Sam Butler finished giving his report to the day shift nurse, wished her luck with the guy in curtain area four who was insisting the potato currently lodged in his rectum got there accidentally, and headed for the break room. His eyes felt like someone had poured sand in them, his mind was fuzzy with fatigue, and the sandwich he’d grabbed between codes around midnight was a faint memory.
He was half an hour past the end of his twelve-hour shift and more than ready to go home.
Stomach rumbling, he opened his locker and wondered if he should stop somewhere for breakfast or fix something when he got home.
If he stopped, he could eat in the car and fall straight into bed when he got home. But if he waited, he could have breakfast with Collette.
He slipped out of his work shoes and checked his watch. It was nearly a quarter to eight, and since she didn’t teach class on Wednesdays until ten, she’d just be getting up. She’d have hit Snooze twice before finally rolling out of bed and should be just stumbling into the shower, where she’d stand sleepily under the spray, hot enough to boil lobsters, until it began to cool. Then she’d scramble to wash and climb out, shivering, to wrap herself in his robe and shuffle into the kitchen for her first cup of coffee.
If he hurried, he could make it for her.
The idea brought a jolt of adrenaline that burned away the fog of fatigue. With renewed energy, he crammed his feet into his boots, put the work shoes in the bottom of his locker, and grabbed his coat. Shrugging it on, he clocked out and headed for the exit with a spring in his step.
He only got stopped twice on the way out, which might have been a new record, then stepped out into the frigid January morning. A thin layer of new snow covered the ground, crunching under his feet as he hurried to his car. From the looks of the clouds covering the sun that still kissed the horizon, more snow was on its way, and he made a mental note to shovel before he left for work that evening.
The drive home didn’t take long, going against the flow of traffic, and the sun was peeking out from between the clouds by the time he pulled up to the tidy brick bungalow he shared with Collette. He trudged up the walk, shoulders hunched against the wind, and let himself into the house.
The house was dark, the watery sunlight peeking through the blinds the only illumination, and the faint sound of the shower running came from the back of the house. He toed off his boots and hung up his coat, then headed for the kitchen, stopping to turn the thermostat up as he went.
With the furnace rumbling to life, he started the first pot of coffee. And when he pulled eggs and cheese out of the fridge and set a skillet on the stovetop, the tension and the stress of twelve hours in the ER melted away.
The simple routine of cooking soothed, but knowing he was making a meal for his lover was what pleased him. He added a chunk of butter to the skillet to sizzle, then cracked two eggs into a bowl. He added a dollop of cream, the way she liked, and beat the mix to fluffy perfection before pouring it into the pan with the melted butter. He added a pinch of salt and a dash of pepper, then lowered the flame. The shower had just shut off, and Collette would want to sip her coffee for a bit before eating.
He gave the eggs a quick stir and slid two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster. He’d just pressed the lever when the shuffle of slippers on the wood floor made him turn.
She stood in his oversized robe, her feet crammed into the slippers she’d gotten for Christmas. Rafael and Donatello adorned her toes, while Michelangelo and Leonardo decorated the pair he’d been given, so between them they had all four of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles her nephews were currently obsessed with. Her dark hair was wet and combed back from her high forehead, her white skin pale and faintly translucent in the morning light. Her sleepy hazel eyes blinked at him, registering surprise, then a soft smile bloomed on her unpainted mouth.
Delighted that he’d managed to surprise her, he set the spatula aside. “Good morning.”
“You’re home,” Collette said, her voice still husky from sleep, and crossed the room to lay her cheek against his in her usual greeting. “Mmm, scratchy.”
“I need a shave,” he admitted. He leaned into her, letting the feel of her soothe. “You sleep okay?”
“Mostly,” she said, then sighed. “Missed you, though.”
“I missed you, too, Ma’am,” he said and felt her lips curve against his neck.
He only called her ‘Ma’am’ when they were in a scene, or when he felt the need for a deeper connection with her. Since he’d been working nights since November, scenes had been few and far between.
“Darling boy,” she whispered and lifted her hand to stroke, then hold, the back of his neck. The pressure was light, barely there, but it still sent a tingle through him. It was the touch of his Mistress, and he’d missed it.
He stood there for a moment, reveling in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Then the toast popped up, and he drew back to smile at her.
“Permission to get the toast, Ma’am?”
“Granted,” she said, the gold flecks in her hazel eyes glinting at him, and stepped over to the coffee pot.
He plucked the bread from the toaster and set it on the plate he had waiting. “Butter or jam?”
“Butter, please,” she said, and with coffee in hand, crossed to sit at the small table under the kitchen window.
He buttered the toast and carried it to the table, then crossed back to the stove to check the eggs. They were almost done, so he turned off the heat to let them finish in the hot pan and got out a block of cheese.
“Lots of cheese or a little?” he asked.
“Lots. I have freshman composition today, and I’m going to need the protein.”
“Tough class?”
“Just frustrating. Freshman classes are always frustrating. They’re used to high school, where someone held their hand and babied them through, and right about halfway through the first year of college they figure out nobody’s going to do that anymore and they panic.”
He finished grating cheese over her eggs, gave them a quick stir, then scooped them out onto a plate. He snagged a fork from the drawer and laid the plate in front of her with a flourish. “Your eggs, Ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She took the fork he held out, one eyebrow raised when he sat down across from her. “Aren’t you going to make some for yourself?”
He preferred his eggs fried and his toast several shades darker, and would normally cook for himself after finishing hers. But despite his empty belly, he was more interested in sitting with her than he was in food. “In a minute.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she sampled her eggs. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine, Ma’am.”
Her eyes stayed narrowed. “That’s the third time you’ve called me Ma’am this morning.”
He shrugged. “I miss you. Being on the night shift, I feel like we hardly see each other.”
She laid down her fork to take his hand. “We knew it would be tough.”
“I know. But we haven’t had a scene since…”
“Before Christmas.”
“Yeah.” He lowered his gaze to the table. “I’m sorry.”
“Darling boy.” Her voice was firm, the command in it clear, and he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “That is not your fault.”
“I know that, too,” he assured her. “I just feel like I’m not holding up my end of the deal.”
“We don’t have a ‘deal’,” she chided him, tenderness warming her firm, no-nonsense tone. “We have a relationship, one that adjusts and changes according to our needs.”
“I know.”
Her voice went steely, her eyes sharp. “Do you?”
God, she was beautiful when she was in Mistress mode. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Good.” She picked up her coffee, eyeing him over the rim of the cup. “I’d hate for my Friday night plans to go to waste.”
The hint of censure in the words made him want to wince, but then the phrase Friday night plans sank in. “Friday?”
“You’re off work, right?”
“Thursday and Friday,” he confirmed, giddy hope warring with the fatigue. “Are we doing something?”
“If you’re up for it.”
“I’m up,” he assured her. “I’m so up I could float away.”
Her amusement deepened. “Then it’s a date.”
“A date,” he agreed, flushed with delight. “Should I do anything to prepare?”
“Rest,” she advised. “You’ll need it.”
His sigh was pure delight. “Thank you, God.”
She let out a husky laugh. “You’ll need to do a few other things, too. But they’ll have to wait. I need to finish my breakfast.”
He tamped down on his eagerness, knowing from experience that pushing would get him nowhere and pouting would not be well received. “Can I get you another cup of coffee?”
“That would be lovely, thank you.” She handed him her cup, and he rose to cross to the pot. “And make your breakfast.”
Her tone was one that he was intimately familiar with—and he knew better than to argue. “Yes, Ma’am.”
He lit the flame under the skillet and got out two more eggs. “Is there anything you need me to do today?”
“You could shovel the drive before you go to work tonight. We’re supposed to get more snow today.”
“Already on my list.” He cracked eggs into the skillet. “Anything else?”
“Why don’t you see if my good boots need a polish,” she suggested, smiling when he turned to stare at her. “For Friday night.”
If she wanted her boots polished, it meant she was planning to use them. The thought brought sudden and exquisite arousal. “I will.”
“Good.” Fresh coffee in hand, she rose. “Thank you for breakfast, Sam. It was delicious.”
Pleasure curled in his belly, warm and easy. “You’re welcome.”
She pressed her cheek to his, then pulled back to look into his eyes. “I love you, darling boy.”
The pleasure morphed into a burst of joy. “I love you, too.”
“I know. Get some sleep today, all right?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Good boy,” she murmured, and with a light press of her lips to his, walked out of the kitchen, leaving him frustratingly aroused, madly in love, and wishing it was Friday.
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