Chapter Two

WHEN THE FRONT PASSENGERside tire hit a deep rut, the old truck bounced so hard Krista actually flew off the bench seat. If not for the safety belt cinched snugly around her waist, her head would have banged into the ceiling of the cab, and she'd probably have been knocked out cold. When she landed, the jarring impact snapped her teeth shut and did nothing good for her already tender bottom. No more than an inch or two was still enough to create a jarring impact when she landed.

She sucked in a breath, swearing she felt every spring through the sparsely cushioned seat. Considering the state of her freshly paddled behind, she would have felt a pea through several layers of mattresses.

"Sorry about the road," the man behind the wheel drawled. "If I'd known I was having company, I wouldn't have gone to the mansion in my work truck."

"I don't think it's the truck"—she grunted as the vehicle lurched on the driver's side this time, but still pitched her sideways—"so much as the potholes."

"Yeah. That couldn't be helped. The heavy rains that came through last week washed out the gravel. I've got several loads ordered but they won't be here for a few more days."

When the rear wheel on the same side of the truck found the same mud hole a second later, she bounced hard on her backside yet again. Krista was beginning to think an addled yet pain-free state of unconsciousness from being severely concussed might have been preferable to this torture.

"How much farther?" she asked between clenched teeth. "If it's under ten miles, I'll gladly get out and walk."

"Not at this time of night, you won't," was his stern reply. "Hang on for another half mile, and we'll be there."

They'd traveled another quarter mile with the continuous bouncing and jarring when she suddenly announced, "I have a cat at home."

He braked to a stop and glanced over at her.

"You have a cat," he restated.

"I'm sorry. I should have mentioned that before now, but it just came to me."

Shifting into park, he twisted to face her fully. "What about this rut-ridden, barely passable road could have reminded you of your cat?"

"I was thinking how much I wished I'd stayed home in bed with Morris tonight."

He blinked, staring at her for a heartbeat before he asked, "Is he an orange tabby?"

"I know it's unoriginal, but it suited him."

Heat stole into her cheeks, which made her glad for the darkness, but there was enough light from the dash to see his lips twitch.

"This would have been helpful to know before we drove the ten miles to my house. But we can't let him starve."

"Oh, he won't. He'll be ticked over spending the night alone, and I'll likely hear about it, but he's got an automatic feeder and will be fine, for tonight. Thirty days is another story."

"You'll hear about it?" he asked, his amusement obvious.

"You must have never owned a cat. They can be rather vocal with their displeasure."

"I see." He sounded close to laughing. She didn't know about what, but it was better than the cold, condemning tone of earlier. "We'll go by your place tomorrow and pick him up, along with what you'll need during your stay."

"You'll let me bring Morris to the ranch?"

"I've got horses, goats, and a few chickens. What's one more addition to my menagerie?"

"Thank you."

"Anything else you forgot to tell me?"

"I need to do something about my job."

She didn't mention school. At 4:00 p.m. Sunday, the day before classes began, they'd purge all unpaid registrations. She wouldn't be out any money, but she'd have to wait a full year to join a new cohort group. The nursing program had a very a strict curriculum, and they didn't allow stragglers. Looking on the bright side, it would give her more time to save, unless she lost her job because of this.

"I can't just take off from work for a month. They'll fire me. Besides, I have bills to pay."

"Where do you work?"

"The Peerless on Bensonhurst Rd. I've been there going on three years. I've got a set schedule"—which she could kiss goodbye since they were only working around her classes—"and I have seniority, so I get the best sections. Ocean views mean lingering over cocktails before and after dinner, which equals bigger tips."

He considered her for a moment. "What would have happened to Morris and your job if you'd been convicted and sentenced to jail time?"

She shuddered inwardly at the thought of being locked up. Jail meant no school, no job, no apartment to come back to, and poor Morris would have had to find a new home. Even if she somehow convinced a judge of her change of heart and got an acquittal like last time, she would still have been arrested and required to post bond.

Dear heaven. That she would have had to call her grandmother from the police station to come bail her out hadn't occurred to her until just now. A few other bizarre occurrences had been forefront. But if she could live out her life without suffering that humiliation—yet again—she'd be grateful.

"Your silence tells me you don't like the scenarios running through your head."

"Not at all," she admitted quietly.

"Good thing you decided to backslide tonight, at the mansion, on my watch." He put the truck in gear and started forward once more. "I know the owner of the Peerless. I'll give him a call tomorrow."

"Thanks for the offer, but having the sheriff call out of the blue to notify him one of his waitresses will be unavailable for a month is going to be more of a hit to my reputation than being a no call/no show and will undoubtedly have the same outcome—me unemployed.

"Like I said, I know Walter Oaks. He'll understand."

She glanced at his profile in the dark as realization dawned. "He's a member, isn't he?"

"Yep."

"I had no idea your secret society was so far-reaching."

"Not so much. We all live locally, but our members have business contacts internationally, and some with similar tastes have relocated to the Landing. Walt moved to the island after he opened Peerless location number twenty, I believe, and he has since expanded to—"

"Forty-seven across the Southeast and growing," she supplied. "I met his wife when they came in to eat one night. They looked..."

"Normal?"

"I was going to say happy."

He shot her a frowning glance. "And why wouldn't she be? This lifestyle is a choice, Krista, which means she submits to her husband, who she loves, voluntarily. You have a different motivation, but for the next thirty days you fall into the same category of consenting submissive. After that, you'll have another choice to make."

"No, I won't," she replied with confidence.

"You say that now, but you didn't object to being under my control tonight, or to your punishment, as much as you thought you would, did you?"

His cell rang just then, saving her from having to respond. While he answered it, and his deep voice droned on about some arrest someone made, she gazed out the window into the darkness.

He was right. Her first spanking hadn't been at all what she expected.

A hush had fallen over the gathering when Sheriff Sam led her into the main playroom. Murmurs of speculation had rippled through the crowd.

"Who is that? A new submissive?" someone asked, not even bothering to whisper.

"Sam has a new sub?" she heard a woman ask in a shocked voice. "Since when?"

"That's no sub," a man asserted, sounding as surprised as the other two. "She's one of the waitresses. In fact, she served me my martini when I arrived earlier,"

"You're right," another man said. "She took my coat at the door. Have I missed something? I thought the staff was off limits. If not, I'd have scooped her up in a heartbeat."

"They still are, unless... Wait. Look at her throat," the woman pointed out. "She's collared, and it's pink."

A chorus of perceptive ahs preceded a single male voice stating loudly, "Damn lucky bastard."

Apparently, everyone knew the pink leather collar signified a submissive in-training.

Sam paid them no mind as he directed her to a bench in the center of the room. The crowd followed, encircling the cordoned off area, with what appeared to be fervent anticipation. It would seem she was to be the main event for the evening's entertainment.

Toward the front of the crowd, she saw several familiar faces: Morgan and a petite brunette who she figured was the owner of the diamond choker, the judge, and, much to her dismay, creepy Geoffrey. If the attorney had licked his lips and adjusted the front of his leather pants, she wouldn't have been at all surprised.

When the sheriff turned her to face the bench, and his hands went to work on the apron strings at the small of her back, her panic peaked, and she spun around. "I don't think I can do this."

He angled his head down to ask in a low voice, "Have you never been spanked before?"

"Yes, when I was five."

"Mm, that's too bad. This isn't what I would have chosen for you as an introduction, but it can't be helped now." His hands cupped her shoulders. "You will have to take a leap of faith and trust me, Krista."

He turned her once more. With dread twisting her insides, she wondered how she could possibly trust a complete stranger in a room filled with more strangers and what equated to torture equipment.

A tug on her strings was as effective as a rip cord on a top spinning her around again.

Head still dipped forward, his gaze came up to meet hers, one dark brow arched high, clearly surprised at her daring.

What she thought were black eyes, up close were actually a deep, deep brown. They were identical in color to the double-shot espresso she bought each morning from the Coffee Hut, a discount wannabe Starbucks that served stale pastries and terrible coffee. It met her caffeine quota and was both within her budget and walking distance to class or she would have taken a hard pass on it. Five days a week, she stared into the depths of the heavy brew and saw a quick pick-me-up. From now on, when she did. she'd see the sheriff.

Framed by long lashes, his eyes were stunning, but also intensely penetrating, as if he could see inside her head and knew what she was thinking with a glance.

In his mid-thirties by her guess, he exuded a masculine authority and confidence men her own age only hoped for. While extremely easy on the eyes, he wasn't what she'd call classically handsome. He had a little sideways bump on the bridge of his nose indicating he may have broken it at some point, and his jaw had a dark, scruff of whiskers, somewhere between a five o'clock shadow and an actual beard. Though others might call him unkempt, especially with his wavy brown hair a few weeks past due for a trim curling around his ears and brushing his collar, she found the look very appealing. It was thick and gleamed in the flickering faux candlelight, though it lay flat on top, likely squashed by his hat.

She had an urge to reach up and fluff it, but what an utterly stupid move that would be.

In their dominant-ruled island world, he probably wouldn't react kindly to an uninvited advance by a submissive. Another surprise for the swanky private beachfront community. Where were the laid-back surfer types, or the plaid-Bermuda-short-wearing retirees who had all the time in the world, or the much-lauded Southern charm common to the area?

With his size, and dark looks, the sheriff seemed more the type to pick someone up and shake them than offer a friendly smile and a tall glass of iced tea on the veranda. In fact, he already had a cowboy hat and a brass star. Add spurs, a double holster, and two six-shooters and he'd seem more at home in Tombstone, circa 1888.

Since she'd met him, his lips were either tipped down in a frown or compressed in a rather grim line. Other than the few twitches of his mouth she'd probably imagined, and the amused cadence in his tone, which she couldn't be certain of either, she hadn't seen him smile or heard him laugh, not even a chuckle. Not that she'd given him cause to do any of the three in the past hour.

"Did you have a question?"

The deep timbre of his rough-edged drawl snapped her out of her silent perusal. A heartbeat later, she remembered the crowd and what was about to happen. That she'd forgotten and stood there gaping at him, cataloging his every feature while only moments away from a public ass whooping, was either a sign of an impending stroke, or a testament to the distracting powers of the big man in front of her.

"You've stopped me twice now. Go ahead and ask."

She blinked, unsure what he was talking about. "Excuse me?"

"Your question, or perhaps you had a comment?"

Did she?

Krista frowned, trying to recall, but if she had something to ask him, it had long since flown out of her muddled head.

A titter of laughter drew her gaze to two women, both about her age, watching from behind a red velvet rope. Behind them stood more onlookers, although they appeared more curious than amused.

A hand curled beneath her chin and turned her face back to him.

"Never mind them. What was it?"

"What was what?"

Laughter erupted from more people than the original two. She would have looked again, but he held her firmly.

"We'll be here all night at this rate," he remarked, with an edge of impatience in his tone. "Final chance, girl. Ask, or whatever it is will have to wait until this is done."

Quick as that, she remembered. "If I must do this, does it have to be here? In front of...everyone."

"I'm afraid so. It's a condition of your sentence. You'll have to endure this at least this once. For any further punishments you earn, the where, when, and how are at my discretion."

"Oh," she whispered, but she knew that already.

She'd read it in the sentencing contract she'd signed in the judge's office only moments ago although it, along with everything else, had been overwhelming. It was full of legal terms she didn't understand with a bunch of whereases and henceforths thrown in, as well as the party of the first part, hereafter known as the dominant, referring to Sam, which left her the party of the second part—the submissive.

If that wasn't enough to make her cry and pee her panties at the same time, there had been a list of rules called society imposed hard limits such as breath play, knife play, and a bunch of other things she'd never heard of. These were forbidden unless consented to by the contracting parties and approved by the high council.

The same went for sex; it wasn't a given—thank goodness—but required additional written consent from both parties, signed and witnessed.

"This clause exists only in a punishment contract, my dear. To eliminate any hint of coercion, you understand," the judge had explained.

"So, if I, or we, um, decided to..."

"Become intimate," he had suggested, like having a stranger pull down her panties and spank her bare ass wasn't. "Any council member can bear witness, if the need should arise. And I assure you, they are discreet, or they wouldn't be on the council to begin with."

It was the only thing she liked in the contract, except for the parts where the dominant would care for her, nurture, and teach her for her betterment.

"I can blindfold you, if you'd prefer," Sam offered.

Her entire body flinched in horror. "Why on earth would I prefer that?"

As more laughter and murmured comments rose around them, her face suffused with heat. Sam had a different reaction entirely. His tolerance at an end, he barked in anger, "Silence."

Krista jumped, something she'd done often since she'd arrived.

"Not you, girl," he murmured more softly to her as his hand came to rest on her back. Without singling out the offenders, he explained, "The blindfold will help block the crowd who seem to be in an insensitive mood tonight." This he said loudly in his deep, authoritarian voice, and, combined with his earlier barked command, the gathering hushed. She didn't hear so much as another peep or a giggle. "It might make it easier for you, this first time."

"Being more restricted will only make it worse, I think. I'd rather close my eyes if I feel the need."

"This will be a sound paddling, plain and simple," he explained. "Not comfortable, but no more than you can endure." He paused. "Is there anything else you'd like to ask?"

"No. Unless I can talk you out of this."

"Unlikely." Amusement flickered in the gaze that met hers. "Others made of sterner stuff than you have tried."

"Then I guess not," she answered with a sigh.

"Very well. This time when I turn you around, no more stalling. You're just delaying the inevitable. You'll take your licks, apologize to the community, and your thirty-day sentence will have begun. This can be your one and only lesson or the first of many; it's entirely up to you. If you break a rule, you'll be punished. If I tell you to do something, you do it, or there will be consequences. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

His brow pressed downward at her response. So did his lips. What had she done wrong now?

He didn't say anything else, however, only turned her toward the bench once more. This time, she managed to remain still when she felt the firm tug on the string tie and her apron dropped to the floor. The zipper on her skirt went down next but. tighter fitting, it didn't drop so easily. His thumbs slid into the waistband, and she couldn't stop the whimper of dismay when he tugged it over her hips, leaving her bare from the waist down except for her skimpy bikini panties.

"Up you go," he murmured, as he patted the top rail of the wooden A-frame bench. It resembled a smallish picnic table, albeit a very nice one with thick padding.

When she hesitated, his hand on her lower back exerted the tiniest amount of pressure, urging her forward. A glimmer of hope she'd get to keep her underwear gave her the strength to move.

Before she mounted the bench, she eyed it skeptically for a moment, trying to decide the best way to go about it. Deciding no approach would preserve dignity that would be shredded very shortly, she placed her left knee on one of the cushioned kneelers and swung her right leg over the top as if mounting a horse. Once she knelt astride the contraption, Sam's hands on her shoulders lowered her into position with her chest and belly resting flat on the padded top and her bottom pointing outward toward the crowd.

Krista tried to relax—surely the most monumental task in her lifetime—and closed her eyes. This opened her other senses; she felt the buttery soft leather covering the bench and smelled the scent of beeswax and lemon that explained why the exposed wood gleamed with a high gloss. All the furniture looked custom-made and expensive. The effort these people put forth for the sole purpose of spanking someone's ass amazed her.

"Since you're a novice, I'll go over my few rules. I expect you to lie still and take the licks you've earned like a good girl. Blocking, cursing, and name calling will result in additional strokes to your tally."

"I'm not sure I can do that, sir."

"I have a gag but hoped you wouldn't need it your first time."

"No, I meant lie still."

He walked around to the head of the bench and dropped into a squat in front of her. She immediately noticed the leather restraints in his hand. "I'm going to cuff your wrists to keep you safe."

She laughed, one full of anxiety rather than amusement. His dark eyes rose to hers, both brows furrowed, looking displeased.

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't think this is funny, not at all, but I have a tendency to laugh when I'm nervous. It's a bad habit I can't seem to break."

His expression relaxed. "Good to know. In our circles, nervous laughter can often be misconstrued, and you're in enough trouble. I'll add that to the list of things to work on over the next thirty days."

She didn't know how he intended to fix it; she'd been trying to forever. But as he picked up one wrist and buckled on the leather restraint, she had to concede she'd never tried anything quite like this. Oh boy!

Before he moved on to the other side, he ran his finger between the cuff and her skin.

"They should be snug, but not enough to restrict circulation." He looked up, his dark eyes keenly assessing, and asked, "Too tight?"

"No, sir, but I don't see how tying me down for a beating will keep me safe."

Another murmur rippled through the crowd surrounding her.

"First, this is a spanking, not a beating—there is a distinction. Second, having you squirming all over the bench increases the odds I'll miss what I'm aiming for, which neither of us wants. And third, I'm leaving slack in the straps linking your cuffs to the bench. It helps sometimes if you have something to hold on to."

"Okay," she agreed with a crack in her voice this time, rather than a whimper.

The beginnings of an actual smile tipped the corners of his mouth, the first real crack she'd seen in his stern demeanor. "Something funny, sir?"

"Only that you thought you had a choice."

She had agreed to this, and for the next thirty days she didn't have a say. The notion was suddenly overwhelming, and she tried to get up. But she couldn't. While explaining the need for the restraints, he'd buckled the other cuff in place. As her anxiety soared, she jerked hard on the restraints. They held firm, which meant she wasn't going anywhere until the sheriff let her.

A squeak of alarm sounded in her throat.

"Krista." The softness in his voice and the gentle touch of his hand on her cheek penetrated her mounting panic. "You're inflating this in your mind to unnecessary proportions. I know you have no reason to trust me yet, but I'll take care with you. You also have a safeword, which I will honor. There would be a host of dominants descending upon me if I didn't. But I expect you to take the punishment you earned like a big girl. Can you do that?"

"I'll try," she whispered, not sounding at all convincing even to herself.

"That's all I can ask." He leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead. "Now, let's get this done."

When he stood and moved to the opposite end of the bench, she lay there stunned, mainly because this seemed like a bad dream she couldn't wake up from, but also because the brusque sheriff, in his own way, was actually being careful with her as he promised.

Considering her situation and where she was, it seemed crazy, but he was taking time for explanations, had hushed the spectators who were adding to her distress, and he was using gentle guidance, reassuring touches, and a soft tone of voice with her. Even the cuffs he applied were lined with a soft sheepskin-like material, and he'd taken pains to ensure she was comfortable and that nothing pinched or cut off her circulation. And, just now, he'd given her a kiss that seemed rather paternal.

Nothing made sense; the entire bizarre evening culminating in this spectacle.

But dozens of other women had endured worse tonight. If they could stand being tied up, lashed, paddled, or suspended, surely, she could tolerate a simple spanking. She needed to suck this one punishment up then toe the line for the next month and be done with it and Wanaker Landing. Put that way, it actually sounded pretty easy. She could do this.

Krista changed her mind instantly when his big hand came down on her panty-covered bottom. The loud crack reverberating in the room and the sharp sting spreading rapidly across the surface of her skin made it all very real. She yelped in alarm and did so again when another swat fell a half second later on the opposite cheek even though she knew it would happen.

With a death grip on the leather straps, she contained herself for a third and a fourth, and so on, until she reached the silent count of twelve. The pain wasn't nearly as bad as she expected. Not that it was easy. Her backside was warm and tingling, but she'd had sunburns that hurt worse.

She was smart enough not to let on. No point in him knowing she could take more.

When he stopped and rubbed her prickling bottom in slow, circular motions with his palm—which was actually very nice—she couldn't keep from heaving a sigh of relief.

"That should do for a warm-up."

"What? Wait. What?"

Her head twisted as much as the restraints would allow. It was enough to see him standing next to her holding a foot-long, two-inch wide leather paddle.

Holy crap!

"You said a spanking," she protested. "I didn't agree to, uh, that!"

"I mentioned you'd receive a sound paddling, Krista. That usually implies the use of a paddle."

"I thought it was a synonym!" she exclaimed.

When the audience once again tittered with laughter, Sam didn't chastise them.

"But, sir, my butt is already on fire." That wasn't true, but she hoped she'd be forgiven a little white lie with the preservation of her rear end on the line.

"Let's see about that, shall we? These panties need to come down, anyway."

Immediately, she regretted her protest that seemed to have plummeted her from the frying pan right smack dab into the middle of a roaring fire.

"No, please," she pleaded. "Can't I keep them?"

"It wouldn't be much of a punishment if you did."

He laid the paddle across her back then curled his fingers into the waistband of her panties and, without wasting time, pulled them down in one easy tug. She tried to close her legs but came up against the bench. With the thin layer of satin and lace gone, not only was her bottom bared to his eyes and on display for the masses, but the pink flesh in between as well.

Krista squinched her eyes shut, humiliation slamming through her.

He ran his hand lightly over her hot cheeks, for the first time skin to skin. "You're barely warm, missy. We'll continue with the thirty strokes as planned."

"But—"

"No arguing," he ordered, his fingers flexing on her right cheek in warning. "The only things I want to hear from you until we're through are I'm sorries and thank yous."

Thank him for spanking her? Like that day would ever come.

When he retrieved the paddle from its resting place on her back, she braced.

The next instant, it landed with a solid splat. It stung a heckuva lot more than his hand. So much, in fact, the air left her lungs with a whoosh. It took a second to assimilate the heat and sting and shock and embarrassment, and everything else she was feeling. Then, her head flew up, she sucked in the replenishing breath she needed, and let out a blood-curdling shriek before the next swat fell.

"Stop," she cried as she yanked at her restraints. "I'll die before you reach thirty!"

Whispers rippled through their audience. The voices were jumbled, but she distinctively heard the word newbie and someone commented, "Sam sure has his work cut out for him with this one."

Suddenly, stern brown eyes confronted her as Sheriff Sam once again crouched in front of her.

"Settle, Krista."

"You're kidding, right? How am I supposed to settle after that?" With him right there, she screeched louder than necessary, but she didn't care, not with the fire engulfing half her butt.

He caught her chin in his hand and ordered, "Find a way, little girl, or you'll get a taste of my belt after the paddle."

She froze, staring at him in horror. "You're not serious."

"You'll learn soon enough I'm always serious when it comes to punishment." He leaned in close until they were almost nose to nose. "I want you to take a deep breath."

"I don't see how that will help," she howled inconsolably. "I need ice. Buckets of it, possibly an entire glacier!"

"Kristina!" he admonished firmly. "You will stop these hysterics, immediately."

She bit her lip. Whining pathetically over a single paddle stroke did seem extreme, but it hurt—a lot.

"Breathing will help you focus on something other than your rising panic."

Still skeptical, she stared back at him through watery eyes. "I don't think I can."

"I'll do it with you. In through your nose and out through your mouth."

She tried but hitched on the inhale, and the exhale came out ragged.

"Do it again, but this time concentrate on relaxing your muscles in your arms and your legs and along your back."

Drawing in deeply, she expanded her lungs as fully as she could then blew the air out slowly. Her muscles untensing seemed to be a secondary effect.

"Good girl," he praised softly, which for some reason made a current of warmth flow through her from head to toe. "Twice more for me."

She obeyed him in this, too.

"Now then, look at me and tell me the truth. Are you really in such unbearable pain?"

Meeting the espresso-brown depths of his gaze, she considered his question. Her butt tingled and felt hot, but the initial sting had quickly dissipated. But these were only the first few of thirty. What if they got progressively harder?

She should tell him they were excruciating, but if he suspected it was a lie, things would likely get a lot worse.

"I asked for the truth, missy. If I get anything less, now or anytime while you are in my care, you will not like the consequences."

"No, sir."

"Is that ‘no, sir,' you won't lie? Or, ‘no, sir,' you're not in unbearable pain?"

"Both?" she replied hesitantly.

The tiny half-smile from earlier returned, but it left as quickly as it appeared, and she ended up doubting her senses. He didn't have laugh lines around his mouth or crinkles by his eyes, so she doubted he made a habit of it.

This next month should be a real laugh riot.

"If you're not in pain, why are you carrying on so?" he asked.

"It startled me."

"Is that the only reason?

"I wasn't expecting it to hurt so much."

"It's supposed to hurt; it's punishment. Anything else?"

She stubbornly compressed her lips, but under the force of his intense gaze she divulged the rest, "Because this is embarrassing!" though she did it in a hushed voice, hoping no one else would hear.

"You realize this happens all the time with our group. We live the BDSM lifestyle. Do you know what that stands for?"

"Yes, I've read Fifty Shades."

Hoots of laughter along with groans rose from behind her. So much for keeping things from their audience. "What did I say wrong now?"

"That fan fiction juggernaut is a hot-button topic among us. Some herald it as being the catalyst that brought us into the mainstream while others criticize it for being bullshit and nothing like what we are actually about."

"I take it you're one of the critics?"

He shrugged. "Whichever camp we fall into, one thing we insist on is consent. You gave it. If you're rescinding it, I must hear the correct word from your lips. Stop and please and I'm on fire, don't cut it here."

She hesitated again. He was asking for her safeword. It too was spelled out in the contract. All she had to do was say, "Red," and this ended.

This was all new and scary. Despite feeling that her choices of physical versus social justice weren't choices at all, she was guilty. At the outset, in a brain lapse of epic proportions, her intent had been to take the money. Whether her conscience would have stopped her if the necklace hadn't fallen on the floor was an unknown. She hoped something would have prevented her from going through with it, but what if it hadn't?

Either way, she had to face the consequences for her actions. This seemed like a reasonable plea bargain, without getting more added to her permanent record.

"Krista, have I lost you?"

"No, sir. I was just trying to figure out how I got here. I thought tonight was an opportunity to make some extra money. The legal way, by waitressing." She felt a tear trickle down her cheek. "Now, look at me."

"You did something wrong and got caught. It's pay one way or the other, darlin'."

She blinked up at him. "I know."

"Do we continue, or are you ending it?"

"We continue. But could you, maybe, be lenient considering this is my first time?"

He released her chin and gently brushed the hair back from her face. "You don't know this yet, little girl, but I am being lenient. An experienced sub making the mistake you did would receive at least double the strokes, and not with a flexible beginner's paddle." He leaned in and kissed her parted lips this time then left her to consider what he'd said. If those two smacks were his idea of lenient, she hoped her backside toughened up pretty darn quickly.

His hand on her bottom, stroking lightly, preceded more bad news. "We're starting at the beginning, and this time I want you to count each one. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

The paddle rose and fell in a solo swat to her right cheek. Forewarned being forearmed, she contained her reaction and croaked out a shaky, "One."

"Remember to breathe, Krista, and after the count I want to hear an apology. I'm sorry, and promise not to take things that don't belong to me ever again will do for a start."

Mentally, she cursed him for upping the humiliation factor, but part of the deal was a public apology. Hopefully, this repeated mantra would be enough to satisfy him.

She was so focused on her response, when the paddle came down again, the sting seemed not nearly as biting

"Two, sir. I'm sorry, and promise not to take things that don't belong to me ever again."

"Sir is a nice touch, but unnecessary. It isn't only me you're apologizing to, but the entire community."

"Three," she called at the next rise and fall. "And, I truly am sorry, and promise not to take things that don't belong to me ever again.

"Very nice, darlin', I believe you're getting the hang of this," he murmured before he delivered another hard swat.

"Four!" she yelped, then paused, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth as he'd taught her. "I'm sorry, and promise not to take things that don't belong to me ever again."

The next thwap landed lower, catching the crease between her butt and thigh. "Five," she called through gritted teeth. She also panted several times then gulped in a chest full of air and blew it back out before she gave her scripted response. "I promise not to take things that don't belong to me ever again."

He paused and drawled, "You forgot something."

She had to think for a moment then blurted out, "I'm sorry."

"Yes, I can tell you are. Unfortunately, that one doesn't count."

He proceeded with her counting until she reached fifteen—the halfway point. Then he stopped and gently smoothed his hand over both cheeks.

"I think you've said sufficient mea culpas, Krista. When we resume, you don't have to count anymore."

She slumped over the bench. Keeping up the counts and apologies was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. After the one she'd screwed up that had to be repeated, she'd concentrated hard not to do so again. When she finished, her count would be three more than her original sentence called for, plus the warm-up, and she sure as heck didn't want to add to it.

As he squeezed and massaged, she wondered if, along with the focused breathing, her devious sheriff had deliberately given her something else to think about aside from the gawking crowd, her waist-down nakedness, and the pain of the spanking.

Maybe he wasn't as brusque and stern and unyielding as she had him pegged at first.

All thought left her brain when his fingers, which had been trailing down the backs of her thighs, slipped to the insides on the return trip. They didn't veer to the side when he reached the apex, but dipped in between and ran along her wet feminine flesh. She caught her breath at the entirely different tingling sensation his touch elicited and wondered at the hum she heard from him.

When his fingers left her, he didn't comment but promptly resumed with stroke number sixteen.

Since she didn't have to count, her brain had room to swirl around not only the remaining fourteen stinging swats but also his surprising intimate caress, the two kisses—tender, but also surprising—the gleam in his dark eyes, the affectionate way he called her darlin' instead of missy or girl, and, yes, her wetness.

Somehow, she endured the paddle against her increasingly hot and burning backside until Sam said at long last, "That's thirty, Krista."

His declaration caused every muscle in her body to go limp. With her cheek resting on the bench, she closed her eyes to lessen the sting of her unshed tears. They weren't as much from pain as from the wave of unsettling emotions crashing over her.

After rubbing and massaging her tenderized skin for several moments, Sam moved around the bench, releasing her restraints. When he helped her rise, her knees were too weak to allow her to stand. He picked her up and carried her to a quiet corner nearby. Then he held her as she cried, not the panicked wails of before, but soundlessly as tears leaked from her eyes.

She was confused as much as embarrassed. It felt good to be in his arms, even though he'd been the one who'd made her butt burn. And he was surprisingly protective of her privacy, somehow getting rid of other guests when they approached. She couldn't see with her face buried in his chest, but she suspected all it took was a narrow-eyed glare from the big dom. That her spanking was public but, in the aftermath, he arranged for a retreat for her to gather her composure was another paradox.

When the tears had passed, mopped up by him with tissues he acquired from somewhere, he kissed the top of her head and set her on her feet. "Except for the rough start, you took your first spanking well. Now, it's time to get back to work."

Self-consciously, she glanced around at the others. They weren't paying her any mind, but, still, to have to serve them after what they'd seen...

She inched closer to Sam who had risen to stand beside her. "Must I?"

"Yes, I told you earlier, it's not fair to George, his guests, or the other staff here tonight to leave them shorthanded." He smoothed down her skirt and lightly patted her behind. "And put your embarrassment aside. There isn't another submissive in the room who hasn't had a similar paddling. Most have endured much worse."

Flustered, she started to move off then she remembered something very important.

"My, uh, panties. I almost forgot. May I have them, please?"

"Nope," he replied succinctly.

Her lips parted in shock. As she stared up at him, dumbfounded, a glint of humor flashed in his eyes and, for the first time, a full smile appeared.

He used both hands to finger comb and smooth her hair. When he finished, he brought them down to frame her face while he explained. "My rules for a submissive are simple, Krista, and you'll do well to remember them. No cursing, no sassin', and always respect your dom. It goes without saying who's in charge."

"I can understand those rules, but why can't I wear panties?"

"They are a situation-based garment. Here at the mansion, the rule is always no. When you're at home with me on the ranch, either riding or working, yes. I'll let you know when else the no-panties rule applies."

"But why, um, sir?" she persisted.

"In a play space like this, they're unnecessary and impede your dominant's access. And, after a sound paddling like you had, they only trap the heat and abrade your skin, making things worse." His gaze shifted behind her. "George just walked in looking frazzled. Go see if he needs help with something. I'll be around and will find you when things wind down about 2:00 a.m."

Obediently, she made her way through the crowd to their host, but it didn't keep her brain from replaying one word he'd said repeatedly—submissive.

She knew about that, too, from her reading. The judge had said she was like them as if she had a neon sign over her head declaring it to the world. Could it be she had these tendencies and didn't know it? Was that why she'd calmed down under Sam's direction, and grew wet from being punished, and would have stayed happily in her dominant's comforting arms forever?

The truck hit another deep rut jarring her from her seat and out of the mental replay of the evening. When she landed with another hard bounce, she let out a hiss. No matter his claims that the paddle was for beginners, her butt was sore, and his poorly maintained road and ineffective shocks weren't helping matters.

"Are we almost there?"

"My house is just up ahead."

Peering through the windshield at the house in distance she saw the shadowy shape of a barn behind it.

"You really do live on a ranch."

"A small horse ranch, actually. Did you think I was lying?"

"No, but... How do you find time to raise horses while being the sheriff?"

"I inherited the property from my grandparents a few years back, along with a proficient manager and a well-trained staff. All have stayed on. It helps that our crime rate is low, and my deputies are competent. That leaves me to supervise both operations, which isn't all bad. Unless I'm busy corralling naughty girls with sticky fingers, that is."

She groaned. "Please. Can we not talk about it anymore? I'm completely mortified."

"So you've said. If this isn't typical behavior, care to tell me what's behind your sudden veer off the straight and narrow?"

She'd rather go another round on the spanking bench.

"One of my deputies pulled your employment file and ran your sheet. I haven't had time to review either, but I will."

"My sheet?"

"Your rap sheet."

Of course. She was staying in his home for a month. He needed to know her priors.

Glancing at him with a chagrined look, she confessed, "I've tried to mend my ways since getting caught shoplifting when I was sixteen, but I guess I need more work, huh?"

He pulled the truck up in front of the large two-story house. From the porch light, she could make out an amazing wraparound porch with four wooden rockers, but not much else.

Once he switched the ignition off, he turned to face her. "Is that it? You know I'll find out. Might as well fess up now."

"I also punched a girl in the face."

His eyebrows shut up in surprise.

"Yeah, not my finest moment. She was six-feet tall and played basketball. Her girlfriends stuck up for her, but most of the school found it hilarious that a pipsqueak like me got the jump on her. She wanted it all to go way and talked her father out of pressing charges. It helped that she knew she deserved it."

"You're using she deserved it as a defense?"

She shrugged, unrepentant. The bitch absolutely had it coming.

"Anything else?"

"Yes, but this really wasn't my fault." Seeing his head tilt, she got defensive. "I know that's what they all say but, in my case, it's true."

"Go on."

"I got charged with marijuana possession twice during my first year of college, but it wasn't mine."

"They all say that, too," he returned quietly.

She blew out a frustrated breath. "I was young and made some bad choices—in men, mostly—but as I told you back at the mansion, I don't use drugs. I never have and for a very good reason."

"Which is...?"

"Does it matter? I did my time for something that is now legal in over half the states, but the charge is still on my file."

"How old are you, darlin'?" With the dashboard dark, she couldn't see his face and couldn't tell if he believed her or if he thought she was like all the rest of the druggies he'd no doubt arrested over the years.

"Twenty-three."

"So, this happened five years ago. Tell me about the men."

"There was mainly just one, and he was a colossal mistake." She bowed her head and studied her hands. "Brett wasn't my first boyfriend, but he was my first love until he broke my heart."

"The marijuana was his, I take it?"

She answered with a short nod, adding in a small voice, "And he let me take the fall for him both times."

"Once is one time too many. Why did you give him a chance at a second?"

"I thought he loved me, and, like an idiot, I believed him when he said the drugs weren't his. Then he slipped two joints in my purse before a party that got raided by police with dogs."

He whistled softly. "And Brett said nothing while they cuffed you and hauled you off."

"That's about it. I found out later he was sleeping around, too."

"He wasn't a man, darlin'. He was an asshole pretending to be and not doing a very good job of it."

Krista huffed a humorless laugh. "You can say that again."

Even after five years, she was bitter over her legal troubles, and she couldn't find an ounce of forgiveness in her heart for Brett, not after what else he had done. She probably never would since it kept haunting her.

"Do you have family here?"

"My grandmother lives in Georgetown. She's seventy-three and all I have left. She's part of the reason I agreed to this. I can't keep letting her down. And I can't expect her to bail me out when I fu—uh, mess up. I suck as a granddaughter. It's past time I grew up."

He reached out and caught her hand in his. "There's something to be said about hanging on to some childhood traits—curiosity, wonder, an uninhibited joy for life—but both kids and adults need to obey rules."

She flushed, hoping he wouldn't see it in the dark, but he brushed the back of his hand across her cheek, and there was no way he wouldn't feel the heat.

"Don't fret. We'll get this naughty streak under control. You're too pretty to wear an orange jumpsuit."

With another small huff of laughter, she glanced out the window to hide her face before it went up in flames. A dog barking was a welcome interruption. As she searched for it in the dark, she saw a white blur zooming across the yard toward Sam's side of the truck.

"You have a dog!" she exclaimed, stating the obvious.

"His name is Dallas."

"Like in Texas?"

"It seemed appropriate since I got him there." His head turned her way. "You're not afraid of dogs, are you? He weighs almost as much as you, but he's friendly."

"I love dogs, although Morris may not feel the same way. Does he come inside?"

"He has free rein of the ranch, including the house, and he doesn't mind cats. We've had a few strays over the years who've had kittens. He guards them the same as all the other livestock, so the two of them should get along. Morris might not take to the idea overnight, but he'll adjust."

"What kind of dog is he?"

"A Kuvasz."

"A what?"

"Tsk, tsk," Sam said while shaking his head. "He gets a lot of that, poor guy. Descended from Hungarian canine royalty, but no one's ever heard of his breed. Wait here, and I'll come around and introduce you."

She wasn't used to a man opening doors for her, but she liked it, especially since his truck lacked running boards on her side. This required her to slide down the side of the seat, which her sore bottom protested. When her feet touched the ground, she barely had time to get her balance before a cold nose nudged her hand and a furry white head worked its way under it.

"No jumping," she heard him order a split second before his dog, in his excitement to make a new friend, knocked her against the side of the truck.

"Let her get out before you love her to death," he muttered while grabbing hold of Dallas' collar and hauling him back. Not an easy task. Like his owner, the dog was huge, his head reaching well above her waist. Without the truck behind her, she'd have been flat on the ground with one hundred pounds of dog on top of her.

"Sit!" Sam commanded sternly.

Dallas snuffled once, gave her hand a wet lick then, with a little whimper, obeyed. Though he seemed friendly, if not for Sam's presence, she'd have been a frightened by the dog's sheer size and exuberance.

"Sorry, he usually has better manners."

Shrugging off his apology, she replied, "Before tonight, so did I."

Since the dog had calmed somewhat, Krista offered him her hand to sniff. When his tail thumped happily on the asphalt, and his tongue came out for another big slurp, she went all in and sank her fingers into the thick ruff of fur around his neck. While scratching behind his ears, she marveled over not having to bend or crouch to do it.

"Ole Dallas here is a ladies' man," Sam told her as he patted his dog's side. "He'll love you forever if you do that five minutes a day."

"Then this is the beginning of a beautiful love affair. Isn't it, boy?" She made the mistake of getting close to his face. His huge tongue came out and lapped her cheek. She turned away but, far from done, he promptly slurped up the side of her neck. It tickled, not enough to make her laugh, but she grinned. Sam spared her further licks by hauling back on his collar, but even out of tongue reach his entire body vibrated with so much infectious doggy enthusiasm she was still smiling while wiping off the slobber.

"Then, it's decided. Petting Dallas is one of your daily chores, especially since it makes you smile. That's the first I've seen from you."

Still giving her new friend scratches, she angled her head up to Sam, wondering how he could see in the dark. She also found it interesting how similar her thoughts were about him. Both of them being surly gloomy Gusses was either a match made in heaven or hell. With her on the lowest rung of the decision-making ladder, she hoped for her sake it was the former.

He took her arm and drew her to her feet and, with Dallas trotting along at his side, led her to the house. "When he's excited, he jumps. I've been trying to get him out of the habit. With you here, and being such a little thing, we'll have to work on it harder."

"I'm 5'5" without shoes, which is average unless you're a giant." She eyed both the dog and the sheriff. Each had to be in the upper percentile on his respective growth chart.

"I got a foot on you without my hat," he offered before she could ask. "By comparison, you're just a little bit, little bit."

His keys jingled while he found the right one for the door. She thought she heard him chuckle, but the door swung inward, and he guided her inside before she could determine if she imagined it.

When he flipped on the lights, they stood in a huge living room with vaulted ceilings. The open floor plan allowed her to see through to the dining room at the back of the house, and cream-colored sliding barn doors opened into another room she assumed was the kitchen. Decorated in farmhouse chic, it had high-gloss, dark plank floors, cream-colored shiplap paneling on the walls, and exposed beams on the ceiling.

The furniture in the living room was leather and masculine, but fuzzy knitted throws and pillows softened the look, as did the cream-and-brown diamond patterned area rug beneath it all. And, to her surprise, he had several healthy-looking houseplants scattered around and coordinating artwork—mostly landscapes—on the walls.

It didn't look like a house near the beach, or a bachelor's residence, except for the seventy-inch, wall-mounted flat screen.

"Your home is lovely."

"My grandmother had an obsession with the home improvement shows. If the TV designer liked it, she had to have it. There was one from Texas who could do no wrong. It drove my grandfather crazy."

"I love the style, but how do you keep it so clean while working two jobs?"

"I've got a girl. Lucinda takes care of everything domestic for me, and she's a phenomenal cook."

A girl. How many times has he called her that in his deep rumbling voice?

It felt like a fist closed around her heart and stopped it, very much like when she'd learned about Brett and his disgusting, cheating ways.

Attractive, overwhelmingly masculine, and with a powerful position, of course, he had a girlfriend; she should have known. Even if sex wasn't part of the deal, after the intimacy of the spanking, the way he was constantly touching her—especially when he brushed her hair out of her face, and kissed her several times—she felt stirrings of attraction for the big surly sheriff and didn't doubt they were headed that way.

But she refused to be his piece on the side. She wouldn't do that to another woman, not knowing firsthand how badly it hurt. And she wouldn't be one of many. For all she knew, they swapped routinely in their society, but partner roulette wasn't a game she wanted to play.

The growing respect she had for Sam Golden took an immediate nosedive.

"Red," she stated loudly.

On his way to the kitchen, Dallas at his heels, probably expecting a late supper—or early breakfast in this case—Sam came to a halt and turned. "What was that?"

"I said red. I can't do this. Take me back to town and lock me up."

Seeing surprise and confusion on his handsome face, she didn't wait for the questions she knew would follow. Instead, she spun and practically ran for the door, unwilling to let him see the hurt expression on her face or the tears welling in her eyes.

Why were men such heartless pigs?

"Krista."

She ignored him, twisting the lock first one way then the other while pulling hard on the door. When it wouldn't open, she grabbed the knob with both hands and shook it hard, like that would make it suddenly spring open. If she stayed in the same room with Sheriff Asshole another minute, she'd burst into pathetic sobs, which she couldn't allow, or curse a blue streak, which he wouldn't tolerate.

"Darlin', what's this about?" he asked from directly behind her.

She'd been so focused on the door and getting away, she hadn't heard him move.

"I want out. Let me out!"

Ignoring her demands, Sam slipped his arms around her from behind, his fingers encircling her wrists. With a firm tug, he pulled her hands off the knob and crossed them over her chest, surrounding and containing her all at once. His mouth was next to her ear when he stated firmly, "You're not going anywhere in the middle of the night except to bed. And you're not making a decision that will change your future while you're upset about something. Talk to me."

Stubbornly, she struggled in his hold, but he was bigger and stronger. She didn't want to talk, mostly because it wasn't her style to pour out her feelings, but also because she didn't want to reveal her hurt and anger—or her unbelievable stupidity.

This was an arrangement between strangers. It provided a legal out for her and fulfilled some kind of kinky fantasy for him. What did she expect, undying love and fidelity after only knowing the man for a few hours?

Stupid, stupid!

"You're scared, that's understandable. So is having misgivings. But you were fine until now. Is it being here alone with me? As was spelled out in the contract, I'm in charge of you, and discipline is for me to mete out as I see fit, but sex isn't part of this, and I won't make it so, unless we are both interested. You have your own room upstairs. It's your space, exclusively. I'm a stern taskmaster, Krista, and an exacting dom, but I won't demand more than you're willing to give. You can trust me to handle you with care."

"Like you did when you set my ass on fire?" She grunted a derisive laugh. "And you ask for trust—that's rich. I don't even know you. It doesn't matter anyway because I've made up my mind. I want to leave. You should let me and spare poor Lucinda the heartbreak and humiliation."

"What the—?" He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. "So that's what's got you riled. Lucinda Patrick has been with me for three years. Ever since I moved in."

"She has my sympathy," she snapped, aiming her gaze over his shoulder, not wanting to look at him. "Take me back to town."

He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "She's got big blue eyes, makes a mean chocolate sheet cake—which is my favorite—and can spot a speck of dirt at twenty paces."

"How nice for you, but I don't care," she gritted out between her teeth. "Maybe you didn't hear when I said red and asked twice for you to let me go."

"She's also got a husband, four kids, and twelve grandkids, with another expected in the spring."

Her eyes snapped up to his.

"She's old enough to be my grandmother. In fact, when she turned seventy-two this past May, we had a barbeque here at the ranch for her entire family, including her husband, Jed, who's been the large animal vet for Live Oaks for going on thirty years."

Krista closed her eyes and groaned.

"After my grandmother passed, she came by with dinner, feeling sorry for me in this big house alone. It started with her putting odds and ends away, doing the dishes, or running a few loads of clothes. Now she comes twice a week to clean and makes sure I have something home-cooked to eat on those days at least. She's spry as can be and has as good as adopted me. I call her my girl in teasing because it makes the sweet lady blush."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh." When his fingers curled around her upper arms and raised her up on her toes, putting his face next to hers, her eyes popped open.

"I jumped to the wrong conclusion, Sam. I'm sorry."

"Open communication between a dom and sub is crucial. If there's a problem, I want to know about it. If you have a question, ask it. Comments are permissible if said with courtesy and respect rather than sarcasm and snottiness. Take that to heart, little girl, and your butt will be a lot happier for it."

She lowered her eyes, unable to hold his gaze with its burning intensity, embarrassed by yet another colossal error in judgment she'd made tonight. Her voice came out soft and a little shaky when she replied, "But I'm not a sub."

"You think not?"

Her eyes came up briefly then darted away before she denied it again. "Yes."

"We'll see, but back to the matter at hand. I don't have a host of women on the string or a bevy of submissives at my beck and call." He laid a hand on her cheek, his thumb resting beneath her chin, and tipped her face up to his. "Look at me, Krista."

Reluctantly, she did as he asked, finding understanding and compassion in his expression.

"The son of a bitch did you dirty. I understand that. But there's one thing important to remember—I am not him."

She needed to stop being surprised when he deduced things about her so quickly. He wouldn't be the sheriff if he wasn't clever. Still, any reference to that rat bastard two-timer who'd left her with a mess on her hands made her want to spit. She didn't know if she would ever trust again.

He stared at her a moment, searching her face as if reading her thoughts. "Trust takes time, but we'll get there. For now, it's bedtime. Morning comes early on a ranch. We'll do chores, have breakfast, then head to your apartment. I'm not on-call this weekend, so I've got the whole day to get you settled in. Unless there's an emergency call-out."

"I'm wired. I don't think I can sleep."

"You had an emotional night," he acknowledged. "But it's almost 3:00 a.m., and you've been on your feet, in those heels, for hours. I'm sure when your head hits the pillow, you'll be out. We'll start fresh in the morning and, since you know the rules now, we'll have a better go of it."

"Yes, sir."

The same odd look from earlier crossed his face, but as soon as it had come, it was gone. He took her hand in his, a habit she didn't mind at all and, with her in tow and Dallas trailing behind, climbed the stairs to the second floor.

"My room is there." He waved toward an open, darkened room at the end of the hall. "I'm close by if you need anything, and the bathroom is across the way." He stopped at the midway point, opened a door and, after flipping on an overhead light, motioned her through. The walls were painted a pretty pale blue, white plantation shutters covered the windows, and tiny blue flowers dotted the comforter on the double bed. Sam crossed to the dresser—also white—and removed a nightgown from the top drawer.

She accepted it, wondering whose clothes she'd be wearing.

"This is my younger sister's room when she comes for a visit," he explained, and she wondered if her expression gave her away. "She's left a few essentials. Although she's taller and a little rounder than you, this should do until we get your own things, tomorrow."

Krista nodded, rubbing her hand over the soft cotton.

"Gina only visits in the warm months. I think she comes more for the horses and the ocean than to see her big brother." He shrugged. "That means all that's here is summer-weight. I can dig up another blanket if you're cold, and I've got a robe buried in my closet you can wear."

He was doing as he said he would, taking care of her. Was this his Southern hospitality showing, or did he do this with all his houseguests? She hoped it was something else entirely, that he'd realized she wasn't really the ill-bred young woman he'd found pilfering through his friends' belongings.

"You'll find a toothbrush in the upper right-hand drawer by the sink. Towels are in the linen cupboard along with what else you might need." He tipped her face up with his hand and searched her features. "You've gone quiet." His thumb swept over her cheek and he murmured softly, "It's going to be okay, little bit."

He'd said it earlier, but it had barely registered, with all that was going on. Now, her heart lurched at the nickname, the same one her grandpa Joseph had for her. She missed it, and him, a lot.

His warm lips brushed her forehead, something else she could get used to.

"Good night, Krista."

Relief washed through her when he left her alone and walked down the hall to his own room and, bizarrely, disappointment, too. When she closed the door with a soft thud, she warned herself not to fall for the handsome sheriff, except there was a lot to like. He was tall, dark, and handsome, and exuded confidence and such raw masculinity he made the other guys she'd dated fade into nonexistence.

Brett who?

And best of all, he'd been gentle with her—punishment notwithstanding. No one had come close to being as caring or attentive.

She touched her lips, remembering the light press of his warm mouth from earlier, and the other times when he'd kissed her forehead. Considering her reaction to his presence, and his touch, and the way he took her hand or guided her where he wanted her to be—his manner commanding but also solicitous and protective—and yes, how aroused she'd become when he stroked her inner thighs, she feared her warning may have come too late.