Page 108 of At Her Pleasure

Her lips curved, even as they quivered from the intensity of his gaze upon them. “Until I get hungry for breakfast. How are you at making eggs?”

“Better than hens.”

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and brought him to her chuckling mouth, the laughter melting into heat. He just kissed her. Kissed her and kissed her, until their bodies were pressed close again, and her legs opened to him, welcoming him back inside.

“You like to be touched endless ways, Mistress,” he whispered against her mouth. He paused above her in the dark, lodged inside her, their hands holding onto one another. “Hard, soft, all at your pleasure. When you want it, however you want it, that’s the main thing. You feel the difference when a man is doing it that way, instead of any other.”

She’d never had sex with a man on top. It didn’t feel like a prison, not suffocating. Not with Mick. She didn’t feel out of control. Far from it. As she held him, and they both shuddered through another orgasm, it felt like another first.

He felt like a man who belonged to her. Who had been created for her. An entirely dangerous and deranged thought.

But she was no stranger to those states of mind.

* * *

When Cyn woke for the second time, it was full daylight and she smelled breakfast cooking. She wasn’t a deep sleeper, but not only had Mick made it out of bed without waking her, he’d had enough time to make a meal.

The last thing she’d remembered was his arms around her. It hadn’t been a bad thing.

When she brushed her teeth and hair, she noticed she was missing her hair ribbon. She’d been half-awake when he’d untied and slid it away. He’d nuzzled her curls as they slipped down around her face. Going back to the bed, she found the ribbon under his pillow. His own scent touched her nose as she re-adjusted the pillow.

She’d never woken in the morning with a man in her bed. Well, she still hadn’t, since he was downstairs. If it ever happened again, she’d tell him he’d damn well better keep his ass in it until she woke up and told him to go make her breakfast. She wouldn’t have minded starting her day riding a big, thick morning erection, no matter that she’d had it inside her only a couple hours ago.

She didn’t see herself getting tired of fucking Mick anytime soon.

She tied the ribbon back in place, washed her face, did moisturizer, decided to forget about makeup for now and went down the hall in her tank and loosely-tied pajama pants. On her landing was a painting of a New Orleans street scene, musicians playing saxophone and drums while a woman in a white dress danced, her blonde hair sweeping around her as she laughed.

Cyn touched it as she usually did, then headed downstairs. It was a sunny day, and the front living room windows drenched the stairs and foyer in sunshine.

She paused at the opening to the kitchen, because the view was worth taking a moment. Or ten.

A lot of people wished for a “stop” button, to absorb a view as long as they wished before it changed. A Mistress had that button. She just had to tell her sub to stay in the pose she wanted. Cyn’s problem was she wanted to see Mick in all sorts of positions and states of dress. She was too impatient to stay on just one.

“A true masochist,” she commented. “A man who will cook with hot oil while naked.”

Mick looked her way. His dark hair was tousled over his forehead, his blue eyes gleaming. “My Mistress said no clothes until she said so. You may get a letter from the HOA. Your dog-walking neighbor looked a little startled when I brought in your morning paper.”

“If I thought you were serious, I’d beat you with that spatula.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“See, my day’s already full of promising things.” His gaze passed over the ribbon in her hair, the push of her nipples against thin cloth, the exposed hip bones above the drawstring of the pants. “You make girl slumber party wear look pretty damn good. Ever thought about reverse Daddy Dom?”

“What? That is not a real thing.”

“Everything has the potential to be a real thing. It just has to cross someone’s mind.” He grinned. “It’s Daddy Dom, only he’s not the Dom. She’s a little girl in charge of her Daddy, making him do stuff for her.”

At her look, he hummed a 38 Special song, bringing to mind the lyrics. A man so caught up in his woman, “his little girl,” that he’d get down on his knees for her.

She came across the kitchen, no longer willing to deny herself the right to touch him. “Keep cooking,” she told him. After a quick inspection to ensure all the bruising, cuts and welts were healing properly, she pressed herself against his battered back side.

When she reached around him to work his cock in her hand, he huffed out a chuckle. “You’re going to mess up your breakfast.”

“Not if my sex slave knows what his first job is, and it has nothing to do with what his dick wants.”

“Understood, Mistress.” She felt the tightening of his muscles as he focused on cooking while she was doing her best to distract him. Firm strokes, cupping his balls, teasing his thighs with her nails. She’d left her claws on the night table. An oversight, but she had other options.

He was scrambling the vegan egg mix he’d found in a carton in the fridge. He’d added some of her counter spices and chopped up tomatoes and peppers to add to the mix. Toast with muscadine jelly waited on a plate on the non-hot part of the stove. He must have planned to bring her breakfast in bed. Once he added the vegetables and slid the finished omelet onto the plate, she had a command for him.

“Make the oil splatter, Mick.”