Divine Solace: 8

Joey
W. Hill

Book 8 in the Nature of Desire
series.

After too many failed
relationships, Gen has settled into a quiet, acceptable life as a middle-aged
single woman. But then she meets Mistress Lyda and her sexy male sub Noah, and
the two of them give her a different view of “acceptable”—as well as a renewed
longing for the type of love and romance she thought had passed her by.

Gen has been Marguerite Winterman’s
employee at Tea Leaves for some time, and has a close relationship with the
reserved, intimidating woman. It isn’t until Mistress Lyda steps into her life
that Gen understands why she’s always felt safe under Marguerite’s direction. And
with the intriguing Noah guiding her in the world of Domination/submission,
Gen’s about to discover a new way to love—and live.

Inside Scoop:
Gen’s journey
includes references to male/male relationships and a beautifully erotic
portrayal of two women falling in love within the ménage.

A Romantica®
BDSM erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

Acknowledgements

My great thanks to Trish (aka Lord Mason’s Mistress), for
her invaluable knowledge and insights as a surgical nurse, and for her
continued support of my work. I will always be so glad I had the chance to meet
you at RAW! And not just because you hold a revered spot as the first person I
knew who had a tattoo inspired by my books (grin).

I also send out a cheer of appreciation and gratitude to the
lovely author Trista Michaels, for daring to ride the Sky Lift in Gatlinburg,
Tennessee and being willing to share that experience with me. Because of that,
I could give Lyda, Gen and Noah that adventure—with my feet remaining firmly on
the ground. Gen and I feel the same way about heights!

As always, my great thanks to my critique partners, my
editor, and all the staff at Ellora’s Cave who work together to make my books
shine. And a huge thanks to my readers for their continued leaps of faith,
taking the journey with my characters. Hope you enjoy this one with Lyda, Gen
and Noah.

Disconcerting.

Unsettling, perplexing or perturbing might mean the same
thing according to her thesaurus, but Gen decided disconcerting was the best
word for the woman sitting at Table Seven in Tea Leaves. Disconcerting rolled
off the tongue a certain way the other words didn’t. Emotions and people were
like that. Put the same emotion inside ten people, and it would look different
on each one of them.

Disconcerting required an object to impact. Someone couldn’t
be disconcerting without being disconcerting
to
someone. In this case,
that object was Gen, even though Gen worked for Marguerite Winterman.
Marguerite had Margaret Thatcher’s aura of command, Marilyn Monroe’s ability to
mesmerize, and a lion-tamer’s touch with dangerous creatures. Maybe because
Marguerite
was
one of those dangerous creatures and understood them all
too well. It was part of the reason Gen had given her the nickname “M”, because
Marguerite had the intimidating air of the Bond movie female director of MI-6,
in spades.

Yet, despite all that, their newest customer disconcerted
Gen in a way Marguerite never had.

As she checked on other customers, Gen tried to pinpoint
what it was about the woman. Her appearance gave mixed messages. She was
beautiful, yet not wearing anything to enhance that beauty. Her pale-green bill
cap had
Growing Things Nursery
logo embroidered on it, a match for the
breast pocket of the babydoll T-shirt she wore over snug, stressed jeans and
work shoes. When she removed the cap to run the point of her wrist along her
damp brow, Gen saw her braided hair was a dark red with some gold highlights,
evident from the loose wisps around her face.

Like a lot of true redheads, she had milk-white skin,
despite her outdoor job. The T-shirt showed off generous breasts, large enough
to swell out the sides of the cotton against her biceps. Her arms displayed
smooth muscle definition. The way she moved made it clear the body beneath the
clothes was equally fit.

Not butch. Nor diet-obsessed, where there was no meat on
her. Just toned and strong, curved in all the ways that drew male eyes. As well
as female eyes, given the way Gen was checking her out.

It wasn’t the first time Gen had noticed a woman was
attractive. She defined herself as hetero, since she’d been married twice and
had always dated the opposite sex. Sure, she’d experimented with friends in
high school, but what girl didn’t? Women weren’t as defined by straight and gay
as the guys were. As she got older, she knew she had a bi-curious side to her,
but it wasn’t anything she’d ever been tempted to explore, beyond idle fantasy
and pleasuring the eye. Yet when she looked at this woman, the dormant
temptation wasn’t dormant at all. Sensation fluttered against her thighs like
butterfly wings and caused a tightness in her chest.

Maybe it was the woman’s air of authority that made her
distracting. She was probably the owner of the nursery, because it was clear
she was used to directing things, not being directed. When she’d first walked
in, those gunmetal-gray eyes had pinned Gen in place behind the counter.

“I’m here to see Marguerite.”

“She’s coming in around nine, about fifteen minutes from
now. Is there something I can help you with, ma’am?”

That unsettling gaze ran over every visible part of Gen, the
top of her head to her hips. “Who are you?”

“I’m Gen,” Gen said politely.

“I’ll wait.” The redhead looked up at the board. “Do you
have regular coffee, Gen?”

At one time, the answer to that would have been a resounding
no, but since she’d married Tyler, Marguerite had capitulated to having at
least one coffee option on the menu. No cappuccinos or anything fancy. A good
Colombian blend.

When Gen told the woman what they had, she nodded. “A cup of
that.”

“All right. If you want to take a seat, it will be just a
moment. I have a batch brewing now.”

Marguerite’s visitor had then taken her seat at Table Seven.
Gen had felt her regard while she busied herself behind the counter, even when
she left it and made the rounds to the other tables to ensure no one needed
anything. Though Gen smiled and chatted with the regulars as usual, that scrutiny
was a living thing teasing the hairs on her nape.

How did she tell a customer, a friend or associate of
Marguerite’s, to stop staring at her? She wished Chloe were here to help with
opening. But with Chloe and Marguerite both now married, Gen tried to do it
solo at least a couple times a week, giving the women time with their husbands.
Some mornings, the solo opening underscored her permanent single status, but
she usually squelched that blue thought pretty fast in favor of the sense of
accomplishment running the business by herself gave her.

Since Gen had finished those accounting courses at the
community college, Marguerite had even let her take over the bookkeeping. She
might have been born trailer-park trash, but how a person was born didn’t dictate
how they lived. That was up to them.

I told you, Momma.

The thought inspired Gen to meet the woman’s gaze. Ms.
Disconcerting didn’t even blink those long-lashed eyes. Gen gave her a
dignified nod, not willing to simply duck her head, and returned to the
counter. She’d never been the subject of such intent scrutiny. Not since her
first day on the job, when Marguerite had watched her in a similar way. As if
every movement Gen made, everything she said, every smile, meant something far
deeper, Gen emitting signals she didn’t even realize she was sending. She’d
really needed that job, so she’d managed to stay cool, professional, asking
questions about what she didn’t know, and making up for her mistakes quickly.

If Chloe had been here, her nonstop comfortable chatter
would have helped. Her irrepressible friend would have turned so no one but Gen
could see her expression as she rolled her eyes about the mysterious visitor
and mouthed a
what the hell’s her problem
? at Gen.

At least the low rumble of conversation from other customers
kept silence from becoming a taut, awkward bridge Gen might have tried to fill
with inane small talk. Couldn’t the intimidating woman pull out a cell phone to
check her messages, the way most people did?

The coffee was done. Gen poured it, picked up napkin, spoon
and condiments, and left the sanctuary of the counter. The woman’s work clothes
and sweaty appearance should have put Gen more at ease. Instead, she came off
like Red Sonja showing up in bloodstained battle armor, making Gen think about
her own appearance. Today she wore a Tea Leaves staff shirt. Not a shaped
babydoll, just a medium T-shirt that didn’t highlight her figure at all, though
she did knot it at the hip of her fashionably frayed jeans over rhinestone
sandals. She had her hair pulled up and held with sticks, and though it framed
her face attractively enough, she was overdue to dye her roots.

She looked like a comfortable, pleasant thirtysomething, as
sexless as a spayed cocker spaniel. This woman, around the same age as Gen,
could don a ball gown and walk the red carpet at the Oscars. She was a woman
who still considered herself a sexual being, not one who lacked the energy or
hope to pursue the idea anymore.

Gen set the coffee in front of her. The redhead tapped the table.
“Spoon on my right,” she said. “Napkin on the left. No sugar or cream. I drink
it straight.”

“So does Tyler. Anything different, he says you might as
well be a girl in frilly pink at a tea party.”

The customer’s mouth made a sinuous twist. What was probably
a sunblock lip balm made her lips soft, gave them a faint sheen. That butterfly
fluttering became the stroke of a long, firm-stemmed seagull feather up Gen’s
thighs, teasing her navel, her sternum.

“He said that to get a rise out of Marguerite,” the woman
said.

She spoke as if her tongue caressed her teeth when she
spoke, the syllables coming out with a touch of breath. During sex, Gen
wondered if that sighing sound was more pronounced, spinning the words with
sugar and giving them a sweet heat, like cookies from the oven.

Had she woken up on the wrong side of her sexual orientation
this morning? Was that even possible? Chloe would know.

“Yes.” Gen cleared her throat. “He only said it once,
though. She salted his coffee.”

“Marriage has mellowed her. The Marguerite I know would have
used a strong laxative.”

“Well, they do live together. Maybe it was enlightened
self-interest.”

Gen colored when the woman’s gaze remained on her, though
she noticed the corners of her lips twitched. As Gen followed her direction
about the napkin and spoon, the redhead watched her, not what she was doing. It
was the first time she’d been instructed on table setting by a customer, but
Gen prided herself on her customer service. It was an odd though not
unreasonable demand. As she laid the folded napkin on the opposite side of the
cup, the woman reached up and touched Gen’s hair.

Her fingertips slid beneath the strands at her temple and
brushed against her scalp. “Your hair is a beautiful color,” she observed.
“Golden brown, like honey straight from the hive. Why do you have it in this
god-awful scraped-up mess?”

If the woman was being catty, Gen could have broken the
spell and set her in her place, quick and sharp. She was far past being put
down by another female. But the woman’s expression and tone were merely
thoughtful. She caught a wisp between her knuckles, her firm, assured touch
holding Gen still. Nerves tingled along Gen’s cheekbone and down her throat
like a trail of breadcrumbs, begging those fingers to follow them.

“I…it’s quick to put up in the morning with the sticks.”

“Hmm.” The woman’s other elbow propped on the table as she
leaned forward and plucked out the sticks. Gen’s hair tumbled to her shoulders
in a thick twist.

What the hell are you doing?
Those were the words
that should have come from her mouth. Instead, she stood there, mesmerized by
the woman’s gall or something else. Probably the way she was stroking through
Gen’s hair, those tiny caresses of her scalp. As if there were no such things
as personal space boundaries, or other customers. Maybe they’d think the woman
was just admiring her hair. Gen wasn’t sure what to do or say. Her knees were
quivering in an odd way under the woman’s direct gaze.

“That feels good, Gen,” the woman murmured. “Doesn’t it?”

Gen nodded, a quick jerk.

“Sometimes it’s that way, first thing in the morning. A need
for touch, to dispel the night’s loneliness. Something to connect us to the
world, something that says the world notices us. And likes what it sees.” Her
lips curved.

The redhead’s faint scent of female sweat was overlaid by
earth and summer leaves. Beneath all of it was a light body spray, an aroma Gen
recognized, because working for M had given her a very well-developed sense of
smell. It was a blend intended to soothe the senses. Chamomile, lavender. What
would Red Sonja need to soothe herself about? The day’s body count? The fact
she broke her nail gutting her enemies?

What would happen if she reached out and touched
her
hair? Gen got only as far as imagining her hand lifting. It seemed
inappropriate.

Like this wasn’t?
Yes, M, I started the day by letting a
customer play with my hair. Then Table Six wanted to give me a foot massage and
I had to be fair to them…

The woman’s nails scraped her scalp. For a brief moment her
hand tightened, pulling on the hair beneath in such strong contrast to the
lighter touch Gen’s full attention snapped back to her. An incredible sensation
arrowed right down her center. She swallowed, and the woman’s gaze followed the
movement, though Gen wondered if what she was really following was the
direction of the other invisible but very significant reaction.

Gen felt a trickle of panic, the reaction to a situation
where she was over her head and might end up doing something really wrong to
extricate herself from it. She didn’t react to women like this. But then, no
woman had ever actually touched her like this.

That was when Red Sonja let her go.

“Thank you, Gen.” Laying the sticks down next to her coffee,
she lifted the cup to her lips. “My name is Lyda Coltrane, if you need to let
Marguerite know who her visitor is. You can return to your duties.”

Now her voice reminded Gen of early autumn, the advance of
cool weather and lingering heat of summer mixing, neither season willing to be
denied.

Her gray eyes flickered past Gen, a dismissal, before they
focused on the display wall where Marguerite kept her special collection of tea
sets and memorabilia. The panicked feeling morphed into something else. This
woman was screwing with her. This was a
friend
of Marguerite’s?

“I…no offense, Ms. Coltrane, but touching…inappropriate
touching, isn’t allowed here.”

It wasn’t written up in policy, but tea drinkers usually
didn’t molest the staff. Gen had to assert some kind of defense. She wasn’t a
teenager, so easily intimidated.

“It didn’t feel inappropriate to me. How about to you?” Lyda
blew on the contents of the coffee cup.

“I’m not…I’ve been married. Twice.”

Lyda’s penetrating gaze lifted to hers. “Your point?”

“Let me know if you need a refill on the coffee.” Pivoting,
Gen moved with stiff purpose to the other tables. No one gave her odd looks, so
her customers must have missed the hair incident. Or they chalked it up to one
woman asking another woman about her hair, right? Maybe she was overreacting.

Disconcerting.
That fit Lyda Coltrane, for sure.

The phone rang, giving her an excuse to retreat behind the
counter. As she bent over her pad to take a phone order, she had to hold her
hair back on one side to see. Damn it, Lyda had her sticks. It had been awhile
since she’d worn her hair down. Feeling the strands tumble forward made her
feel…girlish. Pretty. Something she’d rethink if she saw a mirror. She probably
looked like she had a limp dish mop on her head.