Their eyes got wider. Some—not all—of their fear disappeared to be replaced with awe.
“I’ll see you guys next time I’m here,” Beth promised and let Nolan lift her to her feet. “Nolan, this is Grant and Connor.”
Nolan nodded gravely. “Men. Good to meet you.”
As Beth walked through the door, she heard Grant whisper in wonder, “He called us men.”
Chapter Sixteen
Carrying a small basket, Ben opened the front door. As Bronx led the way into the house, Ben grinned, his spirits soaring. Anne’s Escape was parked in the low carport, so she was home. The past couple of weeks—since their relationship had upgraded to .44 magnum level—had been a revelation. He’d never known that a woman could fill a man’s life so completely.
Make him so happy.
They were good together. He knew it. Cooking, lifting weights, sparring and wrestling, jogging on the beach, watching the news—even if he was relegated to the floor sometimes—reading quietly. Everything was more fun with her beside him.
Even the slavery shit was mostly cool. Anne was slowly teaching him what she required from him and he was improving—although she rather disapproved that his massages inevitably led to a hearty round of fucking. He’d tried to explain that when she went all Mistress on his ass, he got turned the hell on. Not his fault she was so damned sexy, right?
And not having to scramble for condoms meant they could fuck anywhere. And did.
As Ben followed Bronx through the kitchen, he glanced at the spotless counters. Having been through basic, he didn’t have any problem with cleaning. He preferred things tidy himself, although she did have a penchant to over clean.
And he was getting pretty good at the personal care stuff now that she’d abandoned having him do her toenails or whatever the hell that procedure was called. Painting walls was a piece of cake, but with his big hands, trying to paint a toenail the size of a pea had turned into a complete clusterfuck.
He’d found out Anne could giggle like a little girl.
He grinned at the memory. Damn, she was cute sometimes.
In her Mistress role, she was taking things slow. Taking care with him. Like the way they weren’t scening in the Shadowlands, although they’d both worked last weekend.
At first, he’d wondered if she were ashamed to be seen with him, but instead, she’d noticed he wasn’t quite…comfortable…with being a slave in public. He felt as if he’d let her down, but seems his reaction wasn’t unusual. She said she was happy keeping things private, for now.
Her concern for his feelings and health kept surprising him. Hey, he was supposed to be doing everything for her.
So, to have her change plans because he was a sensitive pussy was…fucking amazing.
Besides, he liked the bubble they’d created—one with just the two of them inside. Especially since gossip about the Mistress and security guard was undoubtedly running rampant through the small-town-like Shadowlands community. Hell, after the vets’ group meeting last week, Z had told Ben to call if he had questions or wanted to talk.
Questions? Sure. Want to talk? Nope.
Tail wagging frantically, Bronx impatiently waited as Ben slid the back screen door open.
There she was. Amazing how the sight of one special person really could make a man’s heart skip a beat.
Sitting on the decking, Anne was facing the railing. Thick, dark brown rope dangled from the top rail. The strands held knots here and there and terminated in coils in her lap. Red wooden beads were piled off to one side.
She turned at the sound of Bronx’s charge across the deck and spotted Ben. “You’re home!”
He fucking loved the way her eyes lit.
She pushed the rope out of her lap to hug Bronx. “You guys got done early.”
After Bronx had curled up next to her, Ben set the basket beside her, went down on one knee, and patiently waited for her to indicate she wanted a kiss. She always wanted a kiss—he knew that—but he tried to be an obedient slave.
Pissed him off sometimes when he wanted to scoop her up for a long hug.
Her brows drew together and rather than giving him permission, she touched his face with her fingertips. When her fingers lingered on his forehead, he realized he was frowning.
“Benjamin. I get the impression that”—she was speaking as carefully as he might navigate a Baghdad street, uncertain what trash-filled pile might contain explosives—“perhaps, serving as a slave isn’t what you really want. This might not be a good—”
“No.” He interrupted before she could finish. “No, Mistress, I’m where I belong.” In her home, at her side, in her heart. Maybe parts of the service chaffed like wearing an undersized jockstrap, but being with her was fucking more than he’d ever imagined.