Page 27 of Drag You Down
Yes. He’s setting off red flags.
Dom takes a few minutes to respond this time.
Dom
K. I want the good bourbon tonight.
Of course he does. I send a thumbs up emoji.
I go back to my laptop screen, scrolling the page. There are too many Zachariah Carpenters, and even adding “father” to the mix doesn’t come up with anything helpful.
Father.
My lip curls into a sneer. Someone who beats a member of his congregation so thoroughly isn’t deserving of the name.
I try the background check service I subscribe to, but even that one can’t help me unless I know which Zachariah Carpenter I’m looking for. It also refuses to believe that Zachariah is not the same as Zachary or Zack, so I get even more possible results to spend $20 on to unlock.
Ichabod suddenly jumps onto my desk and plonks himself directly on top of the keyboard, closing the tabs I’d been working in. I scowl at him, picking him up and setting him to the side.
Purring, he steps back onto the keyboard, and I have to move him again to keep him from entering random numbers into my spreadsheet. As little as I want to wait for Dom to arrive with his information, I’m not getting anywhere by obsessing.
That doesn’t mean it’s easy to stop, though.
I focus on Ichabod’s purring, petting him so he stops trying to climb onto my laptop, and it’s soothing enough to temporarily redirect my thoughts away from Zachariah onto Levi. I wonder what he’d sound like in the throes of pleasure. Would he mewlfor me, squirming and whining for more? Would he moan and whimper?
Would he beg for “Daddy” the way I want him to?
My thoughts stray back to the whip marks on his skin. Those were too severe, too much to be pleasurable. I could show him what it could feel like to be caressed with a whip instead of takingpenancefrom the pain. Any amateur can hurt and cut skin — the thought suffuses me with rage all over again — but it takes a deft hand to pleasure the way he would deserve.
That’s assuming he’d ever want to feel the kiss of a whip again.
Ichabod decides he’s had enough attention and swats me, and I release him so he can spring off of my desk and onto the floor. I force my attention back to my accounts, trying to undo the mess that others have created and sort them into something more orderly, and I’m startled when the doorbell rings.
A glance at my camera shows me it’s Dominick, and I get up to let him in.
Dominick Cho is an innocuous looking guy. He’s only 5’10”, and although he works out, he doesn’t keep muscle quite the way I do. I keep telling him he needs to lift more, but he blames his Korean genetics for keeping him small.
Excuses, excuses.
I do a double-take when I see him up close. “Since when do you have a beard?”
Dom grins at me. “Since this past week. My brother claimed I’d look terrible with one.” He strokes his chin and the dark hairs of his new beard. “I think I look dashing.”
“Dashing,” I repeat, shaking my head in amusement. If it wasn’t for the fact that I know he’s every bit as dominant in the bedroom as I am, I might’ve slept with him at some point. But he and I are similar enough to occasionally clash. “Is that what your nonexistent boyfriends tell you?”
“Look, just because Pratip didn’t work out…” Dom sighs and steps inside.
Ichabod races into the room, making a beeline for Dom’s ankles. Even though he’s been here enough time to know how to handle the cat, he almost trips.
My eyes immediately go to the backpack he’s wearing.
The files I need are in there. Forget the small talk; I need the files.
“Pratip was a prat, as they say in England,” I answer with a smirk, leading Dom to the kitchen. “Watch out for the cat. He’s trying to kill you.”
“Pratip was in the closet,” Dom corrects. “Also, you aren’t British. Don’t get all hoity-toity on me.” He sits down at the kitchen counter, setting his backpack down by his feet, and Ichabod rubs up against it.
I go to grab the backpack behind the cat, but Dom stops me.
