Linger (16 page)

O
n Friday night Logan knelt at the base of the stairs, head bowed. He wore nothing but a pair of black shorts that concealed absolutely nothing—shorts like that other male sub had worn back at Veritas.

His heart was racing and he felt terribly, horribly exposed. But that afternoon Scarlett had left the briefs on his bed, along with a note giving him instructions for the evening.

He felt raw, not just because he knew that she was about to put him through the ringer tonight, but because a stranger was about to invade his home.

His safe place.

He didn't let many people visit him here. Just when he couldn't avoid it—like when his good friend Luca asked him to take on a pretty little raven-haired intern.

But Luca had stuck with him through the hardest time of his life, had made him live when he hadn't wanted to. There was nothing he wouldn't do for his friend.

But it was taking everything he had to trust in Scarlett, to remember that she understood his needs and wouldn't let anyone defile his sanctuary. But he did—he trusted her.

Her heard her footsteps first and fought the urge to look up.
Tap, tap, tap
coming slowly down the stairs.

High-heeled red ankle boots came into view first, then shapely calves—calves that he'd had resting on his back.

Stepping lightly off the bottom stair, Scarlett circled in front of him, then lifted his chin with the toe of her boot.

“Look at me.” Sucking in his breath at her words, Logan felt his mouth go dry.

Scarlett was dressed to kill. Though he wanted to behave, wanted to show restraint, his cock thickened, filled, pressed uncomfortably against the snug fabric.

She wore a dress that matched her boots, the color of a red rose, and the hem slashed across her at midthigh, leaving him with lots of long, toned leg to salivate over. It was skintight, hugging the curves that she had said were the downfall of her career as a dancer, and in that moment, Logan was fiercely grateful for them.

Her breasts rose, high and round, from the scarlet fabric that barely covered her nipples. The cream color of her skin contrasted beautifully with the dress.

Her lips were painted red to match the dress, and her hair had been pulled back in a severe knot on the back of her head, leaving no doubt about which side of the power exchange she fell on.

She was stunning.

“I'm pleased that you've followed my instructions,” Scarlett started, but whatever she was about to say was cut off by the sharp ring of the doorbell. Bending just low enough to give Logan a good look down the front of her dress—a purposeful move, he was sure—she trailed a hand down his cheek, a small gesture of affection.

“You may relax. Stand up if you wish.” He did, watching the sway of her hips as she sauntered to the front door.

Jealousy stabbed through him when he realized that whoever was on the other side—her
friend—
was going to see her dressed like that.

He sank his teeth into his tongue to hold back any words of resentfulness.

“Oh. Oh, you poor baby!” All traces of the stern Mistress
fell away as Scarlett swung the door open, then knelt and reached for something just out of Logan's range of vision.

Protective, he strode forward—and stopped abruptly when he saw that she had a canine bundle of fluff cradled in her arms.

“Put it down,” he ordered, reaching down to clasp Scarlett by the wrists. “It could be rabid.”

She shot him an annoyed glance. “Don't you think I would know that as well as you?” The puppy whimpered in her arms, and Scarlett shook off Logan's hands. “It's not. No extra saliva, no paranoia, no confusion. See?”

Scarlett held the dog out to Logan. It had matted gray fur, huge brown eyes, and a chunk missing from its left ear.

It shivered pathetically and tried to burrow back into Scarlett's chest.

“This poor guy needs a meal.” Eyes wide, Scarlett looked up at Logan beseechingly.

“Once again with feeling . . . you're asking?” He snorted, fully aware that he had no say in the matter. Not that he really minded, not by now.

She huffed out a laugh, climbing to her feet with the dog held tightly in her arms. “We're not on the clock yet . . . sub.” Cooing to the dog, she pushed past him, making her way to the kitchen.

The dog was getting hair all over her fancy dress, and she hadn't noticed. Or else she had, and she just didn't give a shit.

Logan felt one of those padlocks that he'd placed around his heart fall open.

If the woman could be so caring, so careful, with a stray dog that someone had dumped on his doorstep . . . how careful would she be with him?

“Do people drop animals out here often?” Turning on one of those impossibly high heels, Scarlett thrust the dog into
Logan's arms, then went about the business of filling one metal bowl with water, another with a sample of dog food that a company had sent him. He couldn't hold back his grin when she cracked open a pack of ground beef and added a handful to the mix.

“You're ruining your hard-assed Mistress reputation.” Logan scratched the dog behind the ears, then set it down in front of the bowls as Scarlett turned to wash her hands. “And not often, but yes, occasionally someone will drop an animal here. I don't mind boarding them while I look for a home—it's better than the animals being abandoned.”

Mongo chose that moment to come charging into the kitchen, sniffing the air madly, his body quivering as he scented out the intruder. Spying the tiny fluff ball that was buried nose deep in his meal, Mongo let out a proprietary growl.

The newcomer sprang up, nipped Mongo on the nose, then returned to its business.

Mongo—all one hundred twenty pounds of him—yelped with surprise, then flopped down on the floor, rolled over onto his back, and stared at the pup adoringly, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

Scarlett's and Logan's eyes met over the towel she was using to dry her hands, and they both burst into laughter.

“Not hard to figure out the dynamics in that one.” She smirked as she made her way to Logan, seeming content that the puppy was filling its belly. To his surprise she pushed him down into one of the hard-backed kitchen chairs, then straddled his lap, facing him.

It was stupid, he knew, but the dogs set his mind at ease a bit.

It didn't always have to matter who was bigger, badder, more alpha. Sometimes nature just dictated that one was to dominate and one to submit.

Logan's cock paid attention when Scarlett wiggled herself into position on his lap. With her dress pushed up around her hips, her panties and his thin shorts weren't much of a barrier, and her damp heat surrounded him like a hug.

And then she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him for real, nuzzling her face against his neck. He realized with a jolt that she hadn't held him yet, not really—and knowing her, it was probably because she'd known he wasn't ready.

This time he surprised himself by hugging back.

“Thanks for indulging me with the dog,” she whispered into his ear, and even though the feel of her lips against his ear made his cock surge, he found that he was content to just hold her and be held in return.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd
snuggled
. Since before he'd gone overseas, probably.

It was nice.

“Our guest will be here soon.” Scarlett pressed her lips to his, momentarily fogging his brain. “If it wasn't going to be good for you, I'd be tempted to just ignore the doorbell.”

Pleasure flooded through him at the thought . . . and then came the jealousy. Though by this point he knew it probably wasn't another sub—Scarlett wasn't that kind of woman, and what they had between them seemed real—she made him feel possessive.

“So this guest . . .” He started carefully, leaning back in his chair so that he could see her face. “Want to tell me anything more?”

Yes, Scarlett was not the kind of woman to flaunt another submissive under his nose. But that didn't mean that her friend wasn't
a
submissive, and to his way of thinking, any sub who didn't want Scarlett was soft in the head.

Grinding his teeth together, he waited for her response.

“Your jealousy is flattering.” Resting her hands on his
shoulders for balance, Scarlett regarded him thoughtfully. “But since you need to trust me, I'm not answering. I'm going to let you suffer a bit longer.”

“Of course I'm jealous!” The words burst out of Logan though he hadn't meant to say them. “I'm practically a recluse who has at least a decade on you. I'm submissive but can't seem to stop myself from putting you through hell.”

The light slap across his cheek wasn't designed to hurt, but it startled him enough to rear back.

Scarlett had cocked her head, her eyes narrowed.

“So how old
are
you?” she demanded.

“Thirty-five,” he answered reluctantly. Not
old
 . . . but she was just starting out in life.

“Oh yeah, you're ancient,” she agreed, her tone layered with sarcasm. “No woman who has spent years dealing with drunken frat boys could
possibly
be interested in a man with some maturity under his belt.”

“Scarlett,” Logan started, his words a warning. “I'm being serious. And I'm not in the mood for sarcasm.”

She could have demanded that he get on all fours, could have paddled his ass for insolence. Instead she nodded, accepting his words.

Treating him like an equal, despite the roles in their relationship.

Right until that moment Logan hadn't realized that he expected his Mistresses to treat him like . . . something less. That some part of him craved it, and not in the sexual way in which some subs did.

The realization stunned him speechless, so Scarlett kept on talking without interruption from him.

“You don't give yourself enough credit. You're successful. Intelligent. Sexy as hell.” She pressed an exaggerated, smacking kiss to his lips. “You're a real catch, Dr. Brody. So why don't
you tell me why you've never had a Mistress for more than one night?”

“How do you know that?” He tried to pull back, furiously uncomfortable with the sharp turn their easy conversation had taken. “You don't know that.”

“I do now.”

Logan felt himself closing up under the weight of her stare. He couldn't tell her why he'd closed himself away from the world, or about the needs that kept him trapped out here in the middle of nowhere.

“Let's start with something easier, then.” His tricky, persistent woman, acting like a pit bull with a bone in its jaws, tapped her finger against her luscious mouth, and he almost crushed his lips to hers to distract her.

That's what she would expect him to do. To try to grab control.

He wanted to do better.

“Tell me something about yourself.” When he hesitated, she narrowed her eyes mincingly, then gently, so gently, wrapped her hand around his neck, a reminder of who was in charge. “I asked you a question, sub.”

“I like to ride,” he blurted out, squeezing his eyes shut. “I—when I'm on horseback, it feels like I can outride . . . memories.”

Keeping his eyes shut, Logan waited for the shame to kick in. This was the deepest admission he'd ever made to anyone besides Luca.

Scarlett stayed silent, but he felt the softest butterfly touches brushing over his face, each press of her fingertips like the promise of a kiss.

He let her touch.

“Tell me something else,” she demanded, running her
fingers over his lips. He swiped his tongue over them, too, following her touch.

“I feel more for you than I want to.” Opening his eyes, Logan found no disgust, no anger waiting for him on her face.

“In a relationship like ours, all of the power lies with the submissive. Remember that, Logan.”

He opened his mouth to reply, though he had no idea what he was going to say. But the doorbell rang right then, the shrill buzz slicing through the tender moment. Both dogs yowled with excitement, the sharp yips of the stray punctuating Mongo's low rumbles.

“You answer the door while I put these guys in the dog run.” Scarlett gestured toward the front door with one hand as she slid off his lap. Her lips twitched when she saw that even his difficult confessions hadn't eased his erection.

“You were wiggling around on my lap!” he protested, horror dawning when he realized he was about to answer his front door in nothing but teeny-tiny shorts and a big smile.

Anyone could be standing on the other side—a courier driver, a patient with a sick pet, even the town pastor.

Scarlett stood calmly, waiting, he saw, for him to make up his mind.

Grinding his teeth together, Logan drew himself up tall, then made his way to the front door.

If Scarlett wanted him to ride his horse naked through Las Vegas, he would try.

Because she listened.

Because she hadn't left.

Because whatever this thing was between them, it was growing stronger every day.

Cringing inwardly, Logan fixed a stoic expression on his face and swung open the heavy front door.

And sighed with relief when he saw that it was Luca.

“Come on in, man.” Logan reached out a hand to his oldest friend, forgetting for a moment that he was wearing next to nothing.

Then he saw the figure behind Luca and froze.

“What's
he
doing here?” Logan couldn't hold back the snarl as he saw Bren, eyes cast down, waiting patiently for Luca to give him instructions. “I don't want him in my house.”

“I don't believe you're giving the orders here tonight, sub.”

Logan's jaw dropped as Luca—the man he'd been crammed ass to elbow with in the shittiest locations on earth—regarded him coldly, looked him up and down in a manner that told him he wasn't very impressed with what he saw.