Chapter 14 #3
Instead, tonight he’d be operating handicapped. But even without bondage, he could demolish some of the barriers to intimacy and truth.
“Atticus.”
He was dressed; she was naked, reinforcing the dynamic. “Shhh, little counselor. Although I love having my hands on you, sex isn’t happening tonight.” Remembering her guilt earlier, he pressed the remorse button. “But I really think you owe me a bit of a talk, don’t you?”
Her forest-green eyes were unhappy, but she wouldn’t back away. She had more strength than she gave herself credit for—and she’d far rather hurt herself than someone else. “All right. But after, you’ll take me back to my car.”
“I will.” He stroked her soft cheek. “There’s a terrycloth bathrobe in the closet. Put it on and wait on the back deck.”
“I…”
“Shhh.” When she didn’t move, he nudged her forward.
Her obedience showed in her silence. As he walked out of the room, he heard the closet door open.
After pulling out a couple of glasses and a bottle of whiskey—and a hair tie—he went outside.
Dark had fallen completely and a breeze carried a hint of snow from the snow-topped mountains. Gin stood in the center of the cedar deck. The bathrobe sleeves hung over her hands so far she looked like a child playing dress-up. Damn, she was cute.
He set the tray on the deck and uncovered the hot tub. Steam rose into the night air.
“You have a lovely place.” She motioned to the lantern-shaped solar lights edging the wide cedar deck. “But, I don’t think—”
“Exactly.” He pulled her robe off. Gathering her hair up, he fastened it on top of her head with a scrunchie. “Tonight, you’re too tired to think. You simply do what I tell you to do.”
“What?” Her back went straight.
Enjoying the stunned reaction of an independent woman, he kissed her nose. “Hop in.”
Despite her exasperated expression, she didn’t argue further. The sag of her shoulders and her pale drawn face showed the altercation with her ex had used up her fight-back stores.
The hot tub was level with the surface of the deck. Bending, she sampled the water with a toe, and her hiss made him chuckle.
He kept the temperature toasty, and she had beautifully delicate skin. “Go in as slow as you want as long as you get there eventually.”
And there was her spunk. Her chin came up. “Why did I have the misconception that you were a gentleman?”
Difficult to get offended by an insult delivered in her melting southern drawl. “I’ve got no idea, baby. Maybe because when the gentleman meets the Dom, the Dom wins?”
At his level stare, her gaze fell.
As she worked her way in, he stripped, flipped on the jets, and stepped into the heat. As bubbles hissed on the water’s surface, he poured drinks.
Gin took her time getting in. When she finally settled and leaned back on the side, he handed her a glass. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
Her low hum agreed, despite her snippy, “If a person likes feeling like a roast in a crock pot.”
With his right arm on the side, he could play with the silky tendrils on her nape. As he enjoyed his whiskey, he let the heat work on his—and she was damn well his—submissive.
The bourbon wasn’t Jack Daniels. She swirled the amber liquid and sampled again. The taste of caramel and brown sugar, full and balanced, ended with a hint of leather. The alcohol was warm, so very warm on the tongue and going down. Far too soon, she realized she’d finished.
“Like it?” His penetrating gaze was on her as he refilled her drink. He was studying her, as he was wont to do.
“It’s not Jack Daniels.” Despite the sense of disloyalty, she gave him the truth. “It’s quite wonderful, actually. What is it?”
“Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve. Still southern-made, li’l magnolia.
” He leaned back, arms outstretched along the edge.
The soft glow of the lights shadowed the strong muscular planes of his chest. On his right deltoid, a “Semper fi” tattoo spanned a colorful eagle, globe, and anchor.
She ran a finger over it. “You were a Marine?”
“Yep.”
His other arm had a butt-ugly bulldog with a Marine Corps cap and a cigar between its teeth. So ferocious. “He’s rather adorable, isn’t he?”
Atticus looked affronted. “He’s not adorable.”
Yes, he was, but oops. Tough guys were awfully endearing when defending their sacred masculinity. Unable to resist, she ran her free hand down his chest, slowing at several jagged, raised scars over his ribs. “What are these from?”
“Caught some frag in Baghdad,” he said lazily. “Lucky I wasn’t closer.”
She shivered at the thought and took a gulp of the whiskey. He could have died; she’d never have met him. “Atticus…”
His arm curved around her, pulling her against him. “The past is over. We’re here and alive. Let’s concentrate on that, yeah?”
“Yes.” Even as the jets massaged her tense muscles, the alcohol was lighting a small fire inside her. If she kept drinking, she’d end up a puddle of jelly. She turned to set the glass down.
He poured another shot in it.
Politeness said she should drink. With no lunch or supper, she could feel the alcohol spinning her thoughts, like a slow motion tilt-a-whirl.
She should get out, put her clothes on, and get home.
Instead, her mouth took on its own independence.
“Why are you doing this, Atticus? Ah thought—” Oh spit, her drawl was thickening.
“There we go,” he murmured.
She gave him a confused look, then continued voicing her concern. “I thought we’d…um, broken everything off between us.”
“Got a few things I need to know first, baby, that’ve bothered me. You said men use you. But, from what I saw, you’re stronger than your ex is. Can you tell me what happened?”
His fingers kneaded her knotted neck, the jets massaged her taut back, and she felt so, so warm, inside and out.
“Gin?”
He’d asked her a question. Her body tried to tense, but all her muscles had turned into overcooked noodles. With an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close enough to rest her cheek against his chest.
She gave in. “I somehow ended up doing everything—whether he asked or not—and the more I did, the less he helped. The less he listened. The less he listened, the more I worried about our relationship, so I worked harder.”
Atticus made a sound of encouragement.
She motioned with her hand, realized it held a glass, and finished the pretty amber liquid. “I was spiraling down, like a whirlpool. I knew if I didn’t do enough, he’d walk away. Leave me because I…”
“Because you what?” Atticus’s deep rumble compelled an answer, whether she had one or not.
“Because I wasn’t enough to make him happy.”
“Preston told you that?”
“No. He never did.” Up the nearby slope, trees rustled in a pleasant accompaniment to the bubbling water. Tipping her head back, she saw the stars in the black sky had grown from mere pinpoints to wide discs of light.
A hand closed over hers, drawing her back to earth. “If the bast—if Preston never said that, who did? Who said you weren’t enough to make him happy?”
“No one.”
At his grunt of disbelief, she frowned. The glass was plucked from her hand and returned with more liquid. “Who, baby?”
Even alcohol couldn’t blur that memory. The sharp-edged words had been carved into her heart with a rusty knife. “Daddy.”
“Ah.” The tone held satisfaction. “He was displeased with you?”
“With us.” Why, Daddy? How could she possibly explain?
She set her palm on Atticus’s broad chest. Beneath the springy hair were his rock-hard pectorals.
He was so strong in both body and character.
How could a man like this understand weakness?
“Mama constantly tried to please him, always cleaning and cooking and soft-spoken.”
“What did he do?”
“He was a sales rep for an international firm. And he loved it. He’d take a position overseas for months at a time.”
Atticus’s eyes narrowed. “Leaving you over and over.”
The memory hurt. “Mama didn’t function well alone. It was like she needed a man to affirm her existence.” Gin chewed on her lip. “Really, she should have had a career or cause to balance her.”
“Baby.” Atticus’s touch on her cheek brought her attention back. “What happened to your father?”
She shrugged. “Eventually he couldn’t take it anymore and told Mama she didn’t make him happy. We didn’t make him happy. When the divorce papers came in the mail, Mama fell apart. I think she cried for months.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I had school—and Mama—to keep me busy.” Definitely Mama. Cooking meals and coaxing her mother to eat, figuring out the bills and prodding her mother into telling her how to write checks, doing the laundry and manipulating her mother to get her to socialize again.
“So you took on caring for your mother.” His smile was slow and understanding. “When you told me about becoming an adult before my ‘childhood peer group did,’ you knew personally what you were talking about, didn’t you?”
“We’re a pair, aren’t we?” To escape the subject of her ugly past, she picked up the whiskey bottle and looked for his glass. “Refill?”
He set his drink out of reach and took the bottle from her as well. “Do you ever see your parents?”
“You are one stubborn man.” She pouted for a second. “Daddy never came back. Mama married again about three years ago; I visit now and then.” Her lips twisted down. Hopefully Mama’s relationship would last this time. “They’re in Florida.”
Atticus’s gaze was on her mouth, then her eyes. “She repeat her crying performance with other men?”
The insightful question knocked her off-kilter. “I don’t like mind readers.” Gin tried to edge away.
He laughed and pulled her against him. “Baby, you have an excellent poker face unless you’re drunk. Then you’re an open book.” After kissing the pout off her lips, he said firmly, “Now answer my question, counselor.”
He was so stubborn. She glanced at the stairs leading from the hot tub.
His arm tightened around her.
“She…had trouble. I coaxed her back each time.” From crying fits, from depression.