Cherise Sinclair - Edge of the Enforcer

With a sigh, she curled into a corner of the couch, sinking into the warm suede fabric. “You have a pretty apartment,” she said. The austere lines of the wooden coffee and end tables, and the wrought iron hanging lights kept it masculine. And, of course, being a guy, he had a huge wide-screen TV over the fireplace.

“Thanks.”

He laid a fluffy quilt over her lap. “You want a hot drink or an alcoholic one?”

Something warm sounded wonderful. So did— “Both?”

With a snort of amusement, he circled to flip on the gas fire. Outside the bay windows, trees rustled in the light breeze.

The noise he made in the kitchen—cupboard doors opening and closing, the microwave running—was reassuring.

Normal.

Not normal enough. She felt the shakes starting anew. After pulling her legs up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her knees and hung on.

Something thudded on the table beside her. DeVries cupped her chin, his hand warm and hard. “Damn.” He picked her up and settled back down on the couch with her in his lap. She couldn’t quite let go of her legs, and he patiently rearranged her until she leaned against him.

“Haven’t we done this before?” she muttered through gritted teeth, remembering after the gang fight. “Sorry.”

“You didn’t get to this headspace by yourself, babe.”

After a minute of silence, she squirmed. He couldn’t sit here all night, doing nothing. That wasn’t right. “This is boring—you can’t—”

“Yeah, I can.” He ran a finger down her nose. “It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? Little Miss Busy. Bet you never sit still for long.”

Well, sometimes. If she was doing paperwork. She tried to think of other times…

His chest rumbled with his low laugh. Picking up the remote, he flipped through the channels and settled on Casablanca. “This should be girly enough for you and give you something to focus on.”

At the sound of Bogie, she gradually relaxed. Her eyelids drooped, and she rubbed her cheek on the solid chest beneath her face. “Thanks.”

“Mmmm.” The amusement in his voice made her insides melt. “Now drink.” He held a mug to her lips, and she took a sip.

Warm liquid, sweet and buttery. She got a taste of cinnamon before the expanding rush of alcohol. “What is that?”

“Hot buttered rum. Never had it before?” He lifted the mug and drank some before returning it to her. The casual sharing was…nice.

“Uh-uh.” It was yummy. She took another sip before curling her fingers around the mug. “I’ve got it.”

“So you do.”

As he held her against him, occasionally lifting her hand so he could sip, she felt as if all her fantasies were being granted. She was enjoying a cozy evening at home on a Dom’s lap, sharing a show, a couch, a drink. But a sadist? One who didn’t want a relationship with anyone?

Pushing away the bittersweet knowledge, she reminded herself she couldn’t afford a relationship either. Live in the moment, girl. As she laid her cheek on his soft T-shirt, she inhaled the piney scent of his soap. Soap and man—with deVries, you didn’t get any additives.

As her muscles relaxed, she felt as if she were sinking into him.

“Babe.” He took the mug and kissed the top of her head. “Bedtime for little Texans,” he murmured.

Before she could find the energy to move, he stood, still holding her in his arms.

Her eyes opened. “Wait. No.”

“Shut up, subbie,” he said, and somehow, the bottomless growl was affectionate.

He carried her up the stairs. OMG, up the stairs. She clutched at his shoulders, just waiting for him to trip, sending them plunging to their deaths.

A chuckle rumbled against her ear. “You’re hyperventilating, Lindsey. Slow it down.”

Easy for him to say.

Inside a bathroom, he bent and set her on her feet.

She muttered her gratitude for survival, not to him, though. “Thank you, little baby Jesus.”

He burst out laughing and ruffled her hair. “Wash up and get into bed. There are spare toothbrushes, combs, and towels in the right cabinet.”

“But—”

The door closed behind him. Well. Obviously she was staying the night. The empty quiver beneath her ribs said she didn’t want to be alone. Fear wasn’t far away.

So much for brave independence, huh?

She turned toward the sink, saw herself in the mirror, and almost screamed like a ten-year-old facing Freddie Kruger. Her un-runnable mascara had run in black streaks down her cheeks. Her hair was tangled on one side, limp on the other. Any thought of not cleaning up went right out the window.

By the time she finished scrubbing, brushing, and combing, she was exhausted but felt almost human.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled the lap blanket around her shoulders and opened the door. The light of a bedside lamp showed chocolate-colored walls with white wainscoting and window trim. The king-size bed had a wood-and-wrought-iron frame as beautiful as it was probably functional for a Dom. It left her breathless.

DeVries came into the room a second later and stopped to give her a focused survey and nod of approval. “You can wear the T-shirt. Lose the skirt.” He tossed back the quilt of browns and tans. “In.”

Without waiting for her response, he took her place in the bathroom.

She glanced at the door, unsure about sleeping with him again. And she really didn’t want any sex—not when her emotions had been through a log chipper. Sure, she and deVries had already done the deed once, but it was all so much more complicated now.

Even worse, she knew the feel of his skin, drawn so tightly over the underlying rock-hard muscles. She knew his murmur when he was pleased with her. She knew—

“Do I need to repeat myself?” came from inside the bathroom.

Right. She remembered too, how he sounded when he was impatient with her slowness.

She wrinkled her nose at the door—the most defiant act she could dredge up—laid the blanket over the chair, and removed her leather skirt.

The sheets were soft and cool. His scent was on one pillow; she chose that one on which to lay her head.

Would he expect to have sex? She shivered. Being with him was like barely managing to halt halfway down a steep, rutted road, all jostled and scared. Should she keep going and hope for the best? Or back up to try to pick a safer path?

He came out of the bathroom, saw her staring at him, and a corner of his mouth edged up.

Why did he have to have a dimple?

After turning off the bedside lamp, he stripped and crawled under the covers. His weight tipped her toward him. Her body braced, waiting for him to come down on top.

Instead, he rolled her onto her side and spooned behind her. His chest rubbed her back. When his erection nestled against her bottom, she tensed.

“Go to sleep, babe.”

Huh? “But—”

“Not going to fuck you now.”

“But you’re…” She wiggled against his erection.

“Teenage boys get a chubby half a dozen times a day. Doesn’t take long to learn a hard-on won’t kill you.” He curled his hand over her breast, settled in more comfortably. “You’d make a nice teddy bear if you’d shut up and go to sleep.”

Despite the hot drink, she had still felt chilled inside, as if her bones were carved out of ice. Now, with his living heat wrapped around her, the cold melted, leaving her limp. Warm.

DeVries came awake abruptly. Without moving, he checked his surroundings. Not yet dawn. The rumble of the garbage truck told him what had wakened him.

When Lindsey moved, he realized the noise had woken her as well.

He felt rested. The woman was better than any sleeping pill. Sometime during the night, he’d rolled onto his back, hauling her with him. Her head was on his shoulder, one leg lying over his, her elbow resting on his chest and her hand curled around the side of his neck.

“You really are a hell of a teddy bear,” he murmured.

“Thanks, I think.” She stroked her palm over the coarse stubble on his cheek. “Did you ever have a teddy bear?”

“Yeah.” He’d never slept without it. “Present from a neighbor.” For the pitiful kid.

“Mine came from my daddy.” Her breath created a pool of warmth on his shoulder. “I still miss him. Is your dad around?”

“Died.” His mouth twisted. “He survived Vietnam and returned to die stateside from a fucking helicopter malfunction.”

“That’s hard.” She gave his chest a comforting stroke. “So you only had your mom?”

“Nosey little submissive.” There was the difference between them. His curiosity was driven by the need to know how things worked—even humans. Hers was because she gave a damn.

What the fuck was he doing here, letting her…in? He turned his head so he could breathe in the scent of her hair, rub his chin in the silky strands. That’s what he wanted. More than her soft body, he wanted the sweetness of her spirit. Her warmth. Tex had the backbone to stand up to him—and the heart to care.

Yeah. He might just have to keep this one.

Which meant he owed her more of himself than anyone had gotten since he’d been a young, stupid man.

She didn’t speak, didn’t demand answers. Her silence was patient. No wonder people talked to her.

“Mom lost it when he died. Alcohol. Drugs.” His mouth tightened as he remembered how his mother would hook up with a man to get rent and food. Eventually the guy’d tire of pricey nooky or catch her screwing around, and kick her—and her kid—back into the street. “Prostitution.”

“I’m sorry,” Lindsey murmured. Her fingers stroked his rigid jaw, down and over his chest.