Page 94 of What About Love

“I can see the wheels turning, baby. Ask what you want to ask.”

“You are a mind reader.”

“No, I’m observant, like most doms. Spill, before you burst.”

“What makes you think I’m submissive? What if I only like the kinky games?”

“If sex is the extent of your submission, I can work with that. A lot of the women at the club are sexual submissives. They maintain careers, own businesses, volunteer in the community, go to school, run households, raise their children, and chair the PTA. Doms and subs come in all shapes, sizes, classes, and occupations.” He pointed at her untouched plate with his fork. “I say we table this discussion until later though. Sit down and eat up.”

She nodded, folding into her chair and picking up her fork.

“Submissive.”

“What?” she mumbled around a mouthful of potatoes.

“I gave you an order, and you obeyed. It isn’t the first time, either. You’re submissive. Maybe not as overtly as some, but it’s there.”

“More like I’m hungry,” she countered, not admitting to anything. “Besides, I’m used to being around bossy men.”

“Or perhaps you seek them out because it makes you more comfortable.”

Her mouth hung open at his suggestion. Could that be true?

“What are all Rossi men, darlin’?”

“Arrogant alpha males?”

He quirked a brow in her direction, not denying the fact. “We’re dominants.”

“Well, there is that, too,” she deadpanned.

Clearly amused, he couldn’t keep from grinning. He also changed the subject, chatting about other things, nonsexual things, believe it or not, during the rest of the meal. She learned he lived about twenty minutes out of town in a house sitting on twenty acres of land that his grandparents had left him. They raised horses there and although most had been sold when they’d passed, T still had two that he rode daily when he was at home.

Other than his “little piece of heaven” as he called it, he spent his time working at Rossi and at the club, which he referred to as his social and leisure-time activities. He mentioned nothing about his romantic past that would have led to his love ’em and leave ’em kind of lifestyle.

He inquired about her childhood and family. There wasn’t much to tell, her formative years with no major drama. Like T, her father was an Army man. As such, she’d moved around a lot as a kid, both in the states and abroad. When Angie had come of age, she was determined to put down roots, tired of pulling up stakes every two years or more.

She’d chosen San Antonio, her mother’s hometown, where most of the Sinclair family still lived, including her dad’s older brother—another Army man—who was Megan and Regan’s father. She attended college at UT San Antonio like the twins and the rest he knew.

“Why haven’t you ever married?”

“Wrong time, wrong man, wrong...” She shook her head. “Just wrong. I’m not sure why, but things never worked out.”

“I know why.”

“You do?”

His head cocked slightly to the side as he smiled softly. “It felt wrong and was wrong because you weren’t seeing the right type of man. None of them were dominant enough for you.”

She snorted, and he smiled.

“I have some insight into this, so hear me out. Your dad was an Army man. In command. He liked order, structure, and expected when he told you to do something that you’d hop to it. You chose police work for the same reason: order and structure. When all that corruption went down with Stapleton, it rocked your well-ordered world. Now you’re at Rossi, working for the biggest bunch of dominant men you will ever find. Are you seeing a pattern here?”

She frowned, never having considered it from that perspective.

“I wanted independence on the force, sought it out actually, but the misogyny there blocked me at every turn. It makes little sense that I would seek it out in my personal life.”

“Doms are not misogynists, nor are submissives punching bags. It’s a power exchange based on trust, not fear, tyranny, or browbeating. Any kind of beating, for that matter, unless that’s what both parties want.”

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