Natural Law

by Joey W. Hill

  She had eaten four bites of the most incredible pasta she'd ever tasted before she realized he wasn't eating.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "Nothing. Do you like it?"

  The corner of her mouth lifted. "It's wonderful. Did you poison it? Is that why you're not having any?"

  He smiled, did not touch his fork. "I would not presume to eat until my Mistress permits it, and until I'm certain the meal is to her satisfaction."

  She nodded. She put another bite to her lips, her body roiling at the sight of him, waiting on her will, his food untouched, capable hands lying flat on either side of the plate, his chest moving with even breaths. His eyes watched her every movement, lingered on her lips as they became glossed with the light oil on the pasta.

  "God, you are too much," she murmured. "Eat." Before I leap over the table and eat you alive.

  "So, can you tell me why you aren't married now?" She covered his hand when she asked and he turned it over, lacing his fingers with hers. "Is it the job?"

  He picked up his fork, so he wasn't looking at her when he shook his head. "It's hard for someone like me to make a go of it with a woman without her knowing coming in what I want, the sub angle. I've tried to have relationships without it and it doesn't work. Whether it's an unhealthy craving, or an obsession, I don't know. I guess you'd have the same trouble finding men out there who want you to tie them up and slap them around."

  "Why do you think I went into law enforcement?" she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You're not giving me the total truth, Mac."

  He raised his gaze and she held it, steady, unwavering, waiting him out. She saw the annoyance rise, then recede, become rueful resignation. She could almost see him weigh every option to evade the question, discard it. She decided to push a little. "I figured it was primarily the job that's kept you closed off from women. It's obvious there's a lot of anger in you."

  He shrugged, lifted his wineglass. "Only when the Buccaneers piss away a game."

  "Hmm. From everything you've told me, it sounds like you did a pretty good stint in undercover work, before you went public and then made Detective. I've read the articles. Undercover cops have difficulty reintegrating into life. It takes some of them years. They develop paranoia. Control issues. They avoid committed relationships, because they spin so fast from marriage to divorce it's not worth the effort. They can't share everything they've experienced, so it poisons them from the inside, unless they find a way to deal with it, share it. Just like soldiers." She didn't play with the stem of her wineglass or pick up her fork, kept him pinned under her relentless gaze. "Now you've chosen to go undercover again."

  "I cook. I have hobbies. I enjoy trawling places like True Blue and The Zone, getting a couple nights of release here and there." His eyes glinted. "That's how I get the shit out of my system that collects from the job. I'm not a stereotype, sugar."

  "Don't get mean with me, Mackenzie," she said mildly, but she put a warning in her eyes that was unmistakable. "You know, I went online. Couldn't find anything about you, but I scoured a lot of stuff about police activity in Tampa, hoping to find a mention of you. I found an interesting photograph from a crime scene. It was a cop coming out of a sewer, one arm broken, dragging a body with him by the other. You couldn't really see his face, except for this one eye, because it just so happened his head was turned halfway toward the camera. They didn't name the officer."

  Mac changed position again. "Well, that day sucked."

  "You darken out the rest of that picture, that guy with all that deadly fury in his face could have been a Viking raider from centuries ago."

  "Now you're romanticizing."

  "I'm a woman," she smiled. "I'm allowed. But I'm also a cop, and I could tell that if you ever seriously pissed that guy off, there would be nothing, not an AK47, not a tank, that would stop him from rolling right over you. I've seen some of that fury come out in you, when I've pushed your buttons. But you know how to hold it back."

  She cocked her head. "You're not what I expected, in a lot of ways."

  "Being violent is easy, too easy," he brushed it off. "Holding back, being gentle, restraining your strength when it's not needed, that takes -"

  "Character," she said. "Loads of it."

  The tension lessened between them somewhat, especially when she reached out, covered his hand with both of hers.

  "A good Mistress has to know how to do the same," he murmured. "So you should know."

  "Mackenzie." She wanted more than that from him, so she waited him out.

  He blew out a breath. "Jesus, you're like a terrier. I've seen a lot of things." He moved restlessly. "It's difficult to open up when you see what we see. Too many cops like me do the double life thing with spouses, and it tears them apart. I couldn't do it. Didn't want it. Especially if kids got involved."

  He paused. "This is hard to talk about, Violet...Mistress. Can we...what was it that kept you from being married?"

  She toyed with his fingers, felt his tension vibrating through his touch and made the decision to ease back for the moment, since he'd made the effort. "Okay. Why I'm not married." She lifted a shoulder. "Most guys think you're asking them to turn into, what did you call it? A pony? And I guess some Mistresses are looking for that, a Mother-son fetish thing. But I wanted a man, not a boy. I wanted the hardest bronc to ride." She leaned forward, her eyes covering his gleaming shoulders, the flat nipples, the tight line of hair down his sectioned stomach to the waistband of the jeans. Her hand reached out, traced a scar on his collarbone. "Not because someone had a cruel strap tightened on his balls or was digging into him with spurs to make him buck, torturing him into ferocity. I wanted the horse that was going to make me earn the right to the ride. I wanted to tame my slave, not have him come housebroken."

  He met her halfway, captured her face in a hand that was a little too strong, too forceful in its grip. "Well sugar, you don't get much more unhousebroken than the 'pit bull who runs the yard'."

  Her blood ran hot at the look in his eyes, the challenge, the invitation to play. With him, she sensed it would always be this way, the periodic reminder that she hadn't taken on a groomed pet, but a volatile, complicated man with alpha stamped all over him. And that was part of the excitement she hadn't known she craved.

  "Arrogant stud," she agreed. She pulled her face from his grasp, put her hand on his chest, applied pressure. "Lean back in your chair. Spread open your legs so I can see that impressive package of yours."

  He grinned, a show of teeth. "Make me, sugar."

  The first night, it had been a challenge, a proving of her worth. It was still that, but tonight there was a playfulness to it that stirred her blood almost as much, mainly because she knew beneath it he was still testing her. She had rattled him, shoved him off his foundation at Tyler's, and she'd unbalanced him further, by making him as a cop when he hadn't had a clue that she'd been one. And now, forcing a partial confession of what had held him from opening up for a woman. The alpha in him was still trying to figure out where he could one-up her.

  She sat back in the chair and smoothly crossed her legs, raised her fingers to the tiny row of buttons at the top of the modest neckline.

  "You know why you didn't make me as a cop, Mackenzie?" One button flicked open.

  "Why?" He had picked up his wine glass again, but she noticed he didn't drink. She took two more buttons through their eyelets, spread the fabric so the valley between the rise of her breasts was visible. Ran her fingers lightly over the visible curve. He swallowed.

  "You're a male, chauvinist...pig." Three more buttons and she caressed the full breast, tracing one finger down the milky crescent, playing with the nipple beneath the fabric. He adjusted his seat and she tilted her head, deliberately studying the swelling going on beneath that zipper, the straining inseam where his testicles were fighting for room in diminishing capacity.

  "You support women being cops, judges, but when the bullets are flying, you're wish
ing like hell there were no women around. It drives you crazy that you can't order them all back. You want a woman to dominate you in the bedroom, but you feel it's a man's responsibility to protect a woman, keep her safe from harm. It's a paradox only a Mistress could understand. A woman who understands you. You want to see how hard my nipples are now, aching for your touch, your mouth?"

  "Yes," he rasped.

  "Then sit back, spread your knees open, and stroke that long hard ridge in your pants for me. Masturbate yourself through your jeans. I want to see your hips move, thrust in your hand, slow, like you want to fuck me."

  "Let me fuck you now."

  "Not the way it works, Mackenzie. Obey me." She sharpened her tone, and he leaned back, watching the play of her hand over herself the whole time as he opened his knees, stretching the fabric tight over himself so she saw the long length of him testing it further. His hand moved over it, hesitated, then he began to stroke himself as she'd commanded.

  "Yes," she purred. "That's it." She opened the dress to her waist, giving her more room, allowing him see the shape of her fingers kneading her breast, tightening on the nipple beneath the thin cloth. She arched, letting out a breath as she kept her gaze on his hand, sliding down over himself and back up, the way a man did, his eyes hot for her. His long legs were stretched out on either side of hers, one beneath the table, one out by her chair, and with her other hand, she reached down, slid a hand up his thigh, tightened her grip on it.

  "Unzip your pants," she murmured. "Take them to your knees, so I can see you hold your cock in your hand. Jerk off for me."

  "Let me please you with it, instead."

  "Do what I tell you and it might get to bury itself in my pussy. But I want you close to exploding, Mackenzie. Show me how much you want me."

  His hands went to his waist and he slipped the button, slowly took down the zipper. He had to rise out of the chair to obey, for the pants were that tight, and she enjoyed watching the undulation of his hips, the careful maneuverings necessary to wriggle out of them, push them to his knees. He sat back down, his cock ramrod straight between his thighs, and his hand went back to it. She could almost feel the heat emanating off of it, and her pussy wept for it.

  You'll just have to wait, girl. Waiting is part of the fun.

  "Good," she said. "Very good. Keep fucking yourself."

  She removed her hand, slowly did the buttons up back to her throat. Her nipples remain high and taut against the shirt of the dress, holding his attention. With deliberate, casual movements, she cut herself a slice of the chocolate torte waiting in the center of the table. Laid down the knife. Licked one finger. Glanced casually over him to make sure he was obeying her.

  Lifting the saucer, she settled back with it and her fork, and took off a small bite, all the while watching him perform for her.

  "Tell me what you want, Mackenzie. No posturings. Tell me what's going through that male chauvinist mind of yours. Keep it going."

  His hips pumped forward with his motions, and she could hear the faint slap of his ass against the slick surface of the chair as he thrust up through his fist. She knew her feigned indifference was increasing his desire and his frustration. She was lightly perspiring herself. He slipped his grip down, the loose skin stretching over that long, tall organ. She held the bite of chocolate up to her nose, deeply inhaling the scent of it, and getting that peculiar, heady musk of the male erection with the aroma.

  "I want to ram myself into your wet pussy," he said, low, so she almost couldn't make out the words, just the guttural threat. "I want to bend you over this table, ruck up your skirt and fuck your ass for making me do this in front of you. I want you under me. I want to feel your body squirming beneath me, your legs locked around my hips. I want you wet and begging me to make you come. I want to own you, body and soul, the way you own me."

  Violet blinked. A slow, controlled opening and closing of her lids. It took her a moment to remember she had cake on her fork. She opened her mouth, took it in, and knew this was the most incredible feast her senses had ever been offered, the light chocolate cream in her mouth, the scent in her nose, and the visual feast he made before her.

  She separated the remaining cake from the cream and used her fingers to collect it. "Stop," she ordered. "Put your hands behind you and cup them under. Hold your ass, one hand on each cheek, hard and tight, the way I'd hold it. And don't let go, no matter what."

  It took him a moment to obey, his expression heavy and dangerous, hungry. Well, she was hungry, too.

  When he finally obeyed, she leaned forward and began to smear the gnoche on his cock. The tip, the sides, the area of his clean-shaven balls. He had obeyed her to the letter, his scrotum and pubic area clean except for one neatly trimmed triangle just above his cock.

  He groaned as she put methodical care into it, going back to the plate to get more of the gnoche until his cock was slathered in it. Then she rose, took up her cloth napkin, and blindfolded him with it. The muscles in his shoulders twitched, nervous and impatient, but he did not resist her or disobey, keeping his hands cupping his ass.

  "A slave should never see his Mistress with her head below his, even when her actions are to serve her own pleasure," she said. "That's why I wouldn't let you look down at me at our picnic, made you close your eyes." She went to one knee and took his chocolate-coated cock deep into her mouth.

  It took all she had not to bite down on it, take in his taste, mix the pleasure and decadence of the dessert with the decadence of enjoying him. She licked, consumed the chocolate cream, tasted his cream in the mix, took him firmly in her hand at the base. His breath rasped hard as he struggled to obey her mandate and not move as she cleaned every impressive inch of him, her eyes noting every flex of his powerful thighs, the ripple of reaction across his abdomen, the tightening of his balls under the caress of her fingers. Her own reaction was sliding her thighs wetly against one another, and she made noises of enjoyment in the back of her throat, telling him what he could not see, how much she wanted him, was ravenous for him in fact, to the point that she wanted to keep him with her always, never let him further from her than a short cock leash would allow. Now she no longer wondered why some Doms were fond of keeping their subs in The Zone on a collar and leash, to reinforce the servitude and the bond.

  "I want you," she muttered, and he growled in response, a primal response that she saw him struggle to take to civilized English.

  "Sugar, I'm more than ready for you."

  She rose, took off his blindfold and found his eyes blazing in response. "I'm protected from pregnancy," she said, her own voice thick with desire. "Will you...I don't want anything between us."

  "I trust you. And you can trust me, sugar. With anything."

  His voice was ragged with male hunger and something else, something that roused her heart into her throat, and mixed sweet emotion with overpowering lust.

  "My Mistress honors me," he said, low, urgent. "Let me serve you. I need you, Violet."

  She swallowed, nodded. Undid the buttons again, and slid the dress off her shoulders. His eyes followed its slide to her feet, and she stood before him, clad in nothing but her skin and her equal need for him.

  "You can move your hands," she whispered, and moved forward.

  He caught her at the waist, lifted her effortlessly over him. Violet put her hands to his shoulders, gripped, dug in as he slowly, perfectly lowered her onto him, his silver eyes locking with hers as he took her down, inch by blissful inch. Her thighs trembled as they spread over his on the descent, making the sensation of his invasion that much more excruciatingly pleasurable. His fingers tightened on her waist and she savored that touch almost as much, every sensation he was offering her, including his hot breath on her neck.

  She came to rest on him, just a blink after she wondered, as she had the first time, if she could take all of him, and knowing she would, no matter what. She had to have all of him deep inside of her, her cunt closed around him like a possessive fist, stro
king him, working him. She raised her legs and he helped her, his hands sliding under her thighs so she was at the right angle, and the position seated him impossibly deeper so she cried out in reaction, digging her fingers into his back as his hands moved back to her waist just above her hips. His eyes met hers, full of dangerous intent that shivered over her skin.

  "Hang on, sugar," he advised.

  He lifted her and brought her down, hard, letting her feel the full force of his primal need. She screamed as her pussy convulsed around him, but he was drawing her up again, making her feel the rush of all that hot hard length against her wet inner folds, and she knew she never again would settle for a lover who did not have the incredible upper body strength Mac possessed. In a mere handful of days, there were many other "never agains" that Mackenzie Nighthorse had injected into her life.

  He kept his gaze on her face, not doing anything but watching her desire grow and reflecting it in his own expression. That made her even more helpless and hot, his total absorption in building her response by controlling the rate of rise and descent on his cock.

  "Come for me, Mistress," he said, rough. "Come like you've never come for anyone else."

  That wasn't going to be difficult, considering the sensation he was coaxing from her now was more intense than anything she'd ever experienced. But he was begging her to lose control, lose control for him.

  "I already have," she whispered. Her body arched as he plunged her onto him again, then lifted her high so she felt the ridge of that broad head at the lips of her opening, then down again, like the rush of a roller coaster, the exhilarating pitch, a well-oiled machine working at the perfect speed to achieve explosive combustion. He didn't let her use any of her own strength, kept her moving in sync with the press and lift of his large hands at her waist. He would not let her hips thrust and move at the ferocious rate she might have chosen. He was giving her a slow, torturous build, a climax that would shatter her, leave her spent and weak in his arms, and she...she just wanted. She was all want now, a creation of formless, overwhelming desire. The shuddering reached through her, a ripple that quickly grew to a tidal wave shooting out from all directions from the well of her subconscious. She called out his name, part fear, part wonder, as the orgasm slammed down on her.