Page 98 of At Her Pleasure
“Yes. Controlled nature. Flower beds, individual plants who are blissfully not overly talkative. No woods, itchy plants or hidden things that slither or crawl.”
He raised a brow. “You survived one of the scariest neighborhoods in Jersey.”
“Dense nature is mysterious and weird. Violent people are easy to understand.”
“How about staying at a nice campground in a motorhome, with brick-and-mortar bathrooms and showers?”
She gave him a suspicious look. “That’s not a casual question.”
“Nope. After I leave New Orleans, I have a couple days before the San Antonio thing. My other job…I have a few days on that as well. When that happens, I find a quiet campground and take the down time. You should come with me. You can catch a flight back to Louisiana.”
“You just pointed out our reunion had a definite end point. Why are you trying to prolong it?”
Even though the night shadowed his features, she could feel the weight of his regard. “You’re asking a question you know the answer to. Just like I know why you’re putting me off. You want me to stay, but I can’t. You’re still pissed at me, because I fucked up and abused your trust. You don’t want to risk your heart on more. All that’s fair. But will you think about it anyway?”
She’d seen him raw and vulnerable tonight, but with the calm evaluation and that direct gaze, he was reminding her the capable, in charge, level-headed male wasn’t an act.
He also knew her kinder moments weren’t her preferred gear. Which she proved with an icy nod. “I’ll think about it, before I say no and tell you to fuck off.”
His mouth tightened. But his response was light. “Okay. But consider the benefits. You’d have a dedicated sex slave. I’d make all the food, handle all the travel details, and pay for your plane ticket home.”
“I can pay for my own ticket. The rest doesn’t sound unappealing. Except the whole camp thing.”
“You’ve seen my motorhome. I’d let you have the big bed. I’ll stay on the couch or the table bed. Unless you want company.”
“I like having a lot of room. Is the couch bed cramped? Particularly for a big man?”
“Oh yeah. I’d be eating my knees.”
She pursed her lips. “Well, there is that.”
She knelt and began to weed again. He didn’t say anything more. She was so attuned to him she knew when the eyes that rested upon her closed. She glanced over her shoulder to confirm he’d drifted into a doze. He’d turned further on his side, probably because the ropes were irritating his back, and had his arms crossed, elbow pushed into the hammock, hands hooked under his arm pits.
She was done for the night. After stacking her tools by the shed, she turned to study him and consider her options.
She could drape the netting around the hammock and leave him sleeping there. He’d understand. He had no invitation to come inside her house, and he’d leave when he woke. She’d glanced through the gate crack and seen the pickup truck. A Tiger loan, she was sure.
Instead, she drew close and dropped to her heels. She threaded her fingers through the hair over his brow.
She thought back to the warehouse, how he’d leaned forward, and put his forehead on her stomach. Sighed so deeply.
Now she understood. He’d waited so long to belong to someone who understood him, who had a chance of understanding him. He’d said that to her in a couple ways, but words didn’t mean much to her. They became meaningful and made an impression when the actions fit.
Ten years ago, he’d given her something to have faith in. Since then, he’d possibly lost his own.
She understood how fucked up the human mind could be, especially when trying to survive the world. Add in the full-blown attempt to make it better, and he bore the curse of guilt and self-doubt, paired with balls-to-the-walls courage to forge forward.
She hadn’t been the grown-up when they’d met. Now she was, and when their paths had crossed again, that deep sigh part of him had known she was who he needed.
The child part of her had felt hurt and betrayed by him tonight. The woman, the Mistress, had rallied and patched him up. Both parts of her had retreated here to think it over, and grieve the lost memory.
But she didn’t have to grieve it. He was the man she thought he was. He’d just stumbled, been emotionally raw before the scene in a way he hadn’t expected, and that had taken over in the way that anyone who did intense sessions knew was a danger. It was how vulnerable they were to each other that had made it go wrong, but that wasn’t necessarily an end to things. It might be the gateway to the true beginning.
She could send him away, but she would be damning his soul. She knew it. When he said, “I want someone who knows me,” he’d meant someone who could handle his darkness, accept it. Want it. Love it.
Love him.
He hadn’t said those words to her, probably because he knew that might scare her off. She didn’t know if she was capable of love. But he thought she was. He’d likely call it a fierce, battle goddess's love, but she didn’t call that love. She called it loyalty. Trust. A willingness to be around another person without wanting to choke the shit out of them. Most of the time.