Ride 'Em (A Giddyup Novel) by Delphine Dryden Page B

she felt his eyes on her as she led the way down the hall to the back of the house where the kitchen was located. She could hear movement elsewhere in the house, the sound of somebody typing, a television or something with the sound down low. But the kitchen was empty, only one industrial-style fixture over the giant farmhouse sink illuminating the space. The long butcher-block island was spotless, the stainless counters shone dully from the shadows, all the dishes were neatly stowed on shelves.
    “If the kitchen’s closed, I can—”
    “You need to eat.” He put a hand on her hip and gently nudged her from the doorway, then reached for the light switch, turning on the under-cabinet lights. “Ham, salami, or turkey?”
    He washed his hands before retrieving ingredients from the big commercial fridge, shooting options at her the whole time. Ham on rye, no cheese, no tomato. Mayo, mustard. Lettuce, sure, why not? Yes to onions, because they were kind of a statement that she didn’t expect any further kissing to happen.
    When all the components were out on the counter, he pulled down two plates and gestured to her, clearly expecting her to take over.
    “Oh, you want me to . . . um, sure. Just let me . . .” Late to the party, she washed her hands, then turned to the task of assembling both her own sandwich and a second one for Logan. She was nearly done by the time she realized she was actually making him a sandwich , not really what she’d planned for the evening. He’d already eaten dinner, presumably. But then he was a big guy—tall, rangy— and probably ripped through calories at a furious pace. Dude was probably hungry all the time.
    He watched her as she worked, and he looked hungry, to the extent she could bring herself to watch him back. Something about his face—the stern expression, probably—made her look down automatically, made her bow her head . If he hadn’t tied her up earlier, she might never have drawn the connection, but now she was thinking of him like a Dom, dammit , and she couldn’t get her body to stop responding accordingly.
    That didn’t mean she was okay with him tricking her into making him a sandwich, though. When she was done, she slid him the plate with a frown. “Mild coercion on rye, side of gender stereotype.”
    “My favorite.” He picked up the sandwich, not bothering to hide his grin. “Right outside that door is a whole world of consent, and nobody is stopping you.” He took a huge bite and munched, still smiling.
    She wished she could lose her appetite and stalk out, but it was far too late for that. She tucked into her own sandwich and suppressed a moan. It was really good ham, and the onions were the sweet kind. Heaven. As she chewed, she pondered what he’d said, the fact that he’d responded to the coercion charge by countering with consent. Interesting .
    It wouldn’t actually be so hard, would it, to find out whether he was kinky? Just drop a few key words and see if he picked up on it? If I say “safe,” you say . . .
    But did she really want to know? Would that make things better or infinitely worse?
    There he stood, leaning on the island, sexy even while taking a far-too-large bite from his rapidly dwindling sandwich. The only safe part about him was her assumption that he was as vanilla as a cream soda. Without that . . .
    A gentle throat-clearing broke the silence; Robert was leaning into the kitchen from the hallway, his feet still beyond the door frame.
    “May I come in, sir?”
    “ Robert .”
    “Boss.”
    “Yes. Come on in.”
    Robert floated past, clearing the plate from in front of Logan and then swinging by to pick up hers before carrying both to the sink. Startled, she realized she’d finished her sandwich. She glanced at Logan, who was biting the side of his cheek and studiously staring up at the central light fixture.
    And . . . that was that, then. Sir . And permission. And if she hadn’t been there, she’d be willing to lay odds