Page 78 of At Her Will

“I feel it,” he said. “So I want to know what I have to do to take care of your deepest needs.”

“Be willing to invest the time and care,” she said after a long moment. “And make me believe that’s what you truly want. To let you take care of me like that, I have to believe in you. Find the will to trust you, more than I’ve trusted any submissive before. Well, sorry…I trusted my ex-husband that much. My trust was misplaced.”

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. Sincerely. It touched her heart, and something even deeper.

She cleared her throat. “There’s no instruction list for that. All you have to do is be yourself, Rev. Be honest with me. Generous and loving, which you’ve done so far. Time takes care of the rest, if it’s meant to be.”

His lips twisted in amused frustration. “I guess I never had something that made it this hard to wait. Now I know why that need for patience all the time be talked about in faith. The more you want it to happen, the worse the wait.”

“What would you like to do for me, Rev, that you’re having to wait upon?”

It was a question she shouldn’t have asked if she wanted to protect herself, but if she was demanding he step outside of his comfort zone, then at a certain point, if she wanted to give him a fair shot at what he wanted, she had to do it, too.

“Be the man you can turn to, Mistress.” His brown eyes held hers. “For anything. When you happy or celebrating, I want to share that with you. When you weak, when you need to cry, I want to be the man you know can make it even better, or fix it. Or listen to you while you figure out how to fix it, if that what you prefer. I just want you to know there’s one person who thinks you the gift he’s been waiting for in his life. And who’ll do everything he can to be the same kind of gift for you.”

He rose and offered a hand. “Let me get you home. It getting cold out here, and you getting chilly.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

He stayed with her overnight. In the morning, he scrambled eggs for an omelet, while she pulled two of Cyn’s cinnamon rolls out of the freezer to thaw.

He’d offered to visit one of the excellent bakeries nearby, but she shook her head. “Trust me. Cyn’s cinnamon rolls are every bit as good. She’s a terrible cook, but she is an extraordinary baker. We have a mutual friend, Ben O’Callahan, who’s fantastic at both. He could make manna for angels. They trade baking recipes, as well as ideas for giving pain to their devoted subs. Both of them are sadists.”

“His submissive…is a woman?” Rev frowned. “He hurts her like Cyn does with Mick?”

“Yes. Ben gives Marcie what she wants, and vice versa,” Vera explained. “The need for pain can run deep in some people. And it’s hard to understand, but Ben would annihilate anyone who tried to harm Marcie. Though he’d have to get to them before she did. She’s a formidable fighter. Trains in MMA. She and Cyn spar regularly.”

He shook his head. “Not sure I understand that.”

“When you meet them at the club, you’ll understand better. There’s no missing their devotion to one another. Marcie wouldfire her 9-millimeter up the ass of anyone who tried to hurt Ben, or anyone she considers her family.”

She sat at the table, watching him cook. “Do you have some time to spend with me today, Rev?”

“Yes ma’am, I do. All day if you want.” He shot her a smile over his shoulder. “I sure want to.”

When she woke this morning and let her fingertips glide along his thigh and up his bare back, an idea had taken hold. She was pleased to hear she’d have time to pursue it.

“Good. After breakfast and a shower, I have something I want us to do together.”

He put her plate down and sat down next to her, making the chair creak as he settled. “Got everything you need, Mistress?”

“Looking like it.”

He smiled, then bowed his head. His prayer was silent, nothing he imposed on her, but she closed her hand over his and joined him. Saying a prayer of thanks for what was given, whether food or an intriguing man to share it with, wasn’t a denominational thing. At least it shouldn’t be, to her way of thinking.

When he opened his eyes, she was studying his hand.

“You smiling, Mistress.”

“I was remembering coming home from third grade and talking about skin color with my mother. I told her I didn’t understand white or black or brown, because everyone is all different colors. Only my hair was black.”

She turned his hand over to look at his palm, a lighter color than what was over his knuckles. Then she touched his mouth, that tempting pink seam when his bronze lips were pressed together, like now.

She kept that smile as they curved under her touch. “I pointed out that my friend Elliott’s hair was also black, but he was white. Only not really white, more golden brown, thecolor of the toast she made my father, because Elliot was in the sun a lot. The only truly white thing on him were his legs because he always wore long pants, except when we went to the neighborhood pool.”

“I bet your momma was trying not to laugh through all of that.”

“I was too young to understand the term ‘suppressed mirth,’ but it definitely fit.” Since she’d also learned the value of not ‘suppressing’ good memories of her family, she was glad she’d shared that one with Rev.

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