Natural Law

by Joey W. Hill

  She flicked her lashes up at the arrogant tone, then saw the spark of humor in his eyes, not quite covering his concern at her sudden quiet. It warmed her, his attempt to draw her away from darkness. She wasn't surprised he knew her shoe size at all, when he was so accomplished at picking up so many of her mood shifts.

  As if he read her thoughts, he put his hand against her calf. "I notice everything about you, sugar."

  "I'm beginning to see that."

  And the realization was opening up her heart further to him, so that the vulnerable organ was all but lying at his feet, ready for him to pick it up and cradle it in those large hands. Or crush it with his formidable strength, enhanced tenfold by the fact that every third heartbeat in her chest seemed to be caused by him. When a slow smile transformed his expression, it jumped and accelerated, making her revise that. Probably every other damn beat.

  Well, she wasn't a coward.

  Violet closed the box, laid her hands over it, resisting the urge to grip it possessively, the way she wanted to do with him. But relationships didn't work that way, not D/s or vanilla, or any kind in between.

  "I want to put this on your wrist more than anything, Mac," she said. "But I need to wait."

  His eyes sobered and she looked down at the box beneath her hands. "There's something I want you to know about me first, and then..." She looked up, met his gaze. "If you don't regret choosing this as my gift, I'll put it on your wrist, and call you mine in truth."

  "All right. Tell me."

  She shook her head. "When we get home. I want to tell you when you have some space to think about it. For now, I want you to come up here and hold me like you said, and if I drop off for three hours and your legs fall off from lack of circulation, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

  He shifted uncomfortably. "Violet, there are things about me...we don't have to know everything right away to be all right with something like this." He nodded to the box.

  "Yes. Yes, we do." She tapped the surface with its carved wooden cranes. "I take this very seriously, Mac, and I think you knew exactly how seriously I would take it, which makes it all the more special to me. I can't give it without you knowing the one thing about me that may make you decide not to pursue our relationship further."

  "Sugar, there's nothing in the world that could do that."

  She smiled. "There's that charmer again, but I can see you chewing on what it is I'm going to tell you. Come up here."

  He looked as if he would try to persuade her further, but apparently came to the correct conclusion that she was not going to be deterred from her plan. Rising to his knees, he slid his arms beneath her thighs and behind her back and stood, lifting her at the same time. He turned, brought them back into the bench with her cradled securely against him, her legs bent up, held securely in his arms so she was limp and comfortable and immediately at peace, almost as if by giving herself into his arms she had entered the quiet sanctuary of a church. She scooted around to nest herself down, and the erection beneath her immediately drove out any thoughts of institutionalized religion.

  "I seem to have a rather sizeable lump in my bed, but I don't think I want it removed," she observed.

  "Good thing," he returned dryly. "With you sitting on it, the only chance it has of going away is if it's whacked off."

  "Would you ask for water before I did that?"

  He chuckled. "At the top of my lungs."

  "Progress."

  But she saw the shadows in his eyes and reached up to touch his face. "What I tell you will matter, Mac," she said softly. "I don't know if it will be for good or ill, but it will matter."

  He didn't say anything this time, just held her closer. She shut her eyes, forcing herself not to push the moment, but to savor it, seeing as today might be the last she could enjoy him. The truth could set you free, but sometimes freedom was the last thing a person could want.

  "What was that?" he asked.

  She cleared her throat. "I said, what's that old adage about setting something free?"

  He tipped up her chin. "If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it is yours. If it doesn't--"

  He paused, and a chuckle bubbled out of her at the same moment a devilish smile crossed his face. They finished it together.

  "--hunt it down and kill it."

  *

  She left him at the club, with several lingering kisses. First in the car, and then through her window after he got out, until his back ached and his heart felt like it would explode. Then there were ten minutes of simply standing there, their hands linked and resting on the base of the open window, while they simply considered each other. No, that was too adult, and he was too honest not to call it what it was. They gazed at each other with no attention to anything else in the world. What was best, he felt no need to pull away. She was the Mistress. She would say when it was time to leave. All he had to do was stand there, drink in every aspect of her, enjoy the feel of her small-boned hand within the clasp of his, and wish time would just linger there as long as they wanted it to do so.

  "Well," she said at last. "I guess I better go. Work tomorrow."

  "Yeah." Taking a chance, he tightened his grasp, unable to help himself, and bent down one last time, seizing her lips in a kiss that was undisguised, hungry, greedy, conveying all he felt and wanted from her. His other hand found its way to the side of her face, her neck, tightened so he felt her pulse rage beneath his touch.

  When he lifted his head, she was holding onto his wrist, her nails pressing into his flesh. He was scored by her in a dozen places on his back and upper torso, and he gladly would have let her take every bit of his skin off if it would please her.

  "Be careful in this death trap," he said. "When can I see you again?"

  Though she flashed a reckless smile at his warning, her eyes were serious as she considered the question. He knew, with a tightening in his gut, that she was about to tell him whatever it was she felt was so important that she would not fully offer the gift he'd selected until he'd heard it.

  She reached into her purse, took out a business card case, held it without opening it, tapping it on the steering wheel a moment before she made her decision and took out a card, wrote on the back of it.

  "I want you to come to my house for dinner, Wednesday night. Can you cook, really?"

  "Yes."

  She raised a brow. "Just yes? No qualifications, like 'I can only cook burgers or toss salads'?"

  He braced both hands on the window and squatted down so they were eye level. "I attended three semesters of cooking school. I can cook you anything you'd like to eat, sugar, and give you a chocolate dessert that will melt in your mouth."

  A delighted, sinful smile crossed her face and she tangled her fingers in the chest hair visible in the open collar of his shirt. "How about I cover you with it and make you so hot you melt it? Then I can lick it off every last inch of you,"

  He caught her lips in another quick kiss and didn't flinch when she bit, capturing his tongue and teasing it with her own. When she broke the kiss, her cheeks were flushed and violet eyes bright, for she'd donned her concealments before they were in sight of the club. He loved knowing their true color, knowing that the lavender was an enhancement of the glowing iris that was already there.

  Her gaze flicked down. "I want you to wear something obscenely tight," she said. "No underwear, so be careful of what's mine when you're getting yourself zipped into them. I want you shaved, close." The direction of her glance indicated what part of his anatomy she was referencing. "Your shirt and shoes go off at the door. I plan to sit on the counter and fully enjoy watching you cook."

  He lifted a brow. "I'll do all that, and bring groceries. Do you have a fully stocked kitchen?"

  "Mackenzie, I have everything you need."

  She pressed the card in his hand, but he saw the hesitation before she did it. All those who took D/s play into the sanctuary of their homes had to weigh the choice very carefully, for a lot of
reasons. No one was in a better position to know that than him, given the case he was working now. But he did not want to see worry in her eyes. He took the card she offered, but kept his attention on her face. "You can trust me, Violet."

  "I know that," she said.

  "It's not going to make a difference, whatever it is."

  "Yes, it will. I just... No, don't look at it yet. Not until I drive away. I just want you to know, if you change your mind and decide not to come--"

  "Violet." He started to look at the card, her insistence be damned, because the fear in her eyes alarmed him, but she closed her hand over his palm, hiding it.

  "--I will understand," she said firmly. "But if you do come, I'll want to talk about what you're really doing at The Zone, and if I can help. I don't have to ask if what we have is real or not. This weekend answered that. Maybe we can use that to help you, Officer. Or is it Detective?"

  If she'd told him she was an alien on a mission to investigate the sexual nature of the human population, he would have been less knocked off his feet. At his expression, she managed a smile that was strained around the edges and stroked a quick hand down his chest, caressing him through the open collar of his shirt again. "Doesn't change my terms for how you dress that night. Hope to see you Wednesday. I'll be thinking of you."

  She was gone a full minute, the Stealth merging into traffic with practiced ease, before he thought to look down at the card in his hand. He blinked. Felt the rug she'd just pulled out from under him rear back and slap him hard on his ass.

  "Son of a bitch."

  Chapter 14

  He wasn't going to come. Why had she been so stupid? It was too soon.

  No, it wouldn't have mattered. It would have been that much harder to accept in a week, two weeks, particularly if they continued on at the same level of intensity. She'd suggested dinner as a way to ease up, of sorts. Take them out of the realm of the dungeon or a home like Tyler's, which were geared specifically toward D/s play. This was about how they got along when it wasn't whips and chains, at least not totally. They'd tested those waters on the way to and from Tyler's and she'd found them to her liking. She wanted more of everything when it came to Mac Nighthorse.

  Yes, it was better to get it out in the open now. Despite what she had told him, it might have been an act on his part, and she'd just been part of whatever his undercover assignment had been at The Zone.

  "Violet," she muttered. "Don't start doubting yourself now. You know that's bullshit. Nobody is that good at undercover."

  But he had been on the job in The Zone, and she'd known it the moment she had seen him for the first time. As clearly as she'd known he was a genuine sexual submissive, the most unexpected combination she'd ever encountered in her life.

  But it was five after. Submissives, particularly ones like Mac, were not late. Ever. Not for their Mistress.

  She moved to the window again, cursing herself, and saw a black Dodge Ram pickup pull into her driveway, Mac at the wheel.

  She hastily stepped back so he wouldn't see her there, but she stayed in the shadow next to the lace curtain panel to watch him get out of the truck, bend into the back area to retrieve the groceries, and turn to come up her walkway.

  "My, oh my," she murmured.

  She suspected the jeans were new, or he didn't wear them often. They were stretch denim and clung to every muscular curve of his lower body, his ass and long thighs, outlining the heavy bulge of his cock and testicles, creasing in all the right places as he walked. He wore something easy to remove, a heavy weight black cotton T-shirt.

  Violet hoped old Mrs. Zerbrowsky wasn't looking out her window or she'd have to call 911 to have the widow's pacemaker jumpstarted. Her own heart was doing a triple-time beat up against the base of her throat, but it wasn't all due to his appearance, though it by itself screamed sex on demand. Her demand.

  It had as much to do with the intent focus of his eyes, and the dozen lavender roses he carried in one arm, wrapped in a matching velvet cloth and tied with ribbon, opposite the three bags of groceries he balanced in the other.

  He hadn't just showed. With the flowers, he'd made it clear that he'd showed because he wanted to do so.

  Violet moved to the foyer. Outside the range of the window, she allowed herself a little spin on the hardwood floor, then composed herself at the door and opened it.

  "Hi," she said.

  She'd worn a soft knit dress in a deep blue hue that clung to her curves, etching them out in detail, since she'd chosen not to wear a bra or panties. She was barefoot, because she wanted to enhance a casual atmosphere, but as she opened the door, it reminded her forcibly how much taller he was than her.

  Those silver eyes covered every inch of her, and when they rested on her face at last, it was all she could do not to seize him by the shirt front and kiss him the way she wanted to do. Because she knew the rewards for waiting, she reined herself in. Also, though he had chosen to be here, there were things they needed to talk about.

  "Mistress," he said softly, extending the roses.

  She took them and he stepped over the doorway at her gesture. She closed the door with a quiet snick that locked them together in intimate solitude. Mac sat the groceries down on the bench of her antique hallway tree. Crossed his arms over his abdomen in order to grasp his shirt, pull it from the waistband and lift it over his head, baring his upper body as she had ordered.

  The naked hip bone she glimpsed when he stretched told her that he had followed her every demand and there was nothing under those form fitting jeans but him. The movement brought the light smell of his aftershave to her, just a touch of cologne, and the musk of the male animal beneath it.

  Mac laid the shirt aside, neatly folding it over the arm of the tree, toed off his shoes and placed them beneath the seat.

  "I missed you," he said, his dark lashes fanning his cheeks as he lowered his gaze. "I'd like to honor you, Mistress. Show my devotion to you."

  Violet swallowed. "Very well," she whispered.

  He knelt, one knee then the other. As he had that night at the supper table, he bent, but now he offered the deference to her as a gift, those broad bare shoulders flexing to take him low enough so that his lips touched her sensitive instep. She didn't expect him to be completely well-behaved, and she wasn't disappointed. His tongue traced the arch, and she drew in a breath, the sensation from his mouth tightening every nerve ending between the point of contact up to her pussy.

  Moisture flooded her so instantly that she couldn't control it. Her response trickled down her thigh to her knee, paused there only a moment, working its way over the shell of her knee cap, forced by gravitational pull to the inside to run down her calf, as if eager to race to where his lips pressed against her skin.

  She knew when it reached his mouth, for he abruptly went still. Then his lips moved slightly, taking in her taste. He licked it away, began to trace the path of her pussy's invitation up her ankle. The heavy soft knit dress covered his head, settling on his shoulders as he followed the track, sucking the dew gently from her skin even as more came down her thigh, like a hot spring from deep within the womb of the earth, her pussy eager to offer its honey to his mouth, but only one drop at a time, wanting to tease. He was above her knee now, his beard brushing her thighs, the hair on his head tickling her clit. Her thighs were too close together to allow him access to the deep channel between them, but he wasn't deterred. Violet moaned as he reached the top of her thigh, his head completely covered by the skirt. She watched his skull turn, jolted and cried out as his lips touched her clit, the tip of his tongue and his moustache making a tiny tickling movement against her, like the quivering of a light bulb filament.

  Unbelievably, she came. Suddenly, explosively, a climax of vibration rather than convulsion, shuddering up through the balls of her feet to arrow hard and fast through her cunt. The flowers dropped from her grasp, rolled down his back in their soft wrapping and to the floor, scattering several lavender petals across his calves.
Her response gushed forth between her thighs, and he made a soft growl of pleasure but did not move his mouth or tongue from giving butterfly kisses to that tiny jewel of spasming flesh. The moment she started to come, his arms lifted, went around her hips and thighs, a double band to anchor her, keep her steady. Perversely it kept her legs sealed together, so it only doubled the force of the quivering sensation on the clitoral point of contact, especially when she struggled against the inexorable force of his strength.

  When she finally could breathe, he was carrying her weight, her toes not even on the floor as she clung to his shoulders, his mouth pressed against her clit, at last unmoving.

  "I think you missed me, too," her slave murmured, his face still obscured by her skirt. The movement of his lips, the soft abrasion of his moustache against her made her whimper, a quiet cry. She reached down, cupped his chin, felt his hot moist breath through the fabric, a little ragged.

  His act of devotion had been the perfect one to catapult her over the edge, a physical and emotional stimulus she could not resist, sweeping any control away. She could say it was partially the culmination of several days of intense sexual frustration, and partially him, but it was all him. She had denied herself any satisfaction, only wanting it from Mac.

  "Put me down," she said, her voice unsteady, and he obeyed, setting her on her feet as if she were porcelain. Violet stepped back, uncovered those beautiful bare shoulders, the tousled head, the face rigid with his own suppressed desires. She bent, kissed him gently on the lips, let him clasp her trembling hands as she tasted herself on his lips. "Come make me dinner," she said.

  *

  Violet had never appreciated the erotic art of cooking until she watched a man she desired as much as Mackenzie do it. The capable way his large hands sliced the fresh vegetables after carefully washing them, sliding his fingers into every crevice to gently remove any dirt, leaving the glistening color of the green zucchini and yellow squash unmarred. The firm, human flesh-like covering of the ripe tomatoes responding to his caress by revealing the deepest hue of their red color. The casual way he tossed them into the pot, a man completely at ease with what he was doing. Scents of preparing food filled her kitchen, adding to the warmth already surrounding them. She placed her wine glass on the counter and turned to hitch herself up on it, and found him there, his hands at her waist.