Master of Freedom: A Mountain Masters Novella Page 19

  Not a good revelation. She scowled. She should have realized this before. Then again, how often had her clients been blind to the cause of their problems? The mind tended to avoid thinking about past pains. And without sharing its reasoning, the subconscious would try to prevent any re-creation of traumatic events.

  She had been making choices based on avoidance. That time was over.

  She scrubbed her hands over her face. At her movement, Trigger set a paw on her thigh.

  “Thanks, my friend.” She stroked his big head, grateful for his presence. “You know, you’re far, far better company than Preston ever was.”

  Trigger whined his agreement. He thought he was superb company.

  “You do realize Atticus is wonderful too, don’t you?”

  Trigger’s tail slapped the couch. He adored Atticus.

  So did Gin.

  Her lips curved as she considered the man. Such a whoa, honey all-man sort of guy.

  The kind who didn’t think twice about risking his life to help others. The ease with which he’d subdued the creep had been intimidating and, later, when she’d stopped shaking, extremely hot.

  She grinned. Being all man, he’d enjoyed the way she’d shown her gratitude for her rescue.

  He was also the type of guy who’d automatically clicked to whatever sport was on television. At least, he enjoyed snuggling on TV nights. And, he loved classic Westerns. In turn, she enjoyed his contemporary modern-day police and detective thrillers. They’d found common ground.

  Mostly. Getting him to watch a chick flick had required a bribe of chocolate cake.

  His “family room” was a testosterone-laden rec room. And awfully fun. She couldn’t yet beat him in pool, but she’d slaughtered him in Ping Pong.

  Yesterday, he’d made her trim his roses, insisting all Southerners knew how to tend flowers. The idiot. Even worse, she did know how…

  She’d paid him back by making him dig her an herb garden, saying digging wasn’t ladylike and pitchforks fell squarely into the guy arena. He’d not only dug the bed, but also helped plant the basil, oregano, and chives.

  Sunday morning, he’d found the spot on her ribs that sent her into incontrollable laughter. In turn, she’d discovered his feet were ticklish. The ensuing wrestling match was amazing, although she’d lost. Rather than demanding a blowjob for his prize, he’d insisted she learn to ride Molly, the mare he’d brought with Festus from Idaho.

  After her lesson with the horse, Atticus had dumped her in the hay…and taught her how to ride a human. “Cowgirl position.” But she sure hadn’t mastered “posting a trot,” as he called it.

  On the walk back to the house, her legs had wobbled so badly he’d had to hold her up. Riding was tiring. Climaxing a kazillion times? Totally exhausting.

  And then he’d helped her cook supper since he’d worn her out.

  She frowned. The man did too much for her.

  In household work, they ran about even. True, he did more yard work, if given a choice. But inside the house, he always picked up after himself. His socks hit the laundry basket, not outside. Unlike some of her lovers, he put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher. So they balanced in that area.

  But in sex? Was it stupid to want him to ask…more…from her during sex? And maybe other times too. Actually, not to ask, but to demand.

  Okay, yes, he was in charge in the bedroom, but it was all about mutual satisfaction. If anything, she came out ahead, since she’d get off more than once.

  But there were times she just wanted him to use her, to be a little selfish and take his own pleasure without thinking of hers.

  She wanted to…serve…him. How weird was that?

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the middle of the following week, Gin walked into her house, smiling in happiness. The last inmate of the day had shown he was getting somewhere.

  “I could see it last night, Miss Virginia—my future. Going to work. Getting a real paycheck and putting money in the bank.” Braden was one of her youngest cases, convicted of car theft. He had so much potential and yet couldn’t visualize a future other than more crimes and more prison. But she’d broken through finally. Now that he’d seen other possibilities, they could work on achieving them. Her sense of satisfaction bubbled inside her like champagne.

  She needed to plan out the next session. Her fingers itched for a pencil as she set her purse on a chair.

  She heard Trigger’s woof from the backyard and hurried through the house for her favorite day-brightening canine greeting. “Hold on, boy.”

  Wait. The deadbolt on the back door wasn’t latched.

  Hand at her throat, she spun in place. A beer stood on the counter. Someone was in her house. She grabbed her phone and punched in 9-1—

  “Gin, let the dog in before he busts your door down.” The voice came from outside. Atticus.

  She threw the door open and landed on her butt from Trigger’s enthusiastic greeting. “Ouch!”

  The wiggling Labrador shoved his head against her shoulder, squirming around until she’d had a chance to pet all of his wet fur.

  “Honeybunches, you are a very bad guard dog.”

  Not repentant in the least, he snuck a quick lick to her chin.

  How had the silly beast come to mean so much to her? She planted a kiss on his furry nose. “Let me up, baby. I need to smack some sense into your human friend out there.”

  She walked onto the back steps and set her hands on her hips.

  Crouched down beside a bush, her target was barely visible. But he undoubtedly could hear her.

  “Atticus Ware, what were you thinking? You almost gave me a heart attack when I saw the door unlocked. I thought I had a burglar.”

  He rose to his feet.

  Her mouth went dry.

  The drizzling rain sprinkled onto bare shoulders that could have graced a Viking warrior, a muscular chest that was streaked with sweat and dirt, and ridged abs that defined the term six-pack.

  Oh, my stars. Her body flashed from fury to arousal.

  Laughing, he hadn’t even noticed the way she was staring. “Gin, my pickup is parked right there on the street.”

  She hadn’t seen it. “Oh.” The heat roaring through her scorched away any retort.

  Climbing the steps, he tipped his cowboy hat back. The pale cloud-covered sunlight lit his rodeo belt buckle, pulling her gaze down.

  Low-slung jeans were God’s gift to women, all right. Her fingers itched to follow the happy trail—or to detour to the sexy oblique crease just above his hip.

  She swallowed. “What are you doing in my backyard? In the rain?”

  “Building you a doghouse—rather, I’m making a house for your bony-ass mutt.”

  A snort escaped her. He constantly insulted Trigger, yet was always slipping tidbits of food to the Labrador. Stopping to pet and talk to him.

  Trigger adored him.

  “A dog house would be wonderful. Thanks.” Stars above, look at the man. Atticus didn’t shave on his days off so stubble darkened his neck below his beard. He looked dangerous. Predatory. Unable to help herself, she stepped forward and ran her hands over the strong, muscular planes of his chest, over the brown dusting of hair to search out the flat male nipples. His skin was overheated and slick with sweat and rain.

  He caught her wrists. “Gin, I’m filthy and—”

  “I know,” she breathed and whipped her sweater up and over her head, then opened the front of her bra.

  The look in his eyes changed instantly—yes, he was all man—and his hands, gritty with dirt, palmed her breasts.

  “Yesss,” she hissed softly. She moved forward, close enough to undo his belt and zipper. With the eight-foot wooden fence around her backyard, no one could see in.

  His hands closed on hers. “Gin,” he warned.

  A proper submissive asked permission, she knew, and yet she wanted him in her mouth more than she wanted her next breath. “Atticus,” she responded teasingly.

  Droppin
g to her knees, she pulled his cock all the way out, inhaling the intensely masculine musky scent. He was hardening, and she slid him into her mouth to enjoy how the baby-soft skin turned taut over the iron beneath. “Mmmmm.”

  “Jesus.” His hand flattened on the wall behind her as he gave it his weight.

  She lifted her head long enough to grin up at him. “I didn’t ask permission, oh Dom. You’ll have to punish me later.”

  “Don’t think I won’t,” he muttered, sending a thrill through her. Because he would. As a Dom, he enforced his rules consistently, fairly—and with a hard hand. She loved that about him.

  What she didn’t love was how he never asked her for anything. That wasn’t right. He was always doing things for her, and the balance was unfair. Now that she knew a desire to serve wasn’t unbalanced, that it made her happy, she wanted to give him more.

  Wanted him to demand more.

  Swirling her tongue around the head, she sucked lightly and took him in.

  His next breath was harsh.

  She bobbed her head, applying light suction. His testicles were round and heavy in the palm of her hand, and she fondled them as she circled his cock with her tongue. So good…

  She stopped and sat back. “Well, we should move this inside.” Smiling inwardly, she started to stand.

  “Don’t even think about it.” The hand on her shoulder forced her back to her knees. He tilted her head up to study her face. “Yeah, you enjoy giving head.”

  He had no idea. She smiled at him.

  He ran a finger around her wet lips. “You’re also topping from the bottom, little girl. Manipulating me to”—his eyes narrowed—“to ask more from you.”

  She swallowed. True, she’d wanted him to push her, but he’d figured her out within minutes and called her on it. Uh-oh.

  “We’re going to talk about this, but first, I’ll take what you so kindly offered.” His fingers closed, trapping her hair.

  When her mouth dropped open, he fed his cock between her lips, and, carefully, but mercilessly, facefucked her. His grip in her hair kept her totally under his control, and he was the one to regulate the pace and depth as his hips rocked forward and back.

  Bracing her hands on his thighs, she closed her eyes and…surrendered. He’d drive her—his shaft hit the back of her throat, making her almost gag, shutting off her breath—but never too much, because this was Atticus, and he knew her. Cared for her.

  She relaxed into the pace, the knowledge she could trust him to control her and take what he wanted, the glory of giving it to him.

  When he came, she swallowed and swallowed, then cleaned him with her tongue before slipping him out.

  As she blinked back to reality, she wrapped her arms around his hips and rested her cheek on his bare stomach. The feeling inside her was big, overwhelming, as if her heart had expanded past what her ribs could contain. Not love, please, not love, but—gratitude, joy, and the devastating sense of being where she belonged.

  She kissed his stomach and said, almost inaudibly, “Thank you.” As his hand smoothed her hair, her scalp stung from his tugging. Her knees hurt from the wood of the porch—and her panties were damp with her arousal.

  He chuckled. “You’re very welcome.”

  For one breath, two, she savored contentment.

  Then, with a grunt, he yanked her to her feet. “Go in the kitchen and strip. Kneel there and wait for me.”

  Heaven help her, she was in trouble.

  A long while later, Atticus sat on the living room floor with his back against the couch, listening to the rain drumming on the roof.

  One well-punished, well-satiated little submissive reclined between his legs, her head against his shoulder.

  During her punishment, he’d tried to explain that—while he’d enjoyed the hell out of the blowjob—she wasn’t allowed to manipulate him into something. She understood, although she hadn’t liked learning the difference between a fun spanking and one for discipline.

  But after he finished disciplining her, well, holding a squirming little subbie—especially when the subbie was Gin—had turned him on.

  So even while the tears were drying on her cheeks, and she was struggling not to call him names, he’d held her down, sucked her clit into his mouth, and spurred her to a quick orgasm before taking her hard and fast. It wasn’t often his dick rose to the occasion twice in an hour, but damn, she was fun to spank.

  The blowjob, spanking, and fucking had worn her out though. She was half-asleep.

  Comfortable and content, Atticus considered getting up to cook supper. Would Gin be able to sit in a chair at the table? He grinned. Tomorrow—Friday—was his day off, but she’d have a long day of sitting as she counseled inmates.

  His smile faded. Goddamned prison. He hated her working there. And what if the increase in local crime was tied to the prison? The skinheads arrested last week had no reason to visit Bear Flat—and their hotel room held a wealth of firearms and cell phones.

  The call to the warden had been unproductive. The idiot’s head was up his ass and not emerging any time soon.

  A sound came from the kitchen. Atticus tensed before recognizing the clicking of Trigger’s claws on the hardwood floor.

  The chair in the corner creaked.

  “Trigger, are you allowed on the furniture?” Atticus asked quietly.

  The dog jumped down with a thump. Heaving a disgruntled sigh, he settled into his dog bed against the wall.

  Gin stirred and pushed up to look over Atticus’s shoulder. “Your back is to the room. How’d you know what he was doing?”

  Since she was awake, he could move. Atticus scooped her up and resettled them on the couch. “I recognize the sound of a sneaky dog. Odysseus would sleep on the furniture when I wasn’t looking.”

  She propped herself up, forearms on his chest. “You named a dog Odysseus? Seriously?”

  “Mom did. She majored in classical fiction and taught high school English.”

  “An English teacher. No wonder you Wares have unusual names. Atticus is for Atticus Finch; Sawyer for Tom?”

  “Yep. And my youngest brother is Hector from the Iliad. His dog is Andromache; Andy for short, since Hector can’t stand Greek mythology.”

  “Is he still in Idaho?”

  “Mmmhmm. Kept the ranch, although he sold off a corner so I could buy acreage here.”

  Gin studied him. “Was he making you a gift or did he sell your own portion of the property?”

  “Part of mine.” He resettled her, tangling his fingers in her hair. The firelight danced over the fine strands, bringing out different shades of red, making her fair skin glow, deepening her green eyes. He doubted Helen of Troy could have been lovelier. And no one had a more generous heart than this woman in his arms. “Now, let’s talk about what you were up to this afternoon.”

  She huffed. “You certainly have a violent reaction to getting a blowjob.”

  “Violent? Let’s go for honesty here, pet. Considering where you work, you’ve seen real aggression.”

  “I—” Her gaze took in his serious expression. “Okay, fine. You walloped me, but you weren’t angry.”

  His lips quirked. “Difficult to be, since I got a blowjob. Which you’re incredibly good at, by the way.”

  Her smile held the delight of a submissive who’d been complimented by her Dom. Damn, he loved that look on her face.

  Then shame filled her gaze. “I’m sorry, Atticus. I think I’ve been working in the prison too long. The inmates excel at manipulative behavior, and I tried the very same thing on you.”

  “Yep. Tell me why.”

  Emotions chased across her face like clouds in a brisk wind. “It’s odd. I love doing things for you—especially now that I realize I serve you because I like to. But you never ask for anything. And I wanted you to…to use me sometimes. Even if I know I’m being weird.”

  Hell, he’d figured it correctly. She needed to know she wasn’t asking more than she should, which meant he ha
d to explain his own behavior. But, talking about the past? He’d rather shoot himself in the head.

  With one hand tangled in her hair, he rubbed his thumb over her cheek. “You’re not weird at all. You’re submissive, Virginia, and one kind of submissive delights in giving. Making people happy. Filling their needs. It’s probably why you chose counseling for a career. You’d be even more driven to offer your talents to your Dom. It’s normal, babe.”

  “Normal.” She relaxed with a wry comment, “Feminists would burn you at the stake for your stance.”

  “Nah. See, submission and giving are true with male submissives too. Equal opportunity service, got it?”

  She had an adorable smile. “Yes.”

  “As for me…” Explaining his behavior wasn’t simple. “My stepfather’s treatment of my mother makes me…hesitant…to do anything where I feel I’m taking advantage of a woman.”

  “I had a feeling your past might be affecting you.” She frowned. “Your stepfather ended up in jail. Did your mother finally turn him in?”

  The memory was foul. “Once. But he didn’t hit her where it showed and she didn’t see a doctor. So he was assigned anger management therapy and behaved himself until his therapy was over. Then he strangled Sawyer almost to death. Said he’d kill us if Mom had him arrested again.”

  “And that right there is one more reason you don’t—didn’t—trust counselors. No wonder,” Gin muttered. “So, what happened to get him in prison?”

  Her understanding created a warm glow in his belly—that didn’t erase the chill of having to talk about his past. “He came home shit-faced one night when I was twelve.” Stumbled into the kitchen, gunning for a fight. Any excuse would have sent him over. Atticus could still feel the dread infusing the house. “He decided he didn’t want fried chicken and started to throw the pan at her.”

  Gin stared. “Hot grease?”

  “She’d have been burned. Blinded. I charged him, knocked it out of his hand.” They’d both been splashed with the grease. A punch sent Atticus to the floor. A kick curled him up like a pill bug. “He was…enraged. Sawyer—being a bright lad—called the cops before jumping in. He got thrown into the wood stove. I thought the bastard had killed him.”