Make Me, Sir

Why did she feel so safe whenever he held her? She pressed her forehead against his chest. I’m an idiot. “I’m sorry. This just feels so strange. It’s not like I haven’t gone home with a man before—Well, maybe not for bondage, but—You know.” For sex.

He smiled faintly. “I doubt you were perfectly sober those times.”

“Ah.” She blinked and scowled. That sounded a little…bad. “I guess.” No wonder this felt different. Not only home with a dom, but without any nice inhibition relievers.

“We can fix that, at least. You go take yourself a shower while I open some wine.”

Covered in oil, sweat from running, dirt on her hands and knees. Major sticky ew. “I’d love a shower.”

He reached into the closet and pulled out a long, dark blue silk robe, then showed her the bathroom. “Use anything you like. There’re spare toothbrushes and combs in the bottom drawer.”

Well. She shook her head. The man obviously enjoyed…entertaining. Then again—well-off, charming, gorgeous? Women probably had hairpulling wars over him.

In the huge walk-in shower, she let the hot water beat some sense into her brain. He’s not for you. Remember that, Gabi. After scrubbing her body and wincing at the various bruises, she ran her fingers through her hair. Twigs. Leaves. Ew.

The built-in shelf held shampoo that smelled like Marcus, as well as a handful of hotel samples undoubtedly provided for his guests. Sheesh, her love life should be so lively. She tried to ignore the unhappy twinge. I’m just one of many. Actually, her status was even lower. She was merely a trainee he’d rescued because she’d wussed out on him and couldn’t get herself home. Remember that, Gabi. You’re not here as his date.

She picked a shampoo that smelled like citrus and spice, washed her hair, then stepped out into the steamy room. The fogged-up mirror gave a blurry image of a woman with wet hair, no makeup. Good thing Master Marcus had big balls, or he’d scream and run out of the house at the sight of her. She grinned. Poor man. After she’d cried all over him last week, he’d had to look at her raccoonlike, streaky makeup all night. Domination—not for the faint of heart.

After pulling on the borrowed robe, she walked into the living room. Empty. The lilting, soft voice of Sarah McLachlan came from the speakers. Glass clinked in the kitchen. A few seconds later, Marcus appeared, handed her a glass of wine, and brushed a kiss over her lips.

“You look better.” He glanced down at himself and smiled ruefully. “I need a shower too. You led me on quite the chase, subbie.”

She giggled.

He laughed and tugged a lock of her hair. “So pleased with yourself.” He nodded toward the living room. “Make yourself at home, and I’ll be right out.”

The tile floor felt smooth and cold under her feet, and the robe slid silkily against her bare skin as she walked across the room. She took a sip of her red wine. A lovely pinot noir. Just what the doctor ordered.

She wandered over to one wall to check out the pictures. Family shots with a sweet-faced woman, and a gray-haired man who had Marcus’s chin and eyes. One with a myriad of relatives. Many photos of teenagers of all ethnicities on basketball courts, in karate tournaments, building a house. A picture with Marcus at the center of a bunch of teens. She smiled at the way they’d crowded around him, obviously trying to get closer. Marcus with his arm across the shoulders of a teen wearing gang tattoos. The boy grinned from ear to ear.

She studied the karate photos for a moment, realizing that like the teens, Marcus wore a white gi, only his belt color was… Oh wow. Don’t start a fight with the nice black belt, Gabi.

The bookcase contained a variety of subjects: law, ethics, best sellers, horror with Stephen King predominating. Huh. Hers held social services books, psych books, sociology, Shakespeare, romances, and fantasy. They probably wouldn’t get along at all in real life. Then again—she studied the pictures of him with the boys—he might have a few more facets than she’d thought. God knew her father wouldn’t be caught dead on a basketball court, let alone one in the slums.

At the sound of footsteps, she turned.

Marcus walked into the room, pulling on a silky robe like hers, and as he tied it shut, she saw how the hard, contoured muscles of his chest tapered down to a taut, flat abdomen. She’d never seen him without a shirt, and her fingers tingled with the need to touch. The alcohol had definitely given her a buzz, dammit. She rubbed her hands on the robe—bad Gabi—and smiled at him. “Now what?”

He motioned toward the couch. “Let’s sit, and I’ll grill you about your life.”

Her feet froze to the floor. Questions? She couldn’t answer questions about her life. “Um. I’m a little tired. Maybe I could bed down somewhere out of the way?”

“Don’t be fibbing to me, Darlin’. You were tired before. Not now.” He regarded her with eyes sharp enough to cut. “I take it there are parts of your life you’d find uncomfortable discussing?”

Sometimes it was majorly disconcerting how he went from down-home Southern to lawyer-speak. “I really do need to get home. Would you mind letting me have enough money for a taxi. I’ll pay you back on Friday. Sir.”

Very interesting, Marcus thought. He sipped his wine and studied her, watching her fidget at his silence. The little sub had plummeted from relaxed and laughing to stiff and uncomfortable.

On the drive here, after she’d roused up, she’d chatted about politics, society, a big cat rescue place that his nana also loved, and then argued with him about crime in the cities and how to address it. He’d enjoyed every minute of the ride. The woman was cheerful and compassionate and very, very smart. Hell, she not only debated as well as he did, but derailed him with off-the-wall comments about the scenery, then jumped back on the train without a problem—leaving him in the dust.

But apparently the thought of talking about herself made her want to flee. When he met her eyes, she dropped her gaze with the instinctive submission she’d shown a few times before. For whatever reason, she’d left her bratty sub shield behind at the club. I like the woman she is without it. Warm, energetic, bright. Dammit, she fit in his home. No, more than that—she enhanced it.

When he walked around her slowly, she shivered. No makeup, pink from the shower, hair shaggy as a drowned poodle’s, the robe swathing her in fabric—and she tugged at his heart like a magnet. He wanted to cuddle her against him…then drag her under him and take her again. Affection and protectiveness and lust: he might find himself in serious trouble here.

He stopped in front of her, deliberately invading her space. “No, you’re not running away home, Gabrielle.”

Her chocolate brown eyes held wariness. What made her so skittish?

“We are going to sit down and enjoy our drinks and some conversation. If I ask you a question you don’t care to answer, tell me so. I do ask that you not lie to me.”

She’d managed to keep her gaze level on his, but the tiny muscles around her eyes tensed. Apparently she’d already lied to him about something.

Well, he’d deal with that another time. For now, they’d discuss her experiences at the club and where to go from here. He took a step back, releasing her from his control. “Holt looked like he enjoyed having you as a submissive.”

Her sigh of relief made him smile.

When Master Marcus pushed her toward the couch, Gabi gave up the fight and complied. She sat down at one end, hoping he’d choose a chair or at least—

He took a seat in the middle, then put both their drinks on the coffee table. After lifting her legs onto his lap, he kept pulling, forcing her to slide down until her back rested against the arm of the couch. To her dismay, the tie of her damn silky robe loosened, letting the front gape open and exposing her breasts.

When she started to fix it, he gave her a stern look. “Leave it open. I enjoy looking at you.”

Her fingers went limp. Thank God they’d left the club, since she wasn’t sure she could defy him. Somehow the time in the Capture Gardens had wiped away her resistance, and here in his house, his commands and the implacable look in his eyes sent quivers all the way to her bones.

His chin tilted up slightly. “Your answer is…?”

“Yes, Sir.” She picked up her drink, needing to have something to hold.

“Very nice, sugar.” He grasped her left foot and firmly massaged the aching muscles. God, that felt good. When his thumbs pressed deep into the sole, her eyes almost rolled up in her head.

He smiled slightly, selected another spot, and did it again. Seduced into talking by a foot rub. Sneaky dom. “I’d like to know how you happened to get in a gang war, Gabi. Will it bother you to tell me?”

“Um.” When she tried to pull her foot back, he didn’t let her. Just waited. She recognized his technique, had used it herself, yet even knowing that, the silence pressured her with the need to fill it. But this… Her chest tightened. I don’t want to. Yet he’d tried to help her this evening. Maybe he needed to know what kind of a wreck she was.

He waited, his hands even warmer against her skin—or maybe the room had grown colder. She’d grown colder. She took a fortifying sip of her drink. “Okay, if you really want to know… I’d run away from home and was living on the streets in Miami with a couple of men. I was pretty naive. They taught me a lot.” Amusement tickled her throat as she realized how his stuffy lawyer soul would react. “Although I never mastered hot-wiring cars, I got good at picking pockets.” And pleasing Danny and Rock in bed.