“Whip…”
“Just a dream, Fallon. Nothin’ more.”
She rolled against him, wiped the sweat from his brow and planted her chin on his chest. His fingers automatically combed through her hair, that soothing action helping slow his pounding heart and racing pulse.
He always woke up before he could see the damage done to his father by him pulling those triggers.
Every damn time.
Just once he’d like the satisfaction of being the one to kill that rat fucking bastard. Just once.
Women complained often that they’d like to see other men step up to intervene when a man was either mentally or physically abusing a woman. If Whip saw it, he’d get involved in a goddamn second.
Even if it was one of his brothers.
“I’ve noticed something…”
Whip mentally groaned. He didn’t want to talk about his fucking nightmare, about his asshole father or losing his pap. He clenched his jaws and waited.
“You only call me ‘babe’ when we’re being intimate. Every other time you use my name.”
“Yeah?” That wasn’t what he was expecting. Was she trying to distract him from his nightmare?
“You’re not aware of that?”
Of fucking course he was. “Figured you bein’ a strong, independent woman, you wouldn’t like bein’ called babe. Didn’t want you to see it as me bein’ disrespectful and not appreciatin’ you for bein’ you.”
He tried to avoid calling her by any kind of pet name but it slipped out when they were having sex because he got lost in her.
Totally fucking lost.
She didn’t say anything for the longest time.
“I wrong?” he finally asked.
“Normally, I’d say you’re not wrong.”
“But?”
After a slight hesitation, she continued, “I’ve had men call me babe when they shouldn’t. It was clearly an attempt to degrade me in a professional setting. Sometimes even in a social setting. I wasn’t their ‘babe.’ I wasn’t anything to them and in their eyes it was an attempt to knock me down a notch. Time and time again I’ve seen men threatened by strong, independent women. They think we should need them, that we shouldn’t be able to function without a man’s help. When we don’t need them and we can function perfectly without them, they don’t like it. So, they find a way to disrespect us. Using honey, sweetheart and babe are just examples to try to put us in our ‘place.’ Trying to put us where they think we belong.”
“Yeah. Figured you wouldn’t like it.”
She shifted more of her weight onto him until their faces were only inches apart. “But truth be told, I like it coming from you.”
He blinked. “Say again?”
“I like it when you call me babe. It…” She blew out a breath. He tucked a thumb under her chin and lifted her face so he could see it. At least, as best as he could in the dark room.
“Tell me,” he encouraged her softly. Did she get just as lost in him as he did her?
“Honestly, it feels right when you use it. It…” She blew out another soft breath and the warm air rushed over his skin. “Okay, I’ll just say it… It warms my soul.”
Did he hear that right? “Just to be clear, ‘cause I’d like to keep my nuts where they currently hang… You want me to call you babe?”
“You don’t use it to demean or belittle me.”
“How do I use it?”
She cupped his cheek and whispered, “Like you care. It has a whole different tone and feel. You’re using it organically and with affection. When they use it it’s in the same tone they would order me to get into the kitchen and make them a sandwich.”
His pulse sped up again. Jesus fuck. What was going on here? Was he still asleep and he was dreaming this conversation in the middle of the night?
“A motherfucker ordered you to make him a sandwich?” Every muscle on his body turned to stone.
“Not just one. Again, when men feel like they’re losing their power over a woman, or to a woman, they say some really ignorant shit.”
“And you fuckin’ knee them in the nuts, right?”
“No, we grin and bear that treatment when we have to. We laugh it off even though we find it far from funny. Then we fantasize about kicking them in the nuts. Or doing even worse.”
“I ever hear a fuckin’ asshole tell you to go make him a fuckin’ sandwich, gonna rearrange his nuts myself. Then gonna knock out every fuckin’ tooth in his head.”
“That’s sweet, but—”
“Babe,” he cut her off, “it ain’t sweet, it’s a fuckin’ promise.”
“I doubt you’ll be around to do that the next time it happens.”
He sighed softly. Yeah, that. He couldn’t protect her because she’d be gone.
“Earlier you said that Reilly’s tracking my oil pan with the shipper and it should be in on Monday, right?”
“Yeah.” He was hoping the damn thing would get lost in transit, but that would be selfish of him. He continued to stroke her hair, occasionally pausing to rub the silky strands between his fingertips.