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Dylan gasped and sent me a feigned scowl as he dramatically clutched his heart.“Your lack of faith in us wounds me deeply.”
“My apologies, I suppose you two pulled out all the stops and whipped up some Michelin Star TV dinners, huh?”I asked with a sassy grin.
“Not even close.”He winked as he escorted me to the large dining table.
At the freestanding island in the middle of the kitchen, Nick looked up and flashed me a heart-melting smile before focusing his attention back to the steaming pot on the stove.The delicious aromas filling the air made my stomach growl and my mouth water.
“Wait till you taste what we’ve created for you, kitten,” Dylan preened, pulling out a chair for me.“Sit and relax.Your dinner will be served in a minute.”
Serving was a submissive’s job.Doms weren’t supposed to wait on a submissive, at least not in any of the books I’d read.There was something fundamentally wrong with the whole picture.
“But I thought…”
“You thought what?”
“Never mind.”I bit my lips together.
I didn’t want to open Pandora’s Box and bring up the topic of BDSM with them again.
“If you have something to say, speak up.We’re good at a lot of things, but mind reading isn’t one of them.”Dylan smirked.
“I have no doubt what you two are good at.”As the words spilled off my tongue, I wasn’t sure who was more shocked; me or Dylan.The look on his face was pure intrigue.I wanted to die.“I mean… I don’t doubt that you guys are good cooks.It smells delicious.”
Dylan leaned in close to my ear.His warm breath wafted over my neck and drew a shiver up my spine.“For some reason, you don’t believe we punish little girls who lie.Trust me.We do.”
My heart galloped.
My palms turned sweaty.
And my mouth went dry.
In order to keep from stammering a response, I grabbed the bottle of wine on the table and started to fill the empty glass at my plate.Without a word, Dylan wrapped his wide hand over mine.Then, before a drop even crested the rim, he guided the bottle back to the table.
“That’s your water glass.You don’t get wine tonight in case you need another pain pill.”
After spending most of my life making my own decisions, his edict chafed.
“I wasn’t going to take any more pain pills.I feel fine,” I protested as Nick placed a steaming plate of herb-crusted fish, sautéed snap peas, and sweet potato fries in front of me.My eyes grew wide as I peered up at him, then arched a brow at Dylan.“Ohmigod, this looks amazing.You two reallycancook.”
“Brat,” Dylan chuckled.
The meal was amazing, but watching them enjoy the wine rankled me.Pushing back, I pressed for a glass until, grumbling in disapproval, they finally relented.Yes, it was a small, meaningless victory, and even though I secretly wanted them to devour me—like they were their food—I needed to firm up the ground beneath me…at least for as long as I could.
We talked, ate, and laughed, and as I learned more about them, a sense of calmness settled through me.
Dylan was like a game show host, constantly dropping snarky and funny one-liners.Nick had a great sense of humor, too, but was definitely more serious and pragmatic.I suspected it had a lot to do with the divorce conversation he’d earlier had with George.While it was refreshing the way Dylan made me laugh, my demeanor was a lot more like Nick’s.
Instead of letting me help clean after dinner, they led me to the couch in front of a roaring fire and draped a soft cotton blanket around me.Staring into the flickering flames, I exhaled a satisfied smile.My belly was full, and for the first time all day, I felt at peace.
Long minutes later, they joined me.As they eased onto the couch, nestling me between their hard, warm bodies, Dylan handed me a mug of hot chocolate.
As I sipped the rich, creamy sweetness, Nick absently massaged my neck, and Dylan traced his fingertips up and down my arm while we talked about our lives.Though their blissful touch aroused me, it also calmed me in ways I couldn’t explain.
The pair had been best friends since first grade and claimed one another as a brothers.Nick owned a construction company in Chicago.Dylan was a veteran Marine who’d served three tours in Afghanistan.When he returned home, he became Nick’s foreman.
I told them about my career as an archeological activist, which, after learning about Nick’s company, filled me with anxiety.I’d lost count of the number of construction company owners I’d pissed off over the years, having to slap injunctions on their projects when a historic relic was unearthed at a dig site.Nick bristled, but became sympathetic when I explained most of the artifacts unearthed were Native American in origin.
It had been difficult to tell them about losing my parents at sixteen.I’d never told anyone other than Myron, my boss, how they’d died on an icy road in the Ozarks.They’d been driving home after closing up our lakefront cabin for the winter when they’d encountered the unexpected storm.Witnesses said after my dad crested a hill, he lost control on a patch of black ice and flipped down a steep embankment.Mellie had been away at college, but moved back home to raise me until I graduated high school.
