“I thought so.” He strokes my hair again, the look of pride in his eyes as he watches me makes me aware that I’d do it all over again—anything he asks and more. “But we can’t confuse what this is,” he says, bringing me back to the moment. “It’s just physical.” The strained way he says it makes me wonder who he’s trying to convince—me or him.
He tugs me down against him and curls his body around me as he tells me to just breathe, and I do. As I try to get my emotions under control, he holds me and assures me my reaction is normal.
“Remember when we talked about aftercare?” he asks, still holding me.
“Yes.” I never dreamed I would be in a position to need it, remembering how hysterical his friend Chrissy was, sobbing and sounding desperate as he coached her through her meltdown. I’ve never been like that after sex, but this felt like a lot more than just sex.
“We didn’t talk about sub drop, but I think we should. Submitting can be an emotional experience. After a scene, your adrenaline and all the other chemicals that your body naturally produces are at an all-time high. When they crash, it can leave you feeling sad, lonely, and confused. The more intense the scene, the more intense the drop can be.”
Listening to him talk, I feel relieved. It’s nothing but my out-of-control hormones and emotions playing tricks on me. I focus on relaxing and clearing my mind. Listening to the sounds of his heartbeat, I enjoy the way his hands knead my muscles.
I have a choice to make. I can enjoy every minute of his attention, every gift he has to offer, or I can go it alone. Why wouldn’t I want his help?
Convincing myself to relax, I’m soon warm and comfortable and feeling drowsy. Everything is going to be okay. I think. He murmurs calming words, praises me for tonight, and continues stroking my hair and my skin.
I’ve let him in so completely, and hate that I don’t know him better. “Will you tell me about your nana?” I ask softly, curious about this dominating man’s soft side that I’ve only caught glimpses of.
“What do you want to know?” His tone is guarded as if he doesn’t enjoy dishing out personal details.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m curious, I guess. Are you close?”
He nods. “Other than my younger sister, she’s the closest thing I have to family. She’s put up with a lot of shit from me over the years, and now I take care of her.”
“What’s she like?” I try to picture Hale hanging around a little old lady, and fail miserably. I’d have an easier time picturing him in a BDSM dungeon, clad in black leather, with a sub tied up in intricate knots.
“She’s an eighty-year-old who makes the best goddamn blueberry pie in the world, likes to knit me hideous sweaters, and continually asks me when I’m going to settle down.”
I giggle, picturing the intrusion, because I really can’t imagine anyone questioning him. “And what do you tell her?”
“Never.” His voice is flat, convincing me he’s serious. He has no interest in marriage or monogamy. The memory of overhearing those two women discussing his tragic past jumps into my brain, and I feel bad for him. It’s a thought that makes me want to take him in my arms and hold him close, but somehow I know he wouldn’t allow that.
After a few minutes, Hale gets up, blows out his candle, and dresses. I watch the way the muscles in his broad shoulders move, the tone and definition of his firm thighs as he pulls on his jeans. He’s really quite gorgeous.
A passing thought makes my stomach sink, and I realize this could all be a terrible combination. His overwhelming masculine presence, my desperate need for love…
Am I headed straight for disaster?
Chapter Twelve
Hale
It’s Sunday, which means I’m sitting in a damp-smelling nursing-home room with Nana. Yet no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to forget my last session with Brielle, my sexy little peach.
Every detail is seared into my memory. Her tight little ass working against me. Fuck. Her petite body latching onto mine, milking me to the last drop. I could quickly see her becoming an addiction. One I wasn’t allowed to overdose on¸ as much as I might want to. I had a job to do. That was it.
Nana waves her index finger at me. “Grab me my knitting bag out of the closet. I made you something.”
I have an entire dresser full of hideous sweaters, knitted caps, and misshapen scarves courtesy of Nana. If I’m ever invited to an ugly-Christmas-sweater party, I’m fairly certain I could go dressed from head to toe in colorful, itchy wool.
I grab the bag and hand it to her. She produces a royal purple turtleneck vest thingy and hands it to me with a proud grin.
“Wow. It’s just…I’m speechless. Thank you, Nana.”
Dear God, this thing needs to be burned. But hell, it gives her something to do, and gives the dresser in my spare room a purpose. Everyone wins.
“Put it on. I need to make sure it fits.”
I hold it up to myself. “Oh, it’ll fit.”
Satisfied, she smiles, and I return to the armchair next to her.
I was seventeen when my parents were killed in a plane crash during their dream vacation to Alaska. It was a small bush plane, used for the excursion fishing trip my dad talked about for months.
Nanette—Nana—was a member of the church they attended. I went only on major holidays and had met her once or twice. I didn’t really know her and she didn’t know me. But she stepped up and claimed ownership for me, along with my younger sister, Macey.