by Joey W. Hill
Before he’d let her get into her car, he’d slid an arm around her waist, his fingers stroking her backside through the thin skirt. She hadn’t ever put on the panties. Though he didn’t linger, it was obvious he desired strongly to do so. The cock pressed against her hip was still more than ready to serve her. He put his mouth to her ear.
“Next time you put your hands on yourself, think of me, Mistress. I’ll be thinking of you. And suffering like hell, because I won’t be touching what’s yours.”
She couldn’t figure him out, and that would keep her going back for more. Neither Dom nor sub, yet elements of both that conflicted with and complemented her own skill set. So what did that leave?
Despite the bright sunlight, Janet shivered. The nip was still in the air, because the sun kept coming and going. She’d known that before she came up, but she’d left her sweater downstairs. It proved her level of distraction.
She hadn’t set a second date with him. Not just to torment him, but to give her some time to think. However, today was Thursday, the day he was going to come with her to the ballet school. There she’d be, supervising a bevy of hormonal teenage girls, who’d be thinking the same things she was thinking about him. Only whereas he was beyond their reach, he was solidly under her fingertips, everything offered.
The access door to the roof opened with a metallic squeak. It irritated her mildly, but she expected it was one of the maintenance workers who sometimes came up to tweak one of the heating and air units. On the rare occasions their visits coincided with her lunch time, they didn’t usually speak to her beyond a cordial greeting.
When she looked up, anticipating such an exchange, she was surprised to see her boss.
Matt Kensington’s height and breadth spoke of his father’s military and football background, but the dark hair and eyes, the rugged beauty of his face, were a combination of his father’s Texas roots and his mother’s Italian ones. His full name was Matthew Lord Kensington. Occasionally a business rival would make the cutting joke that Matt preferred to go by Lord Kensington. The joke wasn’t made too often, however, probably because the honorific fit him so well no one could argue with it. The sheer authority that emanated from him said it wouldn’t matter his era or circumstances of birth, he’d always end up leading men. Not from fear or intimidation—though he was quite capable of those traits—but out of respect for his leadership abilities.
He asked for a hundred and twenty percent from those who worked for him, and he gave a hundred and thirty percent of his own effort to lead by example. He had the prescience of a demigod and an uncanny ability to see a situation in full spectrum, even while he tracked details like a medieval monk working on an illustrated manuscript. As if that wasn’t enough, the four men most loyal to him augmented his strength with equally impressive capabilities of their own.
Her lips curved in a rueful smile at the small but significant evidence of his capabilities. He’d brought her sweater. As he reached her, he shook it out, swept it around her shoulders, snugging it up around her collarbone. As he did, he touched her cheek in an affectionate caress and then lowered himself into a sideways seated position on the lounge chair across from her. As he opted to stretch his long legs out beside her crossed ankles, rather than staying flatfooted and having his knees up to his chin in the low lounge chair, she made a mental note to bring a chair up here more suitable for him. He’d never come up before, but she wasn’t surprised he knew about the spot, or that he’d known to find her here.
If she had a chair up here that could accommodate a larger man, perhaps another man, one of a similar size, might one day join her.
“Did you need me for something?” Automatically, she checked to make sure her phone was still on forward.
“No, the universe is spinning adequately without either of us today.” In a surprise move, Matt turned so he was stretched out on the lounge, adjusting the back so he was only slightly reclined, his feet braced on either side of it. He lifted his face to the sun as it re-emerged, closing his eyes. “Nice day.”
“Hmm.” She bent her head back to the shirt, focused on the button she was sewing. “How many times have you visited Angelica’s webcam today? Or do you just keep it on full time now?”
“I’ve managed to limit myself to ten minutes every hour. Our nanny probably feels like she’s under a microscope, but I just want to see her play with her fingers and toes.”
“I hope Katherine is doing her job, not playing with her fingers and toes. Or any other part of her anatomy.”
Matt snorted, didn’t reply to that. He kept his eyes closed, one set of fingers casually resting on his thigh, the other holding the frame of the lounge by his head. He’d left his jacket below, so he had the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up. Pulling the needle through the similar shirt in her lap, Janet smiled, remembering the week Savannah had returned to work. It had taken awhile, Savannah needing to recuperate from the C-section and hysterectomy, and then on top of that she’d opted to stay home several months with Angelica, coordinating her workload with her executive staff from the house.
After several days of catching up at her office, Savannah had come by Matt’s on the way to a lunch meeting. While the couple was talking in his office, Janet had overheard Matt teasing his wife. He was trying his best to convince her to turn on the webcam in her office, so he could watch her throughout the day, just like he did Angelica.
“Unlike you, I don’t have four minions to run every aspect of my company,” Savannah retorted. “And I refuse to indulge your twisted fantasies.” There’d been laughter in her voice, however.
“Maybe I’m trying to indulge your twisted fantasies,” Matt suggested.
“You just want access to proprietary information, and even offering to striptease for me in front of your computer isn’t going to work. Now, if you have Lucas do a striptease, I might consider it.”
Janet had glanced up to see Matt drawing his wife between his long legs where he had his hips braced on the edge of his desk. Savannah kept her arms stubbornly crossed until he snagged her wrist, pulling her all the way to him.
Always anticipating her boss’s needs, Janet had pressed the button beneath her desk that closed the double doors with a silent whoosh of air. He only had ten minutes before his next meeting, and Savannah was just making a brief stop, but there were things other than sex that required privacy between a bonded couple. The tender way he drew her to him, the soft, knowing look in Savannah’s eyes, despite her teasing, told Janet it was one of those times. Matt had almost lost his wife and child a few months ago, and he was still coming to terms with that, figuring out how once again to hold on tight out of love, not fear. A person had to risk freedom with the one he loved, to enrich the relationship with the qualities that came with standing alone as well as together.
She mulled on that. “Matt, did you know Max before he came to work for you?”
“For about a year or so, though most of our contact was as part of my interactions with other friends I have in the service. One of them sent him my way when Max left the SEALs.”
She tied off the one button, snipped the threads with her small scissors. One down, three to go. Matt’s eyes had opened, and he was studying what she was doing. She kept her attention on the shirt. She was not going to blush. She was not a blusher, even if there were very few reasons a man’s shirt could have several buttons missing. Matt had seen her at the club, knew her Domme tendencies. For all he knew, she’d ripped the shirt off a sub as part of a session. That would make sense. But the tender, intimate act of sewing the buttons back on for said sub, when she could order him to do it and inspect it the next week as part of the ongoing game?
Not so much.
“You know, when SEALs go through training, they do uniform inspection. If a shoe isn’t shined properly, or a button is loose, they lose points. Which means that every one of them knows how to sew a button on a shirt, probably as well as my tailor.”
“That’s an interesting f
actoid,” she said, not faltering over her sewing in the slightest. “Why did he leave the SEALs?”
“You know I’m not going to tell you that.” Matt straightened and turned, bringing his feet back to one side of the lounge again. He leaned forward, toyed with the button she’d sewn. “Tight and even. Maybe I should have you do my mending.”
She swatted at his hand, making him draw back. “Right after I stab you in the eye with this needle.”
He grinned, a devastating expression that could dribble a woman’s heart in her chest like a manic basketball. Fortunately, she took daily inoculations against the charms of the K&A men. But Matt could affect her for reasons far beyond female hormones, and he proved it now, sobering.
“You’ve been distracted this week,” her boss said, no censure in his tone. He understood her work ethic, her personal pride in perfection. He wasn’t here to chastise her for sloppy work, because she hadn’t done any. He just knew her.
“Somewhat.” She nodded, pulling on the thread. “I’m working it out.”
“Is he treating you well?”
“Probably better than I deserve.”
Damn it. The jerk of reaction caused her to prick herself with the needle. Why had she said that?
As a drop of blood welled up from her forefinger, Matt picked up her hand, put it in his mouth. He sucked the blood away with a swirl of his tongue, then put his thumb over the tiny wound, his other fingers resting on her wrist, holding her in place. Most men, she’d pull away if they held her restrained like this, but not Matt.
“I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. Because nothing is further from the truth.” His dark eyes held hers.
“You’re right. It’s not true.” She straightened her back, but she let her hand stay in his grip. “I’m all right.”
“Better than.” But his expression stayed serious. “He has some significant demons of his own, Janet. The difference is, he was trained up front to deal with them, and you had to learn on the back end. You both handle them damn well. They don’t rule your lives. But like yours, his are still there. If he’s vulnerable, if he lets his guard down, they can attack.”
His expression became more thoughtful. “Throughout my life, because of my father and the contacts that continued after his death, I’ve been exposed to people in various branches of the military. SEALs are a unique breed. They’re trained to keep everything close. They don’t share with outsiders, not only because most of what they do and endure is classified, but because it’s part of who and what they are. Keep that in mind.
“On a different note,” he glanced at her, “a SEAL would make a hell of a Dom or sub, one because they’re ambidextrous in a sense—trained to lead and follow. Also because they’re machines, the way they process details. As a sub, he’d notice everything about a Mistress; how she feels, what she wants. He’s not anticipating; he’s actually in the now, watching the details, while another part of his brain is planning how to handle it. When the guy in charge tells you what to do, you stop what you’re doing and do it, so he’s immediately responsive.”
Well, that was obvious, and why she got several different vibes from Max—Dom, sub and something that was neither.
Matt lifted his thumb, verified the blood had clotted and there wasn’t anything that could get on Max’s shirt. She thought of her boss’s warm mouth on her skin. Her immunity to the K&A men’s considerable sexual potency notwithstanding, her body was vibrating, every nerve ending now alive, because the touch of Matt’s mouth had reminded her of Max’s, between her legs. “That was a little unsanitary,” she managed.
“The best treatments usually are.” Matt gave her a wink, another brief touch on her cheek. “I better head out for my one o’clock. And yes, I opened the documents you sent me on my tablet, and they’re all there. I have what I need, thanks to my infallible admin.”
“Remember that at Christmas bonus time. The Mustang needs new tires, and I want to get her special rims.”
Matt chuckled. “Those rims can come out of the exorbitant-but-worth-every-penny salary I pay you, but if she needs new tires, charge it through my expense account. And you’ll still get that Christmas bonus.” He moved toward the access door but paused with his hand on the latch. The look he gave her reminded Janet why very few crossed Matt Kensington.
“Don’t cut yourself down like that again, Janet. I won’t tolerate anyone treating you badly, and that includes yourself.”
* * * * *
Max took the overpass walkway from the parking deck to the main building, then hit the stairs. He was between tasks and figured he’d do a pass by Janet’s desk to see if she needed to go by her house before the dance class, so he could adjust his departure times accordingly. He’d be picking Dana up at the church at four, giving him plenty of time to get her home and swing back by, since Janet rarely left at five, due to projects Matt and the guys had had in process these past few months.
Since their night at the dock, he hadn’t seen much of the woman who’d been uppermost in his thoughts. When he left her at her car at the club, she’d pushed his dress shirt off his shoulders, tucked it into the Mustang without explanation. He’d had all sorts of fantasies about her wearing it, only those one or two remaining buttons holding it closed over her bare body. She’d felt superb under his exploration, firm and soft in all the right places, arching up into his touch.
Because the limo drivers often doubled up as security during slow times, he had the same access to K&A as Randall. As a result, Max had come by her desk early that next day, before anyone else arrived. Only the dim security light had illuminated her command central area, and Matt and the other guys’ offices were all locked up.
It felt right, leaving her a token. Nothing extraordinary, just a four-piece box of handmade truffles from a local chocolatier, and a handful of wildflowers from the dock area. He’d threaded them into the vase of white and yellow roses on her desk. The executive level always had fresh flowers, part of the ambiance, and he was pleased to see the ones he left complimented the roses. Would she notice? Thinking of how carefully she’d watched his every reaction the previous night, he expected she would.
That same day, she’d sent him a text. Chocolate and flowers? Still angling for that second date?
Always. Name the time and place, baby.
He’d added the teasing endearment on purpose and was rewarded with an emoticon in return, the one with the tongue stuck out. It kept him grinning, but true to what he’d expect of a woman of her nature, that had been their last interaction that week. He’d deduced she was going to hold off taking it any further until after the ballet class, both to torture him and to keep things slow, in control. That was all right. Of all people, he understood the value of timing, planning, strategy. It gave him time to plan his own.
As he stepped off the elevator, he detected a hint of tension in the air and found the source of it quickly enough. Janet was standing behind her desk, her fingertips resting on top of a stack of folders, her steely gaze fixed on Ben O’Callahan, who was shrugging into his suit jacket with an impatient motion. Max recalled today’s schedule, the details mapped in his head like a desk calendar. Wade was dropping him at Jackson Square for a lunch meet with the lawyers from Bally, Winslow and Martin.
“This isn’t about that,” Ben said, a hard edge to his tone. “I need to change my five p.m. appointment today to a different date. Jenkins and I—”
“I already spoke to Mr. Jenkins about that. He said he can meet you in the morning, and I moved your nine a.m. with Ellen Watkins to ten a.m. She said that worked better for her anyway.”
“If we handle it tonight, it keeps the workload for tomorrow—”
“Exactly the same.” Janet’s jaw was set, though she didn’t emanate any temper. Simple inflexibility, like a brick wall. “The decisions you made tonight wouldn’t be typed up until tomorrow anyhow, and I’ll make sure the paralegals put it top priority so it’
s all done before the end of the workday.” She held out a handful of slips to him. “Here are your messages, none of which interfere with your five o’clock.”
Ben approached her desk, eyes narrowed. Max wanted to take a few more steps into the area, be the knife to cut the tension, but he checked himself with effort. It would be foolish to defend Janet from a mere verbal assault, and one that came from a difficult man she handled regularly.
“I didn’t authorize you to do any of that.”
“No, you didn’t. Aren’t you glad I’m here to anticipate your needs?” Janet arched a brow.
“What if I decided I wanted my meet with Jenkins right back where the hell I wanted it?” Ben asked in a deceptively pleasant tone.
“I’d say he’s probably made other plans by now, being just as busy and important a person as you are.”
“Let me guess. You’ll tell Matt if I skip my bloody five o’clock?”
“No.” She held his gaze. “Are you asking me to do so?”
The lawyer pressed his lips together, the clash of wills going on for another ten seconds. Max reconsidered his idea of moving into the room, because for a moment Ben did in fact look like he might reach across and choke her. But Janet had that stapler close to hand. She’d brain him with it in a heartbeat.
“You,” Ben plucked the pink message slips from her hand, “are Satan’s Mistress.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She gave him that ice-cool look, but her hand closed on his, squeezed briefly. “Go to the five o’clock, Ben.”
That gesture evaporated the tension between them. The rueful twist of Ben’s lips said that, whatever had happened, he knew she was right. His Irish temper was hot, but brief, and he didn’t usually let himself off the hook for it, which he proved now. “Sorry, Janet.”
She shook her head, tapped his wrist. “Give Nancy Adams a call on your way. She’s the message on top. She just wants to know the projected filing date, and she’s not a talker. If you know the date, I could do it.”
