by Jillian Neal
“How did you ask me three?” Skepticism replaced the embarrassment in her eyes. He was pleased to see it go.
Leaning in to whisper in her ear, he kept her cradled gently to him. “I asked you what it was you needed, if that was all you needed, and also instructed you to tell me exactly what it was you wanted. I see that as three, and I always play fair. I do want you to get very used to the idea of telling me precisely what you’d like for me to do to you when we’re together. Understood?”
Her hesitant nod spoke volumes. His all-too-innocent cowgirl had clearly never been with a real man. Declan had no doubt that she’d had sex, but she’d never been worshipped, never been seduced, taken, and owned the way he planned to own her.
He waited patiently for her questions, not in any hurry to begin confessing much of anything and rather enjoying the fact that one of his kisses had scrambled her so thoroughly.
“Uh,” she took a quick inventory of his face, from what he could tell. “Did it hurt to have your brow piercing done?”
He drew a sip of tea to keep from laughing at her outright. Of all the things he’d alluded to, from a slight sense of submission that he sought from her in the bedroom to the fact that he’d been arrested, and that’s what she’d come up with. She was completely adorable. When he’d regained his composure, he set down his teacup and stared her down. With the lift of his pierced eyebrow, he smirked. “Not nearly as bad as my other piercing.”
One, two, thr. . . and there it was. She was infinitely quicker than most. Realization lit her entire face. Her mouth was actually hanging open. This time he couldn’t hide his chuckle.
“So, you have your. . .I mean. . .it’s pierced?”
“Does this count as your second question, love?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Because I’d really rather discuss all of that Friday at my house if it’s all the same to you.”
“Oh.”
Dec watched her glance flit around the coffee shop. There were enough other patrons tucked away at the scattered tables nearby to keep her from demanding he tell her more now, but he had no doubt she longed to hear more about his Apadravya piercing.
“Uh, okay, how about would you rather I call you Dec, like Trace does?”
She was digging deeper. A low level sense of panic rose in his gut, a tidal wave of fear. Desperate to keep things light, he forced another grin. “You can call me anything you want, angel. Declan, Dec, daddy, sex god, master, whatever makes you smile, or better yet moan.”
“Funny. I won’t ever be calling anyone master, just make sure you remember that. Think I’ll stick to Declan or Dec until you prove yourself a sex god, then we’ll see about that.” Her body language was once again loud and clear. The gentle brush of her right breast with her inner arm and the intrigue in her eyes said she was curious about the master business despite her adamant verbal objections.
“Can’t wait to prove myself.” Certain he did in fact sound like a surly dom, he debated. Nothing sounded more appealing than allowing Holly to explore her latent submissive fantasies with him as her guide. Instead of leaping head first into that extremely interesting rabbit hole, he braced for the next question.
This time the narrowing of her eyes complimented the hard cock of her jaw. “All right, how about: what were you arrested for?”
And there it was. His heart thudded out a frantic beat urging him to flee, but he was determined to do this right.
Drawing a deep breath, he nodded his head to his own destruction. “I believe the actual charges were reduced from possession of a Class A controlled drug, possession with intent to supply, and premises I occupied being used for the consumption of controlled substances, down to simply possession with the agreement that I spend a lengthy amount of time in Betel Rehab in London in their highly acclaimed program.”
“Wow.”
Dec swore she nodded for the better part of the next five minutes.
“So, is Class A in Britain the same as Class A here? Cocaine, ecstasy, heroin, stuff like that?”
Yes. “Holly, I swear I’ve been clean for years. I hated myself then and I still hate myself because I’m sitting here in my favorite tea shop with a beautiful woman and having to tell her this.”
“Hey.” To his shock, she scooted back into his arms hugging him fiercely. “Don’t do that. Addiction isn’t something you should hate yourself for, ever. You wouldn’t hate a cancer patient for having cancer would you? You know you have it. You manage it every single day, I’m sure. Don’t be so hard on yourself, especially for me. I’m glad you told me. Thank you for being real finally.”
She thought he was being real with her? The stabbing pain of that gutted him. There was so much more to the sordid tale. He’d told her nothing but the bitter end, and had no intention of ever telling her the beginning, or the horrendous middle portions. There was only so much he could ask of himself, and she didn’t deserve to have to bear the weight of his failures.
“It’s your turn to ask me a question,” she reminded him sweetly.
He searched her for ridicule or judgment. It had to be in there somewhere. You didn’t confess to owning and selling drugs and get away without retribution from the listener, but he couldn’t find anything in those all-telling eyes that said she was either afraid or ashamed of him.
Declan had no idea how to respond to that. He’d alluded to his addiction back at her apartment as a last ditch effort to scare her away. He’d elaborated to push her further and she’d responded by coming closer. Evie had overdosed that day eleven years ago, and never once since that moment that had fractured and divided his entire life had Dec ever admitted his weaknesses and had anyone respond by reaching out to him. Everyone he’d ever loved had pushed him away. That was what he deserved.
“Where would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” He landed on a question he did want the answer to, far too confused to ask her something deeper or more meaningful. “Remember, I’m basically awful at dating. I haven’t ever really done it, certainly not since my divorce.”
Completely powerless to shut himself up, he detonated another bomb, unable to believe that she could want more of him after learning about a few of his more horrendous moments.
Her responding smirk was definitely unexpected. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to scare me off. Now, allow me a song title, I’m Not Afraid.”
“Damn it all to hell, woman, you up and pulled Eminem on me. That’s not fair. One cannot argue Eminem.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty proud of that one.” Another one of her sweet giggles lit through him, warming the frigid darkness housed in his soul.
“I never loved her.” He continued to spew forth the insanity of his life. He downed another gulp of tea, desperate to dam back any further confessions.
“Seems like Trace’s proper English tea is some kind of truth serum. Definitely have to remember that. I’m sorry you were in an unsuccessful and unloving marriage, but last time I checked, we were living right now not in your past.”
“I’m definitely being bested in the healthy relationship knowledge department, which makes me disappointed in myself.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, I really like to win.” She waggled her eyebrows.
“Oh, darling, I promise I will make it my mission to make certain that you win over and over and over again.” And he would. He’d just met this woman, who’d somehow accepted him via a song title like the God he’d refused to believe in had forged her specifically for him. If she would allow it, he would teach her how to exist in pure ecstasy whenever she was in his bed. He owed her that and so much more. What else could he ever hope to give her?
One question remained, where did he go from here? He’d shown her the results of the most gruesome parts of his life, and she was currently nuzzling her head against his neck while she sipped her coffee. How was she really able to exist in the present and not in the past? Who was truly capable of such a thing? His little cowgirl sh
ould up and decide to become a psychologist. She’d make a spectacular one. Dear Lord, he’d lay on her couch for hours letting her soothe his every regret if she’d allow it, then he’d lay her down on that same sofa and show her the one thing he’d always excelled at.
“Hey, did you know there’s a podcast about pencils?” She announced, still remaining true to not being shaken by his divorce. He was beginning to wonder if he was somehow caught up in a febrile dream. That was the only logical explanation to any of this.
“Erasable. I know. I listen to it when I run. It’s bloody brilliant.”
“It’s my favorite. They did that one Extra Dark episode but. . . .”
“It just wasn’t as good. My God, woman, what are you doing to me?”
She lifted her head and gave him a delighted grin that he swore could light a thousand distant planets. “Hopefully, seducing you so well you’ll agree to amending your one-week rule.”
Declan arched his pierced eyebrow once again. “Seduction by pencil conversation. Tempting as sin and twice as lethal, but anticipation is the second most potent thing in our reality, darling.” He returned his right hand to her thigh, gauging her reactions to the strength of his grasp as he kneaded her pliant flesh. Her legs spread ever so slightly and her wicked tongue swept back over her lips. So many things one could learn when they paid attention.
“What’s the most potent?”
“Desire is the most potent, most powerful, most persuasive emotion there could ever be. By the time we leave the bar Friday after our sets, I’ll have worked you into a frenzy of anticipation and desire. After I’ve accomplished that, we’ll explore just how well my cowgirl rides and what she requires to come completely undone in my arms.”
A harsh swallow. Heat settled high in her cheeks. Her legs eased further apart. Oh, they were definitely getting somewhere.
“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”
“Sex god, remember?”
“If I tried chattering on about other writing instrumentation would that work?”
Shaking his head at her, certain she was going to be his undoing, he leaned in and brushed a kiss below her earlobe, reveling in the seductive shiver he’d caused. “As if anything could ever be more seductive than pencils.”
Chapter Six
After going by Holly’s apartment Monday morning to tend her tattoo which was healing up nicely, Dec hung his sport coat on the back of his office chair and mentally reviewed his clients for the day.
There was a new couple in for their first session that morning, a referral from one of the marriage counselors at Lifespan. Then the Dickersons. She wanted to be dominated. He thought she should confess her sins to their priest to get over this particular ‘condition’ as he called it. Dec sighed. Then the Carters. Some of his favorite clients. His depression meds had robbed him of any sexual desire or drive. His wife was desperate to help and also desperate for the missing connection, and they were getting somewhere. Couples like the Carters were the reasons he’d specialized in sexual therapy. After the Carters came Matthew, sexual abuse victim trying to restore his life. Dec’s heart ached for them all, and he reminded himself of all he owed the world. Helping his patients was how he paid for his sins.
After the full round of patients, he planned to show up at Holly’s apartment with pizza and a copy of To Have and Have Not, her favorite Bogie and Bacall movie. Her entertainment preferences were all over the map. He hadn’t quite been able to decipher her age as of yet. Her music knowledge said she had to be nearing his age, though she looked a decade younger. She was stunningly beautiful, and sweet, and her innocence coupled with her intelligence was seductive as hell.
He took great pains to remind himself that tonight was only to stir the anticipation and multiply the desire. Friday he could have her. Friday night after his last set, approximately one hundred thirty-five hours, thirty minutes, and the few seconds it would cost him to strip her out of whatever she wore to hear him play. He stopped short of setting a countdown on his phone.
“Dude, you trying to get fired?” Scott Evans strolled into Dec’s office and gestured to his shirtsleeves. They were still rolled up his forearms, revealing the intricate tattoo work on his left arm.
Rolling his eyes, Dec rectified the sleeve situation.
“You know Gibbons can’t stand the tats or the eyebrow. He just knows better than to push it too hard or he’ll have HR breathing down his neck.”
“I’ve been working here an entire year and the man hasn’t let one day go by that he hasn’t reminded me that my visa is tied to me keeping this job, or that he believes sexual therapy is some kind of perverted pseudoscience. He’s all but come right out and asked me if I’m sleeping with my female patients. Keeping my brow piercing in is my one and only source of rebellion. It’s bloody keeping me alive.”
“He can’t stand that you’ve only been here a year and have already gained a reputation as being a therapist that actually gets results.”
“How dare I? God knows we should all have subpar performances so that our client reviews suck more than his.”
Scott’s chuckle accompanied the slight furrow of his brow. “Something’s different about you.”
This was the problem with hanging out with psychologists. They never missed anything, and Dec had no desire to share much with his colleagues, even if Scott had gotten him the interview at Lifespan.
“I ate questionable Chinese leftovers for breakfast. You could be seeing the beginnings of death. Never know.”
“Funny, but it’s not something you ate. Who is she?”
“She?”
“Yep, I have four psychology degrees, loser. I know lust when I see it.”
“What makes you think I haven’t developed a deep physical attraction to you? We’ve been friends since you came to London to obtain yet another one of your degrees. I’ve been trying to suppress these urges for a while but. . . .” Declan smirked.
“You’re so full of shit. I’ll figure out who she is. Just give me time.” Thankfully, Scott headed back towards the door. “Sherry from accounting?”
“Sherry is fifty-seven years old, and vastly more important than that, she is happily married, and has something like eight grandchildren. Perhaps you should forfeit one of your degrees for that imbecilic guess on whom I’m seeing.”
Scott stuck the tip of his tongue between his front teeth, looking entirely too proud of himself. “Don’t have to give up one of my degrees. I knew all of that, but I just got you to admit that you are seeing someone.”
“Get out,” Dec demanded.
“I’m gone. Maybe you could bring her over for dinner sometime. You know Claire worries about you.”
“Claire is a darling girl who had the dreadfully unfortunate luck of marrying you. I worry about her.”
Annoyance needled along Declan’s spine. Introducing Holly to his colleagues would mean confessing what he actually did for a living. Something deep within his soul needed to know her intimately, know her preferences, earn her laughter and her smiles before he exposed her to that information. The assumptions about a sex therapist were inevitable. He didn’t want her to feel any pressure when it came to their sexual relationship.
Panic replaced the annoyance. Maybe that wasn’t a good sign. Hiding things was never a good sign. My God, how long had he been able to hide his addiction from anyone who might’ve been able to save him before he threw himself head first into the deepest well?
She is a person not a drug became his mantra for the morning.
Holly checked her reflection in the mirror once more. Somewhat conservative dress. Check. Hair up in a professional twist. Got it. Favorite cowgirl boots. Oh yeah, she was ready. Trevor Singleton might’ve taken round one, but Holly was going to win the whole damn rodeo. He could suck up her dust while he kissed her ass. Today, at the Welcome Back luncheon for PhD students, alumni, and faculty, he was going down.
I shouldn’t. She couldn’t help the wicked grin that spread across h
er face when she pulled into the Psychological Sciences parking lot. Oh, but I’m so going to. Temptingly, Trevor’s ridiculously stupid, bright yellow Scion was parked horizontally across two spaces in the front corner of the lot. Checking to make certain no one was close enough to see this in the expansive lot, she expertly guided her Silverado over the curb and into the mud left over from the storm. Stomping the brakes and flooring the accelerator, the tires spun and rather effectively and efficiently peppered his windshield and hood with huge splatters of mud.
A minute later she parked on the other side of the lot and headed inside. Never mess with a cowgirl, Singleton. I have thin line reins thicker than your cock.
Wiping her smirk off of her face, she straightened her dress, and headed towards the banquet area. There he was, chatting with his father grandfather, and Dr. Newsome. Trevor was a vile, smarmy shitstack if ever there was one.
Narrowing her eyes, she stomped towards them, almost plowing over Beth Kinders in her stride.
“Beth? What are you doing here? I thought you were going to Berkley.”
“Holly, I’m so glad you’re here. I thought you might’ve given up the ranch and moved to Boston after all. I thought I was going to Berkley too, and you are the only person who will understand this and not think I’m insane, but I just couldn’t leave Sangster and Nash. I just couldn’t. I walked out to the barn to attempt to tell them goodbye and I cried for three hours. Guess it’s just me, you, and Singleton from last year, though. I’ve never seen most of these people.”
“I’ll never ever give up the ranch, girl, and I completely understand about your horses. I’m UN-L all the way, and we can show the newbies who’s gonna ride circles around the Psych department this year.”
Beth laughed. “Guess you can take the girls off the ranch but you can’t take the ranch out of the girls, huh?”
“You know it.”
Beth’s family had a large corn farm near Broken Bow. She and Holly had worked on their thesis research together. Holly had even taken Beth out to Camden Ranch for Thanksgiving the year before when her entire family headed south to vacation once the harvest was in. Just knowing that Beth was going to be with her and that she wouldn’t be forced to face Singleton alone made Holly feel hopeful. Between Beth and Declan, this year was definitely looking up.
