Page 43 of Wild Fire

I become someone else. Someone desperate for his attention, someone aching for his touch, his ferocity. Because I’ve seen the monster inside of Nate Barrett, and fuck, I want more.

But more is dangerous.

He’s a rescue, for one, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, he’s twenty-three. Christ, I have shirts older than him.

He’s a blank slate. He has no family. He knows nothing about the shadows I hide behind. He’s mouthy and sarcastic, and doesn’t listen well, and…

and despite the fact I know he wants me on some level, because I can feel it when he kisses me, when he crumbles in my arms, I can’t bring myself to be honest with him about how badly I want him. Beyond what he’s allowing me to have of him. I shouldn’t have these feelings at all for a man I barely know. I shouldn’t crave his presence the way I do.

I’m not the guy who makes excuses for anything or anyone. If I want to do something, I do it. End of story. If I want to say something, I fucking say it. I have never had trouble going after what I want, in any aspect of my life, especially when it comes to my personal life and my sex life. But it’s like every time I come into contact with Nathaniel Barrett, all I do is come up with a thousand excuses.

Excuses to talk to him. Excuses not to talk to him.

Excuses to check on him, excuses to not check on him.

I’m a fucking dom. I have commanded men to do depraved things in the name of my praise, dangling the carrot of pleasure like a juicy steak for their bloodthirsty jaws. I run into burning buildings all the time, not knowing if every fire I fight is going to be my last, and I do it without hesitation or question. But asking Nate if I can take him out to dinner? Apparently that’s a hard fucking limit. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I sigh as I whisk the batter for the pancakes, finding a welcome, soothing rhythm.

“A lot,” I murmur to myself, answering my own rhetorical question like a lunatic. I have nothing against vanilla sex or men who aren’t part of this lifestyle, but in my experience it’s just easier on everyone when you don’t have to explain yourself all the time. Which is probably why I’ve stayed so loyal to Shadows all these years, despite how many subs and partners I’ve released from my care.

Maybe that’s what I should do. Go back to Shadows, forget about Nate and his sexy growl and his fingers around my neck, and take out my frustration on Jackson, since he’s probably working tonight. Though I’m not sure that’s a good idea, either.

“What the hell are you doing here?” a gruff voice asks, tinged with the gravel of sleep. I whisk the pancake batter, not bothering to look because I would know that voice anywhere, tired or awake.

“Feeding you heathens, obviously,” I drawl with sarcasm. “Someone has to make sure you eat your Wheaties.”

JJ grumbles something unintelligible as he opens the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

“I thought you were off today,” he says, keeping a firm eye on my bacon.

“Like you never come in on your day off,” I scoff.

I pour some batter onto the griddle as he pulls some bacon from the pan, which I catch out of my peripheral.

“You’re in a fucking mood, huh?”

“Slept like shit.”

He moves closer to me, lowering his voice.

“I never got to thank you for the other day,” he says carefully. “For covering my ass.”

I flip the pancakes as he lets out a sigh. I add another piece of bacon to the pan.

“You don’t have to thank me.” I watch the edges of the batter brown on the griddle, the bacon hissing as it hits the pan. “You've done the same for me.”

“And would again,” he reiterates as I empty the bacon onto the plate and his voice drops an octave. “So, who is he?”

JJ leans closer, his voice low, even though no one else is awake or even around.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I don’t look at him, because I know the minute I do, he’ll know I’m bullshitting him.

I flip my pancakes once more and scowl.

“Did you sleep with him?”

I nearly drop my spatula. “What? No! I didn’t sleep with him, I—”