Chapter Three
Following Mal’s black Lexus, Colby almost turned off and went home several times. He had plenty of opportunities to change his mind. He could have left without eating the steak, let alone the cobbler. He could have left the parking lot and headed south, not north. He could have missed the turn off the freeway. But here he was, pulling up behind her car in the driveway. Somehow he’d pictured the formidable Mistress living in a contemporary condo downtown, not a sweet little bungalow painted Caribbean blue.
Engine still running, he watched her shut her car door and pause, waiting for him with a knowing smile on her luscious lips. One last chance to escape the Mistress’s leash. All he had to do was throw the truck in reverse and drive off. His palms were sweaty, his heart rate up like he’d run all the way here at top speed, and the erection still hadn’t faded.
He hadn’t had an erection this long in over a year.
I ate the steak. I ate the cobbler. I’m damned well going to eat her too.
He turned off the ignition and stepped down out of the cab. Luckily she didn’t tease him. Hanging back while she unlocked the front door with an electronic keypad, he scanned the street. Nice neighborhood. Quiet. No one seemed to have followed them, not that he’d expected it. Still, one could never be too careful.
“Colby?” He jerked his attention to her. She waited, door open, light turned on. “What are you doing?”
He shrugged sheepishly and stepped through the open door. “Sorry, habit. I’d feel pretty bad if some perp drove up and shot into your house trying to nail a cop.”
“I suppose you want to check my house too and make sure no perps are hiding out in the closet.”
She’d probably meant it as a joke, but he immediately scanned the front room, making sure to look behind the couch and curtains. “You’re a single woman. Can’t be too careful. May I?”
She frowned at him, and a sudden wash of alarm flooded him. What if she changed her mind about him? “Are you carrying a gun?”
“No, ma’am. I’m off duty so I deliberately left my service weapon at home.”
Her frown softened, some of her teasing amusement coming back to glow in her eyes. “I suppose you left the handcuffs at home too.”
He gave her a look that hopefully said I’m no fool. “Absolutely. No way I’m letting you get around my handcuffs. I’d never hear the end of it.”
She gave him a look back that said baby, I don’t need no handcuffs to turn you into putty in the palm of my hand and went toward the kitchen. “Make yourself at home. Two bedrooms, but I’m sure you’ll be able to tell which is mine. I’ll get us a drink.”
Curiosity piqued, he made himself scan through her house slowly rather than race to the Mistress’s dungeon, or bedroom. Looking at her furniture, he couldn’t find anything that pointed to her kink or said she was anything but a single professional woman making a good living in Dallas. Not even a black leather couch—just a tasteful brown-and-turquoise living room set. So what would he find in her bedroom?
He stuck his head in the first door on the left. Office, with a full-sized bed. Had to be a guest room. Door on the right was a small bathroom. He’d only dabbled in construction work in the past, but the black-and-white hexagon tiles looked original. The last door wasn’t shut. He eased inside, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Opening his senses, he listened, feeling for anything amiss, before flipping on the lights. Smallish room, dominated by a king sized bed with a comforter the color of sunflowers. Combined with the gold dress, he had to be a dummy not to realize yellow was her favorite color. The bed frame was a heavy, antique four-poster bed with black iron details, but no manacles hung from the corners. Certainly no ropes dangled from the ceiling. Hard wood floors creaked beneath his boots as he eased deeper into the room, looking for any other doors. He banged his shins on something hard and metal that clanged.
A large dog crate.
“Fuck.”
She held out a hard cider but he only glared at her. “If you think I’m going to cram myself into that crate, you’re crazy. Christ, I can’t believe I actually let you talk me into coming home with you. I ought to be committed.”
Coolly, she arched a brow at him. “I don’t recall talking you into anything, sugar. There’s the door. Leave now. No one’s keeping you here against your will.”
Ignoring the bottle she offered, he paced back and forth at the foot of her bed. Luckily he was too busy muttering under his breath to hear the soft sigh that escaped at the sight.
He prowled like an angry caged bear. No, a rangy wolf, lean and mean and fast. Such explosive power in his body. Such anger and need and frustration. She could almost taste it.
Literally, she was tempted to just stand here and breathe deeply with her mouth open, drawing in the scent of his presence in her space. It’d been a long time since she’d had such an uncontrolled and potentially destructive force loose in her bedroom.
She’d kicked Andy out months ago. During their relationship, she’d cared for him, even loved him, at least a little. Maybe not the one-in-a-million kind of love that she’d dreamed about, but she had cared for him. Only after she’d learned about his betrayal and done some serious soul-searching had she realized how one-sided their relationship had always been. She’d taken care of him.
But what had he done to take care of her?
Oh, the sex had been fine. Great, actually, because she took what she wanted and expected nothing less than ultimate pleasure from her partner. But Andy had always wanted to be used and humiliated. That had been his kink. He’d wanted to sleep on the floor. He’d wanted her to treat him more like a dog than a sub. And like a good dominant who cared about her submissive, she’d adjusted to make sure his needs were met. That was her job.
Job.
Not love. Certainly not marriage.
She watched the cop whirl hard on his heel to stomp in the other direction and she couldn’t help but feel selfish. If she’d dreamed up the perfect challenge for herself, the kind of sub she’d never thought to meet in her life, it was him. Wild, uncontrolled, not submissive in the traditional sense, Colby managed to hit every single one of her buttons and leave her panting for more.
And she hadn’t even played with him yet. Not really.
Even more, he needed help. Help only she could give. Unfortunately, that meant he’d probably walk as soon as she’d helped him through his sexual issues, but she’d sure have a grand time helping him find as much satisfaction as he could stand. Because she had no doubts whatsoever that she could satisfy him over, and over, and over. If she’d dared touch him beneath the table tonight, he would have spurted all over the white linen tablecloth.
He whirled again and strode straight toward her, hands clenched, lips drawn back from his teeth in a vicious snarl. She didn’t move or react, holding her ground and willing him to settle down for her.
Breathing hard, he stood before her. “What is that crate for? Tell me, damn it.”
Gently, gently, she reminded herself. When she wanted to seize his lapels and drag him down to drink all that glorious fury from his lips. “That kennel is Pumpkin’s. He wouldn’t take too kindly to anyone else using it.”
His eyes blazed, his nostrils flaring as he shifted from outraged male ego to straight-up jealousy. “Who the fuck is Pumpkin?”
Tipping the bottle, she took several long swallows of hard cider, making him wait. Stewing a little would be good for him.
“Mal…” he growled warningly.
Which only made her purr. She stepped closer to him, ignoring the hard look in his eyes, the threat of his clenched hands. She leaned up like she wanted to whisper something into his ear, and he automatically leaned down toward her. Such a good boy, though she didn’t say that aloud for fear of riling him up again. “Pumpkin is Mama’s Pomeranian.”