People tell me all the time that I look fierce. But when I gaze into the mirror, I simply see a woman who contemplates. Although not shy, I am quiet unless I have something to say. I keep my emotions contained. I know my way around the saddles, gear, and whips we sell at the horse and tack shop where I work. I present the wares with respect, in the calm, careful way I do everything.

The crush I nursed on my coworker James for the past year was just one more thing I kept to myself. I had no plans on letting him know how I felt, but recently I had an occasion to act on my feelings in a surprisingly satisfying way.

Maybe some would describe me as hiding behind a layer of armor, but I prefer to think of myself as simply serious. I don’t go in for frivolities. That’s why the leopard-print dress was something of an aberration for me. When I walked past the store window and caught sight of the short, sexy number, I did a double take. My usual wardrobe is a far cry from leopard. I wear black—my whole closet is black—and riding boots, and I am fine with that.
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It had never occurred to me to ask. And apparently it had never occurred to Brad to tell. So when we were packing up to move from our tiny cracker-box apartment to an actual townhouse, it all came out by accident. Because of one simple act.
It had been a half-irritated, half-amused gesture on my part. Brad had been packing the good dishes with the everyday dishes, instead of wrapping them separately like I’d asked. I was sorting the mail at the time, and I rolled up a magazine and swatted him on the ass like he was a bad dog. It was just a joke. But the look on his face was one I’d never seen before.
“What?” I asked, warily.

He shook his head quickly, keeping his eyes lowered. “Nothing.”

It was the way he moved away from me—an odd sideways crab walk—that tipped me off.
“Brad, did I hurt you? I was only fucking arou—” By then I’d managed to bounce my way in front of him, smiling to show it had all been in good fun.
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Michael knows that if I allow him to spend the night, he’s responsible for making breakfast the next day. And I expect a gourmet spread. Usually, he’s good about fulfilling his duties, and he typically makes scones with clotted cream and jam, a frittata with fresh vegetables, or French toast made from flaky croissants. He’s never failed to deliver a delicious meal—until last weekend.

When I woke Saturday morning, Michael was already up, and his pallet next to my bed was empty. I could smell coffee brewing in the kitchen, and the aroma alone had me wide awake in a matter of moments. I pulled a silk robe on over my negligee, stepped into my heeled slippers and, after stopping to fix my hair in the mirror, walked down the hall to the kitchen to see what my slave was cooking.
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