A long zigzag of lightning lit the night as Ben returned to the screened and covered lanai. Z had resumed his seat on the dark-red cushioned, oak-and-iron chair.
“What’s up?” Ben asked, sidestepping a hanging planter. A chill breeze rustled the trailing blooms and carried the scent of ocean and tropical flowers.
“Can you sit for a minute, please?”
Hell, that didn’t sound good. Ben hadn’t had any problems recently—nothing he couldn’t handle, so he doubted Dr. Zachary Grayson, psychologist, had called him back to assess his PTSD. More likely, he was dealing with Z, the owner of the Shadowlands, who was one of the most protective motherfuckers Ben had ever met.
And stubborn as hell. Refusal was futile.
Ben scowled. “If you’re planning to grill me for more than five minutes, I want a beer.” Since two of the veterans were recovering alcoholics, the psychologist didn’t serve anything stronger than sodas during the sessions.
Z gave him a relaxed grin. “Fair enough.”
Against the wall, the fridge was filled with junk food, healthy snacks, juices—and alcohol of all kinds. As in the Shadowlands, Z made a point of stocking people’s favorite drinks. Ben looked for a green label and found a Brooklyn Lager. Thinking of the strain in Z’s face, he also splashed a shot of Glenlivet into a glass.
He handed Z the glass of scotch, then dropped into a facing chair and set his feet up on the heavy oak coffee table. He had to appreciate a décor designed for living as well as style. “What’s on your mind, boss? Problems?”
“Not exactly problems.” Z eyed his drink and took a sip. “Although I see you for group sessions and serve as your employer, I also consider you a friend.”
Well, damn. Didn’t that give him a fucking fine glow? Unable to come up with a suitable response—he didn’t have Z’s diplomatic vocabulary—he muttered, “Same here.” He tipped the bottle back and drank down a good third to get his balance back.
Heartwarming words or not, he had a feeling he should’ve escaped with the others. “Sounds as if you’re leading up to something.”
“That’s a very good guess.” Z swirled his scotch and pinned Ben with a gray gaze. “By relieving you for an hour last Saturday, I essentially gave Mistress Anne permission to play with you. Did I make a mistake?”
Yep, his guess had been spot on. Unfortunately, he didn’t have an easy yes or no answer since anything he said could cause problems for Anne. Ben selected his words with the exact brevity and care he’d give to an interrogator. “No mistake. I liked the scene.”
Amusement showed in Z’s expression before he set the glass down.
Oh shit.
Zachary studied the man sitting across from him. Muscles slightly tensed, eyes level but wary, face blanked of expression. Protective posture. Protective thoughts. For Anne.
Of course.
Benjamin had grown up on New York streets, caring for his mother and sisters. He’d joined the U.S. Army to protect his country and moved into the Rangers to do an even better job. Anne might be the Dominant, but this soldier operated under his own priorities.
Zachary did the same.
“Should I sign you up for membership in the club?” he asked in a flanking maneuver.
“Shit.” Benjamin choked on his beer and coughed. “Ah, no. That’d be like pulling the trigger before aiming.”
“I see.” What he could also see was that Benjamin had, indeed, enjoyed the session and wanted more.
As the Domme, Anne had the next move. She’d apparently not made one.
These weren’t two people he’d have predicted to be a good match, but their scene on Saturday had held tremendous energy and chemistry. They’d been caught up in each other.
Normally a good thing. But…
Z regarded his glass, seeing the reflection of the lightning in the amber liquid. Although the scene in the Shadowlands had shown that Benjamin was sexually submissive, he didn’t possess a slave’s mentality, and it was doubtful the man could adapt to that lifestyle.
He doubted if Anne would even allow Ben to try.
“Spit it out, Z.”
Z looked up. “Mistress Anne is one of the finest Dominants I’ve ever met. She is also exceptionally reserved. Her slaves don’t live with her. Her control when she is with them is absolute. She picks her ‘boys’ carefully and they worship the ground she walks on. I’m not sure—”
“I’m not her type. I knew that.” Ben’s jaw was firm. “And you delivered your warning.”
“I’m not finished. If a submissive isn’t her slave, she might play with him in the club. Once or twice.”