Page 118 of At Her Pleasure

Mick handed her an origami flower shaped like the Monkey Face she’d bought, even down to the white and red colors. “A woman was making these,” he told her.

She twirled it. His face told her nothing, but she felt tension from him, as he processed whatever information he’d gained.

Though it wasn’t in her nature to be agreeable when she was out of sorts, adding to his concerns would help nothing. She linked an arm in his. “I’d like to see the booths on the south side, then I’ll be ready for lunch. How about you?”

His expression cleared, as if he’d been braced to deal with attitude. He knew her well. “Yeah. There’s a good place in town. They have vegan dishes. Even vegan desserts, if you want to indulge yourself. I did research that.”

“How I like to indulge myself? Or vegan options?”

“The latter. I’m figuring out the other as I go.”

She chuckled and walked with him toward the south side booths. Once there, she pointed him toward a bench built around a giant live oak. A nearby sign said, “Whittler’s Bench, 1957.” It was currently occupied by a man doing just that, carefully carving on a piece of wood.

“Take a moment to work through whatever’s going on in your head. No need for you to stand attendance on me while I talk about the same stuff you’ve already heard six times.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yes, you are. Go sit. Work the problem.” She placed a hand on his chest and looked up at him. “It matters to me, that you’re prepared for whatever comes after I leave. I don’t want to hear something happened to you and wonder if it’s because I distracted you. That would piss me off.”

He put his hand over hers. “Two things. First, I do my best problem solving under duress. So maybe you’ll figure out ways to help me with that, later tonight.”

“I’m not known for being intentionally helpful in those circumstances.”

“It’s a side benefit.” But he stepped back, willing to follow her direction, even if gratifyingly reluctant to leave her side.

“Mick. You said two things.”

He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But tell me anyway.”

He sighed. “If something happens to me, you’ll never know, Mistress.”

“You don’t think anyone would come looking for you?” The idea made her impossibly angry, though she did her best to keep her voice even.

“I know it. Because that’s the way it has to be.” He met her gaze. “If they send people in to look for me, it blows my cover and the op I had in motion, which might have a chance of being seen through.”

Detecting her reaction, he closed the space between them again, and touched her face. The firmness to it wasn’t submissive. This was the pure alpha, who could take the reins if needed, even if it wasn’t his preference with a Domme like her.

“I know you’d look for me, Cyn. I’m telling you no. You understand why I don’t carry pictures in my phone. Don’t risk people for my life. I gave up that choice a long time ago. Don’t give me something to carry on my soul, eat away at it, the way worrying about you in my world would do. And don’t let that get into your head and ruin what you have.”

“And what’s that?” she asked tightly.

His look reminded her of the commitment he’d made to her, but his lips curved wryly. “This beautiful day at a flower festival.”

She pointed to the bench. “Fine. Sit.”

He complied, but only after giving her hand another squeeze. A hard one. He sat down on the bench, legs braced, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back against the tree. The man whittling asked him something, and Mick responded with a short answer and friendly smile. The man grunted and went back to his whittling.

If the elder had stories to tell, as his appearance suggested, he’d be telling them to Mick before she came back. When he wanted to turn it on, Mick had that quietness that encouraged people to offer him what was in their heads.

She found herself reluctant to move away, but made herself do it. The next grower she visited had made the drive from Oregon. After examining his samples and asking him questions, she went to peruse his plants for sale he’d set on several nearby tables, carefully protected from the Texas sun with a sail shade.

A few moments later, she noted she wasn’t alone. Raising her head to look across the table, she met the gaze of the man Mick had been speaking to earlier.

He had the same stamp of attractiveness Matt Kensington had. Rugged authority and a palpable aura of charisma matched eyes that could penetrate steel. The shade of brown, infused with the filtered golden sunlight, was almost amber. They reminded her of a tiger’s.

The stillness in them was also like Mick’s. Was that watchful quality something people in the intelligence and undercover worlds had to cultivate?

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