Free Maid for It (A Maids for It Novella) by Lucy Rodgers Page B

the summer sun cuts through
the interior darkness, but he shifts in his chair, disturbed by the
intrusion.
    “I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed,
Travis. I don’t need a fucking nursemaid.”
    My lips tug at the corners. “How about a maid
to fuck instead?”
    His reaction is every bit as dramatic as I
expected. He swivels his chair around violently. For a second, I
think he’s convinced I’m a hallucination, but it doesn’t take long
for him to realize I’m flesh and blood.
    He stands up, his expression menacing. “What
the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on a flight to
Mexico.”
    “I decided not to go.”
    In two steps, he’s looming over me. “It
wasn’t up to you to decide.”
    “Yes, it was,” I say evenly, despite the fact
that I’m trembling, half with fear, half with arousal. Or maybe
they are the same thing.
    “I’m your master. I ordered you to go
home.”
    I could argue that since he took off my
collar, I’m not his slave anymore, but I don’t. Instead, I say
simply, “I know.”
    “Then why are you here?”
    I blink up at him and shrug. “I realized that
this is home. You are home.”
    That takes him aback, at least for a few
seconds. He grabs my shoulders, probably to shake some sense into
me, but as soon as his hands close around my flesh, his eyes darken
and his nostrils flare. We’re both reminded of all the times we’ve
done this before, the times he’s exerted his power and I’ve
submitted. Only neither of us is thinking about me leaving. We’re
both thinking about him pushing me down and fucking me
senseless.
    His lips thin. “You’re not going to change my
mind about this, Gabi. You’re going back to Mexico if I have to tie
you up and put you on the plane myself.”
    “Then I suppose that’s what you’ll have to
do.”
    He tightens his fingers on my shoulders, and
I wince.
    “You’re not going to cry and plead for me to
keep you like before?”
    “Would it make a difference if I did?”
    He pauses, a flicker of indecision crossing
his features. “No.”
    But in that space, I see opportunity.
Hope.
    “Then you had better go get the rope.”
    “Don’t test me, Gabi,” he warns.
    “I’m not testing you.” You’re testing
yourself.
    He releases my shoulders and a tense silence
dances between us. We’re both breathing fast, both angry, both
aroused. I don’t have to look down to know he’s sporting a healthy
erection.
    “Fine,” he says at last. “You can stay. On
one condition.”
    My stomach tightens, not only because his
tone is ominous, but because it was too easy. Swaying him should
have taken a lot longer, a lot more effort.
    But I stiffen my spine. “I’ll do it.”
    “You don’t even know what the condition
is.”
    “It doesn’t matter what it is. I place myself
at your mercy.”
    He drags a finger along my jawline. “You’re
not going to get much of that.”

    By the time we reach the main house, I know
where he’s taking me. That room. And even though I once
wished he’d take me there and get it over with so that I could stop
living in dread of what would happen there, now I really am
frightened. Not because I think he means to hurt me in any lasting
way, but because I know he means to break me into begging him to
let me go. Before, he might have taken things slowly, taught me in
small, manageable increments how pain and pleasure could merge. But
now, there will be no such generosity.
    When we enter the room, I can’t stop myself
from shrinking back. The instinct to run away is primal and
instantaneous. I’m not sure what I fear more—the restraints or the
whips and floggers. Both seem equally cruel, equally awful.
    And then he points to a platform on the far
side of the room, one I didn’t notice when I peeked in before. It’s
about four feet long, three feet wide, and approximately two feet
off the ground. A variety of metal objects are affixed to each end
of it. Shackles. And not just for wrists and ankles, I