Natural Law(37)

He lowered the glass, holding his mouth closed to contain the wine she’d requested of him.

Violet released him, hooked one hand in the waistband of his jeans, and used her other to bring his head down to her. The wine flooded her mouth with his tongue, and she savored both, swirling them around, tasting their potency, consuming them.

“Perhaps next time I have wine in my mouth,” he murmured against her lips,

“you’ll let me put your legs on my shoulders, and I’ll put my mouth on your pussy, slip my tongue in your cunt and let all that warm, red wine run down inside. Mix with your sweet taste and drink from that.”

“I like that image,” she breathed against him. She felt his other arm slide around her, pull her closer to his hips, and she let him, rubbing herself against him before she eased off the counter at last, down his hard length. Her bare feet came to rest on top of his and she smiled up at him. “But I want dinner first.” 130



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Chapter 15


She couldn’t help but feel pleasure just in looking at him. Sitting relaxed across from her, leaned back in the chair, knees splayed in the tight jeans. That powerful bare upper torso bathed by the light of the two lavender candles he’d brought with the lavender roses to decorate her table. He’d taken time, care, to make sure the setting was lovely, romantic. He wasn’t just here for sex. He was wooing her as well. It was…flustering. The way he kept gazing at her wasn’t staring. It was a physical caress over every part of her, and she was certain he was far too aware of the effect the attention had on her.

They left the more controversial topics alone at dinner, and talked about the things they wanted to know about each other. Usually, the first date outside of a dungeon was cautious, information warily given, but Violet found she could talk about anything with him, and he was generous with his responses to her questions as well. She learned where his family was from, what kind of upbringing he had, what made him want to be a cop. He was a good listener, and attentive to her in a way that kept her blood on a slow simmer. Mixing their casual conversation with intimate reminders that he intended to serve her needs, he brought her more wine before she asked, retrieved her napkin when she dropped it on the floor, placing a light kiss on her calf when he was down there. And of course doing it all in nothing but a pair of jeans, so his naked chest and shoulders were accessible to her gaze and touch at all times.

She had eaten four bites of the most incredible pasta she’d ever tasted before she realized he wasn’t eating.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing. Do you like it?”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “It’s wonderful. Did you poison it? Is that why you’re not having any?”

He smiled, did not touch his fork. “I would not presume to eat until my Mistress permits it, and until I’m certain the meal is to her satisfaction.” She nodded. She put another bite to her lips, her body roiling at the sight of him, waiting on her will, his food untouched, capable hands lying flat on either side of the plate, his chest moving with even breaths. His eyes watched her every movement, lingered on her lips as they became glossed with the light oill on the pasta.

“God, you are too much,” she murmured. “Eat.” Before I leap over the table and eat you alive.

131



Joey W. Hill

“So, can you tell me why you aren’t married now?” She covered his hand when she asked and he turned it over, lacing his fingers with hers. “Is it the job?” He picked up his fork, so he wasn’t looking at her when he shook his head. “It’s hard for someone like me to make a go of it with a woman without her knowing coming in what I want, the sub angle. I’ve tried to have relationships without it and it doesn’t work. Whether it’s an unhealthy craving, or an obsession, I don’t know. I guess you’d have the same trouble finding men out there who want you to tie them up and slap them around.”

“Why do you think I went into law enforcement?” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re not giving me the total truth, Mac.” He raised his gaze and she held it, steady, unwavering, waiting him out. She saw the annoyance rise, then recede, become rueful resignation. She could almost see him weigh every option to evade the question, discard it. She decided to push a little. “I figured it was primarily the job that’s kept you closed off from women. It’s obvious there’s a lot of anger in you.”

He shrugged, lifted his wineglass. “Only when the Buccaneers piss away a game.”

“Hmm. From everything you’ve told me, it sounds like you did a pretty good stint in undercover work, before you went public and then made Detective. I’ve read the articles. Undercover cops have difficulty reintegrating into life. It takes some of them years. They develop paranoia. Control issues. They avoid committed relationships, because they spin so fast from marriage to divorce it’s not worth the effort. They can’t share everything they’ve experienced, so it poisons them from the inside, unless they find a way to deal with it, share it. Just like soldiers.” She didn’t play with the stem of her wineglass or pick up her fork, kept him pinned under her relentless gaze. “Now you’ve chosen to go undercover again.”

“I cook. I have hobbies. I enjoy trawling places like True Blue and The Zone, getting a couple nights of release here and there.” His eyes glinted. “That’s how I get the shit out of my system that collects from the job. I’m not a stereotype, sugar.”

“Don’t get mean with me, Mackenzie,” she said mildly, but she put a warning in her eyes that was unmistakable. “You know, I went online. Couldn’t find anything about you, but I scoured a lot of stuff about police activity in Tampa, hoping to find a mention of you. I found an interesting photograph from a crime scene. It was a cop coming out of a sewer, one arm broken, dragging a body with him by the other. You couldn’t really see his face, except for this one eye, because it just so happened his head was turned halfway toward the camera. They didn’t name the officer.” Mac changed position again. “Well, that day sucked.”

“You darken out the rest of that picture, that guy with all that deadly fury in his face could have been a Viking raider from centuries ago.”

“Now you’re romanticizing.”

“I’m a woman,” she smiled. “I’m allowed. But I’m also a cop, and I could tell that if you ever seriously pissed that guy off, there would be nothing, not an AK47, not a tank, 132



Natural Law

that would stop him from rolling right over you. I’ve seen some of that fury come out in you, when I’ve pushed your buttons. But you know how to hold it back.” She cocked her head. “You’re not what I expected, in a lot of ways.”

“Being violent is easy, too easy,” he brushed it off. “Holding back, being gentle, restraining your strength when it’s not needed, that takes –”

“Character,” she said. “Loads of it.”

The tension lessened between them somewhat, especially when she reached out, covered his hand with both of hers.

“A good Mistress has to know how to do the same,” he murmured. “So you should know.”

“Mackenzie.” She wanted more than that from him, so she waited him out.

He blew out a breath. “Jesus, you’re like a terrier. I’ve seen a lot of things.” He moved restlessly. “It’s difficult to open up when you see what we see. Too many cops like me do the double life thing with spouses, and it tears them apart. I couldn’t do it.

Didn’t want it. Especially if kids got involved.” He paused. “This is hard to talk about, Violet…Mistress. Can we…what was it that kept you from being married?”

She toyed with his fingers, felt his tension vibrating through his touch and made the decision to ease back for the moment, since he’d made the effort. “Okay. Why I’m not married.” She lifted a shoulder. “Most guys think you’re asking them to turn into, what did you call it? A pony? And I guess some Mistresses are looking for that, a Mother-son fetish thing. But I wanted a man, not a boy. I wanted the hardest bronc to ride.” She leaned forward, her eyes covering his gleaming shoulders, the flat nipples, the tight line of hair down his sectioned stomach to the waistband of the jeans. Her hand reached out, traced a scar on his collarbone. “Not because someone had a cruel strap tightened on his balls or was digging into him with spurs to make him buck, torturing him into ferocity. I wanted the horse that was going to make me earn the right to the ride. I wanted to tame my slave, not have him come housebroken.” He met her halfway, captured her face in a hand that was a little too strong, too forceful in its grip. “Well sugar, you don’t get much more unhousebroken than the ‘pit bull who runs the yard’.”

Her blood ran hot at the look in his eyes, the challenge, the invitation to play. With him, she sensed it would always be this way, the periodic reminder that she hadn’t taken on a groomed pet, but a volatile, complicated man with alpha stamped all over him. And that was part of the excitement she hadn’t known she craved.