Shaded Lines

by Lilia Moon

  She shakes her head, smiling. “No. They’re happy, and that’s contagious.”

  That’s not quite what I asked, but I think she’s getting round to it, so I stay quiet.

  She inhales deeply and blows out into the crispness. “I’m worried that having you there will change who I want to be, in one of my safest spaces to be exactly who I am. That won’t be your fault at all, but it’s why my initial reaction was a cranky, possessive one. I really am sorry. Matteo and Rafe are very happy to have you around, and I’d never want to interfere with that.”

  It’s a lovely apology, but it’s the truth that came before it that’s the real treasure. “It’s hard, sometimes, when you’ve seen the cost of a choice, to let yourself walk that way again. You’re taking such care not to fall back into an old way of being.”

  She walks a little further, running her hand down the scaly bark of a spindly tree. “But?”

  “Tonight could be a risk. Or it could be a chance to show me more of who you are with friends at your back to help steady you.”

  She grunts in a way that could mean many things. “You’re saying my perspective is skewed.”

  I chuckle. “I’m not so arrogant as that. I’m saying there might be more than one way to look at this.”

  She flashes me a wry, amused grin. “Safety in numbers? With three Doms at the table?”

  I try for my best innocent look, which sends her off into gales of laughter. I don’t mind at all. It’s a pleasure to listen to what bubbles out of her into the winter wind.

  And windy it is. We’ve come over a crest and the wind has landed on my cheeks, sending my eyes to watering. Not before I appreciate the view, however. There’s a tidy white lighthouse with red accents, but it’s the lake stretching beyond that holds my attention, and the view to the snow-capped mountains on the other side. I grew up with wind and water aplenty, but snow has always captivated me.

  I pull her in tight in front of me, which just makes her laugh again. “Using me as a wind shield?”

  She’s quite an effective one, although not tall enough to protect my cheeks. “I’d put you behind me, but then you wouldn’t be able to see this gorgeous view.”

  She snorts as she cuddles back against me. “That accent of yours lets you get away with saying all manner of nonsense.”

  I kiss the tip of her ear, which has somehow escaped from under her hat, before I tuck it back into warmth. “So people tell me.”

  She looks down at our mingled hands. “It’s worth the climb up the lighthouse, if you’re interested. It’s the closest thing we have to a view from the ramparts around here.”

  I’ve been up on a few of those. “You have medieval-princess fantasies, do you?”

  She laughs as she steps out of my arms. “No. From what I’ve read, most of them lived short, dreary lives and rarely got to do anything fun.”

  That would be disaster indeed for this woman. She’s anything but dreary. She leads me toward a bright-red staircase heading up the lighthouse. I’m impressed by how well tended it is, and amused by this small piece of history in the middle of nowhere, draped in the colors of the Canadian flag.

  Then she reaches the top, and I’m not paying attention to staircases at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Daley

  I love it up here. Always have. I head straight for the railing, swiping off my toque so the wind can play in my hair. Not the smartest way to stay warm, but I don’t come up here for that. There’s a nice, warm car twenty minutes away when I need it.

  This is about letting the wind stir up my soul.

  I close my eyes, hands on the railing, and tip my head up, chin into the wind. The smell of snow and the fragrant winter crisp of evergreens rush past my cheeks, stretching them tight.

  A hand strokes my hair. “The lion inside you, she likes this.”

  My eyes snap to his.

  He smiles and squares to the railing beside me. “I did some reading about this astrology of yours last night.”

  That softens me in ways that make me squirm. “What did you learn?”

  “It’s a perspective. A way of looking at the world and at a person. Not one well known to me, but when I read of lions, I imagined warm rocks and sun-soaked naps. Your hammock by the fire is a delightful version of that.”

  He’s standing on the edge of what I want him to see—or maybe don’t.

  “But this, too, would be part of the picture. A lioness, surveying her domain, facing the winds and daring them to know her.” His fingers brush my curls. “Letting it play with your fire.”

  I’m pretty sure the internet only told him a fraction of that.

  “A man would need to be ready to hold all of that to be with you.”

  I snort cold air deep into my lungs. I want to swat at him again, but he’s not wrong. “A lot of what’s inside of me isn’t very comfortable to hold.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.” He steps behind me, but his arms don’t wrap around me like I expected. He takes off his gloves, threading his fingers into my hair. Tugging it back. Letting it go into the wind. “There’s fire in you. Passion. I can see it in your art. I felt the edges of it, even in your hammock, but it’s far easier to see up here.”

  He’s drugging me with that voice of his. “The hammock is real too.”

  “It is. But it’s not the whole.” His cheek nuzzles against my ear, but it’s not gentleness I feel in him. It’s something fiercer. “Shall I tell you what I imagined last night as I read of lions and thought of you?”

  My fingers grip the top bar of the railing. It’s been freshly painted, which doesn’t matter at all, but it gives me a focal point for my fear. I don’t want to hear what he wants. I don’t want to feel the need to become it.

  “It’s my fantasy, love. You’ve only a need to join it if it calls to you.”

  I sigh and relax my grip on the railing. I’m a grown-ass woman. I can listen to some words and see if they fit. He’s made some pretty good guesses so far. I need to have faith we can survive a twenty-minute hike back down to the car if he’s wrong.

  He hums in quiet approval behind me, his fingers still tracing pathways through my hair. I know female lions don’t have manes, but the one who lives inside me does, and she’s enthralled. “I’d find a nice rocky outcropping with a view like this one. Smooth rocks, warmed by the afternoon sun.”

  The cadence of his words is lighting a fire in my low belly. “I know some rocks like that.”

  He chuckles. “Excellent. I’d have you take me there on the first warm day of summer. But once we’ve arrived, it’s not yours to lead anymore. I’d have a picnic in my bag, but it would need to wait. You’d have all of my attention.”

  He definitely has all of mine.

  “I’d stand you with the sun on your shoulders as I take your clothes off, letting it warm your skin as I bare it.”

  It’s freezing up here. This should not be lighting up any part of me.

  “I’d stretch you out on the warmest of the rocks, naked, with nothing between you and sun-kissed granite. The heat of the stone would join with the heat inside you. You’d arch under my touch as I stroke you, with my hands, with my tongue, maybe with a toy or two I tucked up my sleeves before we arrived.”

  My inhale sounds more like a gurgle.

  “You’re glorious, all spread out before me on the rocks. Your skin purrs as I touch you, but I’m after something more. You hiss as I bite down on your nipple. Moan when I wash the sting away with my tongue. Pebbles rise on your skin, but the heat underneath you, inside you, chases them away.”

  Teeth catch my earlobe. “I move over to the other side, because all of you deserves to be adored. I’ve only got one set of teeth, but I’ve a pair of clamps up those handy sleeves. I nip and tug at your nipples, getting them ready for the bite of the clamps. You cry out as the sting of the first one lands, but the fingers I slide between your legs come out slick with your arousal.”

  Chapter Twenty-Thr
ee

  Callum

  The small mews she’s making are going to be the death of me. If I’d known she would be this responsive to stories, I’d have told her one long before now. It’s giving me the keys to her. Teeth and claws. She doesn’t want gentleness, not always. And while I can’t smell a damn thing but a fine Canadian winter up here, I’d bet my Dom card she’s as wet as the woman in my story.

  I step in closer, holding a firmer container for what I’m about to rile up. I know just which nipple clamps I’ll use on her if I get the chance, but I’ve so much more territory to explore. She’s worried about lopping off parts of who she is. I’m far more interested in growing limbs she might not even know are hers just yet.

  I did some reading on my astrological sign, too.

  Her hips grind back against my cock, which is an entirely pleasurable experience, even with fifteen layers of clothing between us. I put my hands on her hips, holding her in place. “I’ve more skin to set on fire, so it’s time for one of my toys. A small flogger, just the length of my forearm. Butter-soft leather flicking on warm skin. Stroking it. Leaving small stings behind. Pulling your fire to the surface.”

  Her breath hitches. She’s less certain about this one. Curious, but doubtful. I tuck that away too. Some toys need to be met before decisions can be made. “Your skin is a dusky pink under the sun, and I bend down to taste. I work my way down your belly. Your hips rise up to meet me, but I’m not about to be hurried. Every part of you deserves my attention.”

  She growls, which tells me just how deep we’ve landed. I grind my cock into her ass. A subtle message, deeply meant. This happens on my time, here or on some imaginary sun-warmed rock.

  She growls again, but this time it’s a sound of acquiescence. Not an entirely pleased one, but she’ll wait. She’s enjoying being at the center too much to rush it. “I can smell you now. Sharp and sweet, with hints of salt and sweat.”

  She arches back against me, pleased. Good. I’ve very little patience for women wanting to taste like strawberries and unicorns. “You’re making noises, small, rolling ones in your throat, but I want them bigger. Lion sized. I run my tongue in a long lick up your pussy, right over your clit, and you let the skies hear you.”

  Her sounds haven’t gotten any louder, but the wiggle of her hips is far more insistent.

  I grin at the back of her head. It will be my absolute pleasure to help this woman learn to be loud. “We’ve picked a private set of rocks, but these hills you’ve brought me to are full of hikers, and I imagine your cries falling down on them like summer rain.”

  I smother a laugh as my lioness squeaks, needy and more than a little aghast. Ah, sweetness. I’m not a man who makes women smaller, not at all. And you’re a closet exhibitionist. I lean forward, closer to her ear, wanting to know her edges. “I can hear some noises coming up the ridge behind us. Hikers who are visual just as you are, seeking the source of the sounds of pleasure.”

  Everything in her stills.

  I take my first substantial gamble. “I see a couple step out onto a gathering of rocks in the distance. They’re dressed the same, in that way of some couples who have been married a long while. She stares at you as you arch up into my face, the sun lighting your curves. He stares at her, wondering what’s just happened to his afternoon hike.”

  She laughs into the winter wind, and there’s such delight in it.

  That will be what pulls her out of the closet. The chance to help set another woman free. “Soon, she’ll join you, naked on her rock in the distance, calling out her pleasure to the skies. I don’t watch. I’ve got all that I need right in front of me.”

  She relaxes back against me. I could keep going, telling stories of slow orgasms and fast ones, whisper-gentle fucking and the far rougher kind, but there’s no need. I’ve learned so very much already, and stories have their limitations, too. I wrap my arms around her waist. “Let’s head back, shall we? I’ve a curiosity about which of your friends stocks the best hot chocolate.”

  She shifts in my arms, incredulous and amused. “Seriously? You’re stopping there?”

  I kiss her nose. “I am. Did you like my imaginings?”

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re a bad man, Callum Burke.”

  It doesn’t feel like such a terrible thing to be. “Perhaps.”

  She tucks my hand into hers, warming fingers that have gone cold in the wind. “The best hot chocolate is at my house.”

  That won’t work. I’m quite clear where another afternoon by her fire would lead, and I’m not ready to go there just yet. I kiss the fingers she’s laced with mine. “Then you’ll drink alone today.”

  She raises a confused eyebrow. “Boiling water is one of my better skills.”

  “So I imagine. But I’m not quite ready to get lost in another afternoon with you just yet.” I pause and brush my thumb over a windblown cheek. “I do have a small assignment for you, though.”

  A second eyebrow joins, more skeptical than the first.

  I kiss them both. “Go home. Touch yourself if you like. Think on who you are and what you want and what feels good as you do it. But don’t bring yourself to orgasm. That’s for me to do.”

  I’ve managed to make her jaw drop. “You want me to go home alone, feel myself up, and not get the job done?”

  There are so many jobs. Orgasms are just a small one in the grander scheme. “I’m afraid so. I’ll be baking soda bread and teaching Liane the finer points of my mother’s colcannon recipe. But I’ll be waiting for you at dinner.”

  Flickers of fear join the skepticism—and unwilling, naughty delight. “No orgasms in Liane’s house. Hard limit.”

  Ah, she listened to my story very well. “I can’t speak for the others.”

  She manages not to choke on her tongue. “I meant for me. Or you, for that matter.”

  I dip my chin agreeably. “That’s fine.”

  She eyes me. “What haven’t I figured out yet?”

  I swing our joined hands between us like small children. “I can’t tell you, sweetness. That would ruin all the fun.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Daley

  Wednesday nights at Liane’s are ritual. They have been for a long time. I try to remember that as I doff my outdoor gear in her entryway and walk into the kitchen to face four sets of very curious eyes. Liane is subtle about it at least. Matteo, Rafe, and India are just plain staring, watching to see what happens between me and the guy who’s behind the counter whipping up fancy mashed potatoes.

  I decide, like all smart people who can’t cook, to focus on the food. I walk around the counter and give Callum a friendly peck on the cheek before I peer into his bowl. Then I peer more closely, because there’s definitely green stuff in what otherwise looks to be perfect, creamy goodness. I gingerly pick up remnants of green off the nearby cutting board and give it a sniff. “Why are you putting kale in mashed potatoes?”

  The man committing this grievous food sin has the audacity to wink at me. “It’s colcannon, love. An Irish recipe older than the hills, or at least as old as the advent of potatoes in our fair isle.”

  I remember my table manners and dig a small spoon out of a jar on the counter for a taste. All chatter stops as I close my eyes in bliss. It’s a heart attack of butter-and-creamy goodness, with the distinct undertones of bacon along with the kale. The ultimate comfort food, right down to the hidden greens that moms try to sneak into everything. I open my eyes and lick every scrap off the spoon.

  Callum smiles and kisses my cheek. “You could have used your finger, you know. I surely did as a lad.”

  Matteo snorts. “You weren’t very bright as a lad.” He grins at me. “We stopped by for lunch on a road trip from Edinburgh once. One stern look from his mom and an entire table full of Doms were on our best behavior.”

  Ireland isn’t exactly down the road from Edinburgh, but I’m more amused that Callum took a carload full of bossy men home to meet his mother. “If she fed you these potatoes, I
can understand why.”

  Matteo leans over the counter and sticks his finger in the bowl. “She did. These aren’t quite as good, but they’ll do until I can take Liane over for a visit.”

  Liane laughs and pokes an enormous wooden spoon into her stew pot. “Learn how to make your own colcannon, mister.”

  He picks up the cat that’s trying to climb his legs. “I already failed at soda bread, and Callum said any idiot could make that.”

  I grin at my co-disaster in the kitchen. “At least we’re idiots who pick smart friends.”

  I jump as something playfully smacks my ass. “If you can’t cook, it’s time to leave the kitchen, sweetness. We’ve dishes to get on the table and you’re in the way.”

  I stare at Callum and the wooden spoon in his hand. “Did you seriously just swat me with that?”

  “He did.” Rafe chuckles and leans over the counter for the bowl of mashed potatoes. “The question is, did you like it?”

  “Don’t answer that,” says India dryly.

  I roll my eyes and pick up a cutting board and two rustic loaves of crusty bread that are a lot heavier than I expected and smell like something from a much earlier era. The soda bread Matteo didn’t manage to kill, I’m guessing.

  Callum leans over and kisses my cheek, his eyes twinkling. “You can tell me later.”

  I shake my head because it’s expected, but I’m feeling bubbly and grateful and relieved. The joking has landed the evening in a place of light ease that doesn’t hide anything, which means I can stop worrying about what anyone else might be thinking and just enjoy good food with my friends. An outcome that isn’t at all accidental, and there are five people in this room who’ve casually engineered it in just a few minutes.

  I set the bread down in the middle of the big, square table and head over to my usual chair. It’s got a sideways view of the lake, one that lets me see the wraparound colors of summer sunsets very well. We’re long past sundown today, but I’m a creature who enjoys having a few habits.