Servicing the Target

by Cherise Sinclair

  She cared about him.

  His chin thrust forward. “You should be here. With me.” His expression eased. “Spend the weekend with me, Anne. We’ll have fun. If you want, we can forego the D/s stuff.” The twitch of his lips clued her in.

  “You know I don’t set that aside for very long.”

  “True enough, at least not when sex is involved. But hey, if it makes you feel better, I can try to look pretty.” He batted his eyes.

  She burst out laughing, took his hand, and led him to the bedroom.

  Chapter Twelve

  Anne was a different person outside of the Shadowlands—and still the same, Ben decided. Even after a weekend in her company, he still hadn’t figured her out. She had more facets than the diamond earrings she wore—and was more down-to-earth than he’d realized.

  With her sprawled over him on his comfortable, suede-covered couch, Ben stroked her back. Earlier they’d argued over the various techniques used in action flicks.

  What kind of a sadist hated gory movies?

  On the far wall, the television was still playing their mutual pick—Independence Day.

  Anne had fallen asleep within the first twenty minutes. In his arms. Ben smiled and kissed the top of her head. He was making progress in wearing down her defenses.

  Although, he had to admit that he hadn’t planned the last battle. Her own soft heart had done her in when she’d seen him grieving. When she’d yanked him off the desk and into a whole new world.

  Damn, but she’d dug through his head in a way that made him feel as if she knew him better than anyone ever had. He’d been a mess. Even now, he struggled with the sadness of losing Mouse.

  But it was okay to be alive. Anne had forced him to acknowledge that. She’d also taken on his remorse at leaving the service and helped him see that he’d done the right thing.

  His guilt for not being there for his team might never fade entirely, but it had decreased. Each person was different in how much he could take. He’d been heartsick at killing others, at the deaths of his teammates, constantly on edge, half-addicted to the adrenaline, half-sick with it. He’d lasted a hell of a lot longer than some; hadn’t made it as long as others. Life was like that. He hadn’t blamed his buddies who’d quit after one combat tour—why should he blame himself after doing more than that?

  She’d helped him understand that.

  Quite a woman.

  Quite a Domme.

  After she’d spent Friday night with him, he’d fed her breakfast the next morning. And with his usual impeccable timing, Z had called to check on him, to tell him to take Saturday night off from the Shadowlands…and that Anne didn’t need to come in either.

  So Ben had talked her into going to St. Pete’s Vinoy Park for the Tampa Bay Blues Festival. Curtis Salgado. The Bluetones. The inspiration had been an unexpected win. Who would have guessed she played a saxophone—and loved the blues?

  Who would have guessed she would have known his photography work? That had been a hell of a rush.

  And today, since she was curious about how photographers worked, she’d been easy to coax into a long hike at Honeymoon Island so he could set up shots with the mangrove backdrop before the afternoon showers. The light right before a storm couldn’t be duplicated.

  Anne had no trouble keeping up with him—she was certainly in shape—and while he’d been taking pictures, she’d thrilled Bronx by playing fetch with him.

  With his toes, Ben rubbed the retriever sacked out at his feet. During an early counseling session, Z had told him to get a big friendly dog. The idea hadn’t been appealing in the least. So one day, Z had dropped off a puppy—and left while Ben was still protesting.

  Manipulative bastard.

  But it’d been impossible to stew at home when the puppy had to be taken for walks. And taught not to eat boots and picture frames. And fed and watered. Difficult to be morose when a game of stick-throwing—or just coming home—would send the furball into a dance of delight.

  Although no longer a frisky puppy, Bronx had turned into a damn fine friend.

  And Bronx thoroughly approved of Anne.

  Me, too, buddy.

  Ben rubbed his jaw against her silky hair, inhaling the light floral scent. Her skin was so delicate he could see the faint blue lines at her temples and under her eyes. She hadn’t worn makeup today. Her eyelashes weren’t black, but a dark brown. He wanted to feel that thick fringe brushing against his cheek.

  She’d been an excellent companion all weekend—fun to talk with, fun to hike with, pulled her own weight. While he’d packed his photography gear, she’d made the sandwiches they’d taken in a cooler. When he cooked supper, she’d done the clean up.

  To his surprise, she’d not stayed in her Domme armor all weekend.

  Of course, she’d slip into the role if he pushed her. Or when she felt like messing with his head.

  And he totally enjoyed the added zing when she did. Oh yeah. When she got that look in her gunmetal blue eyes and her voice took on that low tone of command, his blood sizzled and his cock jumped to attention.

  Because he was submissive. That sure wasn’t a term he’d figured would ever apply to him. He gave a half-laugh that roused his woman.

  His Mistress.

  Well, whatever the fuck he called her, she was his.

  She blinked up at him, half-irritated, her eyes still foggy with sleep, her mouth too fucking appealing.

  By the time he’d kissed the annoyance off her lips, she was awake.

  After turning to straddle him, she took his face between her palms. “What were you laughing about?”

  “Nothin’ important.”

  “Benjamin.” She slid into the Domme mode within one breath. And there his body went, responding with pleasure and arousal…and a heightened urge to make her happy.

  Submissive. Fuck. “Thinking about dominance and submission. You’re a Domme. Not sure I like calling myself a submissive”—and definitely not a slave—“even though I get off on this.”

  “Ah.” She lowered her ass onto his thighs. As her hands flattened on his chest, her gaze stayed on his face. “It’s an insulting word in our culture, especially when applied to a guy.”

  She looked away. Thinking. “All humans—men particularly—strive for power, and in our society, that usually means management positions. CEOs. Presidents. But not everyone enjoys being in command.”

  “Yeah. I’m more of a loner—photography gives me that.” He kissed her palm. “But you like giving the orders. I can see it.” She practically glowed when she was in full Mistress mode.

  “I do like it. I started topping my last year in the Corps. An older friend in my battalion showed me the ropes, so to speak. Something…clicked…and I knew I’d found what had been missing in my life. ”

  “You’ve been a Domme for well over a decade.” Or closer to fifteen years. No wonder she seemed so comfortable with who she was.

  “Mmmhmm. You know, you’re certainly not the only soldier who enjoys being taken under command. In the army, did you want to lead the troops or were you happy to take orders?”

  “Being in charge hasn’t ever been an overwhelming ambition for me—but I was honored to lead the men when it was my turn in the barrel.” And he’d done his damnedest to live up to the responsibility. “At the same time, I don’t mind taking orders, as long as my commanding officer is competent.”

  In all reality, there was a certain ease to operating under a talented leader. And with Anne, he’d found much to admire. She was a truly gifted operator.

  Her gaze held understanding. As a Marine, she knew how it worked. “So, rather than ‘submissive,’ we should have a nice short word for ‘You can give the orders as long as you don’t fuck it up, Sir. Knock yourself out.’ ”

  “When you say it that way, sounds better.”

  “Maybe not as sexy though.” Her hands curved along his jaw, and she kissed him, taking what she wanted. When he tried to put his arms around her, she made a
sound that had him lowering his hands to the couch.

  Submissive. The word sucked, but the feeling of restraining himself and letting her enjoy him was satisfying as hell. He could break her in half within a heartbeat, but the instincts at play said to give her whatever she pleased.

  Just her will alone could keep him in place. The dominant animal in a pack wasn’t always the biggest one.

  He murmured against her lips, “Since I’m the submissive—and this is my quarters—how about I cook you supper? And we’ll go to bed early?”

  Her throaty laugh made him reconsider the order of events. “You’re insatiable.”

  Only with her. That submissive word was starting to fit better than he’d thought possible. What about the next step? The slave word?

  Didn’t sound like him. But what would he do to keep this woman in his life?

  Who knew—maybe he’d roll that way given the chance. There was only one way to find out. “Insatiable for you pretty much describes it, yeah.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  On Thursday, Ben parked in one of the two spaces beside Anne’s driveway.

  Bronx jumped out of the SUV behind him. Tail waving gently, the dog danced across the driveway, checked the air, and headed around the house. Bronx had quickly figured out that Anne usually enjoyed a cup of tea or coffee on her deck so she could watch the sunset. Hearing the saxophone, he stopped to listen. After a moment, he recognized the old tune. “Arthur’s Theme” was an unusual mixture of haunting and uplifting.

  She was in a fair mood. Anne’s body language didn’t always reveal her spirits, but her music was a dead giveaway.

  As Ben reached the back of the house, he heard his retriever charge across the deck.

  “Bronx!” Anne laughed. “Aren’t you a pretty boy? Such a smart dog.”

  Ben grinned. The woman was a sucker for children and animals. “Permission to come aboard?” he called from the foot of the stairs.

  “Come on up, Ben.”

  He climbed up. “You look damn comfortable.”

  Sitting on a lounge chair, she’d put her sax aside to pet Bronx. Her khaki shorts showed off her long, golden-tan legs. Her sleeveless top was the exact color of her striking eyes—and unbuttoned. Sure, she wore a swimsuit beneath it, but his libido had a Pavlovian switch. A woman—especially this one—with an unbuttoned shirt sent his lust into overdrive.

  Bronx was leaning against the chair, collecting as much loving as he could con out of her.

  “You’re spoiling him, Anne.”

  “He has beautiful manners. As long as that continues, I’ll continue rewarding him.”

  Ben leaned over and collected a slow kiss. Damn, he loved the way she kissed, the way her fingers gripped his hair, with her other hand fisted in his shirt to pull him closer.

  When he finished and straightened, she assessed the muddy scratches on his legs, arms, and hands. Concern edged her voice. “Are you all right?”

  “Good enough. My Jeep got stuck in a swampy area. Had to work to get it extricated.”

  “You look as if you fought your way through the Everglades.” She motioned toward the door behind her. “Go grab something to drink—and eat too. I made cookies for the shelter kids and saved a bunch for you.”

  “Seriously?” Cookies? Yeah, he adored her. A shame the deck was so exposed or he’d have gone down on her right then. “If they have raisins, I’ll be your slave for the night.”

  “Benjamin.” One perfectly groomed eyebrow went up. “You’ll be that whether or not there are raisins.”

  Good point. Smiling, he gave her a mock salute and headed for the kitchen before he said something that’d get him in trouble. Or got his treats taken away.

  She’d baked chocolate chip cookies on Monday, made carrot cake on Tuesday—Bronx wasn’t the only male being spoiled around here.

  He grinned. This morning, she’d insisted on jogging an additional mile, complaining that she was gaining weight because of his sweets addiction.

  But, far as he was concerned, an extra inch or two on her hips or breasts would be a total turn-on. More to hold; more to play with.

  Speaking of playing, he was looking forward to the next few days. This was Ghost’s weekend as security guard at the Shadowlands, and Anne was free of dungeon monitor duties. Since Raoul was out of town, Ben had arranged to borrow his sailboat. Hopefully, Anne would be interested in spending a long, leisurely weekend on the water.

  The phone rang as he pulled a bottled water from the fridge. “Anne—phone.”

  “Coming. Answer it, please.”

  He knew how she answered her phone, never saying her own name. But hearing a man’s voice, the caller might think they had the wrong number. So he picked up the receiver and said, “I’m answering for the resident. Please hold.”

  “What?” After a hesitation, the man demanded, “Let me speak to Anne.” Was this one of her brothers? The voice seemed familiar.

  “Hold, please.”

  Followed by Bronx, Anne strode in and accepted the phone with a mouthed thank you. “Hello?”

  After a pause, she said, “I’m sorry, but that’s none of your business.” Her brows drew together in irritation.

  Someone was going to catch hell. Ben grabbed three cookies and headed out to the deck, whistling for Bronx as he went.

  As he stepped outside, he heard her say, “No. I’m not taking you back, Joey.”

  Ben stopped dead. Fuck. It took a second to get himself moving again. He set the cookies on the dark brown wicker end table, dropped into a chair, and put his feet up on the railing.

  Like a cockroach, a nasty feeling was crawling into his gut. Joey’d been Anne’s last “boy.”

  Joey got off on being whipped, beaten, his nuts smashed. Her slave had waited on her hand and foot. The young man was slender, ripped, and looked as if he should be modeling men’s briefs.

  Totally Anne’s type. Totally the complete opposite of Ben.

  The bottle started to crumple in his grip.

  Joey wanted to be her slave again—she could have her pretty boy back.

  But she’d said no. Only…she was still talking to the little shit on the phone. How persuasive was he?

  How much did she want to have a slave again?

  Ben’s back teeth ground together. Should he let her know she had an alternate ready and willing to serve?

  But he wasn’t a slave, dammit. Yeah, he’d pretty much accepted that he fucking loved handing over the reins in the sex arena. The rest of the time? That was negotiable.

  He scowled at a soaring frigatebird, its sharp black wings stark against the blue sky.

  If she wanted 24/7, then… Shit. Could he?

  But could he give her up? Go back to empty evenings with no Anne to argue over martial arts tactics or firearms, to wrestle with on the living room floor, to listen to the latest stupid stunt her cousin pulled.

  Ben wanted her opinions when he worked on a photograph, wanted to eat the cookies she saved for him, wanted to see her sneaking Bronx the forbidden tidbits.

  He wanted to watch the sunlight on her face in the mornings, to jog beside her on the beach, to enjoy her disapproving frown when he sugared his coffee.

  No, he couldn’t give her up, not without a fight.

  And he wouldn’t know if he liked being a “slave” if he didn’t try it. Fuck knew, if she went back to Joey, he’d never get that chance.

  Anne came out and dropped down in the chair next to him. After a second, she leaned forward and hugged Bronx.

  Ben frowned at her unsettled expression. Now that just wouldn’t do. He rose, scooped her up, and sat with her in his lap. Soft and warm. Her hip pressed against a part of his body that was rapidly wakening.

  “Ben,” she said, giving her usual warning when he grabbed her, but she didn’t really sound upset.

  He inhaled her light, spicy fragrance. She smelled like cinnamon and vanilla—as edible as one of her cookies. “I can’t have my mutt getting all the love.
You’re going to make me jealous.”

  Immediately, he regretted the words—coming so close after Joey’s call. To divert her, he nuzzled the curve between her neck and shoulder and nipped her lightly.

  Her squirm made his cock stand at attention. Reporting for duty, yes, ma’am.

  “What’s going on, Ben?” She turned, her hands bracketing his face as she stared into his eyes. “You’re different today.”

  All right. She’d chosen the time and place, although he’d really have preferred to do this when he was buried deep inside her. “I’ve been thinking. About us. I want to move things up a notch.” He grinned. “Let’s go to a .44 magnum.”

  Her head jerked back slightly, and her brows rose.

  He traced a finger over the arch of one elegantly curved eyebrow, so different from his bushy straight lines.

  With an exasperated huff, she pulled his hand down and frowned at him. “A .44 magnum. You want us to be exclusive.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I take slaves, Benjamin. Not lovers.”

  Why did he see worry and the beginning of grief in her eyes? She started to push back.

  His grip clamped on her ass. “I think you care for me, and I very much care for you. So yes, a .44. You’re not seeing anyone else, and neither am I. That’s exclusive. And I’ll be your slave.”

  “You want to be my slave?” Anne studied his face as if it would reveal the future rather than just his desire. “I’m not sure that would be wise. What does being a slave mean to you?”

  “Means I do what you say, try to please you—in bed and out.”

  “Guard dog,” she said softly. “I’m a strict Mistress. Not an easy one. I prefer high protocol—no touching or speaking or sitting without permission. I’ll give you chores, ask you to take on duties you might not appreciate.”

  “I’ve seen you with your slaves.”

  She shook her head. “Are you sure, Ben? You’re new to the lifestyle. I think you’re rushing things.”

  That phone call said there was a need for hurry.

  The thought of losing her was intolerable. What would he do, how much of himself would he sacrifice to keep her by his side? To hear her laughter, to feel her hands on his face, to wake with her in his arms. “I’m sure. I’m not rushing things.”