Dream Chaser - SETTING

by Ashley, Kristen

  “What are you—?”

  “I said we’re havin’ dinner,” he cut me off to announce. “So I brought dinner.”

  And then I was shuffling back because he was prowling in.

  I stood with one hand on the door, staring at the doorway to my living room, through which he’d disappeared.

  “Lock it,” his voice ordered from the vicinity, my guess, of my kitchen.

  I shut the door, locked it and hustled toward the kitchen.

  Through the space, I saw he was indeed in the kitchen, standing at the counter that jutted out, facing the dining room.

  I stopped on the other side.

  “Uh…Boone—”

  “Fried chicken, macaroni salad, potato salad, ambrosia salad, and don’t give me any shit about that, I dig the stuff. And a happy birthday cookie because whoever had the idea to put frosting on a huge-ass cookie is a saint.”

  He was unearthing all of this from King Soopers bags.

  And I was processing the fact zero-body-fat Boone dug ambrosia salad and huge-ass cookies with frosting on them (and seriously in danger of having the biggest orgasm he’d ever made me in danger of having in receiving this knowledge).

  As ever, I managed to control this reaction, shifted my gaze from the smorgasbord of goodness he was spreading out on my counter and looked to him.

  “Boone, I—” I began quietly.

  His head came up and being confronted with all that green when his eyes captured mine shut my mouth, but his opened to speak.

  “I ended it with her yesterday.”

  I put both hands to the counter.

  “It’s all you,” he finished.

  It was all me.

  Ohmigod.

  Ohmigod!

  “Boone,” I whispered.

  “Baby, I want you,” he whispered back. “And if the happy birthday cookie doesn’t win you, I’ll find something that does. So tear down the walls, Ryn, I want in, I’m getting in and we’re gonna see where this goes.”

  “Were you into her?” I asked.

  His face got kind of hard. “She doesn’t factor.”

  “She does if you eventually feel you gave up something you wished you hadn’t.”

  “Babe, if she was something to me, we would have been exclusive. And that might sound harsh to you, but it isn’t. You don’t know me, so I’ll share I’m not some guy who’s gonna blow off a woman’s feelings with shit like ‘she knew the score.’ We both did. She said on our second date she wasn’t looking for anything serious. She’d just had a bad break. She was easing herself back in. And she gave no indication it was going anywhere for her with me, including when I ended it with her. She just kissed my cheek and told me if I ever wanted a booty call, I had her number.”

  I suspected my face got hard at that, or something, because he went on.

  “That’s not gonna happen, Ryn. It was her way of saying she dug me enough to have me again, but now that she didn’t, no hard feelings.”

  “Boone, I hesitate to share this with you, but I assume you own a mirror, or if not, in your lifetime walked by one, so you gotta know you’re not hard on the eyes.”

  This comment made his eyes twinkle.

  This guy.

  Everything about him was shit hot.

  Even his eyes twinkling.

  I ignored that (or attempted to, we’ll just say I powered through), and carried on.

  “Though, you’re not a woman, so let me share with you how a woman feels about a breakup with a guy like you. She is either A,” I lifted my hand and grabbed my pinkie, “currently outside this house because she’s stalking you, and after you leave, she’s going to break in and attempt to murder me, or B,” I grabbed my ring finger, “working her way through her fourth huge-ass birthday cookie with each bite soaked in her tears.”

  Boone started chuckling.

  I just gazed steadily at him and lifted my brows.

  He stopped chuckling but he still was grinning when he shared, “Ryn, honest to God, she’s good. And again, not to be harsh, but if she’s not, and she lied about not wanting anything serious or kept from me growing feelings, then I’m not sure that’s my issue. But even so, I like to think I can get a bead on people and she just wasn’t that into me, which, seeing as I’m into you, worked for me.”

  “She seems quite an unusual woman.”

  “It isn’t just men who can disconnect from emotion to find someone to spend time with and give them an orgasm.”

  Well, that was true.

  “Were you her Dom?”

  His expression softened, his eyes grew a fascinating mixture of tender and reproving, and he said gently, “Don’t ask shit like that.”

  Which meant he was.

  I looked down at my hands.

  “You’re not a virgin, I’m not a virgin,” he said, and my head came back up. “You’ve played, I’ve played. I can guarantee you haven’t played like I play, but I am not gonna ask about anyone who had you, unless there’s something they did that you didn’t like that I’ll need to avoid.”

  Curiosity, as it was wont to do, got the better of me.

  “I haven’t played like you play?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “First, when we get there, and I’m takin’ us there after we get to know each other better, sweetheart, no sooner, but in the beginning, we’re vanilla. I want us to have that to build what we got, as well as get familiar with each other’s bodies before we go there. And just to say, I dig vanilla, as long as it’s creative, so that’s always on the table. But we’ll have that in the beginning ’cause I’ll also need to discover your hotspots so I can take advantage of them when the time comes.”

  A certain spot was hot with the way he was talking.

  “Other than that,” he shifted to start opening and closing cupboards, “I might collar you when I’m feelin’ like seein’ you wear my ownership, but I don’t dig the deep end of the scene.”

  One might think this was odd, this depth of sexual sharing at this juncture.

  But this was natural.

  This was usual.

  This feeling-out of each other, Dom and sub.

  Not details of what to expect, that’d take the fun out of it.

  But a sharing of practices, what was in, what was out, what was to be avoided, what could be explored, and cementing an understanding of hard limits was essential before anything more involved came about.

  That said, I was finding it hard to follow along when he was talking about taking advantage of hotspots and collaring me.

  “What do you consider the deep end of the scene?” I asked.

  He came out of a cupboard with plates, set them down, and started opening and closing drawers.

  “Role play. Cos play. There’s gonna be bondage and there’s gonna be spanking, you earn it. But no whips or shit like that. I’m not into inflicting pain. Toys’ll be mutually agreed, until you get what I like, I get what you like, and then there might be some surprises.”

  He set silverware on the plates and looked directly at me.

  “Mostly, Kathryn, I tell you what to do, and you do it, or I tie you up and play with you until I’m ready to let you come. If you need deeper than that, I like you. I want you. I still wanna see where this could go. But I can tell you now, that’s not gonna get me off. So you’re gonna have to think hard on that, sweetheart.”

  “I…” I swallowed, “don’t need deeper than that.”

  He leaned into his hands on my counter and said gently, “You know not to hold that shit back, yeah?”

  I nodded.

  “I just need to let go, Boone. It isn’t for me to say what you do, as you know, but I don’t like pain or humiliation, and I’ve only ever been whipped once, by Bad Dom, and I’d shared that was a hard limit.”

  “Kovack,” he grunted, no longer appearing matter-of-fact in order to sort through stuff that for people not like us, they’d probably think it was crazy, and smutty.

  But for people like us, it was cru
cial.

  “I’ve told a lot of friends I know in the life about him. I don’t know if he’s finding play partners, but he has a reputation and you know we look out for our own.”

  “That doesn’t cut it because he’s finding play partners, and they might not be in the life, so he might be finding some vanilla chick who has no idea what’s about to hit her, and that means he really needs a lesson in precisely why that’s not okay. And it was seriously not fuckin’ okay when he did it to you.”

  I couldn’t argue that, so I didn’t.

  Boone noted I wasn’t going to, therefore he asked, “We gonna eat?”

  I nodded.

  His expression changed again, becoming searching and…

  God.

  Sweet.

  “We gonna do this?” he asked gently.

  “We don’t seem to get along very well,” I remarked nervously.

  “We haven’t tried very hard,” he pointed out.

  When I said nothing, Boone asked a question.

  “You scared?”

  Terrified.

  “When you’re not being bossy, invasive and sticking your nose into things that aren’t your business, you seem pretty awesome.”

  He smiled a small smile I felt in my clit and corrected me.

  “Things that weren’t yet my business but were gonna be.”

  “Mm,” I mumbled.

  “Ryn, let me in,” he urged.

  I looked down at the happy birthday cookie in its plastic container.

  It had big globs of bright frosting balloons and a thick piping of border, that same thick piping spelling out the words, and all the frosting was festooned with candy confetti.

  “Ryn, eyes to me.”

  I lifted my gaze to him.

  “I am not your dad and I am not your brother. And I’m not those guys who treated you like shit. I’m definitely not that Dom who betrayed your trust. But I’m also not perfect and I got my ghosts. I can’t tell the future, but I can promise you right here, a sacred pact over a big cookie, that I will do everything in my power not to hurt you. It won’t come unintentional. It won’t come neglectful. We will communicate and we will keep on each other’s pulse. I don’t think it’s smart to talk about the end before we’ve even begun, but I’m sensing you need this. So I’ll give it to you. If we fail, baby, it’ll just be the way it’s supposed to be even if there’s pain. It’ll just be I’m not for you, or you’re not for me. But that won’t come as a surprise either. Are you feeling me?”

  “A sacred pact over a big cookie is a big deal, Boone,” I joked, but it lost some of its chutzpah with the way the words shook.

  But Boone wasn’t feeling like making fun.

  I knew this when he said firmly, “Yeah, Ryn, it is.”

  Okay, he was serious about this.

  And okay, I was seriously attracted to him and even not knowing him well, I knew I seriously liked him.

  Even the bossy, invasive parts, because I might be able to dump some money into fixing up that house if I wasn’t paying for Angelica’s massages.

  And he gave that to me.

  “Can we take it slow?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t take it any other way.”

  I pulled in a shuddering breath.

  Then I said, “I like white meat.”

  His smile was…

  It was…

  God.

  Way, way better than a frosting-festooned big cookie.

  “Baby, the thigh’s where it’s at.”

  I made a face even though it was not lost on me if I did something I’d never done in my life, roasted a chicken for us (though I could buy one), I wouldn’t have to fight for the white meat.

  This was already working.

  Which scared me even more.

  He ripped the chicken bag open and said, “Dig in.”

  We both dug in.

  He gave me shit I didn’t have any beer.

  I gave him shit about the fact I wasn’t clairvoyant about his beverage tastes or his plans to invade my true crime night and further shared I drank gin in cocktails, wine most other times, cider when I was feeling caj (as in casual, and when I used that word, Boone chuckled), and tequila when I wanted hardcore.

  He shared, “I drink beer…and beer.”

  I started laughing and then had to work harder at balancing my plate because I had his arm hooked along my stomach, my side pressed to his front, and his lips to my temple before they went to my ear and he said, “See, this is already working out great.”

  I turned my head, caught his gaze, and wanted so bad to kiss him, it was an all-over itch.

  All I could think to say was, “Yeah.”

  He smiled at me, warm eyes, sweet expression, before he gave me a squeeze and let me go.

  We were in my living room, in front of the TV, Boone at the other corner of the couch, angled, legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. I was back in my corner, knees up, plate wedged between thighs and chest, his “beer…and beer,” sweet words in my ear and squeeze had worn off, and I was freaking out.

  I had never really been one to be super nervous around guys.

  My dad taught me that, but not in a good way.

  He left my mother, who was awesome, and my brother and me, who were also awesome, and after being banged around emotionally by that and other shit he pulled for years, I’d come to the conclusion that anyone who entered my life could take me as I came, or like my dad, they could go.

  This was not that.

  This was someone I wanted to get to know better.

  This was someone I wanted to like me.

  This was something I wanted to work out.

  “What the hell is this?” Boone asked, and I looked from tearing the crispy skin off my chicken breast to him.

  “Sorry?”

  “On TV.”

  I turned to the TV. “Saturday night in front of television nirvana. A marathon of The Case That Haunts Me.”

  He stared at the TV.

  I stared at his profile not knowing which part of his profile to focus on, his jaw, or his cheekbone.

  He looked to me. “Sweetheart, TV nirvana is a Saturday night Rockies game.”

  “We can switch to baseball,” I offered. “If you want me catatonic in ten minutes.”

  He smiled at me and asked, “So, you’re into true crime?”

  “Yup,” I said, popping the crispy skin into my mouth.

  Boone watched me do that and it made him smile again before he reached to my battered coffee table, nabbed my remote, pointed it at the TV and it paused.

  He tossed the remote on the seat between us and twisted further my way.

  He took up a forkful of macaroni salad before he teased, “This room could be darker.”

  All righty then.

  It was get-to-know-you-better time.

  Fabulous.

  Because suddenly, I had the unique, and not-all-that-fun sensation that I hoped I was interesting to know.

  I considered what my living room said about me.

  My couch was a deep purple. My armchair was a brick red. The walls were a deep orange-red. The rug on the floor was fake Persian with a dark-blue background and red, orange, pink and peach designs.

  And my dark-wood roller shades were closed.

  “I like dark,” I muttered.

  “Mm,” he hummed and shoved into his mouth salad that was so far from the true meaning of salad, it was kinda hilarious.

  After he swallowed, he said, “Do you know how many plants you have? Or did you lose track after number three thousand?”

  I was fighting a smile when I replied, “Evie says they’re destroying the Amazon, and this destruction is depleting the world’s oxygen, so I’m doing my bit to oxygenate Denver.”

  “Obliged, baby, I’m already breathing easier,” he murmured, and forked more macaroni into his mouth.

  “Can you tell me how our meal is drenched in mayo, grease and marshmallows and you have negative body f
at?”

  He chewed, swallowed, and replied, “I work hard. I work out hard. And I fuck hard. Calories aren’t a problem for me.”

  I squinted my eyes at him and announced, “You know, if we’re gonna take this slow, you’re gonna have to not be so hot.”

  He looked in danger of dissolving in laughter which was a good look on him (as were all of them, gah!). “How am I gonna do that?”

  “Not talk about fucking hard would be a start.”

  “Rynnie, baby, you gotta know delayed gratification is the best kind.”

  Seriously?

  I pointed my chicken breast at him across the couch. “That! Stop doing that!”

  He started chuckling.

  I rolled my eyes and focused on eating.

  “You wanna talk about your brother?” he asked.

  Man, that was nice.

  Still.

  “No, nothing horrible happened today, but the end of it is surprisingly promising, so I don’t wanna ruin it.”

  “All right, sweetheart,” he muttered.

  “Do you have a brother?” I asked.

  “Yes. Two.”

  “A sister?”

  He shook his head.

  “You oldest? Youngest?” I went on.

  “Middle.”

  “Middle child syndrome?”

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “Dad called me Bobby.”

  I didn’t get that.

  “He called you Bobby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Said I was Bobby Kennedy, as good as or better than the ones that came before, or after.”

  Wow.

  Bold.

  And maybe uncool.

  “I bet your brothers loved that,” I mumbled.

  “Dad was about competition. He did shit like that all the time to get us riled up to best each other to better ourselves.”

  I wasn’t sure that was healthy, though watching Boone talk about it, he didn’t seem tense.

  “I was a brain,” he went on. “Late bloomer. Growth spurt came when I was a sophomore in high school, which sucked. And then I was all gangly. I’d always been shit at sports. Both Cassidy and Larson were strong, tough, tall from young ages, and they just got taller. Good at sports. Smart too, though they weren’t into that kinda thing, so they didn’t apply themselves. But the stuff they were good at was the stuff other kids thought was cool, so my dad was tryin’ to make me feel less of a loser, doing shit like calling me Bobby. Cass and Lars didn’t need that. Everyone thought they were awesome.”