Page 59 of Snow Bound

“Sure.” She started to stand.

He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll make it.”

Confused, she frowned. “I thought I was in charge of cooking.”

“You are, but I’m in charge of aftercare.” He flicked a finger down her nose. “What would you like to drink?”

“Um. Water’s good, I guess.”

“Back in a minute. Here.” He handed her the remote. “Pick a movie.”

“Okay,” she said faintly, and watched him go.

She turned the remote over in her hands. Aftercare wasn’t new to her—the scenes she’d done at the club had always included it in one form or another, though it had always felt rather perfunctory. Wrap her in a blanket, give her a drink of water and maybe a piece of chocolate, and hang out for ten or fifteen minutes until she’d recovered enough for her top to be sure she was all right. It had been fine, but this felt…different.

It felt nice.

Faint popping sounds emerged from the kitchen, rousing Henry from his nap. He gave a long stretch, a big yawn, then lumbered off to investigate while she flipped through the movie options and struggled to understand why she felt so uneasy.

She just wasn’t used to being taken care of, probably because she’d been taking care of herself for a long time. She paid her own bills, fixed her own food, and handled her own orgasms. It was part of why giving up control during sex and play felt so freeing—and at the same time, scary as hell.

She curled her legs under her and pulled the blanket up to her chin. The scary didn’t bother her, not much anyway. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her, would respect her boundaries and safeword. But she didn’t know what to do with this soft, squishy feeling that had exploded inside her all of a sudden.

She was frowning over it when footsteps sounded on the hardwood—accompanied by the clicking of canine toenails—and she looked up with a smile that was only a little forced. “Jeez. How hungry are you?”

He set the loaded tray on the coffee table with a clatter. “Pretty hungry. I worked hard this morning, and all I had for breakfast was three bites of shitty oatmeal.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “You said you ate it.”

“I lied.” His gaze skimmed over her. “Cold?”

She wasn’t, but nodded. “A little.”

“Don’t feed the dog any popcorn,” he instructed and went to stoke the fire.

She looked at Henry’s woeful, pitiful face. “How come?”

“Because his popcorn farts are worse than his cheese farts.”

Having experienced the cheese farts after the great pizza theft last night, Anna grimaced. “Gross.”

Grant came back, sidestepped the begging Henry, and settled next to her. “What movie did you pick?”

Since she’d completely forgotten her assignment, she just cued up the one she’d started last night before their talk. “The Fall Guy.”

“Fun.” He plucked her glass of water off the tray, handed it to her, then began to unload the rest of the food.

She watched him set out the food, a little amazed at how much he’d brought out. “There’s no way we’re going to eat all of this.”

“Then it’ll be there when we get hungry again.” He glanced at her. “Do you want something else?”

She eyed the spread—fruit, cheese, bread, some of Kimberly’s fancy cured meat, a dish of mixed nuts and a bowl of popcorn big enough to swim in, glistening with butter and salt. “Is there anything else?”

“Not unless you make it.” He sat back, brow slightly furrowed. “Is something wrong, Anna?”

“No.”

He waited, patient as Job.

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