His assigned VA shrink was a joke. Well, the man himself wasn’t a joke. He was sincere, he gave the impression he cared, and he listened when he grudgingly shared some of his feelings, but if he mentioned “survivor’s guilt” just one more time, Orion would show him just how much damage a Marine could do to office furniture. The doc just didn’t get it. He was damned if he tried to open up and interact with the people around him, and he was equally screwed if he let anyone throw an arm over his shoulder or kiss his cheek or slap him on the back. The first induced no feeling at all, as in semi-frozen stiff on a morgue slab, and the second induced panic attacks of epic proportions. He was rapidly being torn apart by the dichotomy of reactions.
A slip of a finger on his PC keyboard, offered salvation. The BDSM site wanted to know if he was a Dominant or a submissive. He almost didn’t fill out the personal questionnaire, but overhearing the prevailing opinion of him from two of his students in the Marine Special Operations Tracking/Counter-tracking Course he taught, convinced him he needed to go beyond conventional medical practice. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have an extremely sexy Mistress paddling his backside if he was brought back to the land of the normal.
But the Great Spirit was not inclined to grant him normal. Irony of ironies, there was no female Dominant at the local dungeon strong enough to keep him from topping her. Instead, he was assigned to Dai Waleska. A six foot, two-inch Japanese-American Kung Fu Master. Now the overriding question was, was it worth submitting to another man’s physical, and possibly sexual, domination for a chance at getting back on a normal track. Which was more important? Dominance and submission to conquer his frozen core and panic attacks, or maintaining a macho Marine image that would more than likely end with him gargling with a Glock somewhere down a very short road?
Then he shattered my heart into thousands of pieces.
I can’t let him back in. It was hard enough surrendering my heart the first time. If he hurts me again, I’ll never survive. No matter what he thinks, we’re beholden to our past.
When Nels Rainer Kirkegaard, possessor of a PhD in History, talented artist and skilled wood-worker, inherits his grandfather’s furniture business, he is surprised by the stipulation he has one year to sow some wild oats before assuming the leadership of the company. In a chance encounter in a Washington, DC pub, Norman and Viking meet, and Ross surprises himself by hiring Nels to help him renovate the rundown monstrosity he intends to turn into office and living quarters.
When Nels’ silver blonde hair and Arctic blue eyes make him the target of a sex slave ring, Ross is compelled to rescue him. He is very good at finding things, and no self-respecting Special Forces operator would leave a friend behind. However, while searching for clues to discover where his handyman was taken, Ross finds one of Nels’ pen and ink sketches, and realizes the Dane could become more to him than just a friend. Ross has a major decision to make when he finds Nels. Should he, like his Norman ancestors, pay the Danegeld and live in harmony with the Viking or refuse and live at war with himself?