Submitting to the Doctor (Cowboy Doms 7)

Her eyes drifted closed of their own accord, rousing sometime later from the loud crackle of logs added to the fire. The ice pack was no longer nestled under the shirt, its removal without her waking proving how deeply she’d slept but not for how long. The room was dark except for the glow from the fire where her eyes focused as soon as she lifted her lids. In appreciative silence, she gazed upon Mitchell’s bare back as he bent to remove his jeans. It didn’t surprise her to see he went commando, or to note his lean muscled body was as pleasurable to look at as she’d imagined. Those broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist and taut buttocks topped his long, muscled legs.

He turned, lifting an inquisitive brow at catching her staring. “You must not be as out of it as I’d thought.”

“I’ve sworn off men but I’m not dead, at least I don’t think so.” If he wasn’t going to act prudish then neither would she, but holy moly, the man had an impressive package and build.

“No, you’re not,” he replied, strolling around to the other side with complete disregard for his nudity. “Go back to sleep. I won’t bother you.”

Bummer. Lillian drifted back to sleep as the bed dipped with his weight, a giggle lodged in her throat from that one-word, wayward thought.

She slept through the snowstorm as it raged into a full-blown blizzard, the snow piling up past the one window over the next few hours. She didn’t wake up when Mitchell did, or when he dressed and started bacon sizzling on the stove. His conversation with the sheriff via his satellite phone went unheard, the coffee aroma didn’t tickle her sense of smell. It wasn’t until mid-morning when her body’s demand for the restroom won out over some explicit dreams that she rolled out from her warm cocoon, shivering from head to toe as her bare feet hit the wood floor.

Blinking to clear her sleepy vision, the first thing to come into focus was Mitchell sitting at the table appearing content and well-rested as he finished off the last bite of scrambled eggs. With the images of her writhing under the forceful plunges of his thrusting body still playing through her head, Lillian found herself resenting his probing once-over out of eyes mostly green this morning with the yellow glow of the fire haloing his head. She had zip-zero interest in men before Liana collapsed in a coma six weeks ago, and even less than that, if possible, by the time she left Brad’s house without looking back. Her appreciation of the doctor’s rescue, hospitality and physical attributes she understood, but not her mind and body betraying her with those dreams that stirred up her libido.

“Good morning. You slept well, so why the scowl?” Mitchell stood and picked up his plate, carrying it over to the sink.

“Maybe I’m not a morning person. Excuse me.” She walked into the bathroom where she washed up and dressed. A shower could wait until later. Right now it was more important to shield her body from the appreciative glance he’d given her bare legs and to get herself under control. It’s the circumstances that have thrown us together in close proximity and my stress, that’s all this is, she insisted before opening the door to see him setting a plate piled with eggs and bacon on the table. Feeling irritable, she grumbled, “I’m not hungry. You eat it.”

With a sigh, he stalked around the table and peered down at her with a frown. “You need fuel to heal. Quit being so stubborn.” Of course her stomach took that moment to rumble in hunger. A taunting smile appeared as he cocked his head. “It seems I know your body’s needs better than you, baby.”

Lillian reacted without thinking, hearing him call her baby igniting her temper with the flashback of Brad’s sneering voice. Lifting her arm, she swung only to have him halt her slap before her palm connected with his face. He gripped her wrist, his hold loose but unbreakable. his eyes going to narrowed slits and boring into hers. She sucked in a trembling breath, shaken by the force of her anger.

“You really do have a deep-rooted aversion to affectionate nicknames, don’t you?” he murmured.

“Especially that one,” she returned without thinking, the information revealing in its simplicity.

He held her in his penetrating perusal and light grip for several seconds before releasing her from both with a short nod. “Understood. Sit down and eat before it gets cold.”

Mitchell waited until Lillian complied, sat down and picked up her fork before turning his back on her. He had seen the second the word ‘baby’ triggered something inside her, her reaction as volatile as his thoughts. The urge to poke at her for more information about this guy and the circumstances responsible for her landing here was as strong as the desire to hunt him down and exact retribution for her. The intensity of his need to do those two things bothered him. Not since his wife, A

bbie had been diagnosed with stage four cancer had he experienced such a profound desire to right the wrong done to a woman. He didn’t even know Lillian, not like he had Abbie, or the submissive members of The Barn, the private BDSM club he’d joined eight months ago, shortly after arriving in Willow Springs. With any of them, he could indulge in a long spank-session over his knees to get the answers he wanted and then reward them with a climax when they quit holding back.

Stoking the fire, a warm curl of remembered fondness spread around his chest as the memory of Abbie coming to stand before him with a shy smile popped up. Spanking for discipline or to get answers was sometimes necessary, but nothing beat the pleasure of watching your sub approach you with need of your hard hand connecting with their bare flesh reflected on their face. It hadn’t taken long to convince Abbie not to wait for his order if she yearned for the release his butt-reddening smacks could give her and he had loved watching as she would pull down her pants and drape herself over his lap without words.

Swiveling his head, he watched Lillian eat with her brows dipped in a frown. This woman didn’t possess a submissive bone in her slender body, that he could detect anyway. It wouldn’t do to fantasize about pulling answers from her the old-fashioned way. The storm had abated early this morning and street crews would head out later today and into tomorrow. After assuring Grayson they were both fine, the sheriff put digging out her car as low priority and would let him know when they could get to it in a day or two. After that, he and his attractive but annoying houseguest would go their separate ways and the concerns he harbored for her would go away as fast as she’d interrupted his solitude.

Until then, all Mitchell had to do was ignore the odd itch to erase the sadness lurking in her extraordinary eyes that mimicked his sorrow when he thought of Abbie. As much as he disliked seeing those bruises marring her face, the fleeting idea of replacing her bad memories with one fucking good one before they parted company wouldn’t come to pass. Since losing his wife, he only indulged his dominant sexual preferences with submissive women at the club, ones who didn’t expect anything other than his undivided attention for a scene or two.

It was best not to involve himself with Lillian’s troubles other than to get her well enough to send her on her way to wherever she was headed in a few days.

Chapter 3

“The storm has passed, but I told Sheriff Monroe to put digging your car out as low priority.” Lillian picked up her plate and stood, her mouth tightening with pique as she flicked Mitchell an irritated look. He held up a hand to ward off her complaint. “We’re both fine here for another twenty-four hours, and even longer if necessary. There are others in worse straits, including livestock that local ranchers could use a helping hand in getting to.”

Her shoulders slumped as she carried her empty dish to the sink. He liked she didn’t expect him to clean up after her.

“You’re right. Even though this is my first winter storm outside of the city, I should have realized the efforts it takes to get to people who are so spread out.” She rinsed her plate and turned to lean against the counter. “I missed the turnoff to Billings, where I planned to stop. Where is this Willow Springs you mentioned?”

“Not far, closer than Billings from here. Hailing from Denver, it took me some time to get used to the small-town vibes, but now I like it. If you’re in no hurry, you should stay a few days to rest up and let yourself heal.”

A sorrowful spasm crossed her face before she averted her head toward the snow-covered window. “I might, seeing as I’m not headed anywhere in particular. I wish I had my paints,” she murmured with a soft sigh.

“You’re an artist? I wondered when I saw the canvases in the back of your car.” Mitchell walked over to a cupboard to her left and retrieved a notebook of unlined, blank sheets. His arm brushed hers as he lowered it and handed her the tablet. “You can have this to sketch in, if you want. It’ll give you something to do while I go out and clear the window and get more wood. There should be some pencils or pens in that drawer.” He nodded to the end drawer along the counter.

For the first time, her eyes shone with gratitude and pleasure as she took the simple offering, careful not to let their hands touch. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I want to check your ribs before I go out.” Michell wiggled his fingers in an upward motion, signaling for her to lift her sweater. This time, her deep purple gaze lit with amusement.

“Men usually don’t insist on me making it easy for them to get under my clothes.”