Justice for Francesca (Six Paths to Justice #1)

10. An Inch Today, Two Inches Tomorrow

10

AN INCH TODAY, TWO INCHES TOMORROW

Francesca

I t was after eight p.m., and Francesca sat in her car a block down from Elysium. Her fingers were tapping on the steering wheel, her bottom lip being worried so hard she eventually tasted blood. She should go to her hotel and go to bed. This was a bad move. He was part of an ongoing investigation. She shouldn’t be here.

However, her body was not listening to her brain, and she found herself exiting the car and using the door code she’d been given to access the building. Still arguing with herself, she crossed to the elevator, entered it when the door opened, and pushed the button for the fourth floor. All the way upstairs, she tried to convince her finger to hit the emergency stop, press the button for the first floor, and go back downstairs. It was at that moment that the door opened onto the fourth floor, straight into Tripoli’s residence.

“Hello?” she called out tentatively.

“In the kitchen,” he called out.

She stepped further into the apartment, her nose registering something delicious. Her stomach rumbled.

“I heard that. Get in here and eat.”

It hadn’t been that loud of a growl, had it? Turning the corner, she came across a table set informally for two and Tripoli in the kitchen removing something from the oven.

“Sit,” he ordered, nodding his head toward the table.

“I just stopped by to check in, like I said I would. It’s too early to know anything for sure?—”

“Sit,” he said more emphatically. “It’s my turn to be bossy. You’ve been at Jessa’s all day, and I doubt you had anything more than coffee and the bagel Triumph brought you for breakfast.” At her surprised look, he replied, “I found what was left of it on my desk. Although it looked more like you were eating cream cheese with a bagel shmear,” he teased. He set a glass baking dish in the center of the table.

“I refuse to apologize. It’s criminal to allow even a smidge of that lusciousness in those tiny containers to go to waste.”

She was still standing at the edge of the dining area. When he looked at her, his eyebrows rose into his forehead. “Are you going to sit, or am I going to tie you down to the chair?”

A sudden vision of his tie binding her hands behind the chair popped into her brain. “I…”

Tripoli sighed. “Sit, Francesca. It’s food. We don’t have to talk, but at least let me feed you. It’s been a shit day for both of us.”

She bit her lip again, her brain flying at warp speed. Knowing she should refuse, her body betrayed her and moved to the chair he offered her. When she sat, he pushed her into the table. Before she could process what was going on, he had put a napkin in her lap, poured her a glass of wine, and began plating food for her—stuffed pork chops, sliced potatoes, and carrots. He didn’t sit until she had food in front of her.

“I don’t drink on the job.”

“You’re not on the job. You’ve worked way too long today, you haven’t eaten, and your eyes are burning red from staring at reports for hours on end and a lack of sleep. You’re off the clock as long as you’re in this apartment, so drink the wine.”

He waited for her to pick up the glass and take a sip. When she did, only then did he turn to his plate and start eating.

“Fleur, you don’t take care of yourself. I can tell. Even if I weren’t a former medic, I’d see the signs. Your complexion is incredibly pale, you’re always rubbing your head like you have a headache, and you’re about twenty pounds lighter than when I saw you two years ago.” He looked over at her and saw the lack of expression on her face. He set his fork down and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

She pushed the food around on her plate.

“You just came off a case, didn’t you? That’s part of why you’re so tired?”

She took a large swallow of her wine. “I just finished a nearly seven-month undercover operation. I’d been home less than an hour when I got the call to come here.”

“Is it normal to be undercover that long? And then be assigned to another case that fast? I wouldn’t think that would be allowed.”

“Not usually.” She struggled with what she could legally say. “We knew exactly who we were going after, but getting close enough was tricky. Moving up the ranks with this person isn’t something you can do quickly, so we were forced into alternative measures.”

His elbows propped on the table, his fork dangling from his fingers, he turned his head toward her. “How alternative?”

Francesca shrugged. “You need to blend in, so you do what needs doing.”

“So, if it were infiltrating a drug cartel, you’d likely have to actually do drugs? Possibly connect yourself to a cartel member as a girlfriend?” he suggested.

“We’re encouraged to try and avoid breaking the law if we can, but… yes, sometimes it means doing things we wouldn’t normally do,” she said softly. “Luckily, this particular job just meant being someone I wasn’t—which is undercover work overall—and limited to saying a lot of things I wouldn’t normally say.” She tried to lighten the moment. “Didn’t even have to go to confession.”

He smiled lightly at her reassurance, but after that, they ate in silence. She kept sneaking looks at him through her eyelashes. On the outside, he seemed to be totally focused on his food, but she was willing to bet he wanted to ask for more information. Her clue? He was stabbing the carrots on his plate a little harder than before.

When she finally put her fork down, she was still feeling incredibly guilty for being there.

“Finished?” he asked.

She nodded. “Thank you. You’re a great cook.”

“Learned by necessity. When you’re a bachelor, it’s either eat out all the time or learn to cook.” He picked up his plate and hers and headed for the kitchen. When she tried to help clear the table, he stared her down. “Go sit in the living room. I’ve got this.”

“You did all this work. I should help.”

“Fleur, please. Go sit down. You’re exhausted.”

She stood, frozen.

He set down the plates on the counter, then walked to her side. Gently, he turned her toward the living room and guided her to the leather sofa. He sat her on the far right cushion, then reached down for her right foot. He unzipped the boot and pulled it from her foot. Then he did the same with the other foot.

Francesca watched him like a hawk.

He swung her legs up onto the couch, then pulled the blanket lying across the back and unfolded it over her. “Scoot down.”

She felt like she was hypnotized, but she did as he asked, her head resting against the cushioned arm of the couch.

“Rest, Fleur. I’ll take care of the dishes, and you’re going to take a nap. Then we’ll talk.”

She watched him as he walked away. There was no way she could fall asleep here. Not only would it be impossible with her brain racing like it was, but she shouldn’t. And yet, she felt her eyelids grow heavy as she listened to him working in the kitchen. Finally, she succumbed to the domestic sounds and fell into a deep sleep.

Francesca awoke abruptly. The first thing her eyes registered was Tripoli at the other end of the sofa. Bright-blue framed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose while he read printouts in a folder on his lap. Making notes with one hand, his other brushed his thumb lightly over her ankle. She quickly retracted her foot and sat up, embarrassed that she had fallen asleep. “What time is it?”

Tripoli glanced at his watch. “Just after ten.” He took off his glasses and set them, along with the folders and pencil, on the end table next to him. “You ready to ask your questions?”

Trying to collect her wits about her, she made a move to find her boots. “It’s late. I should go. When I come in tomorrow is soon enough to ask them.”

His hand on her arm stopped her. “You’re here. You had dinner, so you met my requirement to ask them. Ask them now, and sleep in a little tomorrow to make up for how late it is. However,” he countered, “if you want me to answer those questions, you’ll have to grant me the right to ask one question of you for every question you ask me.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal!”

“Well, technically, the condition was you could ask your questions if you had dinner with me. I said nothing about answering those questions.”

“Semantics!”

“If that’s all it is, then why argue about it? So… are you in or not?”

She grunted in frustration. “It’s way too late for this nonsense. I’m the agent. You’re a suspect, which means you don’t have a right, much less a need, to ask any questions.”

“I beg to differ,” he contradicted her. “Everyone has rights, even suspects. But I’m not a suspect anymore because you verified my alibi. If you hadn’t, you’d have had my ass in an interrogation room. You wouldn’t have sat down to eat. You definitely wouldn’t have fallen asleep on my couch.” His tone seemed earnest. “I have a need to ask a lot of questions. I want to get to know you more. Not just the woman named Fleur whom I met in Los Angeles.” He looked her straight in the eye. “I promise. They’ll be low pressure. When you’re done with what you need to ask, make your last question about my nickname.”

“I already know what it is.”

He laughed. “Obviously. But you don’t know why it’s my nickname, not that it’s difficult to figure out if you give it serious thought.” He spread an arm across the back of the couch, making sure he was comfortable in the corner of the cushions. “Go ahead. Ask your questions. I’ll answer anything you want, with the exception of any deployments I may or may not have gone on in my time with the Marines.”

“Fair enough.” She pulled her notebook out of her pocket and flipped through it to the section where she had her questions. She didn’t need them in front of her, but the notebook felt like a shield she could use to keep from getting herself emotionally involved. Her actions this evening with him were outside of her normal behavior, so she felt the need for some type of barrier between them. “I verified your alibi, but what I couldn’t verify was how you got here. You didn’t fly on a commercial plane. How did you get here?”

“Wow… right for the jugular.” He smiled. “Do you remember Master Lobo from The Library?”

She nodded. “Tall. Scary. Grumpier than that green guy that lives in a trash can.”

“Yep, that’s him.” Tripoli laughed. “He’s a little less grumpy these days. Hooked up with a spicy romance writer—she was the girl the trafficking ring was specifically after when the club was raided—and his rough edges are a little smoother now.” He readjusted on the couch. “The first flight out of Los Angeles that had room on it wouldn’t have gotten me here until after six p.m., so I asked Lobo for a favor. His boss has a jet.” He smiled. “My turn. What’s your favorite color?”

She was stunned. “Seriously? That’s your question?”

“I promised I’d keep them easy. So?”

Shaking her head, she answered, “Ivory. Who is Lobo’s boss?”

“Honestly, I don’t know the answer to that question. I just knew that Lobo had access to a jet. When is your birthday?”

She sighed. “March seventeenth.”

“St. Patrick’s Day. How appropriate for a nice, Irish colleen.”

Francesca jumped back into her questions. “Are there any employees, former employees, or patrons who might have a grievance with you?”

“Not that I’m aware of. We have an extremely low turnover. Our pay is higher than probably anywhere else, and I’d like to think I treat my employees better than most. I leave the disciplinary actions in departments to my supervisors and trust their decisions. No one likes to be fired, of course, but I’ve only fired one supervisor, and they knew it was coming, so there wasn’t really any argument. As for patrons? There are always complaints, but we have tight contracts, and they have little ground to stand on. I can go through my records, maybe give you a few names of people who I’ve had issues with, and I can ask my supervisors to forward me any names and situations if they’ve had problems.”

“I appreciate that.”

“What’s your favorite food?”

“This is ridiculous. Banana cake with cream cheese frosting.”

“Ah, a sweet tooth. Noted.”

“How do you know the victim?”

“We knew each other for just over a year, first as business partners, which led to a few dates. More out of convenience than anything else. She helped me make a contact to buy the club space in London, and I gave her ten percent interest in Elysium as a commission.”

She felt her heart contract in pain at hearing him confirm they’d been dating. “Were there any other Sequeira family members or associates who were club patrons?”

“That’s two questions. Yes. I knew she was the Sequeira principessa; however, she had nothing to do with the family business. Had her own job, worked for an uncle, but he was also unaffiliated. To my knowledge, no other Sequeiras are members, nor were they at the party. Associates would be harder to determine, but none of the major players I’m aware of are members, nor were they in attendance that night.” He leaned forward. “Okay. I get two questions to balance out your two.”

Francesca got the sense these questions were going to be tougher.

“Why the FBI, and why Dallas-Fort Worth?”

“Pass.”

Tripoli shook his head. “Do I get to ‘pass’ with the FBI?”

She huffed. “You know you don’t.”

“Then you get no ‘pass’ options with me. Give it up.”

She looked across the room at the blank television, not really seeing it. Instead, a montage of memories passed before her eyes. How could she answer without giving up too much of herself? Truthfully? She couldn’t. Something pushed at her to answer him anyway.

“Every male in our family has been a police officer since our ancestors came over from the homeland. Every one of them has been on the graft, and everyone knows it. However, they’re sneaky and smart. They’ve never been caught, or no charges have ever been pressed. This includes my father and my older triplet brothers.”

“So you became a cop because you didn’t want that to be your family’s final legacy?”

She nodded reluctantly. “I worked hard to try and break the cycle. My family neither respected my choice to become a police officer nor respected my wish to be free of the Dirty McCabes’ reputation. When it became clear that no one believed I was clean, despite all evidence to the contrary, I left the police force. I still wanted to be a part of law enforcement, so I applied to the FBI, and as soon as I graduated from the academy, I asked for a transfer as far from home as I could get.”

“Michael was not part of that explanation.”

She shook her head and looked at her hands in her lap. “I had hoped Michael would escape, like me.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, in his first year at the academy, there was a scandal, and he was accused of selling drugs on his beat. Nothing came of it, but the dirt had begun. He vanished. One night, he was home, and the next, he was gone. No note, no explanation, no nothing. It was terrifying not knowing where he was, if he was safe. We’d been very close, so it was heartbreaking.”

“You never said what the catalyst was to you leaving the police force.”

She considered what to say. “A rumor began that I was sleeping with the police chief and several other city officials. People were saying it was my way of paying for protection for my family.”

“Assholes,” he muttered.

“You’re not going to ask?”

“Ask what?”

“If I slept with those men or not.”

“Nope. No need to ask. You wouldn’t do that.”

Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, she tried not to think about how warm that made her feel. People didn’t often believe what a McCabe said unless it was a threat. Clearing her throat, she redirected his attention. “Back to my questions. How did Mila take you ending your relationship?”

“I’ll be honest, not well. She was always more invested than I was, but I always kept it casual. And no, we weren’t lovers.”

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t intimate with her. After all, you were a Dominant at The Library, and you were an active participant there. Scenes don’t necessarily equal sex.” Acid felt like it was rising up from her stomach at the comment. It shouldn’t bother her, but she found that it did. More than it should.

“During my initial time at the club, yes, I was an active participant, but by the time you arrived, it was more just a social place to hang out with my friends. I haven’t been a part of an actual scene in over two years.”

She digested the timeline, a little flutter passing through her insides. For longer than he’d known her, he hadn’t been with anyone? She couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just a little bit, his lack of participation had to do with meeting her. Then she shook off the idea. It didn’t matter if he had or hadn’t been playing at the club or having a relationship with anyone outside the club. Okay. That was a lie. It did matter, but since she was only lying to herself, it didn’t count.

He continued, “Mila was a VIP member, which meant she had the use of all of our properties, but she and I were not compatible in a temporary or permanent sense. She preferred pain with her sex.”

“So you’re not a sadist?”

“Absolutely not. I’m well-trained in a lot of things in the BDSM world. I helped with demos at the club and screened Dominants for Tabitha, but personally, my proclivities are much more… temperate than that. I was definitely not into providing pain for my partners, even if they wanted or needed it.”

Her heart was in her throat. She couldn’t seem to stop it from flying from her mouth. “What was your thing?”

His eyes became more intense.

“Shoot. Sorry,” she backpedaled. “Not pertinent to the investigation. Forget I asked.”

“Absolutely not. I said you could ask any question you needed to ask, and I would tell the truth. I didn’t specify if it had to be about the investigation, and I never qualified that personal questions were off the table.” His grin became mischievous. “You’re going to owe me quite a few questions. I think you’ve asked three without allowing me my turn. Why did you never participate in scenes at The Library?”

Francesca licked her lips. “I was undercover. BDSM isn’t my thing.”

“Bullshit. I’m not ashamed to admit that I watched you closely while you were a member. There were definitely a number of things that turned you on. You may not be a true submissive, but you’re definitely a bottom.”

He’d watched her? He’d known what turned her on? She could feel heat rising in her face, and the edge of panic formed in her stomach. “I most certainly am not!”

Tripoli smiled at her. It held no malice or teasing. Instead, it let her know he was onto her fib. “Oh, you so are. In three months, you never initiated a single conversation. I always had to greet you first, ask you what you wanted to drink, and you deferred to my choice so often I stopped asking.”

Francesca didn’t answer. He wasn’t wrong. She’d been trying to play the part, but all too quickly, it had become natural behavior.

“Fleur, look at me.” He leaned forward and ran the back of a finger along her cheek. “I’m willing to bet you’ve never initiated a single sexual encounter that you’ve had in your life unless you were playing by yourself. And I definitely believe that you let your partner take all the control during sex itself.”

Her entire body felt like it was on fire now, and the panic was threatening to escape.

“Sweetheart, it’s BDSM. No one in the community would think less of you for being a submissive and an FBI agent. Submissives come from all occupations, as well as being the bulk of the community. Everyone’s wired differently, even the alphas. Lobo? He’s into bondage only. Cosmos is a voyeur. Triumph’s not into kink at all. We’re all different.”

Pursuing this line of questioning was personal, not case-related, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “You never answered. What are you?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to figure it out for yourself?”

Francesca couldn’t help but gasp.

He moved his finger to her lips, shaking his head. “Don’t answer that question. Not today. Think about it. I’m not going anywhere.”

When he removed his finger, she attempted to collect herself and get back on track with her questions. “Why did you have a key to your emcee’s apartment?” Her voice sounded small, even to her ears, and she found herself unable to say the woman’s name.

“Is that a personal question or a professional question?”

She cleared her throat and said more assertively, “Professional.”

“Mm-hmm.” His smile was knowing, but it faded when he began to answer her question. “Jessa has no family. Well, no family she admits to. She wanted someone to have a key in case of emergencies. Since she was new to San Antonio, and I was the only one she knew in town, she felt I was more trustworthy than neighbors she didn’t know. I’ve never used it before today.” He shifted closer to her on the couch, his fingertips now brushing the shell of her ear.

“So you weren’t ‘in the area’ because you were planning to see her?”

He leaned forward, speaking earnestly to her, his eyes never wavering. “To answer the question you’re not asking me… No. I’ve never had sex with Jessa. For the record, I never had sex with Mila either. It’s been over two years. I haven’t been with anyone since a beautiful flower girl waltzed into The Library. If she didn’t want to play with me, I didn’t want to play with anyone else.”

Francesca couldn’t help but be stunned by his confession. It couldn’t be real, yet his entire body read like he was speaking the absolute truth.

His arm went to the back of the couch, but his fingers brushed lightly back and forth across her shoulder. “You lied to Cruz today. About who told you that Jessa was dead. Why?”

She must have been biting her lip because she felt Tripoli free it from her attacking teeth, her nerves jangling when he touched her chin and turned her head to face him.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never lied before, not even by omission. All my life, I’ve been so sensitive to doing anything even remotely unethical. I don’t want to be like my brothers or my father, and I don’t want to be complacent to their activities like my mother is.”

“I promise. I didn’t murder Jessa. I wouldn’t. My employees are like family to me. I protect them.” He smoothed a hand over her hair, and the gesture was incredibly soothing. “What name do you prefer to be called?”

The abrupt change from answer to question shocked her. She stuttered, “Wh-wh-what?”

“You hate it when everyone calls you Frankie.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because when someone calls you that, you tense up.”

If she hadn’t already been attracted to him, his noticing something so simple would have started her fall. “I used to ask people over and over—my family included—not to call me that. It was like I wasn’t even speaking when I said it. Eventually, I gave up because it was clear no one cared what I wanted. Everyone’s always called me Frankie. I was a tomboy—still am—so I think people felt Francesca was too feminine for me.”

“What do you want me to call you?”

Her heartbeat sped up, and she felt herself fall a little bit more under whatever spell he was working on her. “Francesca.”

“It’s a beautiful name.” He slipped his hand up to curve along the side of her face. “You’re beautiful, Francesca. Your name suits you.” He leaned in, his lips inches from her. “I want you to call me Ethan. Can you do that?”

“Ethan,” she whispered.

His lips brushed hers. He didn’t attempt to open her mouth or push the kiss beyond the sweet touch that it was. She felt her hand rise to reach for him, and then reality came snapping back. What the hell was she doing? Anxiety rose up, and she forced her hand away from him. Pulling back, literally and figuratively, she put distance between them. “Your nickname. Tripoli. Why?”

He clearly knew exactly what she was doing because he crept forward to stay close to her, sliding his lips to the underside of her jaw. “You know the answer. Think about your file on me,” he murmured against her skin, then continued to kiss down her neck.

Involuntarily, she craned her neck to give him more access. Her brain raced.

Ethan Ezekiel Evans. Born and raised in San Antonio. Navy medic who deployed with the Marines. Almost forty-four years old.

Her eyes flew open, and she pulled back from his mouth. “It’s not ‘Tripoli,’ the city. It’s really ‘Triple E,’ Ethan Ezekiel Evans.”

“Smart girl. People assume the spelling, and I never bother to correct them. Now. Be even smarter and come back here so I can kiss you some more.”

She tensed. It was unavoidable. The stain of being one of the Dirty McCabes did not sit well with her. Allowing him to kiss her, no matter that he wasn’t technically a suspect, no matter how much she wanted to give in, could not happen. Dinner and questions were at the edge of the line. Kissing was definitely crossing it.

She pushed him away again. “We can’t do this. I can’t break the rules like this. It’s just not in me.”

He’d slid as close to her as he could get, tightly wrapping the arm that had been along the back of the couch around her shoulders. The other arm gathered her around the waist and effortlessly lifted her to straddle his lap.

Panic set in, her fingertips gripping the sleeves of his dress shirt with desperation. Francesca decided to get off of his lap and leave, forgetting this had ever happened. Once again, while her brain was on board with that plan, her body refused to follow her brain’s instructions. She felt frozen in place, his one hand gripping her hip and his other brushing the back of his fingertips along her cheek.

“You’re not breaking any rules,” he whispered. “Not a suspect. Remember?”

Before she could even think twice about moving off his lap, he’d swooped in to kiss her again, his lips seaming to hers. It was useless. The pull between them was just too strong, and her lips parted on a sigh. He took full advantage of her moment of weakness, but she found she no longer wanted to fight him.

For three months at The Library, almost the minute they met, she’d wanted to feel his lips on hers, his hands on her body. She’d wondered what it would feel like to make love with him, sleep curled up to him, and wake up to him in the morning. She’d continued to wonder after she’d been pulled from the case.

Now, here she was, in his arms, and he was everything she’d imagined and more. By the time he pulled away to give them both room to breathe, her knees were gripping his hips, her hands were framing his stubbled cheeks, and she could feel the heat of him burning through the material separating them.

He groaned as if in pain and need. “Your mouth is heaven, Francesca. Sweet like candy. Warm like cinnamon. Smooth like satin.”

“Ethan.” She tipped her forehead to his, her eyes closed, her brain screaming at her to get off his lap and leave, her heart pleading with her to stay right where she was.

Somehow, he knew she was thinking of running. He took one of her hands in his and placed it over his heart. “Do you feel my heart pounding out of my chest? That’s because of you, Francesca. You’re absolutely beautiful. So much so that all of me aches with wanting to take care of you. Just like it did from the first moment I saw you. You’re perfect.” His lips took hers again in a soft, lingering kiss. “Don’t deny us this. You’re not doing anything wrong. In fact, everything you’re doing is right.”

“I…” She looked at him helplessly. “This is too much,” was all she could manage.

“It’s only as much as you want it to be. I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m asking you to see where this could go. Like me an inch today. Like me two inches tomorrow.”

“Like you an inch at a time?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

His face scrunched up in confusion for a moment before laughing. “Dirty girl. I didn’t even think about the innuendo that comment created.” His smile faded. “What do you say, Francesca? We were friends at one time. I thought you were even beginning to think of me in terms of something more than a friend, but I didn’t want to push too hard and drive you away. We clearly have chemistry, so I know you’re at least attracted to me physically. It seems a shame to waste the opportunity a second time.”

“It feels wrong.”

She felt his hands behind her head, where he released her hair from the knot she put it in daily. As he combed through the tresses with his fingers, she noticed that her rubber band was tight around his wrist. Something so feminine about the hot-pink elastic around his wrist made him seem more accessible to her… like they were in some sort of synchronized state.

“What about it feels wrong, Francesca?”

“It’s against the rules.”

Her eyes locked with his, hoping he’d understand. She could lose her job, even though some days that didn’t seem like such a hardship. But this was bigger than just job rules about fraternization. Even after the case was over, it would still be viewed as inappropriate. More important was she wasn’t meant for his style of life, between the jet-setting and the BDSM. Even if he could possibly be interested in something longer than a few days, there would always be that between them.

“I can see a question in your eyes, Francesca. Ask it.”

“It’s personal. Not professional.”

“I assumed it was personal given you’re sitting in my lap, and your lips are all bee-stung from me kissing you.”

Her fingertips reached up to touch them. Realizing he was right, she dropped her hand from her mouth. “Do you…? Are all of your relationships based in BDSM?”

“You mean because I identify as a Dominant?”

“That. And the clubs. Hanging out in them. Owning them.”

“The clubs are, indeed, a part of who I am,” he admitted. “Maybe not as much as you’re working to convince yourself so that you can avoid this thing between us. Part of my personality is that I’ve always looked for ways to meet the needs of people. Niche environments like what I own are rare, and if they do exist, they’re often unsafe. Our clubs are popular because of all the measures we have in place to protect people. The patrons know I’m concerned about their safety, their needs, and their wants. By giving them that safe space, I’m fulfilling a part of what makes me who I am.

“As for the intimate relationship part of the question, I admit I am very much a Dominant. Have been all my life, whether it was on the football team, the debate team, the military, or now as a boss. I’m skilled at doling out discipline punishments as well as pleasure punishments. I’m trained at most of the club demos. But I can honestly say that no sexual relationship has held any of those elements. Sex like that doesn’t work for me, so I keep the two separate. The BDSM part of my life is complicated, and someday, maybe I’ll share. Just know that with you, I’m just me.” His lips pressed lightly and quickly against the tip of her nose. “I think I’ve confused you enough for one night.”

Suddenly, she found herself lifted and carried out of the way of the furniture, only to be put down on a dining room chair. She watched as he went back to the couch to retrieve her boots and helped her put them on her feet, zippering them back in place.

He stood, helping her to her feet as well. “Go to your hotel. Text me when you get safely inside. Get some sleep.” He stroked the back of his hand along her cheek. “I’ll have breakfast waiting for you when you come in tomorrow.” He pointed a finger at her. “No earlier than eight o’clock.”

“Yes, Dad,” she mocked, feeling her body loosen slightly.

He grinned. “You don’t need a daddy. I do want to take care of you, but that’s a conversation for another day.”

He pulled her in for a hug, tucking her head in the crook of his neck. She loved how her height allowed them to fit together, and she found her arms winding around his waist automatically. She didn’t feel like she was tucked in and surrendering, but more like the yin-yang symbol—two pieces that could operate separately but had balance when they worked together.

She buried her face in his neck, her words muffled against his skin as if speaking them otherwise put them out into the universe to be mocked. “I like you an inch today, but I can’t guarantee that it will be more tomorrow.”

She felt his smile against her head. “I’ll take today, and I’ll convince you for more tomorrow.”