Page 49 of At Her Pleasure
It told her that normally he was a lot smarter about his needs. If he showed the signs he’d revealed to her, other clubs wouldn’t be giving him the high marks Ros had talked about. They screamed danger to any experienced Mistress. To her and to him.
The reckless part of her was flattered. Which just meant they were the same kind of stupid. It also worried her, mostly for him. She tossed the towel to the side, stepped back and put her hands on her hips. “Relax your arms.”
As he did, she said something she hadn’t intended. “Do you have plans this evening?”
He eyed her, rubbing his wrists. The metal cuff marks from yesterday were still here, and the cross restraints had irritated them. “I have a late afternoon appointment, but I’m free after that. What did you have in mind? Scaling the spire of the St. Louis cathedral? Alligator wrestling in the bayou?”
Shit. He should have told her he’d had more work to do today. She might have gone easier…
What the fuck? She didn’t do coddling. If the sub wasn’t responsible enough to speak up and let her know his limits in a session to meet his outside responsibilities, that was his problem. Her reaction annoyed her enough she almost changed her mind, but then she didn’t.
“Dinner. With friends.”
Once a month, they met for a meal at Vera, Ros, Skye or Abby’s house. Cyn brought wine and hors d’oeuvres, doing her part, because she told them her place wasn’t set up for entertaining. Until Skye and Tiger had gotten together, she hadn’t been the lone holdout on not offering a venue. Skye’s warehouse loft had been more tech lab than social spot, with no dining room area, so they’d done their monthly dinners at Abby, Ros or Vera’s place. But now that Tiger and Skye moved between her place and his, a spacious ranch property on the outskirts of New Orleans, they sometimes had the get-together there. Like tonight.
No one ever commented on Cyn not playing hostess. Even if something about that bugged her, she wasn’t going to change it. Why she needed it to be that way went into the vault of things she didn’t care to take apart.
Noting the quiver in his legs as he leaned against the cross, she pointed at a chair beside the table. “Sit.”
“If you’ll sit with me. I don’t sit in the presence of a lady. Definitely not with a Mistress still standing.”
“Unless she tells you to sit your ass down.”
He moved to the chair and sat down. On the concrete floor next to it.
While watching him walk without a stitch of clothing was nicely distracting, his stiff movements told her he might need more than the salve to function tomorrow.
With an aggrieved sigh, she retrieved what was needed from her bag and perched on the chair before offering him the squat glass container. “Rub this where it hurts. If you don’t, I’m kicking you out on the street.”
His gaze slid down his body. “Naked?”
“It wouldn’t be half as fun otherwise.”
As he opened the jar, her hand fell on his back and stroked. Something she also didn’t normally do, but she wanted to touch, so she was going to touch. His nostrils flared. “This is one of your tortures. What is it, dog shit?”
“It works. After the ointment soaks in, you can wash off the smell.”
Dubiously, he dabbed his fingers in it, but once he put some on his thighs, she could tell the heat penetrated, and he applied it with more enthusiasm.
“So who’s the dinner with?” The question was carefully casual, as if he sensed she’d made the offer with reservations.
“The team. Vera, Ros, Abby and Skye. Plus Lawrence, Tiger and Neil, so you won’t be drowning in estrogen.”
“I don’t mind swimming in a pond of Dommes.” He shot her an amused look. “It’s slightly more dangerous than piranhas.”
“Actually, humans can swim with piranhas, as long as the fish aren’t hungry and the humans aren’t bleeding. Just like sharks.”
“I’ve never been around a Mistress who didn’t have a voracious appetite. One in particular I know likes the taste of blood.”
He was leveling out. Though it might be a shallow grave, his dark moments, whatever she’d seen during the session, were buried again. He put the ointment on his biceps and the round part of his broad shoulders, but he couldn’t reach the center of his back. A place where abused muscles could knot like saltwater-soaked rope.
“Give me the jar.”
“I can do it.”
“Shut the fuck up and hand it over.”
When he did and straightened, presenting his back to her, she suspected he might have been exaggerating the deficit in reach. She hid a smile. And slapped him upside the head.