Unrestrained (5 page)

Roy had no patience for the idea of men going to stylists and fussing over their appearance, beyond making sure they wore a clean shirt and shaved.
Their
faces
, he’d clarified to her with a mock scowl as her lips quivered with suppressed mirth, her gaze moving pointedly to his furred chest. She bet Dale would have liked him.

His thigh muscle flexed beneath her hand as he shifted his weight to his right hip. His buttock muscles would tighten from that change in position. She wouldn’t mind having her hand there, feeling that transition.

He reached down, brushing a finger underneath the wisps of hair across her forehead. “It’s interesting where you ended up, isn’t it? On your knees?”

She tensed, but his tone made it a neutral observation. He wasn’t mocking her. “Does that have anything to do with what you want to ask me?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

He brought her chin up, holding it. As he did, her pulse rabbited, and he registered it, because he increased his grip. Her chin lifted further at the pressure, her neck elongating. She had to raise her haunches an inch or so off her heels. He kept her like that, fingers stroking her jaw. Her stomach quivered harder. With the subtle demand, the power had shifted. Now he was touching her for himself, to see what her skin felt like. To evaluate
her
.

She wanted to excel in that evaluation. Wanted to please him, with a fierce intensity that spooked her.

“I need to go.” She disengaged her chin from his grasp. When she rose, she was still so close she had to brace herself on his hip. His hands went to her waist, steadying her. She stepped away, flustered even more. “I have some appointments this afternoon.”

“All right.”

She backed up to her stool, to the coffee. Picked up her cup. She’d put it in the sink, wash it out before she left. Then she remembered her intent to take him to breakfast. “I’d like to thank you for your help.”

“Nothing to thank me for.” He said it with frank honesty, not as a courteous brush-off. “Any man would have done the same.”

“I don’t know about that. Plenty would have dialed 911 and left it at that.”

“I said a man. Just because you’re born male doesn’t mean you know how to be a man. Any more than being female makes you a woman. You seem like a remarkable woman, Athena.”

She curled both hands around the coffee cup. “I’d still like to thank you. And . . . perhaps talk about what I want at that point. Would you come to my home for lunch on Friday? You already know the address from my GPS, but I can write it down if you don’t remember it.”

“No worries that I’m untrustworthy?”

She arched a brow. “If you had nefarious intentions toward me, you’ve had several prime opportunities to execute them.”

“God, I love the way you talk. The whole librarian thing.”

It was difficult not to give in to a smile with his eyes glinting like that. “If you’re simply toying with me, and you do plan to murder me,” she advised, “I have a domestic staff there until five. You’ll have to cut up my body and bury it in the gardens after they leave.”

“So a midafternoon lunch might be more convenient for my diabolical plans.”

“Yes, precisely. How about three?”

Two hours to talk to him over a civilized lunch, and then the staff would be gone, leaving the two of them alone. Like now. Yet it was different, wasn’t it? This moment had come about by necessity, and she expected he was still concerned about her mental state after the attack. When he came for lunch, that issue would no longer be restraining him. Especially if she behaved the way she’d behaved a few moments ago.

Whether or not he felt it necessary, she knew she had a responsibility to protect him as well. “You can ask Jimmy more about me; he’s known me for some time, and of course he knows my husband, who is a member as well. Was a member.”

She closed her eyes at the correction, pushed on. “I’d rather you not tell Jimmy you’re coming to my home, but other than that, you can ask him whatever you like. I’ll call him and tell him it’s okay. If you change your mind and decide not to come to my home for lunch, I understand, but I hope you’ll let me take you out to lunch or dinner one day. You might have been doing what your code of honor dictates, but my gratitude—and my own sense of honor—needs to be satisfied as well.”

The blue color of his eyes intensified when he smiled, the green becoming more vibrant, the gold ring around the irises more rich. She could devote hours to studying his eyes, or watching him pot plants. She imagined him transplanting the young seedlings once they sprouted, handling them so tenderly. She thought about the way he’d touched Willow’s arm, the gentle power to it. Despite his teasing, she had nothing to fear from him. Not like she had from those men last night. His danger to her was a far more personal thing.

She was a lamb, inviting the lion into her pasture while she lay down and waited to see what he would do. She liked the feeling. It made her anxious, too. Once she was back in her car, on her way home, would she doubt herself? Think she’d blown the whole situation out of control, misrepresented herself?

He tore a sheet off a notepad he had mounted on the wall, and plucked a pencil out of an old coffee mug on the bench. Scribbling down a phone number, he folded it over and extended it, holding it between two knuckles. “This is my cell, if you need to change the when and where.”

Maybe he recognized her thought process. He’d just given her a tentative out. She could take him to a nice restaurant, order a good wine, and make sure she had commitments later in the afternoon to keep it a limited, one-time engagement. She’d see him at the club in a month or so. That would be a sufficient lapse to restore a proper perspective. Then, if she still felt the way she felt now . . .

“Three p.m. at my place on Friday,” she confirmed. “I’ll leave my cell number on your kitchen table, in case you have a change of plans.”

He nodded. “I’ll look forward to it. If the conversation you want to have with me goes the way I expect, I assume I’ll be doing more of the telling from that point on.”

His voice was a quiet rumble, but she’d been right about the cuffs on Willow’s arms being unnecessary. His words and his gaze alone effectively pinioned her in place. The small room became exponentially smaller, cinching around her with that heated promise. She was feeling too much, too fast.

He stepped forward. The T-shirt she was wearing had a pocket, and he slid the piece of paper she hadn’t yet taken from him into the narrow space. Since the pocket lay over the crest of her breast, she shivered when the paper’s edge teased her nipple, even beneath the thin cushion of her bra. As she drew in a breath, her right breast rose against the side of his hand. She hadn’t intended that, but he tilted his head to look. His other hand touched her waist, sliding up to capture the left breast, weighing it in his palm. She had fairly sizeable breasts for her frame, something Roy had enjoyed immensely, and the pleasure that came into Dale’s expression as he captured one in his strong grip made everything in her liquefy.

“Lovely,” he said. “Keep the T-shirt. I like the way you look in it.” Then he stepped back, fingers whispering away from the cotton. Her flesh yearned, but she managed not to totter toward him. Instead, she gave him what she hoped was a calm nod as she picked up the coffee once more, moved toward the door. Placing her hand on the screen, she glanced back at him.

“You know, I could be a serial killer myself. I might have all sorts of weapons. Guns, a grenade launcher.”

“A grenade launcher? Cool. I’d accept the lunch invitation for that alone.” He winked at her.

She shook her head at him. “I knew you’d been in the military. Which branch?”

“Anything with testosterone loves a grenade launcher,” he corrected her. “What’s not to like? But yes, I’ve served. Retired SEAL.”

Hearing she’d guessed correctly restored some of her confidence. She was still steering the boat, her judgment engaged. It also terrified her a little, because if that was true, she might be headed toward whitewater rapids, too intrigued by the potential ride to turn back from the danger of her boat being overturned.

He’d effectively defused the moment, but she still felt like he’d spread heated wax over her exposed skin, especially when he met her gaze once more.

“I hope you won’t cancel, but if you do, Athena, I don’t require any explanations. Not at this stage of the game.”

The lazy threat behind those last words was clear. Clear enough to give her another shiver.

R
oy, can you believe Mel Harper is still trying to get me to step down as board president?” Athena chuckled grimly as she pulled weeds from around the marble setting for his memorial statue. Watching Dale’s efforts had inspired her to plant a few new flowers. Though she had a landscaping crew to maintain the estate grounds, this quiet corner with its small hobby garden and a bench for reflection was hers to manage. At least once a week, she came here to talk to Roy, do some weeding and thinking, and make sure the area remained interesting. Experimental groupings of shrubs and flowers alternated with seasonal plantings and decorations. At Christmas, she’d put a small lit tree near the statue, along with a group of garden gnomes to represent elves. That would have made him laugh.

She didn’t believe the soul lingered with the body, but if Roy came by, she wanted him to see that she was thinking about him, remembering him with as much joy as sadness. The bronze had been fired with a handful of his ashes, the rest scattered in this section of the garden. In the statue, he was golfing, in midswing, his face crinkled with that good-humored look that said he expected a slice that would plunk the ball right into a sand trap. She’d never had any passion for the game, so it was one thing they rarely did together, but she’d clearly remembered that expression from the couple times she’d accompanied him. He was an abysmal golfer, so bad the club pro had given up on him. She’d wondered why he continued to play, when he succeeded at almost everything else he did. Roy had shrugged.

Ah well, life will knock you on your ass now and then. Gives you a reason to prove you can get up, right?

One night, she found a different use for his golf clubs he’d appreciated. She’d used one of the irons to tap his inner thighs while he was tied up, pressed the club end against his balls, lifted his chin with the shaft.

“You’d be proud of me. I met with Mel after the budget meeting and told him if he was so set on being president, he’d better plan my murder, because that would be far easier on both of us, versus all this wrangling in every meeting. I told him to let me know if he decided to go that route, so I could unleash my flying monkeys on him.”

After a startled moment, Mel had chuckled, with charming self-deprecation.
You called my bluff, Athena. Roy told me not to underestimate you. I guess I’ve been testing you. My apologies.

“Maybe we’ll have a little less passive-aggressive dart throwing now, at least from him. Larry’s still a pain in the ass, but that has more to do with his desire to get under my skirts than higher on the board. I wish he wasn’t such a damn good financial manager. Now, don’t get riled up.” She waved her hand at the statue. “I can handle him. You know I can.”

When it came to the advances of other men, Roy had been clearly protective.
My wife. My Mistress.
Jimmy had once told her that a lot of people new to the scene didn’t realize that men who needed to experience submission could be just as possessive of their significant other as any male.
You don’t turn in your man card just because you need to be tied up and spanked
, he’d declared.

“It looks like we’ll be seeing an overall profit this year, despite the economy. I’m going to adjust the employee bonuses accordingly and bump up the healthcare contribution. Oh, Tessie Maddox in Shipping had twins. Can you believe it? That poor girl. Her husband’s not worth the time of day, but I notice Jesse over in Receiving has been babysitting for her, running her errands. I’m not one to argue with the ‘what God has brought together, let no man tear asunder,’ but I tend to think that hormones brought Tessie and her husband together, not divine power. Jesse’s a much better match for her. I guess we’ll see if Tommy Lee becoming a father will make him a man.”

She thought then of Dale, what he’d said about being a man. She was mature enough to know one heroic rescue at a gas station didn’t guarantee he was a man a woman could count on a hundred percent—heroism in a relationship was sometimes as much about being there to help unload the dishwasher as to rescue her from a mugging—but it was an impressive start.

Of course, what she was considering with respect to him, was it the same thing as pursuing a serious relationship? If she went the way her mind was going on it, it was definitely safer to keep this a compartmentalized thing, restricted by a lot of boundaries that wouldn’t cross into her daily life. Many club sessions fit into that mold. Two people coming together for a specific purpose, a mutual need, for a couple of hours once a week or even less often. Sometimes those people were married to other people, or, if the person they played with was their significant other, the club was the only place they exercised the Dom or sub tendencies.

No matter her thoughts on the long term, it was smart to approach it that way from the beginning. If it evolved beyond that, fine; she’d cross that bridge when it became necessary, but it was best to start with low expectations, one focused goal.

But what was her goal? With Dale, even during that brief moment in the potting shed, things tended to get off track, started to cycle around his indomitable will, not because he was imposing it on her, but because she slid under it like an umbrella in a rain storm.

“Mrs. Summers?” Her cell beeped, the speaker feature turned on. “Your guest is here.”

“Thank you, Lynn. Show him to the gazebo and make sure he has a drink. Bring out the hors d’oeuvres. I’ll be right there, soon as I wash my hands.”

Time had escaped her. Glancing at her slim gold watch, she realized he was right on time. “Well, here goes, Roy. I’m nervous as a girl on her first date. I bet you’re laughing, old man.”

She kissed her fingertips, pressed them to the foot of the statue. “I love you, baby.” Then, pushing aside the familiar weight of sadness, she moved away from the area, headed for the guest house behind the pool area. She washed her hands, checked her hair and makeup. Removing the coveralls she’d been wearing to protect her blouse, she slipped on the skirt she’d hung up in there earlier, prepared for this eventuality.

With any other guest, she would have been waiting near the door to personally greet them. A twinge of hostess guilt struck her for not doing the same with Dale. However, she’d been jumpy as a cat since noon, so she’d needed to do something. She could lie to herself, say it was the residual tension she sometimes nursed after board meetings, mostly due to dealing with personalities like Mel’s, but the truth was it was all about Dale.

She’d thought long and hard about the question she’d ask him. There was no requirement that she ask it, but she already knew she was going to do so. As a result, tiny manic frogs were jumping in her stomach.

Beyond that, for the first time in over two years, an attractive man she desired was coming to have lunch with her, and his parting words were practically branded in her mind—
at this stage of the game . . . I have a feeling I’ll be the one doing the telling
. She wasn’t even going to count how many times she’d thought about his firm caress of her breast. He’d touched her as if he already owned her.

She touched that same place, taking a deep breath as she did so. “I am forty-six years old,” she told the mirror. “I am Athena Francesca Summers, a grown woman. If I simper, giggle, blush or do something equally ridiculous during this meal, I will stab myself with my own fork. So there.”

He’d seemed to like the pencil skirt she’d been wearing, so today she wore one in purple, with a pale yellow blouse over it that had a sash that tied at her hip, the ends trailing down the side. The fabric gathered at the throat like a mock turtleneck, no decorative distraction between it and where it nipped in at her waist. As a result, it enhanced the size and shape of her breasts, drawing male attention to them. It was classy yet sensual. A message of
hands off
combined with
I am a woman and won’t conceal it
. She slipped into a pair of two-inch heels and headed back up the garden walkway to the gazebo. She hadn’t worn hose today, her legs excellent enough to get by without them in the informal venue of her home. Her hair was clipped loosely on her nape, a few tendrils loose and curling around her face.

She knew she was an attractive middle-aged woman. Even so, it was still gratifying to see him turn at the sound of her heels, watch his gaze latch onto her with obvious appreciation, coursing over her legs, the sway of her hips, the movement of her breasts. When he reached her face, the heat in his eyes made her body react as if he’d licked a trail right up her inner thighs. At the sight of him, she had to take a steadying breath of her own.

He wore black jeans and a forest green long-sleeved shirt. Her practiced eye knew it was a good quality Egyptian cotton, which defined his broad shoulders well. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms and the black watch he wore. She expected it was a military-grade or diver’s watch. It had an outer dial that measured degrees and several smaller dials within the face. Given he’d been a SEAL, she was sure it was rated for underwater use. A man who wouldn’t be lost, no matter where he was. The watch was probably a convenient trapping; he could likely make the same calculations in his head if needed. And wasn’t she getting fanciful? In another moment she’d be imagining him in a cape and tights.

He was dressed appropriately for their lunch, but if he’d intended to maintain a sense of social distance, acquaintances getting to know one another better, he might have chosen slacks and a tucked-in dress shirt. The fact he’d selected a more informal outfit, a contrast to her more formal one, suggested something far different. It wasn’t rudeness; it was anticipation of the roles they were both projecting. She wouldn’t say playing, because it didn’t feel that way at all. Her thoughts on the watch might be wrong, but she wasn’t off base on this. There were no casual or unintended messages at this lunch. Whether unconscious or not, she’d chosen every aspect of her appearance carefully, and intuitively she knew he’d done the same.

His short dark hair lay smooth and gleaming against his head, and when those multicolored eyes reached her face, she was having a hard time not curling her fingers to hide their tremor. His dark lashes intensified the color, the matching brows giving his already strong face a more authoritative cast.

It’s a pleasure to see you again.
As she drew closer to the gazebo, she knew that was what she should say, initiate some polite chitchat. But she didn’t. Anything like that died in her throat, the effort of forcing it out too much. It would be obvious how wrong it was.

She’d had Lynn set up their lunch in the large gazebo, because there was a good breeze today and it overlooked the man-made pond. A pair of ducks was swimming across it. Sometimes, in the early morning, deer came from the woods that backed her property, drank from it. Grazed on the lawn. The pear tree grove also screened the gazebo from the house, making their meeting private. Lynn and her assistant would bring the food or more drinks when Athena rang them, and not before.

The china gleamed, the silver was polished. The ironed tablecloth moved gently in the breeze coming off the water. The ceiling fan blades made a rhythmic hum.

She came to a stop a few steps away from the gazebo. He settled his hip on the rail, one long leg braced, the sole of his other boot sliding along the wood floor. They were the same boots he’d worn the other night, the ones with the silver tips.

“Come here, Athena. Stand in front of me.”

A breath fluttered from her throat like a startled butterfly. She stood in place for another blink, teetering on indecision. Not a decision about what he wanted her to do, because the moment he said it, she wanted to go to him, but a decision about what it meant if she did. Dreams and fantasy were about to step over the line into nascent reality, and things could go wrong. Some things were better staying fantasy, letting dreams alone be the place where she let go of the reins.

Her gaze slid back up. Over his legs, the way his thighs outlined his groin area, though the loose shirttails hid most of that from view. Was he wearing the belt he’d worn the other day? He had a drink on the rail next to him. The dark amber liquid suggested Lynn had brought him a whiskey, or maybe a Coke mixed with something else. She didn’t yet know his drinking habits, beyond black coffee.

She started to walk. It was nine steps to him. She made it five, and then she was at the table, her hand on the back of one of the chairs. She couldn’t move further.

“Have you thought about what you want, Athena?” he asked. “Do you have an answer for yourself?”

He didn’t ask if she had an answer for him, because he’d already understood that the question had never really been for him. He knew what she wanted, as much as he understood she had to accept her answer to make those last four steps.

“One more time, Athena. Come to me.”

He wasn’t coaxing. He was commanding. Those outside their world didn’t understand that the command wasn’t backed by a threat, but something far more powerful. Over here, by the chair, she was outside of herself, lost. Adrift in a world of beauty muted by a cloudy veneer she couldn’t penetrate until she dropped her shields, let herself accept the vulnerability that came with full awareness of who and what she was.

One and two. Three and four. Like hopscotch when she was a little girl. She stood directly in front of the silver tip of his boot now, her elegant pumps aligned with it as the center point.

She stared at his chest, dropped her gaze to his thighs again. His arm rested on the right one, the side where his hip was half-cocked onto the rail. His nails were clean, the potting soil that had collected under them gone, but they were still rough hands, a workman’s hands. One of those hands lifted, cupped the side of her breast, just as before. She pressed her lips together, that fluttering moving down her sternum, spreading out beneath her rib cage as he curled his fingers, stroked her with his knuckles. He didn’t touch the nipple, but it tightened beneath her bra, aching for him to do so. It was one of her thinner ones, so she was sure her response became visible to him, the breeze blowing the light fabric of her blouse against her. But apparently it wasn’t enough to suit his tastes.