“I’m not falling. Absolutely not.” The thought sent a chill into her stomach. “I’m just here because I wanted to know about the Dominant/submissive stuff, and he needed help around the house. That’s all.”

“The sacrifices a woman makes. You probably don’t even like him, huh?” Rona said in a dry voice.

“Fine. I like him.” Oh heavens, she really did. She looked up to see understanding expressions on both faces. “More than I’m comfortable with, especially after Nathan. Being around him is like being on a roller coaster. He comes in, and I feel all bubbly inside. When he uses that Dom voice, the bottom drops out of my stomach and my knees go weak.”

Rona laughed. “I know what you mean.”

“I wish I did.” Lindsey sighed. “I had the loverly bubbles when I first got married—for a little while, at least. I’ve had that sinking feeling from a few of the Doms. Never both together.” Lindsey cuddled Blondie close. “So you don’t figure Xavier is permanent?”

“Get real. He’s my liege. Rich, powerful, gorgeous. I teach college students, trip when kneeling, and my butt’s so big I could use it for a serving tray.”

Rona raised her eyebrows. “Xavier lets you run yourself down like that?”

“Ah.” Abby flushed. “No.” The last time she’d complained she had a fat ass, he’d given her one of those frowns and then…

“Oooo, Missy Red-Face. Tell us what happened,” Lindsey demanded.

“He simply said he liked my ass.” Abby gave in to the expectant expressions. “And if I called it fat again, he’d turn it a pretty pink.” Then he’d stripped off her jeans and shown her exactly what he meant. The feeling of being over his knees, of his hard hand on her bare bottom, had been so humiliating and so…intimate…that she’d never be able to explain it. “He seems to think he needs to help me overcome stuff. Like I have some horrible background.”

“Did he really put it like that?” Rona asked.

“Well. No.”

Rona gave her a smug look. “I didn’t think so. He obviously likes the way you look—and who you are. Honey, he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him.”

Really? Abby realized Blackie had squirmed out of her arms and was exploring. Tiny and defenseless…yet so brave. His ears were forward, his body eager for what experiences the world had to offer.

When did I turn into such a coward that I’m scared to leave my own wading pool?

XAVIER OPENED THE door to the sound of laughter and had to smile. Simon had mentioned Abby’d invited Rona over, and that Rona had been delighted. Now he knew why she’d been nervous today.

But the little professor hadn’t told him. That was a disappointment. Anything that affected her emotionally should be shared with her Dom, but she kept herself so guarded that it worried him.

Then again, neither of them had been in this kind of awkward situation before. The slaves he brought home had always known there was a time limit and they’d leave once he found them the right Master.

He and Abby had set no time limits. Neither of them wanted anything serious. Not at this point. She was learning how to please him; he was learning her vulnerabilities and where he could help her become stronger. That was enough for now.

The door to the patio was open, and the women and puppies were outside in the patchy sunshine. As he headed past the living room toward his study, he saw the iced tea glasses on the coffee table and a plate with éclairs. The rope the pups used for tug-of-war lay on the floor next to Abby’s sandals. Not clutter, but signs that someone lived here.

He turned in a circle, realizing the house felt alive.

Catherine had loved the Old West and had decorated with rugged, dark furniture, rough tables, Western paintings, and crafts. The style hadn’t quite matched the building’s elegant lines, but neither of them had cared. When she’d died, he couldn’t stand seeing her favorite furniture, and a decorator had changed everything over to a light, contemporary look.

He hadn’t realized how cold the house was until pieces from Abby’s home appeared. Her plants had been rescued when she found she didn’t get back often enough to water them. A giant schefflera in a hand-painted ceramic pot brightened one corner. Ferns in wrought iron stands softened the foyer. Parsley, chives, and thyme were in small terra-cotta pots on a kitchen windowsill.

Now every time she went to her duplex she returned with touches of convenience and beauty. A glazed earthenware bowl was on the dining room table, filled with fruit. A dark-red porcelain stand held umbrellas by the front door.

Apparently her archeologist father had taken his family with him on digs, and after graduating, she’d used his life insurance money to travel overseas every summer, shipping home whatever delighted her. Tapestry pillows from Belgium, as comfortable as they were bright, were in the corners of the sofa and chairs. An Italian cashmere throw lay over the back of a chair.

He walked into his study and smiled at the rounded lines of the Middle Eastern leather ottoman she’d brought over, hoping he’d keep his ankle up on it.

She was quite the traveler. Would she enjoy having company this year?

* * *

Abby tried to snuggle down into the covers, but Xavier’s hands ran up her body. Firm, confident, and unstoppable. A hard cock pressed against her stomach. He was awake.

“Don’t want to get up.” It couldn’t be much past dawn. All weekend she’d frantically worked to finish analyzing her observations. She still had more literature searches to do and only ten days until she had to submit the article. And now her time would be filled with end-of-term school matters—exams, essays, projects—and handing in the students’ grades.

A low chuckle sounded in her ear as he stroked her breasts. “But you’re going to anyway.”

Her nipples tightened to hard peaks; warmth flowed downward. She looked up into his molten dark eyes, saw the line of his determined jaw, and went from sleepy to wet and aroused. How did he do that?

He kissed her shoulder and bit it.

The sharp pain woke her completely. Excited her completely. At least until he set her onto her hands and knees and slid into her from the rear.

My liege’s favorite position. Because he didn’t want to see her face. Because he didn’t want to remember she wasn’t his beloved Catherine. Her resentment was followed by a wave of unhappiness, and her hands clenched. She buried her face in the pillow…so he wouldn’t have to look at her.

He stopped moving. “What’s wrong, Abby?”

Not a thing except I’m not your dead wife. “Nothing.” She kept her hips up and available to him, even though her interest had died the minute he’d flipped her over. “Keep going.”

“Nothing?” His voice had turned to clipped ice.

Her body stiffened. He was angry.

As if to prove the point he pulled out and rolled her over. His mouth was tight, his face cold. “I dislike lies, pet.”

She flinched. Her hands made an abortive gesture toward covering her ears, to keep her from hearing him yell. Only…she’d never heard him yell.

He swung a leg over her, straddling her—an appallingly efficient way to pin her down. “Look at me, Abby.” Although the hardness was gone from his expression, the displeasure remained. His long black hair swung loose as he leaned over her.

As she met his shadowed eyes, her heartbeat echoed through her hollow chest. The Tin Man should have been grateful for the emptiness; hearts only caused pain.

“In vanilla relationships, honesty is important. In BDSM, it’s essential. Even with as much experience as I have, I’m not a mind reader.” His accent came through clearly, making him sound almost like a stranger. He touched her chin with one finger. “What are you feeling?”

“Nothing.” She felt her emotions trying to pull back inside to safety.

Another sigh. “What does your stomach feel like?”

Didn’t he ever give up? “Tight.”

“Chest?”

“Tighter.”

He lifted her hand to show her the fist she’d made and then ran a finger over her compressed lips. “One more time, what are you feeling?”

“I’m mad.” Everything inside her flinched in anticipation of his response.

“There we go. Was that so difficult?” He eyed her and answered his own question. “Apparently it was. How do you manage if you can’t tell someone you’re upset? Say it again—like you mean it—and add who you’re mad at.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“You heard me. Now.” No anger in his voice. No expression: not warm, not cold. The emotions here were all hers.

Her stomach churned. Considering he was sitting on her, she wasn’t going to be able to run. “I’m angry.” She managed to add a little force…enough to terrify a mouse. What was wrong with her?

He lifted his eyebrows.

“At you.” It came out just past a whisper.

No yelling. “Again.”

“I’m angry at you.”

“You sound as if you’re giving me month-old stock market news. Again.”

Insulted, she scowled at him. “I’m angry at you.”

A smile flickered on his lips. “Very good, pet. Again—and this time tell me why.”

No. She felt herself try to retreat into the mattress.

“It doesn’t help to know you’re mad at me if you don’t say why.” He had a jaw like granite to go with his obstinate nature. “Now, Abby.”

“I’m angry at you.” Okay, those words came easier. Louder. The next, not so much. “For…for…” Her fingernails dug into her palms. “For turning me over.”

His brows drew together not in anger, but confusion. “You don’t like that position? I thought…” His eyes narrowed. “You have no trouble saying when I go too deep. Or if nipple clamps are too tight. That you hate the cane. Why would you have a problem telling me this? What am I missing?”