by Joey W. Hill
"I'd like to thank you properly," she said, staring at that hand. "May I ask your name? Or do you prefer Master Craftsman?" She knew Jimmy had meant it as a joke, a teasing nickname, but it was all she had.
"Hardly. Do you feel Lady Mistress is a good fit for you?"
"It was, once." She spoke before she thought about the wisdom of saying so, but watching him had brought such thoughts to the surface, hadn't it? Her legs were trembling again, and her grip slipped on the door frame. "Damn it."
"Ease in there." He moved the purse to the floor and folded her firmly into the passenger seat. She'd lost her shoes during the scuffle, but he had them. He placed them neatly by her feet. Her toes curled into the rug, the rougher fibers a contrast with the silk of her nylons.
He shut the door, then came around to the driver's side. He reached beneath the seat to slide it back and accommodate his larger frame before he took the spot. Her purse was still on the console, her keys in the ignition, so he turned the engine over, adjusting the air so a low heat began to fill the car. Though it was a warm enough night in New Orleans, she was shivering. Shock, she supposed, and watched him press the seat warmer for the passenger side. It warmed both the back and backside, and she couldn't help a small sigh of comfort when it responded quickly. German luxury cars were a gift of the gods.
Her dashboard GPS came up, and he glanced at it, pressing the icon programmed for home. Just like that, he had her address. She wasn't that concerned about it, because he didn't feel like a threat. Not that way. Her gaze fastened onto his forearm, that dark sprinkle of hair. Lifting her attention to the silver hair at his temples, she reached out, touched it.
Those intent eyes locked with hers in a way that made her close her hand, lower it with only a brief impression of the soft texture. He held her gaze, unsmiling, until she put the hand back in her lap. She could almost hear the click, the connection made, a mutual understanding of their behavior. His wasn't a surprise to her, not after having watched him in the club. But his reacting that way now told her he wasn't simply a bedroom Dom, one demanding those terms in the boundaries of a defined session, a sexual scenario. Few men had the confidence to pull it off believably outside a structured environment.
That intel, rather than suggesting she might act with more caution around him, gave her far more unwise thoughts and desires.
If her reaction had surprised him, given that she was classified as a Domme, he didn't show it. "I'm taking you home," he said, "and then I'll call a cab to get me back to my place. I came with a friend tonight, so I don't have my truck here. Take a hot shower tonight and a couple aspirin. It'll make you feel better tomorrow."
"Voice of experience?" Her tongue seemed to be too thick in her mouth. "That didn't seem like your first fis-fisticuffs."
His lips quirked again. "Fisticuffs? Really? Are you a librarian?"
"Do I look like one?"
"Depends." His gaze covered her, head to toe, and he took his time about it. "I've had some interesting fantasies about librarians. The kind where I bend them over a stack of books and discipline them with a nice flexible paperback for shushing me one too many times."
Was he trying to steady her with the teasing? Giving him a silly smile, she leaned forward and put her finger to her lips, trying to summon a suitably stern librarian expression. "Shh."
He closed his hand over hers and brought the one finger to his lips, brushing a kiss over the pad. They knew what type of animal they each were, and they'd met through a sexually focused club, so this type of flirtation was meaningless. Two Doms teasing one another with no intent to engage. Except as he continued to hold her wrist, his eyes became more serious, while her fingers loosened, becoming more pliant.
"The name doesn't fit anymore, does it?" he asked. "That's what you were saying."
She swallowed, sat back. As she did, he let her slide free. She looked out the window. She'd been maudlin earlier. Sad, Jimmy had called it, but still dangerously mawkish. Now was not a time to make impetuous decisions. "You don't need to take me home. Use the car to go back to your own place, and by that time I'll be steady enough to drive. No sense in inconveniencing you by trying to get a cab out to my place this time of night."
When he said nothing, she settled deeper into the seat, closed her eyes, and crossed her arms over herself. "All right?"
"You're no inconvenience. And I'll see how you're doing when we get to my place. My name is Dale. Dale Rousseau."
"Rousseau." She smiled, eyes still closed. The warmth of the car was making her drowsy. Her trembling had stopped. Things were slowing down again, the fog returning. "'Nothing is less in our power than the heart, and far from commanding, we are forced to obey it.'"
"Intriguing choice. 'To live is not merely to breathe; it is to act; it is to make use of our organs, senses, faculties--of all those parts of ourselves which give us the feeling of existence.'"
"A Master who knows his Rousseau. Thank you, Dale."
She wasn't sure if she was thanking him for knowing Rousseau, for driving her home or for rescuing her from the two thugs, but it didn't matter. A lady always offered her thanks for a kindness, and so far he'd been nothing but kind.
It just showed the depths of her capricious mood that she yearned for the part of him she'd seen earlier in the evening--when he'd been far less kind.
Author of the Knights of the Board Room and the Vampire Queen series, as well as Naughty Bits and the standalone novel, Unrestrained, Joey W. Hill's work has received top picks and acclaim from numerous popular book review and reader sites. She has been awarded the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award in Erotica and is an RWA Holt Medallion winner.
Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!