by Liz Crowe
Chapter Twenty
The next morning, she slunk into the brewery, the dread at having to face him like a noxious smoke filling her chest. Perversely, she craved the sight of him, the sound of his country-Bavarian accent when he spoke to her in their native tongue. All the while knowing that he didn’t deserve to get caught up in her shit. Period.
But that kiss… Dear Lord, if anything were more wonderful in this world, she was hard pressed to know what it might be.
She sighed and hid behind a row of fermenters when she heard him barking orders at some hapless brewery assistant. Her scalp tingled and the tiny hairs on her arms rose as she listened to him.
“Don’t do it, Elisa. Don’t trust him.”
She heard Austin holler for him from upstairs and breathed a sigh of relief when he replied that he’d be right up, leaving the main brewery floor free for her. Ears buzzing, she tried to make herself even smaller than she was—a trick she’d learned well during her time spent as a so-called submissive to The Monster.
A few hours of work calmed her jangling nerves. The smells and sounds of a brewery always did that for her. As she was checking the specific gravity of the IPA, pleased with how it had turned out, she sighed and allowed herself to relax. Whatever Austin had needed him for, Ross had stayed scarce for most of the day, thank the Lord in heaven.
“Hey,” he said from right behind her.
She screeched in shock, flinching to violently the hydrometer went flying up into the air. After juggling it a few times, she held it to her chest and turned to face him.
“Nice catch.” He smiled.
Her heart wanted to melt. But she kept a tight grip on it, refusing to give in to that ever again. “Persistent? Or perhaps just—”
He held up a hand. “I know, I know. Mouth-breathing idiot.” He leaned against the stainless-steel sinks. She tried not to let it, but her gaze was drawn to his shoulders, his arms, his chest…and lower. Gulping, she focused on the floor. When he cleared his throat, she met his deep blue gaze. “All right. I have a plan.” His tone was light and easy-going.
“Oh?” She set the expensive piece of brewery equipment beside the sink and turned on the water so she could wash out some of the stacked-up containers. Ignoring him, or at least attempting to, at the same time. “Does this plan involve the two of us? Because if so, you can forget it.”
“It does. And I won’t. Because I am persistent.”
Fury nearly blinded her. She turned to face him, hands on her hips. “Do you want to fuck me?”
He blinked fast, and took a small step away from her. “I… I’m…”
“Because I can accommodate that. And then we can stop all this foolish…flirting or whatever. Let’s clear the air.” Her knees were shaking so hard she had to grip the edge of the sink for balance. “What do you say?” She jerked her chin up, trying to look brave. “A quick screw in the locker room, maybe? It’s what you wanted last night, I think.”
It’s also what she wanted, but that was beside the point. He would be the first man to touch her intimately in almost eleven years. Also beside the point, because she was not going to let it happen.
“Stop it,” he said, his brow furrowing into the familiar stubborn lines. “I am here to ask you out on a proper date. Like a nice guy. But if you want to fuck…” He lifted his chin. “I can accommodate that.”
In a heartbeat, he’d pulled her close, his grip around her arms gentle, but firm. He slanted his lips over hers, grazing her cheeks with the roughness of his beard in a way that drove her half mad with lust. His tongue parted her lips and she let him, wrapped her arms around his neck and went way up on her tiptoes. She had never, ever felt this way about any man. Her need to have him, to be with him, to have him all over her, inside her, was so strong it took her breath away.
“That’s right, little whore. That’s what you want to do. You fuck that big Viking and see what happens to you when I find you and get you back where you belong. Just wait.”
She gasped and struggled away from him, slapping hands over her ears. His gaze wasn’t angry, or reproachful. It was soft and sympathetic.
“Okay, now that we have that out of the way, how about that date?” He raised an eyebrow, making her drop her hands to her sides and sigh.
“I am…how do you say…one hot mess. You don’t want any part of me.” She said this in English, something she always reverted to when she was trying like hell to reject him.
He thumped his chest with his fist and his grin widened, filling her with that ill-considered, yet oh-so comforting sensation of hope. “I am a big strong man. I like hot messes, especially yours.” He reached out and touched the corner of her lips with his fingertip. She closed her eyes, turned her face away and grappled with herself a few seconds.
“Fine,” she snapped, grabbing a towel and wiping down the counters for something to do with her hands. “I will make you dinner tomorrow night. I am a French-trained chef, after all.” Her voice was brisk, matter-of-fact.
He leaned to the side, remaining at the perimeter of her vision until she was forced to look at him. “That sounds lovely. I think.”
She threw the towel down and faced him, hand out. He shook it, solemnly. She rolled her eyes and let go of him. “Give me your mobile, fool. I’ll put my address in it.”
He pulled the device from his jeans pocket and handed it over. She put in her address, part of her regretting every letter and digit, then gave it back to him. He had his head cocked, as if studying her.
“Don’t stare. It’s rude. Now, we have work to do, I think?”
He stayed still. She frowned, not allowing herself to give in to the compulsion to throw herself at him. Instead, she snapped her fingers in front of his moony-looking face. “Let’s go, Hoffman. Beer to be brewed.”
He blinked again, as if emerging from a daydream. “Right. Let’s hop to it, Annie Oakley.”
“Who is this Annie, and does she brew beer as well as me?” She marched past him, letting their arms brush ever so slightly, berating herself for being so stupid and needy. That very feeling had gotten her into a giant fucked-up tangle with a man once, and she would be damned if it happened again.
“Oh really? Then why did you invite the Viking God to your shabby apartment where you will seduce him with your cooking? Huh? How’s that gonna work out, Elisa?”
“Shut up,” she muttered.
“What’s that?” Ross asked, turning as he climbed the stairs to the kettle.
“Nothing,” she said, once again trying not to fixate on his ass. “Nothing.”
“Really? Then why are you staring at my bum?”
“Because it’s big and fat and in my way,” she lied. “Get a move on, or I’m telling the boss you’re a lazy, mouth-breathing arsehole.”
He grinned, making her heart pound even faster, then turned and ran the rest of the way up the steps ahead of her.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Hey, Mamacita, you got a minute?” Ross slid onto a stool in the Fitz Pub. His face felt hot. His ears were buzzing. The events of the past two days had him reeling and antsy—sleepless, and nonstop horny.
Melody appeared from the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel. He leered at her. “You have a nice rack,” he said, conversationally, smiling at the bartender who’d placed a dark stout in front of him.
She flipped him off and leaned in the doorway. “Yes, I know. Now that you’re through harassing me…may I please get back to work?”
“Seriously, Melody, I need to talk to you about something.”
She leaned back into the kitchen and said something in rapid Spanish, then approached him, looking wary. “Seriously? You’re actually serious about something?”
“Yes,” he said, before taking a sip. “Did you get your family all settled back there?”
She propped her elbows on the bar in front of him. “I’m busy doing my grown-up job. What do you want?”
“Sorry. You’re too easy to tease. But I do have a se
rious topic to broach with you.” He looked around, suddenly nervous. This was, to put it mildly, a delicate subject. But he knew she knew a thing or three about it, at least based on what Evelyn had told him about her new boyfriend.
“Is this about Elle?”
He nodded, feeling half foolish, half hopeful she could shed some light on a few things for him. She sighed. “We need to go somewhere more private for this talk.”
“Are you coming on to me, Señorita?” He put a hand to his chest in fake shock.
“Fuck you, Adolf. Do you want to talk about that poor girl, or what?”
He grabbed his beer and followed her behind the bar, through the kitchen, where the cooks and other staff called out to him. He hollered back greetings until Melody yanked on his T-shirt to get his attention. “Come on, Chatty Cathy. I don’t have a ton of time.”
“Adios, amigos,” he said, waving and following Melody until they got to her small office.
“Sit,” she said, closing the door behind them. After taking her seat behind the small, metal desk covered with various receipts from food vendors and employee time sheets, she clasped her hands on top of it all and leveled her dark gaze at him. “So, if you want to know what I think…”
He nodded, sipping, content to let her lead the conversation.
“I think that the tattoo around her neck is a form of a collar.” She touched her own neck. Ross saw the necklace she’d been wearing lately—a thin, rope-like, silver chain with a funny-looking charm on the front. He squinted and leaned forward.
“Is that a…?”
“It’s a lock,” she said, holding it out. “This is a type of collar. It was a special gift. From my…from Trent.”
“Yeah, so? He has weird taste in charms. What does that have to do with the thing on Elisa’s neck?”
“Trent and I are together, as Dom and sub. The collar is a public symbol of that private relationship.”
“Dom and sub,” he repeated, stroking his beard and pondering that for a minute. “So, you guys are kinky in the bedroom. He ties you up and shit like that?”
She rolled her expressive eyes. “It’s not quite that simple. However, since you are a simple man, I’ll try to keep it that way for you. In a healthy D/s relationship, there is nothing but trust. A hundred percent trust. Each partner, the Dom and the sub, give something up to the other as part of the give and take. And it’s not about being kinky…all the time, I mean. It’s not about abuse, either, or who’s ‘in charge’.” She hooked her fingers around the words. “Unfortunately, I’ve discovered in my research that plenty of psychotic abusers hide behind being a Dom to find victims. I’m not saying that our Elisa is a natural victim. If anything, she strikes me as the opposite, in a way.”
“Yes, I agree with that.” Ross’ protective hackles rose even higher, making his throat tight.
“I think that she was drawn into a fake D/s relationship. She gave her most important thing—her trust—and was subsequently abused once he—the abuser—gained that from her. It’s the worst sort of a betrayal, really.”
“So, this thing around her neck, it’s the collar? The symbol of the kink or the lifestyle or whatever?”
“Si. She was in her trusting stage with him, got the ink, then I’m willing to bet my last peso that he started abusing her after that. I don’t know this. She’s not said a word to me about it. But Trent says…” She stopped and blushed under her olive skin, making her even more attractive, if that were possible. Ross waited her out. After clearing her throat, she met his gaze again. “Trent says that I have a sort of a sixth sense about people. I’ve always been that way. Able to tell what’s on a person’s mind or somehow know what’s wrong when they’re sad, you know?” She rose. “Anyway, I admire you for wanting to dive into that. Because God only knows what kind of abuser he was.”
“Kind? Is there more than one kind?” Ross remained seated, trying to wrap his head around all this, and not lose his mind with fury at the same time.
“Yes. And I have a feeling that she got both barrels—emotional and physical abuse.” Melody touched the odd, lock-shaped charm on her necklace—her collar, Ross thought.
“Yeah. That would account for a lot.”
“Oh, mi amigo. You love her, don’t you?”
It was his turn to blush. “I’m… I don’t… I mean. I just thought I’d… Oh, fuck it. Maybe. Are you happy now?”
She smiled, which was impossible not to match. “You’re not without your own baggage, eh, ya big ugly Kraut? I mean, considering?” She hooked her thumb at the wall. Melody had been witness to the whole Ross-and-Evelyn-without-Austin-thing as it unfolded. And she’d been there when Evelyn had married Austin—the day Ross had bolted like a damn fool. He sighed.
“No, chica. I am not.” He finally rose. “Thanks. I really appreciate you filling me in on this.”
“I don’t know how it will help, since you don’t really understand the dynamic of it. But…”
“But I’m glad to know you back me up on my hypothesis.”
“Be careful with her, Hoffman. She is seriously broken.”
Ross hooked his fingers in his belt loops, feeling like he wanted nothing more than to run out into the brewery, scoop the woman up and cart her off to his lonely, long-term hotel suite and spend days deprogramming her…in the most pleasant ways possible.
“I never thought I’d say this, but…I think you might be the exact thing she needs. And vice versa.” She came around the desk and gave him a one-armed hug. “Go easy, though, Adolf. Not every woman can handle you the way Evelyn did.”
Ross turned the hug into a real one, giving her a tight squeeze before releasing her with another fake leer. “Nice tits, babe. Don’t tell your boss man I said that. He could probably kill me with one blow, eh?”
“God. I knew I never should have said anything nice to you, pig. And yes, he could.”
She opened the door. He saluted her and headed through the kitchen again, thinking he might do a bit more research before jumping into the private dinner.
One thing was certain—he knew, with every cell, nerve and molecule in his body, that he wanted Elisa Nagel. And not just in his bed, either. While he’d never been the most introspective guy on the planet, he knew one thing for a hard-core certainty—he was going to bring her out of her brittle shell, prove to her he could be trusted, and that he would protect her, forever.
Around the bend you go, Hoffman.
He grinned to himself and started whistling, anticipating how pleasant that trip might be.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“You’re a fool. An idiot. You’ve avoided any kind of attraction or connection for how long? Ten years, that’s how long. Ten years, Elisa. Why are you letting this…this Ross in now?”
“Shut up,” Elle muttered under her breath as she put the finishing touches on a way too ambitious Black Forest cake. She’d been soaking a batch of Michigan cherries in kirsch for a while, for reasons that were unclear until that morning, when she’d woken in a panic over her ‘private dinner’ invitation.
The Monster’s evil voice had, of course, been the first thing she was aware of. “You couldn’t make a proper genoise if your shitty life depended on it, you know.” His tone would be solemn, as if He were delivering sad, but necessary news. He rarely, if ever, raised his voice.
By the time He’d turned from her Dom to her abuser, He’d had her so well-trained that yelling wasn’t ever necessary. His declaration of her horrible cake-making abilities would likely be followed by a reminder that He’d dragged her sorry ass with him from Paris to Chicago. And that she’d repeatedly failed Him ever since—in every sense. She was no longer any use to Him in the bedroom—unless He was drawing blood, or her loudest, most agonizing screams. She’d been declared utterly useless as His so-called sous-chef so He’d demoted her to pastries at the famous restaurant that had hired them as a package deal.
But she knew damn well that one of the two things she could make the shit out
of was a melt-in-your-mouth Black Forest cake. And by hell she was going to do it today. The other thing was beer. But that had come much later in her life. Her life on the run. Her life taking every other second to look over her shoulder, to follow The Monster in the news, see what He was doing, what restaurant He’d saved, which buxom, D-level starlet was hanging off His arm.
As she rolled out of her bed and put her feet on the cold floor of her apartment, she allowed herself a split second’s worth of happy anticipation. She had an actual date. One she wanted. Not that she hadn’t wanted to go out with men in the past almost-eleven years. She just hadn’t wanted it enough. Ross Hoffman was more than enough.
She wanted him, bad. And while that terrified ninety-five percent of her, the other five percent was getting loud and persistent. So, here she was—the day of her first date in years, all tingly like a schoolgirl.
Sighing, she rose, stretched and took a quick shower to try to wash away the dread and fear that was rushing in behind her happiness, threatening to smother it with a blanket. An hour later, she’d shopped and unloaded all the ingredients, having managed to use thoughts of recipes and dinner to force both The Monster’s voice and the sound of her own, nagging Oma-voiced consciousness out of her head.
Stepping back as far as she could in the miniscule kitchen, she admired her handiwork. The cake was magazine cover-worthy. She straightened one, ever-so-slightly crooked cherry by its stem, then placed the cake stand on the kitchen table so it was out of the way.
Still in her cooking trance, she cleaned up, then glanced at the time to determine how she’d go about the dinner prep. Since she’d gone super-heavy with the dessert, somehow convinced that a Bavarian boy like Ross would devour a Black Forest cake cooked like his Mutter used to, she’d decided to go meat-free for the meal. As she stared at the butternut squash, second thoughts almost forced her to throw on her jacket run out for a steak. She had miniscule grill on her equally tiny balcony she could use to prepare it.
No. Everyone loved her homemade ravioli and Herr Hoffman would just have to forgo his not-quite-dead cow flesh for one night. Elle gnawed her fingernail, as the two voices kept up their low-level murmurings in her head. Both voices were reminding her of the same thing, essentially. But while one was looking out for her, the other was berating, chiding and threatening.