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She had a lemon cake scent tonight, mingled with something else he couldn’t quite place until he recalled the lavender Chuck’s wife grew in a pot by their back door. She’d said it worked great at calming the nerves.
What was working up his Mistress’s nerves?
She’s not yours.
The fuck she’s not.
Had the Florida sub been allowed to touch her?
He needed to stop the session before it started. Instead, when she tapped his shoulder, the signal he could look up at her, he let his gaze pass over a pair of sexy black heels she’d paired with thin jeans. His cock enthusiastically approved of the fit over her thighs and hips, and wanted to see her bending over in straining denim.
The jeans were artfully faded and marked with white lace appliques of roses on the right thigh. The waist was hidden by an off-the-shoulder black shirt that molded to her breasts and the nip of her waist. The strapless bra she wore beneath pushed up her curves so they teased him over the wide ribbon of neckline.
Her silver necklace had an infinity symbol, one side of the chain threaded through it. At the end of it dangled a tiny charm, a closed hand with thumb, forefinger and pinky lifted. In ASL, it meantI love you.
Wrap the thumb over the other two fingers, and it meant the universalrock ongesture. Knowing her personality, and since he’d seen heavy metal heads do that one without wrapping the thumb, the pendant could mean either one. But coupling it with the infinity symbol suggested the ASL version, and that it meant something special to her. Like the lavender, maybe it helped steady her. He was betting it had been a gift from the TRA sisterhood, a reinforcement of their backup.
He lifted his gaze to her face. He’d seen sheets of blank paper with more expression. Yeah. Something was wrong. A lot of things were wrong.
“Mistress.” He touched her knee. She didn’t move, but her gaze went to the contact. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She made a gesture that had his lips twisting. Even in sign language, when a woman saidI’m fine, a guy knew he was fucked.
He sat back on his heels. “No games, Mistress. Why are you pulling back from me? It’s not your style to act like this.”
She started to type into the screen and hesitated, glancing at his right ear. The light had likely made the tiny hearing aid tube glint, which meant she’d remembered she could use audio and let him hear one of her voices as she was typing, rather than making him wait to look at the screen. He would miss how she came close enough to press her shoulder to his chest, leaning against him as he looked at the screen past the delicate shell of her ear and fall of her hair.
“Don’t use one of the other voices. Use yours.”
Her face went wooden, but her fingers started flying in their usual way, the words coming out in that musical Southern accent. “It’s going to seem a little awkward at first, going back to how we did this before. That’s all.”
“You want to go back to how we did this before.”
She nodded.
He was impressed with himself for keeping his tone even, for suppressing the spurt of panic and what-the-fuck that decisive gesture gave him.
“Okay. Why? Where we took it for the past few weeks seemed good for both of us. Why shouldn’t we keep going that way?”
When she started typing again, she dipped her head over her screen. He couldn’t see her eyes. He’d gotten used to her making sure he could see her face, so he could interpret her expressions. Not just hear spoken words.
Words that hit him like a nail gun fired into his chest.
“You had a need, and I helped out with that need. I’m glad, because I’m your friend, and you needed the kind of friend I could be for what you were going through. I was a safe shelter,because I understood. But you don’t have that need anymore. We can be Mistress and sub like this, here. Again.”
Okay. Apparently there was a line he wouldn’t tolerate. He rose to his feet and came toward her. Her eyes widened as he crossed the personal space barrier, until he was staring right down at her. She’d backed up to the door, and he put a palm flat on the wall next to her. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” he said quietly.
Her pulse jumped in her throat. It only took her a second to switch to offense mode. He wouldn’t have expected anything less. Crazy temper moments at his garage aside, when she’d tapped into his more volatile side in sessions, she’d never backed down from it. She knew how to channel that out of him, into more positive places for both of them. He had no worries that she couldn’t handle what he could dish out.
But for this, he wasn’t going to be fucking handled.
“I believe I was clear enough. Do you want to do a session or not?” She’d switched to her frosty Helen Mirren.
He straightened and gazed down at her a long moment. “Okay.” He signed the next word, same as she had. “Fine.”
He backed off a step, forcing his expression to neutral. He let the curl of his lip show, though, and sparked a challenging light in her eyes. Good. That was what he was hoping to see. She wasn’t as settled as she was trying to appear. With her lavender scent, and her girl power jewelry.
He went to the corner where he’d left his bag and took off his shirt. Maybe he put a little extra stretch into it, knowing her eyes would be on him. Then the shoes, followed by the jeans. As he shoved them off his ass, he revealed the snug black cotton boxer briefs he usually wore.
