“I love it here.” Daralyn put her head on his shoulder, her hand inside the grip of his. “It’s so peaceful.”

  “Yeah.” He put his head down on hers. “I’m in love with you. You know that, right?”

  He hadn’t meant to say it straight out like that. Hell, not so long ago, he’d reminded her she had the right to make choices about being with him. She had enough trouble with that idea without him throwing out something like him being in love with her. But his heart was so full, with her here like this, with everything that had happened with them so far, he had to say it. He didn’t know how not to say it.

  She’d gone really still, and she gripped his hand with both of hers. “I feel like you’re inside me all the time,” she said softly. “Helping me breathe, and smile, and see the world the way you do. Bravely.”

  It was so unexpected, he went as still as she did. Then she moved. She slid off her chair, moving down beside his feet, leaning against his leg. She’d kept hold of his hand, and now laid her head against his knee. “And right here,” she said. “I can’t explain it, but this is where I feel the most at peace.”

  He stroked her hair, wound her ponytail around his knuckles, let his fingertips graze her cheek. “Me, too,” he said.

  They met Julie and Des at the festival the next morning. Julie’s suggestion of arriving early served a couple purposes. It was easier navigation for him, and she also knew about Daralyn’s problem with crowds.

  Since Daralyn had become more comfortable attending her classes, Rory anticipated her handling it better than Julie probably expected. Daralyn had looked a little nervous on the way over, but it had been balanced with an eagerness about the festival that would have been notably absent just a short time ago.

  Julie was a curvy forty-something with endless energy and a creative mind that never stopped working. The combination had made her a successful community theater manager in the Big Apple, and with the erotic theater she now operated outside the Charlotte city limits. Her decision to accept her friend Madison’s invitation to get that theater running had brought Desmond Hayes across her path.

  Though a roofer by trade, Des looked like the roadie for a successful Southern rock band, with long brown hair, a body lean as beef jerky and roped with wiry muscle. He had a quietness to him that steadied Julie’s more erratic moments, whereas she brought out his dry humor.

  She and Des were waiting for them at the park entrance, and when she spotted them coming toward them, she bounced forward and engulfed Daralyn in a hug. A pivot on her toe and she’d squeezed Rory in a bosom-suffusing embrace, not a bad thing, since Julie was nicely endowed.

  Not that he had any thoughts about her like that, but great breasts were great breasts, and always deserved to be acknowledged.

  From the glint in Des’s eyes after she let him go, Rory suspected the thought reflected in his eyes, but Des knew Rory saw Julie only as family. A guy in love couldn’t help the surge of possessiveness, though. Rory knew that himself, watching the way Des’s long, strong fingers molded over Daralyn’s hip and back when they exchanged a hug.

  It was a natural thing in their family, everyone greeting one another with a hug, but Rory noted that Daralyn was more shy about it with Des. Just like with Rory and Marcus, her gaze skittered away from a direct meet of his. She apparently picked up on the Dom vibe subconsciously, like animal instinct.

  He was picking up the cues himself, the Dom/sub body language between Des and Julie. Once one knew where to look, it was clear. It was in the way Des touched Julie and how she immediately looked to him, plus Rory’s awareness of a hard-to-explain feeling about the energy between them. Rory wondered if it was as pronounced between him and Daralyn. If it was, he liked the idea.

  “You have to see the potter’s booth we found,” Julie was telling Daralyn. “He has some gorgeous pieces. Des is thinking about buying one for Elaine for her birthday. Come see what you think. He also makes these little animals out of bits of leftover clay, and they are so cute. Far more affordable, too. I thought you might want one or two for your window ledge in the kitchen.”

  Julie clasped Daralyn’s hand and was pulling her forward. Daralyn looked back at him, checking, and Rory gave her a nod. Her face brightened and she joined Julie in trotting ahead.

  Des slid his hands into the pockets of his well-worn jeans as he ambled beside Rory. They checked out a booth selling pocketknives, Des picking up a couple to examine them. Rory offered his opinion before they nodded to the vendor and continued the companionable stroll.

  Not surprising, the girls had stopped at a jewelry booth instead of making a straight line for the potter. Rory watched Julie hold a cuff to Daralyn’s ear, brushing her hair back onto her shoulder. The cuff looked like a delicate vine with blooming flowers that sparkled in the morning light along the curve of her ear. When Daralyn glanced his way, he nodded. He liked it. Pretty and sexy. Like his girl.

  “Happy to answer anything on your mind, if you have questions about the party tonight.”

  Rory glanced at Des. He must have been logging the byplay between him and Daralyn, same as Rory had between him and Julie. Well, he wasn’t going to say no to the offer. He trusted Marcus, but a second opinion never hurt.

  “Have you ever been to one?”

  “Plenty. I’ve done rope demo all over the country.”

  After learning Des was a “rope artist,” Rory had looked up some of that. He’d thought about it even more after threading Daralyn’s legs through the hammock ropes and seeing the light impressions of the hemp on her limbs afterward.

  “Marcus said you’re doing one at the party tonight,” Rory ventured.

  Des nodded. “It’s kind of like that in the BDSM community. We’re there as guests, but if my skills help others, or if it adds to the atmosphere, I’m always open to doing a demo to pay my way.” Des slanted him a grin. “And don’t worry. Tyler’s old money, richer than Lucifer, but he isn’t stuck up and he doesn’t suffer assholes.”

  “Good to know. What can I do to make sure she feels good there?”

  Des gave him an approving look. “Best first question ever. You’re going to be fine.”

  As they discussed some of the finer points of what Rory could expect at the party, as well as some deeper questions, he found Des was as good as Marcus at breaking it down, making him feel like there were no stupid questions.

  While they talked, he was pleased to see that, except for quick glances to make sure she knew where Rory was, Daralyn seemed more comfortable among the flow of people than he’d ever seen her. Even when people pressed closer in the small space under the vendor tents.

  When Julie swung back to tell Des the price of the piece he was considering for Elaine, she confirmed it. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “What a difference. Last time Les and I took her shopping, back several months ago, she was better—she’s always improving—but she was still sticking right with us.”

  “Going to school has helped a lot,” Rory said. “And I think she’s been getting more comfortable ever since she started helping in the store.”

  “No question. But Les said you helped make the school thing finally happen. Just look at her,” Julie said. “It’s you, Rory.”

  Rory glanced toward Daralyn as she laughed at something one of the vendors said. She was so enchanting, he expected she’d be offered the biggest discounts anyone else would see today. The store suppliers were always cutting her breaks when she called in orders. Breaks even Jesus couldn’t get from those guys.

  She looked his way again, smiled. His hand curled over his push rim. He was glad to see her comfort level, glad he had helped with it. But the openness of his conversation with Des prompted his next question.

  “Do you think she’s too dependent on me?”

  Julie sent him a surprised look. “No way. You’re helping her to be more independent.” She gave him a feline smile. “Besides, from what I can tell, she’s not orbiting around you. You’re orbiting around her.”

  He sighed, tapped the wheel. “No question, but still. You know what I mean.”

  “I do. Rory, she has your family. She has all of you. She always will. You know it.”

  Maybe he’d stop worrying if his own feelings weren’t so strong. When it came to her, his every heartbeat pounded out one word.

  Mine, mine, mine.

  Des slid a hand around Julie’s waist, then moved it up her back, fondling her neck beneath her thick tail of hair. The familiar gesture had her leaning against him, looking up into his face. A quietness gripped her that was rare for Julie, a peacefulness that increased as Des brushed a kiss over her forehead. She closed her eyes, pressing her face against his tanned throat as he looked toward Rory.

  “Having a woman belong to you, one who wants to belong to a Master, can be the best thing for her,” Des said quietly. “Every Dom worth his salt knows that. And questions himself constantly to make sure he’s looking out for her best interests. Not that he lets her see that,” he added, sending a twinkling look to Julie, who opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Can’t have our women knowing we ever doubt our absolute rule of law over them.”

  “Yeah, right.” She punched him playfully in the side. “I know just when to call you Sir Asshole. Sir.”

  She was teasing him, but when he grasped her fist and raised it to his lips, spreading out her fingers before he kissed her palm, that last Sir came out a little less taunting. A lot more breathless.

  Then her gaze cleared as she noted a festival schedule displayed on a sandwich board sign. “Ooh, there’s a music performance at the top of the hour, over at the pavilion. Let’s go check it out. We can come back to the booths.”

  Julie hurried forward to collect Daralyn and then waved imperiously at them to follow her toward the pavilion. Des shot Rory an amused look. “Are you familiar with the term power sub?”

  Rory chuckled. “Only recently, but after I learned it, imagining Julie as a submissive was a lot easier.”

  As they willingly followed the two women, Rory saw the seating under the large tent was a semi-circle of benches, on a slope so those in back could see as well as those in the front. Though things weren’t crowded yet, there were festival workers wandering through the gathering audience, handing out programs.

  “Des, why don’t we go grab a couple drinks?” Julie said. “They have an acai lemonade that Daralyn and I want to try. Rory, you want a beer?”

  “Yeah, if they’ve got Bud Lite.”

  Des gave him a thumbs up and he and Julie headed for the food vendors. Daralyn returned to Rory’s side, resting her hand on his shoulder. When he glanced up at her, he saw she was wearing the ear cuff. He reached up and traced it, making her smile, lower her eyes in the way that inspired him to kiss her senseless.

  Before he could do that, one of the festival workers, a middle-aged guy with thinning hair and an amiable expression, approached. “Sir, there’s a great spot for people in wheelchairs down in front,” he said. He stuffed the programs back into a sling around his front. “I’ll show it to you.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll--”

  The man had already stepped forward, put his hands on the bar on the back of Rory’s chair. With a friendly nod to Daralyn, he started to push Rory briskly in that direction. “I’ll just get you there. You’ll—”

  He about pitched over Rory’s shoulder as Rory engaged the brake and the chair skidded.

  It had been a kneejerk reaction, and not a good one, since the collision between opposing forces on a slope toward the stage tipped him forward. The guy jerked back, still holding onto the back bar, which kept the chair upright, but that wasn’t the problem. Rory was almost thrown out of the seat, though a death grip on his push rims and locking his upper body, no matter the pain that speared through his lower back, kept him in it.

  But as non-ideal as ending up on the ground would have been, Rory preferred it to the alternative.

  He hit the brake release and spun the chair around to face the guy head on. “Do not touch my chair,” he said.

  Though he was trying to keep his voice even, the man’s startled look said he’d conveyed cold and pissed.

  “We’re just trying to keep things moving along,” the man said in a placating voice. “Keeping the aisle clear. I was trying to help—”

  “You can help by listening, and without putting your hands on me,” Rory said.

  Daralyn’s eyes were wide, and she looked uncertain of the situation. His heart was hammering up in his ears, and he told himself to stay calm.

  Something like this brought back those times when he’d been all but helpless. He’d projected that so obviously that often no one thought to ask if something was okay with him before they did it.

  He wasn’t helpless anymore, and goddamn it, no matter what condition he was in, it pissed him off when people assumed this shit was okay. He was here with a woman, with friends.

  “I…” The man’s color was high, and he was about to commit the mistake of being resentful, which could turn this ugly, unless Rory could call back the temper spiking hard in his chest.

  But Daralyn was here, and fortunately Des’s words were fresh in his mind. Her well-being was the most important thing. Then Daralyn herself reminded him of it, in the best way possible.

  “Where would you like me to sit, Rory?” She drew close to his side again, and rested her hand on his shoulder, fingers curling into the cotton of his shirt.

  Yeah, the volatility of the situation unsettled her, but not as much as he’d expected. She didn’t acknowledge the man. Her gaze and attention were on Rory, waiting for his lead. That sole focus calmed him just the way it needed to do.

  She moved with him, hand still on his shoulder, as he guided her to the back row. He settled her on the aluminum bench and then moved his chair behind her, where he could see and not block the aisle. It would also allow him easy egress if they decided not to stay for the whole concert.

  The guy had trailed after them. A glance told Rory he was waffling on whether he’d been dismissed, or if he needed to offer a stiff apology. He also looked like he was warring with ill feeling at being treated like the bad guy. Rory quelled the urge to tell him to fuck off by considering the next person in a chair who might cross his path. He sighed and made eye contact with the guy, drawing him closer.

  “It’s like being in a car,” Rory said. “You don’t take the wheel unless the driver invites you to do it. Sorry I got pissed, but if I need help, I’ll tell you. Same as any person who walked in here on two legs. Make sense?”

  He made sure to show the man he was willing to be okay with it if he was. And added to it by extending a hand. “I’m Rory.”

  The volunteer studied him, then gave a short nod, shook the hand. “Milton. Apologies, sir.”

  “Accepted. Thanks for being willing to help.”

  As Milton moved away, Daralyn remained quiet. She had her hands curled on the edge of the bleacher and was leaning forward, her spine straight as a hypotenuse.

  When she straightened, he put a hand on her shoulder. She touched her chin to it, a quick nuzzle. He held that position, steadying himself.

  “People make decisions for me a lot,” she said. Her tone was neutral. “I understand why it bothers you so much.”

  He realized, like him, she had to find the balance between accepting people’s help, asking for it when it was needed, and helping them understand when it wasn’t. It was an ongoing thing. Plus she had the added challenge of not being able to clearly express it as a want or desire.

  She had her head tilted, him in her peripheral vision as he stroked her cheek, the decorated curve of her ear. He let his hand come to a rest on the back of her neck, stroking under the neckline of the knit shirt she was wearing. A little sigh lifted and lowered her shoulders.

  “But you…” she said quietly. “When you do it…it always feels right to me.”

  He understood why Dr. Taylor needed to work with Daralyn about expressing her wants and needs. But for someone paying close enough attention—someone to whom her wants and needs mattered more than anything—her desires were as obvious as if she’d shouted them out loud, let them echo through the universe.

  The way they echoed through his heart.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Julie and Des had to be at Tyler’s early, so when they parted at the festival, they told Rory they’d meet them there. Rory and Daralyn returned to the fishing cottage.

  Daralyn set herself up on the cushioned porch swing, reading a book. Rory checked out a couple of Brick’s fishing magazines and put his gear in order so he could look forward to a day of casting off the dock tomorrow. A tin roof shelter built over the end of it provided shade, with another wooden swing hanging from the rafters. With those features in place, he expected Daralyn would be comfortable hanging out with him by the water, doing some more reading.

  The girl never seemed to tire of books. The first time Les had taken Daralyn with her to the town library, his sister had come home with a look on her face Rory had never forgotten. It was the kind of look a person had when they realized how different someone else’s life could be from their own.

  “I wasn’t sure I was going to get her out before closing time,” Les had told Elaine, after Daralyn went up to her room, carrying one book against her chest. “She just walked up and down the rows, trailing her fingers along the spines. When I told her she could check books out, take them home, bring them back and get more, that that’s the way libraries worked…”

  Les’s eyes had welled with tears, and she’d broken down, cried. Elaine had wept with her. Even Rory had felt a lump in his throat. It was probably a good thing Daralyn had missed that part, because at that point in their relationship with her, seeing Rory’s mom and sister crying might have freaked her out.

  When his sister finally found her voice, she added, “That saying, about one small effort on my part might change someone’s life in a far bigger way? I saw that in her face, Mom. It was like I’d given her Heaven, and all I did was help her get a library card.”