Page 52 of Judge's Mercy

“Yeah.” My tone pitches high, and I clear my throat.

She circles her wrist, sending the thongs around and around. “Did you know there was a dominatrix at the Honey Pot?”

“No.” I can hardly breathe when she moves to the sofa and props a pillow up. Once again, her wrist rotates, and she inches closer to the pillow until just the last couple of inches of fall hits the pillow dead center. Fantasies I didn’t know I had flash through my mind, all of them involving Myla doing the things to me that were done when I was younger. The difference is that I want her to do them. Would she find that disgusting or think me less of a man?

“She showed me a few things, enough to satisfy men who were curious about domination.” She comes closer, a gleam in her eye as she drags the thongs over the bulge in my pants that’s hanging to the left. “That’s not what you’re into, though, is it? You don’t like humiliation and degradation. You use this for atonement.” She lowers the whip to her side as she cups my cock with her other hand. “So what’s turning you on then?”

Every muscle in my body tenses. I can’t say it. I’ve never fully admitted this to myself, let alone someone else. And especially not the woman I’m falling in love with because that’s what this is. It’s the reason I’ve kept her secrets from my brothers, something I vowed to never do the day I patched in. Though if I admit that to her, she’ll run. She’s not ready.

“Now that I know what it feels like to fuck you, I’m hard whenever you’re around.”

“That’s a lie.” Her hand drops and hormones have me wanting to backpedal, to come up with another reason that’ll keep her touching me, but she’s too astute to believe anything but the truth.

“I’m fucked up, Myla. Probably more than you, and that’s saying something, considering.” Realizing how that sounds, I try again. “I just mean?—”

“I know what you mean, and I don’t take offense because there’s not much worse than being a serial killer.”

I flinch, knowing that, by definition, she’s well on her way to becoming just that. It’s much more nuanced than that, though. Yes, she’s killing, but the men she’s taking her anger out on are evil to their core. Does God care? Are the laws of Heaven black and white? I wish I knew.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why? It’s true.” She shrugs. “How can your confession be any worse than that?”

“It’s not something I can just blurt out.” I tuck my hands in my pockets.

“Okay.” She points to the only closed door next to the bathroom. “Is that your bedroom?”

“Yeah, why?” My brow furrows. If there’s one thing about this woman, it’s that she keeps me on my toes. Right when I think I’ve figured her out, she changes the game.

“If you can’t tell me, show me.” With her eyes on me, she pulls her cropped shirt up and over her head, leaving her in a sheer green bra. Her dusky nipples are tightened to points that I want to sink my teeth into.

“I didn’t bring you here to fuck.” It’s a weak argument because I always want to fuck this woman, no matter where we are or what’s going on around us.

“I know, but I need to feel good for a while, and you’re the only one who makes me feel good anymore.” She reaches behind her back and unfastens her bra. My mouth goes dry as the straps fall off her shoulders and slip down her arms. The attention I paid her last night still shows along the swells of breasts in the form of small bruises, turning me on even more. I like knowing she’s walking around with my marks on her body. She reaches for my hand. “Come on.”

Like a puppy, I follow her through my bedroom door. If she had any interest in my bedroom decor, she’d see that straight ahead is a picture window that faces the woods. Adjacent to that wall and centered between two antique oak nightstands is my king-sized bed. The frame is wrought iron that arches and interlocks in a traditional Celtic pattern. It’s not an antique, but it’s old enough to squeak and moan under my weight. The mattress is new, though, some expensive memory foam that every man over forty should have.

I don’t know what this says about me, but the blanket covering the mattress is a patchwork quilt, something I picked up at a thrift store. Whoever made it must’ve used their scrap fabric because no two patches match and every color of the rainbow is represented, but it was fun for me to pretend I had a grandma who made it for me. On the opposite wall of the bed is a long antique dresser. The drawers stick and the finish is scuffed all to hell, but again, I like pretending that I had family who passed heirlooms down to me.

It’s stupid, really.

Myla stops next to my bed and pushes my cut off my shoulders. Before it can hit the ground, I grab it and reverently set it on the nightstand. She rolls her eyes while I yank my clerical collar out and toss that next to my cut before she sets out to unbutton my shirt, giving me time to test the weight of her breasts and swipe my thumbs over her perfect nipples.

“Fuck, your skin is so soft,” I mutter, wondering what she does to make it so silky.

“Would it kill you to wear a T-shirt once in a while?” She fumbles over the final two buttons before running her hands up my chest and over my shoulders, removing my shirt and not even having a clue what a big deal that is for me.

I haven’t had my shirt off in front of anyone since I was a kid. Yeah, she saw my back this morning, but that was an accident. This is on purpose, and fuck if it doesn’t feel monumental. Yet I don’t even have any anxiety over it. I’m actually happy I can bear myself to her the way she does to me. It’s making too much of the situation, I know that. I’m sure that to her, this is just fucking, and I wish like hell I could turn my emotions off because this will only end in disaster.

I close the distance between us, tipping her chin up and kissing the shit out of her before backing her up until she has no choice but to fall onto the bed. Tasting blood, I panic when I see my rough kisses have reopened the wound on her lip.

“Shit, your lip.” I grab a tissue off the nightstand and hand it over to her.

She tosses it, swiping her tongue over the blood. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Damn it, Judge. I need you.”

---