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His father was much happier with him on the admin side of things, but he never forced him away from assignments. Close personal protection had been like a calling to him. He’d grown up knowing he would, one day, step into his father’s shoes, and he had welcomed it. He’d joined the army straight from school, seen enough tours to give him nightmares, and finally stepped into his role. And he had loved every minute of it, except for the damn paperwork.
That said, he was his own worst enemy, because he knew there were other people who would sign off on things, but he still found himself logging onto the system, working through reports, and looking at the details for upcoming jobs, just to ensure nothing had been overlooked. He felt protective of everyone working for his father’s company, and he wanted to ensure they were safe.
There was a reason TSS—Taylor Security Services—were the best, and that was because they paid attention to even the slightest detail. But right now, the only thing he was focusing on was that Ivy was over thirty minutes later than she said she would be.
It was ridiculous. He knew she was safe. He’d hired a security detail to follow her at a discrete distance. Not that it had stopped his little vixen from trying to befriend them. For someone who walked with her eyes cast down towards the sidewalk, she sure knew when she was being followed. It was a good thing, he supposed.
His brown eyes, which Ivy always said reminded her of pine cones and glitter, snapped from their fixed point on the ceiling as he heard the key slide into the door, or attempt to at least. The cream tablecloth tried to follow as he stood, threatening to spill the glass of water placed on the table until he snatched the clingy fabric free that had stuck to him as if his jeans were made of Velcro, not denim.
With smooth steps, while the key still struggled to turn, he positioned himself to stand beside the coat hooks. Folding his arms, he put his best stern expression to work. She knew to call him if she was running late, and he had a sneaky suspicion as to why she hadn’t.
The relevance of today hadn’t been lost on him. Devon had called an hour ago to say he’d let Ivy out early from their session. He was a good friend. He was using an office in Manhattan just for Ivy, not that she knew that. With Ivy, it was sometimes better to let her reach her own conclusions. She hated putting someone out, and if she thought Devon made a forty to fifty-minute trip, just to make their sessions, there was a chance she’d stop making appointments, hating the thought of being a burden to him or anyone.
While Devon had a home office, separate from his main house, he preferred to make house calls. He was observant and could tell a lot from the state of their home. It was one of the reasons Miles had distanced himself from him when Ivy went missing.
Over the last few years, Miles had been making their home a place of good memories, impersonal touches were replaced with homey additions that made the place theirs, instead of something resembling a show home, void of anything with character. But with how Ivy’s mind worked, the study where she’d had sessions with Devon had become a haunted ground, filled with unwanted memories and pain. He saw the way her foot would hover, that moment of hesitation before crossing the threshold even now.
It was better that pain lived elsewhere, and so, he and Devon decided it was better to let her haunt another place with darkness and shadows, rather than create a room in their home she feared. Because that’s what Ivy did, how her mind worked. She fixated on things, immersed herself completely, and if that room was one filled with nothing but pain and dark memories, the place itself would transform into a thing of nightmares.
In all honesty, he’d been looking at property elsewhere. He knew Ivy was feeling overwhelmed in the city. Crowds had become too much, and the media had not helped at all. Those articles had set her back months. Maybe more. If he ever found out who was responsible, there would be consequences.
The lock finally turned. He could gauge her stress level just based on how long that simple action had taken.
“You were meant to wait for the car,” he scolded, arms crossed as she stepped over the threshold. Her beautiful blue eyes met his for a moment before dropping to the floor. Her arm uncoiled from her stomach as she gently pushed the door closed with the heel of her boot, listening for it to click while keeping her eyes cast downward. To a casual onlooker, it may appear a gesture of shame, but he recognised it for what it was, a sign of respect and submission. A sign of what she needed.
He heard her take in a long deep breath. In those few seconds, it was as if he felt the tension release partly on the exhale. “Was I not clear about my wishes?” he questioned, using what she called his Dom voice. He knew how she responded to it, just like he knew right now what she needed was her favourite form of stress relief.
“Sorry, I …”
“It’s for your safety, do you—”
“I’m pretty sure the security detail you have following my every move is perfectly capable of keeping pace.”
Ooh, fire. His vixen was showing a hint of challenge. That was more than he had expected, more than he dared to hope for. He stepped forward, his hand tangling in her hair, tugging gently in a way that never failed to cause her breath to hitch as he drew her eyes to his.
“Who I do and don’t have watching you is not in question. I gave you an order. Did you obey?” Before she left today, knowing exactly how difficult this session would be, he ensured she knew her tasks, and knew the penalty for disobedience.
Years ago, her tasks had kept her sane, brought her back from the brink. Now they were something she bent and adapted, depending on her mood and what she needed.
“No, Master.” The way she swallowed, the slight squeak in her voice betrayed her arousal. He had no doubt that if he was to dip his hand between her legs he’d feel the heat radiating from within. He loved how wet she got for him, how his words alone could make her writhe. His little Sub was so responsive, so perfect.
“Now, let’s get this coat off.” His fingers found the buckle of the tight belt, working it free gently until the coat hung loose. Sliding his fingers beneath it, he allowed his fingertips to tease the fabric of her clothes as they made their way up to her shoulders, gently pushing the coat down, before hanging it on one of the hooks behind the door, his brow furrowing as he spotted the corner of something poking out of her pocket.
The way her breathing hitched, the rosy shade of her cheeks, all betrayed her thoughts, her need, and it was something it would be his honour to deliver. “You realise, of course,” he whispered, knowing his breath against her ears was responsible for the goose pimples chasing down her arms as her lips parted with the slightest inhale. “I have to punish you before I can reward you.” She smelt so good, her unique aroma mingled with the citrus scent of her perfume and the honey and oat fragrance of her hair.
His lips brushed her blushing cheeks as she leaned into his touch, already under his spell, already his, even before his fingertips danced across the smooth fabric covering her collarbone to the buttons of her shirt.
She tensed briefly as he released the first, a reaction she’d developed only since seeing images of herself splattered across the newspaper. Until that day, she’d embraced her scars, thinking of them as a testament to her survival. Until the day she’d read words like, hideously disfigured, mutilated, forever branded, they’d been a part of her she’d come to accept.
Each one of those scars was a testament to her will to survive. He could have lost her too many times to count. Leaning down, his lips touched hers, tasting her in a slow seductive kiss, easing the tension as his fingers slowly worked the buttons free before peeling the shirt from her.
Her scars shone like silver against her pale flesh. A white tiger’s stripes, a visual display of her fighting spirit and hidden ferocity. Her body was a canvas of abuse, but he had once more convinced her that her scars were like the platinum-coated sap sometimes used in kintsugi, a testament to her strength and a display of her own unique experience, hoping she’d see their beauty, just as he did. She was scarred, and there wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t beautiful. That was why there was such a vase on one of the shelves, and he knew secretly it was one of her favourite pieces.
The woman before him survived death. She came back to him, and he would never, never take that for granted. His sun rose and set with her, she brought colour to his world, and her name was whispered with every beat of his heart.
His fingers glided down her body with the precision and mastery of one who’d spent countless hours learning each and every hot spot and committing how each touch, each minor pressure, affected her. He traced her contours to stop at the waistline of her long black skirt.
She looked stunning in her godet skirt, her low heeled boots just peeping out from beneath the flare, but right now, as his fingers slipped inside the waistline, easing the zipper down, he just wanted one less barrier between them. His palms took their time, slowly caressing the contours of her hips to cup the soft flesh of her ass, gently sliding the skirt down, until the soft fabric glided to pool at her feet. His hand slid in hers, helping her to step from it, appreciating the way her body shivered in response to the light touches as he guided her forward, down the hall to the place he knew she longed to be.
