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She chuckled. "Mackenzie, you just without a doubt told me you're a bachelor."
"I already told you I wasn't married."
"Yes, but now I know I can believe you."
He looked at her. "You can trust me, Violet."
"Not yet. Not until you know you can completely trust me." She gave him an even look in return that told him she'd seen the change in his expression, knew his frown meant something different.
But she didn't push it. Just gave him that face that said he wasn't fooling her, and took another sip of her wine.
"What's in there?" She nodded to the plastic container he'd left on the counter.
"That's dessert. A chocolate torte."
Her eyes lit up in anticipation and he grinned. "I think I've found your weakness."
No, that's you. Though she thought it rather than said it, he saw it in her eyes as if he'd heard her thoughts. A flush heated his skin, the reaction of an adolescent, but for once he didn't fight it, didn't try to remain cool. He let her see how much she was affecting him.
"The fanciest chocolate dessert I've had is a Sara Lee fudge cake at Wal-Mart," she said. "And that was pretty darn good. What's a torte?"
"A torte is a thin layer of cake with a filling in between the layers. In this case a chocolate gnoche mousse, which is like a whipped chocolate cream. When you place it in your mouth, it should melt into your taste buds. You don't have to distract yourself with the energy of chewing."
"And you made it?" She leaned over, lounging her body across the counter like a decadent queen, and peeked into the container. "Wow," she said. "Mackenzie, I might have to marry you."
He raised his head and saw, though she was teasing him, there was a serious undercurrent to her words.
"I would never be good enough for you, Mistress."
"I think you should let me decide that. So, what are you making there?" she straightened up, reclaimed her wine and distracted him with the sight of her moist lips pressed against the clear glass. "It looks fairly simple, compared to this."
"Making perfectly cooked pasta is an art," he informed her. "And since the dessert is rich, I wanted to provide something simple for the entree. An angel hair pasta tossed in a blend of garlic and oil, with a bit of herbal seasoning, and organic scrambled egg mixed in for
protein. A side dish of steamed vegetables. I make the pasta myself."
He had the pleasure of seeing Violet's mouth very nearly drop open. She caught it with a snap. "This isn't a casual thing for you."
"Yes, and no. The job." He gestured vaguely with the knife. "I needed a variety of things to keep me human."
"No meat? Is that typical for you?"
He nodded. "I've been a vegetarian for about ten years. When I worked deep cover in the dog fighting rings, early in my career, they liked to warm the dogs up for the crowd with farm animals." He sampled the herb blend, nodded to himself before he continued. "I saw them tear apart a pig, chickens, a cow, then other, weaker dogs. Later, when I was in situations where I saw men fighting for their lives, knowing they weren't going to win, I saw them lose all their identity. They were nothing but their fear in those last moments. The faces of those animals were the same, and I can't eat a hamburger or anything like it anymore without seeing that in my head." He shrugged. "I don't have to cause them to die to live. And so I made my choice. I hope that's okay."
She nodded, let him work in silence for awhile. Mac found it a comfortable one, enjoyed the smell of her perfume, the tilt of her head, the sparkle of interest in her eyes at every step that went into the process of preparing food well. He also liked the way her eyes often wandered over his body, enjoying it as she said she would.
"How did you get into D/s?" she said at length, her tone a little distracted.
Mac gave a self-conscious chuckle before he could stop himself. What the hell, he might as well tell her. The worst she could do was laugh.
"I had this dream growing up, about this woman. She's no one I know, just a figment of my imagination. She'd come to me, and I couldn't lift my hands, couldn't touch her unless she said so, and she'd do incredible things to me. When I was about twenty-five, someone took me to a place like The Zone, only a lot more vanilla, as a joke. Sort of a cross S/M strip club where the girls wrapped around the poles wore leather and cracked whips. It did things to me, watching them, and I couldn't get it out of my head. "
"So you investigated it some more."
He shook his head. "Not at first, but I wanted to. Told myself I was crazy, that it was crazy for a cop to be looking into something like that. We both know what a dangerous line D/s is to walk, what places it can take you, but it lingered in my mind. It was always there whenever sex was an issue.
"Then I got an undercover assignment where the suspect liked to frequent places like The Zone. I saw the less seedy side of it, started realizing it might not be up there with kiddie porn. On a lark, the suspect talked me into playing Dom one night to one of the willing staff. I sucked at it, but fortunately that helped my cover. When it was over, a Mistress came over to me, whispered into my ear. 'You're not a Dom, love. You're a sub. You ever want to find out what that means, give me a call.'
"I thought she was putting me down because I'd been so bad at it, yanking my chain, but something about the way she looked at me, trailed her hand down my arm like she had the right to touch me, and the way I felt, like I should stand still and let her do anything to me she wanted to do, really got everything churned up inside. I couldn't get her out of my head. When the case was over, I called her. Lisbeth. And here I am."
