“Thanks, Oprah.” But Jon blew out a breath after another long moment. “I know you’re right. I need to get my mind wrapped around how to handle it. She’s complicated. A lot of layers I don’t yet understand, and you gave me a missing piece I should have taken the time to see before I… Goddamn it, I don’t want her to be alone with this. F*ck.”
Leland didn’t bother to suppress a grim smile at the sound of something crashing, perhaps accidentally knocked off a table—or knocked off deliberately—and the stream of curses that followed. Despite the serious circumstances, he wished he had a recorder so he could play this for the other guys of Jon’s team who were used to him being so irritatingly placid under pressure. Now that he figured the woman was in good hands, Leland could enjoy the break from pattern, though he was smart enough not to goad. Much.
“Try some of those ‘ohms’ you do,” he said encouragingly. “You know, that lotus thing, with the fingers all arranged in a circle.”
He chuckled as the phone disconnected with a definitive click, and replaced his own receiver. Damn, it was late, and he’d volunteered to take Ramirez’s early shift tomorrow. Maybe he’d get one of the guys to drop him off at the corner, so he could get some more packaged nachos from Raj. Checking his watch, he thought he could still catch the two a.m. ESPN wrap-up, after all.
After tonight’s events, he thought he’d be dreaming of the curvy, perfect submissive he’d yet to find. The one who would wear his collar and nothing else to bed. He’d curl his large body around her like a protective panther and know she was all his, one hand cupped around her generous breast, the nipple teasing his palm as he nested his cock in the crevice of her soft ass. They’d dream the night away together.
He hoped Jon was on the way to finding a similar treasure. Something in the serious hazel eyes of the blonde, the set of that pink mouth, the dignified way she’d managed to straighten up at the end, said she might be the kind of pure gold every man sought. That every Master needed.
Chapter Four
When she got home that night, Rachel took a thorough shower, knowing it would be her last one for a while. She woke briefly in the early morning to call in a replacement to her PT appointments and yoga classes for the next two days. Since she had two reliable backups who were always looking for extra money, they were eager to take the slots and didn’t ask her many questions, letting her get off the phone as quickly as possible. The relief that she’d be missing Dana’s appointment was tangled with a disappointment that only made her more viciously ashamed of herself.
For the next day and a half, she buried herself under her covers, left the TV on and slept. So very, very tired, she didn’t care about anything. But she’d been down this road before, and she knew how to manage it. She’d give herself the two days for uninterrupted numbness and self-pity, but on Day Three, she’d make herself get up and resume her life, no matter how impossible that sounded from the dark cocoon of her comforter right now.
Tears spilled out now and again, as she drifted back in time and sobbed for all the losses that had led to this, as if the pain of what had happened at Club More wasn’t excruciating enough. Every time she thought about it, she cringed, trying to block the humiliation and fear she’d felt. Once, long ago, she’d called her cravings a harmless fantasy. Not only had what she’d experienced from Milo and Natasha been far from harmless, but in truth, the fantasy that had driven her there had been part of the barbs that tore at the fabric of her marriage, helping to unravel it.
She took aspirin and put compresses on her face, but more often than not, she just slept. She thought about Jon, cried about what he represented. Of all the things she’d have to face on Day Three, he was the one that frightened her most. Maybe she should go ahead and take her full two weeks’ vacation. It wasn’t like she was going to use it for anything else. If she could afford it, which she couldn’t, she’d take a whole month. She wished she could get caught in a time vortex like in the movies, where she could sleep for days and days and then wake up at the same date she’d gone under, not having been missed or harassed by anyone who wanted something from her.
Still deep in that mode, it irritated her intensely when, on the afternoon of Day Two, there was an insistent knocking on her apartment door. She ignored it at first, because she didn’t have friends close enough to visit her at home, and the time of day ruled out any of her working neighbors being home and needing anything. So all that left was the rare door-to-door sales attempt in the apartment complex, and she for sure wasn’t dealing with that today. However, when it continued, became more insistent, she stumbled out of bed, swiping her hair out of her face. Making her way to the door through the living area and kitchen, she peered out the peephole.
Oh God. No way was she opening the door to him, not looking like this. And why the hell was he here?
“Rachel.” No question in his tone. He knew she was there. “Open the door.”
“I…I have the flu, Jon. Whatever you need, I’ll help you whenever I get back to class.” Which was a ludicrous thing to say, since he could hardly be here for some mundane reason. He shouldn’t know her address or anything else about her.
“You don’t have the flu. Open the door. Now.”
He didn’t raise his voice. The words were quiet, smooth, yet there was that note in them she’d never experienced in such a targeted way. This was an undeniable command, and it shot through her chest, sending an unusual tremor through her limbs. Definitely not a good idea to answer the door.
Oh for God’s sake, she was a grown woman. “Jon, I don’t know what this is about, but it’s not appropriate for you to be—”
“It’s not appropriate for you to be going to some sleazy dive where you could get yourself raped or worse. You’ll open this door right now, and I wouldn’t suggest you make me repeat myself again.”
Shock took over, followed by an uncertain spurt of anger, but it was enough to have her unlatching the door and pulling it open, heedless of how she might appear. “How did you—”
When she opened the door, he was standing almost in the threshold. The recalled violence of nearly thirty-six hours ago was enough to make her step back with a startled cry, her angry words caught in her throat.
A range of expressions crossed his face. First, he registered her fear. Then his gaze covered the bruise on her cheek, the swollen eye and lip. The one brought a look of gentle caution, the other a flash of fury that he tamped down with obvious effort.
He took two steps inside. She backed up but gripped the door, dizzy because of the shock of seeing him, and because she’d stumbled out of bed with very little on her stomach. Before she could evade him, he slid an arm around her back to hold her in place. Then he bent to put another under her knees and lifted her off her feet.
Just like that. Like instead of a woman who hadn’t showered, who had oily, limp hair and was wearing her warmest, thickest flannel pajamas that caught under her heels and flapped over her wrists, she was some fragile, beautiful heroine with flowing hair and silky lingerie. A heroine who could trust him to carry her to safety. She could curl her arms around his shoulders, which seemed broad enough, his lean frame notwithstanding, and bury her face into his shoulder, reassured by his male scent. And not just any male. A male who would protect a woman, who would care for her, no matter what. Who didn’t question or resent that but considered it a duty, a privilege and, beyond that, a deep, abiding desire.