She leaned her head against him. “Yes, mi Señor.” She liked how he wanted to protect her, but she didn't need that protection. She could stand on her own two feet, dizzy or not.
Chapter Eighteen
Almost done with the cleaning, Andrea set her hands on her hips and surveyed the living room of her newest client. Everything sparkled from the windows down to the hardwood floors. Satisfaction welled inside her like a warm wave. She did damn good work.
She glanced at the high ceilings. No cobwebs. Her gaze snagged on the dust on the edges of the ceiling fan blades. Carajo, those definitely needed a good wiping down.
A glance at her watch made her wince. Late. She'd better get done quickly, shower, and change in order to arrive at the Shadowlands on time. Her heart gave a hard thump. This would be her first night back since Master Dan had thrown her out. She hadn't wanted to return last weekend, and her Señor had understood so completely that he'd told Master Z not to expect either of them.
Master Cullen's actions had surprised her. And scared her a bit too. What if Master Z blamed her because he'd had to scramble and find a bartender?
But oh, she'd loved having time alone with Master Cullen. They'd played at his house on the beach. Gone swimming, taken long walks. He'd even built a bonfire one night, and they'd made love beside it. He'd dragged her out of bed each morning to work out on his beach jungle gym. He'd also shown her the other way he used the workout area and chained her to the gymnast rings. It was appalling how much exercise a person could get just by coming over and over. And over.
He was so easy to be with—whether cooking or cleaning or playing—that he almost seemed like Antonio. A real partner.
Only then he'd look at her with those eyes—those Dom eyes—and command her. “Strip.” “Kneel.” “Bend over.” She pressed a hand to her stomach as her insides melted at the memory.
Of course, they'd had a few altercations, usually when he'd thought she should have asked for help and hadn't. Like when her van broke down and she didn't call him for a ride. He'd chewed her out good.
Unfortunately, the next day she'd bought a couch for her living room, and he'd come over early and found her trying to drag it inside.
His eyes had turned cold, and his jaw tightened, and oh, she'd known she'd screwed up big-time. He'd asked if she'd even thought of calling him, and she actually had, but somehow she hadn't. Damned if she knew why. Well, maybe because she didn't want to bother him.
And maybe because… Well, asking for something just made her feel funny. Unsettled. Nervous. So she didn't.
She turned around. If she hurried, she had enough time to clean those ceiling fan blades; she'd seen a stepladder right outside in the back.
Cullen worked his way through the myriad of drink orders. As always, at the beginning of the night, the scene and dance areas waited for the first few brave, I-don't-care-who-watches souls to venture out. A few others would follow, and once the magic number was reached, everyone else jumped in. Meantime, the members crowded the bar, catching up on news.
A Diet Coke went to one Domme, then a tequila sunrise to a new sub. Water only for Dan.
Dan nodded his thanks and asked, “Isn't Andrea returning?”
“She is. Tonight.” And she was late.
“Good. I wanted to apologize. I treated her like shit that night.” Dan frowned for a second before asking, “So, what are you going to do about her being a trainee?”
“She'll have to quit.” Cullen turned away, ignoring the flashing grin on his friend's face. Asshole. And typical of him to go right to the point.
A trainee's body was available to the Masters, and to a certain extent, the other Doms. Damned if he wanted anyone touching his sub.
He knew she wouldn't want to stay a trainee, but he should have talked to her before she returned.
As he splashed some Glenlivet over rocks, he considered the last few days. Fun days as they learned all the small details about each other. She liked her coffee very sweet, cleaned up every spill, and preferred showers to baths.
In fact, he'd joined her in the shower this morning and startled her so badly that she'd punched him. He'd managed not to laugh, and in punishment for hitting her Dom, he bent her over and took her so hard and thoroughly that they'd both needed another shower afterward.
He frowned, remembering how she'd winced when he'd washed her pussy. He needed to give her a night off. And she needed to learn to speak up if she hurt.
He handed over the scotch, then smiled at a collared sub and waited for her master to order for her. Mineral water. He poured it into a glass, remembering how Andrea had refused a bottle, saying she wanted her water to taste like water. She loved Chinese food, adored Hector, liked total restraints. Her clit was sensitive at first, and once coaxed out, a nibble at the right time yielded explosive results.
A thin cane applied very lightly down there might be fun…
With uncomfortably tight leathers, he started on the next set of drinks. And where the hell was she anyway?
Jessica trotted up to the bar, wearing a pair of low-cut sheer pantaloons and nothing else. Either she'd annoyed Z, or the master was feeling generous enough to share his sub's assets. She did have gorgeous breasts even if she still turned pink with embarrassment.
Like Andrea on that first day when the top of her dress had finally slipped down. Her embarrassment and arousal had been one of the most appealing combinations he'd ever seen.
Stay on task, Cullen. “What can I get you, sweetie?”
“Oh, nothing,” Jessica said. “Master Z sent me. Apparently Andrea left a message on the machine earlier that said she wouldn't be in tonight.”
“Why?”
“Didn't say. Z says he'll give her a call while you talk someone into manning the bar.”
Fuck that. Cullen spotted Dan across the room. “Dan, the bar is yours.”
Not waiting for an answer, he turned to Jessica. “Bar's manned. Tell Z not to call; I'm going to her apartment.”
The emergency room crew had been surprisingly efficient, Andrea thought, considering they'd had the normal influx of heart attacks, bar fights, croupy babies, and pneumonia as well as a bunch of injured people from a pileup on Dale Mabry. The doctor had tsk-tsked over the gash on Andrea's forehead, shone lights in her eyes, x-rayed and wrapped her ankle, and written her a prescription for pain medication. The nurse had brought in crutches and adjusted them, then said her family could take her home.
What family? But she'd made it to her apartment all by herself, although she probably should have stopped to fill the prescription. Oh well, she'd had worse pain before. With a sigh, she leaned back on her new couch and tried to ignore the throbbing in her head and ankle.
A while later, somebody pounded on her apartment door. The noise slammed into her brain like a hammer, her startled jump jostled her leg, and stabbing pain ripped through her ankle. Carajo! Hijo de puta. As she rose with the help of the crutches, all her blood rushed downward, and her ankle swelled so tight it felt like the skin would crack and peel.
What kind of cabrón pounds on the door of a woman on her deathbed?
Only one person came to mind. Her cousins rarely visited her here, she usually met her employees at the client's or a restaurant nearby, and Antonio would never pound on anything. That left Señor.
She awkwardly worked her way to the door and checked the peephole. Broad shoulders, muscular chest, brown leather vest. Hadn't he gotten the message she'd left at the Shadowlands? She opened her door and maneuvered clumsily backward.
He stepped inside and looked her up and down. His jaw tightened.
Was he angry because she hadn't shown up? “I wasn't quite up to—”
“If you weren't obviously hurting, I'd haul you over my knee right here and now.” His rough voice held enough menace that she shivered. What had made him so angry? He glanced at her wrapped ankle. “How bad is it?”
“Just a sprain.”
He cupped her cheek, tilting her face, the gentleness of his hand at odds with the anger in his eyes. “And your head?”
“A gash.”
“Anything else?”
“Bruises here and there. Hurt pride. I was cleaning a ceiling fan and stepped wrong on the ladder.” She attempted a grin.
Rather than laughing, he growled and lifted her into his arms. The crutches dropped onto the carpet.
“Hey. I can walk.”
When she wiggled, he freed up one hand long enough to lightly slap her bare thigh. “We can do this two ways. You can be quiet, and I will carry you over to your chair. Or you can annoy me further, and I will beat your ass for a while and then carry you over to your chair. Which is it, love?”
Compared to how her head and ankle felt, his swat had barely stung; his reprimand had been more for the shock than true pain. She looked up at him. Taut lines bracketed his mouth, another formed between his eyes.
Don't push the mean Dom, Andrea. She swallowed and leaned her head on his chest.
“Very good.” He walked across the living room as surely and steadily as if he wasn't carrying a hundred seventy pounds of woman. He settled her on her couch and lifted her legs up so carefully the throbbing didn't increase at all. “You need pillows under this.”
He fetched two pillows from her bedroom and put them under her lower legs. “No ice bag?”
“Ah. No.” The ER nurse had mentioned that, but it had seemed like too much work and pain to bother.