“Two marks for impertinence,” I say at once. “And believe me, Oliver, I have no interest in being topped from the bottom.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Where is your card?”
Slowly, he holds up his bare wrist for my inspection.
I give a disappointed sigh. “And another mark for not wearing your card. Where is it?”
“It…got covered in wine, my lord.”
Just at the edge of the mask he wears, I can see that his cheeks have reddened. “Go to the nightstand,” I say more gently. “Bring me another card.”
He says nothing, but obeys, sliding the nightstand drawer open to remove a new card, and then coming over to me at the piano. I fold it open next to the music sheet I’ve been working on this morning. “One for yesterday, wasn’t it? For disobedience. Two for your cheek just now. Another for not having the card on you. And one more, I think, for foul language.”
“Foul language?”
“Yes. You said, very loudly and clearly,Fuck, when you jostled my arm last night. I prefer my service submissives to be sweet-tempered and sweet-tongued, even when caught by surprise. And shall we say one for your non-appearance at breakfast this morning? No, two, I think. How many is that, Oliver?”
His face goes blank, and I can see him quickly replaying the last few seconds in his head. “It’s…seven, my lord.”
I’m impressed, but I don’t show it. “Yes. Seven.” I mark them down in the card, then stand from the piano to take his hand in mine so I can fix the ribbon around his wrist again. “Like this,” I tell him, tucking the card into his sleeve. “Keeps it out of the way.”
“Thank you, my lord,” he replies quietly, and I can’t resist trailing my fingers over the silky-soft skin of his inner wrist.
“Last night was an accident,” I tell him. “I do realize that.” His eyes meet mine, surprised. “I’d like to start over, if we could.”
My heart grows as fast as his smile. “I’d like that, too, my lord.”
“Then that’s settled.” I clear my throat. “And now: lunch.”
CHAPTER7
Elliot
Oliver has set the lunch tray on the sideboard under the window, but I sit down at the piano again. “I’d like you to hold the tray for me. Bring over one of those large pillows from the sofa, and kneel on that.”
“You should take a break from work, my lord. Not eat at—well, that’s essentially your desk, right? You’re a composer?”
I stare at him in surprise, but whether I’m more taken aback by hearing so many words from him after so many stammers and silences, or by the fact that he dares question my directions so openly, I’m not sure.
“That’s not for you to decide, Oliver,” I point out, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt. “You are my service submissive. You don’t need to think, merely obey. Bring it over here.”
“It’s not healthy,” he pushes back. “You said yourself it was my job to take care of you, my lord. So I’m telling you now: take a break. Maybe go down to the grounds, take a walk.”
I shoot to my feet again. “Are you aiming for a record number of infractions today, Oliver?”
He gives a crooked smile, and I have the overwhelming urge to pull that damned mask off and see his full face. “No, my lord. I’m just trying to do my job to the best of my ability.”
For a moment, I want to scribble down a hundred more tally marks in his card, but I catch hold of myself. He may be using my own words against me, but he does have a point. “Creative work is not like other work,” I say at last. “It requires a flow state, which meansnointerruptions.”
“If you say so, my lord,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping down at last.
I stalk over to the sofa myself, grab one of the large square pillows myself, and then sit back at the piano, tossing the pillow at my feet. “Kneel there, with the tray.”
He says nothing, but finally moves to obey, and all those complicated feelings that were churning around in my chest finally begin to settle.
Oliver is surprisingly agile as he sinks to his knees while holding the tray, his warm brown eyes looking up as he settles into position.
