“I vaguely remember hearing you.” But she’d hurt badly enough that their conversation was a blur. Vance had mentioned it at Gabi’s house too. “There’s a waiting list though.”

He sighed. “That’s the problem. He wants someone for this coming auction. If Sam’s referral falls through, this might be the only chance to get in. I’d use an FBI agent at the auction, not you. But next weekend”—his jaw tightened—“Dahmer expects to see you.”

Me. Do a scene. With the Overseer watching.

Master R started to speak, and she pulled away. “Just…just give me a minute, okay?”

He nodded, and she walked toward the waves. A few tiny plovers skittered in front of her, their bird feet leaving shallow tracks on the sand.

Okay, Kim, put it all in order. Neatly. First, he wanted her to do the scene this weekend but wasn’t planning to make her attend the auction. Good.

The original plan had always been for the Overseer to see her. That was the point of the follow-up visit. Doing a scene with Master R wouldn’t be that different, would it?

Only he’d said erotic. That meant…his hands on her. Arousing her. She hugged herself against the cooling breeze. He’d been touching her, washing her. Intimate but never sexual. He often kissed her. I do pretty good with all that.

Actually, sometimes she almost wanted more, but then she’d freeze. Really, she just wanted to stay celibate and icicle cold for a while. A few years.

If Master R refused to audition, how could he justify it? They’d be at a BDSM club. And she’d be there. No excuse came to mind, since no slaver would care if his property had the jitters.

She scuffled the sand over her toes, letting the warmth sink into her skin. Could she do this?

Well, a lot of her fears concerned the Overseer, but she’d put those in a mental box. Stay closed, box. So what was really bothering her?

She stared at the rain clouds forming into a mass. Her nerves were because Master R would be touching her. Deliberately trying to arouse her. In front of people. The Overseer.

He’d never gone sexual on her before—what if she panicked? Let him down? It’d almost…almost be easier if he’d actually done some of that intimate stuff, like that day in the weight room. She shivered, remembering the feel of his fingers between her legs, pushing inside her. She’d been wet.

The waves lapped at her toes as she walked. She watched how the water gave way to her feet, and yet the same substance carved canyons in the earth. Strength could be found in the determination to get where a person needed to go. In just keeping on.

I need to go home, and that means I need the slavers in jail. She had to keep on.

Master R was still waiting when she walked back to him. He waited even longer for her to speak.

“I understand why we should do the scene.” She swallowed, tasting the briny air. “I’m scared I might panic.”

His eyes filled with tenderness. “Is there anything that would help?”

“I think you’d better…touch me some. Before.” Her face heated, her blush a dead giveaway as to what she meant. Six days until then. Maybe she’d be ready.

“I think you’re probably right.” His lips curved, and he stroked a finger down her hot cheek. “It will be my pleasure.”

Oh boy.

Kimberly bent over, trying to catch her breath, sweat dripping from her face and trickling between her bare breasts. Her sadistic, nasty master had increased the length of her workout today, for which she was maybe a little grateful. Since yesterday when he’d told her about the Shadowlands scene, the hours dragged as if to build her dread to a mountain she couldn’t climb. Over breakfast, Master R had assigned her a long list of tasks and complicated meals. He obviously planned to keep her too busy to think. He’d even put her to work in his home office this morning.

Major eye-opener. With such a beautiful beach house, he couldn’t be poor, but the dom owned an international engineering company. When she wondered how he could take so much time off, he smiled and said if employees couldn’t handle the work, why hire them?

She was grateful he worked from here. Knowing he was in the house let her relax. His calmness helped too. He never got frazzled. Not that he was particularly easygoing— his Latin temper showed, especially when they talked about the slavers.

But he didn’t worry about little stuff or things he couldn’t do anything about.

She was a worrier. And worse, she wanted to do things perfectly so she could get approval from—she scowled—from her father and everyone else.

Master R didn’t expect perfection from her. Just her best, and he’d push her until he got it.

In his office, he had a framed calligraphy on the wall. “Strive for perfection in everything you do. Take the best that exists and make it better. When it does not exist, design it.” Sir Henry Royce. Yeah, that was so her master who was also an engineer.

He never made her guess if she’d pleased him. If she did, he showed it. If she didn’t, he told her how to do better. She never had to worry about clothes or her performance or even what to do next.

Or how to deal with…interpersonal relations.

Dating had always been a nightmare. From questions of clothing: What should I wear to look pretty but not like a slut. Should I dress up? Or would it be better to look casual?

To behavior: Should I touch him? Let him hold my hand? Ask him in for a drink, or would he think I’m easy? Sleep with him on the second or third date or not? Let him grope my ass on the dance floor, or does that make me look like a slut?

But here, Master R picked out her clothes—or made her stay naked. Choice over.

For behavior? He decided what he wanted from her and said so. No decisions to make. That was so restful.

And boy, he definitely decided how interpersonal stuff would go. Last night, he’d pushed her into the pool. When she’d surfaced, trying not to spit curses at him, he’d said they’d play tag. Every time she caught him, she could claim a kiss. If she took too long to catch him, he’d spank her. Great incentive.

Chasing after him—and he didn’t make it easy—made touching fun. Not scary. After she caught him a few times, she was definitely aroused. Damn, the man could kiss. Then he upped the stakes to “copping a feel,” only whenever she put her hands on him, he duplicated her movements, putting his hands on her. She was giggling and hot and—

“Stop daydreaming and do it all again.” Master R’s sexy baritone made her straighten.

He was lying on the weight bench and not even looking at her. His dom radar always told him when she slacked off. Drown him in high seas anyway.

She watched him push the bar up. Giant metal plates clanked on each end, and his chest muscles and biceps bunched and turned to granite under his tank. God, she could almost see testosterone oozing from his pores instead of sweat.

“Kimberly.”

“Yes, Master.” She launched into the last street-fighting combination he’d taught her. Block, knuckles to the Adam’s apple, other hand—fingers to the eyes. One-two. She saw the fat guard on the floor, screaming in pain. She did it again. And again.

Until she tripped and landed on her hands and knees. “Suck water,” she muttered.

“The last move appeared a bit clumsy.” Lying on his back, he was watching.

She giggled and sat her bare butt on the rubber matt, pushing back the hair that had escaped her braid. “How come you’re so good at all this? You said from street fighting?”

“You’re stalling.” But he sat up, wiping his forehead with the towel. “We lived in a rough area when I grew up. When my brother joined a gang, he taught me what he learned from them.”

Brother? She frowned. He’d talked of a sister and his mother. “I don’t remember you mentioning a brother.”

His face—so sad. Before she considered, she’d joined him on the bench. She put her arms around him and then froze, thinking she’d overstepped her bounds.

But he pulled her in, holding her tightly, his cheek against the top of her head. After a minute, he sighed. “Thank you, gatita. I needed a hug.”

“What happened?” She stayed, not letting go.

Raoul didn’t want to talk about the past. Not in the least. The ache of loss—of guilt—never went away.

“It still bothers you.” She rubbed her head on his shoulder. Naked little submissive trying to comfort her master—she awed him with her courage and care. “Share with me, Master.”

Share. She wanted openness. Honesty. They might be doing this to capture the slavers, but the bond of trust between them was real. He’d required she share her emotions and had pushed her to tears when needed. He could give her no less in return.

“He died.” His arms tightened for a second, before he regained control. “He was only fifteen. I was twelve and thought he was God and followed him everywhere.” Mamá had yelled at Manuel, told him gangs were bad. “His gang was outnumbered in a street fight with another gang. Manuel told me to hide.” Raoul had obeyed, then peeked out from the pile of empty grocery boxes, the stench of rotted fruit surrounding him, his heart hammering enough to choke him.

“Twelve. God, you were a baby.”