Instead of parking at the garage, I wait across the street, interested to see if my kitten will wait for me or if he’ll try to run after I told him I’d be driving him. The fucked-up, dominant part of me hopes he tries to run, because I’m confident that chasing him would be a lot of fun. But the sane and rational part of me knows he’s not ready for that yet. He may never be ready to feel the full force of my dominance, and I have no idea if I’m capable of censoring that part of myself.
When six p.m. rolls around, I climb out of my car and lean against the door, watching for him to emerge. When I spot him, he’s walking with Parker, the two of them smiling as they chat.
Once they hit the sidewalk, Parker waves goodbye and turns toward the parking lot behind the garage. My kitten pauses, scans the street around him once then twice, before he pulls his cell from his pocket and taps at the screen.
I’d lay money on the fact that he’s checking to see if I’ve messaged him.
A relieved breath falls from my lips as I step out from my slightly hidden spot and emerge into the halo of the streetlight. “Henry,” I call.
His chin snaps up, and his expression becomes cautious as his eyes land on me. “Oh, hi,” he says, his voice meek.
Circling my car, I open the passenger door, holding it ajar as I tip my head and gesture for him to get in.
“Actually, I should.” Shrugging, he points down the street and away from me.
“You should get in the car,” I say, allowing a little growl to slip into my words.
He reacts to me beautifully. His shoulders straighten, and his lips part a little, like his body understands my order even if his mind isn’t so sure.
“I…” he starts.
“Get in the car, Boy,” I say, calling him boy instead of Kitten so he’ll start to learn the difference between the two nicknames. When I call him Kitten, I want him to know that I’m asking him to do something instead of telling him. When I call him Boy, it’s an order, not a suggestion.
His feet move before his brain catches up, and in moments he’s beside me, his wary gaze lowered to stare at the stuff I put on the seat for him.
“Should I put…” His voice trails off, but he gestures to the blanket, protein bars, and drink that are sitting on the passenger seat, then vaguely to the back seat.
“They’re for you.”
“I don’t…what?” he asks, clearly confused as he stares at the pile of stuff and not me.
Leaning into the car, I pick everything up and hold it in my arms. “In the car, Boy,” I growl, ensuring there’s not an inch of question in my words.
Without thought, Henry scurries into the seat, lowering his backpack to the floor between his feet. Leaning over him, I place the pile in his lap, then pull the seat belt across him and clip it into place.
Slipping the blanket from his lap, I spread it out over him, then open the soda and protein bar and hand them to him.
He takes them from me, but his gaze is so confused, I have to fight the urge to lean in and kiss him. I want him…my boy, my kitten, more than I’ve ever wanted anyone else. I want to kiss the confusion and doubt from his lips. I want to own him and claim him, fuck him and protect him. I want to dominate and coddle him. I just fucking want him, and even if I try to, I know that I won’t be able to stop myself from taking him, even if I shouldn’t.
FIVE
HENRY
I don’t understandwhat’s happening.
Anders. Tall, thick, blond, sexy Viking Anders just covered me with a white fleece blanket and handed me a protein bar and a soda like it’s perfectly normal to treat a total stranger like this. He fastened my seat belt for me like I couldn’t do it myself, and he’s treating me like some passenger princess, and I have no idea what to say or do, or what this even is.
The sound of him shutting my door makes me flinch, and I hold my breath as I track his path around the front of the car to the driver’s door. A gust of cool evening air fills the small car as he sinks into the driver’s seat in the most effortless movement I’ve ever seen.
I’m not entirely sure how tall he is, but tall enough that I have to tip my head back to look at him, and I’m five feet eleven. Guys as big as him usually struggle to get into cars, don’t they? I’d expected him to look cramped or uncomfortable, but the moment he closes his door and wraps his huge hands around the steering wheel, he looks completely at home, like he’s taken this car and made it his bitch.
I’m grateful when the rumbling sound of the engine fills the silence, because I don’t know what to say. His first text came completely out of the blue. I’m not even sure how he got my cell number, but it felt rude to ask or to question why he was texting me. Then when he told me he was driving me home, I tried to protest, but the finality in his messages made me feel like I couldn’t question him or argue.
“How was your day?” he asks, his voice a rich molasses that curls around me like smoke and makes my insides heat.
“It was good, thank you.” I sound like an idiot, but I have no clue how to deal with a man like this. It’d help if I understood what his motivation for driving me was, but I honestly don’t. He didn’t ask me out or tell me he wanted to be friends.
I guess he could be doing Parker a favor. He’s friends with Danny, so it’d make sense if Parker asked him to give me a ride. I know when she saw my building yesterday, she was a little worried about how rough the area is. She hasn’t said as much, but I saw the horror on her face when she took in the run-down building, trash and unsavory sidewalk hookers and dealers.