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"I believe the lady was already engaged," Powell said. He was trying to remain within the rules of the house, but Violet clearly saw the rage simmering below the surface. He had been strongly interested in her overtures.
Did she want someone who blew her off one minute and was accommodating the next, or someone like Jonathan, who had been interested from the moment she stepped up to him?
And who had given her the creepy crawlies the first time he touched her waist. But that wasn't the point.
"I didn't give you permission to touch me," she said, still not looking at the object of her true interest. But she was not looking at Jonathan, either.
"No, Mistress," his voice drew back, as did his touch, and her skin screamed in protest. His voice lowered to a sensual murmur. "Forgive me."
She turned on her booted heel, effectively dismissing Jonathan for the moment, but she knew he wouldn't move until he was sure he had been relinquished. A good sub would not insult a Mistress by walking away until he had leave to do so.
The big man before her now was just as overwhelming to her senses as he had been ten minutes ago, his scent filling her nostrils, flaring them with his heat, the wide expanse of his chest filling her vision, the soft neatly trimmed hair along that strong jaw, those firm lips, all inviting touch.
"Forgiveness has to be earned," she stated. "So what are you going to do to earn it?"
"Whatever Mistress demands."
Jonathan took a step forward, pressing himself against Violet's back, latching his hand onto her waist. "I think it's time you back off, Mac."
Mac thought how pleasurable it would be to seize that wrist and break the finger bones one by one while Powell screamed for mercy. He glanced at Violet's startled face. Even in a secure environment, it was unsettling to be a woman weighing less than a hundred and twenty pounds caught between two men with the potential for violence emanating off of them.
"I think you've made a mistake, Jonathan," Mac said coldly. "Most Mistresses don't take kindly to being topped by a sub. She's not that green."
Violet closed her hand over Jonathan's at her waist. Mac had a moment of trepidation, then her fingers curled in his well-manicured ones, twisted, and put his hand roughly from her.
"You're making me uncomfortable, and I'm not interested any more." She glanced at Jonathan. "You can leave."
The blonde Norse god gave her a disdainful look. "I'd rather have someone who knows what she's doing anyway, rather than a little girl playing dress up. Little bitch cunt."
"Son of a -" Mac started forward, but Violet lifted a hand so her knuckles slapped against his chest. He could have easily gone past her. Though Jonathan was beating a retreat, it wouldn't have been a bad idea to make sure he scampered all the way out to the parking lot. But there was another reason Mac didn't do that.
He swallowed. She'd got him. There'd been an unmistakable order behind her quelling gesture, and his body had instinctively reacted to her wish, voiced or unvoiced. The nerves quivered under his skin, recognizing it, and he forced himself to keep his voice rough, afraid of showing that to her.
"You should let me follow him and put his pretty face under a Bridgestone."
She cocked her head, and there was so little space between them he ached with the need to touch her. "I think it's time you let me decide what should and shouldn't be done. Don't you?"
He stared at her. He was here on an assignment, but his assignment required that he be an active player. For that he needed a partner, a well connected one. She'd been here awhile and had made a lot of friends, if the waitress was right. The only problem was the one his sergeant had pointed out. Even though he ruled her out as his suspect because she was too inexperienced, she could definitely play with his head, distract him. He had enjoyed the company and demands of Mistresses, but she was a different animal from those he'd been with before. It was a fine line to walk.
He'd take it one night at a time. After all, he might blow it with her tonight and have to hook up with someone else. His gut clenched at the thought. He wanted this one. He wanted her.
"Yes, Mistress," he said.
Chapter 4
She didn't know what to make of him. Tyler had counseled her to keep it light and easy her first night on her own, and here she was, in the deep end of the pool.
He followed her to the lower level, to the door of the room she'd reserved, a room with polished wood paneling and carved rafter beams, the trappings of a stable for a prize thoroughbred. The large stall area was mounted with a variety of stainless steel polished rings to cross tie at different heights and distances. On a sawhorse made of finished maple with antique hinges, a saddle had been mounted. Bridles, tethers, crops and buggy whips hung on a wall rack, as well as a few things she'd requested provisioned as extras that one wouldn't normally find in a barn. "Stand there," she pointed to the middle of the floor outside the stall and went to a control panel in the wall. "I'd like privacy for our first time together," she said, watching his face.
No flicker of disappointment, or of relief. Based on his unassuming mode of dress, she suspected her prize was not an exhibitionist. However, that wasn't to say he wouldn't be turned on by being displayed at his Mistress's command. He might be the type of sub that got turned on by whatever turned his Mistress on. Taking a deep breath with her back turned to him to calm her reaction to the thought, she still felt his intensity like hands running over her neck and shoulders, her bare back, the curves of her ass, the delicate skin of her inner thighs. She could imagine the press of his lips in those places, chaste, light kisses where his mouth would quiver with the restrained desire to open wide and devour her, one taste at a time.
Some subs--she liked to think of them as bottoms--d
idn't care who the Mistress was, as long as they delivered the gratification the sub sought. But the subs for whom the desires of a specific Mistress were the gratification, those subs sought to serve in whatever manner commanded. Some were instinctively protective as well, as if they were reincarnations of palace guards for ancient queens. She thought of the look on Mac's face when Powell had insulted her. The nasty comment had delivered a blow to her ego, but Mac's reaction had kept it fully inflated.
She engaged the darkening feature of the ceiling glass so the club visitors could not watch them. She knew the staff security could still monitor them through the discreetly placed mirrors, but no one else would be privy to this evening's entertainment.
"Mac. That's your name."
