Page 63 of At Her Pleasure

“He did, in the locker room. And read me the riot act.”

She narrowed her eyes. “He shouldn’t have done that. I was the one who deserved the dressing down.”

“Probably. But I was the one who knew better.”

“Because you’re older? And have a penis?”

His eyes glimmered with his normal humor, which she admitted was a relief to see. “Don’t get angry,” he said gravely, “but of the two of us, it’s general knowledge that I have the more level head.”

She thought of several arguments, then accepted the truth. “That’s fair.”

A bruise under his eye was swelling. She handed him the ice pack she’d been using, but he shook his head, gripped her hand and guided it back to her nose. An hour ago, she would have shaken him off, but her view was clearer now.

It bothered him to see what he’d done to her. Deeply.

She’d mocked his chivalry, as if he put on the trait like a Hugo Boss suit. Instead, it was his core.

She’d ducked, thinking he was going to hit her, but there was nothing in the world that would make Matt Kensington swing his fist at a woman’s face.

She nudged his side. “You know, you hit like a girl. Maybe Savannah should do your fighting for you.”

He rolled his eyes, but his expression eased. Then became more serious. “I’m going to ask you something that will piss you off, since most reasonable questions—and answers—seem to.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Also fair.”

His lips tugged in a half smile, since her answer cleverly could apply to either assumption. "Why do you see your father in me?” he asked.

If a car had sprung out of the pavement and run her over, it wouldn’t have taken her off guard half as much. She almost bolted to her feet. Only locking every muscle prevented it. Anger predictably came in behind the shock, though she tried to keep it out of her rigid tone.

“I didn’t have a father,” she said. “Not one that stuck around, which was fine. I didn’t need a daddy.”

“Everyone needs a father, just as much as they need a mother,” he said reasonably. “Even if, like you, they prove they can succeed without either one.”

She stared at him. While not intentional, she knew her look was the kind that moved people out of her path at the club, and kept her staff on their toes. Matt excelled at that look himself, so no surprise, he didn’t flinch or blink.

She wasn’t that hard to figure out. Not in a world that harped on broken home clichés. Maybe hers had a different twist, but the basics were the same. She could be mad, but the unavoidable realization she’d disrespected the man, a fellow Dom, and a friend, made her offer an honest reply.

“I don’t see him in you.” She could have left it there, but other words came forth, tied to the sentence. Like pulling a chain of clothespins off of a sub’s tender flesh.

She knew what the pain she inflicted felt like. Because she always did it to herself first.

“I have no idea who my mother fucked to come up with me.” She paused, staring at the newsprint covering the windows of the art studio across the street. Why wouldn’t they want natural light? “You’re what I once pretended he would have been, if he’d showed up and rescued me. But he didn’t, and then I got pissed that I would ever let myself wait to be rescued.”

The ache in her throat startled her, but she couldn’t seem to shut herself up before she offered the last of it. “What makes me mad is knowing you would have. You’re proof of what he could have been, if he'd only cared enough."

When she felt him shift, she recoiled. “Don’t touch me. And don’t look at me. Please.” She forced out the unfamiliar word, hoping it would shock him enough to comply.

He mostly respected the request. She realized they were sitting close enough her shoulder pressed against his biceps.

“As a futile nod to my vanity, I’ll deny I’m old enough to be your father’s age.”

She bit her lip against a smile, because the smile hurt. “You’re not vain. Arrogant as hell, yes, but not vain.”

She still didn’t look at him. She hadn’t asked him not to talk, and maybe she should have, but when he continued, his voice was easy and quiet.

"When Angelica reaches your age, I hope I haven’t failed her in any significant way, so she won't feel the pain you carry. It won’t be for lack of trying, I know that. But I think if your father had been a better one, what he would have said is it's time to drain the poison. Let it go.”

The direction of his voice, a word or two drifting her way, then altering course, suggested he almost looked toward her, then stopped, respecting her request. “You are a strong and beautiful woman, Cyn. Despite the challenges you’ve faced, you fought past them, worked hard, and proved your value. To yourself and the people who matter. Those who call you friend or family. Or Mistress.”