Page 55 of At Her Will

But eventually the fog got too thick. He misstepped and bumped against her. When she turned toward him, her hand on his shoulder and waist, he curled his arms around her, buried his face in her neck and shoulder. He wanted to bite, to kiss and lick her with the same intensity he’d seen in that male lying on his back, looking up at the sweet, wet and musky gateway to relief for his cock.

It was the wrong thought. His body acted without his brain, swinging them around and putting her against the wall. The sconce mounted there cast red light on everything within its range. A framed photograph next to it showed a man bound on an X-shaped cross, his arms up and out. He was thin, his skinstretched taut over ribs and hip bones. A woman knelt at his feet, her head bowed, her hand on his ankle, her cheek to his knee.

Another woman, in heeled boots and nothing else, was beating him with a flogger. The photo was black and white, except for an artful touch of color, revealing the reddened marks on his chest, and the Domme’s dark red hair. Or maybe it was the effect of the light.

His hands flexed on Veracity. Rev almost had her feet off the floor as he pushed his body against her, his cock against her stomach. He recalled himself enough to freeze there, but though he could flex his hands on her waist, he couldn’t make himself let go, back off, apologize. His neck was rigid, his head canted low as he tried to figure out what was happening, what had hold of him.

“I do, Rev,” she said, telling him he’d muttered it. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

He tuned back in enough to see she had no fear of him. That was good. He wasn’t afraid of himself, because he was familiar with being out of control. The current that would grab hold of him and take him where it willed was a river he’d known from the time he was little.

But he wasn’t little, and this wasn’t the same. Not exactly. He was caught in a roaring rush of a man’s feelings. He wanted something from her so much he wasn’t sure he knew how to stop himself from taking it.

He told her that, his voice odd and rough. She dipped her chin, lifted a hand to someone outside his view, but when he would have looked that way, she put a firm hand to his face, keeping his eyes on hers.

“That’s easy, Rev,” she said. “I tell you when you can take. Right?”

He thought it through. He had no sense of time. He often didn’t, not when this feeling came upon him, because it wasn’trelevant, but at her words, he was able to find his center. He focused on her breath, her scent, the feel of her clothes against his. She’d lifted one foot and had it wrapped around the back of his calf, her spiked heel sliding against his slacks. It brought their bodies into a tight fit.

He'd heard a lot of crude language tonight, but spoken in tones of reverence, full of raw feeling.I want to eat your pussy. Please let me suck your cock, Master. Please. Fuck me, Mistress. Please. Let me serve your cunt. I want you to show me your gorgeous tits. Play with your nipples.

Please your Master.

Please your Mistress.

Please.

He groaned and pushed harder against her. The shot of sensation through the root of his cock, into his testicles, was something he hadn’t earned. But how could he pull back? Her hand had moved to his ass and was stroking the curve, nails digging in to encourage the movement. He got one hand up and put it by her neck, his thumb against her pulse, fingers clamped over her shoulder.

“Mistress…”

“Kneel to me, Rev.”

It was difficult, but she’d given him an order, and when he latched onto that, it pulled the rest of him into line. He went back to one knee, leaning against her thigh, his breath hot through her skirt. He was steadier there, could almost reach himself. Almost.

He thought of the Lord, walking on the water while his disciples floundered in a turbulent sea. He forced up his chin and looked at his Mistress. She was serene, stern, and held knowledge in her eyes. As she’d said, she knew the ways of this world. She was his shepherd here.

“It’s time to listen to some music.” She put a hand on his shoulder and stroked. “They’re doing karaoke on the top floor, and they have a dessert bar. Do you want some pie?”

Her steady warmth filled him. Cocooned him, took the worries and chaos from his heart. He put his head against her knee, and she caressed his back. She’d told him he didn’t need to apologize until she told him he’d done wrong, but a man needed to be a man. He rose and touched her face. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. You are very, very strong, Rev, but I’ve never known a man with such a gentle touch. You could hold a charging bull at bay without giving him so much as a bruise.”

Her brow creased at his startled expression. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No. Just…” He wasn’t trying to conceal it; he just didn’t want what her words had stirred in his memory to distract from his moment. Then Rev saw Lawrence, Ros’s man. He was nearby, leaning against a high top. Nursing a canned soda and watching his surroundings.

“They thought you were in trouble.” Shame swept him, but Veracity shook her head, not allowing it.

“They were ready if I signaled that I was. We look after one another here. The DM was here first, but Lawrence came right on his heels. I let them know I was fine. Because I am. We are. Aren’t we?”

She smiled up at him, a simple, beautiful thing. She had no doubts. This was her place of faith, he realized. She knew her path here.

She wasn’t rattled, but from the heat in her body, the soft look of her mouth and light in her silver eyes, touched with red, she also wasn’t as calm as she might appear.

“This is different for you, too, isn’t it?” he asked.

She required honesty from him. He wanted that to be a two-way street. He also wanted her trust. The pain of memory he saw said she understood what he was asking.

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