Cowboy Casanova (Rough Riders #12)(49)

Not that Ben disagreed some dominant/submissive relationships were borderline

degrading. It bothered him that some women’s foray into the scene only showed the

worst side. Not the best side, like Layla and Murphy, who’d been together for years.

Their devotion to each other’s needs was undeniable. Ben wasn’t looking for a

lifestyle sub, but a woman who understood this wasn’t a phase with him. He was a

dominant to the core and always would be. He couldn’t be with a woman who wouldn’t

accept that side of him—no matter where they met.


Planing boards for mission-style nightstands took his mind off constant speculation

about the odds of Angel showing up.


He suspected it’d be a long week.


Chapter Nine


Oh my aching ass.


Ainsley’s butt still stung on Monday morning. Bad. She’d immersed herself in a cool

bath as soon as she’d returned to the hotel after her sexcapades at the Rawhide Club

with Bennett. Every time she felt that burning twinge, it reminded her of him. Of how

he’d known the pain would morph into something else entirely for her.


And that knowledge had shaken her very foundation.


She prided herself on being a logical woman. But what she’d experienced with Bennett

defied logic. A smart, independent, capable female ceding all control, in essence

saying, here’s my body, do to it what you please, don’t let me think, just make me

come.


Did that make her a mindless slave to pleasures of the flesh?



No. Ainsley knew it wasn’t that cut and dried. Logically she understood the difference

between giving control and having a man take control away. What amazed her was that she

hadn’t felt powerless at any point. All she’d felt was relief.


Which gave credence to Bennett’s claim: the submissive had all the power in the

situation. The dominant was restricted only to the amount of power the submissive

relinquished. But that didn’t answer the question of why she’d trusted Bennett so

easily? So quickly? Which led to the next question weighing on her mind: would there be

a next time?


She had until Friday to decide. And heaven knew she’d dissect this scenario and

potential outcomes a hundred times before then. The image that kept popping up when the

doubts plagued her was Bennett’s face and the intense way he studied her. He wanted to

know her, inside and out. Her every gesture, her every laugh, her every facial twitch

and her every word were memorized and filed away for his future use.


And if she was totally honest with herself, she was less spooked by that than she was

immensely flattered.


Tapping on her car window startled her. She glanced at the intruder, slicked up, anal-

retentive, nosy Turton Ingvold, the man she’d secretly dubbed the turd. Because boy

howdy, did the name fit him. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a total brown-noser—to

everyone except her. Turton treated her with an air of derision. He’d expected to land

the bank president position after the man who’d initially been tapped for the job last

spring had been abruptly reassigned. But she’d been offered the plum job for this new

branch office, making Turton her second-in-command.


She managed to smile at him after she exited her car. “Morning, Turton.”