Page 99 of At Her Pleasure
The night when he’d said he didn’t classify himself as Dom, sub or switch, she’d known he was wrong. He’d acknowledged it himself tonight. But when he’d said he wanted her specifically, that wasn’t about being Dom, sub, switch or vanilla.
It was not the first time in her life a man had claimed to love her. But it was the first time in her life she thought she might love him.
He wasn’t sleeping heavily. His eyes lifted without any disorientation, any sense that he didn’t know where he was or who he was with.
“I’m going inside,” she said. “Come with me.”
* * *
Mick noted she tracked how he was doing when he rose from the hammock. He was stiff, but moving okay. A masochist tended to recuperate from a beating like a conditioned athlete from a hard workout.
He'd noted her lingering look, approval of the jeans and shirt. He was relieved she was back in a headspace where she wanted to notice that. Though he wasn’t in great shape for more tonight, if she wanted anything from him, he’d make sure he provided it.
She laid her gardening gloves on a shelf on the screen porch and wiped her feet on a mat. Then she paused at the door, her back to him. He stopped behind her.
Mick gazed at the crown of her head, the tense set of the shoulders. As she continued to stand there, he leaned in, his chest brushing her shoulder blades. Closing his hand on the doorknob, he turned it, fingers tenting against the panel to push it inward.
The aroma of cookies wafted out, mixed with vanilla, baked in a house with an underlying clean and welcoming scent. He’d detected hints of that fragrance in her clothes and on her skin. “Nice,” he noted.
Her shoulder lifted, her chin jutting to the right. “One of those plug-in air things.”
“I’m familiar. What’s it called, in case I want to make my motorhome nicer for my female camping companion?”
“None of your damn business.” Prickly and defensive.
He made a guess. “Grandma’s Cottage?”
“I will go in, lock the door, and leave you out here like a stray dog.”
He tried to nudge her over the threshold, and wasn’t surprised when he took an elbow to the ribs, but she kept the strike wide of where he’d been pummeled a couple days ago. He took that as another encouraging sign and didn’t withdraw, instead increasing the pressure of his body against hers. And braced a hand against the doorframe as she planted her feet and pushed back. “You wouldn’t treat a stray dog like that,” he pointed out. “Only a sub.”
“True.” With a put-upon sigh, she relented, stepping in fully, and bestowed a dour look upon him. “Come in. As long as you’re not a vampire.”
He stepped inside. They were in a laundry room, and the plug-in resided in an outlet there, beside the entry to the kitchen. On a rack were rubber garden clogs and waterproof boots. A black rain jacket hung on a peg. Next to it was a riding crop with a red loop on the end and a red braided handle. The way she closed her hand on it before moving into the kitchen seemed like a coming-home ritual.
Her kitchen was clean and functional, but elaborate cooking wasn’t her thing. She had a coffee pot, a toaster, and a microwave over the oven. No other appliances.
“I’m going to get changed. Look around as much as you like.” At his surprised look, she shrugged. “You’ve seen the worst of it.”
He assumed she meant his discovery that she lived like June Cleaver. If June liked tying Ward up and subjecting him to astronomical levels of pain.
She’d disappeared down a hallway. He heard her walking up stairs to the second level, though her feet didn’t make much noise, suggesting they were carpeted.
He moved into the living room. A cozy sofa and easy chair arrangement greeted him, along with a widescreen television between two built-in bookcases. Not holding many books, but the left side one had movies. Older Hallmark Hall of Fame films, plus romantic comedies and dramas. Stories with happy endings, or at least a hopeful message. She also owned series and movies that were the polar opposite. Dexter, Criminal Minds, and true crime stuff. They were filed in a pattern. Two happily-ever-afters, followed by a darker title. All the way to Zombieland, with Woody Harrelson.
“Hunh.” The shelves on the other side of the TV held memorabilia. Two marketing awards were separated by a doll who looked like a marriage between a Day of the Dead decoration and a Tim Burton film character. Her white face was accented with black to look like a skull. Flowers had been hand painted over the cheekbones and jaw. His lips curved in a smile. It was Cyn. Wild, curly brown hair, lean body, dark, dangerous eyes. Probably something a client had custom designed and gifted her after she and TRA propelled their business into the next tax bracket.
The marketing awards were local stuff, but impressive. Best Marketing Manager, offered by a New Orleans business magazine. The other was for TRA as a company, Best NOLA Start-Up.
The room colors were bold but not too much. Furniture was trendy-looking yet comfortable. She chose for herself, simple but stylish. Much the way she dressed.
Down the hallway, he found a guest bedroom, and a room next to it with a closed door. She’d indicated nothing was off limits, but he assumed that was within the constraints of courtesy—don’t dig under beds or into the back of closets. However, he did try the knob. When the door opened, something hanging off the back gave him some resistance, thumping lightly against the panels.
He’d found her home dungeon, a discovery that gave him mixed feelings. Anticipation about the possibilities he saw, as well as less excited feelings about what she’d done here—and who with.
He’d checked into Sy, and found he was a decent musician and long-time New Orleans resident. He’d had a couple arrests, bar brawls. At Progeny, he was well thought of, and Cyn clearly considered him a friend. The way he’d acted tonight, watching her put Mick in a corset, hadn’t given off any possessive vibes.
Those had all come from Mick. Stupid, but he couldn’t deny it. Cyn had looked thoughtful when she picked up on it, but not displeased.