My Sir. Finally.
Derek pulled back, his long finger tracking her moist, swollen lips. “I’m not running anymore, Breanna. I’m so in love with you. And I’m here to claim what’s mine.”
“Ours,” Kurt said, stepping close, a whisper of his lips against her ear. “Always ours, Breanna. Always.”
Epilogue
G
eorge Trask watched them through the one-way glass.
The room beyond was entirely bare, lit overhead by two banks of fluorescents, the sickly white glow lending extra pallor to the occupants’ faces. On one side of the stark, gray metal table was Quinton, looking more boyish than George had seen him in a long while. His jeans were faded, the hems threadbare over black boots. His white t-shirt was tight, straining at the shoulders and chest. His hands stayed on his lap, under the table. The boy was keen to keep the cuffs around his wrists hidden. George knew the cuffs humiliated him. George wished handcuffs would be enough to get through to the boy.
Seated across from his son was a woman of striking black hair pulled into a single neat plait, her clear pale skin accentuated by dark, almost black lip-gloss and kohl around her eyes of pure jet. Her deep brown eyes watched the boy as she spoke, her lips a tight straight line as she opened the manila folder, turning it, one long finger tapping the paper, the gloss of the French manicured nail catching the light. Her black suit coat was fitted, not quite hiding the generous swell of her breasts, the white blouse underneath displaying a tasteful, but obvious cleavage.
She’d switched off the audio when sitting down, giving the one-way glass a pointed look. Now, as Quinton grew more agitated, shaking his head, his face reddening, George cursed her for it.
“Isn’t there another option, George?”
He turned to his wife. “Cordray was very clear — either this, or a jail cell. I’m lucky I got him to even consider this.”
“He needs discipline, George, of course.” Elaina sat down on the thin couch, the gray cushions worn and stained. She winced as she tried to find the least uncomfortable position, her caning that morning no doubt leaving her bottom still tender. Finding a tolerable perch, her back ramrod straight, she looked up at him, pulling her light woolen coat closer around her shoulders. “It’s just that … I’ve heard stories. There’s discipline — then there’s
her
.”
“I’ve heard them too, Elaina.” George chuckled bitterly, scrubbing a palm across his jaw. “Which is probably why Cordray demanded her for the job.”
The woman inside the room with Quinton crossed her arms, sitting back in her chair, her expression impassive, her eyes unblinking. Quinton leaned over the table at her, his face beet red, the fury of his words not lost on George even with the sound cut. It wasn’t going well. He’d feared this, that the boy wouldn’t see reason.
Closing her folder and slipping it into a black leather case, the woman’s long fingers clicked the sound back on.
“We’re done here, I think.”
Quinton’s enraged squalling was silenced as she cut the audio again, standing and walking toward the door without another look at the boy.
“She’s not going to do it,” George said, turning from the window.
“How do you know?”
“He was screaming at her in there. Would you want to deal with that?”
Elaina looked down. “He’s not my son, George — but prison? The stories, the scandal…”
“Cordray agreed to discretion about all of it — if she agrees to do it. It’s all academic anyway at this point. You saw him in there. She’s not going for it.” George buttoned his coat, then held out a hand. “Let’s go, Elaina. This place makes me claustrophobic, secure or not.”
The door behind him opened, and he turned to the
clack-clack
sound of heels on the cracked tile.
“Mr. Trask?” The woman in the black suit coat held out a hand. She stood nearly George’s height in her heels, her curves subdued, but not hidden, by the coat and slacks.
“George, please, Ms. Shaw,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m afraid Cordray didn’t give me your name though.”
“Anna.”
“Oh, Anna. Thank you.” He turned, indicating his wife. “This is Elaina.”
Anna took a seat on the couch next to Elaina, crossing her legs, the dark heels gleaming under the light. “Are you his mother?”
“No, I’m … no.”
Anna’s dark brow lifted. “Interesting.” She looked to George, who took a seat in the faded leather chair opposite the couch. “Where is his mother then?”
“That’s not relevant, Ms. Shaw.”
“Oh, I think it’s
entirely
relevant, Mr. Trask.”
George cleared his throat, his fist to his lips. “Let’s get right to it, shall we?”
The woman’s clear brown eyes regarded him for a moment. “I have a few questions.”
“Will you do it?” George glanced at Elaina. “We don’t — we don’t want the alternative, of course.”
“But do you want this option?”
“I don’t think I’ve got much choice in the matter.”
“No, I suspect you don’t.” Anna’s head swiveled slowly toward Elaina. “Has the boy attempted anything with you?”
“What?”
“Has he tried to fuck you? Hurt you?”
George scowled, leaning forward, arms on his thighs. “Just answer her.”
“Of course not. He’s — he’s lived with us since he was a child.”
“Do you see him as a son then?”
Elaina’s cheeks colored. “No.”
“Has he seen you naked? Has he seen you being … trained before?”
“Not by my husband, no.” Elaina’s cheeks flushed scarlet and she looked down. “But yes, he’s seen me being… trained. Only in the past two years or so.”
“Why only recently?” Anna glanced at George. “The boy is part of the Trust, is he not? The son of a Prime?”
George’s jaw clenched. “His mother … made things difficult. But he chose the Trust. This life.”
Anna pulled out the same manila envelope from her case, opening it, flipping pages. “Are these photos accurate? This girl the boy purchased for a Term?”
“Yes, that’s her.” George straightened one of his cuffs. “Genna.”
“Is she still under your guardianship?”
“She is, for three more months, per the Term documents. Brayden — you’ll see him in your file there — is … overseeing her care.”
Anna looked at the pages for a minute, then snapped the envelope shut. She set it down on the couch between she and Elaina. “I’ll do it. And at no charge to the Trust.”
George’s shoulders relaxed, and he met Elaina’s gaze, giving her a weary smile.
“I have conditions however.”
“Name them.”
“No interference from the mother — or you.”
George inhaled. “Done.”
“You understand that my methods are … unorthodox.” Anna met Elaina’s gaze, a small smile playing at her dark painted lips. “Some would say, extreme.”
Elaina paled, her gaze sliding away.
“As long as he’s not harmed, you have my word. No interference.”
“Define ‘harmed’,” Anna said, fixing George with unblinking eyes.
George steepled his fingers together. “No …
permanent
harm.”
“You haven’t answered me, Mr. Trask.”
He glared at Anna for a long moment. “What did you have in mind, Ms. Shaw?”
“Corporal punishment. Severe, if necessary.”
“Yes.”
“Tattooing.”
“Yes.”
“Piercing.”
“Yes.” A muscle in his jaw flexed.
“Branding.”
Elaina gasped. “George, for God’s sake, what—”
“Quiet, Elaina.” He locked gazes with Anna once more. “That’s rather, permanent. Are you intending to actually
brand
my son, Ms. Shaw?”
Anna clasped her hands over her knee. “That all depends upon the boy. I need to know if you’re serious about this.”
“Nothing permanent, I said.”
“It would be in areas covered by clothing. Do you define scars as harm or merely
marks
, Mr. Trask?”
“Jesus,” George said, scrubbing his eyes with his palms. “
Yes
.”
“Then it’s agreed.” She plucked the envelope from the couch, slipping it back into the case. “I’ll take delivery of the boy in one week.”
“Where does he need to …”
“I’ll arrange it.”
George glanced to Elaina. “How long?”
“Six months. Maybe more.”
Elaina cursed under her breath. George sat back, running his hands though his hair. “Six months?”
“At least.” Anna’s eyes glittered, her black painted lips pursed.
“Can we visit him?”
“No.”
George met Elaina’s gaze, her face ghostly pale. He sighed, looking down. “Okay, Ms. Shaw. I agree.”
Standing, Anna straightened her coat, the black case tucked under one arm.
He looked up at her, two points of color high in his cheeks. “I need Quinton back before it’s too late. Please help me find him.”
Anna stood close, laying a hand on his shoulder, her brown eyes suddenly warm. “You’ve already lost Quinton, Mr. Trask. But I’ll bring you back your son.”
# # #
Book III
Expecting Surrender
Trent Evans
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my friend, Megan for her untiring support, revisions, feedback and her bottomless well of positivity and encouragement.
Thanks to my friend, Anna for her incredible insight, edits, corrections, and for helping me discover what this story was
really
about.
This book was a long time coming, and there is no way it would ever have been completed without the invaluable help of both of these women. I’m eternally grateful to them both.
Author’s Note
This book is a work of erotic romance, and it deals with the subjects of sexuality, pregnancy and BDSM. The events depicted in this novel are entirely fictional. While I’ve attempted to be as accurate as possible in the portrayal of the events and practices seen in this story, I want the reader to remember that this book should
never
be taken as anything other than what it is — fiction.
While this novel is (hopefully) an entertaining story, it is
not
a replacement for sound medical advice. For those readers that have any questions about pregnancy and BDSM practices, their first stop should be with their own doctors — not a work of fiction. I care about my readers, and I care about these subjects, but most importantly, I want everyone to stay
safe
. When in doubt, please, please talk to your doctor.
For Carrie.
Prologue
T
HWICK
God, he’s not warming up this time.
Not that she was surprised. Gentle and merciful were not qualities she’d usually ascribe to her beloved husband. But this is what they’d both agreed she needed.
“I’m waiting, Kirsten.” His voice was a soft rumble behind her.
“One, Sir,” she said, gasping as the stroke blazed fire across her bottom.
“Good girl.”
He tapped the cane lower, directly across the tender junction of her thighs and buttocks. She hated the cane there, which was precisely why he liked it there.
“Now, more quickly this time, or we’ll need to repeat the stroke.”
So reasonable, so matter of fact.
Ruthless.
Another stroke landed, right on that spot. She jerked, her stocking-clad thighs whispering together as the pain rose again.
“Two, Sir,” she said, quickly.
She wanted to jump up and down, to shake the sting out of her tender cheeks.
“That’s better, Kirsten.”
The warning tap of the cane made her still once more. Waiting.
The stroke sliced in almost directly atop the previous one. She whined through clenched teeth as she called out the third cut of the cane, her bound hands clenched into fists at the small of her back. The heaviness underlying the burn of the stroke told her the tram-line was developing. Probably just a ghost under her pale skin now, but in a few minutes, she knew it would be a swollen violet. Just the way her husband liked.
The fourth stroke landed, burning like fire across the center of both globes. She rose up on her toes, her calves knotting.