Re-Awakening (2 page)

She unlocked the front door and automatically toed off her calf-high Wellington boots as she went inside. He noticed, made to remove his polished leather shoes too, but she stopped him. “No, no. It’s just that I’ve been on the moors. It’s muddy. You’re fine.”

He nodded, murmured his thanks as he waited for Imogen to slip into her indoor pumps and lead the way upstairs.

She decided to offer him her best room. A double really, en suite, with its own kettle. And a sofa. And the best view of the moors. She’d offer it to him at the normal single rate. She opened the door at the end of her upstairs landing, stepped back and gestured him inside. She watched nervously as he cast his gaze around the room. Imogen was proud of the traditional oak furniture and—she hoped—classy but understated décor. His brief nod seemed to indicate he liked what he saw.

“Yes, thanks. This is really nice. It’ll do fine. Do you accept credit cards?”

Ah, awkward.
Imogen really preferred cash. She didn’t have a terminal for accepting credit card payments, and cheques too often bounced. She hated asking her guests for cash up front, but she had to be realistic. She was searching for a tactful way to explain, and was relieved when he seemed to pick up on her concern. He was quick to offer reassurance.

“No? Not a problem. I’ll nip down into—where? Where’s the nearest cash machine?”

“Er, Bainbridge. In the co-op. I’m sorry, it’s just that we don’t have much call for… Most of my customers pay in cash. Or a cheque would do.”
He really didn’t look the bouncy type.

“Cash works fine. How much?”

“With evening meal, it’s forty-five pounds a night.”

He nodded, smiled briefly. “A bargain. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

And he was gone, clattering down the stairs and out of the door. Imogen heard his engine roar into life, and the crunch of gravel as he reversed out into the lane

Well, he won’t be back,
she thought to herself
. Wonder if I need to drop my prices? And I really should have got his name before I chased him out.

* * * *

But he
was
back. Twenty-seven minutes later, in fact. Imogen heard his car, twitched her curtains to make sure and went to let him in.

“Hi.” He smiled at her, dumping a holdall on her hall carpet, at the same time reaching into his pocket to pull out a wad of crisp twenty-pound notes. “Got the readies. Let’s settle up now, shall we?”

“Well, yes, if that’s all right. And I need to fill in your booking form, too. Monday morning, did you say?”

“Yes, but I’ll need to be away early. Got an interview. A job interview. At seven-thirty in the morning.”

“Strange time…” Imogen generally made it a point not to quiz her guests regarding their plans. A few tourism leaflets in her entrance hall were about as much as she felt was necessary. Most were here for the scenery anyway and she hardly needed to point that out. Clearly he was not of her usual type, though, not about to go tramping off up the hillsides, and she found herself a little curious about why he was here. Only a little, mind.

He shrugged, smiled lightly, conversationally. “Yeah. Farming hours. Should have been today, but the boss went down with food poisoning so they asked me to come back on Monday. I live in Nottingham, no point going home again just to drive all the way back. So I thought I’d make a weekend of it.”

“I see. So, how did you find me, then?” As she made the usual polite conversation, Imogen was fumbling around in the small desk she kept in her hallway for her guest paperwork. She seated herself, found a pen that worked and started to fill in the necessary forms.

“What name is it, please?”

“Zack. Zack Lassiter.”

“Right. Is that short for Zachary? I need to put your full name, you see. Tourist Board regulations.”

“Isaac, actually.” He smiled, shrugged. “My mum liked biblical names. My brother’s Noah and I have a sister called Ruth.”

“I see.”
Too much information.
Imogen duly completed the top line of the form before pushing it across the desk to him. She caught his vivid blue gaze as she handed him her pen. “Could you fill in your usual address, date of birth, all that stuff, please? Do you have proof of identity with you? A passport is best…” Not that people usually brought a passport with them on a trip to the Dales. Yorkshire might seem like foreign parts to many of her visitors, but still.

“No problem. It’s in my bag. Employment regulations…” He crouched to unzip the side pocket and pulled out the burgundy British passport, handed it to her. As she copied the number onto her form, Imogen couldn’t help thinking he looked much nicer in the flesh than his passport photo suggested. She supposed most people did.

“I asked at the pub in the village. The landlady there said you take in tourists and such like, so I drove up here.”

“What?” Imogen glanced up at him, noted that he seemed particularly tall, towering over her small French style writing desk. And she wondered what the hell he was talking about.

“You were asking how I found you. Just now. I drove up here and saw your sign, and thought I’d give you a knock. I was just about to give up when you appeared.”

Uncharacteristically slow to follow the conversation, which was in fairness leaping about rather, Imogen turned her attention back to the form, watching as he filled in the empty spaces. He had nice hands, she noted. Long fingers. And her pussy clenched suddenly as out of nowhere she conjured up a powerful and crystal-clear mental image of those fingers parting her folds and sinking deep into her.

Christ!
She sat up straight, her eyes riveted on his face as, oblivious to her bizarre and wholly inappropriate imaginings, he calmly read and answered the questions on the sheet. Mercifully his attention was not on her. Still she felt herself blushing, and was even more keenly aware of the moisture gathering between her thighs, evidence of her sudden and wholly unwarranted arousal.

The form completed, he pushed it back in her direction. Wordlessly, making a conscious effort not to raise her face and allow him to see how flushed she’d become for no apparent reason, Imogen handed him her company business card. His room number and details of his stay handwritten on the back. He glanced at it then turned it over to read the front.

Three Oaks Guest House, Bainbridge, N. Yorkshire. Owner: I. Jakes

He lifted his gaze to her, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

“What does ‘I’ stand for?” His tone was polite, but firm. And sounded vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t say why. She certainly had never met him before. She would have remembered. Definitely.

What? What did he ask?
Imogen tried to recall, conscious only that he must be able to see her beetroot face. She mumbled something inane, replying to his earlier question. “Yes. I’d been out. On my bike.” And she fell silent, flustered, but with no idea why. All she knew for sure was that this was one exceptionally disconcerting young man.

He looked puzzled, just for a moment, then smiled as he recalled his earlier comment. “Ah, yes, that’s why you weren’t here when I pulled up. So, the ‘I’?”

“What? What ‘I’?”

He tapped the card. “This one. What does ‘I’ stand for?”

“Oh. That ‘I’. Imogen.”

“Imogen Jakes. Classy. It suits you. And, is it Mrs Jakes, or Miss?”

Now Imogen did stare back. This could be just another polite enquiry, just small talk. Or was it more? She had a feeling it was more that he wanted to know. That he had a reason to be interested. And even more worryingly, she had no wish to tell him the truth. But she knew, down to the toes curling nervously in her pumps that she was going to. Whether she wanted to or not. There was something in his manner, something demanding and uncompromising, hidden there just below the outward veneer of friendly courtesy. A core of steel. Familiar yet foreign. Thrilling yet terrifying.

He was a Dom. She could see it, feel it, sense it. She could smell it in the air around him, fresh and spicy and vigorous. And he was alive. Tingling and edgy, and very, very alive. Not like Sean.

“Mrs Jakes,” Imogen whispered.

“I see. And Mr Jakes? Does he live here, too?”

Altogether too inquisitive, young man. Mind your own business.

Instead, despite her sense that he was digging too deep, digging in places he had no business going, Imogen answered, “No. I’m a widow.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.” Then, in a complete and unexpected switch of mood, “I like walking. Got my boots in the car. Maybe you could suggest a route. Pity to waste the opportunity, while I’m here…” Suddenly, because he chose to, he’d popped the bubble of tension, of recognition and awareness, and allowed her to scurry back behind her façade of normality. He let her escape from him, return to being the gracious and helpful hotelier. For now.

And against all her principles, because she couldn’t think of a single thing else to say, Imogen found herself smiling, nodding and agreeing to help him plan a day out on the moors for tomorrow. And thinking that maybe she should start charging extra for tour guides…

* * * *

“Lamb casserole for tonight’s evening meal, roast potatoes and mixed vegetables. Apple pie for pudding. With cream or custard. Any vegetables you don’t like?”

Imogen stood in the doorway of her best guest room, reluctant to enter despite the cheerful ‘come in’ she’d heard in answer to her knock. Her weekend visitor was stretched out on his bed. Her bed. The television was on, the volume turned down. He was leafing through a file, clearly taking advantage of the extra time to prepare for his interview on Monday. She wondered what the job was, but was determined not to ask. It didn’t do to get familiar. Especially with a Dom. She should know. She wasn’t about to strike up any sort of connection with someone who’d be gone for good in three days’ time.

“Sounds great. Not fond of cauliflower, to be honest.”

“No cauliflower then. It’ll be ready at seven-thirty. Just come down to the dining room. I’ll watch out for you.” She turned to go.

“Maybe I’ll come down now? I could help. Peel spuds or something.”

“Really, there’s no need…”

“I’d like to. Prefer to. Or maybe I should go out for a stroll, if you prefer me to stay out of your way?”

The last statement was posed as a question. Or maybe a challenge. Imogen couldn’t quite work out how, but he made her feel uncomfortable, vulnerable. And needy. Needy in a way she hadn’t felt for years. And she was oddly reluctant to let him wander off, away from her.

“It’s dark outside. And raining.” Excuses, she knew.

Sure enough, he was not to be put off by the elements. “I’m not scared of the dark. And I won’t melt.” He rolled off the bed, coming to his feet in one athletic motion.

Imogen stepped back, struck by the way he seemed to suddenly fill the room. Only one other man she knew had ever had such a presence, had ever grabbed and held her attention like this. She shook her head, stunned at the resemblance. Not physical. In appearance Sean and this Zack-short-for-Isaac Lassiter couldn’t have been less alike. Sean was blond, stocky, more muscular. And much more handsome. Surely. And Sean was at least three inches shorter in height, though incredibly she found herself wondering how they compared in other measurements.

Where was all this coming from? Not since Sean’s death had she entertained even the remotest sexual awareness of another man. It seemed disloyal. Unfaithful. Her Master would be disappointed in her, displeased. And even from the grave, across a distance of six years, the possibility of that displeasure still stung, still guided her actions, her choices. And she knew she needed to get away, put some distance between her and the source of this confusion, this unwelcome awareness.

“Very well, it’s up to you. Seven-thirty then.” And she was scurrying back down the stairs, back into her kitchen to deposit that huge cauliflower in the salad compartment of her fridge. Back into her safe refuge where she could close the door firmly on all that, that…remembering.

Ten minutes later, his footsteps clattered down the stairs.
So, he did decide to go out for a walk then
. She paused, her hands plunged into the sink as she washed potatoes ready to put in the oven, listening for the thud of the outside door. Long seconds passed, then she heard it. Not the sound she was expecting though. This was the soft click of her kitchen door, the entry to her safe sanctuary. She turned, and he was there, lounging against the frame. He’d changed his clothes. Gone now was the crisp white shirt and tie, and dark grey trousers. His interview outfit. Now he wore soft black denim jeans, and a plain black T-shirt, tucked in. His belt was also black, leather, the buckle glinting bronze in the bright glare of her utilitarian strip lighting. Classic Dom.

Imogen stared. Clenched. And became wet.

Because she knew. And he knew. It was just a matter of time.

“I decided to stay in.” He came into the room, approaching slowly, carefully, watching her response.

And Imogen continued to stare. Her head was issuing instructions frantically, demanding that she do something.
Her
house,
her
kitchen,
her
rules,
her
privacy. Tell him. Instead, “I see. If that’s what pleases you…”

Classic sub. She used to say that, or something very much like it, to Sean all the time. Every time he instructed or demanded or reprimanded. And now, on autopilot, she was dropping right back into that role. With Zack Lassiter. A man she hardly knew, and who was at least fifteen years younger than she was. For Christ’s sake, he’d have been still in short pants the last time she took twenty glorious strokes of a cane across her naked bottom. And here she was, imagining… Her butt clenched and quivered, delicious anticipation surging through her.

How? How in heaven’s name is this happening?
She loved Sean. Always had, always would. She was
not
in the market for another relationship of any sort, and certainly not another Master. Well, that’s what her head thought, in any case. Unfortunately, her body, her emotions and her subconscious were clearly of another mind entirely.