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Shoving anything away related to why he was having such an idiotic train of thought, he got into the shower. The hot water was sheer bliss and, though he knew he should keep it short, he had to indulge it. He soaped everything up good, though when the friction brought the scent of her climax to his nose, his hand slowed and gripped his cock. It had hardened instantly when his brain identified what he was inhaling. The memory of her pussy required that he stroke, and he did, for about half a minute, long enough for his breath to start catching, but then he stopped. He didn't jerk off in a Mistress's shower if she...if she hadn't said it was okay.
It wasn't a sub thing, he told himself. He wasn't thinking of her as his Mistress. He just owed her that courtesy.
Yeah, he was a twisted, screwed-up fuck. He needed to leave. Really, really, really needed to leave.
Finishing the shower, he toweled off fast and put on his clothes, which were still reasonably clean. He finger-combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and gave himself a look in the mirror. He wished she'd left him a razor. She was probably joking about shaving him herself. He wanted to look a little better for her than this. But it was all he could do.
He heard movement in the kitchen. That was where they'd come in last night, so he'd missed his margin for escape, unless he just told her he had to go and left it at that.
She'd let him go. He knew she would. She didn't overindulge in sentiment, but she was ruthless in her determination to have what she did want. It was a combination he wasn't used to handling.
If he was being brutally honest, he didn't want to leave yet. But lying to himself was his preferred coping mechanism, so he decided to stay because it wasn't worth the hassle of figuring out an escape strategy. Plus the cinnamon buns smelled really good.
When he reached the kitchen doorway, he had to pause to look at her. Take in as much as he could, another form of hunger, before she told him to stop staring.
She stood before the stove. She was wearing a sports bra and bike shorts. It wasn't a woman's most attractive look, everything held way too tight in his opinion. Her in his open shirt and nothing else... Thinking of it did odd things to him. Not just arousal, which was a given around her. It made him feel things that had him wishing she was wearing it now. He'd strip it off his back and give it to her. Another part of him never wanted her to wear it again, since he didn't know what to do with that feeling.
The woman had a superb body, no question on that. Smooth muscle layers on her abdomen, biceps and thighs, but still feminine. A sheen of sweat limned her neck, her locs coiled in a thick twist above it. As his gaze went to the delicate column of her throat--because it was the part of her that always made him feel things he shouldn't feel but wanted to--things came to a full, bone-jarring stop.
He had no right to be looking at her. No right to her at all. The dark purple-red bruising, clearly marks left from links of chain, said so.
Yet his feet were moving. They took him to her, one step, one painful breath at a time. When he stopped beside her, he could tell she was aware of his presence, but she didn't seem tense or worried. That didn't erase what he'd done last night.
Eyes closing, he leaned forward and put his lips against them. Then stayed there, eyes closing. She made a quiet noise and turned her head, her lips brushing his cheek as she lifted her other hand to his jaw.
Forgiveness. She didn't have to say a word for him to feel it, because it was something he'd always wanted...and never deserved.
Pain ripped through his chest, down into his belly and made his balls draw up against him like a wild animal facing the crosshairs of a rifle. It startled him enough he snapped up straight and stepped back.
"I've got to go."
"I know," she said agreeably. "I have things to get done today. But first you're going to help me eat these cinnamon buns so they don't all end up on my ass, and I'm going to give you a shave. Sit down, shut up and eat. You burned off everything last night. You look gaunt."
She pointed him toward a table that had two black, green and white striped place settings. A sparkling pitcher of orange juice was surrounded by bacon, eggs, fresh cut fruit and granola.
His stomach gurgled, betraying his resolve.
When she turned back to the stove, he saw she was spreading cream cheese icing on the hot cinnamon buns. She tossed him another quick but distracted smile and set the case knife aside. As she lifted the tray with one hand and took it to the table, he noticed her holding the other hand out to her side, fingers upraised because they were dotted with icing. She probably intended to clean them off in the sink after she put down the platter.
He intercepted her.
What was going on with him this morning? He didn't know. There was no calculation to this, no ultimate objective, to bring her closer or push her away. He just wanted what he wanted.
He'd caught her by the waist, stopping her at the sink. As she lifted a quizzical brow, he brought her fingers to his mouth and began to suck the icing off of them. Her eyes got darker and more intent, and she moved closer. He gave way to prop himself against the counter and bring her between his knees, holding her waist with one hand. But when she took the lead, feeding him her fingers one by one, his hunger increased. His touch dropped to her ass as he followed her direction. He gripped her like he thought letting go of her would result in a fall.
She made a pleased little humming noise and leaned into him, her mound brushing his pelvis. She was allowing him to hold her and he felt...grateful.
Recalling himself, he straightened, but she'd already anticipated his retreat and eased back, tossing him a smile as she nudged him away from the sink. "Pretty good icing, right?" she asked, washing her hands. "I could eat a whole vat of it myself. Did it once and made myself completely sick. Now I avoid overindulgence in the things I find irresistible."
She gave him a pointed look and took a seat at the table, gesturing him into the other one before she spooned out a generous amount of eggs, fruit and bacon for herself. "Take as much as you want and don't hold back. I let myself have as much as I can pile on after a workout, but the rule is I can only have the one plate. And I use a mid-size plate." She winked. "The games we play with ourselves."
He slid into the chair and surveyed the food before him. At her encouraging nod, he admonished himself to pull his head out of his ass and get a grip on whatever the hell was going on with him. He put double bacon on his plate; no need to tell him twice to help himself.
As he loaded up, she watched him, eating her eggs in small, polite bites. "Ask me a question," she said at length.
He grunted, consuming food like a high-powered vacuum. "What do you want me to ask?"
"Something to start a conversation. You're practiced at getting a woman to talk about herself, so she'll think you're interested in her. Something should come to mind."
