"Find another table," said Mike.
"What?" Jeremy sputtered.
Goth Chick gave a protest hard on the heels of Jeremy's. "I didn't do anything wrong. Why can't
I
stay?"
"Take your slave and go," said Mike and resumed eating his portion of cheesecake, as if the result was a foregone conclusion.
Apparently, it was. After a moment of charged silence, Jeremy gathered up their stuff and moved off, hauling the protesting Goth Chick behind him.
Voices rose from a nearby table.
"What was that about?"
"Fucking Seth's in another for shit mood." That was Jeremy.
"Nothing new there."
Liz's voice overrode the far conversation, a ring of desperation and worry in her tone. "May I serve you more cheesecake?"
After another moment spent watching Jeremy's back, looking like he contemplated putting a bullet into it, Seth eased into his seat. "Not at this moment, girl. I'm fine with coffee."
Abby watched the dark liquid spill into his cup as he poured. An apology sprang to her lips. Things had been going along just fine until...whatever mistake she'd made. "I'm sorry."
"You didn't do a thing wrong," said Seth, his gaze on the coffee he stirred.
"Jeremy's been having trouble with his slave," Liz said. "It's spilling out everywhere these days. Things are only getting worse. This is the last thing you needed. I mean, introductions are hard enough as it is, but this? I'm so sorry, Abby."
Mike weighed in. "He violated our codes of conduct. It is he who is in the wrong, not you. As our honored guest, you have every right to feel safe in our presence."
Honored guest?
A curl of warmth bloomed in her chest causing Abby to smile. "Thank you. I wouldn't want to cause problems."
* * * *
Seth watched the girl across the table from him. He liked what he saw.
The desire to conform, to be a peacekeeper, was the hallmark of a good slave. That willingness of spirit, that sweet desire to please, couldn't be trained in. A slave either had it or didn't have it. Trying to force the point led to a wealth of shit and misery. Since her arrival, this girl had displayed warmness, generosity, and a kind heart, all of which told him that she'd make an excellent slave one day.
This girl's eagerness to please would make his job all the easier.
Except he didn't train slaves anymore.
Seth had a flashback of her face as she'd taken her first bite of Liz's dessert. She'd closed her eyes, her face flushed with delight and a purr in her throat. His dick had twitched in a way it hadn't in a long time. He'd sworn to himself he'd be balls deep inside her the next time he saw that expression on her face.
Except he didn't train slaves anymore.
The chirp of his phone interrupted his thoughts. He pulled out the palm-sized device and glanced at the alert. Mara's name blinked at him from the small screen. Rage flashed though him, as it always did these days. Still, he could not ignore it. The bitch had him by the short hairs and she damn well knew it.
He rose to his feet. "I must be off. Enjoy yourselves."
"Oh..." Liz sighed, regret filling her expression.
"It was nice meeting you," said the girl, a sweet look of disappointment on her face.
"Take care, my friend," Mike said, wearing a frown.
Mike knew too much about his private life, as far as Seth was concerned, but Mike could be trusted to hold his counsel. With a nod, Seth turned to answer the summons. He always did his duty.
He'd managed two steps from the table before the adamant itch in his blood became impossible to ignore. Returning to the table, he stopped beside the girl--Abby?--and pulled one of his lifestyle cards out of his wallet. He set it down near her plate. "If you have any questions regarding slave training, feel free to email me."
She smiled at him, making him blink against the pull.
"Thank you," she said and tucked the card into her purse.
She missed the concerned exchange of glances between Liz and Mike.
Seth did not.
Abby grimaced as Liz's latest warning cracked over the handset she cradled between ear and shoulder. She peeked out the front window for probably the hundredth time. Rain threatened to fall from the bruised clouds coming in from the west. Evergreen boughs bobbed in the wind. No foreign car cooled in the spot next to hers.
Liz repeated her warning. "I'm not sure you know what you're getting into."
Straightening, she let the lace curtain swing closed. "I'll be fine."
"He isn't what he seems. Please slow down."
It wouldn't do any good to confess she and Seth had been in daily contact since the night of the Dungeon Romp. By now she was certain she knew what she was getting into: slave training with an ex-slave master. "We've talked. And my neighbors would pound him into a pulp if I scream."
"There's a side of Seth that you don't want to meet," Liz warned.
"I'll be fine."
"Do you remember your safe word?"
She rolled her eyes. "Of course I do. How could I forget?"
"You'd be surprised," Liz muttered.
She heaved a sigh. "Stop worrying."
"I can't. I feel responsible. Seth's a fantastic slave trainer, but he can be an asshole."
Light speared through the curtains as a car turned into her driveway, the headlights going dark as the engine switched off. Abby's stomach tightened and turned over, releasing a flurry of butterflies that escaped on a hiccup. Her breath tangled in her throat. A car door opened, then closed. Footsteps traversed her footpath. The soft chime of the doorbell tumbled through the house.
"Liz," Abby hissed into the handset, "he's here."
"Oh, hell," said Liz, sounding resigned. "Remember, no playing on the first date."
She ended the call. Struck with sudden shyness, Abby eased toward the door. Somewhat short, she stretched onto her toes and peeked out the window. There stood Seth.
High lightning flickered in the sky, silhouetting his dark form. The dusky lights painted him in shades of gray and purple. He wore a dark blue shirt and jeans. The car was black and low slung; exactly the type his email had told her to expect.
The doorbell sang again.
Abby jumped, her phone falling from her hand to the floor. She cursed and swooped it up, the action somehow freeing her from her unexpected paralysis. Reality set in and she realized she needed to let him in.
The doorknob wouldn't turn.
What the...
She wrestled with the deadbolt for a moment before managing to throw open the door.
"I'm sorry. My phone fell and I had to..." Her apology stalled out.
He was gorgeous. Not in a classical sense, not like Brad Pitt or Gavin Rossdale, but in a rough-hewn, totally masculine way. A body packed with muscle filled out the casual clothing. Not gym-chiseled...no, the body of a man who worked outside. He had a strong jaw and straight nose, a level gaze and broad shoulders, and a shy dimple that appeared on the right side of his mouth when he smiled and raised his hand in greeting.
"Good to see you again, Abigail."
Rain fell around them, but Abby barely noticed. Carried on the brisk wind, it dampened clothing, hair, and the entryway tiles. The hint of a brogue danced across her skin, bringing shivers. The slight touch of Scotland in his voice, that little bit of exotic in his baritone, shivered across her skin.
"Abby is fine," she said as a matter of habit.
He nodded. "I'm here to consider you for slave training. Are you ready?"
Her knees wobbled. He said it so comfortably, as if there was nothing exceptional about BDSM slavery. There probably was nothing exceptional about the proceedings to Seth. He'd told her that in the past he'd been the local community's slave trainer. No doubt he'd done this a time or two.
Danger loomed in the darkened clouds filling the horizon. Thunder rolled in from the distance. She found her courage and stepped aside, letting the door widen. "Come in."
Seth eased inside and closed the door behind him. He took up a lot of space. Not in size exactly, but in presence. A lot of strength resided in Seth...and some impatience.
"Oh! I'm sorry. Please, may I take your coat?"
"Thanks." He shrugged his way free.
Rain sparkled on his jacket, highlighting his hair and dampening the floor, accenting a ripple of fabric, muscle, and leashed power. She ran her gaze across the revealed body, her cheeks warming as her blood throbbed and her breath hitched. Their hands brushed as she took the offered jacket, causing a bolt of lust to twist her stomach.
She turned from him and opened the closet door, selecting a hangar for his jacket. "Taylor. That's not my idea of a Scottish name. Is it Scottish?"
"Liz has been carrying tales again."
Startled, she glanced over her shoulder toward Seth. "Was she not supposed to tell?"
"I do not hide my heritage."
Abby managed to hang the damp jacket and close the closet door without any further awkwardness. She turned to him with a smile. He'd moved deeper inside the house and was currently examining the art decorating the hallway wall. He stood beside an oversized oil painting, gazing at it as though the answers to the world's questions lay in the mix of blues, teals, and whites.
"Taylor is my stepfather's name," he said. "My mother remarried an American after my father died."
Shock rushed through her. Her cheeks warmed. My God, she thought, could there be a more horrible way to open a conversation? "I'm so sorry."
"I'm not. He was a drunken bastard and quick with his fists."
Worse and worse!
"That's horrible. No child should be forced to live with that."
"Aye," he said.
A tone of finality chilled his voice and dismissed her concerns, as well as the topic. Into the room crept the distant sound of thunder and the deceptively soft patter of rain. He examined the art, while she examined him. The shadow of whiskers darkened his chin and jaw. A diamond stud gleamed in one ear. While most inhabitants of Portland were as white as vampires, he had a bit of color. Did his job include working outside?
A slight movement of his head broke her study, the rise of his chin and the flare of his nostrils as if he tested the air.
"Dinner?" he asked.
"Yes, homemade lasagna. I hope you like Italian food."
"I like it fine."
Abby blinked at the tepid reply. She'd worked for hours to prepare this meal and had hoped for some praise for her homemade sauce, hand-pressed pasta, freshly grated cheeses-- Okay, she hadn't made the mozzarella cheese by hand, so sue her. She tried again. "Well then, I hope you're hungry. The meal is homemade."
"I could eat."
Twice! She'd mentioned it twice, and twice he'd dismissed her efforts! Liz had said Seth could
be
an asshole, but she hadn't mentioned that he
was
an asshole. Well, two could play this game. She'd be happy to feed him, prove to him what she was capable of in the kitchen, then show him the door.
Slave trainer.
She sniffed.
Asshole.
Forcing a smile onto her face, Abby filled her spine with iron and started for the kitchen with a confident stride. "Wonderful. Let's get started then, shall we? Would you mind opening the wine?"
"We won't be drinking wine."
She nearly stumbled as she stopped.
"A soda will be fine. Or ice water," he said.
Rooted to the floor, her mouth hanging open in shock, she stared at Seth and furiously blinked, hoping the nightmare would fade away. No such luck. Seth continued to stand in her living room, staring at her and acting like he could tell her what to do inside her own home.
She wrenched open the 'fridge and pulled out two cans of soda, setting them onto the counter with a decided thump. The snapped-open cans give voice to the hiss of displeasure boiling in her chest. Ice cubes tossed into the goblets rattled vengefully. She hoped he was allergic to something in the salad dressing.
"Abby?"
Seth leaned against the kitchen doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest and a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "We're here to discuss the potential of us engaging in a master and slave dynamic. I need you to be clearheaded and fully aware of your decisions. There will be no using alcohol as an excuse. That wouldn't be safe. Not for you or for me."
Anger drained away like water in an unstopped bathtub, bubbles of ire dissipating somewhere beyond her grasp. She couldn't argue his logic. She offered a glass of soda like an olive branch.
"You have an excellent point," she said.
Seth barked a short laugh and accepted the glass. "My points usually are."
"Modest, aren't you?"
"It's my best feature."
She chuckled as his fascinating half-smile made an appearance, the one that revealed the small dimple in his right cheek.
Adorable!
The laboring oven had warmed the kitchen. A pearl of sweat eased down between her breasts. She took a slip of cola and located her oven mitts, using the blue-and-white protection as she eased the pan of pasta out of the oven and onto the stove. She thumbed off the power.
"Would you mind tossing the salad? It's in the 'fridge next to the dressing."
Moments passed before she realized that the refrigerator door hadn't opened. She paused in the midst of serving a portion, one hand balancing a plate, the other wielding a spatula full of lasagna. Cheese stretched deliciously from the tray to the utensil, tomato sauce dripping onto the counter.
Seth had taken his seat at the head of the table and was busy examining her fourteen-lemon centerpiece. He looked up when Abby spoke, his cool gaze unwavering. She froze in place, her eyes on his until the
splat
of lasagna hitting the countertop caught her attention. The red, cheesy blob of pasta and meat oozed toward the counter's edge.
She grabbed for the paper towels.
"Take your time, li'l one. I'm in no rush."
Seth's voice held a weight of command. Seth wouldn't be doing any serving. In fact, the only directive he'd obeyed had been the one to enter her house. From that point on, she realized, he'd been quietly ensuring his dominance.