A Scotch for the Road - Part 11

[flighty_dreams]

TITLE: A Scotch for the Road
AUTHOR: flighty_dreams
WARNINGS: Slavefic. NC-17.  F/m.
WORD COUNT: 5,378 (this chapter)/ story so far (over 30K)
SUMMARY: A slave enduring a party encounters more than he bargained for.
NOTES: Thanks to aurila for her assistance.
FEEDBACK: Always welcome, even if it's just to say that you read it.

 

Chapter Eleven

 

Four days later, Jenna called with bad news.

That morning she dressed in a dark blue suit for work. He’d seen her in pant suits the past three days, but today’s suit featured a tight skirt that ended well above her knees. As he made them toast, she sat at the breakfast table looking through a magazine while sipping her coffee, and he found his eyes continually drawn to the long, bare expanse of skin, enhanced by the way she’d folded her legs.

When she was about to leave, she kissed him goodbye, pushing him aggressively against the counter as she ran her hands along his upper body. Even through the shirt he wore, her touch was hot enough to stir him. He slipped his arms beneath her ass, lifting her as she clung to him. But when he slid one hand underneath her skirt, she slapped it away before pulling back from him. Her clothes had acquired a few wrinkles; she slapped those away too. He reached out to straighten the skirt, his hands lingering a little longer than necessary before drawing away.

“You are incorrigible,” she said with fond exasperation. Without warning, the heel of her hand rubbed his cock through his boxers, making him twitch. A few more rough strokes and a growl slipped out of him. Apparently that was what she’d been waiting for; she squeezed him once and then removed her hand.

One last quick peck on the lips and a wickedly murmured, “But I am too,” and she was gone, leaving him gasping and aching for her.

Later I’ll explore what’s under the skirt, he promised himself. His desire lingered long after she was gone, but he didn’t assuage it, not without her.

She phoned during her lunch break, as she’d done each day that week. As he picked up the phone Brett smiled, picturing her sitting at her desk in that skirt.

“Brett, I’m going to be home late tonight.”

The warning was depressing, but not entirely unexpected. She’d been very busy at work this week, forced to stay extra hours. He knew that it wasn’t by choice and that it frustrated her, so he’d been careful not to complain. A good slave didn’t add to his mistress’s distress.

“Work again?” he guessed.

“No,” she said, surprising him.

He remained silent this time, suddenly uneasy.

“You aren’t going to ask why?”

“If you wish to tell me, you will, Mistress,” Brett said, his tone growing more formal.

She sighed into the phone. “You have the right to ask, Brett.”

No, he had no rights, just the privileges she granted him. But he wouldn’t argue with her. “Why will you be late, Mistress?”

“I’m going to dinner with Jason tonight.”

Damn, he thought, suppressing a flash of jealousy. He’d rather have heard she was working overtime again. Knowing he should say something, he replied, “I understand, Mistress.”

He didn’t want to show any unhappiness; he’d no right to judge how she spent her time. But he supposed the very neutrality of his tone gave him away.

Another sigh. “I made plans with him last week. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you earlier, but I’ve been so busy I forgot about it.”

She had been busy, working ten hours or more each day. But he wondered if she’d also been reluctant to tell him.

“Brett, say something.”

“I will see you late tonight then, Mistress?” He made it a question, so it wouldn’t sound like a dismissal.

He heard paper rustle through the phone, and she made a frustrated sound. “I don’t want to go. I’m tired, and I want more time with you.”

“Then tell him you’re too tired to go.” The words left him in a rush, and Brett was appalled to realize they’d almost sounded like an order. His relief in hearing she’d rather be with him had made him carelessly rude.

Jenna didn’t seem to notice though. “I would, but you don’t know Jason Hathaway. He knows I’ve been working long hours, so he’d insist on stopping by to bring me some dinner. He’s gallant like that. Because of my being tired he wouldn’t stay very long, but I don’t want you stuck hiding out of sight waiting for him to leave.”

While Brett was glad Jenna had had someone to look out for her while they’d been separated, mostly he felt irritated. It was bad enough the man had all the advantages of freedom and wealth; did he have to usurp Brett’s role too? As a slave he was already limited in what he could do for Jenna.

“There’s no way to prevent him from coming over, Mistress?”

“He’s brought me dinner before when I’ve had to work overtime, and I always appreciated it. I’m afraid it will seem odd to suddenly refuse. I can’t exactly tell him you’ll make dinner for me.”

“Do you think he’ll tell your family about me, Mistress?” Brett asked, his grip tightening on the phone.

“I-” she hesitated. “I don’t think so actually. He won’t like keeping secrets, especially from Victor, but he’ll do it.”

About to suggest that she just tell Hathaway she had Brett to make her dinner now and his services wouldn’t be required—though he planned to phrase it more politely—Brett paused. As much as he was already set towards disliking this man, he wanted to meet him. With dismay he realized that desire sprang from the very male urge to size up the competition.

So terribly inappropriate, he thought, mentally kicking himself. I have to stop this.

Her initial idea was probably the smartest one. She could get some dinner with Hathaway, and then leave afterwards, pleading tiredness. Jenna would be gone maybe two hours longer, if that, and there would be no risk of her family finding out about him.

The problem was, her insistence on hiding him was also making him wonder if she felt ashamed of him. He knew her main reason for concealing him was that her family would disapprove and she wanted to avoid dealing with that tension for a while, but maybe she was also embarrassed that she cared about him? There was a difference between how she treated him in private and how she treated him in front of other people. Her caution made sense, but he couldn’t shake the niggling doubt.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she said, “I can practically hear the wheels turning.”

Somehow his fear that she was ashamed of him mingled with his overwhelming desire to see her and his ridiculous competitiveness, and he found himself saying, “If he won’t tell anyone, why don’t you have him come over, Mistress?”

“What?” she said, surprised. “You want him to drop by and bring me dinner?”

Brett stroked his collar absently as he considered it. “No, that would look odd, making him bring you food when I’m there.”

He was already dismissing the stupid idea entirely, but Jenna thought he meant something else. “Oh yeah, he could come over without food, and then we’ll all eat. I’ll get his word that he won’t tell anyone, and it should be fine.”

The image of awkwardly attending this friend of hers that he already resented made him panic. The man dropping off some food, talking for a few minutes and then leaving was far different from Brett having to cook for both of them and serve them over a drawn out meal.

“I meant-” he began, but the sound of a phone ringing from Jenna’s end interrupted him.

“Sorry, I have to get back to work, Brett. We’ll figure out dinner later.” With a smile in her voice she added, “I’m glad I won’t have to wait longer to see you. Bye.”

She hung up, leaving him dismayed and angry with himself. He shouldn’t have given in to his own insecurities.

Left with little to do, Brett roamed about the apartment, unable to go out by himself until he had his papers. She’d submitted the applications to get him an unescorted travel permit and a driver’s license, but they usually took about a week to process. When that was done they’d have to go to the Bureau of Slave Affairs for verification before picking it up. He wasn’t looking forward to another visit to the Slave Bureau; for all the organization’s pledges to care for the welfare of slaves, every BSA employee he’d ever encountered seemed to regard him as if he were gum stuck to their shoes: annoying and difficult to remove. They weren’t cruel, just indifferent—much like DMV employees.

When Jenna returned home, he was there to greet her, opening the door before she could finish unlocking it. Her skirt was still enticing, even if her clothes looked rumpled from a long day at work. Unfortunately, she only granted him a single kiss before changing into comfortable jeans and a t-shirt. Resignedly, he supposed they didn’t have much time before Jason Hathaway’s arrival anyway.

When Jenna became occupied with a call in her home office, Brett wandered out onto the balcony. He’d gotten to know this new apartment well in the past few days. All too aware of how much worse off he could be, he’d not gotten cabin fever yet, but he’d been relieved when his mistress took him out the night before. It had been nice to walk around the neighborhood for a while, with her pointing out where things were before they stopped by the store to buy groceries. Elina was a pretty area of the city.

The house line rang, and Brett tensed, suspecting it was the front desk calling. He’d been trying not to think too much about their upcoming visitor. He stepped back inside, walking through the living room and checking the caller ID. His guess had been correct, and he answered, telling the guard to allow Hathaway up. When the doorbell rang a minute or so later, he walked into the foyer. Taking a deep, calming breath, he opened the door.

Youth he’d expected, based on her brother’s age, but of course this Jason would be handsome as well. He caught the surprise in the young man’s blue eyes as they looked at each other for a moment, and when his eyes flickered to the collar, Brett respectfully lowered his gaze. He’d do nothing to shame his mistress.

“Sir?”

“Jason Hathaway. I’m expected.” His voice was unsteady, most likely from the surprise of Brett’s presence.

“Yes, sir,” Brett said, stepping aside and holding the door for him. Once Hathaway had gone through, he closed it, giving him a shallow bow. “I believe my mistress is still on the phone. Would you like a drink while you wait, sir?”

“Er yes, thank you.”

As the guest sat down on the living room sofa, Brett listed the drink options available—one of several things he’d made sure to note after speaking to Jenna earlier—and then went to get the beer for him. When he bent down to put the bottle on the coffee table in front of him, he glanced over and caught Hathaway frowning at him.

Even though he knew Hathaway was younger than Jenna, the man didn’t look it. A serious air lingered about him that worried Brett. He’d hoped for a green kid that Jenna wouldn’t take seriously.

“You’re new,” the blond man said, voicing what he was thinking. “What’s your name?”

“Brett,” he said, straightening.

In his peripheral vision he saw Hathaway stiffen. “The same Brett Derrick used to own?”

“Yes, sir.”

He backed away, wondering whether he should check on Jenna. He wasn’t eager to continue this conversation. A glimpse at Hathaway showed that his frown had deepened.

It begins, Brett thought, his hands clenching behind his back. He should prepare for this, because soon he’d be facing the full hostility of her family.

He sensed Jenna’s approach rather than heard her; the thick beige carpeting muffled her footsteps. She smiled at him as she came down the hallway, and he couldn’t help smiling back at her briefly before remembering they had company. He smoothed out his expression and looked away.

She entered the living room, placing her hand on his arm for a moment in acknowledgment as she walked past him to greet her guest. “Hello, Jason.”

“Hey.” Hathaway rose and they embraced. The hug itself wasn’t unusual, but Brett wondered if it was his overactive imagination adding reluctance as Hathaway slipped his arms away from her. “How are you?”

“Good. Or well, as Mom would insist.” His mistress stepped back and then glanced down at the bottle on the table before looking over at Brett. He understood what she wanted, but he wouldn’t speak without prompting, not in front of a guest.

“Could you get me a soda, Brett?”                                           

“Of course, Mistress.” He bowed his head before moving towards the kitchen. As he returned with her drink, he could hear them talking. Not surprisingly, Hathaway was asking about him.

“Wow, so it was pure coincidence?” She murmured in assent, and he added in a softer tone, “I always suspected you’d kept looking for him, to drive your mom crazy, at the very least. Had you really stopped?”

Brett’s intrusion spared her from answering. They were seated close beside each other on the large sofa, Hathaway turned towards her. Looking for a response, Brett decided. She didn’t give him one though, her attention shifting to Brett as he placed her glass down on a coaster resting on the wooden coffee table.

She thanked him, and then he retreated to the edge of the room. Uneasy with this stranger’s presence—particularly when the guy clearly wanted to discuss him—he wished she’d dismiss him, or tell him to start dinner. Hopeful, he remained standing at first before finally kneeling in resignation.

Meanwhile, they’d continued speaking.

“You haven’t told your mom yet, have you?” Hathaway asked, a knowing glint in his eye. “I would’ve heard the roar of the tidal wave by now.”

“No,” Jenna said, giving him a warning look, “and I want the news delayed as long as possible.”

“Come on, Jen,” said Jason, his gaze flicking over to Brett, “how long have we known each other? Seventeen years? I know how your mother is. Of course I won’t be the one to tell her.”

“Glad to hear it.” She paused before adding, “No telling anyone else either, not even Victor.”

“I promise I won’t. You know I’ll always help you.” Hathaway smiled, his arm sliding across her shoulders.

Although part of him wanted to look away, Brett found himself studying them through his eyelashes. She remained relaxed under the familiar touch of Hathaway’s arm, comfortable with him. “I know. Thanks.”

She leaned forward, reaching for the remote, and Jason’s hand brushed her back before dropping away. The conversation shifted to talk of TV shows as they flipped through the channels. Brett was glad they’d moved on to a more neutral subject.

“How far did you get into Fired?” Jason asked.

Jenna looked over at Brett. “What was the last episode we watched?”

Brett straightened under the sudden attention. “The one about the bank, Mistress. Episode four.”

Hathaway glanced between them, brow creasing. “You’ve been watching it together?”

“Yeah,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and it was ridiculous for Hathaway to have even asked. Brett repressed a smile.

They continued conversing, while Brett silently kept an eye on their drinks. When they were low, he rose and retrieved them. Unfortunately, his approach brought the topic back to him.

“So what are you going to do about your mom, Jen?”

Jenna looked up at Brett as she spoke. “She can’t tell me what to do with my own life or my money. I’m not ashamed to tell her. I’d just rather let the calm last longer before the inevitable storm.”

It was good to hear it; he sensed she said it more for his benefit than Hathaway’s. He stepped back from them, drinks in hand.

“And when she does find out?”

“I’m still working on that,” she said, before changing the subject. “Are you hungry?” Brett paused on the way to the kitchen, thinking he was needed.

“Yeah, starved. Shall we order the usual from Fell’s then?” Hathaway asked with a smile, implying that this was a well-established routine.

His mistress frowned at her friend. “Our ‘usual’ is for two people. There’s three of us.”

“Right, of course,” he said, sobering as he glanced uncomfortably at Brett.

Meanwhile, Brett felt obliged to say, “I can make something for myself, Mistress.”

“No, that’s silly.” She dismissed the idea. “If we’re already ordering in, there’s no need for you to make anything.”

“Or I could cook for all three of us, Mistress,” Brett offered, desperate enough to speak out of turn. It would give him something to do while she entertained her guest.

“Nah, you can cook dinner tomorrow,” she told him. “The takeout menus are in the drawer to the left of the sink.”

With a quick bow of his head he acquiesced and returned to the kitchen. Although he still wished he’d been allowed to cook, at least he wouldn’t have to make food for Hathaway. He found the Fell’s Kitchen menu easily enough and then refilled Jenna’s glass and grabbed another beer for Hathaway. Placing them down on their coasters, he held out the menu to Jenna. Instead of taking it, she patted a spot next to her on the sofa. After a brief moment of hesitation, he sat down, deliberately not looking at Hathaway.

Her mouth brushed his ear. “You’re being too formal. I refuse to stand on ceremony with Jason.”

As she pulled back he sent her an apologetic look, even though he didn’t know how in good conscience he could have acted any differently. But knowing she was displeased in some way, remorse was automatic.

A shake of her head and a smile showed him she wasn’t angry though. Tapping the menu he still held, she said, “See what you like from their selection.”

He skimmed Fell’s listing while she turned back to Jason. The front page claimed they did both takeout and delivery. Going by their menu, the place was a bit pricey, but he didn’t doubt it was good; he hadn’t met a Vanlean-Warren yet that wasn’t a food snob. But, he supposed, if you had the money to afford good quality, why be satisfied with less? Slave he might be, but he also knew quality when he saw it, at least when it came to food. Of course, he also had a fierce appreciation for the value of quantity as well.

Picking out a few options hesitantly—it still felt odd to be allowed such decisions, but he’d always been most comfortable with food—he glanced through their two person specials, wondering which one she and Hathaway favored. However, they were still talking and he wouldn’t interrupt by asking. Instead he dropped the menu onto his lap and leaned against the back of the sofa, a silent indication that he was finished.

“So where did he meet this one?” Jenna was asking.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Hathaway said with a chuckle, “but not a bar this time.”

“Amazing. That makes her different from the last four.”

“Five, but who’s counting?”

A laugh spilled out of Jenna, the happy sound making Brett’s chest tighten. “My brother is special.”

“Definitely. This one seems decent though.”

“I hope so. It’s about time. What’s her name?”

“Sherry? Cheryl? Something like that.”

“Going senile already, eh?” his mistress teased, shaking her head.

“Nah, that joy is going to you first, old lady.”

“Thanks a lot,” she said, smacking Hathaway on the arm. She didn’t say more to him though; she’d noticed Brett was done. “Did you figure out what you wanted?”

“I’ve some ideas, Mistress.” He told her his choices, and she gave her recommendations.

“Their beef casserole is out of this world. We usually get that and their triple chocolate tiramisu.”

Brett’s brows lifted. He’d seen the two person special for the beef casserole, but he hadn’t looked through their desserts. “That sounds deadly.”

She grinned. “It is. Can’t get it too often.”

No, he imagined not. But at least it gave her exercise equipment a purpose.

“So, what are you getting then?”

“I think the chicken in peanut sauce, Mistress.” He’d let them have their usual order; he didn’t want to inconvenience them.

“Good choice.” She looked at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You like tiramisu, don’t you?”

His gaze dropped, but there was no point in lying. He nodded.

“Order three slices of it then.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He knew better than to argue with her on such things.

He rose from the couch, intending to use the phone in the kitchen to place the order.

“Oh, and Brett?”

He halted halfway across the room, spinning slowly to face her. “Mistress?”

“Get yourself something to drink.”

He bowed his head swiftly to cover his smile.

 

 

They ate in the living room.

Brett had offered to set the dining room table, but Jenna had declined. She had a rather interesting coffee table; the top of it could be lifted up to a height comfortable for eating at. The first time Brett had seen it he’d immediately thought, I bet her mother hates this thing. Serena Vanlean-Warren believed every dinner should be a formal affair, eaten at a proper table. This contraption didn’t even have the grace to match the rest of Jenna’s stylish furniture set.

But if you wished to eat informally, with the TV on in the background, this table was a great invention. Brett was sitting with them; his mistress had insisted there was no need for him to eat by himself in the kitchen. He’d noticed Hathaway looking at Jenna oddly for that, but he’d said nothing.

The sofa was L-shaped, and Brett sat at one end, allowing them to sit beside each other along the length of the table. There was a fairly recent movie on, something Brett had never seen before. He tried to focus on it so he wouldn’t have to watch the way Hathaway kept leaning in close to Jenna. Thankfully, they were almost done eating.

“What else was this guy in?” Hathaway asked, pointing at the actor on the screen with his empty fork.

“Chasing the Battle,” Jenna answered between bites.

“Oh, that’s right. You said the book was really good, right?”

“Yeah,” she said, which led to a discussion on its merits. “I can lend it to you if you want.”

“Thanks, Jen. I appreciate it,” Hathaway said, his hand touching Jenna’s arm. Brett resolutely narrowed his gaze to the TV, trying not to be annoyed at the way Hathaway shortened her name, among other things.

His mistress pushed her plate away then. She’d been the last one to finish, so Brett rose and gathered up their plates. Leaving them in the sink for now, he returned with their desserts.

Jenna was talking, her face lit up as she told a funny story about her work day. Her gaze half on the TV, she missed the admiration on Hathaway’s face, but Brett didn’t. His fingers tightened on the plates he carried.

“Your poor assistant,” Hathaway said.

“I know,” she said, letting out something halfway between a laugh and a sigh.

Brett arrived at the table then, and he slid their dishes towards them. Having brought theirs first, he went back for his dessert.

I can’t fault Hathaway’s taste, Brett noted resentfully. But, he reminded himself, it was wrong to feel this way. He belonged to her, but she didn’t belong to him. She was free.

Still morose when he sat back down at the table, he took the first bite half-heartedly. But the delightful concoction on his tongue proved enough of a distraction to cheer him up for a while. When he’d eaten half of it, he felt his mistress’s eyes upon him and looked up.

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

His happy smile wasn’t feigned. “Yes, very.”

As he licked a bit of stray frosting off his finger, a heat rose in her eyes. It whispered of other very good things best done on flat surfaces. Eyes meeting hers, he silently conveyed that he was very interested in exploring them with her.

Then Hathaway spoke, shattering the moment. “Hey, Jen.”

For a moment, she sent Brett a frustrated look before turning to her friend. “Yeah?”

“How did we first hear about Fell’s again?”

A discussion ensued as the two of them tried to recall who had first mentioned it to them. Meanwhile, once he put aside the pleasant image of tossing Hathaway out the door so his mistress could finish what she’d started that morning, Brett concentrated on the rest of his tiramisu.

After they were all finished, he carried the plates to the kitchen again. Now he lingered there, putting the leftovers into the refrigerator before rolling his sleeves up past his elbows and washing the dishes. All too soon the kitchen was back in order. Unable to excuse himself any longer, and speculating that they probably needed a refill on their drinks, he brought new ones out to them.

Only Hathaway was in the living room. As Brett glanced curiously over at the hallway, the young man spoke. “She went to get that book for me.”

Brett nodded in understanding, not sure what to say to that, and put the glasses down. The cherry wood table was back in its regular position now. Feeling that being alone with this guy was uncomfortable enough, he backed away, unable to contemplate sharing the couch with him alone, even if it was rather large. It just seemed too presumptuous.

Instead they were left looking uneasily at each other—or in Brett’s case, doing his best to look without seeming to. The quiet tension in the room pressing on him too thickly, Brett asked, “Did you need anything, sir?”

“No, thanks.” It was polite, but Hathaway was frowning at him. Finally, he cleared his throat and, as if suddenly remembering the idea of small talk, asked Brett, “So are you happy to be back with Jenna?”

Anxiety sharpening, Brett frowned in return. When addressed to slaves, such questions were always traps. He could still hear the echo of Donovan’s voice asking, How do you like it here, slut? But unlike Donovan, he didn’t think Hathaway meant it maliciously. No, if he’d correctly detected an edge to the question, it had everything to do with the admiration he’d caught earlier, rather than hatred towards Brett himself.

“Yes, I am, sir,” he said, realizing he was taking too long to answer. Nervousness caused him to add, “I was not in a good place.”

A speculative look crossed Hathaway’s face. Fortunately, Brett was spared any further questions by Jenna’s return.

“Finally found it,” she said as she entered, book in hand, her face growing puzzled as she spotted Brett standing in the middle of the room.

“Excuse me, Mistress,” he said, using a trip to the bathroom to explain himself. He’d a need to visit it anyway, so he wasn’t lying. But there was no need to underline how uncomfortable he and Hathaway were with each other.

When he returned they were both seated on the sofa again, their heads bent over the book she’d retrieved. Brett couldn’t help noticing they made a striking couple, her auburn hair paired with Jason’s blond, artfully cut mop. And their body language signaled comfortable intimacy, from years of knowing each other—and perhaps from something more, something Brett didn’t dare ask about. Serena Vanlean-Warren must be picturing their blue-eyed, strawberry-blond children already. It was with some effort that Brett unclenched his jaw.

Finally, Hathaway left. Jenna’s behavior towards him had drawn Brett’s complete and unhappy attention, but after a few hours spent watching them, he still wasn’t sure about the intricacies of their relationship. Hathaway clearly felt more than friendship towards her, but how Jenna felt was still a mystery.

Brett considered the different possibilities. She could be unaware of Hathaway’s feelings, or at least unaware of how deeply they ran. She might even have feelings of her own for Hathaway and just hadn’t acted on them yet. Or perhaps she’d told Hathaway she only wanted to be friends, but he was one of those persistent optimists that needed to be beaten over the head with the news that the object of their affection wasn’t interested before they believed it.

If so, I wish I could have that job, Brett mused with wistful savagery. I’d make sure he never forgot it.

“Is something wrong?”

She was leaning against the front door, staring at him. He fumbled to smooth his expression. “No, Mistress.”

“Brett,” she said, her tone sharpening, “you had a very odd look on your face.”

Unable to avoid answering her, he struggled to keep his tone even. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking about tonight.”

“Brett,” she drawled, suddenly smiling. “Are you jealous?”

He blanched, horrified at being caught out. Tongue-tied, he couldn’t even come up with a denial, much less a lie.

“You are!” She laughed, delighted. “That’s what that look was a minute ago, that I-want-to-punch-Tony-Torrento’s-face-in look.”

“N-no,” he stammered, “I didn’t mean…” Cheeks burning now, he ducked his head, his hair hiding his face.

She reached out, lifting his chin to look at her. “He’s Jason. My little brother’s best friend. They’d pull my pigtails in the playground and I’d push them onto their butts.”

Brett smiled, warmed by the image of Jenna as a young girl in pigtails. He kept the smile in place as his thoughts turned morose.

No matter what she thought, Jason was no longer a little boy any more than she was a little girl. The two years between them that must’ve seemed a large gap growing up had shrunk now. The boy that had teamed up with her brother to torment her was acquiring a master’s degree. One day, if her view of Jason changed and she looked at him as a mature man, wouldn’t it be an easy jump to see him as husband material? From his own experiences with upper class men, Brett knew she could do far worse than Jason Hathaway. But it was cold comfort; if tonight was a preview, the three of them living together would be an awkward situation. Of course, sharing Jenna with anyone would turn Brett into a jealous wretch.

Fortunately, she’d looked away, missing the direction his thoughts had gone. Her mind was somewhere far more pleasant as she caught his gaze again. “I’d say Jason’s taken up enough of our time tonight.”

Her eyes glinted, her mood becoming wicked, and his body tightened in response. “Kneel, Brett.”

He obeyed, positioning himself as she liked, his legs a bit apart, his back straight and his hands resting on his thighs. Already he could feel the front of his jeans becoming uncomfortably snug. He waited with lowered eyes, his pulse quickening with anticipation.

She strode around him, studying him from all angles. In her jeans and casual shirt, and her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she should’ve looked young and harmless, but she somehow radiated aggression now.

She paused behind him and her warm breath tickled his ear. “Who do you belong to?”

“You, Mistress.” For now he put aside thoughts of the future, determined to clutch the present with all his strength. “I’m yours.”

Her fingers tangled in his dark hair, pulling his head back. Soft lips crushed his, and he yielded to her, giving her full access. It was like their kiss that morning: rough, claiming, and all too brief.

She released him, straightening. “Let’s go to bed.”

Eager as he was, he didn’t rise immediately. The thought of that morning reminded him of something else. “Mistress, may I make a request?”

“Yes?” Curiosity filled the single syllable.

“Could you put on what you wore this morning? Please.”

Delighted laughter spilled out of her, filling him with responding happiness. Arms draping over his shoulders, she hugged him against her.

“Oh yes, I will,” was her breathy promise.

Part Twelve