A Dom's Decision
Series: Dommissimma, #2
Genre: Erotica, GLBT, Romance
Word count: 40,720
When is a Dom not a Dom? When it stops him from being with the man he loves…
Athol Donaldson lost many people in his life, his lover, his family, his twin. The latter loss seems hardly worth morning over. Affric caused nothing but trouble when alive, and now, he seems intent on causing trouble from beyond the grave.
It forces Athol to seek out the one man he's never forgotten.
Eden Murdoch has no intention of letting Athol slip through his fingers again. He's lost him once, and as they're forced to pull together to unravel the mystery surrounding the parentage of a teenage girl, their love for each other blossoms.
Surely, being Doms doesn't mean they can't compromise? Will they be able to work out their differences, and find lasting happiness, or will this blast from the past prove to be their final undoing?
Edan Murdoch moved back from the keyboard and stretched his arms high above his head to untangle the kinks in his shoulders.
He pulled the thin strip of leather from his ponytail and wondered for the umpteenth time if he should grow up and cut his hair. Left loose, it fell over his shoulders in a waterfall of black curls, and got him more than enough sly comments and references to dark-haired cherubs and dodgy rock stars. But then if he kept it short, it became a tight mass of twists and knots. It was the thought of how long it took to detangle that made his mind up––he'd leave it as it was, with the odd trim by his friendly neighborhood barber. At last kept longer, he could get a brush through it. Edan rolled his shoulders and put the thong in his desk drawer for the following morning.
It had been a long day, a long week even, and all he wanted was to go home, pour a glass of Merlot and chill. Well, not all, he amended silently, he'd prefer a hot bod--one specific hot bod, even—beside him, but that was likely as a midge-free summer on the West Coast.
One more report and he'd leave. As it was, Absinthe the cat would give him the cold shoulder. Edan chuckled to himself. How stereotypical was he? Gay, on his own, and with a cat for a companion. And anyone who said cats were self-contained and no trouble had never met Absinthe. That cat could make her thoughts and needs known with one meow and a glare.
The knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He jumped and pressed
keys, making an 'sssssssss' row across the report, and swore. Who on earth would be around at—he glanced at his watch—shit, nearly nine o'clock at night. Where had the time gone?
"Yeah?" He pushed up his glasses, and rubbed his face. God, he was tired. "Come in."
The door opened and Athol walked in. Edan’s tiredness dropped away like an old washcloth. "Fuck me."
The newcomer nodded. "Yes please, here or do you have somewhere else in mind?"
Edan laughed. "Well, that's the rub, isn't it? You ready for a little subbing yet?"
"In your dreams, mate. I'm the Dom."
Edan nodded. That was the sticking point and always had been. "Yeah, and so am I. So there we have it. Or don't, as the case may be. Why are you here? I'm sure it's not just to tell me you're not prepared to negotiate."
Athol shrugged. "You know it's not. But we have a problem. Or rather, I think I do. You're just a not so innocent bystander."
His words made Edan grin. "Innocent never was comparable with you or me, mate. Ah, Athol. Bloody hell, I've missed you."
He walked around the desk and grabbed Athol and pulled him into a big hug. It was returned with fervor, and he was damned sure he got a swift kiss on the neck as well. "Not just in bed." He stopped talking, scared he'd said too much
Athol didn't answer. He looked unhappy, and Edan wished he could retract his words
"Dammit, in other things as well. Someone to laugh with, to share the ups and downs, and someone to high-five when everything works out."
Athol grimaced. Edan realized more than ever this wasn't just a social call. Here was one of the two people in the world he truly loved, one whom he hadn't seen for over five years, and his feelings were as strong as ever. And, typical, it seemed nothing had changed. For years they'd met up, chatted, argued, and gone their separate ways. The last few years they hadn't even done that. He had never told Athol where he lived, what he was doing, or how miserable he'd been. Just sat and agonized through those few hours they'd spared for each other. Why the hell couldn't he give in, just a little bit? If Athol were prepared to switch, Edan would do so gladly. But he wasn't going to be the only one, not any more.
"Maybe one day," Athol said slowly. "Once we've sorted this crap out. Life as a lonely Dom ain't all it's cracked up to be. Not when everyone around you is loved up and pairing up. Well, nearly everyone," he said. "I can think of a few who need help. I had a blast from the past at the club last night."
"Club? I thought you were a psychologist."
"God almighty, have you forgotten all our late-night sessions, not the sex ones but the angst ones? Psychiatrist, Edan, watch my lips." He repeated the word.
Edan couldn't help it. He punched his friend's shoulder and grinned. "Works every time, sucker. Okay, chill. What club and why?"
"Dommissima, because I want to."
Edan whistled. He'd heard about that. One of the premier and exclusive BDSM clubs in the country. "Playing with the big boys, eh?"
"Oh, hon, you better believe it." Athol dropped his wrist, rolled his eyes and snorted. "And get it right, I am one of the big boys, almost. Ah, Edan, I've fucking missed you. Why did we cock it up?"
Raven lives in Scotland, along with her husband and their two cats—their children having flown the nest—surrounded by beautiful scenery, which inspires a lot of the settings in her books.
She is used to sharing her life with the occasional deer, red squirrel, and lost tourist, to say nothing of the scourge of Scotland—the midge.
Her very understanding, and long-suffering DH, is used to his questions unanswered, the dust bunnies greeting him as he walks through the door, and rescuing burned offerings from the Aga. (And passing her a glass of wine as she types furiously.)