Divine Solace: 8 (5 page)

But it was her place, her sanctuary, bought under good
financing terms with her own money. It wasn’t a rusted trailer with garbage in
the backyard and a scrawny mother cat having litter after litter of kittens
under the stoop until disease took her. The kittens always disappeared
eventually. As a child, she’d pretended they found good homes, rather than
getting sick, hit by cars or eaten up by the nearby marsh alligators.

Her mother said getting the mama cat fixed was too much
money and animals were meant to fend for themselves anyway. She’d felt much the
same way about children. It gave Gen a quick flash of herself at seven,
standing on a stepstool to fix oatmeal for herself at the old stove, reading
the package to figure out how to do it.

“What a great place,” Noah said. The sincerity caught her
off guard, pulled her out of such memories. He’d brought in a duffle and placed
it by the door so he could wander down the narrow hallway to look at the
collages she’d placed on the walls. They were enhanced by the eggshell-colored
paint, and she’d found good frames at yard sales. When she snapped on a light
for him, the small track lights she’d placed over each picture provided enough
illumination to navigate the hall, but turned the focus to the walls rather
than the beige carpet she hadn’t yet replaced with hardwood, as she intended to
do one of these days. The kitchen was her first order of business.

“This is awesome,” he said. The collage he was studying was
a garden of flowers, created with different scraps of paper, some solid colors,
some patterns. Tiny knots of newsprint made up the background, as if the
flowers were peering up from the colorless dark earth. She wondered if the
earth ever resented being the womb, never the creation. Probably not. Even if
the earth nursed such a petty thought, a look at what it had created would
dispel it. At least that was the way it should be.

“I made it after I bought the house.” Her own personal
celebration.

“You made this? All of these?” At her nod, he gripped her
hand as if he’d made a delightful discovery. It made her blush. Fortunately, he
turned his attention back to the wall before she could embarrass herself
further. The next one showed the silhouette of a sitting cat, the body formed
by various images of a cat playing, sleeping. She’d interspersed those images
with simple colors, making her into a calico.

“Do you have a cat?”

“Not yet. One day.”

He glanced at her. “A life still evolving. I like that.”

“You’re a strange one,” she responded, but she smiled. He
made her smile. She liked that.

He picked up his duffle bag. “Where am I at?”

She pointed to the guest bedroom. “It’s a full-size.” She
hoped his feet wouldn’t hang off the end. “There’s a small TV in there. I have
basic cable.”

He waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. Lyda doesn’t let me do TV.
It makes my head hurt. Do you want to get started on anything tonight on the
kitchen floor, or should I just fix you dinner?”

She blinked at him. “I wasn’t expecting you to—”

“I’m here for you, Gen,” he said seriously. “Let me make you
dinner.”

While she was searching for something to say, he disappeared
into the guestroom, returning without the bag. “No matter what, we need dinner
first. Any particular requests?”

“I have some leftover lasagna. There’s enough for two, and
some salad.” She hoped there was enough for two, but he was a man. They could
always order a pizza.

“Sounds good. Why don’t you do whatever your evening routine
is, and I’ll get dinner ready? If you do collaging after dinner, I can hang out
with a book and watch, if you’re okay with that. I’d love to see how you do
this.”

He took her silence for assent, pressing her arm before he
headed up her hallway. As he stepped into the kitchen and living area, she saw
him give the latter a quick glance, then he disappeared left.

Not sure how she was feeling about all of this, she went
into her room to freshen up for dinner. She was used to men taking charge in
the “I’m Tarzan, you Jane” way, not the “Okay, I’m going to take care of all
your domestic needs, so you just relax, find your paper and put your feet up”
kind of way. It didn’t feel like a role reversal, like he was trying to be a
woman. Nothing about Noah said woman to her. In fact, she was a little turned
on by how he’d done it, not taking no for an answer, determined in an relaxed
way that made it pretty much impossible not to follow his direction.

The weekend was going to be an experience.

* * * * *

She’d gone into her craft room and spent a little time
setting up what she’d do after dinner. It was an exercise in self-restraint,
since what she really wanted to do was hang over the kitchen counter and watch
him doing whatever he was doing. Eventually that desire, and appetizing dinner
smells, won out.

Working for the tea room had given Gen such an educated and
sensitive nose, she noticed aromas far more acutely, and it was impossible to
ignore the olfactory temptation of spiced tomato sauce and bubbling cheese.
When she came to the kitchen, she found more than one temptation waiting there.

He’d set the table and was taking the lasagna out of the
oven. The ribbed fabric of his dark tank showed his lean, muscled physique, as
well as the bump of his nipples. When he bent to pull the lasagna out of the
oven, she got a distracting view of his ass flexing under worn denim, his
shoulders doing the same as he put the tray on the stove, turned it off,
transferred the two pieces to plates.

“You could have used the microwave.”

“Oven keeps it warm longer. Makes it bubble better.”

Yes, it did. She preferred to do it that way herself. He’d
put the salad in a bowl with tongs, arranged the dressing options next to that.
He’d even toasted some of her sliced bread. The smell suggested he’d added a
light layer of garlic and butter to them.

“I’ll gain weight with you around.”

He gave her an amused glance. “My Mistress makes me work out
with her sometimes, though it pisses her off that I can bench press more than
she can. Claims God is an insecure, sexist bastard. I tell her she’s too
competitive.”

He pulled out a chair and gestured to Gen to take a seat in
it. As she approached, she caught his scent, distinct from the dinner aromas.
Some of the molasses-wood Ceylon tea fragrance had lingered, but it was mixed
with that seawater smell and his own unique blend, something that made her want
to inhale deeper, press her nose against that pocket between his collarbones,
the base of his throat. Some of it might be Lyda, an intriguing mix. She
remembered that combination of female sweat, soothing moisturizer, lip balm.

Maybe Noah wore one of those male body sprays that included
pheromones. That was the excuse Gen gave herself when, instead of putting her
hand on the chair, she put it on him.

It was just his side, beneath his arm, but when she felt the
firm flesh beneath the thin tank, her fingers tightened on him. Her gaze fluttered
up to his, and suddenly her throat was tight. What was she doing? This
man…technically he belonged to another woman, right? Yet the signals they both
sent…it was confusing.

A hell of a rationalization, wasn’t it? All she had to do
was open her mouth and ask the question, but asking the question meant she had
a reason for asking it. Caution first. Always. She didn’t want to ask anything.
She wanted to touch. Just touch. That was okay, right? It wasn’t like she was
touching anything…wrong.

Okay, another rationalization.

One he allowed her, because as her hand tightened on him, he
straightened, squaring his body more with hers. Studying her face, he reached
down, retrieved her other hand, and placed it on his other side. She stared at
her hands, resting on his upper abdomen. She spread out her fingers, her thumb
following the line of the lowest bone on his rib cage, then up to the one above
it. Cotton fabric, so soft and thin, molded his shape. She could gather it up
in her fingers, touch bare flesh.

As if he could read everything in her face—or maybe he
wanted to be touched—he put his hands between them, took the hem of the shirt
up and over his head, getting rid of it. A simple movement, no excessive flare
to startle her into thinking this was about to accelerate to an act she didn’t
want to commit. It just gave her more access to what she wanted to touch. Now
she was staring at his chest. He was about half a head taller than her, but she
kept her chin tilted down, still looking at her hands, resting on bare skin. He
had no tattoos on his front, but she expected he had them somewhere. All men
under the age of thirty seemed to these days.

He had a light mat of brown chest hair that tapered to a
bold arrow between his defined abs, headed for his groin. She didn’t let her
eyes go that far. She couldn’t believe she was doing this.

“Noah, I shouldn’t… Lyda.”

“I’m here for you, Gen. She gave me to you for the weekend.”

Whoa. Stop. Back up.

She did so literally, stepping away from him, though her
palms itched with irritation at her, wanting to be right back where they’d
been. “What?”

“There’s no obligation to it, Gen,” he said carefully. “I’m
here to be whatever you need. Tile your floors, paint your walls. But if you
need me other ways…I’m willing to be that as well.”

“She just…loans you out?” Gen’s shock turned into something
far different. “You don’t even know me.”

“No. It’s not like that.” His voice was instantly resolute,
eyes reflecting the spark she’d seen when he and Lyda had their exchange about
his stubbornness. It reassured her, somewhat. He paused, sighed. “I’m sorry,
Gen. I’m used to being around Dommes. Mistresses. Those who understand the
boundaries, the way this works. I should have brought it up earlier, maybe in
the car when it was more neutral, but until you reached out to touch me like
this, I wasn’t sure if it was going to be an issue. But I could feel…something,
when you looked at me. You intrigue me, as much as you do my Mistress. Like I
said.”

The sudden, very male look of awareness coursed through her
blood, but Gen pushed it away, trying to get a handle on this. She wasn’t sure
why she was so agitated, but she was. “So you’re her Welcome Wagon? Or her
bait? Works out well for you, doesn’t it? I mean, what guy turns down getting
laid as often as possible?” She took another step back. The lasagna was likely
getting cold. They should eat.

His flash of chagrin made her wince at herself. He’d been
nothing but kind and respectful. But she had no frame of reference for this
except a history of men who looked out for their own interests, especially when
it came to sex.

“I’m sorry, Gen. I’ll go. The last thing I want is to make
you uncomfortable.” He spread his hands, a conciliatory motion. She sensed no
resentment or passive aggressiveness in his tone, nothing but a sincere
apology. “If you want, I’ll come back tomorrow and help you with your kitchen.
I’ll just stay somewhere else.”

“You can just switch it on and off. Nice for you.”

In response he stepped forward, snagged her wrist. She tried
to back up a step, but he followed her. The stove was warm against the backs of
her legs. She shook her head at him, but then he put her hand right below his
belt. Beneath the jeans where she hadn’t allowed herself to look, she felt a
very substantial erection.

Her gaze shot up to his face. Immediately, he moved her hand
to rest in a half curl on his bare chest, his own fingers loosely clasping hers
before he let her go and stepped back to the other side of the table, as if he
thought she might perceive what he’d just done as a threat, since he was a
stranger in her home.

Yet she hadn’t perceived it that way. Just a very confusing
signal that fired up her already aroused libido.

“No. I can’t switch it on and off,” he said. “But I’m a
submissive, Gen. It means that no matter how aroused I become, I act only on
the commands of my Mistress. Or the woman she is allowing to command me. You
can touch me however, whenever you wish. You can make me walk around your house
naked the entire weekend. I might be literally dying to fuck you, but until you
want that, demand that from me, I am only what you want me to be.”

Whatever he saw in her face started him back around the
table. She watched him come, emotions warring inside her. His voice had become
huskier during the explanation, and now his breath was warm on her face, his
mouth close to hers again. “The more you deny me, hold yourself back, the
hotter I get, the harder I work to please you. I want to please you.”

Like all women, she’d been the recipient of creative
come-ons, where the male tried the “this is really all about you” kind of lines
when they all knew it was about getting himself off. This wasn’t that. This was
beyond description, the way Noah’s body canted toward her, yet she could feel
the aura of self-restraint. Her will alone held him back.

“How many…” She had to lick dry lips to talk. Leaning away
from her, he snagged one of the glasses of wine he’d poured and offered it to her.
She took a sip, then a swallow. Three of them. When she set it aside, her hand
went back to his chest, the other resting on his hip. Her fingers hooked on his
jeans waistband. She told herself it was just a place to put her hands while he
waited for what she’d say. “Is it just any woman she cares to share you with?
How do your feelings figure into it?”

“Rather significantly.” He seemed relieved she’d gone from
attack mode to wary curiosity. “Mistress Lyda has never shared me outside of a
club setting, Gen. Even inside it, it’s directly under her supervision, and
mostly foreplay type stuff.” He met her gaze. “Sometimes I’ll take a strap-on
from one of them, but since I’ve belonged to her, she’s never wanted me to
actually fuck, I mean, have sex, with another woman.”