My arms are around her and I try to pull away, but I can’t seem to let go of her. I want to touch her, comfort her. I’ve had vulnerable clients before, those who draw on me for emotional support as well as physical protection. But it’s always been a one-way street. The only satisfaction I get is the feeling of a job well done. With Adrienne it’s different. When she leans on me I feel it right at the very core of me. “God, Adrienne...”
Her face is very close to mine. “What?”
I inhale deeply. “When you’re like this I don’t want to be your bodyguard.”
Panic flits across her face. “Please don’t leave me.”
“No, I didn’t mean that.”
“What, then?”
Her look of supplication undoes me. If she’s hurting, then I want to do anything to fix it for her so she feels safe again. I slide my hand up her collarbone, my fingers caressing the side of her neck, my thumb pressing on the pulse on the other side. I feel the steady thump-thump of her heartbeat. Her eyes drift closed and her back arches a little, her lips parted.
“I like it when you give me rules and get all stern with me, telling me to watch my mouth and do as I’m told,” she whispers.
“Oh, really.”
“I do. And I like it when you make my breakfast or cut my sandwiches just how I like them even though I don’t know how you know. I like being close to you, and feeling how strong and capable you are.” Smirking, she says, “What’s more, you like me liking this. I can tell.”
The clever little cat. I do like it. And I like her, bratty as she is.
“You know what I like best?” she whispers.
“What?”
“When I sass you and I see that dangerous flicker in your eyes that tells me you’re itching to do something about it.” She digs her nails into my arm. “Why don’t you do something about it, Dieter?”
I tighten my hand on her throat and her eyes widen. I’m not stopping her from breathing but the pressure on either side is enough to restrict blood flow. It’s the sort of choking that would make her orgasm double in intensity if we were making love. But I’m not fucking her and I have no intention to. I just want her to know how much I mean what I say next.
“Because,” I say, speaking in a growl and leaning down very close to her face, “a sub’s place is earned, and you’ve done nothing to show me that you deserve it.” I keep the pressure up for a moment longer, and then release her. “Go to sleep.”
All right, I say to myself when I’m outside her room again, the door closed behind me. SAS training be damned: they don’t teach you how to deal with women like Adrienne Westley. I’ve crossed the line. Now I’ll just have to deal with the consequences.
* * *
I woke up feeling the ghost of Dieter’s hand around my throat and a tingling between my legs, part fear and part arousal. I’ve got what I wanted, which is for him to express that dark, savage part himself that I’ve seen only glimpses of. Now I have to figure out whether I’m brave enough to handle it.
Playing with my braid, I watch him from the kitchen doorway. There’s a notch between his brows as he reads the paper. Earn my place as his sub? I hadn’t thought of it that way. I simply thought if I was bratty enough I would be able to drive him to discipline me. I feel a pulsing, falling sensation deep in the pit of my belly when I think about it.
Moving to his side, I peer over his arm. “What are you doing, daddy?”
He turns and hooks his arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him, and holds a forefinger under my nose. Our faces are very close together, what with him sitting and me standing, and my breath catches. “Listen here. Have you been invited to call me that?”
“No.” My voice is husky. I like the feel of his arm tight around my hips and my thighs pressed against his. I like the flinty look in his eyes even more, and I imagine him pulling me onto his lap so I could rub myself against him, showing him just how needy I am for him to touch me.
“Do you think I would allow you to call me that without me saying so?”
“No.”
“Quite. Now, what would you like for breakfast?”
“Half Cheerios and half Lucky Charms, please.”
He gets up to fetch them, indicating that I should take his seat. I like how he can be stern but still wants to take care of me. I look at the paper on the counter, a flicker of anxiety in my chest, but it’s just the sports news. “Who’s your team?” I ask, scanning the page.
“Fulham. Do you ever eat just one cereal?”
“Fulham versus Chelsea, zero-two. That’s a shame.”