Dominik

by Sawyer Bennett

  “Where did you get these from?” I ask.

  “Afghanistan,” she replies in such a blasé tone, I’m not quite sure if she’s joking with me or not.

  “Afghanistan?” Not hiding the incredulity I’m feeling.

  “Yup. About three years ago, I think. Got hit by some shrapnel from an RPG blast.”

  I’m so startled by this revelation I bolt up ramrod straight, which pushes Willow away from me. It’s good since I need to see her face.

  She twists to frown at me.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I bark.

  Her brows knit together, not quite happy with my glare. She speaks slowly… as if she needs to explain something to a third-grader. “I’m a photojournalist. Sometimes, I work in war zones.”

  “The fuck you do,” I retort, not sure if I’m asking a question or ordering her to obey.

  Her expression causes a tiny voice in my head to start screaming, Abort, abort, but I choose to ignore it.

  “You handle student protests and risk getting hit by a thrown tomato,” I remind her as if I’m privy to all the mysterious secrets that make up Willow Monahan when, in truth, I know nothing. “That’s what you do as a photojournalist.”

  “No,” she drawls, irritation clear in her voice. “I go on any job I choose to go on, some of which happen to be in dangerous areas. Sometimes, tomatoes are thrown. Other times, it might be grenades.”

  “That shit stops right now,” I almost shout.

  And then… Willow laughs. Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, she actually clutches her belly as she cackles hysterically.

  My jaw locks, teeth starting to grind.

  Luckily, she doesn’t laugh long. Opening her eyes, she pins them on me with a coldness I’d never seen before. “No one tells me what I can and can’t do.”

  This simply isn’t true. In the past few weeks, Willow has bent to any number of demands from me. I know, without a doubt, I could take her by the head and push my cock in her mouth without a single word… and she’d take it like a champ.

  But even I realize this is different.

  That’s sex and I’ve already figured out Willow likes me taking charge when we fuck.

  But this is Willow’s life, and I have absolutely no say in it.

  Still, like a dumbass, I press on, trying for a calmness I don’t feel inside.

  “I get you love what you do, Willow. Admire it even. But don’t you think that maybe you should reconsider that line of work?”

  “Why?” she demands, scrambling up to face me fully. Cascades of water and bubbles sluice off her body, revealing its glory to me but for the first time since I met her, I’m not interested in that beauty.

  “Because you could die,” I reply.

  “Could get hit by a bus tomorrow,” she points out.

  “I’d say chances of that are far less than getting blown up in Afghanistan.”

  “I’m not arguing with you about this,” she replies hotly, pivoting to step out of the tub. I don’t expect that, and I hastily rise to climb out after her.

  She nabs a towel, wraps it around herself, and stomps off into the bedroom.

  I grab a towel, then hastily tuck it in around my waist. By the time I catch up, she’s nabbing her clothes from the floor where they’d been discarded earlier.

  Grabbing her arm, I halt her progress, forcing her to face me. “What are you doing?”

  “Leaving,” she replies.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve got to get ready for the next job I’m taking. I fly out tomorrow.”

  “What?” I ask incredulously. “Where? Why are you just now telling me about it?”

  She jerks her arm out of my grasp, then shrugs out of the towel. Leaning over, she starts stepping into her panties she’d snatched off the floor. “Because I wasn’t going to take the job until just now.”

  “What job?” I bark.

  She shimmies the panties over her hips and looks me directly in the eye, a glimmer of defiance there. “Democratic Republic of the Congo. Some political unrest there. Could be very, very dangerous.”

  She’s fucking taunting me, yet I know she’s not exaggerating either. The urge to grab her, toss her on the bed, and tie her there so she can’t escape is overwhelming.

  “So you’re taking a dangerous job just to spite me?” I growl. “Real mature, Willow.”

  “No, to prove to you that I am my own woman and you own no part of me.”

  Wrong fucking words, Willow.

  Too much challenge as well.

  “You’re wrong about that,” I promise as I advance, the sensual rumble of my words making it clear my mind is no longer thinking about war and danger.

  “Dominik, no,” she says, her palms held outward to ward me off. She backs toward the bed, which is actually perfect.

  I pounce, snagging her around the waist and throwing her on the bed. She tries to scramble backward, but I come down on top of her.

  Our eyes lock for a moment, and I tell her a truth she’s never going to forget. “I do own a piece of you.”

  She opens her mouth to argue, but I fill it with my tongue instead. She doesn’t fight me for even a moment, her hands diving into my wet hair to yank me harder against her.

  The kiss is short, and she makes a disgruntled sound as my mouth moves away from hers. But then she purrs as it goes to her neck, down between her breasts, and along her stomach. I roll off her just long enough to push her panties down her legs, and she manages to kick them loose.

  Then my face is buried in her pussy, her legs are over my shoulders, and she’s rocking hard against my tongue. It takes no time at all for me to get her off, her scream through her own orgasm validating my claim over this small piece of her.

  I’m as hard as a rock as I give her a last lick, then surge up her body and drive in deep. She arches off the bed, calling out my name. I want to let out a victory cheer as I start to fuck her.

  We’d done away with condoms in Seattle after assurances of monogamy and clean bills of health. Since she’s also on birth control pills, we’ve been bare fucking ever since and sex has never been this intimate. I’ve always used condoms, no matter the partner.

  I’m on such an adrenaline high since learning Willow’s job is dangerous, knowing she’s been in danger, will be in danger again, doesn’t seem to give a shit about it, and then goads me into asserting my dominance over her in bed. It has me pounding into her so hard I’m afraid I’m hurting her.

  But she’s digging her nails into my ass, panting, “Harder. Harder,” into my ear.

  God, we’re fucking perfect together. Why can’t she see that?

  Without warning, Willow starts to break apart again, her pussy tightening around me and I lose my shit, coming inside her so hard I let out a primal roar of release.

  I collapse onto her body, completely empty and unsure as to where my world stands.

  But she makes it all too clear by pushing me off her body.

  Reluctantly, I roll to the side and she slides off my bed without a backward glance. Silently, she pulls her clothes on and strides toward my bedroom door.

  I don’t make a move to stop her, but I do issue a challenge of my own. “Don’t do this, Willow. If you go, I can’t continue this. I don’t want that type of worry.”

  She pauses at my door, her hand going to the casing as if she needs it to steady herself. She twists slightly toward me, perhaps wondering if I’ll say something else.

  I won’t. I’ve made my position clear, and I don’t negotiate.

  I hold my breath, hoping she reconsiders.

  Just turn around, Willow. Let’s talk about this. I’m sure I can make you see reason.

  Instead, when her spine straightens and her hand falls away from the casing, I realize I’ve lost. Head high, she walks out of my room and doesn’t look back.

  CHAPTER 13

  Dominik

  “I don’t care, Roger,” I bark into the phone. The woman on her knees in front of
me makes an impatient clucking noise, tapping a finger on the inside of my thigh. I spread my legs just a little wider. “Get that prospectus to me by close of business today or I’ll find somewhere else to invest my money.”

  After I disconnect the call, I stare blankly out my office window at the Phoenix skyline. It’s not like me to be a dick to my business peers but the last few days have not been good. Willow walked out my door six days ago, and I have no fucking clue where she is or if she’s even alive.

  Of course, I keep telling myself I’m not supposed to worry about it. I’d told her that we were over because I couldn’t worry about her, and yet, here I am, taking out my anger on those who are undeserving of it.

  To add to my stress, we lost the first game of the second round of the playoffs to the Vancouver Flash last night. Our team looked like shit, which matches my emotions exactly because now I feel guilty over Willow being gone. Perhaps if I hadn’t demanded things from her, she wouldn’t have left. I have the distinct impression I’m the exact reason she took the job offer that had sent her far away to a dangerous area of the world.

  I glance down at the woman before me, hands working efficiently on me. I have a meeting in ten minutes I should be getting ready for and she’s nothing but a distraction.

  A sharp rap on my door makes me glance over my shoulder. It opens, and Dax pokes his head in.

  I smile in welcome and for a moment, Dax does the same. But then his gaze lowers, perhaps catching the movement of the woman. His face turns thunderous, then goes almost purple with rage.

  I have absolutely no time to react as he charges me like a bull. One hand planted on my shoulder, he grabs the back of my belt and slings me across my office.

  “You mother fucking son of a cheating bitch,” he bellows as he charges again, this time putting both hands to my chest and slamming me into the wall. My head knocks against a framed photograph of Gordie Howe.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I snarl, but make no attempt to break his hold on me.

  “What the fuck is wrong with me?” he yells, teeth bared. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Dating my sister while getting your cock sucked by someone else?”

  You have got to be fucking kidding me.

  I could set the record straight, but some mean spark inside remembers how much fun it is to get Dax worked up. So I merely reply, “Your sister and I broke up six days ago.”

  “Bullshit,” he counters angrily.

  “True.” I give him a slight shrug. “I think you owe that nice lady over there an apology for coming in here and acting like an ass.”

  Dax releases his hold on me, twisting to look over his shoulder. I can’t see his expression, but I can tell the exact moment he realizes just how wrong he is about this whole scenario when he mutters, “Fuck.”

  Because the woman kneeling on the floor is my tailor—measuring tape in one hand, a notepad tucked under an arm, and a pencil tucked behind her ear—who has been custom fitting me for bespoke suits for almost seven years now. She also happens to be almost sixty years old, which makes this way funnier than it should be.

  “That’s Mrs. Welsh,” I gleefully inform Dax, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “She’s my tailor.”

  “Goddamn it,” Dax mutters, then launches into a thousand apologies to Mrs. Welsh, who assures him it’s totally fine.

  He faces me, wincing. To my surprise, I get an apology, too. “Sorry.”

  It’s not much—and it’s not really needed—but it seems to make him feel better. “No worries. What did you need?”

  I stride over to Mrs. Welsh, who returns to quietly measuring the inseam of my leg. I’m not sure why they insist on measurements each time. Fairly sure I’m not getting shorter, but I guess I’m getting what I pay for.

  “Just finished my workout, and I came by to see if you wanted to go grab lunch,” he replies.

  I blink in surprise. I mean, Dax and I have put our differences aside. He has accepted me dating his sister, but I wasn’t counting on a friendship or anything.

  “I’m finished, Mr. Carlson,” Mrs. Welsh says, and I offer my hand to help her up. She’s spry for her age, though, and pops to her feet without my assistance. “I’ll get these off, along with the choices we made. I expect we can have the first fitting in about four weeks.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, my smile apologetic. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Welsh leaves, closing my office door behind her.

  “Why did you break up with my sister?” Dax asks, sounding defensive.

  I spin to face him, not exactly surprised he’d accuse me of being the one at fault here, but I don’t feel the need to hold back the fact this isn’t all on me. “Because your sister is fucking crazy, that’s why.”

  “I hope you have a good reason for saying that,” he growls in a low voice full of warning. “Otherwise, I’m going to have to kick your ass.”

  “Oh, come on,” I snap as I throw my arms out in frustration. “Don’t tell me what she does for a living doesn’t bother you. I mean, I don’t know how you all can just stand by while she puts herself in such danger—”

  “What are you talking about?” Dax interrupts, his face awash with confusion.

  This gives me pause. Does he truly not know what she does?

  “I’m talking about the fact your sister goes to dangerous places for her line of work. Did you not know that?”

  Still frowning, he hedges, “Well, yeah… I mean, we know she’s been in some dicey areas, but she always goes with full security details for protection. She’s assured us it’s low risk and actually quite safe—”

  “Jesus, you’re a fucking moron, Dax,” I mutter, which shuts him up cold. “How can you even say that—especially knowing she’s been wounded—”

  “What?” Dax yells so sharply that his entire body goes tight with alarm.

  “Wounded,” I repeat, this time a little lower. Clearly, this news is a surprise. “She got hit by shrapnel from a grenade.”

  “The fuck she did,” he asserts.

  “Exactly what I said when I found out,” I mutter, then shake my head. “Look… it’s clear you don’t know she’s in areas where the threat of injury and death are real and very present. How could you not know that?”

  “Because my sister never told us she got wounded,” he snarls before falling heavily down on my couch, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He’s clearly distressed, and I feel sorry for the dude.

  I approach him, then sit on the other end of the couch. My voice is heavy when I say, “She has scars on the back of her shoulder.”

  “From falling off a mountain bike,” Dax says, the hope in his voice pathetic. It’s clear that’s the story she gave him and her family.

  “From an RPG,” I correct.

  “Fuck,” he mutters angrily. “What the fuck is she thinking?”

  “It’s her job. She loves it. Apparently, she’s not going to give it up, so she chose not to tell you and your family about the danger so you don’t worry.”

  “But she told you,” he points out.

  “Because she doesn’t care about me.” It’s a painful truth I just recently realized. She had no problem telling me about it because, in her mind, it was just bedroom talk to her. It was never meant to go further and in Willow’s mind, our relationship had such defined boundaries that whether her job worried me or not was never going to be a worry of hers.

  She just didn’t care about me enough to want to keep it a secret to protect me.

  It’s a heavy admission that hurt once I put it together. I was worried about her and her welfare, yet she wasn’t concerned in the least about my feelings.

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” Dax murmurs.

  I’m so lost in my own musings that I’m momentarily not sure what he’s talking about.

  “I think she cares about you,” he continues.

  “Doesn’t matter.” That comes out with no amount of self-pity. I have a meeting coming up, so I rise from the couch.
“Like I told you, we’re not together anymore. You’ll have to excuse me, though, because I have a meeting to attend.”

  “Why did you break up?” he prompts, taking the cue and standing as well.

  “Because I don’t like what your sister does for a living,” I state. “I don’t want to have to worry about her like that, so I gave her an ultimatum. She chose to walk away.”

  I brace for Dax to be offended by that, but he just nods. “I’d try to get her to stop, too. I understand.”

  I nod, then step toward the door to open it for him.

  “But…” he says, his hand clamping down on my shoulder. “We still need to stop her.”

  “We?” I ask in surprise, whirling on him. “There’s no we. Your sister and I aren’t seeing each other anymore.”

  Dax cocks an eyebrow. “You’re full of shit. I can hear it in your voice when you talk about her. You’re worried sick about her, so it doesn’t matter if she called it off or not—you’re still emotionally invested in her well-being. So yes… we need to do something.”

  “Like what? An intervention?”

  “Exactly,” Dax says, an evil smile on his face. “We’ll call her. Me, you, my parents. We’ll all gang up on her, insist she come home. My dad’s exceedingly good at guilt-tripping us. He had heart issues a few years ago, and he can even fake some heart palpations or something.”

  “Do you seriously think your sister is going to come running home because you demand it?” I ask skeptically.

  “Hell no. Not if we demand it. Like I said… we’re going to guilt her into giving up this ludicrously dangerous career. All of us… together… like a team.”

  Studying Dax, I realize I know his sister better than he does. It’s not going to work. Willow is her own woman—no amount of cajoling, guilting, or demanding is going to do a damn thing other than cause her to dig her heels in deeper.

  But… I can’t pass up the small chance it could work.

  Because Dax is right. We may have called it quits, but it hadn’t done a damn thing to stop me from worrying about her, which means I still care way too much. And, if that’s the case, I need to do everything I can to ensure her safety.