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areas and tapping at them until I was exhausted, spent to the point I had no energy. He was good at that—too good—and I never quite got the better of him. And I’d tried to switch once or twice, tried to bend him to my will, but inevitably the sub in me relented and I let him have his way. How could I not? His dominance was too much of a lure, and seeing where he would take me, which boundaries would be breached, was all part of the attraction.
    There it was at last, that faint, low growl I’d recognise anywhere, then a slight rise in pitch as he revved the engine in his eagerness to get home. Stomach muscles bunching, I stood, one hand clutching the window frame, fingertips throbbing from the pressure, the other splayed flat across my belly. I held my breath and squinted to see the red blur of his car through the trees bordering the lane. Heart rate climbing, pulse throbbing in my throat and temples, I swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.
    The blur streaked for a second, only to disappear as the trees grew thicker and the bend in the road took him out of my view. That he was speeding pleased me, it meant he wanted to see me badly, yet at the same time I worried that his haste would one day take him away for good.
    I couldn’t bear that.
    Silently, I urged him to slow, to take his time. Reaching me a minute or two later and in one piece was preferable to not at all. I stopped myself thinking that way, instead delighting in the emotions he inspired, the way my body reacted—the further swelling of my nipples, the increasing dampness between my legs and the inevitable lump in my throat.
    And there he was, on the home stretch, the green and yellow countryside a backdrop, where I could watch his approach unhindered by leaves and branches, a clear view of that little red car with my man inside. I wished I could tell him, show him just how much he meant to me, but words could not express the depth, and my hands roaming his body couldn’t feel enough of him to get my meaning across adequately. But he knew, didn’t he? Knew by the touches, the soft and sometimes bruising meeting of our lips, the way I moaned his name when I came.
    He had been slightly different since our last visit to the hotel. More needy, wanting assurance that I wasn’t going to run off and leave him. I knew why that was—the threesome we’d had threw him off balance—and I strove to ensure he knew there was nothing to worry about. That extra man, Jack, had been an itch I’d just wanted to scratch. But still, I was sure Kline’s mind played tricks on him. Indeed, if it had been another woman in our bed, in our world, I would feel the same way. A few sharp stabs of jealousy and a large spoonful of ‘what if’ would go a long way to making sure my mind was a mess along with raw, tangled emotions. Part of me wished that particular fantasy hadn’t belonged to me. That he hadn’t indulged my desires.
    I wanted—needed—him and only him. I wasn’t sure how to tell him that when my previous assurances hadn’t appeared to do much beyond easing his worries for the hour or two after he’d let his true feelings slip out. He was a Dom, but it didn’t mean he didn’t feel . I loved that about him, the way he took control, became this whole other person in the bedroom, yet when out of it, although clearly a strong man emotionally, slight chinks in his armour were becoming more and more apparent. Maybe that was why he was hell-bent on taking me to subspace. Perhaps my inability to do so in the past told him lies—that he wasn’t the right man for me. The man who could take me there.
    If only he knew, believed , he was the only man who could do it.
    Clit aching, I resisted the urge to cup myself, to press the heel of my hand against the incessant throb. Kline had told me not to masturbate today, to let the excitement of tonight build without release. It had been difficult. Several times my fingers had strayed, and his words had floated into my mind, stopped