by Sabrina York
He stumbled, stepping out of his shoes on the way toward the back of the house and found the room, neat as a pin, no surprise, with the bed covered with decorative pillows. She kept whispering his name, clinging to him as if her life depended on it, and somewhere between her living room and bedroom, Brody’s heart collapsed in on itself. He shed the weak submissive and grew into a new skin, one where he would bring the pleasure, at his pace, to his woman.
He eased her back, unzipping her dress and sliding it off her shoulders, kissing every centimeter of skin he revealed. God, she tasted so delicious, so warm and tempting, like a cup of hot vanilla tea or a shot of hundred-year-old bourbon. His body throbbed, aching for a connection, to be inside her. When she lay there, naked, and utterly still, he stood and slipped out of his slacks and shirt. Something stopped him, as the whole scene drifted off center all of a sudden.
She propped up on her elbows, one eyebrow raised and stared right at his straining underwear front. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He discarded his last article of clothing, unable to keep from shaking, loving the way she looked at him, but terrified of it at the same time. His Mistress had done that a lot—got him hard enough to cut diamonds then forced him to sit or stand, naked, without speaking while she glared at him. She’d touch and tease every inch of him before he would be allowed to do or say anything else. He froze, unable to breathe, his long conditioning and Sophie’s natural dominant vibe rendering him immobile.
“Robert,” she said again, reaching out her hand. He took it and let her pull him back onto the bed. “Come, make love to me. Please, I need you to.”
He nodded, but still trembled, in the throes of a panic attack.
“Shh….” She leaned back on a stack of pillows and drew him down to her. “It’s fine. Don’t fret. We’re both so fucked up….” She sucked in a breath, and he sensed anger in her then. “What happened to you? Who did this…” The tattoo that had, at one time, meant more to him than his own living heart muscle but now seemed like a childish, futile gesture meaning exactly nothing to the woman he’d honored with it seemed to pulse between them.
He let Sophie hold him until their breathing calmed, then rolled over and stared at her ceiling. She scooted down next to him, propped up on her elbow, her fingers tracing across all his body art. “What are the letters on your back?” she asked, brushing his bicep with her lips.
“Initials,” he said, closing his eyes, loving her touch on him, wishing like hell he could close the deal, give her what they both wanted. But something kept him from it. And the blame for that lay at the feet of one woman. “Mine and…,” he swallowed hard, forcing his throat to make the sound he required, “Hers. ‘My Mistress’. We were together nearly three years. I loved her, I think. Or at least I loved what she did for me. Or…what I thought she did.” He shrugged, and pulled her close to his bare chest. “But now, I’m not sure she didn’t use my…body…without a ton of concern for the rest of me. That hurts,” he choked out, face burning and gut aching. “A lot.” He tried to sit up, but she hung onto him, firm, with just enough pressure to let him know he wouldn’t be allowed to run from her.
“I know.” She continued to trace the floral patterns on his pecs with her fingernail. “I never got a physical tattoo. The one he etched into my brain sufficed.”
“Him?” Brody gazed down at her, his heart thumping at the memory of her in that asshole’s clutches. He wiped her tears. “That guy?”
She nodded and tucked back into his torso. They stayed quiet awhile, each sunk deep in the mire of their own thoughts, histories, mistakes. She continued to move her palm across his flesh, moving lower and finding her target. He shifted, exhaling at her sweet grip but plucked it off and rolled so she lay on her back, and he propped up on one elbow next to her.
“My turn, Sophie Lynn,” he said softly and lowered his mouth to hers, entangling with her tongue. The scary, pre-programmed vibe still thrummed through him but something stronger had taken over in his brain. He moved lower, teasing her nipples to hard peaks. He kept going, nibbling her stomach, tracing that horrific scar with a fingertip and his tongue.
Finally he slipped down between her legs. She had her hips tilted, her sex open to him. That moment of trust hit him square in the gut. After all she’d been through, she had zero reason for that, but yet, there she lay, open and vulnerable—for him. He traced the outer edges of her pink flesh, teased the small nub emerging from its hood, loving the lusty scent of turned-on female. He sighed with satisfaction and a small tremor of relief. Nothing revved him up more than watching a woman’s body ready itself for him. But the sensations surging through him were like nothing he’d ever experienced or imagined he might.
Shaking, he lowered his mouth to taste her. She twisted her fingers in his hair, her voice loud in his ears, begging, pleading with him in a way that nearly sent him straight over the edge. Her response to his lips and fingers was immediate and exquisite.
“Yes!” she cried, moving her hips, as the rich scent of aroused woman swirled in his head.
She flopped back, gasping for breath. He stayed between her legs, his entire body trembling but with a sort of joyous, almost-perfect emotion, one that frightened him, and gave him purpose.
“I don’t have protection,” he choked out, ready to expire if he didn’t get inside her soon. “But I always wear it, I mean…you know…oh, holy hell, Sophie.” He groaned when she angled her body, grabbed him with both legs and drew him in.
“Ah…Brody,” she whispered, enveloping him with her whole self, the wondrous moment coalescing in her eyes. He went deep, then pulled out, just for the experience of entering her again, never taking his gaze from hers.
“Come inside me,” she arched her back “Come with me. I know you want it, Robert….” Using just enough of her Domme voice to make him do exactly that, fast, without a shred of control. Instead of pissing him off like it did with Kelli, he reveled in it, owned it, and filled her, crying her name, their bodies came together in the oldest dance known to humankind.
“I love you,” he whispered into her neck, meaning it.
“I know,” she said, still holding him close.
They must have slept, because by the time a noise jolted him awake, the strange bedroom had darkened. Panic hit his chest, but when he saw the sheet-covered form to his left, his heart ceased its pounding and he laid back down, curling around Sophie.
“We missed The Boat concert.”
She shifted, and pressed back against his reviving body. “It’s The Ark, you goof.” Her voice sounded fuzzy with sleep.
“Same thing,” he said, running one hand up to cup her breast and the other down to tease between her legs. “Mmm…. I was gonna say I’m hungry, let’s eat, but….”
“Me too, let’s get up….”
She reached back to tug at his hair as he tweaked a nipple and felt her body respond from to tip to toe.
“Okay then, this is us. Getting up.” He nibbled her neck and shoulder. She made a noise between a groan and a sigh and her skin pebbled. “Show me, Sophie.” He used a low, commanding voice, like his coach-on-the-field one. Something he’d never done in a sexual situation. It buzzed around in his ears and brought a distinct tingle to every inch of his body. “Come, baby. Now.”
He bit her shoulder again, stroking her while the glorious, incandescent orgasm rolled off her in waves. He loved how it they both shivered with the force of it. “Damn,” he said into her neck.
“Truer word never spoken.” Rolling all the way over to pin him, she climbed up to straddle his hips in one fluid motion. She smiled down at him, a wicked gleam in her eyes. His automatic reaction to the position—that of cowering inside his own brain as he used to do when his Mistress would ride him, smacking his hips and tugging the nipple clamp chain while he bit down on the urge to blow or at least touch her—did not happen. Instead, he grinned and thrust up. Her body enveloped him, and they both sighed with pleasure.
“Come do
wn here,” he said, his voice croaky. “Kiss me.”
She dropped forward, curtaining them, shutting out the world with her thick brown hair, and did just that. He met her halfway, digging his fingers into her hips before tearing his lips from hers to latch onto a nipple. She squealed with delight, moved faster, and faster, until he could not longer hold back.
“God,” he grunted into her breasts, “gonna come…sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She bent down and bit his nipple. A decidedly animal-sounding noise emerged from his throat, and he let himself have it, coming and coming until he could barely breathe. He blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, and hungrier than he’d ever been in his life.
She stayed astride him, running her hands across his tats. He blew out a breath when she lifted off him and flopped down to his side with a sigh.
“You are pretty good at this, aren’t ya?” She framed it as less a question, more a declaration while their heartbeats slowed to normal rhythms.
“So I’m told.” He stretched and kissing her hair, panic settling into his chest.
He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay there with her forever. Impractical, but typical, given how many times his Mistress would allow him to stay, only to boot him out, sometimes naked, onto her back lawn, saying he needed a reality check about how clingy he’d become. He shivered as that vision hit him, another escapee from the repressed memory bank he’d labeled, The Nashville Years.
As if sensing his sudden tension, Sophie kissed him softly, then got up and headed for the bathroom. She emerged wearing a robe and a grin. “Starving?”
He nodded and got up, grateful she didn’t press him on what he’d remembered just then, but still wobbly at the thought of having to go home to his own house and leave her behind.
“C’mon Robert.” She held out a hand. He took a deep breath, and grasped it, recognizing that move now—something that signaled a next step for them both. “I make a mean stack of pancakes.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sophie sat at her usual perch in her office, high above the action, while the team went through its paces before starting a long stretch of matches. They had three home games in a row then headed South to play in Texas and Georgia. Brody tried, with his usual pleasantly convincing techniques, to get her to travel with them. She’d demurred, still not comfortable with full, public acknowledgement of their relationship after six months of essentially hibernating with him at her house during the team’s off-season. People probably knew about them, but she wanted it private, just between them awhile longer. Brody had other ideas, those of the polar opposite sort which had become a sore point between them.
So, she anticipated their brief break with a positive attitude. She’d managed to convince him that, just because she didn’t want him to move in with her…yet, it didn’t mean she didn’t care about him. The poor guy had been through a lot of his crucial development years without anyone to truly love him. She got that.
Plus, she suspected she did love him, which terrified her. So, she held back a part of her for reasons she didn’t fully understand, which had lead to a few strange, low-key arguments, leaving them both unhappy for days at a time. The nature of their dynamic didn’t allow for much disagreement as both of them wanted so badly to please the other. Their psycho-sexual programming proved hard to break outside the bedroom as well as in it.
She brought it up to him once, but he scoffed and said if an argument was what she wanted, he’d be happy to oblige her. She’d smacked his arm, accused him of patronizing her, doing all she could to goad him into a healthy, air-clearing disagreement, but in his typical way, he kissed it out of her, all over her. And she forgot about it for a few hours. But it bugged her, and she didn’t understand why. They had a long way to go if their relationship was to be truly healthy, which was why the upcoming, club-enforced separation felt well-timed.
She could barely repress a grin at the sight of him, her man, her Robert, as she called him in her house and nowhere else. Her very own god-among-men out there, tall, fit, talented, imposing. Recalling how he’d allowed her to use ropes the night before, binding him lightly, and blindfolding him, teasing him until he hit a fever pitch and had his shut-down moment. Then she’d ripped off all his bonds and the eye cover. They’d stared at one another for a few seconds before she said, “Now, Brody. Take what you want.”
Which he had. Twice. In such a primal way, she still shivered with memory of it. Doing the Full Domme thing didn’t appeal to her anymore, not with him. He required a blend of her full heart, along with some of the play, or he’d likely tip back over into that bizarre, half-frozen state he’d pulled their first time. That bitch in Nashville had done a number on him. And Sophie would love to get her hands on the woman. But Brody insisted he didn’t ever want to see her or to somehow make peace in his soul by confronting the marketing professor with her lies and manipulation. So she had to respect that.
The team divided up for the end of practice scrimmage. Nicco squared off against the asshole homophobe. Sophie’s heart raced, recalling the last time that happened. But, at least for the first thirty minutes things seemed fine. She hated how physical Metin allowed the scrimmages to get and the way Brody never stepped back from them, even knowing he had to be careful not to hurt his head again. His headaches had started fading which he attributed to getting satisfactorily laid on a regular basis. But she’d done her research on concussion, and going so completely contrary doctor’s orders and playing so soon represented a bold and somewhat stupid move on his part. She stood, assured the usual melee of masculine aggression that concluded all of their practices would not end with any injuries.
Her phone beeped—the private one. She frowned. She’d told Lance to give her a few weeks off. Brody had been making some noise about wanting her to stop all that Madame Katrina bullshit, as he put it. She nipped that in the bud, telling him in no uncertain terms he had zero say about that part of her life. Finding a replacement Madame K would be a delicate business. She didn’t trust many women to keep their mouths shut about potentially well-known clients. Lance sent her a text to say the woman they’d vetted for a month had agreed to be interviewed, if she were still interested. He didn’t get Sophie’s sudden disinterest in the job, unable to imagine why she’d stop until she asked him if his lover would be overjoyed if he took on the Dom role with a bunch of needy gay subs.
“A boyfriend?” He’d laughed, pissing her off. “Finally! That is awesome!”
“Shut up.” She’d flushed with embarassment. But she liked the sound of the word.
Just as she composed her message back to him, a sharp shout from below caught her attention. She rushed to the window, heart in her throat. A group of players were gathered around the goal…his goal. She dropped the phone and ran down to the field, shoving her way through. The players moved out of the way for her this time. Nothing ever remained a secret very long in an organization like this.
“Robert.” She used her best commanding wake up now voice, crouching next to him. “What the fuck happened?” she demanded to the legs forming a cage around them. Metin appeared at her shoulder.
“Nothing. He just…dropped. I swear it,” the young coach said. “No one touched him or was even anywhere near him.” She rose, in a daze, as the paramedics loaded him onto an ambulance that had pulled out onto the pitch. Metin pushed her. “Go with him.”
Climbing into the back, she gripped Brody’s ice-cold hand as they intubated him. His eyes never once opened. Tears dropped onto the sheet as she stared at his slack face. “Robert,” she breathed. Then as a last resort, she prayed.
After a few hours of observation, Brody blinked and woke.
“I’m thirsty,” he whispered.
Sophie scrambled to her feet, got him water, and brought back a nurse. The woman ran his vital signs, asked him questions about who he was, what day it was, the year, the city. He got all the answers right, drinking two huge cups of water in the meantime.
“Hurts,” he
gasped, leaning back and putting his arm over his face. “Can we dim the lights or something?”
She glanced up at the nurse, scared, wanting words of reassurance. None came. Just I’ll get the doctor, and a quick disappearance. Metin and Rafe hovered outside the door, and she gestured at them to come in. Brody slipped into sleep, mumbling, shifting around, the only way she realized he wasn’t unconscious again. She knew how restlessly he slept.
“He should not be playing.” She glared at the men. “Isn’t Nate better? Can’t he….”
“No. His leg is good, but he’s lost his confidence. I’m trying to find someone new, but….” Rafe ran a hand down his face.
Brody rumbled and tried to roll over. She put her lips to his ear, whispered soothing words as she sometimes did in their bed at night, calming him when he got trapped between awake and asleep, shaking uncontrollably. The doctor came in, trailing pessimism like a noxious cloud.
“We have to get another CAT scan,” he barked to a nurse. “He keeps drifting off like that…not good.” He made a notation on his tablet computer.
Her face flame hot with fury. “Not good. That’s a medical term?” She remained next to Brody. “Can we be a tad more specific? We’re all grownups in here.”
The doctor scowled at her. “It is likely that the old concussion never fully healed. His brain is swelling and now pressing against his skull. All the recent symptoms you told me,” he glanced at her, “and what I hear from today’s incident points to that fact. This is, in a word, bad.”
Metin stepped up, anger clear on his face. The doctor held up an officious hand.
“Excuse me, I have to get this order in. You can stay with him until he goes up for the test,” he said to the room before he left.
By the time he got wheeled back to his room at midnight, Brody was awake, alert, and starving. Sophie nearly passed out from relief and started bossing the staff around to get him some food. She sat near his head, hand on his arm, both of them in their respective cocoons of silence, waiting for the meal to show.