He’d made her a breakfast casserole topped with fresh tomatoes from her potted plant. A glance out the French doors showed he’d moved the tiles she’d stored in the back shed onto the patio and set up the Skil saw, along with grout and other tools.
“I’m late,” she said.
Turning from the stove, he smiled and slid the casserole into a bowl he had waiting for it. “Breakfast is a better wakeup call than an alarm clock. I’m glad you grabbed some extra sleep.”
She hadn’t been sure what kind of awkwardness to expect, but obviously any felt was all on her side. He wore his jeans and a community college T-shirt with a sailboat printed on it.
“I get it now. You really have outgrown the Goth thing. You just wear the jewelry so the kids you teach think you’re cool.”
He snorted, poured them both a glass of juice and held out her chair. She slid into it, trying not to think about how that same maneuver had gone last night. Taking a seat across from her, he nudged salt and ketchup her way. “My students range from eighteen to fifty, so there’s no way I can convince all of them I’m cool. I gave up. Hope you don’t mind that I started setting up.”
“Not at all. Did you sleep?”
“Quite well.” His eyes caressed her in a way that made her flush. “Though I wish I could have given you the same experience.”
“I slept well enough,” she said quickly, making it clear she didn’t want to talk about that. A puzzled look crossed his face, but he respected the boundary, backed off. The conversation stayed relaxed and general over breakfast, and then they got started.
She helped him lay the plywood and he put it down with the nail gun she’d borrowed from Tyler and Marguerite. However, the kitchen space was small. It became clear he made more progress without her being underfoot, so she soon shifted to being a gofer and keeping him company. Finding a radio station he liked, she sat on a stool in the living room, discussing music and watching him when he didn’t have a task for her.
Once the tile placement started she was busy again. He initially proposed doing the tile cuts with the wet saw while she laid the tile, but he was the one with the tiling experience. When she showed him she was more than capable of making straight cuts with the saw, he pursed his lips in a gratifyingly impressed expression and agreed to let her do the cutting while he laid out the floor.
She thought she could watch him work all day long. As he’d hefted plywood, denim had creased and stretched in a pleasing way, the Florida heat outside quickly dampening his shirt with sweat. When he used the nail gun, she was entranced by the grip of his long brown fingers, the way his biceps rippled with each shot. She studied the intentness of his expression as he measured and judged the distance of the tiles.
They talked about this and that—the music on the radio, anecdotes about his students or her customers at the tea room. Depending on the topic, his lips would curve or eyes sharpen. As he worked on his knees, placing tiles, she thought of him stretched out in her guest bed, hand on his erection, his eyes seeking her in the shadows.
In the bright light of day she wasn’t sure she should have done what she’d done last night. Nighttime was when everyone was more vulnerable to foolishness. But she recalled something Marguerite had told her, on a day Gen had snapped at Chloe for trying one too many times to set up a blind date for her.
You’re comfortable being alone, Gen, but you’re also lonely. Unlike many women, you don’t let that lead you. You don’t act only on emotional impulse. But don’t forget you can also trust yourself to make choices to alleviate that loneliness, if and when you desire to do so.
She thought of what Noah had said last night, about how to understand a Dom/sub relationship. “Can you come to a club just to watch? To learn? Do they frown on that?”
“Not at The Zone. It’s as much a nightclub as a BDSM club.” He was squatting, putting spacers between the next group of tiles. Glancing up at her, he wiped his forehead with his wrist. His long hair, braided in a tail, had fallen forward over his right shoulder. “You’d be welcome to come with me and Lyda one night as a guest. No pressure. The Zone is one of the best clubs around, both for checking things out and playing.”
Since Tyler was a part owner, she had no doubt of that. “We’ll see.” She nodded to the floor. “I feel like you’re doing all the work. You really should let me pay you.”
“You’re doing plenty. Having to get up and cut tile and do other stuff is half the labor time. You handle that Skil saw like a pro. Most women wouldn’t have both the muscle and the light touch to cut the tile without breaking it.”
She shrugged, though the compliment pleased her. “My first husband and I renovated our house together. I learned from him. He was a contractor.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” Noah’s eyes met hers.
“A lot of people have the same story.” She wanted to move off that topic, fast. “Have you been married?”
She told herself it wasn’t a dumb question. She’d met plenty of twentysomethings who’d been married and divorced a couple times before hitting thirty. She’d been one of them.
He shook his head. “No. Only been collared once.”
At her quizzical look, he elaborated. “To a lot of submissives, being collared is as serious as being married. The Master or Mistress is accepting permanent ownership.”
Marguerite often wore a delicate choker, a double helix of pearls with an angel pendant. She’d given it to Tyler at their wedding. At the time, Gen had thought it odd, a bride presenting a necklace for herself to the groom. Yet when Tyler fastened it around Marguerite’s neck, the surfeit of emotion in his expression, and the hushed demeanor of friends Gen now knew were also part of the BDSM world, had told her he’d considered it an immeasurable gift. The gift Marguerite must have been offering him was her willing submission, promised to him forever. A collar.
Finding out Marguerite was a Mistress hadn’t been a huge shock. Finding she submitted to Tyler was initially harder to understand. Yet just like Chloe and Brendan, if a person spent any time around Marguerite and Tyler, it made sense. Marguerite could rule the world with a look, but it was Tyler’s possession of her heart and soul that had brought the reserved woman true happiness, peace with her past demons.
Maybe that was the mature woman’s true Cinderella story. Not that the prince came on his white horse and swooped her away from all her problems, but he got off the horse and stood by her, helped her deal with all of it through an entire lifetime. The thought gave her a wistful twinge. She turned her mind back to the safer, more hypothetical discussion of collars.
“You get a vote, don’t you?” she asked. “I mean, a Mistress doesn’t just slap it on you without your say-so? And you can take it off when you don’t want that anymore, right?”
“Or the Dom takes it off when he doesn’t want the sub anymore.” The tightness in Noah’s voice told her that had been his experience. He? Noah hadn’t given her the vibe of being bi. Though obviously he was, if he’d been willing to be “married” to a man, according to the terms of the BDSM world.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He kept his gaze on the row of tiles he was placing. “It was probably a good thing. Least that’s what Lyda says. And Tyler, and anyone who wants to give me an opinion on it.” He threw her an attempt at a smile, but it didn’t detract from the hardness in his eyes. She thought of that Yours, unconditionally on his back. Had that been something he’d done for his Master?
“If I’m asking inappropriate questions, please tell me,” she said. “Your world is so different to me. I don’t want to be rude.”
“You’re fine. Actually, I think our worlds are pretty close to the same when it comes to this. Whether they end it or you do, a broken heart’s a broken heart, right?”
His bald statement made it hard for her to turn away from the subject this time. “Yeah. I asked for the divorce, both times. The first one, Guy, he was an alcoholic. His drinking got worse as our marriage progressed.
I tried to work it out with him, but it was too one-sided. He hit me one night, broke my nose. That was the final straw, but it wasn’t the worst thing. The worst thing was him choosing the bottle over me.”
Over and over again, after the first year of their six-year marriage. She wondered if a woman’s self-esteem every recovered from that, no matter how many times she told herself it wasn’t her, it was an illness, all the stuff they said on TV and in the Al-Anon meetings.
Noah sat back on his heels. Rising, he came to her, ran his finger along the uneven line of her nose. His expression held her still as he leaned down, pressed his lips to it. Then he straightened and went back to the tile placement, leaving her with a curious ache in her chest.
“And your second husband?” he asked, eyes back on what he was doing.
She shook her head. She’d taken this as far as she wanted to go with it right now. “My past is the past. At least I only made the mistake twice.”
“Sounds to me like they made the mistake.” He’d marked another trio of tiles and now pushed them toward her. “Can you cut these? It turns me on, watching you use that saw. Plus I get to look down your shirt when you pick them up.”
It pulled a chuckle from her, as she was sure he’d intended. “Perv,” she said. But she bent extra low and shimmied her chest at him before picking up the tiles and sashaying out the door with a lot of hip swivel. His wolf whistle drove the other, darker thoughts away.
Once all the tiles were placed, he mixed the grout and slathered it into the cracks, scraping off the excess. After that, she treated him to a Subway run. They sat in the back yard at her picnic table, feasting on foot longs and chips. She broke the third of a three-for-a-dollar cookie deal with him. Very magnanimous of her, since the food would disappear in his lean frame and be absorbed by his male metabolism, while she’d have to increase her daily walks to keep the fat at bay. Yet he pushed his half of the cookie at her, teasing her into finishing it before they returned to the kitchen to wipe down tiles.
“Lyda is a workout fiend,” he said as they moved around one another on hands and knees, polishing the tiles with shop rags. “She does one of those basic training type classes a few times a week. She’s the instructor.”
“Which explains why she has the killer body.”
“Yeah. But the nice thing about women is there are all types of bodies.” He gave her that once-over look he did so well. “You’ve got a lot of nice curves. But see, you just rolled your eyes, the way women do. You don’t realize how nice it is, to have a soft ass pressed up against your dick while you sleep, sliding your hands around a great set of tits first thing in the morning…
He stopped at the look on her face. “Sorry. That was a little crude. Doing tilework reminds me of being back on the construction crew, which was all guys.”
Actually, his blunt observation underscored his sincerity, which she appreciated. As a result, the rough language turned her on more than she wanted to admit.
He’d turned away from her, allowing her gaze to linger. Thank all the gods for Florida sunlight, he’d removed the T-shirt a couple hours ago. The way his jeans worked with his body while he was on all fours made her have a few crude thoughts herself. “You’re not as housetrained as you first appear. It…intrigues me.”
His head swung back toward her. The hair at his temples was slick with sweat. Not allowing herself to think too much, she gestured. “Come here.”
She was sitting on her heels. He pivoted toward her, abandoning the cloth and putting his knuckles to the tile, staying on his knees. She watched his shoulders and hips roll with the movement. He stopped within inches of her face, the flicker in his eyes suggesting what “not housetrained” could mean. She backed up and rose onto her knees, bringing her head above his. Gripping the edge of her T-shirt, she lifted it to wipe his brow, giving him an up-close look at her breasts cradled in white lace. She’d worn a bra with more push and lift today, because being around him made her feel more sexual, more female. His breath on her cleavage was a slow, measured burn.
Whoa, girl. But she didn’t want to whoa. Maybe it wasn’t just at night that strong desires could rise to the top.
Scooting behind him, she nudged his calf. He looked back at her, his braided tail of sleek hair falling over his shoulder as he adjusted his stance so his knees were shoulder width apart. Moving between them, she removed her T-shirt entirely, sliding it down the damp valley of his spine, absorbing an appealing sheen of perspiration. There actually were good things about Florida humidity.
As she traced the individual bones beneath the thin layer of cloth, she leaned forward, which pressed her hips against his ass. His buttocks flexed beneath the pressure as he braced against her weight. She thought of what he’d said, about strap-ons. What would it feel like, to do that to a man? The firm shape of his testicles pressed against her thigh when she bent, put her lips between his shoulder blades.
“Gen.”
“Shh.” She brushed her cheek against damp male skin, squeezed her eyes shut. Then she drew back, rose to her feet. “So maybe I was wrong about the housetraining thing,” she said. “You follow commands pretty well.”
Her voice was thick, heart pumping hard. Was she taunting him? She wasn’t sure. She retreated to the sink, her T-shirt in hand, pressed beneath her breasts. She stared out into the backyard, at her pretty groupings of potted plants, the privacy fence and small plot of grass.
“Would you like to see the less housetrained side of me, Gen? On your terms?”
She looked over her shoulder at him. He’d risen to his feet. A delicious shiver ran through her. His tone was rough, male, not boyish at all. She’d met men in their twenties who weren’t much beyond high school when it came to maturity. Noah wasn’t one of them. He was as versatile and timeless as a Fae sprite. Or an incubus. Maybe a vampire.
That fit. She imagined him as a vampire, forever young in appearance, yet looking at the world through the eyes of an old soul. Other times he had an emotional vulnerability that summoned her protective instincts. He was unpredictable, intriguing. And Lyda had given him to her for the weekend. He’d said so. Her first reaction to that had been disbelief, amusement, rejection. Then she’d moved so quickly toward the desire to touch, to experiment, it had frightened her into a quick retreat last night. But now the feeling was back, thicker, richer. She was far less willing to run away.
She looked at the wall clock. “Five minutes,” she said. “For the next five minutes…show me.” Five minutes had to be safe, right?
It was the last coherent thought she had. At least for the next five minutes.
He moved like sunlight, bringing heat to her flesh, his erection pressed against her backside. Banding his arm around her waist, he put his teeth to her throat and bit down, hard, giving life to her brief fantasy. When she gasped and arched, he used the movement to slip the button of her jeans and tunnel down. He captured her clit over the silk of her panties, providing a friction that had her writhing, all the desire she’d suppressed last night surging against his hand.
“Fuck, your clit’s so swollen, so needy. You should have let me take care of that for you.” He muttered it against her throat and bit her again, sucking hard, making her shudder at his obvious marking. He’d taste the salt of her perspiration from their exertions, the flavor of her skin beneath. The smooth metal of the tongue piercing slid along her carotid, the unexpected sensation intensifying everything else.
He brought his other hand over her shoulder, across her chest, clever fingers sliding into her left bra cup to cradle her flesh. He stroked the full curve all around the nipple, but not actually making contact until all the nerve endings in the peak were vibrating and begging for it. She’d never been handled with such care and skill. If either Guy or Amos had known how to do this, she might have considered her time with them far less of a waste.
But this was about more than skill. You had to care about someone, think they were the most special thing on earth, to touch them
like this. As crazy as it was, with every caress he made her believe that.
As he stroked her through the panties, she was rotating her hips against him, her arousal increasing at a rate she couldn’t contain. He growled in response. He knew just how to stroke her cunt, how to circle, pinch and tease at the right moments, in the right places. He was a quick learner, adapting and recognizing what would pleasure her the most.
“Noah…”
He slid his hand from her breast to her throat, holding her against his bare upper body, her pulse crashing against his palm as he stroked her there, put his mouth beneath his grip, teased and bit again, even as his other fingers pulled on her clit, plucking at it, tapping it, an excruciating technique that had her hips beating against the counter and thrusting back against his cock, trying to get more. She felt the rise of the climax, taking her toward a sweet freefall.
Their movements and the pressure of his forearm had brought her jeans halfway off her hips. In an impatient, uncoordinated move, she pushed them down, out of the way, and groaned as the hard bar beneath his jeans pressed intimately between her cheeks. She wanted his fingers inside her. She never wanted that. She wanted…
The orgasm hit her, unexpected, no time for her to grab anything in her mind to stop its hurtling force. She shrieked as he kept up that same crazy light patter rather than a strong milking stroke. Only when she thought she was on the downside of the climax did he adjust to a clamping, squeezing touch, catapulting her into the clouds once again. Latching onto his forearm where it was bent against her chest, his hand still holding her throat, she dug her nails into him, needing to draw blood, a desperate, needy creature, overwhelmed by what he’d done to her so effortlessly.
When she turned her head, he released her throat, pressed his mouth against her jaw. He held the intimate gesture as he kneaded her clit, bringing several screaming aftershocks rocketing through her body.
Nature of Desire 8 - Divine solace Page 7
