Judged by Him (39 page)

Gemma read much into his procrastination. He didn’t want to wind down. Even the painkillers had little impact on his stamina. He was planning, scheming some scene or game. She could see the twinkle in his eyes and heard the tone of his voice. A warning to her about his impending actions.

“Yes, Sir,” she murmured.

She leant over and kissed the back of his hand. A gesture of supplication. He had made love to her as she had wished, now the balance of the relationship had been returned to its normal state. His wishes once again were paramount, not hers.

When he arrived on the sundeck, he called her to him. She knelt at his feet as he lay back on the lounger. She couldn’t help thinking that in the late afternoon sun, he looked dazzlingly handsome and quite masterful. Unlike the previous night, she wanted him to use her, and she tingled between her legs and across her bosom. Her nipples stood to attention. On this occasion, she would be in the right frame of mind for him. She suspected he might want to discipline her. A number of infractions had been committed last night, and he wouldn’t let any of them pass unpunished. He was that kind of Dominant. A man with a meticulous mind and an excellent memory for transgressions.

On cue he spoke her thoughts. “Three errors last night. In one night, you managed to disobey three elements of your submission. What did you do wrong last night? Please tell me.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Though in the right mood, it didn’t make what he wanted any easier. He would re-assert his authority over her, wipe out the image of Modesto from her memories. Jason would remind her he controlled her life. The consequences and actions of what she did were his to judge, nobody else. She needed his judgement. Kneeling there on a yacht off the coast of a distant land, she needed to be held accountable, to belong to him, and to take comfort from his ownership. She had to give herself to him willingly and gladly.

“I took my bra off without your permission. I denied your existence, so I could dance with another, and allowed a stranger to buy me a drink.” She opened her eyes. Blinking in the sunlight, she focused on his broad shoulders, avoiding his face.

“Each of these acts broke rules about what I expect from you. My control over your life, my ownership of your body, and your vow to me that you would take your safety and protection seriously. Which of those three deserves the most severe punishment?”

“All three. I broke my vow of obedience to you.” She had to see his face, to know how important he took his responsibilities. A cold, hard edge greeted her curiosity. She had no doubt he wore the mantle of Master.

“Don’t eyeball me!”

She dropped her gaze instantly. Her heartbeat quickened.

“We need to re-establish your submissiveness again, don’t we, my little fuck slave?” Now his tone shifted. Seductive and stern. A combination she couldn’t resist. Her innards released butterflies. A stampede of adrenaline coursed through her bloodstream.

“Yes, Master.”

“Lie down here next to me, on your belly. Cross your arms behind you, and your legs. What would be an appropriate punishment for breaking a vow?” He tapped her back once she was in position.

She gulped. She hated it, the implement, but she knew she could trust him with it. “The cane, Master.”

Jason paused. His hand rested on her back, between her shoulder blades. The touch calmed her. “Rest assured, I’m revoking the punishment. Saving my life tipped the balance in your favour, but I might consider some role re-enforcement. For now, I’d like you to be able to enjoy Trieste, and sitting down might be a requirement.”

Tears gathered. She struggled to contain the desire to cry. For the second time on the cruise, he had withdrawn from punishing her. “Thank you, Sir,” she whispered.

“It is tempting, very tempting, to take you again and again.” A finger trailed down her back, over a buttock cheek. She prickled with bumps, feeling him explore between her legs. “However. Paint for me. Over there. Set up your easel and let yourself go. Find those creative juices.”

Gemma considered his request. She hadn’t been in the mood to draw or paint.

“Naked,” added Jason. “I’ve always wanted to watch you paint naked.”

Her husband had never interfered with her artistic side before. There had been no mixing of her submissive nature with her creative one. She could baulk, remind him it wasn’t in his remit to control her beloved hobby. However, searching his face, she saw only kindness. The cold expression had gone.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he stated, as if reading her mind. “You’re
sublime
to behold and mine. That is all.”

At first, as she set up the easel, she felt self-conscious and uncertain. Then, as the brush swirled around the palette, she lost herself to a whirlpool of colours and shapes. Her nudity didn’t register in her thoughts. Painting was the best way to recuperate from the stress of the previous night. Glancing over her shoulder to where Jason reclined, hand resting behind his head, she smiled at him and murmured her thanks.

Later, he asked she bathe him as suggested. She leant over and washed him with the softest sponge, staying mindful of his bandage. He lay in the aromatic foaming water with his eyes shut. He didn’t sleep, but she thought he looked peaceful. Cleaning complete, she climbed into the tepid water, curling up between his legs and resting her head on his belly. They stayed there until they became hungry.

“We’ll dine below. Afterwards, I want to watch you dance with Gaspar.”

Gemma lifted her head up. “Really?”

“Yes. The poor man probably needs cheering up. The crew need to have their morale lifted. You can show me how you salsa with a professional.”

“Really?”

“Do I have to repeat myself?” he admonished.

“No. I’m in shock.” She hesitated then smiled. “I will have my clothes on?”

“Gemma. Don’t tempted me into changing my mind about punishing you.” His finger flicked a nipple.

She knew he liked her cheeky remarks—he always had done. The humorous banter continued as they dried and dressed in suitable clothing. As they headed towards the stairwell, he pulled her into his good arm and planted a swift, hard kiss.

“Love you, babe.”

***

The crew assembled to see Jason’s wife dance. Unlike the previous time when she danced, he was present throughout, watching, with his injured arm supported by the armrest. He had to admit, Gaspar and Gemma made good partners. She seemed vibrant in her steps. Carefree and happy, her shoes clicking on the polished floor. Gaspar kept a professional distance, and occasionally, they would stop and discuss how to improve her footwork. The others watched attentively. Clapping, as an appreciative audience should, whenever they reached the end of a song.

Other than their forays into nightclubs, which remained rare, he had little opportunity to see her dance. His preference for socialising remained his own private BDSM club, the Nightshade. As co-owner, he could dictate the protocols and membership requirements. Raucous music and exotic dancing were forbidden. Her dance classes were conducted behind closed doors, often while he worked. His only insight came when he arrived home from the office to find her practising her latest steps in the kitchen as she prepared their evening meal. He enjoyed watching, seated at pine table, glass of wine in his hand, her twirls, fancy steps, and shapely hips jiving in time to the music.

Sharing her, especially with her dance partners, troubled him. They touched her, held her close to their chests, breathed on her neck, and gyrated their hips next to hers. He couldn’t hide his possessive nature, his need to control and care for her wherever she went during the day in his absence. Seeing her swirl, tap her feet, and spin about Gaspar, he witnessed nothing to perturb him. No touch too intimate. Nothing to spring forth jealousy. She simply was a woman who loved to dance, selfishly, and uninhibited by observers—a complete contrast to her reticence over erotic exhibitionism. He smiled to himself. In the grand scheme of things, the latter didn’t matter. He would show more interest in her dancing. Let her keep her classes and partners. He couldn’t deny her joy.

With Gemma content, he turned to his nearest neighbour, and for a while, he engaged in a lengthy conversation with Hans in German. He graciously accepted compliments about his fluency.

Eventually, Gemma retired from the dance floor with a bow to her audience. The group stayed long enough to see her drift over him. She slumped down between his legs, at his feet, and took off her shoes, rubbing her soles with a frown. She remained there while she drank a glass of water provided by Esteban.

Jason leant forward and whispered into her ear. “Up here.”

She put her glass down and climbed into his lap. Nestled together, they continued to murmur quietly into each other’s ears, words of love. He nipped her neck and nuzzled her hair. Unable to resist her scent, he buried his nose.

“You’re a gorgeous dancer,” he murmured.

“Why thank you, Sir.” She beamed.

“Don’t ever stop dancing.” He lifted his head, catching her vibrant green irises staring directly back at him.

She cocked her head to one side, her lips curving upwards. “Which dance? Ours or my own.”

He laughed softly. “Both. Naturally. I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t dance for me. I am very grateful that you do. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course. Our dance is the best. It is the one I prefer above all others.”

Day Eighteen

Gemma and her husband were about to spend a day in Trieste like typical tourists. Having arrived during the night, they awoke to find
Sublime
in a berth at the main marina, right by the heart of the city. She was no longer fascinated by marinas and other vessels. Jason had insinuated as much back at Marbella. The novelty had gone, and she preferred to cast her eye out to sea, knowing the cruise would soon be over.

Attempting to catch up on the lost sleep, they had retired early, not long after Gemma finished dancing with Gaspar. They fell asleep draped in each other’s arms with legs knotted together.

As the night progressed, they had gradually untangled and moved apart. Waking briefly, with a sense of dread, she lay listening to the sounds of
Sublime
. The movement of the sea about the yacht, and the engine noise purring distantly. With a deeply inhaled breath, she resolved to return to sleep as quickly as possible. Glancing at Jason, she was relieved to see him in a deep slumber and breathing tranquilly, his injured arm tossed over his head. Strangely youthful. If he could put aside the knife attack, so could she. He was the victim this time, not her.

Listening to the day’s itinerary, she could tell Jason planned to keep her relentlessly busy to help migrate her mind away from the yacht to life back on shore. They had one more night on board
Sublime
before they arrived in Venice. There would be no time for massages.

The launch piloted by Kevin took them to visit Miramare Castle by the waterfront. Using a small nearby marina, they disembarked and walked through the castle’s parklands. Gemma’s face lit up at sight of the extensive gardens. They had all the elements she loved: ponds, gazebos, and winding paths connecting open spaces and woodlands.

“Gemma, we haven’t got all day. There is the castle, and we have tickets booked for a guided tour.”

“In English?”

“Naturally.” He took her hand firmly. She scurried alongside him.

Lubinsky trailed behind them by ten metres or so. Sufficiently far away for privacy, but close enough to leap into action. Modesto’s attack on her husband had no doubt ruffled Lubinsky’s pride, even though there had been nothing to indicate Modesto had a problem with Jason. As yet, Lubinsky had received no news from his sources about why Modesto may have done what he did. The word from Croatia was the drugs the medics had given the Filipino had turned him into a tranquilized zombie.

Lubinsky waited outside during the tour. Led from one ornate room to the next by their guide, Gemma leant against Jason’s chest while they listened to the history of the Austrian family who built it. Explanations of the eclectic architecture and the craftsmen who created the sumptuous furnishings.

She whispered, “Could we afford to buy a castle?”

“Probably. Lot of maintenance, though, and the heating bill would be extortionate,” he replied quietly. “Though a real dungeon does sound very appealing.”

A flush of blood shot across her body.

A car waited to take them to the cave outside the city’s perimeter. Along the way, they consumed a swift lunch in an Italian bistro—unexciting and a limited menu. Jason had promised something better for dining out in the evening.

“Caves,” said Gemma nervously as they drove along winding roads, up into the hills. “You know I don’t like confined spaces. I mean, if I have to crawl through—”

The finger flicked on her thigh, stopping her comments in mid-flow. She felt the familiar tug on her arm and his hot breath next to her ears.

“Where is the trust, Gemma? Would I take you somewhere that would freak you out?” he growled quietly.

“No. Sir.”

He let her arm go, and she stared out of the window. Restless clouds hovered about the sky, keeping the sun at bay. The dry air moved with a slight breeze, and the terrain was hilly and green.

Gemma loved the caves. Gigantic caverns, huge open spaces, well lit and airy. According to their guide, a cathedral’s dome could fit amongst the stalactites and dish-piled stalagmites. She had no sense of being enclosed. The roped walkways and steps laid out a path through the cave. Lights illuminated the rock features, casting ghostly shadows, and the sound of dripping water echoed everywhere.

Stopping in her tracks, she gawped. “I’ve never been in a cave before. I thought there would be little tunnels and freezing cold water to stand in.”

“The Giant Cave is the largest tourist cave in the world. You can put away thoughts of clambering around on your knees. Save that for me.” He gave her a mischievous smile, very toothy and wide. She loved his smiles.