Lean on Me

“Well…”

“A relationship needs both giving and taking. I need both, sweetie.” He looked down into her amber eyes. “When you don't ask me for help—that bothers me as a Dom and as your lover.”

She stiffened in his arms. “I like being independent.”

“You don't have to always stand on your feet; sometimes it's all right to lean a bit.” He tilted her face up. “I want to know that you'll lean on me when you need help. Can you do that?”

“I'll try.”

“Good.” He rose to his feet, holding her against him. “I just realized we've never enjoyed a bed together. I think the deficiency needs to be corrected.”

* * *

Later that night, Cullen returned from disposing of a condom. The candlelight flickered in the breeze from the open windows and glowed on the little Amazon tangled in his covers. Her soft lips had felt as good around his cock as he'd imagined, and then he'd finally had the chance to bind and take her in his own bed. And she looked just right, he thought, smiling down at her.

Her face and breasts were slightly beard-burned, her lips swollen, her arms still fastened over her head. She gazed up at him with heavy-lidded eyes as he unbuckled the ankle cuffs and freed her legs.

“Is it bedtime?” she asked, her voice husky.

“Almost, pet, almost.”

Her gaze dropped to his groin, and she blinked. “Again?”

“Yes.” He turned her over, pulled her ass up in the air, and slid into her. The feeling that shivered through him felt oddly like coming home.

Chapter Seventeen

Night had already fallen when Cullen drove up his dirt road and frowned at the white cargo van parked in front of the house. Hell. He'd forgotten all about asking his little sub to dinner. After pulling into the garage, he slid out of the truck. Taking a minute, he braced his hands on the hood. Not a good day. Ash gritted on his skin, coated his mouth, darkened his mind. The knowledge—the sight—of what people could do to others sickened him right to the marrow of his bones.

She shouldn't have to see him like this; he needed to send her home.

With a sigh, he straightened up and looked around.

He hadn't given her a key, so she must have walked down to the beach. He went through the house and onto the deck. Near the water, Hector pranced across the sand. In cutoffs and a bright blue tank top, Andrea looked perfectly at home as she admired the dog's tricks. Cullen set a hip on the railing and simply watched.

The cool, salty breeze from the gulf ruffled his shirt, blowing away the smell of smoke. The sound of the lapping waves mingled with Andrea's laughter and cries of the sea gulls hoping for food. Normal sounds. Happy ones.

After few minutes, Hector spotted him and dashed up for an enthusiastic greeting that splattered Cullen with sand. Barefooted, Andrea followed more slowly. As she reached the deck, she paused. “Did I get the wrong evening?”

“No. I'm running late. I got caught in”— a nightmare—“an investigation and couldn't get away.”

When she moved closer, he stepped back. He was filthy, stinking of smoke.

A flash of hurt showed in her eyes, and then her gaze searched his face. “You look horrible.”

He sighed. “It was a…bad…fire. You know, sweetheart, I really need a hug.” Stinking or not, he really did.

She didn't hesitate, just wrapped her arms tightly around him and held him. Her body pressed against him, soft and warm, but strong—strong enough to offer comfort as well as receive it. Slowly the blackness retreated from his soul.

When he pulled back, she lifted a hand to his cheek. “You want to talk about it?”

Never. But she deserved an explanation. “Someone tossed a Molotov cocktail into a pawnshop. The owner made it out, but two people renting rooms upstairs got trapped. A firefighter died too, trying to get them out.” His mouth tightened. He'd arrived in time to hear the screams as the roof caved in.

“Oh, Señor, I'm sorry.” She hugged him again, harder, as if the strength in her arms could squeeze the sadness and horror out of him.

He buried his face in soft curls that held the fragrance of flowers and felt his world start to balance.

“Thank you, sweetie.” He straightened. “I should shower.” The need to get rid of the grit of the ash almost shook him.

“Go. Hector and I will be here.”

When he came back out, he found she'd fixed him chicken noodle soup. He sat at the kitchen table, his stomach still queasy, but the stuff went down smooth and finished the job of restoring his equilibrium.

Normally after a day like this, he and Hector would take to the beach, walking for hours and miles, until the nightmare images lost their grip. When he'd chosen law enforcement, his brothers and cousins had warned him about the dangers of ending bad days with alcohol, and recommended women. But he didn't like subjecting his dates to his dark moods after a bad fire.

The few times he had, the coldness inside him had only grown worse.

Not tonight. Cullen leaned back in his chair and watched Andrea wipe the counters. Her curly hair bounced against her shoulders, and her feet were still bare from the beach. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. Aside from having the same height as his mother, the resemblance halted there, but the warmth in their smiles was the very same.

“All done? Do you want more?” Andrea started to pick up his bowl, and he pulled her on to his lap, holding her firmly until she stopped squirming and settled. His little sub.

“Thank you, sweetie. I didn't realize how much I needed you.” The pleasure in her eyes squeezed his heart. He lowered his head and kissed her soft lips. As he traced his fingers over her full breast, his body shifted into a new need. “Perhaps now you might provide me with something else.”

“Oh?” A glint of mischief lit her eyes. “What if I'm not in the mood to provide anything but food?”

Interesting answer, considering, even through her clothing, he felt her nipple harden. “Since I'm the master and you're the sub, seems like you get to provide it anyway.”

“Pfft. Who died and left you in charge?” She jumped off his lap and darted across the room before the surprise left his system.

Shaking his head, he pushed to his feet, amusement filling him. Had a brat on his hands, did he? The anticipation of battle lightened his mood.

When she retreated to the deck, he positioned himself between her and the stairs down to the beach, cutting off her escape.

Her eyes narrowed.

“I think we have a problem here.” He moved closer, gradually backing her into a corner. “Little subs need to be respectful and obedient.”

She stuck her fingers in her ears, adding a singsong, “Poo and poo. I can't hear you.”

Well, damn. He charged. Ignoring the punches that bounced off his chest and arms, he set his shoulder in her stomach and hauled her up. Adorably hard fists hammered on his back, and her shriek made him laugh.

His cock had hardened like a rock. So. Beach or bedroom or… His eyes lit on Hector's igloo-shaped doghouse. Balancing his squirming sub on his shoulder, he shoved the doghouse over to the railing.

Perfect.

Well, she'd sure vanquished his black mood. Andrea pounded on his wide back, but her fists got as much notice as if she'd hammered on a tank. Defying him had been as stupid as poking a stick at a cranky bear; she'd definitely roused more than anticipated.

And why the heck had he moved that doghouse?

Ruthless hands closed around her waist, and he dropped her on her butt next to the railing. “Give me your wrist.”

She kicked him instead.

His laugh, deep and rich and infectious, made her grin. She repeated the kick anyway. She might be wet and excited already, knowing how hard he undoubtedly planned to take her, but that was no reason to make it easy for him.

He grunted when her foot caught him in the thigh, and she hesitated. She'd ruin the fun completely if she damaged his essentials; her next kick landed on his shin and made him wince.

“You little brat.” He grabbed her ankles and yanked, tipping her onto her back. Before she could move, he set his knee on her stomach and pressed the air and fight right out of her, even though he kept most of his weight on his other leg.

He pulled her shirt over her head, then her bra. By the time she caught her breath, he'd chained her wrists to the railing. Ignoring her struggles, he unfastened her cutoffs.

Dios, he was good at this. She kicked futilely as he grabbed the hem of her shorts and dragged them right off. Her thong followed. She scowled. Outside. Naked. Did she see a pattern forming here?

When she glanced up at him, the heat in his eyes made her body melt. Dios, the way he made her feel…

“If you kneel and beg my forgiveness, I'll go easy on you, little tiger,” he said.

The authoritative look on his face, the sternness of his jaw, made her insides quiver, but no, something in her just didn't want to give in. She'd started this as a joke, but now…now she'd gone too far to chicken out. Too stubborn for her own good, her grandmother would say. “Dream on, estúpido baboso.”

The merciless smile he gave her made her shove back a few inches. Oh, Dios. Perhaps she shouldn't have called him a slobbering idiot? When he spun on a heel and stalked away, anxiety welled up in her.

He returned with his toy bag over his shoulder, and she eyed the oversize bag nervously. Dios only knew what he had in there. Courage. Never show your fear. She shook her head and put a wealth of sarcasm into her voice. “Boys and their toys.”