The woman’s eyes widened and she gave him a sideways glance. “I’m sorry. Will you want any dessert?”
Colby stared back at her, wordless, terrified, she thought, but so desperate for a taste of affection and hope despite the risk to his pride. “He wants blackberry cobbler with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.”
She nodded and backed away. “Right away, ma’am.”
He released his neck and dropped his hand on the table. His fingers trembled, touching even her cold Mistress heart. “What are you doing to me?”
“Ordering you dessert.”
“I won’t be able to eat it.”
She tapped the crystallized sugar crust on the brûlée and then broke through to the creamy custard beneath. Very much like she was trying to do with him. “Of course you can. But you have to finish the steak first.”
He stared down at his plate like it was covered with worms and beetles. Minutes passed while he contemplated her words without touching the fork or his food. Long enough for the waitress to bring back his dessert, set it on the table beside him, and then flee without a word. Smart woman. She felt the tension singing between them.
Give, and take. Give him some room to run, and then slowly reel him back in before landing him. A beautiful melody, this dance he’d started. One that she intended to finish.
“You said you watched the show. Evidently we did a piss-poor explanation of the power balance between a dominant and a submissive.”
He dared a quick look up at her face, eyes narrowed, mouth hard with resolution. “I think it’s pretty clear who has the power when the dog’s mistress holds the leash.”
“A casual observer may think so,” she agreed, pausing long enough to let the custard melt on her tongue. “But the dog and his mistress know that he could bite her hand any time he chose and simply run away. He comes when she calls because he wants to. He sits at her feet because he wants to. He accepts her collar and leash…”
“I get what you’re trying to say.” Disgruntled, he picked up the fork and started on the steak again. By the hesitant way he started to chew, and then more readily, it still tasted good, surprising him. “I’m telling you I don’t want to.” He swallowed, and then flashed her a cocky, challenging grin as he dipped the fork into the blackberry cobbler rather than taking another bite of steak.
Oh sugar, but you do, so very, very badly. “Tastes good, doesn’t it.”
His smile slipped but he didn’t throw his guard back up. “Yes, ma’am. It does.”
She took another bite of her dessert, making sure to let him know how much she enjoyed it. By the time she swallowed another bite, his eyes smoldered hot enough to set the tablecloth on fire. “When it doesn’t taste good, then you walk. Deal?”
Holding her gaze, he pushed the steak away and dove into the blackberry cobbler like he’d lick it clean or die on the spot. “Deal.”
3
Following Mal’s black Lexus, Colby almost turned off and went home several times. He had plenty of opportunities to change his mind. He could have left without eating the steak, let alone the cobbler. He could have left the parking lot and headed south, not north. He could have missed the turn off the freeway. But here he was, pulling up behind her car in the driveway. Somehow he’d pictured the formidable Mistress living in a contemporary condo downtown, not a sweet little bungalow painted Caribbean blue.
Engine still running, he watched her shut her car door and pause, waiting for him with a knowing smile on her luscious lips. One last chance to escape the Mistress’s leash. All he had to do was throw the truck in reverse and drive off. His palms were sweaty, his heart rate up like he’d run all the way here at top speed, and the erection still hadn’t faded.
He hadn’t had an erection this long in over a year.
I ate the steak. I ate the cobbler. I’m damned well going to eat her too.
He turned off the ignition and stepped down out of the cab. Luckily she didn’t tease him. Hanging back while she unlocked the front door with an electronic keypad, he scanned the street. Nice neighborhood. Quiet. No one seemed to have followed them, not that he’d expected it. Still, one could never be too careful.
“Colby?” He jerked his attention to her. She waited, door open, light turned on. “What are you doing?”
He shrugged sheepishly and stepped through the open door. “Sorry, habit. I’d feel pretty bad if some perp drove up and shot into your house trying to nail a cop.”
“I suppose you want to check my house too and make sure no perps are hiding out in the closet.”
She’d probably meant it as a joke, but he immediately scanned the front room, making sure to look behind the couch and curtains. “You’re a single woman. Can’t be too careful. May I?”
She frowned at him, and a sudden wash of alarm flooded him. What if she changed her mind about him? “Are you carrying a gun?”
“No, ma’am. I’m off duty so I deliberately left my service weapon at home.”
Her frown softened, some of her teasing amusement coming back to glow in her eyes. “I suppose you left the handcuffs at home too.”
He gave her a look that hopefully said I’m no fool. “Absolutely. No way I’m letting you get around my handcuffs. I’d never hear the end of it.”
She gave him a look back that said baby, I don’t need no handcuffs to turn you into putty in the palm of my hand and went toward the kitchen. “Make yourself at home. Two bedrooms, but I’m sure you’ll be able to tell which is mine. I’ll get us a drink.”
Curiosity piqued, he made himself scan through her house slowly rather than race to the Mistress’s dungeon, or bedroom. Looking at her furniture, he couldn’t find anything that pointed to her kink or said she was anything but a single professional woman making a good living in Dallas. Not even a black leather couch—just a tasteful brown-and-turquoise living room set. So what would he find in her bedroom?
He stuck his head in the first door on the left. Office, with a full-sized bed. Had to be a guest room. Door on the right was a small bathroom. He’d only dabbled in construction work in the past, but the black-and-white hexagon tiles looked original. The last door wasn’t shut. He eased inside, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Opening his senses, he listened, feeling for anything amiss, before flipping on the lights. Smallish room, dominated by a king sized bed with a comforter the color of sunflowers. Combined with the gold dress, he had to be a dummy not to realize yellow was her favorite color. The bed frame was a heavy, antique four-poster bed with black iron details, but no manacles hung from the corners. Certainly no ropes dangled from the ceiling. Hard wood floors creaked beneath his boots as he eased deeper into the room, looking for any other doors. He banged his shins on something hard and metal that clanged.
A large dog crate.
“Fuck.”
She held out a hard cider but he only glared at her. “If you think I’m going to cram myself into that crate, you’re crazy. Christ, I can’t believe I actually let you talk me into coming home with you. I ought to be committed.”
Coolly, she arched a brow at him. “I don’t recall talking you into anything, sugar. There’s the door. Leave now. No one’s keeping you here against your will.”
Ignoring the bottle she offered, he paced back and forth at the foot of her bed. Luckily he was too busy muttering under his breath to hear the soft sigh that escaped at the sight.
He prowled like an angry caged bear. No, a rangy wolf, lean and mean and fast. Such explosive power in his body. Such anger and need and frustration. She could almost taste it.
Literally, she was tempted to just stand here and breathe deeply with her mouth open, drawing in the scent of his presence in her space. It’d been a long time since she’d had such an uncontrolled and potentially destructive force loose in her bedroom.
She’d kicked Andy out months ago. During their relationship, she’d cared for him, even loved him, at least a little. Maybe not the one-in-a-million kind of love that she’d dreamed about, but s
he had cared for him. Only after she’d learned about his betrayal and done some serious soul-searching had she realized how one-sided their relationship had always been. She’d taken care of him.
But what had he done to take care of her?
Oh, the sex had been fine. Great, actually, because she took what she wanted and expected nothing less than ultimate pleasure from her partner. But Andy had always wanted to be used and humiliated. That had been his kink. He’d wanted to sleep on the floor. He’d wanted her to treat him more like a dog than a sub. And like a good dominant who cared about her submissive, she’d adjusted to make sure his needs were met. That was her job.
Job.
Not love. Certainly not marriage.
She watched the cop whirl hard on his heel to stomp in the other direction and she couldn’t help but feel selfish. If she’d dreamed up the perfect challenge for herself, the kind of sub she’d never thought to meet in her life, it was him. Wild, uncontrolled, not submissive in the traditional sense, Colby managed to hit every single one of her buttons and leave her panting for more.
And she hadn’t even played with him yet. Not really.
Even more, he needed help. Help only she could give. Unfortunately, that meant he’d probably walk as soon as she’d helped him through his sexual issues, but she’d sure have a grand time helping him find as much satisfaction as he could stand. Because she had no doubts whatsoever that she could satisfy him over, and over, and over. If she’d dared touch him beneath the table tonight, he would have spurted all over the white linen tablecloth.
He whirled again and strode straight toward her, hands clenched, lips drawn back from his teeth in a vicious snarl. She didn’t move or react, holding her ground and willing him to settle down for her.
Breathing hard, he stood before her. “What is that crate for? Tell me, damn it.”
Gently, gently, she reminded herself. When she wanted to seize his lapels and drag him down to drink all that glorious fury from his lips. “That kennel is Pumpkin’s. He wouldn’t take too kindly to anyone else using it.”
His eyes blazed, his nostrils flaring as he shifted from outraged male ego to straight-up jealousy. “Who the fuck is Pumpkin?”
Tipping the bottle, she took several long swallows of hard cider, making him wait. Stewing a little would be good for him.
“Mal…” he growled warningly.
Which only made her purr. She stepped closer to him, ignoring the hard look in his eyes, the threat of his clenched hands. She leaned up like she wanted to whisper something into his ear, and he automatically leaned down toward her. Such a good boy, though she didn’t say that aloud for fear of riling him up again. “Pumpkin is Mama’s Pomeranian.”
4
Standing there like a damned fool with a size thirteen boot shoved in his mouth, Colby squeezed his eyes shut and hoped the hardwood floor would open up and swallow him whole. He felt off balance, off kilter, tipped wildly off his axis. If she put a finger on his chest and pushed, he’d just topple to the ground. He wasn’t normally a man who jumped to ridiculous conclusions. Not that she’d believe him now.
“Mama travels a lot now that she’s retired, and I usually keep her dog. Though Pumpkin really doesn’t like me much.”
He didn’t know what to say, afraid to say something else stupid. He couldn’t imagine anyone not liking her, even a dog. “Maybe he doesn’t like the crate either.”
Laughing softly, she turned away a moment and set the bottles down on top of a dresser, and then her hands were on his chest, his shoulders, like she was measuring him to see if he’d fit in that little crate. He barely heard the sound of a zipper. “Let’s go ahead and get this out of the way first.”
It didn’t dawn on him that had been his zipper until her hand slid down the front of his boxers. Her fingers wrapped around his dick and every muscle in his body tensed, vibrating with intensity. His brain short circuited. He heard someone babbling but couldn’t shut himself up to save his life.
“Christ, fuck, oh shit. Oh fuck. Mal.”
Her teeth nipped playfully at his throat again and his body detonated. He came so hard he tasted blood. Spasm after spasm rocked him back on his heels. Gasping, he clutched at her blindly, trying to stay on his feet.
“I’ve got you, sugar.”
It should have shamed him, a full-grown man trembling and panting, holding onto a woman for dear life. But all he wanted to do was fall down to his knees. Which would have tickled her pink.
She had no idea what this meant to him. That he could come again… That he could be a man again…
“When’s the last time you came?”
He blinked, trying to focus on her. “That hard? Years.” Never. He swallowed hard, searching her face for her reaction. She didn’t seem pissed he’d come so easily and quickly. She didn’t seem to doubt his story that probably seemed pretty far-fetched when a simple caress was enough to make him blow his load. “I’m feeling like I should apologize.”
Her eyes flared and she laughed, shaking her head. “Sugar, that was the best thing I’ve seen in a long, long time.”
He couldn’t help but frown with worry. “What if I can’t do it again? I don’t want to let you down in that department.”
Her eyes gleamed, full of wicked secrets as she untied the sash about her waist. “I’m not worried.”
“You aren’t?”
Her left hand cupped his balls and his thighs quivered. Butter soft leather slid beneath his sack and his softened dick, until his junk was tied up in a neat little package. Just snug enough to stay on. Until… if… he managed to get hard again. Then it would be way too tight. Which would be…
Interesting. To say the least.
If nothing else, he would feel.
I can’t wait.
“What am I supposed to call you?” His voice sounded strange, distant and hesitant. Weak. He didn’t like it. So he put some force into it. “I suppose you want me to call you Mistress.”
“Mal is fine.” She slid her arms around him, pushing the waistband of his pants out of her way so they started to slide down his thighs. Her hand gripped his buttock hard enough that her nails pricked his skin. It made him jolt against her like a skittish colt. “Still good?”
His dick stirred and his eyes burned. Joy, hope, relief. Too much to contain. “Yeah,” he said a little too raggedly.
“When it’s not good, then tell me blackberry. Or red, if that’s easier. Red’s the universal safeword in my world. I’ll stop immediately.”
He searched her face, relieved that she gave him a graceful way to escape… but also terrified. If he walked away, would he ever feel like a man again? Could any other woman do for him what she’d just done? “I walk, it’s over?”
“Safewording isn’t walking out the door forever. Safeword just stops today. We can do something else tomorrow. It’s safe, literally. If you don’t feel good, we don’t do it. Any dom who kicks a sub out because they safeword out of a scene ought to be banned from our community for good.”
He took a deep breath, relieved that it wouldn’t be over if she pushed him too hard out of his comfort zone.
She stepped back so she could look him over like was a prime cut of beefsteak at the meat counter. Pride made him widen his stance, at least as much as he could with his pants around his ankles.
“Nice, very nice indeed.” She walked around him, trailing her fingers down his thigh, then back up to cup his buttock again in a very gentle squeeze. Right before she slapped his other butt cheek hard enough to make him jump. He almost fell with his pants tying him up. “Why don’t you show me those tats you mentioned?”
He’d been unable to take off his shirt for the commercial for fear someone on the force would recognize him. Kicking his pants and boxers off, he shrugged out of the suit coat, careful not to split a seam. He really needed to buy another, but he hated to waste good money on something he rarely wore. “Mal?”
“Yeah, sugar?”
Her voice see
med further away, so he turned and watched her sit on her bed, sliding back to lean against the pillows, though propped up like she was ready for a good show. He probably looked ridiculous, pants-less with cowboy boots, a dress shirt, and tie. With a big yellow bow holding his junk. But somehow he couldn’t make himself care. “When do I get to eat you?”
Now that’s what a Mistress liked to hear. She gave him a sultry wink and let her right hand settle on her stomach suggestively. “Let’s get you undressed first.”
A button popped off in his haste to yank the dress shirt over his head without bothering to unbutton it all the way. He wore a white tee underneath it, and as she’d seen at VCONN, no ink was visible. He stripped the white cotton off and she gasped.
So much ink. Up and down both shoulders, across his chest, his ribs, both black and color. Then he sat on the edge of the bed to jerk off his boots and socks, and she found more ink on his back. “You’ve got a whole book written on your skin.”
“Like I said, there’s no mistaking me once you see the tats.” Finally nude, he turned to face her.
She sat up and traced the eagle wings that trailed down his shoulder, so well done that she could almost feel the feathers. All that ink almost distracted her from the sheer muscle beneath his skin. He was rock hard, lean, not an ounce of fat on him. Plenty of strength to test her.
Plenty of strength to plow into her as hard as she wanted.
He dropped a big palm on her knee. She punished him with a sharp dig of her nails into his pecs.
“Ow.”
“Rule number one: the Mistress puts her body where she wants it. The sub doesn’t touch her unless explicitly ordered to.”
“I’m undressed as you asked.”
“Rule number two: the Mistress doesn’t ask. She orders.”
His eyes narrowed to slits and he leaned in closer. “So order me already.”
“Patience, sugar. We’ve got all night to play.”
“I don’t want to wait all night to get a taste of you.”
The Connaghers Series Boxed Set Page 88