Unrestrained (11 page)

In truth, she knew almost nothing about him. Except that he’d been a SEAL, and that he’d mesmerized her with the way he’d taken over Willow, enough to invite him to her home and ask him to do the same to her.

Maybe this was a midlife crisis, exacerbated by Roy’s death. Everyone knew how well midlife crises went. At best, a person looked back on them with chronic embarrassment. At worst, they could destroy lives.

She remembered waking up in Dale’s house. She could trust this man. If it went terribly wrong, embarrassment would be her worst punishment. Which simply meant she’d never return to the club, and she’d close this chapter of her life. She could do that.

Her throbbing pulse, her shortness of breath as his door opened, told her that might not be the case. Which escalated her to near panic. She could bolt up from her seat, lock the door and run back up to her room. There was still time.

Her, Athena Francesca Summers, running away from anything? Really? What would Dale do if she did such a thing? She had a vision of him kicking the door down, pursuing her up to her room, pushing her down on the bed, ready to punish, to claim . . .

Okay, she’d just shifted straight to the fantasy of the pirate captain ravishing the beautiful heiress. It didn’t help that she could easily imagine him in tight black trousers, shiny boots and a billowing white shirt unlaced at the neck. Technically, he already had the peg leg.

There was a structure for all of this. Controls and safe words. So why did she feel like a bug in a jar?

He’d stepped out of the truck and pulled a tote bag out of the back. After shutting the door, he circled around the grille, coming toward the front stoop. Like the night with Willow, he wore belted dark jeans, snug black T-shirt and his boots. The T-shirt was tucked into the jeans. Unpretentious yet severe, suggesting functional intent.

He saw her through the storm door. What did he see in her face? She wasn’t sure herself. He came up onto the porch, stood in front of the glass door. He nodded to the latch.

“Open the door, Athena.”

It was unlocked, but she expected he knew that. He was making a point, one that her subconscious understood well. She rose, smoothing the robe over her thighs. She thought of the first board meetings she’d chaired when Roy became sick enough he had to step down. She’d gone from vice chairperson to overseeing the board solo. She’d been nervous then, too. A part of her had wanted to run, to avoid the significance of what standing at the head of that table meant.

If she’d decided it was all too much, turned it over to someone else, board members like Mel would have been happy to step into that gap, take over the company Roy and she had built. But she hadn’t run. Even at her lowest moments, she’d known she would take responsibility, be strong. That was who she was.

Crossing to the door, she pushed it open. She took it further, stepping outside, gesturing to him to precede her into her home. An instinctive decision. His gaze swept her and then he stepped in. But he turned to hold the door open for her and draw her into the recesses of the house, a different kind of gesture. One that almost made her smile except the working of her face muscles felt painful.

He closed the main door, flipped the deadbolt. “Athena.”

“Sir.” Thinking about the others she’d seen at the club, and considering it an attempt to calm her nerves through emulation, she sank to her knees on the marble floor. Looking up the length of his body, she thought he appeared so strong and confident, so sure of himself. Those blue-green eyes were watching everything she was doing, and probably reading her like a manual. Only men didn’t read manuals, did they? They proceeded based on mechanical aptitude, an instinctive understanding of how things worked, of what things to tighten, which to loosen.

“I told you I’d be hungry,” he said.

She nodded. “I have a plate ready for you. Where would you like to eat?”

“Kitchen.” Noticing the pages she’d left on the bench, he picked them up, glancing over her handwriting. “Take me there.”

She rose, leading him to the kitchen. As she passed the pictures hung in the foyer, she saw her and Roy’s wedding picture, Roy’s parents. Why was she doing this?

Because kneeling at his feet hadn’t had anything to do with copying the actions of other subs. It had been as natural to her as breathing. She was padding across the floor barefoot. She never went barefoot in the house. Even at night, she wore slippers.

As they entered the kitchen, she gestured to the stools arranged at the island, and then pulled the plate out of the oven. She’d kept the heat on low so the turkey sub she’d made him would stay warm. A side of sliced and fried potatoes went with it. She added a sprig of mint from the arrangement he’d given her, which had a prominent display position on the counter.

“Thank you for the carnations.” She turned toward the refrigerator, retrieved a beer. At his house, he’d had Bud Light, so that was what she’d bought, adding a couple more varieties from the wet bar in case he wanted something else. “You didn’t have to send me flowers.”

After opening the beer, she found a napkin to wrap around the base. He’d placed the bag on the floor next to the island. When he nodded to the counter next to his plate, she put the beer there. He laid his hand on her wrist, holding her. “Did you follow my instructions about writing these? And the other commands I left you?”

She flashed to the memory of being in the bathroom. “Yes. No. I . . . we need to talk about this more.” She drew her hand away. “I’m not sure this is going to work. I need things more defined.”

He grunted. “Like a car race on a closed track, where the circles are predictable, and when you hit the finish line, the race is over?”

“Don’t judge me,” she snapped.

Where had that come from? She nearly clapped her hand over her mouth like a cartoon character. She needed to steady her nerves. She needed to . . .

At the shift in his expression, she almost took a step back. “I wouldn’t suggest using that tone with me,” he said pleasantly. “I’m likely to react exactly as you’re hoping I will.”

A giant bunny leap of adrenaline from her stomach into her chest made it hard to determine if she was reacting to that with dread or anticipation. With effort—though she was pretty sure she was losing her mind—she found her dignity and laced her fingers together before her. “I apologize for the outburst, Dale. I’m just . . . This is all very new to me.”

“I know that. I’ll address your concerns, Athena. Right now, I’m eating. Sit here.” He pointed to the floor next to him. “And be quiet. I’m going to read your notes.”

She hesitated, then closed the distance between them. He hadn’t chosen a stool, but was instead standing at a clear spot in front of the island. Sinking to her knees felt like what she was supposed to do. Structure. Order. She was beside his left leg, the one where half of it was missing. She found it hard to wrap her mind around that. He’d shown her the prosthesis, yes, but the man seemed so solid, it was inconceivable that any part of him was absent.

Her gaze slid up to his knee, noticed the difference between the stretch of the denim around that area and the other one. The left was somewhat thicker, she expected because of whatever socket held the knee. She’d looked up some things about it on the Internet, and knew a removal below the knee was called a transtibial amputation. Those sites said that was better than above the knee, because below the knee had far better prosthesis options, ones that caused less strain on joints and muscles.

She was scrolling down the recalled computer page like an automaton. It was a nervous, bug-in-the-jar reaction again, so she shifted her focus back to Dale. His scent, his nearness, what he was doing.

He was looking down at her notes, but he made an appreciative noise when he took his first bite of the sandwich. The incoherent compliment cracked open a tiny ball of warmth in her stomach. He ate while standing, wiping his fingers on the napkin she provided before he turned each page, reading the back, switching to the next page. His obvious intention to dive straight into the reason he was here tonight tangled more anxious things around that ball of warmth.

Like a session, not a date. What she wanted, yes?

He’d been so matter-of-fact about it, ordering her to kneel next to him. She hadn’t really said anything in her notes about the degree of subjugation she wanted. She expected she was okay with what she’d seen him do with Willow, so she hadn’t felt the need to spell it out, but maybe he’d tailored his intensity to that specific sub. While Willow was pretty hardcore, maybe Dale’s preferences were even more so. She hadn’t witnessed his aftercare process. Had he attached a leash to her collar, led her to a booth and had her sit by his knee, idly stroking her hair while he talked to other Doms? She liked that vision, imagined herself there, exhausted, thrilled, sated. Athena wished she could jump to that relaxed, somnolent state. But another part of her didn’t want to miss the journey to it. Bug in a jar, bug in a jar . . .

She really wanted to lean against his leg, stroke it with her fingertips. Could she do that on this side? She laid her fingers above his knee, finding the firm, heated flesh that was Dale, then slid down over what she realized was the sleeve for the socket and then the socket. All of it was part of him.

He turned over another page. “Did I give you permission to touch me, Athena?”

“No sir.” She withdrew her hand.

“Untie the robe and take it off your shoulders so I can see your breasts. Spread your knees.”

Her stomach knocked against her rib cage this time, her breasts prickling with heat, nipples tightening. Was she going to do this? She put her fingers to the tie, but she couldn’t make them move. “Dale . . . I . . . I don’t think I can. Maybe it’s too soon.”

She was going to ruin it before anything started. But before she could scramble to her feet, withdraw, he set aside the pages and slid onto a stool at last. Stretching his leg out to one side of her, he bent the right one to brace himself. “Come here.”

As she rose on her knees, he pinched the lapel of her robe between two fingers, a little tug to bring her to her feet. When she was standing between his thighs, he had his hands on her waist, holding and steadying her.

“Close your eyes, but keep your head up.” His voice was low, firm, but not unkind.

Once she complied, he drew her closer. He captured her jaw with one hand, holding her face still. “Moisten your lips for me.”

She did so, and began to shake. “Dale . . .”

“Shh. We’re just going on a boat ride, Athena. It’s a lazy, sunny day, and you’re lying in the bottom of the boat. The sun is so warm and bright, your eyes are closed, and you feel the heat on your skin, the breeze.” His breath touched her. Her heart was battering her ribs, her stomach tight and uncertain.

“I’m controlling the direction, the speed. The oars are dipping in the water in that easy rhythm. You have a pillow resting on my feet so you can put your head there and I can give you shade by leaning over you when the sun is too bright for your eyes. I’m taking care of you. Do you feel safe in the boat with me?”

“Yes.” She whispered it.

“Good.” He made a humming noise in his throat, as if he were singing to her. She imagined the boat rocking on the current, the unobtrusive noise of the oars. She could turn her head, brush against his leg, reach up and curve her hand around his calf . . .

The world steadied. She wanted to do this. The main reason she was so unsettled about it was exactly because of
how much
she wanted to do this.

His touch dropped, and he was untying the robe. He pushed it off her shoulders, but since his grip dropped to her elbows, keeping those held against her sides, it stopped there, the fabric pooling on her hips and lower back. “All right. Kneel on the floor the way I ordered. Knees spread shoulder-width apart. But Athena?”

She lifted her lashes to find his intent gaze so close she couldn’t help imagining him closing the distance for a kiss. She wasn’t sure she was ready for that, but that wasn’t his purpose.

“When your eyes are closed, it’s me touching you. Doing this to you. Not Roy. You understand? I can be a mean son of a bitch when it comes to things like that. When we’re together, you’re mine. I’m not a surrogate. Got it?”

She shook her head, but not to deny him. “Roy never would have done this to me,” she said. She couldn’t even imagine it.

It was a simple, honest answer, but one that seemed to satisfy him. Enough that his change in expression sent that thrill through her vitals again. She knew this was just a session, that she couldn’t extrapolate from that, but she remembered her latent desire to see that sense of ownership in a man’s eyes. She saw it clearly in Dale’s.

“All right. Kneel the way I told you.”

As she sank back down, his grip made sure it was a controlled descent. When she reached the floor, she adjusted her thighs as he described. Looking down, she could see the heavy weight of her breasts. Through their cleft, she saw the robe had parted so her inner thighs and shaved sex were revealed.

He touched her hair. “Lift your head, stare straight ahead. You’re interfering with my view.”

She obeyed, swallowing on a dry throat. The moisture in her body seemed to be collecting in one key part of her. She was still shaking a little. The first couple of times, Roy had shook. Maybe that was part of a sub’s journey.

He’d gone back to reading the notes. He’d commanded her not to reread them, but since he’d told her she couldn’t change anything, she hadn’t known why that would matter. However, she’d only managed to get through one front and back page and part of the next before she was cringing. She’d stopped reading, but a pounding urge to toss all of it had followed her around most of the week. The only thing that prevented that was imagining Dale asking her if she’d followed his directions exactly. She couldn’t lie to him. Lies disrespected the Dom and, more than that, undermined what was being built between Dom and sub in every session. Absolute trust.

Then there was the pride issue. Explaining why she’d destroyed previous versions would have been too difficult to articulate, too mortifying for an exercise she was already unable to review without acute embarrassment.