Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
In the middle of the following week, Gin walked into her house, smiling in happiness. The last inmate of the day had shown he was getting somewhere.
“I could see it last night, Miss Virginia—my future. Going to work. Getting a real paycheck and putting money in the bank.” Braden was one of her youngest cases, convicted of car theft.
He had so much potential and yet couldn’t visualize a future other than more crimes and more prison.
But she’d broken through finally. Now that he’d seen other possibilities, they could work on achieving them.
Her sense of satisfaction bubbled inside her like champagne.
She needed to plan out the next session. Her fingers itched for a pencil as she set her purse on a chair.
She heard Trigger’s woof from the backyard and hurried through the house for her favorite day-brightening canine greeting. “Hold on, boy.”
Wait. The deadbolt on the back door wasn’t latched.
Hand at her throat, she spun in place. A beer stood on the counter. Someone was in her house. She grabbed her phone and punched in 9-1—
“Gin, let the dog in before he busts your door down.” The voice came from outside. Atticus.
She threw the door open and landed on her butt from Trigger’s enthusiastic greeting. “Ouch!”
The wiggling Labrador shoved his head against her shoulder, squirming around until she’d had a chance to pet all of his wet fur.
“Honeybunches, you are a very bad guard dog.”
Not repentant in the least, he snuck a quick lick to her chin.
How had the silly beast come to mean so much to her? She planted a kiss on his furry nose. “Let me up, baby. I need to smack some sense into your human friend out there.”
She walked onto the back steps and set her hands on her hips.
Crouched down beside a bush, her target was barely visible. But he undoubtedly could hear her.
“Atticus Ware, what were you thinking? You almost gave me a heart attack when I saw the door unlocked. I thought I had a burglar.”
He rose to his feet.
Her mouth went dry.
The drizzling rain sprinkled onto bare shoulders that could have graced a Viking warrior, a muscular chest that was streaked with sweat and dirt, and ridged abs that defined the term six-pack.
Oh, my stars. Her body flashed from fury to arousal.
Laughing, he hadn’t even noticed the way she was staring. “Gin, my pickup is parked right there on the street.”
She hadn’t seen it. “Oh.” The heat roaring through her scorched away any retort.
Climbing the steps, he tipped his cowboy hat back. The pale cloud-covered sunlight lit his rodeo belt buckle, pulling her gaze down.
Low-slung jeans were God’s gift to women, all right. Her fingers itched to follow the happy trail—or to detour to the sexy oblique crease just above his hip.
She swallowed. “What are you doing in my backyard? In the rain?”
“Building you a doghouse—rather, I’m making a house for your bony-ass mutt.”
A snort escaped her. He constantly insulted Trigger, yet was always slipping tidbits of food to the Labrador. Stopping to pet and talk to him.
Trigger adored him.
“A doghouse would be wonderful. Thanks.” Stars above, look at the man.
Atticus didn’t shave on his days off so stubble darkened his neck below his beard.
He looked dangerous. Predatory. Unable to help herself, she stepped forward and ran her hands over the strong, muscular planes of his chest, over the brown dusting of hair to search out the flat male nipples.
His skin was overheated and slick with sweat and rain.
He caught her wrists. “Gin, I’m filthy and—”
“I know,” she breathed and whipped her sweater up and over her head, then opened the front of her bra.
The look in his eyes changed instantly—yes, he was all man—and his hands, gritty with dirt, palmed her breasts.
“Yesss,” she hissed softly. She moved forward, close enough to undo his belt and zipper. With the eight-foot wooden fence around her backyard, no one could see in.
His hands closed on hers. “Gin,” he warned.
A proper submissive asked permission, she knew, and yet she wanted him in her mouth more than she wanted her next breath. “Atticus,” she responded teasingly.
Dropping to her knees, she pulled his cock all the way out, inhaling the intensely masculine musky scent. He was hardening, and she slid him into her mouth to enjoy how the baby-soft skin turned taut over the iron beneath. “Mmmmm.”
“Jesus.” His hand flattened on the wall behind her as he gave it his weight.
She lifted her head long enough to grin up at him. “I didn’t ask permission, oh Dom. You’ll have to punish me later.”
“Don’t think I won’t,” he muttered, sending a thrill through her. Because he would. As a Dom, he enforced his rules consistently, fairly—and with a hard hand. She loved that about him.
What she didn’t love was how he never asked her for anything. That wasn’t right. He was always doing things for her, and the balance was unfair. Now that she knew a desire to serve wasn’t unbalanced, that it made her happy, she wanted to give him more.
Wanted him to demand more.
Swirling her tongue around the head, she sucked lightly and took him in.
His next breath was harsh.
She bobbed her head, applying light suction. His testicles were round and heavy in the palm of her hand, and she fondled them as she circled his cock with her tongue. So good…
She stopped and sat back. “Well, we should move this inside.” Smiling inwardly, she started to stand.
“Don’t even think about it.” The hand on her shoulder forced her back to her knees. He tilted her head up to study her face. “Yeah, you enjoy giving head.”
He had no idea. She smiled at him.
He ran a finger around her wet lips. “You’re also topping from the bottom, little girl. Manipulating me to”—his eyes narrowed—“to ask more from you.”
She swallowed. True, she’d wanted him to push her, but he’d figured her out within minutes and called her on it. Uh-oh.
“We’re going to talk about this, but first, I’ll take what you so kindly offered.” His fingers closed, trapping her hair.
When her mouth dropped open, he fed his cock between her lips, and, carefully, but mercilessly, facefucked her. His grip in her hair kept her totally under his control, and he was the one to regulate the pace and depth as his hips rocked forward and back.
Bracing her hands on his thighs, she closed her eyes and…surrendered. He’d drive her—his shaft hit the back of her throat, making her almost gag, shutting off her breath—but never too much, because this was Atticus, and he knew her. Cared for her.
She relaxed into the pace, the knowledge she could trust him to control her and take what he wanted, the glory of giving it to him.
When he came, she swallowed and swallowed, then cleaned him with her tongue before slipping him out.
As she blinked back to reality, she wrapped her arms around his hips and rested her cheek on his bare stomach.
The feeling inside her was big, overwhelming, as if her heart had expanded past what her ribs could contain.
Not love, please, not love, but—gratitude, joy, and the devastating sense of being where she belonged.
She kissed his stomach and said, almost inaudibly, “Thank you.” As his hand smoothed her hair, her scalp stung from his tugging. Her knees hurt from the wood of the porch—and her panties were damp with her arousal.
He chuckled. “You’re very welcome.”
For one breath, two, she savored contentment.
Then, with a grunt, he yanked her to her feet. “Go in the kitchen and strip. Kneel there and wait for me.”
Heaven help her, she was in trouble.
A long while later, Atticus sat on the living room floor with his back against the couch, listening to the rain drumming on the roof.
One well-punished, well-satiated little submissive reclined between his legs, her head against his shoulder.
During her punishment, he’d tried to explain that—while he’d enjoyed the hell out of the blowjob—she wasn’t allowed to manipulate him into something. She understood, although she hadn’t liked learning the difference between a fun spanking and one for discipline.
But after he finished disciplining her, well, holding a squirming little subbie—especially when the subbie was Gin—had turned him on.
So even while the tears were drying on her cheeks, and she was struggling not to call him names, he’d held her down, sucked her clit into his mouth, and spurred her to a quick orgasm before taking her hard and fast. It wasn’t often his dick rose to the occasion twice in an hour, but damn, she was fun to spank.
The blowjob, spanking, and fucking had worn her out though. She was half-asleep.
Comfortable and content, Atticus considered getting up to cook supper. Would Gin be able to sit in a chair at the table? He grinned. Tomorrow—Friday—was his day off, but she’d have a long day of sitting as she counseled inmates.
His smile faded. Goddamned prison. He hated her working there. And what if the increase in local crime was tied to the prison? The skinheads arrested last week had no reason to visit Bear Flat—and their hotel room held a wealth of firearms and cell phones.
The call to the warden had been unproductive. The idiot’s head was up his ass and not emerging any time soon.
A sound came from the kitchen. Atticus tensed before recognizing the clicking of Trigger’s claws on the hardwood floor.
The chair in the corner creaked.
“Trigger, are you allowed on the furniture?” Atticus asked quietly.
The dog jumped down with a thump. Heaving a disgruntled sigh, he settled into his dog bed against the wall.
Gin stirred and pushed up to look over Atticus’s shoulder. “Your back is to the room. How’d you know what he was doing?”
Since she was awake, he could move. Atticus scooped her up and resettled them on the couch. “I recognize the sound of a sneaky dog. Odysseus would sleep on the furniture when I wasn’t looking.”
She propped herself up, forearms on his chest. “You named a dog Odysseus? Seriously?”