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The look in his eyes as his attention dropped to her mouth and slid down over her torso to her hands wasn't conducive to that move, because his expression was no longer kind. He'd mixed his gentle tone with the gleaming edge she craved, and she was losing ground fast.
Her clever wit deserted her and, when his hand closed over hers, she was tense. He didn't pull her hand toward him. Instead, he shifted his grip to her wrist, holding her as his fingers slid over her pulse, stroked her forearm. She kept her gaze on his throat as he brought his other hand to her face, caressing her cheek. His thumb moved over her lips to her chin, exploring her. She closed her eyes, absorbing his touch.
The breeze wafted through the courtyard, the sun a mild heat on a partially cloudy day. The flowers offered a mixed musk of light fragrance, deep earth, nourishing fertilizer.
At last he drew her hand to him, sliding it up under his shirt. She touched the tube and round adhesive lightly, his grip still guiding her, and then she caressed his abdomen on her own as his hand loosened and he let her do as she wished. He returned to his absorption with her face, fingertips gliding over her cheekbone, back down over her lips, around the back of her neck to thread through her ponytail as she dipped her head, brushing her ear and cheek against his hand.
His abdomen was muscular, but not so overly pumped that it was more rock than flesh. He was a manual laborer, and she liked the way that translated into layers of muscle and warm skin. She pressed her fingertips into it like she would firm, damp clay. As she did that, she also felt small hard lumps beneath the skin.
"Scar tissue," he told her, as her fingers quested. "Over time, the pump causes that. They don't hurt."
His grip returned to her wrist, and he drew her touch away from him, holding their fingers loosely linked on his knee. She opened her eyes, and he glanced toward the entrance to the garden, a subtle pointing. A group of chatting Red Hat ladies were wandering into the White Garden.
"Thirsty?" Des asked as she took in the delightful array of purple and red hat designs, embellished with velvet, feathers and sparkling brooches. "We could grab a drink from the cafe before we walk over to the Conservatory."
"That sounds great."
They rose and he escorted her through the main lobby to the cafe to get them both a drink, her a soda and him a flavored water. Finding an outdoor table with a peaceful overview of the Four Seasons garden, they settled in. They sat across from one another, and Des slid his long legs out so his calves bracketed one of hers, rubbing companionably against it.
She locked her fingers around her soda. Neither of them had said a word about what they'd just done, what it meant. He seemed as comfortable now as he'd been before they'd entered the White Garden. She didn't want to be the idiot who had to put a label on it, dress it up, make it anything beyond...feeling. Words ruined things. It had felt sexy, stirring, comforting. Time had stopped and things had balanced, while all the right things somersaulted and tilted. Maybe this was all part of him acclimating her to a future rope session together. That would make sense, right? No need to make more of it than that.
"You know," she said. "You've totally ruined my chance to talk about my traumatic adolescent experiences. Training bra woes, dealing with the cattiness of Paula Winfield and her letter girl squad. Pimples. All that sounds so trivial compared to facing death at six years old."
His eyes sparkled. He had thick, dark lashes, and his eyebrows were ebony thickets she wanted to trace and smooth. "You're right, it was selfish of me to bring it up," he said. "But you can still tell me. I'll make sympathetic noises. And if you and the letter girls had a fight in the locker room where everyone was half naked, I will listen very attentively. So what was wrong with Paula? Was she too pretty?"
"It wasn't that. It was what was under the melts-in-your-mouth, not-your-hand, candy coating. That wasn't pretty at all. "
Des took a sip of his water and nudged a Ziploc bag of snack mix he'd pulled out of his pack toward her. It appeared to be a combination of pretzels, cereal and nuts.
"I've never heard a woman compared to a peanut M&M."
"Women are plain M&M's." She took a handful of the mix. "Men are peanut ones. For obvious reasons. Did you make this, too?"
"Yeah. It's pretty easy." He crossed his arms on the table, leaning forward, his lips quirked at her M&M observation, she was sure. She realized she was in a similar position toward him, creating an intimate triangle of body language.
She drew back and cleared her throat. "All right, I promise I'm not obsessing about work, but I'm too curious not to ask some questions about the Dom thing. Is that okay?"
He cocked his head, his lips unsmiling and eyes intent upon her, capable of waking up every part of her body. She wasn't usually this easy of a mark. He was a roofer who dressed like a homeless surfer, and, and, and...
"It's okay to ask." He interrupted her internal redundant babbling, thank God.
"From the stuff I've read, each Dom and sub seem to have a sense of who they are, deeper layers of meaning. The more I understand those layers, the better scenes I can help create. So tell me what kind of Dom you are. "
Unfolding an arm, he slid his fingers through her ponytail again, bringing it forward over her shoulder. He had an obvious liking for her hair, and she had a vision of him wrapping his hands in it, pulling hard as he pushed her down to all fours and...
Seriously? Julie, rein it in.
"I'm hearing your professional interest," he said. "How about the personal one?"
"I meant what I said about having relationships, or talking about mine." She stiffened when she detected a mild flash of impatience in his expression, gone in a blink. She couldn't blame him for feeling that way, which just irritated her with herself. "I know that's stupid, after what we did a few minutes ago, but...is the way you're acting toward me just to make me comfortable with the rope stuff?"
"You're interested, I'm interested. If you were really as relationship-shy as you claim, you wouldn't be here," he said, not answering her question. He wasn't helping her bullshit herself. She didn't want him stepping inside the boundaries of her personal dysfunction, so she bristled.
"I don't need to be told what I am or am not."
"Am I wrong, New York?" He tapped her hand, a reproof and caress at once.
He wasn't. She sighed. "I'm okay with flirting, but you're kind of intense, Des. It's easier for me to wade in the shallows on the rope stuff, but it feels like you want to go deep sea diving. I don't want to make a fool of myself over someone, and I don't play the games well."
