It was a primal urge to protect his woman. My woman. He’d only known her for a few weeks. They’d had two dates. If he’d been his best self, he’d have offered her his couch. Now he’d made it seem as if the price of saving on her rent was her submission, and that wasn’t what he intended at all. Oh, he wanted her submission, all right. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, and when he did he imagined her on all fours, waiting to be fucked, as often as he thought of her singing. He wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman for a long time. My woman. He was used to stating exactly what he wanted. They were quiet as they walked back to Brett’s apartment because Kat said she had a song idea going through her head. Every once in a while she would hum or whistle a few notes. It was a strange way to be together, but he enjoyed watching her work too. He saw her eyes narrow on the edge of his vision. He suspected she wasn’t thinking about her song anymore, but he remained quiet in case.
