Caitlin patted his uninjured thigh. “I said once before I’m a good listener, but you’re right, past is past. So what do you do when you’re not being a Dom at Pleasure Manor or building fantastic tree houses?”
Relieved that she didn’t want to dig into his childhood or pry into his military service, he rubbed his chin on the top of her head. She felt good in his arms. Just holding her, enjoying the feel of her, the sound of her soft breathing, and the way her hand rested lightly on his thigh. It shocked him to find he actually wanted to simply spend time with her—non-sex-related time.
She was a woman he could be friends with. Go out to coffee and just share conversation. He grinned. Of course, the sex was more than awesome. “I do odd construction jobs. Remodels or repair work mostly. Some yard jobs like fences, decks, and patios.” He pulled her close. “And yes, a few tree houses here and there. I’m mostly a one-man shop unless I need help. Then I hire a crew just for that job. Compared to saving horses, my job is just a job.”
“I think you’re wrong about that, Damon.” Caitlin pulled away, shifted until she sat facing him. “You do good work, and I’m willing to bet those who hire you are more than happy with the results. You give them joy and pleasure.” She indicated the tree house. “Maybe you give them dreams. You put yourself into your work, your love for creating. It shows.”
“My love for creating?” He’d never thought of what he did as creating. His projects were jobs, a way to earn income so he wasn’t out on the street. Being his own boss meant he could set his own hours, work when he needed, take time off if he was in a dark place. No, she was being fanciful. “That’s painting a prettier picture than reality. I’m just a simple man.”
Caitlin laughed. “You, Damon, are far from a simple man. I’d bet my ranch that you are one of the most complex men I’ve ever known. Like it or not, you are an artist, and this tree house is one of your masterpieces.”
Her assessment was scary. No one had ever seen through the hard, cold shell to the man hidden deep in the center. He thought of that photo, of how she’d seemed to see into him, and again earlier in the day, or yesterday. Yeah, she saw far too much. But surprising, it didn’t scare him or make him want to run.
Yeah, he could see her becoming a friend and wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. He rose, his leg stiff, the muscle tightening. He bit back his oath, determined to hide his pain from this woman who saw far too much. He held out his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”
She blinked up at him. “You’re not serious?” She wasn’t sure she had the energy to go another round.
Laughing, Damon tugged her up. “To sleep, my lovely Belle. Even a beast needs to recharge.”
Inside, they undressed and slid into bed. Damon pulled her into his arms, cradled her head on his chest, and listened to her soft breathing as she fell asleep. Overhead, through the open skylight, he heard the soft calls of the owl and wished he dared slide into sleep with his sweet Belle.
****
Caitlin woke during the night in the heavenly bed beneath the open skylight. She’d fallen asleep with her very own prince, in her very own miniature castle. Overhead, the wind rustled through the trees, and the lonely call of their owl drifted into the tree house. Stars winked above. She snuggled deeper. The bed with its feather comforter and mattress top along with the Egyptian cotton sheets was like sleeping inside a cloud.
She turned and stretched out her arms, needing to feel Damon and to prove she wasn’t dreaming. His side of the bed was empty.
Sitting, she frowned. A low sound from the other room caught her attention. “Damon?”
The moan came again. Caitie grabbed the robe she’d used after her shower and left bed. She found him thrashing on the couch. A slanting beam of moonlight revealed a face twisted with pain.
He called out, flung out his arm. Caitie quickly realized he was trapped in the throes of a nightmare. Unsure what to do, she went to him. She knew from the many vets on her ranch not to touch him in case he thought she was an enemy and tried to attack in defense of whatever stalked his mind.
She turned on the lights. He’d removed his leather pants and slept in his own skin. A quilt was twisted beneath him, half on the floor. She couldn’t stop herself from staring. Even asleep, the man had the most impressive body she’d ever seen.
She frowned when she spotted a long, deep, ragged scar on his upper thigh from just shy of groin to his knee. The muscles were taut, and spasms rippled beneath the puckered skin. Good lord. No wonder he limped. She sucked in her breath and sat on the edge of the couch. She knew enough to know he was both lucky to be alive and to have his leg.
“Damon. I’m here. Can you hear me?” As though she were gentling a frightened horse, she spoke soft and low, calling his name. At the same time, she slid her palm up his thigh, her touch faint and gentle, applying more pressure so she didn’t startle him. When she was able to touch him fully, she began massaging his thigh with her thumbs, using long, smooth strokes.
Trapped in his nightmare, Damon lashed out. He heard shouting, screaming, and shrieking. He tried to stand. Couldn’t. Hurt—bad. His men. They needed help. Ambushed.
Fuck
.
“Can’t get them. Can’t save them.” The pain in his thigh took his breath away. Had he lost his leg? The pain. Breathing was labored, and his heart pounded. He was weak, everything going gray, as though his life was draining from his body.
“It’s all right, Damon. You’re dreaming.”
The gentle voice of an angel threaded through his nightmare, soothing, calming. Heaven? He tried to open his eyes, but the light was too bright. “Not—dream. My men. Killed them.”
“Wake now. You’re safe. You’re with me.”
Safe.
The soft, low voice promised he was safe.
“No!” He didn’t deserve to be safe. Or soothed. His men were dead. He was not. Families destroyed. His fault. Pain had him gasping. Pain he deserved.
Except the pain was fading, replaced by warmth seeping into him. He relaxed as hands unknotted muscles and warmed him, as his angel talked and tore him from the grips of hell. He opened his eyes and blinked. An angel in white sat beside him. Not an angel.
Caitlin
.
He tried to sit, but she pressed him back against the couch.
“Stay.” Her voice was gentle yet as firm as her hands when they shifted down his thigh to his calf, then up, her magical fingers finding the painful knots and untangling them gently. He closed his eyes, embarrassed and ashamed of his disfigured thigh, the weakness of his nightmares, both daily reminders of his failure. He waited for her to ask questions, but she worked in silence. His body relaxed. The back of her hand brushed the side of his dick. He stirred.
“God, Caitlin. You have to stop.” He was too vulnerable after a nightmare. He needed to be alone and didn’t deserve to have this woman easing the anguish of his dreams or the pain. But he wanted her. Under him, his cock buried in her pussy. He wanted to forget and lose himself in her.
For the first time since his injury, he felt alive and whole, and it was due to Caitlin with her golden eyes and earthy nature. No pretenses, no games. When most women would be horrified or repulsed, the kindness and empathy in her gaze never wavered. Empathy, not pity.
“Tell me what haunts you, Damon. I’m guessing you were in the military. What happened?”
Damon clamped his lips tight. He never talked about it, couldn’t. Yet with this woman, he found he wanted to share the horrors of his past.
“I killed my team,” he said bluntly.
“How?”
No shocked gasp. No horror. Just calm acceptance. “I was a SEAL. My team, along with another, was sent to carry out an extraction. The enemy found out and set a trap. My men and I went in first.” His heart pounded, and he couldn’t hear or even breathe.
“I’m here, Damon. Breathe. Tell me.”
Her fingers kept massaging, kept him grounded, and her voice pulled him back from the shadows, from the explosion and the heat of the blasts. “Ambushed. I was hit. My men tried to get me out. Told them to leave me. They died trying to save me. The other team came in, got me out. Too late for my men.” A painful sob was wrenched from his chest. He tried to hold it in, keep it from bursting free, but the gates flew open. He covered his face with his hands as tears he’d held back forced their way to the surface.
Caitlin murmured softly, her fingers working their magic as he finally let the pain out of his soul.
“Not your fault, Damon. Not your burden to carry.”
He shook his head, unwilling to tell her the rest. It was his fault. But had he not done what he’d done, it would have been the other team who’d died. No matter what, he was fucked over. He shoved it from his mind and concentrated on his angel. On his beautiful Belle.
Finally, his mind relaxed even as his body tensed—with a new pain. The slid of her fingers on his flesh, brushing against his dick and balls stirred other needs.
“You need to stop, Caitlin.” He didn’t want to repay her kind act by turning it into self-satisfaction even though he wanted her more now than at any other time during their day together.
Caitie would have to be blind and totally self-absorbed not to see Damon’s cock lengthening and thickening or feel the tenseness beneath her fingers that had nothing to do with his injury. His frantic gasps and moans became shallow struggles as need swept the last of the nightmare from his mind and the taut muscles in his thigh relaxed even as other parts stiffened.
“Much better, isn’t it?” She pressed deep, pleased to see the brackets of pain around his mouth gone. She grinned when his jaw tensed. Her first impression of his being a wounded animal had been spot on. She couldn’t begin to understand what Damon suffered.
He opened his eyes, and she met his gaze, saw the residue of his nightmare in his eyes giving way to hunger. No, she couldn’t take away his mental anguish, but she could ease his pain and take care of other needs.
“Yes,” he groaned.
“Then I see no reason to stop.” She brushed her knuckles against his growing erection and hid her smile when his cock jumped and he swore.
“Playing with fire, little sub.” He let out a gasp when she trailed her pinky into his thatch of reddish-brown curls.
“Like what I’m doing?”
“Know I do. The thigh is better.” He struggled to sit.
“Is it really?” She shifted to allow him up but kept her hands on his thigh.
“Yes, the worst has passed.” His breathing came in low, harsh gasps as he leaned against the couch.
“I’m glad I could help.” She chuckled. “I think you’ve got another problem.” She dropped onto the floor, kneeling between his open legs. “Yep. Found a spot that appears to be in desperate need of some TLC. Maybe I should take care of it while I’m here. And willing.”
She wrapped both hands around his rock-hard cock and gripped him firmly. She squeezed, released, and repeated along his impressive length, mimicking her massaging movements.
He sucked in his breath, and his fingers dug into sofa. His hips jerked. “I do not believe you have permission to touch me, my naughty sub.”
“You weren’t complaining a few minutes ago.
Sir
.” She leaned forward and ran the tip of her tongue over his swollen crown, dipping into his slit to lick the glistening pearly drop.
He tasted salty, yet sweet. She swirled her tongue, taking time to flick the sensitive flesh beneath his magnificently flared head, then traced the ridges where the glory of his crown joined his stiff shaft.
He let out an explosive breath of air. “Shit.”
“Do you like ice cream cones?” She posed the question as her tongue circled.
“Huh?” Wrapped in a thick cocoon of pulsing need, Damon frowned. His brain had gone fuzzy, and his balls ached as though someone was sticking nails into them. He was hard, throbbing, and aching for her to finish what she’d begun.
“Ice cream cones, Sir. Do you like them?” She grinned mischievously. “I do. Nothing better than a nice, fat scoop of delicious ice cream sitting on top of a big cone just begging to be licked and nibbled.”
She drew her head back. “Going to lick you like a nice, tasty double-decker. How do you eat yours?”
“How do I eat what?” God, he wanted her to stop talking. Talking meant taking her from what she was doing. Good lord, what she was doing with her mouth alone had him fighting for control.
“Do you lick your treat?” She swirled her tongue as though his cock was a scoop of melting ice cream.
“Ah! Fuck me, my sweet sub.”
“Hmm, nope. Gonna eat you until you cry uncle.” She tilted her head to one side. “Bet you’re not a licker. You, Sir, are a biter.” She closed her mouth over him, her teeth scraping the sensitive area behind the crown, then sucked him deep.
“Fuck!” He threw himself back, lifted his hips, and thrust his cock deep.
Caitie grinned and eased off. His fingers dug into the quilt when she released him. Two could play teaser and tormentor. “I prefer to nibble and take my time so I can enjoy every single lick and drip.”
She fisted him, then, nibbled from hilt to tip and caught the pearly drop. She puckered her lips like a kissing gourami, kissed and nibbled, paying special attention to the thick, throbbing vein that ran from base to tip like the spine of a feather.
His shudder pleased her, as did the way he thrust his hips, offering himself to her. She stroked his shaft, her grip firm while her tongue circled and flicked and licked.
He groaned, and to her amazement, his cock grew harder, longer, and filled her hand. “I love your cock. Sir.”
Before Damon could reply, she slid her mouth over his shaft in one smooth swallow. She sucked hard, taking his breath away. Blood pumped through his veins and pounded in his head. Her hands slid up the inside of his thighs, pushing them apart. He complied, giving her complete access. When her fingers cupped his balls and squeezed, the air, trapped in his lungs, whooshed out.
Opening his eyes, needing to see her, he let out another moan. Her features were set in lines of intense concentration. She lifted her head, his cock sliding out of her deliciously warm mouth. She glanced up, her eyes hungry and dark with desire.