been fussy with a sore throat. When Kayla, the middle child, had stood up for her younger sister, their father had whipped her across her back with his belt. The next day, Barclay had marched into the coach’s office and, with a heavy heart, quit the team.
Protecting his sisters was his responsibility. One he took damn seriously.
Now, there was another woman being battered, and he wasn’t going to allow her abuse either. Why did life have to be one fucking problem after another? Why did he have to meet Molly? Hell, she wasn’t interested in him. That much was damned obvious.
But I sure as hell am interested in her. Damned interested.
He inhaled a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Life was catching up to him; that was all. He’d been alone too long. The occasional visit to the club wasn’t enough anymore. Maybe he needed someone more regular in his life. Not someone to love. Hell, love always brought loss. Just a woman he could rely on seeing once or twice a week.
Maybe he needed to spend more time at Dark Desires, even though the club scene was never his thing. Not really. A friend from another fire station had taken him there after he and Yvette separated. A night out to blow off steam and watch the sights of the BDSM lifestyle. What play turned him on the most—spanking and sex toys—were what scared him more than anything, given how he’d grown up.
Thank goodness an intuitive Dom invited him to the bar for a drink and a long talk. Barclay was so shocked and ashamed by what had aroused him, he could barely get the glass from the bar to his lips. How could he feel arousal for what he’d grown to hate all of his life? The silver-haired Dom listened while Barclay told this stranger about his family and his abusive father.
“My friend, there is a great difference between the open hand of a controlled slap or spank and the closed fist of abuse.” He clasped Barclay’s shoulder. “A huge difference. In our lifestyle, it is a power exchange. Some people need or enjoy a spanking to become highly aroused. They give the Dom the power to provide that stimulus, which heightens our sexual pleasure. A good Dominant wants to please and protect their sub. Never hurt. Never downgrade or belittle.”
He extended his hand. “My name is Aaron Karl. I’m one of the training Doms here, if you care to be considered for the proper teaching of our lifestyle. You’ll have to go through background checks and a vetting process, of course, but it might help you work through some issues of your own.”
Barclay took another sip and chuckled. “What? Kink counseling?”
The training encompassed some of his lonely free time and helped him come to grips with the reasons behind his dark desires. He never regretted all he learned; he just never had the urge to use it all in his playtime. He was a Dom with simple tastes. In fact, Aaron had told him he doubted he’d make a true Dom, but was a man turned on by kink. Barclay had insisted he was wrong.
Mainly, he was a private man who disliked sharing or having other men seeing what was his. Would a friend with benefits be so bad? One he didn’t have to love, just respect and take care of. Love was just too soul-shattering.
Losing little Bella Marie in the space between two fragile heartbeats had dragged him through an emotional hell the likes of which he never thought possible. Yvette mourned her deep loss by drinking and getting high. Barclay had done his fair share of drinking, too, but never went the drug route or did the party scene the way she had. Then his heart-adopted father Uncle Verne’s sudden heart attack, followed by another in the hospital, became another unbearable loss. Barclay distanced himself from emotion. A good time, sure. Caring, no problem. Love, never again.
Knowing Yvette was going through men and drugs like water through a drain didn’t ease his soul any. Although the love was gone between them, a part of him would always care. And therein lay his biggest liability—he cared too much for people. Wasn’t that why he went into the occupation he had? Christ, what a sap I can be at times.
He shuddered another sigh and lifted his gaze to the lights in the old condo. Now he had two more people to worry about. When would he ever learn? He straightened and turned the key. The old truck growled to life and he headed for home. Thank goodness he had three dogs to bathe, because it would be a few hours before his libido calmed down enough so he could sleep. A traffic light turned red and he braked.
Getting Molly out of his mind was going to be an all-night chore. Her hair was like black satin a man dreamed of having draped over his chest. Her full breasts made his hands ache to hold. He banged his head once on the steering wheel before the light changed and he peeled onto Gulf Boulevard. What man didn’t want to wrap his hands around those perfect fruits and kiss their pink tips? Man, shifting gears with a raging hard-on could be a bitch.
Wade, the woman beater, came to mind and Barclay ground his back molars. If he caught the sonofabitch coming near her, he’d strangle him with his bare hands.
Anger and possession—two emotions he had no business feeling where she was concerned—surfaced and anchored in his soul. He had to get home to his dogs and all the work ahead of him…anything to occupy his mind for he was fuckin’ losing it over a woman he’d just met. Two weeks, three tops and she’d be gone. He’d help her all he could, but he wouldn’t allow himself to get emotionally involved. He needed to hold back more, to care less and make his solitary life a priority for a change instead of thinking he could fix everyone else’s problems.
Armed with a strong dose of determination to keep his emotional distance, Barclay knocked at Molly’s at eight-fifteen the next morning. Her dad’s face brightened when he opened the door. “Did you bring the donuts?”
He held out a box. “Half a dozen glazed and half a dozen chocolate covered with sprinkles. Sorry I’m late. I stopped at Home Depot for paint. How’s the patient doing this morning?”
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