Page 2 of Mine To Break
Colby chuckled, blinding her with the sudden intensity of his smile. Good lord almighty, he was a gorgeous, cocky bastard. It would be so much fun to bring him to heel. “Don’t worry about me. I know how to protect myself.”
With guns and bullet-proof vests and badges, sure. But he had no defenses against her. He honestly had no clue how easily she could tie him in knots. Literally and figuratively.
Maybe Victor’s right.
Colby sensed her subtle withdrawal and reached across the table to take her hand. Another clue that he didn’t know what he was doing. No submissive would have dared touch her without her permission. “Hey, did I say something wrong? If I’m an idiot, tell me. I won’t be offended.”
“What are you doing here, Colby? For real. Why did you agree to see me? If you’re just curious…”
He shrugged but didn’t let go of her hand. “About whips and chains and shit? Nah. Not curious. At least, I don’t think I am.”
“Then why are you on a date with the Mistress of Dallas?”
“Why are you here on a date with a cop?” He countered.
“I know exactly why I’m here.” She’d seen so much in him during their little demonstration. His ferocity, his strength, implacable and unmoved, though definitely interested. He wasn’t intimidated by a woman with power, and that alone intrigued her. Add in his determined will and strength of character, and all she could think about was trying to break him.
Not his spirit, but his will. Breaking him to her command. Bringing him to his knees. Where he’d do as she asked, not because he had to—but because he wanted nothing more than to please her.
Bringing a strong, independent man like Colby to a submissive state was like the Holy Grail for a Domme like her.
“It’s complicated.”
She sat back in her chair and firmly pulled her hand out from beneath his. “Then explain it to me.”
After two tours of duty in Afghanistan and a full year working narcotics in Dallas, not much could rattle Colby anymore. And that rattled him clean off the Geiger counter. He peeled at the beer label, trying to decide how much to tell her. How to tell her. Something in his gut insisted that she, of anyone, might understand, and if he was extremely lucky, might even be able to help.
Hell, at this point, just not being so fucking alone with this shit would help.
He could talk to Reyes, but his partner wasn’t a touchy-feely, let’s talk kind of guy. Come over for beer and poker, sure. Discuss women or emotional issues? Fuck that shit.
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t press for details. Minutes passed, and she didn’t fiddle with her glass or sigh with impatience. He flicked a quick look up to her face, and she was still watching him. Still waiting, ready, willing to listen.
“You ordered dessert.”
Her head cocked slightly but she didn’t act thrown by his comment. “Best cream brûlée in town right here in this restaurant. Though Mama’s is way better.”
“I like pie, cobblers, anything with fruit and crust.”
“I can get behind anything with lard or butter in it.”
“When I was on tour, I’d dream about pie. All food, really, because those MREs taste like crap, but especially pie. God, I could not wait to get home and have a big old slice of warm blackberry cobbler with a huge scoop of ice cream slowly melting on top. I wanted it so badly I could taste it. It was the first thing I ate when I got home. I took Mom’s entire pan, dumped out a half-gallon of vanilla directly onto the cobbler, and ate the whole thing in one sitting out of the pan with the biggest spoon I could find. It was great.”
“But?”
“After a few times, it was just food. Honestly, it might as well have been an MRE. It wasn’t as great as I remembered. None of the food was. I mean, it was great to be home. Great to eat real food. Maybe I’d built it up to crazy greatness in my head, but once I was home, it just didn’t seem the same. It was food. I had to eat. God, I’d get so hungry, just like I’d been in the desert, lying there staring up at the little bit of shade I could find while my stomach gnawed a hole clear to my spine. But it wasn’t good. It just… was. It didn’t satisfy my hunger. Nothing did.”
“You got used to it.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. I told myself that. But it wasn’t just the food. Everything started to feel the same. Not dark, not bad, but just flat. It’s like the sparkle and excitement has gone out of everything. I’m not ever satisfied. With anything.”
“When you were overseas, were you on the front lines, in danger? Or were you more in supply and communications?”
He was impressed she knew even that much about the military. “Front lines, seek and destroy. We were constantly finding and disabling land mines, hunting terrorists, trying to protect the villagers. I thought maybe I was just an adrenaline junkie, so I tried new things like sky diving when I got home, but it didn’t do much for me.”
“So instead you became a cop.”
“I figured getting shot at on the streets would be the closest thing to re-enlisting I could do, though I’m sick to death of both to be honest. Then I felt bad, because I know plenty of soldiers have suffered bad PTSD since they got home and had it way worse than me. Some couldn’t get help and they’d rather kill themselves than keep suffering. The last thing I should want to do is go back, and I don’t, not at all. But I’ve got this… this… need. This hunger. Tolive, to fight, to be on the edge, like I was.”
