The Dominant (25 page)

But the plan, I reminded myself. Not during the week. But if Abby wanted it . . . No. Not during the week.

I argued with myself as the risotto simmered away. Thinking one thing and then deciding on another. Thinking that kitchen
sex wouldn’t be so bad and then reminding myself that I needed to keep sex out of our weekday relationship.

Again, Abby must have somehow picked up on my hesitation, because she didn’t try anything else. Instead, she prepared the
chicken breasts and passed me the mushrooms once they were finished.

Then she stripped off her sweater, and I knew she hadn’t picked up on what I was thinking at all.

She lifted the pitcher of chicken broth again. “Need more?”

It was okay. I could resist her. “Just a touch.”

She had a white tank top on under the sweater. I stared at her as she poured broth into the pan—was she wearing a bra?

Somehow, she poured more broth on her than she got in the pan. And, no, she didn’t have a bra on.

“Damn,” she said. “Would you look at that?”

Her nipples were hard beneath the thin white material. I wanted to taste them . . . wanted to taste her . . .

“I guess I need to take this off before the stain sets. It could be a problem.” She walked over to the sink and, damn it,
took off her top.

My last coherent thought was to turn the oven and burner off so the house didn’t burn down. I strode across the floor and
grabbed her by the waist. “I’ve got a bigger problem for you.”

She knew exactly what I was talking about, for her eyes dropped down to where my erection strained against the front of my
jeans.

I picked her up and carried her to the counter, shoving anything in my way off onto the floor. Something broke as it hit,
but I didn’t look to see what was—I didn’t care. Instead, I unbuttoned her jeans and jerked them off.

Fuck.

She wasn’t wearing panties.

I took a step back and shoved my own jeans off. “Is this what you want?”

Without waiting for an answer, I stepped close and she wrapped her legs around me.

“Yes.” Her hands snaked their way under my shirt and I ran my thumb over her nipple. “Please,” she said. “Please. Now.”

I slid my hands over her body, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that Abby was in my kitchen, naked, on a Tuesday. This
really wasn’t my plan. I didn’t want to push her. To confuse us.

“I didn’t want . . . I didn’t think . . .” I started, but her lips were on my neck.

“You think too much,” she whispered.

Damn straight. For the rest of the afternoon, I wouldn’t think.

I took her legs, spread them farther apart, and thrust into her. The angle was a bit off, so I shifted my hips and thrust
deeper.

“Oh, hell, yes. More,” she said as I withdrew. “More, please.”

I pounded into her as she sat on the counter, pushing harder, wanting deeper. Trying to give her what she wanted, taking what
she’d give me. Her head hit a cabinet and I slowed my movements.

She would have none of that. “Harder,” she begged. “Please, harder.”

“Fuck, Abigail.” I held her steady and pushed farther into her.

“Again.” She bit my ear. “Damn it. Again.”

Her words spurred me forward, and I worked my hips harder and faster. She felt so damn good. I wanted more. Wanted more of
her. I angled my hips and hit deep within her.

“Yes,” she said, breathless, head hanging back. “Right there.”

Her talk turned me on even more. “Here?” I thrust, hitting the spot again. “Here?”

I knew I hit it, because she started whimpering. I worked my hips harder, driving us both toward our release, and slid my
hand between us to rub her clit.

“Harder,” she moaned. “Almost there.”

I drove into her as hard as I could, forcing myself not to climax until I could bring her hers.

“I . . . I . . . I . . .” she stuttered.

She tightened around me, and I thrust as deep as possible, releasing into her, my muscles shaking as I finally allowed my
orgasm to overtake me.

I couldn’t talk for several minutes. Around us the kitchen was in disarray, the risotto cooled, and the chicken was probably
overdone.

I couldn’t care less.

“Damn,” I said, after I found my voice. “That was . . .”

Incredible.

Amazing.

Wonderful.

“I know,” she said. “I agree.”

I lifted her from the countertop and set her on her feet. The drawer next to the oven held fresh towels, so I took one out
and gently cleaned her.

Incredible, amazing, and wonderful, yes. But it couldn’t happen again.

I hummed that night as I cooked dinner. Maybe being snowed in for a few days wasn’t the worst thing in the world. So far,
things were going well. Abby and I had watched a bit of television earlier in the afternoon. When we got bored of news and
weather, we went into the library. Abby sat in front of the fireplace and I sat at my desk—pretending to work, but really
reading a collection of Shakespeare quotes. Apollo followed us wherever we went, and Abby and I took turns taking him outside.

I was going to open one of my label-less cans. I would close my eyes, hope for the best and, if all went according to plan,
make a delicious marinara.

Abby sat behind me at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of red wine. I was surprised she’d decided to be in the kitchen
while I cooked. Normally, she stayed in the library.

When I picked up the can opener, she rose onto her toes behind me to peek at the contents of the can. “Just checking,” she
said.

Label-less cans—who would have thought they could entertain and keep our attention the way they had? I set the opener down
and slowly lifted the lid.

“Tomatoes,” we both said when the red fruit came into view.

“Drat,” she said. “I was hoping for pickled cow tongue or some incriminating body parts.”

I forked a tomato. “Rather anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

“No.” She dropped back to her heels. “It’s better to know.”

It’s always better to know.
Tell her
, my inner voice nagged.

“You’re right,” I said. “And it’s going to make us a delicious supper.”

I poured the tomatoes into the waiting sauté pan. The smell of juicy tomato joined the aroma of browned onion and mushroom.
Abby didn’t return to the table, standing behind me instead. I glanced over at the countertop, seeing her there, remembering
the words she’d spoken as I took her.

Harder. Please, harder
.

“Smells good,” she said, looking over my shoulder again.

If I turned around, I would have her naked in less than ten seconds.

“Go sit down,” I said. “I’d like to have one hot meal today.”

She didn’t move. “Breakfast was hot, and lunch was hot.” She paused for a second. “At least the part before lunch was hot.”

“Abigail.”

“I’m sitting,” she said, moving away. “I’m sitting.”

I reached down to discreetly rearrange my pants while I continued stirring with the other hand. The sauce was coming together
nicely, but needed some time to cook thoroughly. While it finished up, I’d get the plates down, maybe grab another bottle
of—

“You know,” she said, “you had a breakthrough today.”

“What was that?” I asked, not sure what she was getting at.

“You opened one of your label-less cans,” she said, and my body relaxed. “I think that calls for a celebration.”

“What did you have in mind?”

She wore a wicked grin. Trouble. The woman was nothing but trouble. “Naked picnic in the library?”

Like I said . . .

I turned on the burner under the water pot. “That’s your idea of a celebration?”

“I should have made bread for dinner,” she said.

What? Bread? What was she talking about? Did that mean no naked picnic?

“You’ve done quite enough for one day,” I said.
But let’s do more anyway
.

“Yes,” she said in a very serious voice. “It is my idea of a celebration.”

Thank goodness.

“Okay. Naked picnic in the library. Thirty minutes.”

She hopped up from the table. “I’ll go set up.”

“Extra blankets are in the linen closet,” I called as she left.

I added pasta to our plates and then ladled marinara over the pasta.

Naked picnic in the library . . .

There went the plan.

Again.

But did it matter? So what if we had sex? It was her library. We’d had sex there before. Nothing had changed then, why would
tonight be any different?

Todd’s voice echoed in my head. “A relationship like yours . . . complete honesty and trust . . .”

I ignored Todd’s voice.

It was picnic time.

I undressed in the laundry room and walked into the library. Thick blankets covered the floor and half a dozen pillows sat
in front of the library. And Abby . . .

Abby sat in the middle of it all—long hair brushing the tips of her nipples, one leg propped up, showing her bare, glistening—

“Do you need any help?” she asked.

I swallowed. Hard. “No. I’m fine. Let me set this down and I’ll get our drinks. More wine?”

A trip to the cold wine cellar was just what I needed to cool down a bit.

“Please.”

It worked. The short walk down the stairs to the wine cellar chilled my body just enough to keep my cock in line. I returned
to Abby and poured us each a glass.

I watched as she brought a forkful of pasta to her mouth and tasted my label-less marinara. She immediately took a second
bite and then a third.

“This is superb,” she said, twirling another bite. “My compliments to the chef.”

“To label-less cans,” I said, lifting my fork and trying to keep my eyes off her mouth and other body parts.

“To label-less cans,” she repeated, lifting her own fork.

But what the hell? Somehow, label-less can marinara sauce flew the short distance from her fork to my . . .

I stared at it. “You got marinara on my cock.”

Her voice held a smile. “Oops.”

“Get. It. Off.”

I raised my eyes. She wasn’t even trying to hide the smile.

“Lie back.” She took my plate and set it beside me.

Crazy. Somehow I’d envisioned sex happening
after
dinner.

“Abigail.”

She pushed on my shoulders. “You want me to use a napkin?”

Hell, no. I wanted her to lick it off.

I dropped my head to one of the pillows and closed my eyes as her hand ran down my chest. “The marinara, Abigail.”

Her fingers traced my nipples. “I’m getting there.”

“Get there. Faster.”

She wasn’t listening. She started at my chest and took her time nibbling down, licking and grazing her teeth along the planes
of my stomach. Then she bit me, right below my belly button.

I clenched my fists.

She finally made it to where I wanted her—and blew warm air at the head of my cock.

She was fucking teasing me.

My body trembled in anticipation of her mouth on me. Then finally,
finally
, her tongue came out and licked me.

Damn. Don’t stop.

She didn’t stop, but she didn’t take me in her mouth either. Instead, she played me—sucking just my tip in her mouth, licking
me and stroking the rest of my length with her hands. She drove me mad with the urge to shove my cock down her throat, but
I held still, fists clenched at my side.

Right when I least expected it, she deep-throated me. She took my entire length into her mouth and relaxed as I hit the back
of her throat.

“Fuck,” I said.

She released me. “I can stop.”

“Hell, no,” I said. “Swing those legs up here. I want to taste that sweet pussy.”

She twisted her body.

Perfect.

I grabbed her hips, moving our bodies into sixty-nine position, and thrust my tongue deep within her, releasing my need by
pleasuring her.

“
Mmmmm
.” I licked her clit. “Sweeter than the finest wine. And I’m going to drink from you until there’s not a drop left.”

I started doing just that and she deep-throated me again.

Our movements mirrored each other’s—her licks and nibbles matched mine. Her teeth ran down my cock whenever I nipped her clit.
I licked her again, and she moved her hips closer to my face.

I rolled us to our sides to give us better access to each other. I could thrust deeper into her mouth this way. She responded
by moving herself on my tongue. I pushed three fingers inside her and she moaned around my cock.

Like that, do you?

I licked her clit and moved my fingers inside her. I tried to reach the spot I’d found last weekend, but it was too hard in
the position we were in. Then she ran a finger from my balls to my ass and, instinctively, I thrust into her mouth harder.

The friction of her mouth on my cock was amazing. Incredible. Knowing I was pleasing her at the same time—feeling her move
her hips against my fingers—only made me push her harder.

She groaned again, sending vibrations along me, and I sucked her clit into my mouth, lightly dragging my teeth against her.
She trembled and then tensed as her climax overtook her. I gently bit and she released a second time, drawing me deeper into
her mouth. I moaned as my own orgasm hit, coming in her mouth, and she swallowed it all.

I placed soft kisses on her bare pussy and reached down to pull her up to me. With weak arms, I held her.

“Dinner’s cold,” she said against my chest.

I ran a hand down her back. “Screw dinner.”

Eventually, though, I sat us both up. “We need to eat.”

The question danced in her eyes, but she didn’t verbalize it.

Yes, Abby. Food this time
.

I handed her plate back to her and picked mine up. The pasta wasn’t bad cold—I could only imagine how it tasted hot. Although,
if I had to pick between hot pasta and Abby . . . well, Abby won every time.

Her face knit together with concentration and she scowled at her pasta. Whatever could she be focused on so intently? She
glanced up, and I quickly looked at my own plate.

“How long have you been a dom?” she asked.

Ah. She wanted to ask personal questions. A flicker of unease tickled my belly.

“Nearly ten years.”

“Have you had a lot of subs?”

Collared or uncollared? And define
had
.

But I took the easy way out. “I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘a lot.’”

She rolled her eyes, undeterred. “You know what I mean.”

While pleased she felt comfortable enough to ask me questions, I needed to lay a few ground rules.

“I don’t mind having this conversation, Abigail. This is your library. But keep in mind that just because you ask a question
doesn’t mean I’ll answer it.”

Again, a look of determination crossed her face. “Fair enough.”

“Then ask away.”

Her first question surprised me. “Have you ever been a sub?”

My time with Paul flashed back to me—the various scenes he’d mentored me through, the few times I subbed for him. Our relationship
hadn’t been sexual, but he believed a dominant needed the experience of submission.

“Yes,” I said, and her eyes grew large. “But not for any extended period of time, only for a scene or two,” I hastened to
add.

Surprisingly, she didn’t question me further about those scenes. “Have you ever had a sub use her safe word before?”

“No,” I said, wanting to see her reaction.

“Never?”

“Never, Abigail.”

She looked away first.

“Look at me,” I said, because I wanted her to hear the truth of what I told her. “I know how new you are to this, and I ask
you, have I ever come close to pushing you beyond what you could handle?”

I knew the answer before she spoke, but I wanted her to follow my reasoning.

“No,” she said.

“Have I been gentle and patient and caring?” I asked. “Anticipated your
every
need?”

“Yes.”

“Do you not think I would have been gentle and patient and caring with my past subs? Anticipated their
every
need?”

Understanding dawned in her eyes. “Oh.”

“I am starting you out slowly, because I see this as a long-term relationship, but there are so many things we can do together.”
I traced her arm down to her elbow, imagining her in my playroom again. “So many things your body is capable of that you don’t
even know yet. And just as you have to learn to trust me, I have to learn your body.”

She swallowed loudly, and her skin broke out in gooseflesh.

“I have to learn your limits, so I’m working you slowly. But there are many, many areas we have yet to explore.” I circled
her wrist and squeezed. “And I want to explore them all.”
That’s enough, West
. “Does that answer your question?”

“Yes.”

“Any other questions?”

She straightened her back. “If your other subs didn’t use their safe word, how did the relationships end?”

Should I really tell her how Beth left because I couldn’t give her what she wanted? Or was she calling me out on the safe
word?

“They ended as any relationship ends,” I said, giving her a safe answer. “We grew apart and went our separate ways.”

“Have you ever had a romantic relationship with a woman who wasn’t your sub?”

Damn that Elaina. When I got my hands on her . . .

“Yes,” I said simply.

Two brown eyes peeked up at me. “How did that go?”

It didn’t go. It was a horrific failure.

I was a horrific failure.

I, Nathaniel West, who never failed at anything, had failed Melanie.

“You’re here now,” I said, playing it safe again. “Was that a rhetorical question?”

“Melanie?”

That was it. I would call Elaina after dinner. She had no business telling Abby everything about my personal life. “What did
Elaina tell you?”

“That Melanie wasn’t your submissive.”

I sighed in relief. Elaina wouldn’t have known why Melanie and I split, would she?

“I would prefer my past relationships remain in the past,” I said. “What Melanie and I did or did not do has no bearing on
you and me.”

She looked down, shuffling her remaining pasta from one side of her plate to the other.

I’d upset her.

“Abigail. If I wanted to be with Melanie, I would be with Melanie. I’m here with you.”

“Did you ever have a naked picnic with Melanie?”

Naked picnic with Melanie?

I tried to imagine it.

On the floor, Nathaniel? Without clothes on? You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding
.

“No,” I said. “Never.”

She smiled in triumph.

“Any more questions?” I asked.