He'd had Sarah lay them out a light meal in the breakfast nook off the kitchen.

Moonlight glittered on the Gulf as the backdrop for a bistro table draped with a lace tablecloth, set with an elegant set of dishes, a silver soup tureen and a trio of candles of different sizes.

When she saw it, she stopped them with a hand on his arm, a bare brush of contact she instantly removed. "I appreciate..." She shook her head. "May I say something?"

"You may. And I'm impressed by your memory for instruction."

"I understand how this could be seen as necessary, this warm-up." She waved her hand at the table. "I appreciate all the effort you've put into it. But why don't we skip it and get to the rest?"

"Still trying to control the situation." He propped his hip against one of the chairs, crossing his arms across his chest to consider her. Marguerite could not think of a response because it was obvious that was what she was trying to do. But she wasn't a submissive, damn it.

"Just like the annual physical, hmm? Have the doctor get on with it while you pretend you're anywhere else, waiting for the metal probes to finish their routine of humiliation."

He was tossing her analogy back at her and she forced herself to remain calm, steady. "Tyler, I've read - "

"No. You haven't. Not closely enough. Pull out the requirements. I'm sure you're carrying them on you. Or have you committed it to memory?" Thinning her lips at his sardonic tone, she removed it from the pocket of her slacks and handed it over.

"Restraints, exhibitionism, interactive play with other subs and Doms and several other categories I'm supposed to inflict on you or go over with you if you ever intend to do them at The Zone. Mummification, sensory deprivation, pain, et cetera ad nauseum.

But then there's this paragraph beneath that laundry list. I'm sure you read it, reread it, hoped I wouldn't care enough to notice it."

"Tyler - "

"Be quiet."

She stiffened at his sharp tone. He guided her firmly to one chair, holding it out for her. When she sat, he put the paper down in front of her. "Read the last paragraph. Out loud."

"The Master must be satisfied that the mentored Dom or Domme understands the psychological issues during submission as a part of these components. That's fine print," she muttered. She saw him press his lips together against a smile and wanted to slap him. "I know submissives as well as you do."

"No, I don't think you do. Not from this side of it." He uncurled her fingers from the paper, made it drop to the floor. "Let. Go. Of. Control. In order to take control, someone else has to relinquish it. Willingly. For you, being a Mistress is breathing.

Unconscious, unthinking effort. You don't think about the why of what you're doing, you just do it. Your rational brain isn't part of the process."

"Is that an insult?"

"Not at all." He looked surprised that she would think so. "There are many spiritual paths that spend a great deal of time teaching their acolytes to do what you do so naturally without analytical thought at all." Analytical was not the word she'd choose for the way he was making her feel, or the thoughts that were running through her head.

He crouched, staring steadily at her, no smile now on his lips, no mercy in his gaze.

"I'll say this one more time. I will be gentle. I will be slow. But you don't have the reins.

You don't tell me what to do. You may ask anything you wish. But it will be up to me to decide to answer or grant your desire. You have responsibility for nothing this weekend except to serve my desires and submit to pleasure. Mine and your own. And first, we eat."

With effort, she bit back a defensive retort. She had known all along he wouldn't let her make this session into a silly game in her head to establish distance. To him, Mistress Marguerite had been left outside the front door. But she didn't know herself in this role, which gave him all the advantages.

Trying to get her mind around it, she thought about herself with Marius, Brendan or any of her subs. Thought about the way they looked at her. For once, she dared the emotional risk of trying to see through their eyes and understand. What came to mind was Brendan, the way he'd looked to her when the pain had taken over his body.

Maybe a sub initially floundered in a sea of uncertainty but found his calm in the belief that the Master or Mistress was the anchor, the lifeboat. That he or she would throw out the float on which the sub could rest, giving them a calm space to focus their desire. Could she trust Tyler enough to do that in this controlled environment that felt anything but controlled? Could she trust anyone to do that? And why was something that was so simple and safe feeling so threatening?

"Marguerite." He laid a hand on either side of her face. When she tried to look away, he held her fast. "You're stirred up right now. This is like using muscles you're not used to using, may have never used. For some subs what Brendan asked you to do, the branding, doesn't even seem close to edge play." His touch dropped, closed over her wrists as she tried not to let the anxiety take her. The fact he'd picked up on her thoughts as easily as if they were written on the paper on the floor unnerved her. "For others, this - " his grip tightened, "is the edge. I understand that. I'm going to push you out of your comfort zone but only to teach you to trust me. Just trust me. That's what this whole weekend is about."

If he wanted to beat her within an inch of her life or poke her with hot brands, that she could handle. She hadn't expected that Tyler's version of submission would include crawling into her mind. She should have expected it but perhaps she'd thought her status as a Mistress would have made that a forbidden road that any decent Master would have respected by not going past the roadblocks. Tyler seemed to be zeroing in on those areas she didn't feel should be involved.

But she couldn't help wondering if her subconscious had known the truth all along.

In fact, a desperate part of her suggested that she may have chosen him specifically because he had that capability. Maybe ultimately, despite her protestations and manipulations, it had been her choice to be here, doing this." He rose. "Don't touch anything in front of you. Put your hands under your thighs and I want your knees apart, your feet tucked in around the outside of the chair legs.

Shoulder blades pulled back, touching the back of the chair so I can see the outline of your breasts against the moonlight outside. I want to feed you by hand while you stay in that pose."

"I told you I'm not really hungry."

"This isn't about nourishment, Marguerite." He pulled the chair on the opposite side of the table closer to her and sat down. His knees were splayed so one pressed against the point of her hip along the side of the chair, the other against the point of her knee under the table. "And our current conversational topic has been exhausted. You'll need to ask permission if you want to choose another one." Keeping her legs apart was making her pussy throb in response. The pressure of the crotch seam of her slacks made the reaction more acute. She was too aware of how close his hand was. With his forearm on the table, he had his fingers draped loosely over the edge, inches from her thigh.

"You can look out at the water if you wish."

She immediately turned her head, realizing he hadn't commanded her to do it but given her the option, a direct acknowledgement of her weakness, her fear. She wanted to look at the beauty of the view primarily because she didn't want to look at his face.

He stroked her ear, tracing the shell and then his clever fingers were freeing her hair all the way from her braid, sending it rippling down her shoulder, along her jawline. His touch soothed her, eased the pressure on her scalp. She noticed the single orchid bloom in a vase on the table, the deep pink-purple of its delicate petals.

"I raise them." He noted her glance. "I started with the native Florida species and have branched out since. Seems we both have an interest. Do you grow your own?"

"Am I allowed to speak?"

"A slave must always answer when her Master asks her a question." He ignored the waspish tone. "And please do. I love nothing better than the sound of your voice."

That old-fashioned gentleman again, his eyes so intent, body so disturbingly close and attentive to the position of hers. "I don't grow orchids," she said at last. "Japanese tea ceremonies place special emphasis on the display of flowers during tea to match specific themes or just for contemplation purposes. I like the tradition." He nodded. "Some sources say the very first flower arrangement came from Buddhist monks."

"Saving flowers uprooted by a storm by placing them into containers of water," she finished. "Out of reverence for life."

"Ironic, isn't it? When flower arrangements now are all about the deliberate cutting off the life of a flower?"

She didn't want to be reminded that he was an intelligent, interesting man. His sexual power was enough to overwhelm her at the moment. "There's a man who studies the art of flavoring teas with flowers," she continued. "He brings me his blends to try out and he'll bring me flowers to be displayed with certain teas."

"So he provided the orchid on our table the other day."

"Yes. It was a gift from some time ago."

"And how old is he?"

She raised a brow. "You think a certain age removes him from competition for my affections?"

He smiled. "I think past a certain age a man's heart couldn't handle you. I know mine races like a teenager every time I'm around you."

"He's a friend."

"How about me, Marguerite?" He cocked his head. Her gaze lingered on his firm lips despite herself. "Am I a friend?"

"I don't know yet."

"A cautious answer. You know what, Marguerite? I don't think I want to be your version of a friend, because a friend is someone you can put into a neatly labeled box.

Waitstaff, flower man, Dommes at The Zone. People whose margins of existence don't really encroach on yours."

"Well, I didn't ask you to be my friend."

"Careful, angel. Speaking without a direct question," he reminded her. "I'm also not worried about tripping over your admirers because you don't invite them into your home, in here." He touched her sternum lightly. "You come out to hold court with them and take chaste strolls along the parapets. At the end of the day you roll up the drawbridge and leave them outside."

Tyler met her gaze, held her in its grasp. He intended to keep doing that until it was second nature for her to look him in the face. "And I'm already inside, whether you're going to admit it or not."

"Then you're a trespasser. My castle guard will locate you and I'll have you hung outside the castle gate and disemboweled as a warning to others."

He noted there was no amusement in her words. There was a slight break in her voice. She was attempting to ignore his words but the most significant factor to him was the fact that she hadn't denied it.

Ladling some soup into her bowl, he picked up a spoon. "This is one of Sarah's specialties. It's a potato soup with fresh vegetables from Robert's gardens and a mixture of spices I know nothing about except they're terrific and I usually want to eat about a gallon of the stuff before I come up for air. Now, as I'm feeding you for at least the next fifteen minutes, I want you to talk about yourself. You. Who is Marguerite? What does she think about, dream about?"

"So you can tell everyone at The Zone personal things about me? Brag that you know what they don't?"

"You're very skilled at that."

"What?"

"Changing the subject so we're not talking about you. Why do you do that?"

"Because most people aren't interested in other people except as it relates to their own stories."

"I'm interested in you." Brushing a finger over her cheek, he made her hold his a gaze an extra beat. "Only you. And perhaps I'll tell them Marguerite Perruquet is a remarkable woman, just as you expected her to be. Someone to admire. Open up." He inserted a spoonful of soup between her reluctant lips, casually picked up the napkin, dabbed at her mouth. Was pleased when he saw the exceptional taste of the soup register. "Or maybe after hearing you talk fifteen minutes, I'll say, 'God, she's a bore.

You don't want to know.'"

Some of the tension in her shoulders eased. He saw something else in her expression to please him, just a glimpse. "Now that was almost a smile. Fifteen minutes, Marguerite. That's a command. I'll help you get started. Tell me about the doll and the children's tea set."

She went still. "It was a gift."

"When?"

"When I was a teenager."

"Seems the type of gift you'd give a younger child." He studied her face, the closed expression. "Fifteen minutes, Marguerite. Give me honesty and you'll be able to put one check mark on your little paper."

She sat back in the chair, her expression frosty. When her gaze shifted to the expanse of air over his shoulder, he noted it but let it pass. For the moment.

"My mother died when I was fourteen. I went into foster care. I had difficulty adapting, and a social worker brought me the tea set and the doll."

"Keep going."

"That's all."

"No, it's not." He put down the spoon. "The tea set was new when she got it for you, perhaps picked up at a drugstore. It isn't chipped, not even stained by the teas that might have been in it, remarkable care for a teenager to take with a cheap tea set. On the other hand, when she gave you the doll, it wasn't new. It was something that had belonged to her. I'll bet you brushed that brittle golden hair with a comb, just enough to remove tangles, carefully curled and parted it, tied it back with a ribbon. You removed as much of the scuffs as you could from the once peaches-and-cream cheeks, the bow-shaped mouth. The blue eyes were intact but the lashes were already stubby and sparse.

You could have found a new dress for her, glued new eyelashes on, had new hair implanted by someone who restored such precious toys. But you've kept her in the condition she was given to you, just like the tea set. Because it was important for you to always have her be the same. Because people take exceptional care of the things that matter to them."

Her eyes had transitioned from frost to outright arctic snow and he made a mental note of where the sharp implements on the table were. Of course if she decided to dump the tea on his groin he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop that, based on the open position of his body to her, a calculated risk he hoped he wouldn't regret.

"Are you finished playing psychotherapist? Can you just get to the part where you prescribe me some mind-numbing drugs to keep me from having to listen to your bullshit?"

"I believe you're supposed to ask for permission before you speak."

"May I speak, then?"

"You may."

"Go to hell."

"Hmmm..." He considered her, his eyes drifting downward. "Is your bra front-closing or behind? Answer me and I'll change the subject." She swallowed, a muscle in her jaw twitching. "Behind." He touched the front of the starched stiff fabric of the dress shirt she wore and slipped a button, then another. She began to tremble again.

"You're shaking, angel."

"I can't stop." Her voice wobbled, even as her body got more defensively rigid.

"I know. It's normal. You haven't handled many first-time subs. They tend to get shaky."

"Even when they're just pretending?"

He glanced at her. Spreading open the fabric, he worked it off the point of her shoulders but no farther, intending to increase the sense of constriction on her upper body. "Arch for me, sweetheart."

She did, stiffly. His hands slid into the shirt and to the back, spanning her rib cage.

It brought her into his light embrace, his chest close to her breasts.

Her cheek brushed his shoulder and the side of his neck, suggesting that it might be comfortable to lay her head there, relax in his embrace, see what that felt like.

Marguerite felt torn between rage and lust and something softer, far more difficult for her to manage.

"You know - " his fingers were on the hooked clasp, "sometimes holding on to someone for just a moment can make you feel more connected."

"A hug, to make us feel on equal footing?"

His free hand clasped her throat, tilting her chin up with the pressure of his knuckle so her head was at somewhat of an uncomfortable angle. His lips were just over hers, his fingers tracing that hook in the back. "We're not equals, Marguerite. For this weekend, I'm your Master."

The catch released and the bra loosened. He shifted his grip, took the straps just off her shoulders and then tugged downward, bringing the bra into a roll of cloth just under her now bare breasts. It was a dishabille pose, her hair on her shoulders, clothes not nearly removed and her upper body tangled in them, giving him easy access and her little freedom of movement. "You'll look at me now, Marguerite." When she raised her head, her features rigid in protest, he drew back, studied her, his gaze slowly traveling down her throat to the breasts now bare to his gaze. Then he picked up his fork, speared some of the spinach and red lettuce salad. It was cool to her overheated senses when he put it between her trembling lips.

"This is a raspberry vinaigrette dressing. The salad has dried cherries, parmesan, slivered almonds and some other things I think you'll like." He didn't make her say anything further, simply took his time, examining her body at his leisure as he fed her one bite at a time, moving from the salad to a sweet cornbread, crumbs tumbling down her front. Then back to some more of the soup.

Simple, nourishing food of excellent quality that told her Sarah took very good care of him. As her anger ebbed in the quiet, it made her wonder what it would be like, to care for a man like Tyler.

He'd been helping himself to an occasional bite and abruptly she lifted a hand, rubbing a thumb at a corner of his mouth where some of the dressing glistened, a small piece of basil he'd missed. Even as she did it, she felt the constriction of the sleeves of her shirt, the straps of the bra pressing into her upper arms and remembered she wasn't supposed to lift her hands.

But he let her do it, his eyes intent on her. He waited until she was finished, then he took her hand in his. "You need to remember my commands, or I'll have to think up new ones that you can remember better."

Instead of placing her hand back under her thigh, he guided it over the leg, turned it inward, his cupping hers. Sliding her fingers under her body at the juncture of her legs, he made the heel of her hand press her clit. The pressure tightened her thighs causing her to exhale sharply, an unfamiliar sensation springing just above and beneath her touch. She forced herself to keep her hips still.

"Full enough?"

She nodded.

"Good. I'm in the mood for dessert. Keep your hand where it is." He put down the spoon and cupped her bare breasts, inserting the one hand in between her side and the arm she had holding herself. He weighed the curves in his palms, kneaded. She shuddered as his thumbs brushed over her nipples and they drew tighter under his touch. His eyes flared with desire but his tone stayed mild, as if they were in an elegant restaurant.

"Be still, let me touch you. You should be open to my desire to caress you at any time. At this dinner table, in the garden, in the bedroom, everywhere I command." She worked so hard to keep everything under control inside her but here was need rolling up and over her, tumbling her like an ocean wave, pounding upon her. Anxiety rushed in, the inability to breathe. Only moments ago, he'd been prying into her life as if he had every right to her secrets. Now she was sitting here yearning for more of him.

She lunged back, as far away from his touch as her limited position allowed, her hand closing into a fist on the handle of the fork. Gasped as his much larger hand clamped down over it, held her there. She could not move her hand, his strength literally pinning it to the table, holding her arm so it immobilized the rest of her. The tension of muscle in his thigh against her hip told her he was more than ready to combat any other movements.

"Breathe, angel," he said. "Breathe. Look at me. Look at me." He snapped the command apparently to jerk her attention to him. Once he had it, his voice immediately softened. "Let go of the fork. Focus on my voice, my commands.

That's the only responsibility you have, remember? To obey my commands." Her breath rasped out of her. When her hand tightened on the fork, the strength of his grip increased, not hurting her but making it clear she would not move that hand if he didn't want her to do so. "You let go of that fork, turn your hand over and lace your fingers with mine. Or else we'll go directly to the spanking lesson." Didn't he understand? He was acting like this was normal, when she was so close to everything being white noise, inside and out, a void of nothing, a buzzing that would drive her insane.

"Breathe." His other hand held her opposite arm to her side but now his hold eased, his amber eyes intent on her face as he watched her reactions closely. "I know violence rides very close beneath your civilized veneer. Too close. I know that the tea ceremony and the careful rituals at The Zone all help to keep it leashed, but it doesn't take that much to snap that leash, does it? You can run wild with me, let it all out. I can handle you. But you won't use it to drive me away. Let go of the fork and hold my hand.

Breathe. Deep breath."

It was coming easier now, the oxygen in and out of her lungs, the prickling heat of the rage no longer irritating her to the point of insanity. It was because of his voice. She was holding on to it, using its rich tone to steady herself, its mixture of implacable demand and soothing calm.

"Tyler." She closed her eyes. "Talk some more. Please." He gave himself a moment just to look at her, his ice queen. So somber and tense, believing this was something she had to survive and tolerate instead of experiencing.

Savoring.

He wanted to do several things. He wanted her to trust him enough that he could curl her up in his arms, take her to a quiet, dark room and simply hold her until the nervous vibration of her limbs and the sick panic in her eyes were gone and no longer tearing at his heart. But to do that, he had to get her to believe he could protect her from her fears.

"I've got a better idea."

He released her hand and her arm and put his hands back inside the shirt, around her rib cage. Placing his mouth over her left nipple, he drew her in, suckling, moving his arms all the way around her to bring her to the end of the chair such that his knee came to rest against her mons.

Her fingers on the outside hand clutched at air then latched on to his thigh, her back arching as his grip increased, holding her to him, allowing him to nurse her sweet taste. He'd never felt skin so smooth. The nipple in his mouth had an exotic flavor, the tight point as aroused as he could wish.

She was making silent little puffs of air through her nose as if fighting her vocal cords, forbidding them response. Her body was a rubber band drawn to maximum stress beneath his touch. Rocking his foot, he rubbed the bones of his kneecap up and down her clit. Slow strokes, and imagined his tongue doing the same. He promised himself he'd taste her there before the weekend was done, see if this same flavor was between her legs or if it was something even sweeter. He nipped her with his teeth and she gasped, her hand rising to grip his hair. Lowering his hand, he unhooked the opening of her slacks and pushed down the zipper, moving inside and searching past the wrinkled fabric of her tucked shirt to find the lace and silk of her panties.

Neither boxers nor briefs then. Despite her frantic tugging on his hair, part uncontrolled passion and part denial of what he was doing, he slid two fingers into her heat. His thumb worked her clit in circles as he continued to keep her trapped with one arm around her back, his mouth on her breast. When he ran his tongue in between them and moved to the other one, he saw in the corner of his eye that she was staring with glazed eyes at the distended nipple wet from his mouth. Her hips were making tiny jerks against his hand, and he heard her voice, tiny, breathless noises, a word.

"No...no...no..."

"Yes." He growled it against her flesh, maddened by her resistance, knowing she was responding to him as he'd never seen her respond to anyone. He would have all of it, all of her. He began to move his fingers inside her, teasing the silken walls, keeping up his massage on her clit. Her body gathered. Something in her eyes said she couldn't go over, was too terrified of where he was pushing her. Then she released the fork with a clang of metal against the table and grabbed his upper arm, her fingers digging into him.

He made his decision and broke her rule. Letting go of her breast, he covered her mouth with his, making that ultimate connection to drive her to climax. Rising up so he was half over her, he pushed her back in the chair so it was on two legs. Her hands clung to his shirt at his waist just above his jeans as he felt the soft slippery bud of flesh quiver, harden, heat beneath his touch.

"Come for me, Marguerite," he whispered roughly.

There was nothing easy about it. She reacted as if her mind was fighting every wave but the body would not be denied. She bucked, small movements on the chair, her grip slipping to his thighs, clutching at his hips as the orgasm took her so violently that she broke free of his mouth. When she tucked her head under his chin a small moan came out of her. She pressed against his chest, holding back the sound as she jerked, her breath shallow and fast.

It reminded him of the aftermath of a seizure, the disorientation, the twitching of the limbs. A moment of unease gripped him, making him wonder if he was in over his head after all.

Then he remembered his words to Violet. Something or someone had made Marguerite into this. But he believed that her strength and the intriguing combination of items she'd become were in spite of those circumstances, not just because of them.

He could handle this. They both could. Because at least for this weekend she was his. And he wasn't going to let anything happen to her.