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Her hands covered his, pried them away so she could rest her fingertips against his temples, stroke with the right amount of pressure along the sides of his skull. When she directed him there, he rested his head against her breast, his feet braced on either side of hers where she stood in front of him. The swing swayed as she smoothed cool palms over his forehead, threaded her fingers through his hair. It helped. The pain lessened enough he could see through the red haze.
On the way to the swing, he’d dry swallowed a prescription med the doc had given him, in case the headache became full blown. He didn’t like taking them, preferred relying on the OTCs alone, but they worked pretty well on these things. He just had to wait it out. It would kick in. Then he could drive her home. Get the hell out of here.
When she shifted on those slim heels, he suspected she was having trouble keeping them from sinking into the sandy ground. He circled her waist and hip with one arm, inviting her to sit on his lap. She settled on his knee, sliding an arm around his shoulders. He used his heels to rock them back and forth on the swing as he squinted at the pond and tried to take some easy breaths.
“How did you lose your voice?” he said abruptly. “Were you born that way?”
When a shadow crossed her startled face, he tightened his hand on her hip. “Sorry. You coming here doesn’t give me the right to anything more than I’d expect in a session.” He wouldn’t pressure her to give him more because he was a fucking mess.
In answer, she slid her hand under his jacket to grip his shoulder, only the dress shirt between skin-to-skin contact. After toeing off her shoes, she adjusted so one foot pressed to hisknee, the other resting against his shin. Her toes curled, offering a light caress through the slacks.
She lifted her phone and typed. The dip of her head, the focus of her dark eyes and press of her moist lips, held his attention. He could feel the thin strap of her panties beneath the tailored skirt. With her knee lifted like that, if he’d been a lucky mallard floating on the pond, he’d be gazing at her thighs beneath the skirt. He’d see the color of the panties, the hint of her buttocks pressed against his legs, all the intriguing creases of silk and expanses of skin.
A much better vision to contemplate than the crap in his head. The nice little jolt of endorphins helped the headache, too. Even if he was a dickhead for using that here and now.
She reviewed what she’d typed, then turned it toward him. He closed his hand over hers and she didn’t relinquish the phone. They’d started to make a habit of that, like an indirect way of holding hands.
She settled closer to him, breast pressed against his chest inside the jacket, her breath on his ear and neck. Damn if that didn’t help his headache, too. Everything about being with her—just her—made the rest of it go away so he could relax and let the blood flow easier. Her fingers played over the hair on his nape.
As he read her words, that easier feeling increased. As well as introduced other, more serious feelings.
“When I made the decision to go with you to this,” she said, “when I let you kiss me, I chose to walk outside the club boundaries with you. I still see us as Mistress and sub, but the lines have room to be redrawn and expand.”
He glanced at her. Though she’d offered it to him as truth, her expression suggested she was struggling a little with the decision. He returned to reading.
“You don’t ask for help easily. But when things are difficult, you accept having a Mistress in your corner. I respect that. Yourquestion wasn’t inappropriate. Just difficult for me to answer. I need to think about it a while.”
And she’d apparently decided how she wanted to pass the time during her deliberations. Retrieving her phone, she tucked it in her crossbody bag. Then she gripped his hand and guided it under her skirt, into the opening between her legs provided by the brace of her foot and bend of her knee.
He might not have the mallard’s view, but she was inviting him to use an even more pleasurable sense. Touch.
His gaze slid around them, confirming what he suspected she already had. Everyone was at the clubhouse. The occasional perimeter patrols were being done at a distance. Even if they could tell what was going on, they weren’t close enough to disrupt their concentration on one another. At Progeny, though they played privately, there was a certain lack of self-consciousness about sex and modesty that translated to how they felt about it in the outside world. Thank God.
Skye had laid his hand high on the inside of her bent thigh. Her lips formed the words slow, so he could follow them. She paired that with a two-hand gesture, as if she was petting the top of her other hand.
Stroke me.
He liked her ASL lessons. “Yes, ma’am.”
But as he grazed her panties, he paused. She was wearing some delicate stuff. Skye’s hand tightened on his neck, then she typed one-handed, urgent, slightly impatient.
“I don’t care if you rough up the silk. I want your roughness."
She was an angel, this Mistress. He let his hand continue on its track. He started by feathering his fingertips over the shallow pocket between her thigh and her sex. He had a fascination with what his touch could do to a woman, particularly when he got it right. Which required asking, listening, waiting, watching. Then acting. Other guys might claim that kind of control meant he hada limp dick, but it was just the opposite. The more he aroused and pleased a woman, did what she wanted, the fucking harder he got.
He craved riding that edge, seeing just how far and high it could take her. Seeing him get stiffer from her desire, yet holding back to stoke her hotter, earned him a lot of perks. Which was great, though the main perk stayed the same.
Her pleasure.
As he stroked oh-so-lightly over the panel of her panties, he watched her lips part and eyes glow with that approval which was almost as damn good as the touch of her hand on his dick. Or reading the words on her screen, which put her voice in his head and told him it wasn’t the silence of the grave in there. It was space, filled with stars, galaxies and a whole hell of a lot happening.
He loved the give of a woman’s pussy against his work-roughened knuckles, and he played with that feeling for several minutes. She kept her arm curved over his shoulder as he swung them slowly back and forth with his feet, all while watching her face. The movement changed his pressure and rhythm in seemingly good ways.
He kept an eye on their surroundings, pseudo-privacy notwithstanding. A lot of the old ladies here today had started as groupies. Which meant he’d seen most of them suck someone’s dick in front of him—or his own. A lot of them had danced naked on the bar that currently held Aubrey’s cupcakes.
No matter her openness in the club, Skye hadn’t made that choice. He’d protect her dignity and privacy, as relentlessly as he would her life. Every essence of what made her a Mistress.
His Mistress.
