“I came to oversee breakfast.”
“Breakfast today is turkey sausage, scrambled eggs, or waffles.”
“Ham and cheese omelet,” I said. “Real eggs, freshly shredded cheese, and that ham over there.” I pointed to the large ham I’d noticed when I entered the kitchen.
“That’s for lunch.”
“And a small slice or two can be used for breakfast.”
He sighed. “If I make the omelet, will you promise to order lunch from a nearby restaurant?”
“And miss our little chats?”
“Lunch from a nearby restaurant and I make an omelet so light and fluffy, you’ll cry.” He picked up a carton of eggs. “Your call.”
I was a smart enough businessman to know a good deal when presented with one. “I accept. Lunch from a nearby restaurant.”
Fifteen minutes later, I walked toward Abby’s room carrying the tray. Her other breakfast was about to be delivered.
“Here.” I shoved the tray into the employee’s hands. “She gets this one instead.”
He looked at the tray, but didn’t question me.
“Breakfast time,” I said, entering the room and preparing Abby’s table. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, bruises more pronounced. I couldn’t wait to get her out of here. “Ham and cheese omelet this morning.”
“I’ve got to run, Abby.” Felicia kissed Abby’s cheek, completely ignoring me. “I still have to pack. You take it easy. I’ll call you when I can.” She spun around and stared at me. “Hurt her and I cut off your dick and feed it to you for your breakfast.”
“Felicia Kelly!” Abby chided.
I actually found Felicia’s outburst amusing.
“Sorry,” Felicia said, but I knew she wasn’t. “It just came out.” She pointed to me. “But I mean it.”
Felicia picked up her bag and left the room.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” Abby said.
I sat down next to her, pleased to have her to myself. “She was pretty upset yesterday. She just doesn’t want you to get hurt.”
“Are you going to tell me what you two argued about?”
“No.”
She took a bite of omelet. “Are other hospital patients eating ham and cheese omelets for breakfast?”
“I find myself rather unconcerned with what other hospital patients are eating for breakfast.” I found myself unconcerned with anything besides the fact that Abby was safe.
While Abby went down for what I hoped was her final CAT scan, Elaina dropped by with some clothes.
“Going home today?” she asked.
“That’s the current plan.”
“We’ll miss you in Philly.”
“Maybe we’ll get together in Tampa.”
She hugged me, pulling me tight to her chest. “Take care of Abby.”
“Make sure Felicia doesn’t call all the time. I want Abby to rest.”
We left a little before eleven o’clock. When the hospital insisted on taking Abby out the door in a wheelchair, her protests fell on deaf ears. I went to the parking lot to retrieve my car and pulled it around to meet her. I hopped out to ensure she made it into the car comfortably and adjusted the seat so she leaned back more than normal.
“What happened to the cabdriver?” she asked as I pulled onto the street.
I’d known she’d ask about him at some point, so I’d called and spoken to Linda earlier. I’d also made a few other decisions.
“Minor scratches. He was released yesterday. I don’t like cabs. I’m buying you a car.”
“What? No.”
No? Had Abby just disagreed with me? Did she finally feel comfortable enough to actually talk to me?
“What’s wrong with me getting you a car?”
“It feels wrong.” She sniffled, and I looked over to her. Were her eyes wet? Damn.
“Are you crying?” I asked.
“No,” she said, but the sniffle gave her away. She was crying over a car? Really?
“You’re crying. Why?”
“I don’t want you to get me a car.”
I started to protest, but she spoke again. “It’d make me feel . . .”
“Make you feel what?”
“Make me feel dirty, like a whore.”
I clutched the steering wheel tightly to keep the car on the road. A whore? She felt like a whore?
“Is that what you think you are?” Good God. What had I done to her?
“No,” she finally said. “But I’m a librarian. You’re . . . you’re one of the wealthiest men in New York. How would it look?”
I forced myself to remain calm, to resist the urge to call Felicia and have her cancel the Philly trip, to ask her to take Abby home. Abby was not a whore. I’d break our relationship off immediately to ensure she never felt like one.
“Abigail.” There, I could talk. I even sounded reasonable. “You should have thought about how things would look long before now. You wear my collar every day.”
“That’s different.”
I shook my head. “It’s the same. My responsibility is to take care of you.” How was it she didn’t know that?
“By buying me a car?”
If need be. “By making sure your needs are met.”
It was what I told Felicia in the hospital—it was my most important responsibility. Didn’t Abby understand that?
She didn’t argue any more. After a while, she closed her eyes, but I knew she wasn’t asleep. Still, the silence gave me time to think. Somehow, her accident had made her more comfortable talking to me. The Abby who showed up at my office weeks ago would not have argued over a car. I was pleased she felt more comfortable around me.
I didn’t understand her refusal, though. I was her dom and I had the means to help her. Why shouldn’t I?
Because it would look like I was paying her for sex. Like she was a whore.
I stifled a groan.
Did she feel cheap because of what we did? She had never been in a relationship like ours before. It was new to her. I thought back to our kitchen table conversations—she’d never quite opened up to me.
If I could only ensure she felt comfortable sharing her mind with me as well as her body . . .
We pulled up to my house, and once I stopped the car, I got out and opened her door. “The car conversation is not finished, but you need to get inside and rest. We’ll talk later.”
I led her inside, trying my best to keep Apollo from jumping on her, and settled her on the couch. Then I went into the kitchen. I’d called my housekeeper from the hospital earlier in the morning and instructed her to stock my refrigerator and pantry for the weekend.
I made a turkey, cheese, and avocado sandwich for Abby and filled her plate with grapes and apple slices. I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and joined her in the living room.
She took the plate from me. “This looks delicious. Thank you.”
I resisted the urge to stroke her forehead. “Just eat what you feel like.” I glanced down to where Apollo sat beside her on the couch. “You can either rest here or in your room. I’ll put Apollo outside if he bothers you.”
She patted his head. “He’s fine.”
I turned the TV on and gave her the remote. “I’m going to make myself a sandwich. I’ll join you in a minute.”
Minutes later, I sat down at my desk with my lunch and turned on my laptop. I sent a short note to Sara, telling her I’d be back on Monday, and quickly scanned the rest of my e-mails.
I read a message from Yang Cai and sighed. I’d probably have to schedule a trip to China for later in the year. I sent back an e-mail, promising to follow up with more details after the weekend.
When I looked up, Abby was asleep. I stood, took her plate, and set it on the table, tucked a blanket around her curled body.
Then I sat back down and watched Abby sleep.
The weekend before, I’d wanted to show her the library. What if I took it a step further? What if I gave her the library? She rarely took advantage of her freedom at the kitchen table—if I gave her an entire room, would she feel more at ease?
There was only one way to find out.
She woke up at three thirty, blinking awake, glancing around and smiling when she saw me.
“Feeling better?” I asked.
“A little.” She reached out and swallowed the pain pills I had set out while she slept, then stood and stretched.
“Come with me.” I got up and walked toward her, held out my hand. “I want you to see the southern part of the house.”
She took my hand without question, and I ran my thumb over the tops of her knuckles. We went down the hallway toward the library.
Would she like it?
I dropped her hand, pushed the double doors open, and stood back so she could enter first.
She gasped.
“I want this to be your room,” I told her. “When you’re in this room, you are free to be you. Your thoughts. Your desires. It’s all yours. Except for the piano. The piano is mine.”
Use it, Abby. Please, be yourself. Open up to me.
She walked around the room as if in a daze. Trailing her fingers along the book spines, stopping here and there to read a book title. The sunlight bounced off her hair, illuminating her.
But what was she thinking?
“Abigail?”
She turned around. Silent tears fell down her cheeks.
Was that a good sign?
“You’re crying,” I whispered, overcome by the emotions she could evoke from me. “Again.”
“It’s so beautiful.”
She liked it. I smiled. “You like it?”
Without a word, she walked back to me and threw her arms around me. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I whispered into her hair.
Chapter Fifteen
I spent the next two days caring for Abby. Watching her as she rested and making sure she stayed comfortable. She passed time lounging in the library, even eating a few meals sitting on one of the couches, engrossed in one book or another. I joined her occasionally and tried to start a conversation, but she never spoke freely.
Perhaps I’d read too much into her whore comment. If our relationship worked for her, it would work for me. Her needs. Always hers.
On Sunday afternoon, I sat at the small desk in the library, waiting to see if Abby would join me.
Then, there she was. “Everything all right?” I asked. “Do you need something?”
“Yes. You.”
She slipped her shirt over her head.
Fuck.
“Abigail,” I said, trying to ignore the twitching of my cock, “you need to rest.”
She didn’t listen. Instead she slipped her pants down and stepped out of them.
I swallowed a moan.
She wanted me. She was asking for sex.
I’d had submissives ask for sex before. Sometimes I agreed. Sometimes I didn’t. I walked the line between fulfilling their needs and ensuring they knew I could and would turn them down if I wanted to.
I didn’t want to turn Abby down.
But was she ready?
Did she feel obliged to do it because I was taking care of her?
I knew I should probably turn her down. She needed to rest, and I didn’t want her to offer sex out of obligation.
If I turned her down, would she ever ask again?
She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, slowly slipping it off her shoulders. It fell to the floor, exposing more of her body to me—more than she probably meant to expose. There was a purplish blue bruise on her right shoulder.
I decided to turn her down. Explain it wasn’t her—that I wanted her badly, but she needed to rest.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and slipped them over her hips.
I stood up. I couldn’t turn her down. Not when I’d given her this room and told her to be herself in it. Not when she stripped herself n**ed before me. If she wanted me, wanted the pleasure my body could give her, she would have me.