by Joey W. Hill
Her chin had lifted, no words needed. She'd followed the vision he was painting her right to where he'd end up, with his hand wrapped around her throat. She swallowed as if she could feel its constriction and his hand tightened on her wrist.
"Did you ever buy Roy a collar?"
She shook her head. "That wasn't . . . something he wanted."
"But it's something you want, isn't it?"
She nodded, a quick jerk as if he had his hand there, limiting her mobility.
"We'll see about that. Open your eyes."
When she did, his attention was on her face. She'd noted his concentration when he'd been handling Willow, but it was far more powerful to have it up this close, and focused on her. She also saw a hint of what he'd been talking about, what exercising his skill as a Dominant gave him personally. She'd found pleasure in being Roy's Mistress, but she hadn't found this, an internal zone that was perhaps a related form of what a sub found when they completely let go. Within these bare few minutes, he'd stepped inside that zone for a Dom, and he'd very nearly taken her with him, by doing nothing more than touching her hand.
It overwhelmed her, not so much the newness of it, but how easily he'd made it happen. How easily she'd let it happen. She pushed away from the table, pulling from his hold. She rose and took a few steps away, drawing a deep breath. She was facing the house, her gaze fastened on the turrets that rose to the blue sky, pointing toward fluffy clouds. Tomorrow she was hosting a tea for the Daughters of the Confederacy. Afterwards they'd visit Metairie cemetery to do their monthly tending of the graves of the men that no longer had families to watch after them.
"I can't let this affect my personal life. It has to stay separate."
"I wasn't planning to spank you in front of your staff. Or tie you down on your boardroom table."
She gave a half chuckle at that image, though she was a little appalled by how it flooded her mind. Him stripping her naked and binding her on the table where she'd overseen so many decisions. He'd take a switch to her as he'd done Willow, such that her nails would gouge the wood, her perspiration seeping into it. Then he'd make her beg to come by putting his mouth between her legs.
She told herself not to be carried away. Reminded herself she knew nothing of him. A momentary impression at the club had become this lunch, this significant turning moment of her life. If a submissive at the club had told her she was contemplating such a course of action, she would have chided her for being too impulsive, even unsafe. But she could trust Dale with her physical well-being, couldn't she? He'd already proven that.
"Hey."
She turned. His penetrating look seemed to recognize every one of the churning emotions she was experiencing. And though his tone was gentle, he maintained the unrelenting expression, telling her he still held the reins. Like how a confident rider held the reins on his horse, communicating to the complex and responsive creature that she was safe under that restraint. Able to gallop and fly without fear--as long as it was at his command.
That was another key difference, she realized. A Dom had no desire to let go of those reins. He reveled in holding that control, seeing what the horse would do under his skilled touch, how far they could fly together.
"We all have lives that stay separate from this, Athena. But if what you're trying to say is that whatever feelings develop between us have to stay separate, that's something I can't help you with. Feelings go where they want to go. Neither Dom nor sub has any control over those. If that's your main worry, we have lunch and walk away from this."
Sensible, intelligent, logical. A touch of inexplicable sadness gripped her. "Okay. Fair enough."
He lifted a brow as she came back to the table. "So?"
She sat down, unfolded her napkin, smoothed it over her lap, even though there wasn't yet any food to make it necessary. She needed the action. He waited her out until she raised her gaze. "I don't want to walk away."
He nodded. "All right. You promised me lunch. I'm hungry."
It made her smile, and she saw the humor flit through his gaze in response. It calmed her nerves a little more. They'd have lunch. One step at a time.
--
Lynn had prepared a salad with ham-and-cheese bread as appetizers, followed by her incomparable stuffed crab. There was a homemade sherbet promised for dessert. When Dale complimented her cook's skills warmly, Athena was amused to see Lynn flush with pleasure beneath his regard almost as quickly as she did.
Roy would laugh at both of them. She remembered a particular day he'd complimented her on a dress. He'd gazed at her longer than the usual habit for a man married almost two decades to the same woman. It had made her blush. He'd lifted her hands to his lips, kissing both of them. "I am the luckiest man in the world. And now you look like a lovely young girl."
"You made me feel that way."
"I should do that every day." Then he'd kissed her mouth.
Dale had a similar way of paying attention to a woman that made it impossible not to feel . . . well, womanly, in all the right ways.
During lunch, he eased away from the more intense subjects. He asked her about the history of the house. The 1700s plantation home with antebellum Greek revival architecture overlooked the Mississippi River. Its extensive grounds had once been a sugar plantation. She told him anecdotes about the various families that had lived in the house, the exaggerated rumors that claimed Queen Victoria had given them a bathtub as a gift. She told him the story had been spun by one of the past owners who was drinking heavily with gambling companions. They'd all ended up in the bathtub, singing bawdy sailor songs and "God Save the Queen."
He chuckled over that, the velvet timbre of his voice twining around her. She'd slipped her feet out of her shoes as they were eating, and when he shifted his position, she realized her bare foot was within an inch of his boot. Not giving herself too much time to think about it, she slid her toes over the top of it. She did it lightly, not wanting to be caught indulging such a whimsical, intimate gesture, but then she realized what was under the leather didn't feel exactly like the foot she expected. Curious, she moved up a little farther, above the ankle, her toes sliding under his jeans' cuff. The boot gave easily beneath the pressure, as if what was beneath was mostly empty. What she felt was more like a rod than a leg. There was no leg there.
"I notice a woman playing footsy with me a lot quicker on the right side."
He'd noticed pretty fast, given that all of it had all happened within the past few seconds, with barely a pause in the conversation. Now she lifted her eyes to his. "Your eyes are like sea glass," he said. "That soft green color." Reaching out, he made her left eye close when he brushed her lashes, lightly. "These are almost blond." Then he pulled off another piece of the ham-and-cheese bread, offering it to her.
When she shook her head, he took it instead, his healthy male appetite warming her. Lynn would say he was a man who was a pleasure to feed. Athena could cook quite well herself, and if there were evenings they'd be spending here alone during the dinner hour, she might like that opportunity.
"May I ask about it?"
He picked up his sweet tea to take a swallow, then wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin before answering. "Right now you can ask me whatever you'd like, Athena."
Right now. The qualification reminded her that the clock was moving toward the five o'clock hour. If he'd intended to tighten that little screw on the wire of sexual tension that strummed between them, he'd succeeded admirably. He didn't seem visibly concerned that she'd figured out his handicap, but then he didn't really act like it was one, did he?
"How did it happen?"
"The details of the mission are still classified, but basically it was the result of an underwater explosion. A dislodged boat prop sliced into it and the docs couldn't save it, not by the time they got me to them."
"How long ago?"
"A few years before I was eligible for retirement. I was able to do other work, serve as an instructor, help with tactical planning fo
r missions, but I was no longer in active combat situations."
No, discussing the leg didn't seem to bother him at all, but being cut out of active missions was a different matter. He'd made his peace with it, but in the tone of his voice, the way shadows darkened his eyes, she saw how hard-won it had been. "I'm sorry."
"Being a SEAL is a calling." He shrugged. "You know you'll retire one day, and I was able to do it after I served over my full twenty years. But even so, getting your legs cut out from under you before you're ready for it--a bit literally, in my case--it's tough. You miss it like a drug. It's hard to find anything to match it. I met an astronaut once who described going into space the same way."
She thought of those first days without Roy, figuring out who and what she was when what seemed like ninety percent of how she defined herself, motivated herself, structured herself, was gone. She still cried for him most nights before she went to sleep, hugging his pillow hard to her chest. "So how did you figure it out?" she asked softly.
He reached out, sliding a fingertip down her cheek with exceptional tenderness. "I dealt with it day by day, same as you. Some days I was a total bastard."
Matter-of-fact as his tone seemed, she expected the information was something he rarely shared. Perhaps the fact he was helping her embrace something she'd never shared with another gave him the comfort to speak plainly with her. She liked the idea of that connection, though thinking of him coming so close to a fatal injury made her heart hitch in her chest, no matter that it had happened some time ago.
"Ever been married?" she asked.
"Once. She left me about ten years into it, before this happened to my leg, thank God. I'm glad she didn't have to deal with that. Being married to a SEAL was hard enough for her. No children," he added. "You?"
She shook her head. "Our lives were full enough without them. We both have brothers and sisters with children, and we handle the operating costs for a children's home in Louisiana, so we can enjoy their company whenever we wish. We've hosted picnics and carnival days for them here. Why didn't you and your wife choose to have them?"
"Never had enough motivation to make it happen. Guess we should have seen that as a sign, too, like we both knew we weren't going to make it for the long haul. As a result, I'm glad we didn't take that step. I came from divorced parents and remember how much it hurt when they split. Kids are tough, they get over things or figure it out, but Pam and I were the types who would have stayed with one another to prevent doing that to a kid, even when the marriage fell apart. And kids pick up on that shit, no matter how much we tell ourselves they don't."
She nodded. "So was there anyone for you . . . when it happened? To your leg."
His eyes warmed on her. "Trust you to think of that. SEALs are a family. The guys in my unit, other guys I'd worked with along the way, they helped me pull through. We don't let one of our own wallow in self-pity. If I even thought about it, one of them was there to kick me in the ass, remind me of the ones who come back without both legs, paralyzed from the neck down or in a box. And if I was too pathetic, they'd pull out the big guns. They'd make me go hang out in the children's cancer ward."
She winced, and he nodded. "Yeah. Anybody who can pity themselves after seeing how those kids deal with things just deserves a headshot to put everyone else out of the misery of dealing with him."
At her smile, he gave her one of his own. "So I made it work. Turning a loss into a win is one of the codes we live by."
We. He didn't speak like he was retired, but he'd called it a calling, and one never left behind a calling. She thought of him, though, his leg being cut away on an operating table, waking up to face how that changed his life. She was glad he'd had others to stand by him.
"You had a little bit of a limp that day, after you helped me at the gas station. But you're not limping now."
"Yeah. The prosthesis and the gait training I've had let me walk pretty normally. Only time you'll notice anything is if I've overdone."
"Like the gas station." At his look, she shifted topics, recognizing the typical male desire not to linger too long on any perceived weakness. With private amusement, she expected that trait would be exacerbated considerably in a SEAL, retired or otherwise. "So, the Dom thing. When did you figure that out?"
"I don't remember the exact day, but I remember some key pivotal moments." He tilted his head, considering. "I was at a buddy's barbecue. One of his neighbors was there with his spouse, and something about the way the two of them interacted caught my attention. Whenever the husband needed something--another beer, another plate of food, whatever--she would go get it for him. When she came back to him, she'd settle at his feet on a folded towel, like she was more comfortable sitting on the lawn. At different times, when he was talking to people, he'd have his hand on her shoulder, his thumb inside her shirt collar, playing with this pewter choker she was wearing. It nagged at me, as if I was seeing some kind of secret code happening, and of course that was exactly what was going on."
She agreed, since she was attuned to those nuances herself.
"Other Doms told me figuring it out was like opening up this whole part of themselves that had always been there," he continued. "Driving them in their real lives. When I looked back at the way I drove myself to excel in the SEALs, how I took charge of so many missions, how I was with my wife . . . SEALS are pretty much alpha personalities, and though that's not a given for a Dom, we're also trained to evaluate, to notice details, to follow as well as lead. It's a balance, a give-and-take of power to accomplish the mission, and that give-and-take was something that was second nature to me. More than I realized."
He shifted his legs into a more relaxed sprawl under the table, one that aligned his booted feet on either side of her chair. It put her in the center of his attention, and felt that way. They were getting close to five o'clock, and his movement suggested how closely he was tracking the time. The fact he kept his tone mild, conversational, only enhanced the underlying tension between their two bodies.
"I approached the guy later, eased into the subject matter, and he confirmed he and his wife were part of the D/s lifestyle. He directed me to a few reputable clubs, gave me some direction, and I went from there."
His gaze moved from her face to her throat, sliding with casual pleasure over her upper body, down to her legs. "When we're down range--on a mission--we're in a hyperalert mode, a sustained intensity. Sometimes, when we get back, we have to hang out at a buddy's house, defuse, until we're fit for civilized society again. It's not a good thing to evaluate everyone in Walmart as a target."
"As tempting as that can sometimes be," she said wryly.
"Especially during the busy times," he agreed. That shadowed look returned to his expression. "When I retired, I threw myself into work, a million volunteer jobs, working like a reformed drug addict to fill the hours, but it didn't ease the ache. You miss the adrenaline rush in a way that's indescribable. I didn't want to just rock climb or run a triathlon. I wanted something that felt meaningful to more than myself. The camaraderie, the bond between you and your team when you're active, the way you depend on one another, it's hard to replace that. You help take care of SEAL families while your buddies are deployed, hang out with them when they're home, but it's not the same.
"When I was evaluating a sub in a club environment, working with her, taking her to subspace, I found that quiet space inside, where I could be focused on every single detail, like when on a mission. Her well-being is completely in my hands. She's depending on me to get her through it. And that bond brought it all together. Not the same, but enough to give me peace."
Now he straightened, his hand dropping back over hers, fingers on her wrist. She went still, and he cocked his head. "For instance"--he stroked her wrist bones--"if you were tied, I'd notice your circulation, how the knots are tied. Your facial expressions, the acceleration of your heartbeat. Every single thing I do creates a reaction. If I lean forward, just a few more inches into your personal space"--h
e did so, bringing his face closer to hers--"your breathing changes, and the tension in your body increases. Staying aware of those details determines what my next step will be, how I'll approach the next task, how to keep you safe, and deliver you to the end goal. Mission accomplished."
When he eased back, she took a breath. He noticed that, too. He'd mesmerized her, as effectively as a snake charmer. She cleared her throat.
"Have you been involved with anyone since your wife?"
"Nothing serious."
"Are you gun-shy?"
"On the contrary. I'm very comfortable with guns."
She narrowed her gaze at him and his lips curved. "You're the one who spooked about setting limits," he pointed out. "Spouting off about paying me."
"Spouting off?" She lifted a brow and the smile turned into a grin. It made him even more handsome. Then he sobered.
"I've already said I won't agree to you turning this into a compartmentalized club session. You accepted that. Now you're asking questions that are cycling back to that again. Will this be a relationship or simply about the Dom/sub stuff? The purpose of your question is to control the situation, define it. That's not your job. You understand?"
The nebulous set of feelings she was letting out of a box that had always stayed closed seemed to understand. Yet he was correct; another part of her was uneasy and struggling with it, wanting to find some way to respond that put things on even ground between them, manageable, at her pace. Under her control.
Being at the mercy of the vacillation of her own mind was wearing on her nerves. She glanced at the carafe Lynn had left plugged in to keep the contents hot. "May I get you some coffee?"
She didn't ask as a hostess. Perhaps she was testing his acuity, but if she was, he aced the test. "It's ten minutes to five, Athena," he said mildly. "Are you trying to move up the clock?"
