Page 16 of At Her Pleasure

Though he’d stood up, he was beside two facing chairs, as if he’d pulled one over to brace a foot on it. She pictured him leaning back, relaxed, scrolling through his phone while waiting for her. Or studying the ceiling, using the flat expanse to project reflections on the past, present and future.

She marked the length of thigh, straight hip, the hold of the slacks around the groin. Fit men looked so damn good with a belt cinching their waist. As her eyes traveled back up, she wanted to see two things.

Since the shirt was open two buttons, the first was available to her gaze. The cross with the skeleton hugging it, resting at the valley between his collar bones.

The significance of him finding it, that he’d tended and visited Cissy’s grave, that he knew she’d left it for him, was now undeniable.

“You know that’s grave robbing.”

“You left it as a message for her. But you wanted me to find it.”

Her five-seven height and three-inch boot heels closed the gap to his six feet, but he was bigger and stronger-looking. He should have seemed smaller without all his cop trappings, the uniform and gun belt.

He was tracking her, every step, every movement. She was being consumed by all his available senses. If it was clear what he was, what he wanted from her, she’d have told him to lower his gaze, denied him the thorough perusal. But this was the best part, figuring out what he most wanted, what he dreaded but needed at the same time.

His face had more lines, like he spent a lot of time outside, and he was in fighting shape. The angle of the hip, hands loose at his sides, showed he was prepared for whatever came at him.

Except maybe her.

Instead of walking toward a chapter in her past, she felt like they were picking up the story right where it had left off. As she drew closer, she saw the scar. It had the sheen old wounds did, the pinkish tinge at the borders, the deep color at the main seam.

Though rage had driven the act, the result was she’d left her mark on him. A personal mark. She wanted to see it, touch it, put her teeth to it like she had in her fantasies.

“What did he give you?” He’d tilted his head toward the room she’d left.

“What you can’t.”

The shape of his mouth didn’t change at the deliberate taunt, his voice remaining even. “Was it what you wanted?”

“For tonight. For this moment.”

“Good.”

She put her fingers on his chest, over his shirt, feeling the man beneath. The scar. “I’ve heard touching without permission is a reportable offense,” he said.

“If you didn’t arrest me when I did this to you, you won’t file some weak-assed complaint for a simple touch.” Her gaze flicked up. “And if you say something stupid, like I was just a kid then and you gave me a pass, I’ll walk away. After I punch you in the nuts.”

“No touch from you is simple, Mistress.”

The skeleton and cross brushed her knuckles. He hadn’t moved, absolutely still under her hand. That was an important message, too.

“Is Mick your actual first name?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re not a cop anymore.”

“I left that not long after we met. Didn’t seem to be the best fit for me.”

“But party planning was?” She withdrew her hand and stepped back. Not far.

Mick slid one hand into his slacks. “I do security-related jobs for a friend. Kink events integrate well with them.”

When he glanced down, drawing her attention there, he was offering her what he’d removed from his pocket, one of the yarn voodoo dolls sold at the tourist traps. She had a blue bow in her hair, and was clasping a skateboard.

“While you were in session, I remembered seeing this at the souvenir shop near Harrah’s. Figured I had time to get it.”

He knew what today was. Of course he did. If he’d tended Cissy’s grave, he’d looked at her date of death often enough. Her heart started thudding against her rib cage again, a prisoner beating fists against the bars, demanding supper. Too hungry to be wise.