Last, I’d had a really shitty Dom who took things too far and once completely ignored me saying my safe word (that had not been fun, in fact, it’d been terrifying when he shoved that scarf into my mouth after tying me up, so I was completely helpless, and not in a good way—exit said Bad Dom from my life).
So yeah.
Me: gun shy.
And Boone had given up, full stop. I knew this because he’d been seeing some other woman now for weeks.
I didn’t blame him.
Though part of me did.
Because honestly, he didn’t try that hard.
And sorry, not sorry, I was a girl who wanted to be won.
Like I said, put in the effort…
Get your reward.
It sucked and for some reason it hurt (a lot, too much, especially when logically, I knew I had no claim on the guy).
But he’d moved on.
So why was he there?
I knew one thing with the way he was right then uncrossing his arms, his shades locked on me, his hand going up, and his finger crooking at me.
No, two things.
One, I was in imminent danger of a highly inappropriate orgasm while standing on the sidewalk to an elementary school.
And two, he was not there playing bodyguard to some rich kid or because his new woman had kids he’d offered to drop off.
He was there for me.
Interesting.
I moved his way and felt a number of greedy eyes following me as I did.
When I got close, he pushed away from his badass car, straightened to his substantial height and tipped his chin down to look at me.
“Hey, what are you—?” I began.
“Your place,” he growled. “Now.”
And then I found myself standing there, blinking at him as he stalked around the hood of his car to the driver’s side.
He’d opened the door, but didn’t angle in, because I was still standing there.
“Now,” he ordered.
Only then did he angle in.
All right, I was going home anyway.
But…
Again…
What the hell?
And, more.
Did he know where I lived?
Apparently, he did, because he made his point I needed to get my ass to my place by making his engine roar (and again, imminent orgasm, mine and probably a dozen other moms’).
I hoofed it to my car, and once inside, glanced quickly at my reflection in the rearview mirror.
I’d pulled a brush through my hair because it wouldn’t do to have semi-slept-on, teased-out stripper hair when taking the kids to school.
But it was still a mass that was mostly a mess of honey-blonde flips and curls.
No makeup, and serious, I was such a makeup freak, even if I was living my dream of knocking down walls to create great rooms and grouting tile, I’d have makeup on.
I always had makeup on.
Gray oversized tee. Black skinny jeans with rips in the knees. Powder Valentino Rockstud slides.
In that moment, I wasn’t my normal edgy Ryn Jansen who (if I did say so myself, which I did) made Kendall Jenner look like a novice at putting together streetwear.
So I felt vulnerable.
But he’d already seen me.
And he was on some mission.
So I might feel vulnerable, but I also had no choice.
I hit my pad which was the bottom quarter of a big house that had been broken up into four apartments in what loosely could still be considered Capitol Hill, on Pearl, a couple blocks south from Colfax.
There were parking spots out back, though I never bothered, because they were always taken by other tenants.
And even if street parking was always at a premium, Boone not only knew where my house was, he’d found a spot before I did, and I knew this because he was waiting at my front door.
“You wanna tell me what this is about?” I asked after I walked up to him.
“Inside,” he grunted.
Oh shit.
With my morning and all that was Boone suddenly and unexpectedly invading it, I didn’t even think.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Inside,” he repeated.
“Evie all right?”
“Inside.”
“Lottie?”
“Ryn, get your ass inside.”
Here’s the second part of the deal:
If you weren’t working me up to an orgasm.
And you were a boss.
And you bossed me.
My first reaction would be to fight the urge to knock your teeth down your throat.
Even wired, tired, worried about what this was with Boone, and in a negative headspace, I successfully fought the urge to knock Boone’s teeth down his throat (not that I’d achieve that, again, the dude was a commando, he’d probably ninja-move me, and it would end in humiliation).
I let us in.
So, my pad had character.
And not all of it was the good kind.
In fact, most of it wasn’t.
The kitchen needed updating about two decades ago. It was small, cramped, had little counter space, a thin-piled carpet that had so many spills and smells and so much steam and grease soaked in, it was like a thin living stew (so I ignored it), but the rest…well, I was used to it.