She pulled up the alley to her private drive, feeling the exhaustion and desire pushing at her equally. She thought about just locking her doors and sleeping here. The idea of getting out of her car and walking up her front stairs was overwhelming. She would if it wasn’t for the heavy ache in her lower extremities she knew she had to assuage to sleep as she needed to sleep. So a bath in her living quarters on the second floor of the shop, a quick few minutes to do what she knew had to be done for that and then a new day would begin. It was a little after midnight. She lived in a rough neighborhood, but tonight she didn’t concern herself with checking her surroundings as she got out of her car. Being clubbed to death here in the shadows might merely be a relief. Never a sociopath around to accommodate you when you really need him.

She was sensible enough to circle around to the more public front of the house.

Holding the handrail in one hand, her door key and soft velvet edge of her cape with the other, she prepared for the daunting task of mounting the five steps to the porch.

There were flower petals on each one. White and pale pink rose petals, leading up to a bouquet of them in a crystal vase by her door. Probably a good three dozen mixed with delicate baby’s breath. A classic, the rose never failed to convey its message of devotion and romance. Curled around the base was a nearly life-sized plush stuffed tiger. Lying on his side, massive white paws stretched before him, the tiger’s back paws and body formed a protective crescent around the flowers.

Marguerite turned then and saw him across the street leaning against his car, arms crossed, watching her. He had that unreadable, somewhat formidable look. A look which, in her current condition, caused a small gasp to escape her lips at the jolt of desire. Oh, God. It was too soon. She’d refuse him nothing if he came within ten feet of her.

Hell, if he crooked his finger at her across a football field distance she’d be lost. She was probably lost anyway. Sinking down on the top step, she found the tiger’s head with one hand, her bare feet curling into the soft silk of the petals as he straightened from the car and came across the street.

Someone had cared for him she saw, noting the cleaned facial lacerations. The tiny bow-shaped pieces of medical tape held the edges of the skin together in several places in lieu of the stitches he probably should have gotten. But she’d committed his aristocratic grace to memory and could tell he was not moving as easily as he usually did. But he moved well enough to tell her he’d be back in form in several days. Even more important to her treacherous and selfish body, it suggested he was up to the physical activity she was imagining.

“It’s past your bedtime,” she said as he reached her bottom step.

“I’ve no intention of going to bed alone tonight.” His gaze burned into her. She could tell he wanted the cape off where he could see all of her. “Unless you flat out refuse me.”

She would refuse him nothing. They both knew it now. Still she cocked her head.

“And what if I deny you? Tell you to fuck off, get in your car and leave me alone now and forever?”

He took the next step up, forcing her to tilt her head as he leaned over her. “You know what kind of Master I am. We’ve covered that before. I don’t look for words.

What comes out of your mouth most of the time are lies to protect yourself. I look for the pounding of your pulse.” His hand circled her neck, nudging up her chin. She nearly moaned as he zeroed in on the most sensitive part of her as if he had supernatural intuition. “Breath. Heat. The smell of your cunt, which I know is soaking that excuse for an outfit you’re wearing right now. If those things are saying yes, your lips saying no aren’t going to mean two damns to me. I’ll just find something to shut you up so we can have an honest conversation between us.”

“You’re angry.” It surprised her to understand it, to be reassured by it.

“I was worried. It’s not a crime to have someone care about you. To have that person get pissed off when they’re worrying about you. If I hadn’t been inside your body, known you weren’t a virgin, the way you pull back when I try to penetrate you in any way would make me think you weren’t just goading me.”

“Goading you about what?”

“That you’ve never had sex.”

“I didn’t say that. You asked me if I’d ever had sex. As if any of that was your business. I answered you truthfully.” At his furrowed brow, she spat it out. “I have never had sex outside of my family. Until you.” She met his look with a hard, unflinching gaze for once, her battle line drawn. “And don’t go with the pity or psychotherapy, the sexually abused girl who turns into a Dominatrix because she can only experience sex when she holds all the power. Yes, I am the stereotype, the cliché, but I give my subs pleasure. I’m not a sociopath who causes harm.” Then she recalled the past few hours and the incident with Tim. She closed her eyes. “Unless provoked.”

“But who gives you pleasure?” Her spat-out revelation didn’t appear to cause a hitch in his stride, she gave him that. But Tyler was insightful. It would not surprise her if he’d come to an accurate conclusion about her background some time ago. She was, as she herself had just said, a cliché when it came to the dysfunctional symptoms.

“Learning to let go of the control, believing you can trust someone,” he continued.

“That’s key to the pleasure as well as the pain… For some people, it heals old wounds.” A wound inflicted every morning as soon as awareness hits, as soon as my eyes open? “I can never trust anyone.” It was simple, matter of fact.

“Then maybe, Mistress, you need to be one man’s sub forever so your Master can spend a lifetime proving that you can trust him, if that’s what it takes. One who’s willing to start over every morning with you, healing those wounds as often as they need healing. My intuition says you deserve to be happy.” He raised her hand, looked at the ragged cuts on her knuckles she’d blotted with a paper towel until the bleeding had stopped. “I’ll pay for the mirror,” she said.

“I think it’s time for you to stop paying debts that were never yours to begin with.”

“I take care of myself.”

“Yes, you do.” His gaze lifted to the tastefully carved wooden Tea Leaves sign hanging over the porch. “You’ve created a life for yourself that is as amazing and fascinating as you are. It’s a reflection of you. All the puzzle pieces there for the person who wants to put them together. But I’m taking care of you now. And I’m going to take very good care of you.”

“You couldn’t save your wife, so you’re going to save me? Like I’m some kind of surrogate, your second chance? I repeat, fuck off, Tyler.” She could tell that hit home, but he recovered more quickly than she expected. He gazed thoughtfully at her face. She could feel the imprint of his assessment on her strained features, the shadows deep under her eyes.

“You’re not a second chance, Marguerite. You’re an only chance opportunity for a man. For me. What you put in your note, it mattered to me. I appreciated it.” She lifted her shoulder. “I’m not weak and fragile. I’m not incapable of taking responsibility. You have every right to expect my apology.” She raised her gaze to him, realized she was getting in the habit of meeting his eyes, something she’d never done with anyone. “It would make me really, really angry if you thought I was so delicate you couldn’t demand it.”

“I don’t believe you’re fragile that way. And I don’t believe you’re a coward,” he said quietly. “But sometimes I think when you have to be so extraordinarily courageous for so long, the well runs dry when it comes to facing your own desires, the things you want. So you don’t have to be brave about that, or in control.” She looked at him, a tall handsome man with caring in his eyes, strength in his shoulders outlined against darkness. Something in her simply yearned. When she spoke, her voice was soft, no defenses, no games, just the words that were written on her heart.

“I don’t know how to let someone take care of me, Tyler. I don’t know if I’d be any good at it, if I can ever trust someone that much. And you need that. You deserve it. I see it in your eyes, in all that you are.”

He leaned down further, so they were considering each other eye to eye. Cupping her cheek, he rubbed his thumb over her lips in that way he did, that she knew he liked.

She liked it, too, the way he did it while gazing so steadily into her eyes.

“And I look in your eyes and see everything I could ever want. Trust in that, angel.” She swallowed, treading into new waters. “I almost didn’t get out of the car.

Thought I’d sleep there until morning. This is as far as I think I can go.”

“I think you can go a lot further.” His eyes glinted with a wealth of meanings, none of them unpleasant, all of them capable of setting free nervous frissons of energy through her lower vitals, reinforcing that there were portions of her that still needed attention. “Let’s do this. Just put your arms around my neck. I know you’re tired.” Tired didn’t even begin to describe her drained status. So she did after a brief hesitation. He gathered her in to him, slid his arms under her legs and lifted her off the steps, amazing her as he had before at how easily he did it, as if he could carry her forever. It was a foolish, romantic notion, as was letting her head drop onto his shoulder as he unlocked her door, closed them in, turned the deadbolt.

He took her upstairs where her living quarters were, showing her he had paid close attention on his visits to her place. The stuffed tiger told her he had good ears, too, apparently overhearing Chloe’s comments about him spoken through a swinging kitchen door on their very first meeting. He paused at the top of the stairs only a moment, went left.

Tyler found Marguerite’s bedroom was a tranquil mixture of Eastern tastes and Western whimsy. The four-poster bed with the carved floral headboard was complemented by the framed Japanese water scene hanging over it, the soft glow of Chinese lanterns she kept lit and strung from each post like a canopy frame. There was a bamboo sea chest in the corner, some photographs arranged on its surface. Somewhat like those in the tearoom, only more personal. Pictures of the little girl whose party she had hosted, all large eyes under one of the big hats, her neck strung with elaborate rhinestone beads. Chloe and Gen conferring over a steaming teapot, Chloe laughing, her eyes alight with whatever dry witticism was falling from Gen’s lips. And one that surprised him as he let her feet touch the ground.