Page 28 of Lesson In Faith

Two moods were most probable, he decided. She could wake up sad and melancholy about the situation, or as a realist, understanding what was said hadn’t been intended to hurt her. He didn’t get the feeling she was the type to get angry, but then, he hadn’t gotten virgin vibes from her either.

He scrubbed his face with his hand.

A fucking virgin. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d met a woman who wasn’t sexually experienced, not in this lifestyle. Hell, it seemed like teenagers were having sex younger and younger these days—his brother’s daughter almost brought the family to its knees when she fell pregnant at fourteen.

Tamsyn wasn’t fourteen. If she wasn’t of legal age to drink, gamble, and marry, he’d be genuinely surprised. It was hard to gauge her age when that pretty face was so thin and exhausted, but he’d guess mid-twenties, maybe slightly younger.

Regardless, he admonished himself firmly, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t in the market for a sub, let alone a relationship, and even if he was, a virgin was completely out of the question.

He loved the artistry of a mindfuck, the skill involved in breaking a submissive down to her bare bones and rebuilding her into a goddess writhing under the toys at his disposal. He thrived on coaxing a woman’s submission from her, teasing it until it was all his to strengthen her.

He fucking revered, well,fucking.

As a virile man in his prime—barely forty, contrary to popular belief and the color of his hair—sex was a number of things. A chance to blow off steam, to purge the imbalance of reality and dreams, to hone skills he’d learned at sixteen, and of course, to have fun.

In his late teens, he’d been an absolute dog, sniffing around any girl who’d take a second glance at him. By his early twenties, he’d been fucking women twice his age once they learned what he was packing in his pants, and a few years later, one of those cougars introduced him to BDSM and all the beautiful secrets it possessed.

At thirty, he reached a calmer milestone in his sexual career. Kink tamed his promiscuous ways without hindering his imagination, and he fell in love seriously for the first time after meeting Helena in a diner in Kentucky, of all places.

He’d adored her, loved her with all the passion an unclaimed heart gathered before it suffered its first heartbreak, for eighteen months of raw, unbridled lovemaking before he proposed.

Merrick’s lips curved in a bittersweet smile. He remembered Helena fondly, even though she’d done the right thing for them both at the time and turned him down flat before he could even say theMword in that traditional sentence.

She’d told him he wasn’t mature enough yet to get on one knee, to wear a ring symbolizing fidelity and lifelong dedication when she sensed he had more oats to sow.

Helena had smiled sadly, cupped his then-bare cheek, and asked him to find her when he was truly ready for their lives to be one. As though he hadn’t been ready then, as if he hadn’t known his own goddamn mind at almost thirty-two years old, for fuck’s sake.

Scowling darkly, Merrick crossed over to the coffeemaker to grab his drink when it pinged softly.

Because he’d loved her, he’d done as she asked.

He’d waited an entire year, pining for her, planning their future.

A year to the day of his original proposal, he’d tracked her down to finally set the rest of his life on the perfect track, and found her shacked up with a racehorse trainer whose list of winners was comprised of one name. She’d been heavily pregnant, a dull gold ring already on her wedding finger, and a shell of the woman who’d haunted his dreams for three-hundred-and-fifty-two days.

How foolish he’d been back then, just eight years ago.

How completely bewitched by her.

Ready to take the bull by the horns, pack up her and the unborn child sired by another man, and get her as far away from the bluegrass state as he could.

Until he realized she was there of her own volition, drawn in by the temptation of Derby money and the love of the horses—not the beasts themselves, but the gambling. After eighteen months with Merrick, it had taken her less than a month to get into bed with her new husband, chasing winning posts and winner’s circles where there were none to be found.

Merrick sipped his coffee tentatively, savoring the burn along with the caffeine.

Ironic, really, that it was that moment when he truly matured and became the man he was now. Stricter, more controlled, more… conservative when choosing partners for sex. Selecting the right submissive, even for a night, was imperative to keeping his heart from making another disastrous mistake.

Yes, he set out rigorous specifications for any sub who wanted him for more than just a scene where he sent them flying and reeled them back to earth. Unfair specifications, he supposed, but then he wasn’t exactlyfairin the cock department.

Pain was sexy when tempered in the right doses with pleasure, or to a masochist who knew and understood her own limitations.

The only exception of late had been Liam and Wyatt’s now-fiancée, Sierra, who definitely wasn’t on Merrick’s approved list. She’d been half-blissed out on orgasms when he pushed into her tight little pussy and still, the memory of her body resisting him inspired his cock to salute her whenever he recalled that night.

But Tamsyn… she was too small, too delicate, utterly fragile, and she wore her heart in her eyes. Worse than all that combined, she pulled at his, sneaking little fingers around the hardened shell to find cracks in the onyx.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he shook his head.

Linnie was right. It was safer for all involved for his little owl to spread her wings and take shelter in a different tree, but he discovered his reluctance to send her away ran deeper than just breaking a promise.

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