Play Me Hot by Tracy Wolff Page A

known of her existence. “I’m fine.” Even her voice is nearly monotone.
    She isn’t fine. Goddamn it, not even close. And as I look at her, I figure out what the problem is. And that it is one hundred percent my fault.
    Subdrop. The word slams into me like a goddamn freight train. I may not have ever seen it up close before—never been responsible for it before as I normally work damn hard to take care of the women I’m with—but that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize it when it’s staring me in the face.
    When it’s my own fucking fault.
    I didn’t take care of her. The fact that I wanted to, that I tried and she wouldn’t let me, doesn’t matter. She went into subspace so easily today, let me take her under so quickly, that I should have known something like this would happen. Especially when she wouldn’t let me hold her, soothe her, afterward. Especially when she acted like she was completely fine. Like things were totally normal.
    She isn’t fine and things aren’t normal and the last time I was this angry at myself for being an oblivious prick was almost ten years ago. It was completely different circumstances then—completely awful circumstances—but I’m no less furious with myself now than I was then. Which says a hell of a lot about how badly I’ve screwed up. And how much I’m starting to feel for this woman in front of me. This woman who has the soul of a warrior and the heart of a submissive.
    “I’m sorry,” I tell her, resting my forehead against hers. “I’m so sorry.”
    She shakes her head, tries to pull away. “I don’t know what you’re apologizing for.” She glances over my shoulder, then starts to push me away. “I have to get back to work.”
    “You’re done working for tonight.”
    “No, I’m not. I need this job.” She walks away from me then, heads straight to the bar. “I need two Absolut and cranberries, a Nolet’s Reserve and soda, and two Diet Cokes,” she tells the bartender.
    “On it,” he answers.
    “After you deliver those, you’re done.”
    “I’m done in an hour, when my shift ends.”
    “Don’t fight me on this, Aria—”
    “I just want to do my job, Sebastian. Let me do it.”
    “Hey, Aria,” the bartender says as he sets the drinks on the bar in a steady stream, one after the other. “Is this guy bothering you?”
    “No.” She looks right through me. “He’s not bothering me at all.”
    I’m fuming as I watch her pick up the drinks and head off to deliver them. Partly at her but mostly at myself. I know better. I fucking know better. No matter what she’d told me, no matter how she’d acted as she was leaving my office, I should have known ending up here was a possibility.
    I’ve got two choices at this point. I can force her to leave now or I can wait until her shift is over and care for her then. And while every instinct I have is screaming at me to get her the hell out of here, now, I’m smart enough to know that might not be the right move. Partly because David is already watching us suspiciously—and unlike the bartender, he knows exactly who I am. The last thing I want Aria to have to deal with right now is rumors about the two of us, especially since neither of us yet knows what “us” really entails.
    Even more important, she told me that she wants to stay. Right now, with the way she’s crashing, the last thing I want to do is take this decision out of her hands. She doesn’t trust me as it is—forcing my will on her right now is probably the most unhealthy thing I can do to her. To us.
    And so I wait. Impatiently. Silently seething every time she stumbles. Every time some dick with more balls than compassion lays a hand on her. I’d take care of it before it happens if I could, but the place is packed tonight and there’s no way to tell who is going to behave like a human being and who’s going to be a total jackass. At least not until after it happens, at which time I’m more than happy to make sure he