"Do you ever give up?"

"Certainly, Sir." She smiled. "As soon as I get what I want."

He relaxed in his chair, watching her. That smile wasn't the hundred-watt fake one she usually gave him. This one was fun, impish, and it revealed a playful side of her that he hadn't known existed. He liked that she was more complex than he'd realised.

The waiter delivered their meals, and when he checked back to be sure everything was okay, Alex glanced at Chelsea.

"It's fabulous, Sir."

"Well done," he told her when the waiter left.

"You were right," she said. "Not just tonight, but the other night. If I think about what my Dom wants, the struggle isn't as difficult."

"Lesson two," he said. "At this rate, we'll be done in three days."

"Do you think so?" she asked, holding a fork poised near her mouth.

"No." He grinned when her shoulders fell again. "You're still slouching, despite the fact I've already corrected you twice."

She put down the fork and sat up. "Sorry, Sir."

"Not to worry, I have just the thing to help reinforce my will. I'll show you when we get to my house." He cut a piece of steak. "Eat up."

She left part of her salad and refused dessert and coffee. He paid the bill, and she protested. "If I want you to pay, I'll let you know. This changes nothing between us and takes nothing away from your feminine power. So give up the fight."

"In that case, thank you, Sir."

He nodded, wishing all arguments with her were this easy to end. "Did you bring an overnight bag?"

"I did. But I'd prefer not to stay, Sir."

"That's up to you. I have a guest room. And a chain at the end of my bed with a nice pile of blankets on the floor."

Colour drained from her face, and she pushed away her wineglass.

"Some Doms expect their subs to sleep on the floor."

As if choosing her words with great care, she asked, "Is that your expectation, Sir?"

"No." He'd had the chain installed for Liz when he'd trained her, and he'd done it at her request. He was happy to snuggle after a session, and there were nights when he wanted his woman to sleep in his arms. Liz had never wanted to do that. Even if he hadn't taken the time to chain her and arrange her bedding, he would wake up to find her on the floor, cocooned with her pillow and a single blanket, her collar affixed to the chain. "I had a sub once who preferred it that way. It helped her."

"I don't understand."

He wasn't certain why he was discussing this with her. "Liz was a masochist. Being in my bed would have been a luxury she didn't want."

She folded her hands on the tablecloth. "Is she the reason you're no longer a trainer?"

"She has a lot to do with it, yes."

"And you loved her?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "I did." Deeply. Painfully.

"Did she end it, or did you?"

"I suppose if I don't answer you, you'll continue to ask again and again."

"And again, Sir."

"Liz ended it." Except for Damien, no one knew how devastated he'd been. He and Damien had stayed up almost an entire night at the Den, drinking a bottle of the world's finest single malt. The next day, hating what he saw in the mirror, Alex had vowed never to look back.

"You haven't gotten involved with anyone since?"

"No. And I'm not planning to. D/s relationships can be more complex than ordinary ones. Be careful what you wish for."

She shuddered. "Warning heeded," she said.

"Ready?" He stood and offered his hand. "This time, you may follow me. Stay back about two feet."

She didn't answer, but she didn't protest. He knew his behaviour kept her off balance, and that was his intention.

He walked her to her car and waited while she programmed his downtown Golden address into her navigation system. He intended to drive so that she could follow, but he would expect her at his house again, and he never wanted to hear that she'd got lost.

It took less than fifteen minutes to arrive at his home. "I never expected you to live in a place like this," she said. "How old is it?"

"It's considered Victorian-style," he said. "Built after 1940. It was a foreclosure and needed a tremendous amount of work. One of Damien's friends did the restoration. It took about four months, but I think it was a good investment."

"It's charming," she said.

He didn't add that he'd bought it with the expectation he and Liz would live together. Then the Bartholomew deal went south and he hadn't got around to selling.

"The grounds are beautiful," she said while they stood together on the sidewalk.

"Landscaping company," he explained. "I wouldn't know a pansy from a petunia."

"You have both."

"Do I?"

"In those pots." She pointed.

He wondered if she was stalling.

"Shall we?" He headed up the three steps to the wraparound porch. As he unlocked the heavy wooden door, she wrapped her arms around her middle, despite the mild evening weather. "After you."

Inside, she gasped. "I hate to be rude, and I know this isn't protocol, but do you mind if I have a look around? This would be a perfect location for a charity fundraiser," she said.

"Do you ever stop?"

"Are you kidding me?" she countered. "This house was designed for entertaining."

When the remodel had been completed, he'd envisioned hosting parties for business associates, here, along with an occasional lifestyle function. That she saw what he did intrigued him. "You can place your purse there," he said.

"Would you like me to take off my shoes?"

"It's not necessary. Yet." But he appreciated her asking. He showed her the study, then the living room with its gas fireplace and stone hearth. He drew the curtains before heading towards the dining room, then the kitchen.

The largest chunk of his funds had been spent on this part of the house, ripping down walls, opening the space, adding a glassed-in breakfast nook. Since he didn't eat at home much, he took Marcus' word that the appliances were a chef's dream.

"I love the combination of classic and contemporary throughout the whole place," she said, running her fingers over the granite counters. "It really works. Seriously, Sir, you have to let me plan a party here."

Alex appreciated her enthusiasm. What he wouldn't have given for Liz to have fallen in love with the house like Chelsea seemed to. "There's a media centre downstairs," he said. "And the bedrooms are upstairs."

As if she were a guest rather than a sub who'd be screaming within half an hour, he gave her a tour of the upper story, including the master suite.

"You weren't kidding about the hook in the footboard of your bed," she said while rubbing her forearms.

"I don't joke about things like that. Now, go down to the living room. Strip. Leave your clothing and shoes near your purse. If the room is cold, there's a switch on the wall for the fireplace. I want you kneeling, facing the window."

She looked up at him. The air seemed to sizzle. "Yes, Sir," she whispered. Even the way she said it sounded submissive. Her tone as well as her volume had changed.

Without another word, she left. He went into the cupboard in the master closet and selected two instructional pieces, along with a tawse designed by Master Marcus Cavendish. Fancifully, Marcus had etched a dollar symbol into the leather, in honour of the first million-dollar deal Alex had brokered.

When he no longer heard sounds coming from downstairs, he joined her. He placed his belongings on a claw-footed end table, then rearranged a few things, waiting a long time before saying anything, testing her resolve. "Very nice," he said. She was kneeling up the way he'd instructed that night at the Den.

"Thank you, Sir."

"Louder."

She took a breath. "Thank you, Sir."

He folded his arms across his chest. "Inspect." He was pleased when she stood, her head up, looking straight ahead to the window. She placed her hands behind her head and thrust out her breasts. Finally she spread her legs. "You remembered."

"Yes, Sir."

She continued to look ahead even as he closed the distance. He walked around her a couple of times, and she remained perfectly in position. "And you shaved your cunt," he observed.

"I did, Sir."

"Mind if I see how good of a job you did?"

"Please go ahead, Sir."

He ran his hand over her bare mound, then slipped a finger between her folds. "Smooth," he said. "No stray hairs."

"You won't be needing the tweezers, Sir?"

"Not today." He dropped his hand. He knew she had expectations about how this procedure would work, so he changed it up. "Turn around and show me your ass."

She drew her eyebrows together for only a second to indicate her confusion, then she turned and bent to grab her ankles.

"Spread your cheeks."

She struggled a bit for balance as she complied.

"I want you to put a small plug up there every morning while you shower and get ready for work."

"Yes, Sir."

"Kneel up."

Her motions were slow and somewhat exaggerated. "You're struggling to do things, which tells me you haven't been practising. And that makes me question your commitment. I prefer to see your motions be flawless and elegant."

"I apologise, Sir."

"No need. I'll ensure you have plenty of time to practise, beginning now. Return to your former position, where you're showing me your ass, and then kneel up. Then go from kneel up to showing me your ass. We'll begin with twelve repetitions." He took a seat in a wingback arm chair and watched.

She'd turned on the fireplace, so a fine sheen of perspiration began to dot her back as she moved through the exercise.

"Stop thinking," he told her. "I shouldn't be able to hear you at all."

She went through another couple, and she seemed more natural.

"That's much better. Do you feel the difference?"

"Yes, Sir. I do."

By the end, her form began to suffer again. "When your training has finished, I expect you to be able to move with ease, from standing to kneeling, or from lying to kneeling. Any combination you can think of, such as from lying to showing your ass. Mix it up. Make sure you're comfortable in your body. That means I require you to practise when we are not together. I recommend several times per day."

"I understand, Sir."

He stood. "We discussed your posture several times."

Her green eyes were wide, and a bit of fear danced in them. "Am I going to be punished, Sir?"

"No. You will be instructed," he said. "We will reinforce the lesson as many times as necessary. I prefer to punish you for flagrant disregard of the rules. For example, now that you know you are required to practise moving between your positions, not doing so is reason for punishment." He picked up one of the items from the side table and showed it to her. "This is called a posture collar. It will keep your head and shoulders straight at all times. You will wear this tonight. Going forward, anytime you need correction, you'll fetch it for me. Stand with your hands behind your back. Feet shoulder-width apart."

She didn't blink as she stood in position.

"This is one of my favourites. It's strict, but not terribly uncomfortable." He showed her the wide collar. "This is padded, for your chin to rest on." He expected her to argue, but she remained silent. "Ready?"

"Yes, Sir."

He wrapped the stiff leather around her throat then moved behind her to secure its two metal buckles. He checked the fit before tightening more. "How is that?"

"Fine."

"Look down."