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She didn't notice his disquiet, because she'd noticed something else, something he'd realized some time ago. Her reaction to it was far different from his, though.
"Oh, Marius. Here, sit up slow. Pick your hand straight up off the floor."
He'd been vaguely aware of the burning sensation, his hand in the broken glass throughout the build-up to climax. His hand was a bloody mess, as was the floor, the shards glittering with crimson.
"It's okay," he told her absently. "Probably just some splinters and shit."
"Up," she said, easing him back so he'd sit on his heels. He pulled out of her body reluctantly, gratified to see her bite her bottom lip and hear a little moan catching in her throat at the friction. But as she started to lift herself up without using her hands, he realized the hazard the glass posed to her. She wasn't wearing shoes, her exercise shoes and socks neatly placed on the linoleum in the kitchen.
"Hey, don't move," he told her. Pulling up and fastening his jeans, he rose to his feet, bending to slide his arms beneath her. She shot him a bemused look and started on a halfhearted protest, likely bullshit about her being too heavy or maybe it conflicted with some independent woman feminist shit. He didn't care. She wasn't walking barefoot in glass, and he could carry her.
He lifted her free, moving a few steps back up the hallway where any scattered pieces wouldn't be a danger to her bare soles. She was a tall woman, so he had to turn so her feet wouldn't hit the wall, and he had to adjust his balance to distribute her weight a little better, but she wasn't difficult to carry. It seemed to bemuse the hell out of her, which was a plus since he couldn't seem to get anything past the damn woman.
Why that made him want to smile and helped that constant ache in his gut, he didn't really care to examine.
"Put me down, Tarzan," she instructed.
He did, but in the kitchen, where he was certain the glass couldn't have traveled. Regina pushed him into a chair and went to the sink, taking the shaving bowl and rinsing it out to refill it with water and bring it back. "Put your hand in that so we can get the blood off and see what's what. Don't move or I swear I will put my foot up your ass."
"Little soon after fucking for more foreplay."
She swatted him upside the head, a slap hard enough to make his ear ring, but she didn't seem to mean it with malice as she went back down the hallway, muttering about the stupidity of men. When she returned with a first aid kit, she'd donned a short, silken robe, loosely tied so he could see a good length of thigh when she moved. She'd removed the remains of her underwear, so it was all her beneath the clinging fabric.
Blood swirled in the water, turning it a pale crimson. When he lifted his hand out, he showed her what he'd suspected. "See? Just a few cuts on the fingers and one on my palm. A couple splinters I can get out later."
In answer, she produced a spot light from a utility closet and clamped it on the edge of the kitchen table before directing the light toward his hand. Then she donned a pair of reading glasses and lifted a pair of tweezers out of the first aid kit. "Which cuts have the splinters?"
She refused to be dissuaded, so for the next few minutes, he subsided and watched her concentrate on the task. His fingers were playing with the hem of her robe and touching her thigh. She glanced down at the contact, but didn't object.
Instead, she poured peroxide over his cuts. The burn was something he was used to feeling, so he didn't react to it beyond a brief tightening of his grip. She dried the wounds and wrapped three Band-Aids around his affected fingers. They were Snoopy Band-Aids, the famous beagle and his yellow bird pal cavorting across a cheerful blue background.
He closed his hand around them. He got lost in his head for several moments before he realized she'd dumped the water, rinsed the bowl and was setting it in the dish drainer. Turning, she leaned against the counter, her arms stretched out and braced to either side of her as she studied him.
Her face was so inscrutable; the tightness came back to his gut. It was better that way. He was used to that feeling. The rest just messed him up. He cleared his throat.
"Thanks for breakfast. I'll uh, head out now. I um..." He shrugged and rose, pushing the chair in and picking up his shirt. "I get it. I know this is it. And that's...well, I'm sorry if I acted... You're pretty damn awesome, Mistress. You deserve far better. I appreciate you trying."
He went to the playroom to retrieve his keys. Once there, he paused, thinking about it only a few seconds before he left the shirt. He was being a sentimental dumbass. She'd probably tear it up and use it for cleaning rags.
He lingered, thinking about what had happened in here last night, what had happened in the kitchen, the hallway. And before that, their date, her reaction to the concert. She'd laughed and smiled, and made him do the same, sometimes giving him a lightness of feeling that scared him.
It was the most thorough experience and connection with another human being he'd had in some time. The words he'd said to her just now were a pathetic thanks for that. But the best thing he could do was leave. As bad as things had gone this week, what would happen next week would make him even more of a menace to be around.
It was the event that had been building into dead weight on his gut for weeks, making it harder and harder to shake. He shouldn't be around anyone after it was done. Not for a while. Tyler's edict had been great timing, the hand of fate.
He came back up the hallway. She was still in the kitchen, her back to him as she did something at the counter. He should go straight to the door and keep going, but his feet took him right up behind her, a foot between them. He stared at her slim shoulders. She was a strong woman, yes, but he was a male fighter, and he saw all the signs of female fragility that he cherished, along with her strength. Slim shoulders, a graceful back, a delicate neck. She'd unbound her locs, so he could no longer see the marks he'd shamefully left on her, but he knew they were there. He wanted to press his lips there again, inhale her scent straight from heated flesh. But he didn't. He was about to backpedal for the door when she turned.
She handed him a paper bag. "The extra cinnamon rolls are in there, as well as a couple ham and cheese sandwiches. I don't have a guest room, but I have a pallet I'll put on the floor of my bedroom. You're not welcome in my bed without an invitation, but you can come sleep on that when you don't have a be
tter place."
He stopped her, his hand closing over hers. His heart was hammering in his ears again, the floor dropping out beneath him. Please don't trust me this much. Don't let her trust you this much.
"I haven't earned that, Mistress."
"Good boy. Smart man. No. You haven't." She placed a hand on his face. This was a different kind of touch. Part Mistress and part something else, her eyes assessing and kind. "My sub may not have earned it, but you need a friend, Marius. Probably more than you need a Mistress. For the moment, you have both. But I'm no more gullible a friend than I am a Mistress. You watch your ass, or I'll kick it for you. If you're going to fight for money, I have no say on that. But fighting to get rid of demons is a dangerous road for you. Will you promise me not to do that?"
He didn't know how, and that inner anger raised its head, saying she had no fucking right to require that kind of promise from him. But it mattered that she cared, enough that he almost said yes. In the end, he stayed silent. She stroked his cheek.
