There is something about him that makes me…forget. Forget all politeness and courtesy. Forgetmyself.
I stop abruptly by my bedroom door and nod at Oliver to go in first. Every time I look at him I want to tear that mask from his face, feast my eyes on him. Now I envy him. A mask would let me hide my emotions, out of control as they are.
To give myself time to pull it together, I point for him to stand in the middle of the room, and I walk around him. “We have one matter to clear up before we begin,” I tell him as I pace. “I did not mete out seven infractions, did I? You noted yesterday in the maze that you had earned another.”
He gives a little huff. “Oh…”
“Why did you not add it to the card, Oliver?”
“Honestly?”
“Always honestly.”
“I forgot.”
“I see.” He shifts on his feet. I know better than most the signs of someone who has something they want to get off their chest. “What is it, Oliver?”
“I was worried I’d offended you, my lord. In the maze? It kinda chased everything else out of my head.” When I don’t reply, he adds, “You said you wanted honesty, my lord. I just wanted you to understand why I forgot.”
After a moment, I nod. “I understand. But that doesn’t mean I can forgive your forgetfulness.”
My fingers are itching to touch him. I spent all afternoon playing a new tune, with no thought at all to the theme song I’mactuallycontracted to compose. But Ihadto keep my hands busy. They have the same restless feeling coursing through them now. At least with a tool of punishment in them, they’ll have something to do.
“And now that we understand each other,” I go on, “we’d better make it ten total, with one from earlier and another two for your forgetfulness. You won’t forget again, will you, Oliver?”
“I won’t forget again, my lord,” he says softly.
Iam the one forgetting something, of course. I’m forgetting that tonight is his last night here. We’ve barely said two words to each other since we left the maze, and tomorrow morning, he leaves.
That truth pierces me in a very unpleasant and unfamiliar way.
“Over there. Open that cabinet.” I nod at a slim, wall-mounted cabinet that has remained locked during every one of my stays here for the past three years. But I know Zee and I know Niklaus. It will still be well-stocked.
It is.
When Oliver clicks the lock and opens it up, I hear him suck in a breath. The cabinet holds all manner of implements: floggers, canes, crops, paddles, through to toys and plugs, ropes and blindfolds—everything a Dominant could ever need.
“Nice,” Oliver says, and then bites his lip.
“Yes,” I agree. “You may choose.” I expect him to immediately choose the cane again, but he pauses and looks back to me. “Do you have a question, Oliver?”
“I do.” He turns, his hands behind his back, head slightly bowed, the picture of submission.
Niklaus was right. Oliver is inexperienced in service, but he is a very accomplished submissive. He understands how mere body language can provoke need in a Dominant.
“Then ask,” I croak out, clenching my hands firmly. There’s a part of me that wants to abandon all protocols, to pull all his clothes off and have him over my knee, spank him raw, and then take him, rough and demanding—
“Will I be clothed or unclothed for punishment, my lord?” When I say nothing, he goes on cautiously, “I wondered if that was why you preferred to give me my punishment in private. So that I could be…unclothed.”
There are myriad house rules around nudity. I spent some time this afternoon scouring the dossier about him: Oliver West, age twenty-six, enjoys pain and humiliation, alongside a whole host of other kinks. So I happen to know that he also agreed to nudity on demand in his contract.
But I don’t want to sway him either way.
I have never asked any member of Nik’s household staff to undress for me. Never, ever.
“You may choose, Oliver. Clothed or unclothed?”
He takes a breath before he finally says, “I think…unclothed, my lord. If you don’t mind.”
