said. He progressed up my body until I’d flexed and relaxed from the tips of my fingers and toes to my neck, which cracked with the movement. The trick worked, though, and my awareness of my body, of his body, our breathing, the tug-tug-tug of his fingers in my hair all served to shut down my overactive mind. In, out, up, down, tha-thump, tug, tha-thump, tug.
“You do my bidding, and I will watch out for you,” he murmured, as my consciousness began to slip. “Your Dom orders it, you obey. Sleep.”
My last reaction to his words was a flash of lust wrapped in security before I submitted to him.
I woke up two minutes before my alarm clock, refreshed and well-rested.
Huh. So this is what human feels like. I’d forgotten that. The shower steam was heaven, as was the smell of coffee from the kitchen. Ben had gotten up to start the single-cup machine and crawled back in bed. He’d begun doing the coffee bit for me when I returned to work, and while it was a nice gesture, it felt wrong to me, somehow. Yes, he was taking care of me, and his “job” as my Dom was to do that, but coffee felt like something I should do for him. Our dynamic had worked before by him showing me how fulfilling his requests satisfied me, not the other way around. I wanted to make him happy by doing what he wanted. It was who I was, a natural submissive. Without that purpose, I was just Gavin DeGrassi, broken sub, damaged goods. And he was Ben Haverson, Dom who didn’t dominate, ignoring his needs in favor of me. It was backward.
Despite feeling better physically, I emerged from the bathroom cranky. Standing at the counter, I glared at the coffee, deciding it would be childish and rude to ignore it, even if it did represent everything that was out of balance with our relationship.
The office was mostly deserted when I arrived, so I started a new pot of coffee in the break room and dove back into Arnold Stevenson’s open cases and fresh parolees. Cole’s office came through mid-morning with a report on the physical evidence.
“Hey, Myah, evidence report.” She stopped typing, attention on me. “Fibers were 75 percent wool, 25 percent nylon, common to wool coats, sweaters, and every yarn store in the country. Too common to track. A footprint was found in the mud beside the porch, size twelve shoe with extremely worn tread. Impression depth and size indicates a man between five-foot ten and six-one, a hundred eighty to two hundred pounds. Wear shows no sign of unique walking characteristics, though there were minute traces of mud in the treads inconsistent with the soil around Arnold’s house.”
Myah raised her eyebrows. “Enough to compare with other locations?” She meant the land around the rivers. Based on water content in specific areas, Cole could isolate a mud sample’s origins. Anything to tell us somewhere else our killer had been.
“Looks like he had enough for a few comparisons. So far, nothing. Inconsistent with the banks of the Mississippi down at The Landing and on the Missouri in St. Charles. It’s possible there are tributaries or ponds that match, but he’d need another sample.”
“That would take another victim,” she grumbled. “No, thank you.”
“I’m meeting with the ex-Mrs. Stevenson in an hour. Up for lunch downtown?”
“In this crap weather, you want to drive twenty minutes just for lunch?”
I shrugged. “Gotta be there anyway to meet her, so what’s the difference?”
“Okay,” she conceded, grabbing her coat.
Melissa Stevenson was a pinch-faced woman with a chain-smoking habit that belied her corporate appearance. We stood outside and shivered next to a smoker’s butt receptacle while she puffed away, unwilling to make her office aware of her involvement with the police in any way.
“So you worked with him?” she barked. “He ever say anything about me?”
“No, ma’am,” Myah said, her tone steady despite shivering in the cold.
“No surprise. He never said anything about me
“You do my bidding, and I will watch out for you,” he murmured, as my consciousness began to slip. “Your Dom orders it, you obey. Sleep.”
My last reaction to his words was a flash of lust wrapped in security before I submitted to him.
I woke up two minutes before my alarm clock, refreshed and well-rested.
Huh. So this is what human feels like. I’d forgotten that. The shower steam was heaven, as was the smell of coffee from the kitchen. Ben had gotten up to start the single-cup machine and crawled back in bed. He’d begun doing the coffee bit for me when I returned to work, and while it was a nice gesture, it felt wrong to me, somehow. Yes, he was taking care of me, and his “job” as my Dom was to do that, but coffee felt like something I should do for him. Our dynamic had worked before by him showing me how fulfilling his requests satisfied me, not the other way around. I wanted to make him happy by doing what he wanted. It was who I was, a natural submissive. Without that purpose, I was just Gavin DeGrassi, broken sub, damaged goods. And he was Ben Haverson, Dom who didn’t dominate, ignoring his needs in favor of me. It was backward.
Despite feeling better physically, I emerged from the bathroom cranky. Standing at the counter, I glared at the coffee, deciding it would be childish and rude to ignore it, even if it did represent everything that was out of balance with our relationship.
The office was mostly deserted when I arrived, so I started a new pot of coffee in the break room and dove back into Arnold Stevenson’s open cases and fresh parolees. Cole’s office came through mid-morning with a report on the physical evidence.
“Hey, Myah, evidence report.” She stopped typing, attention on me. “Fibers were 75 percent wool, 25 percent nylon, common to wool coats, sweaters, and every yarn store in the country. Too common to track. A footprint was found in the mud beside the porch, size twelve shoe with extremely worn tread. Impression depth and size indicates a man between five-foot ten and six-one, a hundred eighty to two hundred pounds. Wear shows no sign of unique walking characteristics, though there were minute traces of mud in the treads inconsistent with the soil around Arnold’s house.”
Myah raised her eyebrows. “Enough to compare with other locations?” She meant the land around the rivers. Based on water content in specific areas, Cole could isolate a mud sample’s origins. Anything to tell us somewhere else our killer had been.
“Looks like he had enough for a few comparisons. So far, nothing. Inconsistent with the banks of the Mississippi down at The Landing and on the Missouri in St. Charles. It’s possible there are tributaries or ponds that match, but he’d need another sample.”
“That would take another victim,” she grumbled. “No, thank you.”
“I’m meeting with the ex-Mrs. Stevenson in an hour. Up for lunch downtown?”
“In this crap weather, you want to drive twenty minutes just for lunch?”
I shrugged. “Gotta be there anyway to meet her, so what’s the difference?”
“Okay,” she conceded, grabbing her coat.
Melissa Stevenson was a pinch-faced woman with a chain-smoking habit that belied her corporate appearance. We stood outside and shivered next to a smoker’s butt receptacle while she puffed away, unwilling to make her office aware of her involvement with the police in any way.
“So you worked with him?” she barked. “He ever say anything about me?”
“No, ma’am,” Myah said, her tone steady despite shivering in the cold.
“No surprise. He never said anything about me
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