He guided her to the lovely garden of the “Sub Rosa” court, so named because a massive pergola covered the courtyard in the center of the single-story adobe tile roofed buildings. Climbing roses in shades of white and pale yellow wove over and around the wood, shading the court from the late afternoon sun. There were four bedroom-like playrooms off this garden, and it was the “gentlest” of the play spaces. The sprawling complex that housed Las Palmas boasted a series of courtyards, each with its own themes that carried into the playrooms that opened off each outdoor space.
There was a small circular platform in the center of the court with two pretty wood lounge chairs positioned on it. Surrounding the stage were pieces of lushly padded outdoor furniture. Occasionally someone would take their play onto the small stage and put on a show, but most of the time this courtyard was used for lounging. Baskets set against the base of the pergola posts held flat pillows that could be thrown down over the tile to allow subs to kneel and woven blankets for use when the nights were chilly.
The sun was just starting to set, and rays of light cut through small breaks in the canopy of roses, angling golden sunbeams onto the smattering of people already there. At the sound of their approach, heads turned, and a few people called out a greeting to Master James, their curious gazes taking in his newest companion.
Beth’s stomach knotted and her steps faltered when she caught sight of the other people. Their attention made her nervous—she wasn’t the kind of sub who hung out and laughed and chatted in this casual space. Crumpling the cuffs of his shirt in nervous fingers, Beth wished desperately that he’d had her crawl here, or put her in some kind of bondage.
Last weekend she’d been disappointed to be part of the scenery—a piece of furniture or a human prop—but in that moment she would have cheerfully offered to serve as a footstool rather than have everyone looking at her with questions in their eyes.
She felt…vulnerable. It was insane, but she was more exposed at this moment than she was when naked and chained to a wall in the dining room for display.
“Beth, look at me.”
Turning her head, she kept her gaze on the ground.
“Beth.” Now there was a warning in his voice, and that calmed her.
Raising her chin she met his gaze. His face was stern with command, but his gaze examined her, touching each feature.
“The only people who matter are you and me. The only person you should be worried about, or paying attention to, is me.”
“Yes, Master James, I’m sorry—”
“No, don’t apologize. If you feel unsure or scared, tell me. I don’t want you to feel those things, so when you do it means there’s something wrong.”
“But that’s topping from the bottom.” Among subs, being accused of topping from the bottom was essentially being called a fraud or novice. There were a few subs at the club who cheerfully admitted that they liked or tried topping from the bottom, but their stories usually ended with sexy retellings of the “punishments” they earned for doing so.
The punishments those women described were not the kind Beth had gotten when she failed to follow the rules.
“No, it’s not. Communication is the single most important part of a BDSM relationship.” The corners of his mouth tightened, as if he were angry, but then his expression smoothed out. “I’m not always going to need you to talk to me. I’m going to be able to tell by the way your body responds, by how many times you orgasm…”
Beth lost the rest of what he was saying. Her whole body flushed with arousal as soon as he said the word orgasm.
“Beth?”
“Hmmm?” He had beautiful lips. Would he kiss her?
“How is it that no one has been treating you like the orgasm slut you clearly are?”
Beth was saved from responding—was orgasm slut a bad thing?—when Master James bent, put his shoulder against her midsection, and stood with her dangling over his back.
His hand across her calves held her in place as he carried her over to a large chair. The bottom and back cushions were heavy cream fabric, the frame and arms wide planks of dark wood varnished to a high gloss.
James set her on her feet only long enough for him to take a seat. A sunbeam touched his hair, making it glow the color of old gold.
He patted his thigh and raised one eyebrow. Beth took a half step, then froze, the voice in her head screaming at her that she should kneel, bow her head, put her arms behind her back. Years of training and practice were wrapped around her like chains, keeping her from moving forward.
“Beth, I want you on my lap, and you want to sit on my lap. That is what you need to focus on.”
She blew out a breath, then repeated what he’d just said in her mind. He was her Master; he wanted her on his lap.
The fact that he cared if she wanted it also was just the cherry on top.
Beth slid onto his knee, ankles together, feet pressed against the tile.
Master James didn’t say anything, but his hand slipped under the back of the shirt, fingers tracing patterns on her lower back. She slid back a few inches, wanting more. His hand flattened, now rubbing in large circles.
Another inch and his hand, still under the shirt, moved around to her belly, fingers coming oh-so-close to her breasts.
“Come closer…” His voice was both teasing and full of heat.