance to the basement.



She handed Marguerite ear protection before she opened the door. "Just go right down.



There's a glass wall where you'll be able to see him and a buzzer for the door into the shooting area. You'll need to press that first for him to let you in. Mr. Winterman is very particular about safety with respect to his guns." The man had guns, plural. That was alarming. Marguerite nodded, started down the stairs.



She heard the muffled report of a weapon. When she turned the corner, she was in a small room similar to a police anteroom where cops could watch a suspect be grilled behind two-way glass, except this appeared to simply be a normal clear window of bulletproof glass The room in which Tyler was practicing was not small at all. There were targets set up and an obstacle course which he was working now.



He'd put on a T-shirt over his shorts but he was obviously pushing himself hard.



The cotton was wet, clinging to his upper body.



He advanced, firing the gun and spun as a mechanized target swung toward him.



Knocking it down, he did a roll across the ground, fired, rolled back behind a barrel, fired again. This time the shot went through a six-inch ring mounted on a pole and hit the target just beyond it, a metal circle that clanged at the impact and spun wildly. Back, forth, back, forth, he went from one obstacle to another, shooting now from his stomach flat on the floor, then back to his feet to fire again while running forward. He leaped over a wooden bar... No, onto it, going to a crouch, firing left then right, his feet balanced on no more than a three-inch span of wood as he punched through two cardboard targets. For the most part, she noted he was hitting every man-shaped slab in the chest area. One or two he took through the forehead.



She knew he was in good shape but had not realized how supremely fit he was. She blessed the gods above when he laid down the gun and removed his eye and ear protection to impatiently strip off the shirt, using it to mop up the sweat on his chest and the back of his neck. Tossing the shirt over a wooden target, he put the glasses and headgear back on.



She saw a workout room to his left behind another sheet of bulletproof glass but she wasn't looking at a man who used those weights to build up his muscles for show. He was staying in a state of military preparedness. Whether with intent or by habit, she didn't know but she couldn't say she wasn't impressed. Her pounding heart as well as the slight perspiration in her palms betrayed her reaction. It was like watching a wild animal. So incredibly fit and graceful one almost forgot the animal's purpose was savagery.



He finished loading a clip, locked it back in, worked his way through the same course, moving backward this time. When he was done, he stood with his back to her, breathing hard. She watched perspiration roll down his nape and the center of his back.



The moisture was stopped by the waistband of the shorts in a way her gaze wasn't. She continued to let it travel down the curve of his ass, the long lines of his thighs. What would it be like to steal up behind him, kiss between his shoulder blades, taste the salt of him? Need was wound tightly in her. She knew that her intent to come down here and catch him unaware had created as much of a handicap for her as she'd intended for him.



He turned then, as if he sensed her. Met her gaze in the glass. His surprise turned to something else. Wariness. He really hadn't meant her to come here. She straightened, walked deliberately to the door and pressed the buzzer, cocked a brow at him.



It took him a moment but then he moved. Opening the door, he leaned on it, not necessarily an inviting pose. The draft brought her the sharp smell of gunpowder, of sweaty male.



"I thought your tea time was two hours. I intended to take a shower before coming to collect you."



"You intended that I wouldn't see this."



She took an assertive step into the room with a casualness she didn't feel. He drew back abruptly, avoiding any unintentional brushing of their bodies, surprising her. The evidence of the violence he'd exhibited lingered in her mind, stirring up more questions than she wanted to have. Stopping before a target, she reached up and touched the holes in the center of the silhouette's torso. After a thoughtful moment, she removed her ear protection and laid it down.



"Who did you work for in the government? And don't come back with some diversionary quip like 'I could tell you but I'd have to kill you'." He winced. "I'd never do that. For one thing, it's been overdone." He put the gun down on the counter in front of the glass viewing screen, next to an open gun case and four cardboard boxes of bullets, two of which were empty. "The CIA. I was a field agent. I did script writing for the erotic film industry off and on for most of that. A talent that, thanks to my college friendship with Michael Atlas and our mutual interest in seeing erotic film separate itself from porn, resulted in a fairly successful side business that helped maintain my cover. And I came from a great deal of family money, so finances have never been a problem."



It didn't surprise her, for the man's style and mannerisms had always fairly screamed Georgia old money. "So did you retire early or late for the type of work you did for the CIA?"



His gaze shifted to hers. "What are you fishing for, Marguerite? These are waters you don't want to be in."



"Why?" She faced him. "It's okay for you to drown me in my memories but I can't even put a toe in to stir your waters?"



"You stir me up plenty, angel." He unloaded the clips and she noted there were two guns sitting on the platform, one much larger than the other. "Why don't you ask me the moronic question everyone feels compelled to ask?"



"Did you kill people? I know you did. I can see it in your eyes. I didn't recognize it for what it was until Sarah told me about your job." He raised his head, locked gazes with her. As she looked into his eyes, she wondered herself at what she was trying to accomplish here. He had unsettled her, so there was some quid pro quo going on. But this was more. She wanted his shadows.



Perhaps she not only wanted more of him, she wanted all. It was a compulsion no true Mistress could resist.



"How did it feel?"



From another person, Tyler would have considered the question vulgar curiosity and met it with the cutting disdain it warranted. But Marguerite Perruquet didn't ask idle questions.



"I can't tell you that. But not because I'm not willing to tell you." He looked down at the guns. A Desert Eagle and a Sig Sauer nine millimeter, and he'd killed with both of them. "When you take a man's life that's between you, God and that man's soul. It's a personal conversation you work out your entire life. I can't talk about it because there are no words for it."



"There are some things there are just no words to describe and understand." She nodded, simple understanding in her eyes that eased the tension in him. It also raised his curiosity, but she went on. "I'd like to ask you one more question."



"I don't know how to say no to you, Marguerite."



"That's not true," she responded. "You didn't want me to know about this, see it.



You hold a large part of yourself back and I'd like to know why." She raised a hand.



"But now's the wrong time. I know that. My question is different. How did you get into D/s, Tyler?"



He could not conceal his relief and he knew by showing it he'd just given her a tactical advantage, provided a doorway to his own vulnerabilities. There was too much raw expression lingering in this room to prevent it, which was the reason he hadn't wanted her here. But she was here now and she deserved her answers.



"In this country, men have to be very careful about exploring their Dominant side." He shrugged. "It wasn't until I spent time in Asia and South America that I got into venues where I realized it fully in myself. Where men could be alpha, Dominant and it wasn't considered a taboo."



He reached out now, deliberately, brushed her hair over her shoulder. Ran his thumb along her collarbone, studying that part of her, making Marguerite's breath hold in her throat at the sensual scrutiny. The lingering residue of gunpowder burned her nostrils.



"To restrain a woman, bring her to pleasure over and over, see her obeying my commands, spreading her legs when I order her to do so..." He shook his head. "It's not something I can explain."



"Maybe it's beyond us as Master and Mistress to explain or understand it. We just know."



He held her gaze a long moment. "Yes. We do."



"Was it that way with your wife?"



"Don't do that." His grip tightened on her shoulder close to her neck. Marguerite swallowed at the dangerous flash in his eyes, the instant reaction of her body to his strength at that vulnerable part of her.



She might not know the specific details of his life but she understood the degrees of experience that had created that pattern of shadows. Knew there were likely as many rooms of dark to balance the light in his heart as there were in hers. And from Sarah she knew that at one time it had all gone dark, all the lights shattered. He'd had to stumble around in the dark, scream his fear amid that void. Then pull himself together and find a way to start relighting enough rooms to go on, to make his heart function again. She'd known it the first time she'd looked into his eyes, felt it in his touch. And perhaps that was one of the strongest bonds that connected them.



But she couldn't go into that room in his soul without agreeing to let him into hers.



So she dropped it. "I apologize. Thank you for giving me that much." His grip eased, his thumb rubbing the line of her shoulder, his gaze focused but not seeing her. He was seeing other things, things she'd stirred. Ashamed of herself, she raised a hand and put it over his to draw his gaze back to her face.



He had a way of forcing himself into the rooms of her soul without her permission.



She wondered if she could set up one of those buzzer systems like he had for this room, where entry was not possible through the steel-reinforced door unless the person inside let them in. But when he displayed a moment of complex vulnerability such as he'd just given her, she knew any such defense would be useless. Locks did not work if the person on the other side was compelled by her own heart to open the door herself and let him in.



"Will you show me how to shoot the bigger gun?" The shift of subject was intentional, to take them back to safe ground. He was still for a moment, watching, gauging. She waited, tense until a smile touched his mouth.



"Absolutely. Though I'm sure I'll regret it."