Master of the Mountain

his hand, and her nipples so sensitive that any tug on the clamps made her pussy clench around him.

Gradually he angled himself so his cock would hit harder over her G-spot. He grinned when she stiffened. Apparently he'd hit the right spot, one as sensitive as her breasts.

Obviously forgetting her restraints, she moaned and tried to move, halted by the cuffs. Her vagina clenched around him as she realized her vulnerability. Her iron control was in tatters, her will given over to him, even as her body was his.

He pushed her legs farther apart to emphasize her helplessness and saw her hands close into fists. Fists. He hadn't reached the naked core of her submission yet. Gripping the chains of the breast clamps, he tugged gently with each thrust. Reading her and responding accordingly, pushing her toward pure sensation and submission even as he drove her body to climax, reminded him of how Beethoven's symphonies ended when all the parts came together in the finale.

She slowly tightened around him. Her thighs, widely apart, trembled like aspen leaves in a winter wind, but the restraints kept her legs from giving out. She was close.

Pushing back to a kneeling position, he slid his hand down her stomach to her pussy, anchoring her in place and putting pressure on her distended clit at the same time. With the other hand, he grasped the slender butt plug in her vulnerable little ass. He wiggled it, increasing the sensation, increasing her submission.

Her whole body quivered in shock, and she made an indescribable noise. Her hips jerked, inadvertently rubbing her swollen nub against his restraining hand. She whimpered, yielding to the pleasure. To him. Only a Dom could know and appreciate this rushing sense of power.

He thrust with his cock and slid the soft plug out; he pulled his cock out and pushed the plug in. Her legs turned rigid, her back arching, thrusting her bottom up higher. As he continued, her silky pussy clamped down on him, tighter and tighter, and seconds later she convulsed, wailing her climax in short cries that corresponded with each rippling spasm of her vagina. Fuck, he loved her unrestrained response, and even more, that she needed restraints to get there.

The tight milking sensation around his cock grew until he couldn't stand it anymore. He seated the butt plug firmly inside her, grasped her hips with both hands, and pounded into her. His own climax boiled up and out of him like a volcano, the fire coming from deep within and shooting through him.

When he could breathe again, he released the clips holding her wrists to her ankles and toppled them both over, pulling her up against him so her back rested against his chest. He was still embedded deep inside her. Would that he could stay there forever. Wrapping his arms around her, he buried his face in her silky hair. God, he enjoyed having a soft, shuddering sub in his arms.

And this soft little sub had just gifted him with a depth of response that awed him. Such a change from her assertiveness during the day. Damn, he liked that. Liked her cheerful personality-even at breakfast, for which she should be shot. And the way she petted Thor, even when he scared her. The way she smiled when she saw a doe and fawn. The way her big green eyes had looked at him when she gave him her wrists.

He wanted this soft little sub, and he wanted his collar around her neck. God help him.

* * * * *

Short crackling bursts of fire from M-16s like firecrackers on steroids. The earth-jarring blast of an IED. The truck humps into the air, spilling him and the others like marbles across the concrete. Screaming…so much screaming. Sweat pours down his face, or maybe the hot liquid is blood. Heart hammering, he dodges across the alley, dives into a building. His helmet has disappeared somewhere. The even, thudding noise of a fifty cal opens up, then the roar of a MedEvac helicopter. He turns to look, knowing what he'll see. Too late for rescue. His team, oh God, his team. Red streaks the sand like a blood-filled kaleidoscope. Shrieks of agony. Men pour across the alley, coming for him. His hands tighten on the-

“Logan!”

Hands shook him, tiny hands. He grabbed the soldier's arms. Soft, round. The voice wasn't right, high, using his name. He blinked and saw big green eyes, pale skin with freckles, pink, pink lips. He forced his hands to loosen. “Becca.” His voice sounded like he'd scraped it raw.

“Are you awake now?” She smoothed his hair back from his sweaty face. “That sounded like one nasty nightmare.”

His breath huffed out. “Yeah.” His hands tightened on her shoulders, red still staining the edges of his vision. What had he done? Had he hit her? “Are you all right?”

“Well, sure. I wasn't the one having a nightmare.” She pushed out of his arms and trotted into the bathroom; the last two burning candles glinted off her pale skin.

He sighed, his insides churning worse now that present-day horror had been added. God, how could he have fallen asleep? He could have-

“Here.” An arm under his shoulders urged him up. He took the glass she gave him and stared at it.

“Logan, drink it.”

Cold water cleared the dryness from his throat. After setting the glass on the bedside stand, she washed the sweat from his face and chest with a washcloth. “There.”

Before he found the words to tell her he needed to leave, she pushed him back down and curled up next to him, laying her head on his shoulder. One rounded arm curved over his chest, holding him gently. “I hate nightmares,” she murmured and fell asleep within two breaths.

Logan stared up at the ceiling, too aware of the woman snuggled up to him like a trusting puppy. Already sound asleep. After a minute, he put a hand under his head and wrapped the other around her shoulders. Stronger than she looked, wasn't she? Considering her description of the dog attack, she probably knew all about nightmares.

She sure dealt with them a hell of a lot better than he did. He'd never done anything afterward except sit on the edge of the bed and shake. The water she'd given him had washed away more than the dryness, the washcloth more than sweat, somehow grounding him in reality and banishing the usual lingering remnants.

Her breath created a tiny warm patch on his shoulder as her chest rose and fell in the peaceful rhythm of sleep.

He took a long, careful breath. He'd been lucky and hadn't hurt her. There would be no sleep for him tonight, but contentment could be found in the here and now.

Chapter Thirteen

Rebecca checked the sausage and the egg dishes in the oven. Almost time for the biscuits to go in.

“How can you do this alone when everyone else needs help?” Logan asked, tucking an arm around her waist and pulling her back against his chest.

His deep voice and firm touch made a shiver run down her spine right to her toes. “Lots of practice feeding starving frat boys.”

He kissed the juncture of her shoulder, his day-old whiskers scratchy and his lips warm. “Barefoot and in the kitchen. A man's favorite dream except there's too many people around to toss you on the table, put your legs over my shoulders, and take you before breakfast.”

She quivered inside and outside, turning her head to glance at the big kitchen island table. “Ah, right. Way too many people.” Her voice came out husky.

Pushing aside the top of her flannel shirt, he bit her shoulder, then squeezed her bottom, reminding her of what had been inside her last night. How it had made her feel. She almost moaned.

Logan chuckled. “I'll get out of your way, unless there's something you'd like me to do.”

“No. I have it handled.” She finished frying the sausage for the gravy, enjoying the sizzling sound, before turning around. He'd taken a stool by the island, all big male in a dark blue T-shirt. When he moved, his biceps stretched the sleeves in a way that made her mouth dry. So darned gorgeous, but… She frowned. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper, darker. “You look tired. Did you have trouble sleeping after your nightmare?”