by Joey W. Hill
With a sigh, she began to slide off him. When her muscles contracted on him, a reluctant farewell, he caught her hips. Bringing his mouth to hers, hand cradling her face, he captured her lips in one more kiss, this one deep and long, a promise of the same passion, but something more tender too.
When he drew back, she had her hand around his wrist. "What was that?"
"I just felt like you needed it. Or maybe I did. I wanted it."
With a pensive look that puzzled her, he let her slide away. He discouraged further discussion of it, helping her to her feet and then pulling on his swimsuit while she did the same with her suit and shorts. The silence was weighted, but comfortable, so she left it undisturbed as she brought the extra cookies back to the towel. They shared one and then he ate another as they passed a water bottle back and forth. A line of pelicans passed over and she closed her eyes, enjoying the sun on her still tingling skin. When Noah brushed a finger along her cheek, taking some cookie crumbs or a few grains of sand away--she wasn't sure which--she opened her eyes.
"The cage at Lyda's, there's a freedom to it," he said. "You understand?"
Her brow knit at the unexpected topic. "I didn't feel comfortable with that. For me."
"I know. But a part of you knows why it works, right? The real cage for most people is the one memories put around us." A lot of things moved behind those dark eyes. "If you were in a car crash tomorrow, every reservation or doubt you felt with me today, it would have been a waste, right? You look down the road to the future, and it paralyzes you, because you think you'll find you're still in that prison of memories, that you never left, and this is just more of the same. If there's no future for the past to mess up, there's just this moment, right?"
Whether or not it was his intention, the simple logic helped with her own doubts. But applying the words to that shadow in his makeup she kept detecting, it reminded her of a bird who'd finally escaped a cage. The bird soared, feeding on the pleasures of the air, but he refused to touch the earth for fear of that prison closing around him again. Living in the moment could also be an act of desperation.
She slid her knuckles along his sculpted cheekbone, the firm jaw, feathered a fingertip over the lashes a woman would kill to have. "I think we are who we are because of those memories. They can help us make good decisions, better decisions, for ourselves."
"It pulls you down, though," he said. "It makes you sad. Hurts you."
So he was talking about her, the near miss on the climax because she'd gotten mired in old pain. She shook her head, laying her hand on him in reassurance. "What you and Lyda unlock inside of me, I don't yet know how to reconcile that with old wounds, but so far, I'm willing to keep going down that road and figure it out. You made it easier to do that today. Let that be enough."
She thought he might say more, but she put her fingers on his lips, a mute request not to do so. He kissed them. Reassured, she pushed away to retrieve a hidden cache of cookies she'd prudently packed, anticipating his male appetite and sweet tooth. Though she could feel him watching her intently, he said nothing further about it.
That was good. It had been a wonderful day, one that made her all for living in the moment. At least until tomorrow.
Chapter Eight
Gen had never been in a relationship that was like a force of nature, so beyond her control, yet so irresistibly powerful she couldn't help but want to run wild in the storm. Interacting with these two complicated people had so far been exciting, passionate, pleasurable, scary and thought provoking. Disturbing. She was doing things she'd never contemplated doing.
"New blend?" Marguerite inquired, pausing at her elbow.
Gen was preparing the order for a couple at Table Two. The man wanted coffee, the woman, the chai tea special of the day. With a start, Gen realized she'd poured them into the same cup. "Oh good grief."
Giving her an amused look, Marguerite lifted it to her lips, took an experimental sip. Grimaced. "We won't be starting a chai-coffee offering with that blend anytime soon." Dumping it down the sink, she set out a clean mug next to the one that was intended to take the tea. "I'll handle this order. Why don't you make it an early day?"
"I'm fine, M. I'm not sick, just distracted. I'll do better."
"You're doing fine, Gen. I thought you might like extra time to prepare for your evening plans."
She'd mentioned it to Chloe, so of course M knew about it. Before Gen could think of a response, Marguerite nodded toward the door. "Speaking of which."
Gen glanced over her shoulder to see Lyda coming in. Her jeans were stained with dirt, showing she'd already had a busy day. Because the heat index was in the hundreds today, her T-shirt was dark with sweat, her pale face flushed.
"Iced tea," Marguerite said, unnecessarily. Gen was already reaching for it. "Unsweetened. Lyda doesn't do sugar. Put some of that herbal energy blend in it I've been using in the sweet tea order for Todd's group," she added, referring to the construction foreman who came in regularly to get sweetened tea for his crew. "Add some raspberry to cut the bitter."
"Christ, why do I live in Florida?" Lyda grimaced, sliding onto a stool at the counter. She stripped off her gloves, tucked them into her belt.
"Because there isn't a huge demand for nursery stock and perennials in Alaska," Marguerite offered.
"I'd go up there and change that, except Noah hates the cold. That skinny boy would freeze to death the first day."
"Why isn't he or one of the others with you, helping with the deliveries?" Gen now knew Lyda had four employees other than Noah. Lyda's neck and arms were dry. Though she could have mopped them off with a towel in her truck, a lack of perspiration was precursor to heat stroke.
When Lyda raised a brow, Gen realized how sharp she'd sounded. Gen put the tea in front of her, hoping it distracted from the color now in her own cheeks. "Here, drink this. You'll dehydrate fast in this heat."
"I didn't realize," Lyda said dryly. But she laid her hand on Gen's forearm, keeping it there to run a caressing finger over her skin, oddly playful. "I'm fine, rabbit. You need to come to my fitness class to see a real workout."
"Do I have to participate?"
Lyda gave her a feral smile. "Not the first time. As I told you, I like your soft places, Gen. Keep them soft." Her gaze swept over Gen's upper body, pointedly lingering on her breasts and the nip of her waist. Unlike the first time Lyda had visited, today Gen was wearing a fitted shirt that hugged her curves over a nice pair of stressed jeans that had a white stencil of a faded rose down one thigh. She'd always dressed appropriately for work, but her choices were now being driven by new feelings. Cue the Jon Berry song about Rosie.
"Nice look," Lyda murmured. "I hope that's for me."
Since Marguerite was within hearing distance, Gen felt her cheeks heat anew. "You never said where all your employees are," she said hastily.
Lyda waited a beat. "They're out on deliveries as well. We have more business than we can handle lately. I'm going to have to hire more temporary help."
Marguerite drew Gen's attention. She had the coffee and chai tea ready. "Table Two."
"Oh, right. Okay." Picking up the tray, Gen maneuvered around the counter. She was not going to stumble and scald a customer. She wasn't going to act like a teenager whose boyfriend had just stopped in. Or girlfriend. No matter how true that might be.
If it had been Noah, she'd probably still be distracted, but the high, fluttery pulse beating in her throat would have a different cadence. Noah was like wading out into a gentle surf, coaxing her out further and further, because she felt safe in that tide line. Lyda made Gen feel like she was watching an approaching high wave, with only a moment to decide whether to duck beneath it, be swallowed, or take the churning, exhilarating ride to shore. Either way, the wave was going to have her.
Gen delivered the order and did a round of the other occupied tables. When she was done with that, she tidied up one of the workstations. Fortunately, M and Lyda weren't lowering their voices beyond h
er eavesdropping radar. She sidled closer, anticipating casual conversation, a way for her to enjoy the rise and fall of Lyda's voice, the flow of her moods.
She should have remembered Marguerite didn't do casual conversation.
"You've been stopping by a little more often lately, Lyda," her boss said. "I don't stock your usual preference."
Startled by Marguerite's cool tone, Gen turned her head from what she was doing. Lyda's silver-gray irises were comparable to a knife blade. "Do I need your blessing, Marguerite? I wasn't aware she was yours."
"You're quite aware there's an ownership question here. Which is why you're here today. You intended to broach it in exactly this fashion."
Lyda set down the tea. "What do you need to hear?"
"Nothing. Words don't impress me overly much. It's what you need to recognize that's relevant." Marguerite held her gaze.
When the women said nothing else for a weighted moment, Gen wondered if she was witnessing a Vulcan mind meld. Should she get involved? Only an idiot tried to step between two crossed swords.
Lyda nodded at last. "Understood."
Marguerite's teeth flashed. "Be mindful of it." Without turning, she spoke. "Gen, go ahead and take off. Chloe's coming in at one."
"If you're sure." She waffled, not sure how to take her leave with Lyda here, and so much in the air. "Um...Lyda, if you need an extra pair of hands, I can help."
Lyda was still holding Marguerite's gaze, but Gen's offer changed something. She projected a sense of satisfaction, as if Gen's offer had tilted the scale of whatever they were resolving toward Lyda. Marguerite's flat expression didn't change, however, which made Lyda clear her throat, then finally look Gen's way. "No. You'll need your energy for tonight. Put the tea in a to-go cup, and top it off."
Marguerite shifted, turning away. It was a deliberate gesture, transferring the responsibility to Gen. Gen wasn't clued into everything happening, but that one was clear. Lyda's order was directed to her.
She hoped her fingers didn't tremble when she closed them around the glass to take it away, but if they did, the motion was arrested when Lyda laid a single fingertip on her wrist. Gen stilled. She stared at the cup, kept holding it, didn't raise her gaze. Didn't move. She couldn't. Aroused need spread out inside her, and the reaction in her fingers manifested in her forearm, giving it a quiver beneath Lyda's finger. The woman tapped her once. Gen realized she expected an acknowledgement.
"Yes ma'am," she murmured. She'd respond that way to a customer on a normal day, but it meant something entirely different with Lyda. When Gen dared a quick look at her, Lyda's countenance reminded Gen of how the woman had looked when she demanded that "uncertain girl kiss".
Lyda drew her touch away and Gen pivoted to dump the glass contents into a to-go cup, top it off. It was probably good she hadn't requested sugar, because Gen's unsteady hand might have tipped in enough to put the woman in diabetic shock. She did add more of M's rehydration blend. That truck was way too full, and it was obvious this wasn't Lyda's first delivery of the day. Who would plant in the heat of summer? People with enough money for a huge water bill, apparently.
When she brought the cup back to Lyda, she was on her feet. Marguerite was checking on the current brew. Lyda took the cup from Gen's hand. "See you tonight."
"All right. Thanks." Gen felt awkward again. Lyda gave her a level look.
"You really should come to my class. You might enjoy it more than you think. It's the Blood, Sweat and Tears fitness center, about a mile from the nursery."
"Blood, Sweat and Tears. Seriously?"
"Planet Fitness felt I was too extreme." Lyda gave her an arch look. When Gen watched her move toward the door, she wasn't alone. Other customers watched her, that purposeful way she had of moving, the sexual energy pulsing off her. Gen wanted to lift her hair off her neck, press her lips to the perspiration that would be there. Push her T-shirt up so she could slide her lips along the valley of her spine, her buttocks.
She could imagine it, but would Lyda ever permit it? Had Lyda ever had a lover, someone not locked into a rigid submissive structure she defined? Was the answer to that question staring at Gen from her own mirror?
Lyda got into her truck, twisted to put on her seat belt, picked up her phone. She tilted her head to study the screen, probably reading a text from one of the other employees. Then she'd turned over the ignition and was gone. Gen realized then that she'd watched her until she drove out of sight.
She pivoted toward the other enigmatic female force in her life, who was working on a call-in order. "Can I ask you what that was about?"
Marguerite glanced her way. When she didn't say anything, Gen figured she might be waiting for clarification. She checked to be sure no customers were in earshot. "The ownership thing?"
"You already know the answer to that, Gen." Marguerite's tone wasn't unkind, but it was firm.
"I meant..." She struggled for the right words. "Your part of it. What were you telling her? It was like..."
Marguerite didn't often make prolonged eye contact. As a result, when she did, it was like having a railroad spike driven into both feet, keeping a person in place. "I was telling her, in a way she understood, that whether or not you are starting to think of yourself as hers, until she reciprocates the feeling sufficiently, you're mine. Which means if she fucks with your head, I will take her apart."
Her office phone started ringing. Marguerite passed Gen, touching her back.
Gen drew an unsteady breath. Was she starting to think of herself as Lyda's? You already know the answer to that.
Yeah, she did. It was funny how one intense club session with Lyda, and an even more intense night at her home, as well as the separate times with Noah, were starting to sharpen nebulous feelings. A few days ago, if someone had asked her if she wanted to be a part of something like this, she would have politely declined. Now she was seeking answers, wanting a deeper understanding.
She studied Marguerite. Gen hadn't ever settled into a job the way she'd settled into working at Tea Leaves. From the beginning, she'd loved working with the reserved woman, proving she could perform to her exacting standards. When she met them, gained Marguerite's confidence, trust, it had meant everything. At first she'd thought it was a weird kind of maternal transference, because her own mother had never really expected too much out of her, but she'd never thought of Marguerite as a mother figure. Yet she responded to her as an authority figure.
It wasn't like she'd needed Marguerite's approval to be whole, but it made things better, to see that look in Marguerite's eye when Gen met or--even better--exceeded her expectations. That light touch she'd just given Gen was something Gen considered a gift, whenever it happened.
Lyda had drawn that connection, pointing out how comfortable Gen was under the shelter of Marguerite's protection. Yet Gen wouldn't call the feelings she had about Lyda comfortable. She craved more from the Mistress, with an all-encompassing yearning that startled her.
Yes, she was getting involved with two complex people, but perhaps the most complicated and hard-to-decipher member of their triad was Gen herself.
*
Back to the club again. From her existing wardrobe, she assembled a short skirt and sheer black top with some sparkles across it, coordinating a lacy bra and panty set beneath. She took extra time with her hair, knowing how Lyda and Noah liked it, and slid into a pair of heels. Digging through her jewelry, she found a beaten silver anklet and put that together with a pair of silver wire earrings. She left her neck bare, thinking of Noah's mouth there, Lyda's sharp nails grazing her pulse. That thought set things pounding like she was already on a dance floor. She considered putting a liner inside the scrap of panties she was wearing, but Lyda might want to stroke between her legs. Gen knew without asking that Lyda would rather have arousal dampening Gen's flesh, soaking the crotch of the panties.
You're already learning to dress for a Mistress...
As she leaned against the bathroom counter, it put press
ure against her pubic mound, sending a little zing through her nether regions. She rubbed against the edge, eyes half closing. The sensation intensified as she imagined them touching her. When she was with Noah, she was consumed by him, yet when she anticipated being with Lyda and Noah together, she always saw Lyda in the primary position. She wondered if that was how it was for Noah, when he was with other women versus his Mistress.
How long had they been together? Did they consider themselves permanent, like a boyfriend-girlfriend thing? Maybe she'd keep her head together enough tonight to ask some intelligent questions, get some real answers. Or maybe she'd figure out more by simply riding the ride.
When she arrived at the club and locked her car, she realized she wasn't even sure if Noah would be there. Lyda hadn't confirmed that, had even implied Gen could look at a wider pool of candidates to try out being a Domme. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, but she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.
Checking her appearance against that of other women entering the club she thought might be Dominants, Gen saw everything from snug designer jeans to short skirts or leather or latex. The diversity made her more comfortable about her own appearance. Hell, Lyda was able to command her wearing a sweaty T-shirt and dirty jeans. But she was just kidding herself if she thought she possessed the aura Lyda did.
Her chin firmed. If she wanted to try to be a Domme tonight, she would. It would tell her something about Lyda's character if the woman provided her real mentorship, or if she just gave it lip service, waiting for Gen to crash and burn. Was that ultimately what this was about, testing Lyda? The anxious coil tightened up, but she quelled it. She wasn't going to bolt now.
The club was quieter on a weeknight. She could hear the faint sounds of punishment, cries of pleasure and pain, mixed with the distant music beat. Her palms dampened. Her flesh was already feeling sensitive, swollen in noticeable places. She handed over her guest membership, and the hostess checked her log.
"You were here as an unclassified guest last time, Ms. Wisner. Do you prefer a bracelet tonight?" The hostess gestured to a board, which showed the different colors of bracelets that indicated Dom, sub, switch, undecided. "You can have any of those four to let people know your preference, but you can also have a second no-play bracelet, so they know if you're here merely to watch."
