“You wanted it?”

“More than anything,” he said, speaking the truth from his heart. “So, why did I run?”

“Because you weren’t running from him. You were running to you. The real you.”

The words sank in to his soul.

“I was,” he breathed.

“Good boy...” Mistress Felicia said, taking his erection in her hands again and stroking him. “Now, run to me.”

Slowly he opened his eyes. It took a few seconds for the haze of the past to clear completely. He smiled.

When he looked down he saw that the entire front of his body had turned red. He had welts on his chest, welts on his sides, welts on his hips and stomach. A hundred welts decorated his legs in a pattern like tiger stripes. Mistress Felicia had been merciless with him. His skin throbbed from the injuries she’d inflicted on him. No wonder she could command billionaires to kiss her feet. Pain like this was worth any price.

She took the crop from his teeth and laid both her hands on either side of his face. She tilted his head so that his eyes met her eyes. For a long time she did nothing but hold the eye contact, forcing him to see her. In her eyes he saw power and strength, intelligence and compassion. Compassion? For what? For his suffering? Yes. He saw that. But which suffering? The pain she’d inflicted on him? Or all his other pain that she sensed he carried within? It didn’t matter why he moved her that way, only that he did. For when she kissed him, he felt real tenderness, affection. She kissed masterfully, her lips teasing his, her tongue caressing his tongue. She didn’t force the passion. She roused it. She bit his bottom lip and drew blood. He tasted the copper and swallowed it.

“I never kiss my clients,” she whispered against his lips. “I never fuck them. But you’re not a client.”

“What am I?” he asked.

“Tonight,” she said, “you’re mine.”

And tonight he was.

23

MISTRESS FELICIA UNHOOKED his cuffs and turned him so that he faced away from her now. She bent him over and cuffed his wrists to the footboard of the bed. Once again she gagged him with the crop. More pain came then. A cane that battered his thighs. A flogger that cut into his back. A whip that bit from his shoulders to his knees.

He glanced at the clock before she began her beating. He glanced at it again when she finished. She’d beaten him for a solid hour—an hour that had passed in seconds. His lungs burned from how hard he’d breathed during the beating. When Mistress Felicia touched his lower back, he flinched. His skin was so raw even the softest touch burned.

She laughed at his flinching, no doubt enjoying his pain. Any true sadist would. She kissed his neck above the tendon of his shoulder as she unlocked his wrists from the footboard.

Mistress Felicia took the crop out of his mouth again. “Do you need water?”

“Please.”

She brought him water in a wineglass, but when he reached for it, she shook her head.

“On your knees.”

He dropped to his knees, and Mistress Felicia cupped the back of his head. She brought the glass to his lips and bade him to drink. His male pride loathed this childish dependence even as his hunger for surrender and submission gloried in being treated like a dog at the mercy of his master.

The water cooled his burning tongue, though it did nothing to alleviate the pain that suffused his entire body. Mistress Felicia took the glass from his lips, set it aside and returned to him. She wove her fingers through the long hair at the base of his neck and let him rest his head against her stomach.

“I’ve never known anyone who took pain as well as you do,” she said, now massaging his neck. “You’ve pleased me more than I can say.”

“Thank you, Maîtresse.” Finally he could trust his voice to speak.

“And I’ve never had a more beautiful man at my feet before. You are a prize.”

He closed his eyes. These were the words his soul needed. Once Søren had whispered similar words to him. It was like drinking a single sip of the finest red wine and forever chasing that taste in every glass he raised to his lips.

“Merci,” he whispered. She caressed the side of his face. With the same hand that had hurt him, she comforted him. She reached up to her hair, and from the knot by her ear she pulled out the rose.

“This is a Felicia rose,” she said, tickling his lips and cheek with the petals. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

“It is, but not as lovely as you.”

“Well, what could be?” she asked, arrogant as any dominant he’d ever known—himself included. “All roses are traps, you know. The blooms are so beautiful everyone is drawn to them. And yet if you try to take one, and you aren’t careful...”

She turned the rose and let the short stem brush his cheek. One single thorn scratched, but did not break, his skin.

“If you want the petals,” she said, putting the bloom to his lips, “you’ll have to bear the thorns.”

She stepped away from him, reached into her bag, and from it pulled a square of folded wine-colored velvet. She carried the velvet to the side of his bed, unfolded the cloth and gathered its contents in her hand. With a toss of her hand she sprinkled something on top of his bedcovers.

“Come to me,” she said, and beckoned him with her hand. He stood and walked to her and saw what she had done to his bed.

A thousand rose thorns, sharp and shining, lay scattered across the sheets.

“Lie on your back,” she said. “If you want me, that is.”