Soul Rest: A Knights of the Board Room Novel

by Hill, Joey W.

  The room erupted in hoots and general comments. As Leland gave the man a good-natured shove, he let out a breath. The opening had been convenient, but he was bemused by the shot of nerves that had gone through him right before taking it. Before he’d gone out on patrol, he’d talked to his lieutenant and Captain Teller, the assistant district commander, about the subject, because no way was he going to be seen dating a reporter and have any nasty speculation reflect on the district or BRPD in general. The captain had been cool about it. He’d known Leland long enough to trust him to stay within regulations on the information he’d share—or rather, not share—with Celeste.

  But he’d found even the higher-ups had a good opinion of her, and that had weighed in his favor as well. Apparently her intention to send info to Marquez wasn’t the first time she’d given tips that were useful. He found himself absurdly proud to hear the detectives felt she had good instincts. “She thinks like a detective,” Captain Teller said. “She finds patterns, looks for things that don’t fit.” Because she tried to work with the police if they asked her to hold a story until they could take the advantage her information might give them on solving the crime or apprehending the perpetrator, there were times the PIO gave her an early heads-up on statements, just to show appreciation. Respect went both ways.

  It was a good thing the captain hadn’t had any objections to Leland seeing her, because he wouldn’t have been able to stay away from her regardless. When he’d closed his hand around himself in the shower this morning, he’d come in a matter of seconds, just by thinking of her in her thin tank, the bra beneath it doing nothing to hide the stiffness of her nipples, the generous size of her breasts. Her ass had been drum tight in her thin jeans, those tempting cheeks rubbing against him when he brought her to climax. The way she’d melted against him, letting him take her over during the flow of the Ichinawa session, had cinched it. He had her scent in his nose, the feel of her tingling against his palms. When he’d told her how many ways he planned to take her when they got to that point, she’d stopped breathing. He’d wanted to bite those lush lips, bring back that hazy, disoriented look. He wanted to hold her in his arms again.

  Well, he’d have to make do holding her during a Texas waltz, because he had to keep it slow with her, at least in the sex department. As far as the emotional connection, he didn’t think the two of them could go any faster if they jumped into a rocket headed for the moon. They’d seen each other twice before, yet this third time, she’d come to him, knelt on the floor at his command, trembled when he first touched her. Part of that was the Dom/sub thing, and her starting to embrace it again after her long hiatus. However, while she might not appreciate the comparison, certain breeds of dogs were known for their penchant to bond with one person only. Certain subs could be that way as well.

  She was tricky, complicated, and the demons jumped right to the surface with the barest of triggers. There was no manual for dealing with that. It was all intuition, which was why the right kind of Dom had to handle her. He was determined to be that Master. Her Master. When she’d said that word to him, in a whisper that was hardly more than an exhaled breath, he’d almost missed it, but then it had hit him like a Taser in the chest.

  Yeah, it was pretty soon for that reaction. Or maybe it was just in time. As Mike said, it had been a long dry run, but it had been that way for a reason. Leland knew what he wanted, and he was pretty damn sure he’d found her. The potential was there for her as well. He just had to figure out a way to convince her. Otherwise, he’d be the one with a restraining order filed against his ass. Though he expected his girl wasn’t the restraining order type. She was far more likely to put a knife in him as her keep the fuck away from me message.

  It was one of the things he liked about her. And that made him worry. He thought about her toe-to-toe with Dogboy and frowned. They were going to talk about that. Count on it.

  §

  It had been forty-eight hours. She shouldn’t be so worked up that every phallic object in the house looked appealing. Fortunately none of them were nearly as appealing as the actual phallic object she wanted. It was her own fault. Once again she hadn’t let herself touch her vibrator, though the fucking man hadn’t said a fucking word about using her fucking vibrator. But she remembered those forced orgasms, so excruciating. It had been unforgettable, yet also a torment, one she didn’t necessarily wanted to repeat.

  She also wanted more than his cock. She wanted his warm, hard body stretched out on top of her, spreading her legs with his hips. He’d thrust deep inside her as she held on and lost herself in the look in his golden eyes. That look that said he wanted her, would have her, would keep her. It was that which would carry her to climax, as much as anything he did to her physically. It was a far cry from anything she’d ever thought she’d want from a man. Or could have, rather.

  She’d sent him five texts in the past twenty-four hours.

  Not going. Can’t. Have conflict. We’ll do it another time. Forget it.

  He’d sent the same response every time.

  See you at eight.

  She’d fired back her typical knee-jerk answers.

  Jerk. Asshole. Hard head.

  He had a response for that one.

  And that ain’t all…

  That had made her snort on a laugh. The man was impossible. But here she was, dressed to impress and coming out the door of her small rental house as he pulled up. She’d been watching for him, because she knew he was the type who would come to her door, and she hadn’t had a chance to clean the disaster zone in which she lived. After seeing his military-neat domicile, no way in hell was he coming into her space until she could tackle it with a leaf blower and a sandblaster.

  Confirming her suspicions about his courtly manners, he was already out of the truck and headed toward her as she was descending the stairs from the front porch. Nothing said class like a man coming to the door to escort a woman out on a date. A guy pulling up and laying down on the horn of his muscle car while swigging his first beer of the night had pretty much been the story of her teenaged dating life, such that almost twenty years later, she could still keenly appreciate the opposite.

  She looked up from the stairs to give him a pleasant greeting and came to a full stop on the middle step. She didn’t trust her footing, not while looking at him.

  He looked like a man who planned to spend the evening at a country-western bar. He should have looked ridiculous, like he needed a loaded holster and a sheriff’s star pinned to his shirt. That was what she told herself, an unsuccessful self-defense mechanism. His black shirt with pearl snap buttons was open at the throat, and his dark-blue jeans fit in a way that made her mouth go dry. His belt had one of those large silver buckles. Not rodeo award huge, like the size of a dinner plate, but big enough that when he walked, it added an intriguing twitch of motion to the roll of his hips, the long-legged stride, all of which drew her gaze to the impressively packaged groin area. It left no doubt there was plenty there to keep a woman occupied. That sexy walk was emphasized by black-and-tan cowboy boots, tucked up under the jeans. The black shirt had tan embroidery on the edges of the pockets. He was wearing an honest-to-God cowboy hat. Tan with a black braid band.

  “I’m having a flashback to Blazing Saddles,” she managed.

  “’Scuse me while I whip this out?”

  She burst out laughing and, just like that, it was okay. It might just be her mercurial moods, but she thought it had more to do with him. The nervousness she’d carried around with her since the Ichinawa, and all the doubts and insecurities that had crowded into her head tonight, putting her out of sorts and making her send the panicky texts, drained away. He was standing on the walkway below her, his height putting them eye level. She reached for him, curled her arms around his shoulders. He obliged, putting his foot on the step beside her and closing her in his arms, squeezing her and lifting her off her feet in a warm embrace, a hug that was sexy and reassuring at once. She pressed her cheek to his, tuck
ing her head under the brim of the hat. When he eased back, one of those hands dropped to cover her buttock. She lifted a brow.

  “Getting awful proprietary about my ass, just assuming you can handle it whenever.”

  “Don’t see you denying it, darlin’.” He grinned at her. He put her back on the step, taking both of her hands as he gave her a once-over. “Damn. I was really looking forward to seeing that tie-dye and Birkenstock combination, but I’ll make do with this.”

  “I figured.” She gave a self-conscious chuckle as he lifted one set of clasped hands, freeing his other to lay it at her waist and turn her in a circle, showing his desire to see all of her. She really didn’t have any “Western” wear, but she figured what she’d put together would do. His appreciative look told her she’d succeeded. Her pale gold Planet Hollywood baby doll tee was printed with a pair of brown angel wings that ran up from her waist over her breasts and framed the vee neckline. She’d put that over a brown short skirt and a pair of ankle boots with gold tips and a decorative buckle. She wore a faux-suede choker with several bands and a seashell pendant to go with antique gold star studs in her double pierced ears. In her left ear, which had another star in the upper curve, the two lobe stars were connected by a delicate gold chain. His fingers went there, tracing it, teasing the chain. She dipped her head toward him, her hand resting on his chest.

  “I’d say you’re getting used to your Master’s touch, Celeste. Wanting more of it, aren’t you?”

  “I think so.” Her heart started thumping erratically when she didn’t deny that possessive. Your Master. Tonight his eyes reminded her of desert sands, the different golds and browns on a Nevada landscape. She’d never been out to Vegas, but she’d looked at pictures on the Internet.

  He scooped her off the stoop, bearing her weight on his hip to set her on her feet on the walkway. Tucking her hand into his elbow, he led her to the truck. “You have a nice place,” he commented.

  Nice because her rent included outdoor maintenance. Her landlord sent over a company to mow, trim, repair and pressure wash when needed. Things she was never home long enough or in daylight to do. “It’s a good space to work and sleep.”

  “So are you in a twelve-step program for the workaholism?”

  “I can stop anytime I want,” she deadpanned, and pushed at him when he pinched her. “Says the cop. There’s a real nine-to-five job.”

  “Hey, I was just checking to see if you wanted to join my support group. We can neck in the back of the room during the testimonials.” He opened the door and helped her up into the truck.

  A cluster of wildflowers were arranged in a vase tucked into the cup holder. She fingered them as he came around, got in the truck. “Are these for one of those cowgirls? Your booty call after you drop me off tonight?”

  She expected him to continue in the same teasing vein, but instead he reached over, touched her face, skimming his knuckles along her jaw. “They’re for you.”

  She drew back from that look in his eyes. Looked down at her hands as he closed his door. She started, not expecting it when he leaned over her. He pulled the seatbelt down over her, buckled it securely, his fingers sliding along the strap that ran between her breasts, giving her collarbone a caress before he returned to his side of the truck. She’d forgotten her seatbelt and rather than reminding her, he’d done it himself. Keeping her safe.

  Or buckling her in before a bumpy ride.

  “I can’t stop myself from messing things up, you know,” she said to her hands. “I know that sounds pathetic.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” As he pulled away from the curb, he reached over, captured her hand while he drove one-handed. “We’ll talk about all that later. Right now, simple questions, simple answers. Do you like the flowers?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your favorite kind?”

  “These.” Because it was the first time anyone had given her flowers. Her eyes stayed on them because the passing city lights cut through the darkness of the cab, highlighting the colors.

  Thanks to its humidity, Baton Rouge had fairly good stretches of decently warm weather in the fall, mixed with the cooler temps, but since it was closing in on November, she wondered how he’d found such a diversity of wildflowers. But she didn’t ask. Magic didn’t need to be explained.

  When they pulled into the parking lot of Darla’s Roadhouse, she saw it had an unassuming look, just a brown building covered with weathered wood siding, making it look like a run-down barn. There appeared to be a modest-sized crowd for a Wednesday night. “I expected you’d be taking me to The Texas Club,” she said.

  “This place is smaller and less rowdy. Here I usually don’t have to break up a fight or arrest anyone.”

  “So you didn’t bring your cuffs?”

  “When I’m off duty, there’s only one reason I pull those out, darlin’.” The lights of the neon sign outside the bar washed his golden skin in red, flashing off his piercing eyes. Then he was out of the truck. As she reached for the handle, he made a quelling noise. “Un-unh. Stay there.”

  She let herself stroke the flowers as he crossed in front of the truck to come and open her door, hand her out. When he walked them toward the entrance, he had his arm around her waist, and the only logical place for her arm was around his. She hooked her thumb in his thick belt, and felt the ripple of muscle under her touch as they walked together, their hips creating a pleasurable friction.

  Leaning down, he brushed her ear with his lips. “Tell me what you’re wearing under your clothes, Celeste.”

  “A thong. Pale gold, like my bra. Lots of silk and lace, very little fabric.”

  He chuckled at that, nipped the chain between the gold studs, tugged on it. “Just keep teasing me, darlin’. Friday I’ll have you at my mercy.”

  Her mouth went too dry to say anything to that, but they were in the lobby then, and he was occupied with paying the cover charge. He was obviously a regular, because the thin, tall fiftyish man in Western-style jeans and plaid shirt taking his money greeted Leland by name and gave her a speculative but friendly look.

  When Leland pushed through the double doors to the main area, she saw a long polished bar with various metal and wood signs over it that fit the décor. Cow Crossing, the Bar Q Ranch, Truck Stop Ahead – Free Showers. Mounted horns from longhorn cows, photographs of Western life from the 1800s. An assortment of antique guns. Black and white framed prints of James Arness, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood. All signed.

  The playbills on the door had given the schedule for weekend live music performances, but tonight there was a DJ playing popular country tunes. About fifty couples rotated on the dance floor in various set dance routines, giving her butterflies. She could gyrate properly when dancing was called for, but she didn’t know any formal dances.

  Leland’s hand was low on her back, though, fingertips tucked into the waistband of her skirt while he stroked her hip with his thumb, making her body tingle. He leaned up against the bar and lifted two fingers, catching the attention of the bartender, a lush thirty-something with blue eyes that lighted at the sight of him. She had a riot of red and gold hair piled on her head and a generous bosom enhanced by a sparkly T-shirt. “Your usual, sugar?” she asked. Then her gaze tipped over to Celeste. “Well, sakes alive, miracles do happen, don’t they? Or is this one related to you, too?”

  She gave Celeste a wink as she moved in their direction. “Last time he brought a woman here, it was his sister. She didn’t count.”

  Celeste grinned. “Until I met him, I thought I was the only one who’d given up dating for the twenty-first century.”

  “I hear you, honey. Ain’t enough good ones out there worth leaving home most nights. You might have snagged yourself one of them, though. Hold on a second.”

  Tossing her towel over her shoulder, the bartender nodded to another man calling out an order. Pulling out a frosted beer mug from the well, she ran it under the beer tap and slid it to him with a deft push that took it eight fe
et down the polished wood. Then she closed the distance to Leland and Celeste.

  “We’re not related, Margie,” Leland said dryly. “As if her lack of tan didn’t give it away.”

  “I don’t profile.” The bartender gave him a sassy wink. “What’ll you have, handsome?”

  “My usual.” He looked at Celeste. “What would you like?”

  You. For tonight to go well. For me not to fuck everything up. I want to stop worrying that I’m going to fuck it up. “Bud Light.”

  As the bartender pulled their order, Celeste leaned against the bar, looked around. “You know, speaking of tanning, there aren’t a lot of black people here. Like maybe none. The guy in that back corner is debatable, but I think he just hasn’t had a bath in a while.”

  Leland nudged her with his hip. “All you need to be accepted here is an appreciation of real country. The only time they threatened to throw me out was when I sang Toby Keith on karaoke night.”

  “That bad?”

  “No, honey.” Margie slid Leland his beer from the tap and placed Celeste’s bottle of Bud Light in front of her. “That good. Made a lot of girls rethink the dates they came with that night.” She winked. “White boys already feel threatened by black men. You know why? They have bigger peckers and can dance.”

  Celeste choked on the first swallow of her beer. Leland helpfully snagged it from her hand and rubbed her back as the bartender left them to handle the next order. When Celeste could breathe, she gave Leland a look.

  “Does she have firsthand experience on the non-dancing part of that statement?”

  “Not from me. But it’s God’s honest truth. You could put it in your blog.”

  “It’s speculation.” She sniffed. “And the source isn’t solid. She’s hoping for a big tip.”

  “You keep telling yourself that. It’s as much speculation as saying the sky’s blue.”