As he drew up to park in the short side drive, noting the cracked asphalt, Susan fumbled with her seatbelt.
“Wait for me. I’ll take care of it.” He used his Dom voice, almost without thinking on it, and her slender hand froze as those amazing eyes shot to his. A hint of defiance sparked in them, and her full mouth set.
“My mother raised me to treat women with respect,” he added, and his comment had the desired effect. Susan withdrew her hand and set it with the other in her lap, the folds of the garment she wore, as well as the coat in her lap, shifting to nearly cover them. The damn things veiled her from throat to ankles.
Taking his time, he got out, stripping off his jacket as he did so, because he longed to feel her against him without an additional barrier of fabric. He went around to open her door, reaching in to unlatch the belt, allowing his forearm to graze her breasts. She pressed back into the seat. It wasn’t a flinch this time, but an awareness. As he eased an arm around her shoulders, inserting the other beneath her thighs, she protested.
“I can walk.”
“I’m sure you can,” he returned, “but you don’t have to right now.”
Chapter Two
This man, her rescuer, lifted her from the seat of the truck without any discernible change in his breathing at the effort, although she could feel the heat emanating from him like a furnace. Or maybe it was her own heated response confusing her senses. Maurice Somebody was enormously broad across the chest and shoulders, his tattooed muscled biceps and forearms flexing around her body as he plucked her up. She wasn’t a tiny woman, despite the weight she’d burned off with grief, loss, and lack, but her size didn’t seem to register against his immense strength. The pounds would come right back when she made time to eat and didn’t have to work so hard, not that this man, or any man, would be toting her around again.
Regardless, this was a surreal experience. She should be feeling horribly embarrassed and uncomfortable, being carried like a baby—or the spoils of war—but instead, had to fight not to turn her head into his shoulder. She let him take charge, and it felt like a blessing.
“I use the back door,” she offered. She hadn’t been able to find the front door key, and thought her mom had probably secreted it away along with various other objects Susan hoped to unearth when she had the time.
Without comment, Maurice—she really needed to ask his full name—stepped away and pushed the truck door shut with a casual shove of his hip. His hard body shifted slightly, but his grip on her didn’t alter. Her feet pointed the way as he moved sideways past the vehicle and along the narrow space between her home and the neighbor’s. She focused on her scuffed work shoes to keep her head where it belonged, held high and away from him, not tucked right beneath his chin, nestled on his shoulder.
Her mom’s house was set on a narrow lot, but the backyard was deep, and full of flower beds and a vegetable garden. Maintaining those beds as well as the ones in the front yard had likely been her undoing, trying to keep up appearances on top of everything else. She was fortunate that the neighbor, a retired postal worker, mowed the lawn for her, saying he missed the walking required by his former job.
They approached the screen porch, all of the windows still miraculously intact despite the years of neglect, and he carefully trod the rickety stairs, their combined weight making them creak ominously. Susan squirmed to try and fish her wallet from the side pocket of her voluminous smock. Maurice held her more tightly until they pushed through the screen door and reached the more solid panels of the back entrance, then let her down gently, grabbing her coat up as it fell between them.
As she slid over the front of his body, her hip encountered what could only be a very sizable erection, and her belly clenched as her heart stuttered in her chest. Holy crap. Had she allowed herself to be taken home by a bad guy? Right under the nose of a police officer? He looked back at her, unapologetic. His comment both unsettled and reassured her.
“I would never do anything you didn’t want or need, Susan.” What?
The brief surge of survival adrenaline tired her further, and rather than try to process yet another visceral reaction, she blinked and gave her head a tiny shake. Fumbling out her wallet, she drew the key from the side slot. Maurice carefully plucked it from her fingers and inserted it in the lock. The sound of the tumblers falling triumphed over the background noises of the slight breeze and the birds and insects working the garden.
“Thanks again,” she said, reaching to turn the knob. Again he forestalled her, and the door swung open to frame the dimly lit interior. She couldn’t afford to let the AC run, trusting the lowered blinds and closed curtains to protect against the worst of the heat.
He gestured for her to precede him, and she realized he was inviting himself inside. She really needed to take charge of this unfolding of events but had already expended all of her energy. She was in a place where she could accept being taken care of, and it felt so right—and necessary. Once she was safely inside and thinking clearly again, he’d take his leave like the gentleman he purported to be. And take his erection with him.
Crossing the threshold, she paused, and his bulky frame blanketed her back. With that slight contact she moved forward and the door closed behind them both.
“Go and get ready for bed, Susan. I’ll find you something to eat and bring it to you.”
“But…” She sought for the words, the ones to insert some propriety into the situation, but any hint of strength driven by that slight hit of adrenaline had long since dissipated. Once again, being taken care of lulled her further into submission, although she did manage another faint protest. Maurice gently urged her on.
“Go, sweetheart. Unless you need my help.”
Her feet shuffled forward as she made her way to her bedroom, believing he would indeed “help” her. That suggestion gave her the impetus to pull her clothes off and let them drop over the little chair set right by the door, and she tugged her nightgown over her head. Slipping between the cool sheets, she fell back on the pillow and moaned with the total pleasure of it. Jack the Ripper might be in her kitchen, opening and closing cupboards and the fridge, rattling silverware and plates, but she’d die in the comfort of her own bed.
* * * *
That throaty sound floating down the hall from where Susan presumably had taken refuge—he hadn’t missed the way her pulse had spiked at the base of her tender throat when he’d offered to help her make ready for bed—went straight to his cock. It hardened to painful thickness, imprinting on his zipper, and he shifted to let it seat itself more comfortably. He’d found a small, covered plate of sectioned fruit and a block of cheese on the top shelf of the fridge, and unearthed some rolls stored in the cupboard to the right of the sink. He couldn’t immediately locate a kettle so filled a mug from the tap and set it in the microwave, and was trying to decipher the programming when he heard that low moan. God, if she made the same sound when she came…
When the water bubbled vigorously, he withdrew the mug and dipped an herbal tea bag, pilfered from the caddy on the counter. Not knowing if she used milk or sweetener, he decided to check. After toeing off his boots, he strode down the hallway, glancing into a tiny space likely used as a spare bedroom, taking notice of the small, but fully equipped bath. The last room on his left, facing the back of the house, was more sizeable, holding a bedroom suite, the bed itself set against the wall opposite the window overlooking the yard.
Susan lay precisely on one side of the double mattress, hair spread across the pillow, the sheet and coverlet pulled up to her chin, covering her as effectively as the shapeless garment she’d been wearing earlier.
Clearly exhausted, she was already sleeping deeply, full mouth slightly agape, thin eyelids rippling delicately. Maurice reflected how he’d much rather watch her sleep than find her unconscious in front of his truck bumper. Debating whether to wake her and encourage her to eat, he decided to let her be.
Like the rest of the house, the room was shabby,
but clean and tidy. Aside from the pile of clothing Susan had left on the chair, everything was in its place. The only room he hadn’t glanced into was the one directly across the hall, the door shut tightly, and Maurice respected the unspoken message as he paced back to the kitchen to put the food away for later. He called the Club and was finally connected to Rees after working his way through a couple of the cleaning staff. The other man agreed to take his place on the door without question, although Maurice had the inclination to confide in him. But what would he say? That he’d met someone? It sounded so trite. He’d found his One, and he wasn’t going to miss this opportunity. Thanking Rees, he went back to watch Susan sleep.
At one point she muttered in a distressed fashion, and grew restless. From his vantage point—he had lain down beside her, propped up on one elbow—Maurice waited to see if she would settle. When she didn’t, he carefully wrapped an arm around her and drew her close, reveling in the trusting way she curled into his body. He decried the material between them, all of it. He was still dressed in deference to the newness of their relationship, fully aware of how hard he was pushing the limits here, and Susan was wearing some little confection of nightwear beneath the bed linens.
From the little that came into view, it was a pretty, feminine thing, but Maurice expected his woman to be naked for him in the future. His presumption at the back door had already registered with her, despite her exhaustion, but he’d set his course and wasn’t going to be dissuaded. Susan would wake and be freaked, but he would feed her and talk to her and everything would work out. They would come to a meeting of the minds. He couldn’t begin to think of it any other way.
Her scent drifted up to his nostrils—warm cinnamon. He caught the hint of mint, too, probably from her toothpaste, but the spice of her lingered in his head. She had a high, broad brow, and her beautiful eyes were widely spaced above a strong nose speckled with a few freckles on the bridge. The rest of her skin was creamy and hadn’t seen the sun in some time. The full lips were no longer parted, but still lax and soft-looking. He couldn’t wait to taste them and see them wrapped around his cock.
That appendage was giving him fits, blind to the nuances of the situation. He might have caveman tendencies but he was living in the modern world, and until Susan accepted his lifestyle, there would be none of that. Not that his cock listened, or gave any indication his need would mitigate regardless of his firm dictates.
He suspected her nipples would be pink or pale peach and wondered if she kept her pussy bare. Probably not. It would be his privilege to assist with pussy maintenance seeing as it would belong to him, along with her ass. Not as many women were anal virgins any longer, but he hoped Susan hadn’t yet experienced that particular penetration. Maurice had a very deep interest in assholes, and if Susan proved to be amenable, he would bring her such pleasure she’d come to crave anal sex, too.
Not that he didn’t like pussy. He loved pussy. He loved to finger it, eat it, and fuck it, not necessarily in that order. The scent of an aroused woman’s cunt was the finest fragrance in the world. The thought of exploring Susan’s, finding that special bit of pussy flesh to torment and play with—shit, his fantasy was making him hurt.
Turning his thoughts to the less carnal, he speculated on the life events that had driven this woman to such utter exhaustion. He believed them to be both physical and emotional stressors. He’d noted the obvious gaps amongst the porcelain and china decorative items in the big, old china cabinet taking pride of place in the living room, and thought she’d likely parted with them out of financial need. Her slender fingers were stained and marked. She obviously worked hard at whatever she did. Once she confided in him, he would aid her in every way possible to help her gain her health and ease her mind.
Wondering if she had a family, he glanced around her room. There were a few pictures adorning the tall dresser, depicting an older woman who had to be Susan’s mother. They shared the same high cheek bones and full mouths, and he suspected the mother’s gray hair was once the same shade as her daughter’s. The visual of Susan in twenty or thirty years warmed his heart. She would only get better with age, like fine wine.
There was no man in any of the portraits, and he hadn’t seen any in the living area of her home either, merely a cluster of frames showcasing Susan and parent together, arms around the other, smiling into the camera. Perhaps the father had been the one taking the pictures. Maurice wasn’t going to entertain the thought of Susan’s boyfriend or boyfriends pressing the shutter. Relationships of the past were just that. In the past, including his own.
There was much to learn about Susan, and much to share with her. He envisioned the days ahead of them. He wasn’t thick. He was fully aware there would be challenges and hurdles, but the heart knew what it knew.
Susan began to stretch and flex as she rose through the layers of sleep. Alert to her every nuance, Maurice eased away from her and off the bed, stepping to the small chair. He carefully laid the small pile of clothes over the back, noting that Susan’s bra was functional yet evocatively feminine, and took his seat, resisting the urge to fondle the hint of lace.
* * * *
Oh god, the luxury. It had been forever since she’d napped—sheer decadence. And in the definitely rejuvenating slumber, she had soaked in the sense of feeling safe and utterly protected, warm and cosseted. The tang of citrus lingered in her nostrils, and she sniffed experimentally before stretching hugely and opening her eyes to see the glare of the sunshine against the linen curtains even with the backdrop of the horizontal blinds. Her mother favored materials that were a challenge to launder and always required ironing, but they wore well and looked so crisp and clean. A brief spasm of pain at the memory and loss clutched her heart, and she breathed through it, focusing on the fact she’d slept half the day away.
With her deeper breaths, the citrusy tang grew a trifle stronger, and she threw herself over to her other side, heart now pounding wildly, the cadence beating against her ribs. Holy shit. Maurice Somebody was still in her house, now sitting in her slipper chair, the one her mother bought at the antique auction right before she took ill and—he was still in her freaking house! Focus!
Aware the covers had worked their way down her body, exposing her from the waist upward, Susan blessed the fact she wore a night gown and hoped it hid any evidence of her breasts. Maurice of the unknown last name stared back at her, calm and intent, and she couldn’t misread the admiration on his face and the heat in his eyes. She opened her mouth, unsure whether to scream or try to pull off a blasé attitude like she woke to strange men watching her sleep every other day. He beat her to it.
“Are you feeling better?”
Um…what had she expected he’d say? And his thoughtful question magically eased her trepidation at finding him there. He sounded so kind, and genuinely interested. Caring. Not dangerously hot for her, although she felt he was that, too, but well under self-control. “A lot, actually.”
“I’ll go and put the food together. Do you want to eat in bed or at the table?”
Holy shit again. Certain she was gaping like a fish, she sought some appropriate words. He seemed to fill all the available space in her bedroom.
“The table.” Oh, no. Where had that come from? She should be telling him she wasn’t hungry, thanking him for ensuring she got home okay, and bidding him farewell. It was impossible, all of it.
“I’ll see you in a few minutes then.”
Watching him rise to his feet with a flex of strength and agility, she again noted his tattoos and realized he wasn’t an exceptionally tall man. The way he held himself conveyed the impression of height. But he was broad, as broad as she remembered, and she felt the color creep up her throat and paint her cheeks, recalling how easily he’d carried her. She admired the straight line of his spine beneath his form-fitting T-shirt and the way his jeans encased a very nice backside as he exited the room.
Raising a hand to her lips, she checked for drool. What an idiot she was. Her
self-recriminations didn’t stop the excited churning in her stomach, and she clambered out of bed. Then she dithered, wondering if she should dress or grab her robe or—
“Do you have a kettle?” Maurice called to her, and she got herself under control, pulling her worn, pink, terry-towel robe around her body, securing the lapels tightly with a judicious jerk of the tie. Stepping into the matching mules, she then automatically remade the bed, calling out the location of said kettle as she tucked and smoothed the linens.
A quick stop in the bathroom revealed the worst of the damage. After using the facilities, she washed her face and brushed her teeth, combing the majority of the tangles from her hair. He’d seen her at her lowest, and this wasn’t some kind of freaking date. Allowing the Good Samaritan Act to carry on any further would lead to considerable discomfort on both their parts, she was certain, so spending time on primping was contraindicated.
The whistle of the kettle drew her down the hall and into the kitchen where the little table boasted a plate of fruit and cheese as well as two of the crusty rolls she’d purchased yesterday on the way to her second job. Maurice was at the sink, steam wreathing his head as he poured boiling water into…her mother’s old teapot. Susan hadn’t used it since her mom’s death, and the idea brought fond, nostalgic tears to her eyes.
Blinking them back, she shifted awkwardly from foot to foot as he fitted the lid, turning to carry it to the table where he placed it on a dishtowel, folded into a trivet. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Had someone domesticated this amazing man? Instantly on the heels of the thought, her eyes flew to his left hand. God, if he was married…but he wore no ring and there was no evidence of one ever gracing his finger, no lighter band of flesh or indentation.
Owned [Club Pleasure 6] (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 3