Ben pulled a Coke out of the fridge. “It’s difficult to stay depressed at the Shadowlands. People coming in are zinging with excitement.” He grinned. “I’ve had some bad days here and there. Like the first day Jessica showed up. I didn’t want to talk with anyone, but Z, damn the bastard, sent her out to sit in the entry. In my space.”
“I remember that night.” The Masters had enjoyed how Jessica’s introduction to the Shadowlands was almost a horror flick cliché: pretty blonde wrecks her car and seeks help at dark, ominous mansion. Rather than vampires, the little innocent had found Masters and slaves, Doms and submissives, sadists and masochists.
Ben grinned. “She was so fucking shocked and cute. Impossible to ignore, although I tried. And then she mustered her courage and marched back in. I figured if a tiny blonde could face down her fears, I damn well should manage.”
Z’s guard dog was quite a man. Anne leaned into him, snuggled close, and rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. “I’m glad you didn’t give up.” Then and now.
His powerful hands settled on her shoulders, and his voice rumbled through his solid chest. “Me, too.”
With a reluctant sigh, she stepped back and gave him a careful study. Eyes clear, color good, posture erect. No trembling. A slight smile. Humor back in place. He was okay. “Now that you’re stable, I need to get going.”
She leaned in to kiss his cheek.
His arm went around her waist, holding her against him. He set his drink down and pulled her closer, pulled her up so he could kiss her. Long and hard. “Stay.”
“Ben—”
His hands closed on her ass. Just like that, desire filled her. Honestly, she shouldn’t be this needy after the earlier bout of sex.
Yet her body wanted more. She wanted more. Her voice came out throaty. “How about you give me a tour of the bedroom?”
“Yeah, why don’t I do that?” He tugged on her hair. “You going to beat on me?”
Beat on him as if he belonged to her. Was one of her slaves. She stopped. She shouldn’t be doing this. She’d told herself not to get involved with him.
“Anne, what is it?”
“You’re not…” She huffed out a sigh. “I told you I didn’t do relationships. I don’t want to hurt you. I shouldn’t be here.” And yet, she knew…she knew it was already too late.
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?