Yield by Jenna Howard Page A

and the douche doms?”
    He caught her hand and flattened it on his stomach, his thumb brushing over the bracelet.
    “You’re not a douche.”  
    “I’m an asshole. I’m the next level. Was it like the dom at Edge?” He laid his palm against hers and the size difference was beyond obvious.  
    “No. He actually talked about stuff. Asked me some things. But it wasn’t good. I couldn’t get there. You know?”
    She broke his heart. “You don’t get there. There’s not a direct route like a bus. You didn’t stop the scene.” Neither had the dom. He hated irresponsibility when it came to topping.  
    “No. I wanted it so bad, Doyle.” Her voice cracked and he turned. He caught her head and she lowered it to his shoulder. “I’m not good at this. Even when it’s a good dom, I mess up.”
    “You have some messed up idea about what being a sub means, Katey.” Doyle scooped her off the island and carried her into the enclosed living room. Sure there were the windows she complained about, but there were walls to give it an intimate feel. He turned on the fireplace and sat on one of the leather couches. Not the most comfortable sensation against his naked ass but he sucked it up. She straddled his lap, studying the tattoos on his arm as a way of avoiding him. She traced one on his biceps. A rotting apple that bled into a skull. Her thumb swept over the band’s name in a banner beneath it.
    It wasn’t the band’s typeface or logo. Just a reflection of what his band was. Toxic. Poison. They had picked the name Cyanide wisely, though they had picked it because it sounded bad ass.  
    “Why do you think you’re not good at this?”
    “Because I always do something wrong. If it’s not good and I’m the common denominator, then I’m doing something wrong.”
    Hm. With the edge of her fingernail she traced out the letters and the light scratching was making his cock ache. How she didn’t seem to notice the shirt was snagged over his hard on was mind boggling, but she wasn’t in a good head space to notice much.  
    “I can’t snap my fingers and get you there. This isn’t a hypnotist show on a stage. I told you earlier, it starts in the head.” He caressed her calves and she nodded in response, though he felt like she didn’t believe him. “It starts here.” He laid his hand between her breasts. “The foundation of all BDSM play, no matter your kink, is trust, Katey. You’re trusting me with your body. You’re trusting me to hurt you, but in a way that won’t leave a scar on your body and here.” His fingers pressed against her chest. “You’re trusting me to not treat you like a puppet when I demand something, whether it’s for you to hold in an orgasm or kneel at my feet.” She was watching him now, her eyes hidden beneath the shield of her lashes but she was paying attention. “You don’t obey because you’re weak and have no mind of your own. You obey because it makes me feel good and it makes you feel good. Sometimes something goes south. Sometimes the worries here,” he feathered his thumb over her forehead, “are bigger than the both of us. Maybe it’s because it was your very first time or you have trust issues. Your mother was negligent, your father let you down continuously; you feel small and lost and there’s this horrific thing crowding up on you, taking over. Swallowing you down and down because you were hurt in the most vulnerable way. So yeah, that first time isn’t going to go good. But it’s not because you’re doing something wrong. It’s because he’s not looking into your pretty green eyes and seeing that you are lost in the weeds.”
    A tear slid down her cheek and he wiped it away. “Your eyes, Katey Jay, hold no secrets. He should’ve seen. It’s his job to pay attention to the details. I’m going to see if my sub isn’t doing well. It’s in her eyes. It’s in the way her body tenses instead of flows with a touch or a word. It’s her voice if she’s