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She wondered how she was going to deal with thinking about this in the morning, but she was too exhausted to worry. Her mind drifted back to what Lyda had said about the cage. For just a moment, she almost understood why Lyda had described it the way she had. Enclosed, safe. Owned.
In such a state, she could just...sleep.
*
She hadn't expected to sleep so deeply in an unfamiliar place, but sexual repletion had that effect. The bed was as comfortable as a nest, and she'd fallen asleep still grasping Lyda's hand. Waking without that connection was the only thing that felt off. At least in that first moment.
Lifting her head, she saw a note tented on the side table. A water glass filled with buttonlike flowers in white and pink sat next to it. Grab yourself a shower in the guest bath if you'd like. Breakfast is in the oven. I'm in the nursery whenever you feel up to saying good morning. I have your car key.
"Bitch," Gen muttered without rancor. Lyda had obviously anticipated her wanting to slink away to think about all of this, discomfited about facing those with whom she'd committed the crime, so t
o speak.
Lyda's robe hung on the back of the bedroom door. Gen's dress was gone. While it seemed silly for her to worry about covering herself, things were always different in the light of day. After a brief hesitation, she slid the robe onto her shoulders, bemused by how Lyda's scent both eased and tightened things.
In the guest bathroom, a fluffy towel waited for her, tied with a sprig of rosemary. Her dress had been hung on a rack, and her underwear was folded on the counter on top of a nursery T-shirt. Her clothes, even her underwear, had been cleaned. She glanced at the clock. It was only eight a.m. Lyda had done all of this while she slept?
She wasn't the type comfortable with being waited upon. Still, she rubbed the rosemary, lifting her fingers to inhale the pungent, pleasant aroma. When she removed the robe, she glanced at herself in the mirror. She saw abrasions on the inside of her thighs from Noah's jaw rasping against her there. A slight turn showed her Lyda's punishment had left faint marks. She ran her fingers over them, wondering at the erotic tingle she felt.
Beyond that, she had a dozen little sensual pains to remind her that, at every turn last night, it had been one or both of them, touching her, holding her. Her hip joints were sore from Lyda being between her legs.
No surprise then, her cautious heart and soul feeling a little tentative about it all. But this was likely no more than an extraordinary one-night stand. Their world wasn't her world. She had no complaints, though. They'd given her a bucket-list kind of night. She'd never known such a thing was on her bucket list, but it was on there now. Box checked. No need to repeat.
Unless she really, really wanted it to be repeated. Which would be problematic. When Noah had waltzed her along the dance floor to help her relax, her heart had tilted at his romantic gesture, but she couldn't block how he'd gone so still behind her, watching the man be whipped. Noah slept in a cage for Lyda. Yes, he'd submitted to Gen's touch, to her request to masturbate for her...but that was nowhere near the same. He needed more extreme levels she already knew she didn't have. And then there was Lyda. What she needed, demanded, expected, wasn't even in the realm of Gen's reality.
So that was that. This was just a pleasant adventure with two fascinating people. Stop making so much of it.
She stepped into the shower, intending to do a fast soap and rinse, but the high-pressure spray was as good as a massage, easing rediscovered muscles. She washed herself thoroughly, smelling the reminder of her climaxes as she washed between her legs. Had Lyda done that as well? And what about Noah? She imagined him washing the jetted semen off his chest and stomach, cupping his balls, cleaning his shaft and the corona, thumbing soap into his slit.
When she left the shower, she realized why the nursery-logo T-shirt had been left. Knotting it over her dress gave her a more casual look. She noticed a pair of canvas sneakers on the floor, white ankle socks draped over them, a replacement for her heels, which were aligned next to them.
The sneakers were clean but not brand new. It was unsettling, to be with someone so observant she'd noticed Gen and she were the same shoe size. She was glad Lyda hadn't left her jeans, because she was sure she couldn't wear whatever size Lyda wore on her perfect ass. Gen slipped the clean thong beneath the skirt, mind skittering over Lyda washing her saturated underwear.
The nursery shirt was faded, comfortable and had Lyda's clean fragrance. Like all women, Gen had worn a male lover's shirt, wanting his smell surrounding her. She'd never thought of having the same urge with a female lover, but she'd wrapped Lyda's robe around herself for more than just modesty. Now that she was wearing her shirt, she hoped Lyda wouldn't want it back. It could be her souvenir, like I-went-to-the-Grand-Canyon.
I-had-a-mind-blowing-BDSM-threesome.
Shaking her head at herself, she exited the bathroom carrying her heels, the bra stuffed into one of them. Too bad she didn't know how to hotwire a car, but that would be the height of cowardice. Morning-afters could be so awkward, though. She was reluctant to destroy the pleasurable memories of it.
Despite her trepidation, she was all too aware she hadn't donned the bra, something she was full-breasted enough to normally do as a matter of practicality. She couldn't deny knowing that she'd see Lyda or Noah before she got into her car had probably contributed to the decision. She was going to avoid overthinking it. Or at least try.
The living room throw rug was gone. Lyda had probably tossed it into the wash as well, because there would certainly be fluids upon it, given Noah hadn't been wearing a condom and Gen...well, Gen tended to make a similar mess. She'd done enough internet research to know that women could learn to have such a response, but those that did it spontaneously, regularly, weren't as common. She'd considered it on par with chronic adult acne. Until last night.
That's my good girl. She remembered Lyda passing her hand over the wet spot, the smoldering look that said it made Lyda hot.
If she didn't think some mundane thoughts, this was going to be more awkward than she already anticipated it being. She pushed that aside to take in the details of the living room and kitchen she'd missed last night. Plant clippings in interesting vases were scattered through the house. Lyda's furniture choices straddled the line between good design and comfort. Everything spoke of a successful woman who knew her likes and dislikes and rarely doubted herself. Gen stopped at the mantle. She saw a few colorful prints like what was in the bathroom and a small abstract sculpture or two. Again, no personal photographs. She hadn't seen any in her brief glimpse of Lyda's home office.
She was private, a woman who didn't give away much about herself. The impressions given were those intended to be conveyed. Like a portfolio.
But... Gen fingered the shirt, lifted some of the loose fabric to smell it again. This was personal. It sent a more intimate message. Or it could simply be what Lyda had available to loan her and Gen was being an infatuated idiot.
Then there was the puzzle of Noah. Why had Lyda called him a lost soul? Gen had seen sadness in the Mistress's eyes when she said it, overlaid by a fierce protectiveness. If Gen hadn't been paying close attention to Lyda's face, she would have missed both, because the expression was gone in a flash.
Where was Noah this morning? She missed them in different ways, but with an equal measure of longing, such that she felt it in her vitals. In her wildest dreams, she'd never imagined she'd be caught up in a relationship so hard to classify or predict.
Careful, Gen. This isn't a relationship. Call it infatuation or a crush, it was still so outside her milieu it wasn't out of line to compare it to getting starry-eyed over celebrities. Noah and Lyda might as well be Orlando Bloom and... As she moved into the kitchen, she couldn't come up with a starlet comparable to Lyda.
The appetizing odors leading her to the kitchen reminded her breakfast was in the oven. A place setting--bright-red and brown pottery plate, shiny utensils arranged on a neat cloth napkin--waited at the table. The spotless juice glass picked up the sunlight from the picture window. Cracking the oven door, she found it on low heat, keeping the pancakes, eggs and sausage warm. Though she was normally a tea and toast person, it smelled heavenly. She transferred the food to the plate then opened the fridge to find a cup of juice and cut fresh fruit lined up at eye level with a note next to them. For Gen.
