Bow to Your Partner (4 page)

"Good girl." He'd obviously seen her
instinctive need to lower her head. His smile was one hundred percent Dom, and
two hundred percent sinful. "Now, not long. Let's see who's at the door,
eat and go." He didn't wait to hear her answer. "Come in." He addressed
whoever stood outside the room.

The door opened slowly, and Marco’s head appeared,
almost as if he
worried
 
what
he'd see. Mason wouldn't have been
surprised if Marco waved his white chef jacket as a sign he came in peace.

"It's okay, cousin dear. There's no orgy going
on." One look at Marco and she'd known this was all part of a set up. Oh,
not the office part, she reckoned he had no idea she'd freak over the dining
room and have to go upstairs. Talk about silly. Nothing bad happened there,
only
good
, so why was she acting like there'd been a
murder? The phrase conjured up an old TV detective series set in Glasgow in her
mind.
There's been a mur-rr-der
had
been a catch phrase in it. Mason brought her mind back from unpleasant
thoughts, murders and goodness knows what. Maybe it
was
time to bury the fear and move forward.

Could she? Bury the fear and not a body. Why dread
the thought of happy times? Her nerves were stretched so tight, if she giggled
like she wanted to, she'd end up in full blown hysterics, and any slaps wouldn't
be of the arousing type.
Oh, for heaven's
sake grow up, build a bridge and get over it.
She made her mind up.

"Er, Marco?" she spoke before she had time
to challenge her resolve. "Is that dining room still empty?" She
squashed the butterflies holding a dance party in her tummy.

"Yeah, why?"
He looked puzzled.

"Then if S-er Mr. Mackie is agreeable, we'll
eat in there. It's just a room."
 
And I'm just a wee thick Scottish lassie.
Damn, she'd so nearly slipped up. It might be one thing to think Callan was a
Dom, another thing to afford him with the salutation. After all she didn't
really know if he was, did she? She ignored the tiny voice telling her to stop
pretending, determined to never go back down
that
road. There lay heartache.

"Er, sure, if Cal is happy
with that?"
Marco looked toward Callan for confirmation. He shrugged, but it was no casual
gesture.

"Why not?
Ten minutes?"

Marco grinned.
"Fine.
Just come down when you're ready." He closed the door carefully behind
him. The silence in the room made Mason bite her lips. If it wasn't so
fanciful, she'd say the air waited with her to see what happened next.

Mason distrusted the grin. "Why ten
minutes?" she asked Callan. "We’re ready now."

"You think so?"
A
definite question.

The way he looked at her—all-seeing, all-knowing,
and more than all-demanding—seared her to her soul.

"Well." She bit her lip. "Yes."
Her pussy did a quick shimmy, and her nipples pushed at the thin lace of her bustier.
Mason daren't look down to see if they were showing through the soft material
of her dress. It might be nice and accommodating to her curves, but she didn't
think it would be brilliant at hiding the evidence of her burgeoning arousal.
She squeezed her knees together, and ignored his hastily smothered grin.
Bloody all-seeing sod.

"What?" she asked "Why are you
looking at me like I've lost my marbles?"

He thumped the table so hard, both she and the
glasses jumped. Wine slopped dangerously near the rims, before it settled into
waves rippling across the surface of the liquid.

"Mason, for some reason ever since we met,
you've been pushing. Determined to show me you're a strong independent in-command
woman. Why? Do you think it'll make me think more of you? Help me to decide
you're the one I need to do this job for me?" He put one finger under her
chin and lifted her face upward. "Why does the thought of me knowing
you’re a submissive frighten you?"

Who the fuck does he
think he is?

Chapter
Four

"I'm not." She stared at him defiantly.

Callan stared back and waited. Eventually Mason
dropped her eyes, and he saw a ripple of emotion shake her body. She rubbed her
hands over her arms, and twisted her fingers together.

"Not now, I'm not." It was barely more
than a whisper.

Callan could accept he'd heard her if he chose, but
he didn't feel inclined. Mason Andriacchi intrigued and bothered him more than
he dared admit. "Speak out Mason, mumbling doesn't become you."

Mason’s head shot up. Her eyes were defiant. If
looks killed, he'd be dust and in an urn on his mum's mantelpiece. Well, at
least he'd made her spark a little, and he felt pleased about that. She'd
looked so sad and defeated.

"Louse," she said. The contempt in her
voice was obvious.
"Bastard."

"Not at all, my parents were very happily married
for over a year before I came along. Be very careful what you say. I have a
very long memory." He laced his voice with a warning. Mason's attitude
scared him. Defiant one moment and all out sub the next.
Such
a mass of contradictions.
His stomach rolled, and he swallowed hard.
Could he really follow through with what he sensed she wanted? Even if it meant
she hated him, and any chance of a relationship was lost?
I have to try and be damned
. It mattered. She mattered. That
thought hit him like a sledgehammer.
She matters
to me. I might hardly know her, haven't spent more than a few hours with her,
but she's important to me.

Her lip trembled and she shivered. "So do I and
that’s the trouble. So do
I
." She began crying without
warning. "I can't stop remembering." Harsh sobs racked her body, and gave
Callan goose bumps. He pushed her hard, but not that hard, surely? Had he
prodded stronger that he imagined? If so, he really did deserve the names she'd
called him.

Callan sat next to her and lifted her onto his lap. Her
scent—a soft citrusy one—teased his nostrils. It suited her, a total contradiction
to her Mediterranean looks. Damned if he wouldn't have liked a subbie blanket
at that moment. Mason turned her head and rested it on his shirt. Even though her
tears soaked through the fine silk and coated his chest, he was content. An
indefinable sense of possession hit him, and he tightened his arms.
Possession?
Where the hell did that come from? He'd never
thought of his lifestyle in that way, he possessed no one and no one possessed
him.

Callan wanted Mason. In a way he hadn't wanted anyone
before. The feeling was stronger and more powerful than any emotion he thought himself
capable of. It didn't scare him, didn't worry him, but he'd love to know why
now, and why Mason.

As Mason's sobs slowed and gentled, Callan unpinned
her hair and separated the strands with his fingers. She murmured and tried to
sit up. He tightened his grip, and rested his chin on the top of her head. The
soft strands tickled his skin, and he inhaled the scent of her shampoo, the
same citrus and fruit mix as her perfume.

"Shh, you're fine where you are. But I'm
guessing all that crying will be giving you a headache, and your hair scraped
back so tight, will be making your scalp cry as well." He stroked the long
dark strands in a rhythmic movement.
" I'm
enjoying myself. It's a long while since I've had the pleasure of holding and
comforting a lovely lady. I'm privileged." She gave what might be termed a
soft giggle.

"Not much of a privilege to end up with a
crumpled and sodden shirt." Mason sniffed. "Damn I need a
tissue." She searched her pockets. "Bugger, where's my handbag? There's
a packet in there."

"Here." He handed her a lawn handkerchief.
"My mum says a gentleman always carries one. Well, I thought then if I
want to be taken for a gent, I'd better make sure I have a hankie." Did it
sound silly, mentioning his mum? Callan couldn't have cared less. It produced a
watery smile from Mason and a tiny giggle.

"My mum always said make sure you have clean
underwear on, in case you get run over by a bus," she said. "I could
never understand that. If you were run over surely you'd be past caring?" Mason
wiped her eyes and blew her nose. "And if you weren't dead, then I'm
guessing you'd be mucky and not give a shit? Oops, bad comparison. Oh lord
sorry, but I get verbal diarrhea when I'm upset." She put her tip of her
finger in her mouth and grinned. "Only verbal though and well—"

Callan shut her up by the very basic method of removing
her finger, holding her hand tight in his and kissing her.

He used his tongue to demand entrance to Mason's
mouth. Her lips opened to let him in, and her tongue played with his. Callan
gave a mental high five, even as his cock hardened and pushed against his
zipper. She moaned into his mouth and the sound reverberated inside him.
Such a fucking
turn
on
. Her hands clutched his shoulder, and she wriggled on his lap. Of course
his prick responded as if it had a mind of its own, hardening to the point
Callan wondered perhaps he should check his jeans for stains.

In one swift movement, he stood and twisted her
around so they were face to face. Mason leaned into him, and Callan took
advantage to pull her close and hold her, clit to cock, against him. Thank God
for killer heels. They made her the perfect height to achieve it. He used one
hand to lift the hem of her dress, and then tease the globes of her ass with
his fingertips. The lace of a thong caressed his nails as he stroked her. His
hand itched to spank, and delve into her, but he held back. The shifting of her
body, and the way her breath hitched under his mouth, damn near undid him. As
tempted as he was to throw caution to the wind, and stake his authority, Callan
slowed the pace down. After one last thrust of his tongue, he pulled back and
rested his cheek against hers. The sense of loss was far more than he'd
anticipated.

She shuddered and relaxed her death grip on his
jacket. The material would never be the same and Callan couldn't have cared
less.

"Wha—what the hell was that?" Mason
sounded shaken.

"Destiny."
Callan kissed the top
of her head, and then straightened the neckline of her dress, which had settled
askew.
No bra straps, does that mean no
bra or strapless?
He determined to find out as soon as it was sensible.

Mason laughed. "Chemistry more like, and not
the romantic hearts and flowers sort.
The
oh
shit, it's a long time since anyone kissed me and I'd forgotten what
it was like
sort." It would have sounded better if she spoke as if she
believed what she said.

Enough was enough.

"Mason, if you don't want me to ignore the table
downstairs and take you bound and naked over this table upstairs, I suggest you
shut up." Callan spoke with as much authority as he could muster, when his
insides jumped around like a flea in a circus, his brain on several wavelengths
at once—all designed to make him as horny as hell.

The look of contempt she threw him should have been
enough to cool his ardor. Instead, the brief flare of arousal he saw in her
eyes before she shuttered them increased his determination to feel her under
him, in every which way, and to hear her soft sighs and mewls, and rejoice as
she called him Sir.

"Do we carry on?" he asked in an even
voice, which showed none of the emotion that scorched him. His stomach churned,
the hairs on his arms stood on end, and goose bumps tingled as they bombarded
his arms. Callan swallowed rapidly as the metallic taste of true, deep down fear
hit him. It was new to him, and he didn't like it one bit.
What if she says no? I'll have to grow up and give up.
It wasn't to
be thought of. "What's it to be? Continue as civilized and sensible adults?
Eat and then talk business? Or do we screw?" He used the crude word on
purpose, interested to see her stiffen. It gave him hope. For all her kick-ass
attitude, she didn't like that.

"Oh, believe
me,
I've
never screwed anyone in any way in my life." She tugged the bottom of her
dress down. "But I could make an exception in the non-sexual sense for
you."

Callan laughed. He was so going to enjoy their time
together. There was no doubt in his mind they would have a fair few hot and
explosive moments before the hottest and most explosive coming together imaginable.

And he
would
have her on her knees, bowing to him as her Master. He simply had to figure out
how to get to that point without losing a few layers of skin, and his balls.

"Let's eat. No, not each other." He
glanced at her hands, which were still clenched so tightly her knuckles were
white.
Time to back off
a bit
.
"Look, Mason, we seem to have set off at a pace beyond
which either of us was ready for. Let's slow down, eh? Have a meal and then
I'll show you what I want painted." He risked a quick glance toward her to
gauge her reaction. Her expression was as blank as a new, unpainted canvas—or
plastered wall.
No help there, then
.