Page 18 of His to Teach
I suppose it could be worse,I muse, as the waiter appears with our drinks.At least I have alcohol.
Mason has just started in on some long story about meeting Chase at the Denby freshman orientation when I realize exactly how much worse it can get. Because standing there behind my brother, his eyes every bit as piercing as they had been last night, is Nate.
And, I soon realize, that isn’t even the worst part. The worst part—the absolutely awful, stomach-dropping, sweat-inducing part—is when my brother turns to see who I’m gaping at. And his face lights up.
“Chase!” he says happily, standing to shake hands. “It’s so good to see you!”
“Mason,” Nate—or Chase, or whoever the hell he is—says, his deep voice sending my stomach plummeting to my knees as I recall exactly how that voice had sounded whispering filthy words in my ear.
I try to wipe what I’m sure is a horrorstruck expression off my face as Mason turns to me, still grinning broadly.
“Harpy, this is my old friend, Chase. Jonathan Chase. He’s the associate head of the psychology department at Denby.”
Somehow, Nate manages to keep his expression entirely neutral as Mason turns back to him. “Chase, this is my baby sister, Harper.”
NATE
My baby sister.
My babysister.
The words repeat through my mind like a stuttering record. Harper is Mason Cain’s sister. Harper, the woman who I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for the past twelve hours, is not only here in front of me, but she’s also my old friend’s little sister.
And, if that isn’t bad enough, she’s a student at the university.
Something about the panic on Harper’s face calms me. She looks about ready to lose it, like she might actually hyperventilate. If I don’t want Mason to know exactly what I exposed his little sister to last night—or of the unspeakably filthy things I’ve been imagining doing to her ever since—I need to get her calmed down.
It’s more than that, though. More than a desire to keep from getting caught. I don’t like the way she looks, don’t like the fear and shame I see in her eyes. I certainly don’t want to be the cause of those emotions in her.
Right now, Harper needs me to get control of the situation.
My opportunity comes when Mason’s phone rings within a moment of him gesturing to my seat. “Hell,” he mutters, glancing at the screen. “I need to get this.” He shoots Harper an apologetic look. “I’ll be right back, Harpy.”
He turns away from the table and I look at her. “Harpy?”
Her face somehow manages to darken another shade. I feel like an ass for giving her a hard time when she’s clearly already struggling, yet at the same time I enjoy the fact that I can affect her so easily.
“Sorry,” I say, holding up my hands. “I have older brothers as well. I completely understand about annoying nicknames.” I lean in towards her, lowering my voice. “And I can assure you thatharpyin no way describes the woman I met last night.”
She covers her red cheeks with her hands, breathing heavily. “Can you please not mention last night?” she whisper-yells. “My brother is ten feet away.”
“He’s on his phone,” I assure her. “You know how absorbed he is when he’s talking to work. I wouldn’t be surprised if he forgets we’re even here for a good half hour.”
I don’t miss the flash of hurt that crosses her eyes and I wonder how many times she’s been the subject of that same distracted behavior from her brother.
“Harper, calm down. Everything is going to be fine.”
Her eyes go wide. “Fine?Are you kidding me right now? How, exactly, is it going to be fine? I met you at asexclub last night and now I’m having brunch with you and my brother. Who is insanely protective, by the way.” She throws up her hands. “And if that isn’t enough, you’re aprofessorat my university.”
Okay, when she puts it that way, it is pretty bad. But she’s already attracting attention from the other diners nearby. I have to get her calmed down before Mason comes back, or we really are going to be screwed.
“Harper.” She stills under the deep timbre of my voice as I attempt to infuse it with every bit of authority I can muster. “Take a deep breath.” She does what I requested without another comment, her shoulders rising and falling with the shaky inhalation. “Better,” I sooth. “Now another.”
As she breathes in and out, some of the tension in her body seems to dissipate, the tightness on her face visibly relaxing.
Fuck, I think to myself. She’s such a natural submissive. I’ve seen reactions like this before, almost always in the playroom—a woman’s body responding to my dominance without her conscious thought or intention, as if the submission was the most automatic thing in the world.
When outsiders think about our lifestyle, it’s the trappings they associate with us. The toys, the restraints, the costumes. The punishments, the rewards. And of course, all of that is part of it, but it isn’t theheartof it. No, the heart of what we do, what I crave as a dominant, is this. This connection, a simple moment when my sub responds to me in this way. When she trusts herself to me, allows me to control even something so basic as her own fear.
