Page 22 of Winter’s Fire

The gentle enquiry enabled her to look at him again. The concern in his tone was mirrored in his face—almost as if he really cared.

“You look confused.”

Finally she found her voice. “That’s because I am. You… We…”

“Use your words, Lucy.”

Use her words? She was teetering on the edge of confessing her thoughts on exchanging their sham relationship for a real one, but with the man there in front of her, she was more apprehensive than ever.

No, regardless of what he’d just said, there was no way she was ready to open up to him and say it—We have to fake a relationship, but why don’t we have one for real, because I’m intrigued by the idea of submitting to you, and I want to experience it for real?

“It’s nothing.”

“Do you want to revise that answer?”

Over her dead and decaying corpse. “No.”

“Fine. Now that we’ve agreed your limits, you’ve just earned yourself a punishment for lack of communication.”

“What?” The screech sounded harsh, even to her own ears.

“Do I need to remind you? You agreed to discipline when we put the contract in place.”

They’d discussed the contract while strolling around the park, and put it together when they returned to Logan’s apartment. Her agreement was in her signature, right next to Logan’s.

“But… why?”

“I told you. Communication. You have to learn how important clear communication is. It’s vital in this lifestyle.”

She lashed out without thinking, more angry with herself than anything else. “I know that! I read all about it!”

“And I think now would be a good time to mention you’ve doubled it for challenging me. Submission 101—you trust your Dom to take care of you. That means you trust me to train you for this mission. In my bedroom now, and strip down to your underwear—and if you say one more word that isn’t ‘yes’ followed by ‘Sir’, you’ll treble it.”

Her knickers dissolved. How in the name of heaven could the knowledge that she was about to be spanked turn her on instantly? Lucy tried to remind herself that this man was the annoying, uncooperative arsehole from the office, and failed miserably. He wasn’t even the man whose kisses had made her want more—this was an implacable Dom who demanded obedience, and now she was going to pay the price for her insubordination.

The strangest thing happened. Somewhere, in the chaotic mass of her thoughts and feelings, clarity staked a claim. She might not be ready to vocalise her suggestion to change to a genuine relationship, but she was ready to act on it, even if Logan remained unaware of her true motivation.

“Yes, Sir.”

Judging by the way he then ignored her, in favour of picking up his coffee mug and the newspaper he’d set to one side before breakfast, he expected her to do as she was told.

Lucy lifted her chin and headed for her Dom’s bedroom. Anxiety gyrated like a crazed acrobat in her stomach. At the door, she glanced back at Logan. His relaxed posture—reading the paper, mug in hand—confirmed his expectations remained unchanged.

Unsure whether to close the door or not, she left it a little ajar. With uncharacteristically clumsy fingers, she grasped the hem of her top, pulled it over her head and tossed it to one side. About to unfasten the button of her jeans, she looked again at the untidy heap on the floor of this immaculately tidy room. Her brothers, to a man, were obsessive about keeping things neat, and it looked as if Logan was the same. Had to be a military thing. Lucy swept up her top and folded it quickly, her jeans too. No sense in risking further punishment for sloppy housekeeping.

With nothing else to do but wait, Lucy sank to her knees, facing the door. Spine ramrod-straight, she rested her hands palm-up on her thighs and lowered her gaze while keeping her head straight and level. Submissive but not cowed.

The door swung open, arcing through the periphery of her field of vision, followed by long legs encased in black jeans, and boots that were plain and well-worn but clearly of quality.

“Well done, princess. Now stand up for me.”

With as much grace as she could muster, Lucy obeyed. As Logan circled her, without speaking to her or touching her, the vestiges of her inner conflict fell silent, no match for the sense of serene certainty emanating from the powerful man into whose hands she’d placed herself.

And along with that serenity there was security, too. Without words, Logan was sending her a message—to have confidence in him, to have faith that whatever he did, no harm would come to her.

“Come with me.”

She placed her hand in his, and he led her to the bed. He sat down, and with the smallest of gestures, conveyed precisely what he wanted from her. She arranged herself face down over his lap, and all thoughts about her imminent chastisement evaporated at the sensation of hard thighs supporting her abdomen. There was nothing soft about Logan Simmonds, nothing at all.