Page 112 of At Her Will

It's alright… Here comes the sun…

Witford had said Teena Joy had given Rev a "simple" faith. Vera recognized the word for what it meant. Maybe Witford had once known it as well, instead of how he’d meant it in her office, a hundred indirect cuts disguised as well-meaning concern.

Everything she’d learned about Rev, felt from him, especially since the shooting, said that he searched his own soul with the perseverance that God’s adherents had needed to wander the desert. When he saw pain or need, he used his faith to help and protect, and asked nothing but the opportunity to be in the right place to be God’s instrument. He didn’t let his despair or pain over humanity’s failings stop him.

That kind of faith wasn’t simple at all.

Though she’d told herself she wasn’t going to engage, she also refused to cower. Tisha sat in the front pew, her back to Vera, so the dagger glances were coming from Witford alone. He sat next to the pulpit, waiting for Rev’s singing program to finish. He smiled and nodded, addingamensand lifting one hand. All the right responses.

But when their gazes met, she saw a mess of bad feelings. She gave him a cordial nod. His gaze moved on like he hadn’t seen her.

She could keep the cold war going, or respond a different way. The lesson God was teaching through Rev today was for all of them. This was hurting her man, and Vera knew how much worse it could get. She wasn’t having that.

She’d invite Tisha and Witford to dinner at her place, with her and Rev. A home cooked meal, where they’d have the chance to get to know her, and let her do the same. The offer of a clean slate, wiping away preconceived notions that weren’t earned ordeserved. She needed to give them the same chance she wanted them to give her.

She and Rev dropped her car at her house and picked up a trolley to Jackson Square to grab lunch at the French Market. As they strolled the square, petting the carriage horses and checking out local art vendors, she ran her idea past Rev.

“I think that’d be good. Witford like fried chicken, maybe better than he love Jesus.”

“I don’t know if I can live up to that, but I do make an excellent fried chicken. Cyn has me buying from a humane supplier through a farmer’s market, where the chickens are given a natural outdoor life, until they’re killed.” She grimaced. “That’s as close to vegetarian as I get.”

“Still better than not thinking about the animals at all. Everything we put in our mouth goes into us, and if the animal was afraid or mistreated, that goes into us too.”

She raised a brow. “You have highly developed empathy. It’s something seen more often in people who’ve…left the environments in which they were raised.”

“Like a bunch of traveling. Or going to college. Reading lots of books.”

“Yes.” She squeezed his arm and he covered it.

“You didn’t offend me, Mistress. Wouldn’t mind doing some traveling, but everyone I meet is like visiting a new place. Couldn’t learn everything about them, even if I had a million years.”

They had reached a vendor with hand-drawn cards. Rev pointed out one with an axolotl, a lizard creature with the cute face of a stuffed animal. Probably a disarming way to lure inprey. She should tell Cyn it was her spirit animal, just to hear her scoff at the idea that anyone would call her cute. Only Mick was that brave. Or foolish.

The artist had a blank card with a watercolor sunrise on the front. The script below wasHere comes the sun…

She bought the card and slipped it into her bag. “I want to take you home, now,” she said.

“If we had your car, you could let me drive.”

He was teasing her, but she linked her arm through his and gave him a look. “It’s time that I drive. Wouldn’t you agree?”

His biceps flexed under her touch. “Yes, Mistress.”

When they were on her porch, she handed him her key so he could open the door for her. One of her favorite things about a power exchange relationship was how many layers of meaning such seemingly ordinary acts could have.

Her desire to take control had grown on the way home. She’d had him be quiet, put her hand on his leg, told him to hold his knees open. Since they were on the trolley, she hadn’t touched him intimately, but having him do that had him fully attentive and deeply aroused by the time they arrived.

It was the state she wanted him in. Nothing to think about, not their families, not the shooting; just what was between them. A haven and resting spot.

Putting her keys on the kitchen counter, she moved into her living room and sat in her straight-backed chair. “Come stand behind me.”

When he did, his hands settled on the chair on either side of her shoulders. His thumbs brushed them, an incidental thing. He was waiting for her permission.

“Stroke my hair and shoulders, Rev. My neck. Let me feel your desire through your touch.”

His hands moved over her curls, fingers sliding under and over them to find her scalp to stroke her skull, then he moved out and down to her shoulders, kneading, caressing.

In anticipation of their lunch plans, she’d brought a change of clothes to the church, and so had he. She wore a purple knit shirt over a pair of snug jeans. More than once, she’d felt the heat of his gaze on her ass when she strolled ahead of him among the street vendors. When she sent him a reproving look, his lifted shoulder said, “How can I help myself?” his expression guilelessly charming.

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