on the edge, looking down at him. I’m still wearing his shirt and making no move yet to undress for him.
His gaze hardening as he notes my show of defiance, he takes a sip of his orange juice. And offers me one last chance. “My shirt looks much better on you than it did on me, Miss Byrne, but take it off now, please.”
I turn to dangle my bare legs and feet in the tub, still perched on the edge, watching him, waiting, defying. Goading him. Sooner or later Nathan’s Dom persona is going to surface, and recklessly I rather think I’d like to see that now.
Nathan does not disappoint. Discreetly setting his drink down, he gives me probably a full five seconds more to comply with his instructions before he lunges for me, grabs me and pulls me in, shirt as well. The bath is about three feet deep and I am under the water, struggling in his strong arms for the few moments he takes to pull me, gasping, to the surface. Coughing and spluttering I fight to push my masses of wet hair away from my face and glare at him, spitting outrage and accusation.
He is unmoved. “The shirt, Miss Byrne. Or do I need to duck you again?”
“The list said no drowning.” I snarl at him, affronted by this breach of our agreement. How dare he!
“You’ll know soon enough if I decide to drown you. The list also said obedience. Immediate, no arguing. So, for the last time, Miss Byrne…?”
I know when not to push it—my Dom is back in full force, and scary as hell. “Okay, okay,” I mutter, starting to unbutton the shirt but struggling with the wet fabric. Apart from holding me by the waist to steady me and keep me afloat he doesn’t help, just watches me fiddling with the buttons until eventually the shirt floats free. He grabs it and tosses it out onto the tiled floor before taking a long look up and down my body. Appreciating, admiring, owning…?
“Much better. Now, your medication, Miss Byrne.” He passes me the porcelain dish and, docile now, I scoop the two painkillers into my hand, tossing them into my mouth as he passes me the bottle of water to wash them down. I screw up my face at the bitter taste.
“They’ll do you good. Now, do you want a more pleasant drink as a chaser? Juice? Buck’s Fizz?”
“Er, what are you having?”
“Bit early for me to hit the hard stuff. And anyway I want to keep a clear head, and you’ll be glad of that soon enough when I get to work on your sweet little body. But you? If you want a drink that’s fine. Might even steady your nerves.”
I’m tempted, but probably best not. “Just juice, please. I think I’ll keep my head clear too.”
His lopsided grin is his only response as he pours me a glass of orange. Then turning me easily in the water he pulls me against him, my back up against his hard chest. He reaches round me to hand me the glass, then lays back, his arm loosely around my middle. He picks up his own glass again, takes a leisurely sip. Then, putting his drink down on the shelf alongside his head he reaches out, picks up a small remote control. Pointing it at a wall-mounted sensor on the opposite wall he presses a button, and a moment later the room is bathed in sound. The wonderful, melodious sound of classical guitar. I feel myself relax against him, immediately enchanted by the music. I love classical guitar, play a bit myself but not in this class. Nevertheless, I can appreciate the naked acoustic beauty of Milos Karadaglic’s Latino .
“Like that?” He murmurs the question softly against my ear. I nod contentedly. “Mmm, thought you might. And later you’ll play for me again?” It could be a question, a request, or perhaps an instruction. I decide to test the water, so to speak.
“Maybe,” I respond. “Depends how much I dislike you after the waxing.” No harm in flexing my own muscles, such as they are. Occasionally. And it seems I’ve got away with it. This time. No further words required, I lie back, luxuriating in the warm, scented water, lulled by
His gaze hardening as he notes my show of defiance, he takes a sip of his orange juice. And offers me one last chance. “My shirt looks much better on you than it did on me, Miss Byrne, but take it off now, please.”
I turn to dangle my bare legs and feet in the tub, still perched on the edge, watching him, waiting, defying. Goading him. Sooner or later Nathan’s Dom persona is going to surface, and recklessly I rather think I’d like to see that now.
Nathan does not disappoint. Discreetly setting his drink down, he gives me probably a full five seconds more to comply with his instructions before he lunges for me, grabs me and pulls me in, shirt as well. The bath is about three feet deep and I am under the water, struggling in his strong arms for the few moments he takes to pull me, gasping, to the surface. Coughing and spluttering I fight to push my masses of wet hair away from my face and glare at him, spitting outrage and accusation.
He is unmoved. “The shirt, Miss Byrne. Or do I need to duck you again?”
“The list said no drowning.” I snarl at him, affronted by this breach of our agreement. How dare he!
“You’ll know soon enough if I decide to drown you. The list also said obedience. Immediate, no arguing. So, for the last time, Miss Byrne…?”
I know when not to push it—my Dom is back in full force, and scary as hell. “Okay, okay,” I mutter, starting to unbutton the shirt but struggling with the wet fabric. Apart from holding me by the waist to steady me and keep me afloat he doesn’t help, just watches me fiddling with the buttons until eventually the shirt floats free. He grabs it and tosses it out onto the tiled floor before taking a long look up and down my body. Appreciating, admiring, owning…?
“Much better. Now, your medication, Miss Byrne.” He passes me the porcelain dish and, docile now, I scoop the two painkillers into my hand, tossing them into my mouth as he passes me the bottle of water to wash them down. I screw up my face at the bitter taste.
“They’ll do you good. Now, do you want a more pleasant drink as a chaser? Juice? Buck’s Fizz?”
“Er, what are you having?”
“Bit early for me to hit the hard stuff. And anyway I want to keep a clear head, and you’ll be glad of that soon enough when I get to work on your sweet little body. But you? If you want a drink that’s fine. Might even steady your nerves.”
I’m tempted, but probably best not. “Just juice, please. I think I’ll keep my head clear too.”
His lopsided grin is his only response as he pours me a glass of orange. Then turning me easily in the water he pulls me against him, my back up against his hard chest. He reaches round me to hand me the glass, then lays back, his arm loosely around my middle. He picks up his own glass again, takes a leisurely sip. Then, putting his drink down on the shelf alongside his head he reaches out, picks up a small remote control. Pointing it at a wall-mounted sensor on the opposite wall he presses a button, and a moment later the room is bathed in sound. The wonderful, melodious sound of classical guitar. I feel myself relax against him, immediately enchanted by the music. I love classical guitar, play a bit myself but not in this class. Nevertheless, I can appreciate the naked acoustic beauty of Milos Karadaglic’s Latino .
“Like that?” He murmurs the question softly against my ear. I nod contentedly. “Mmm, thought you might. And later you’ll play for me again?” It could be a question, a request, or perhaps an instruction. I decide to test the water, so to speak.
“Maybe,” I respond. “Depends how much I dislike you after the waxing.” No harm in flexing my own muscles, such as they are. Occasionally. And it seems I’ve got away with it. This time. No further words required, I lie back, luxuriating in the warm, scented water, lulled by
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