Mirror of My Soul (31 page)

displayed by her Master, knowing she was his, all his.

And when she did spread her knees, his fingers were there, playing with her

stretched lips, her clit, pinching and stroking as he moved inside her. Tiny but wondrously effective movements stimulating her, his strong thighs moving her in a position she could do little to nothing to control. And always that hand a firm collar on her throat, her breasts bouncing hard as the strength of his movement increased. His intent was clear. A rough quick fuck to spill his seed in her, to show her how the past hour had teased him to raging for her. It was what she wanted. The proof of his possession, his desire to be Master of her as a Mistress and watch her do what she did so well, took such pleasure in. To know emotionally and physically he would control the release it built in her.

He took her up, up…and then he took his fingers to other territory. Her breasts, the delicate skin under her arms, playing in the shallow indentation of her navel. She wondered what it would be like to be pierced there like Violet. She gasped his name as he prolonged the torture, returning to her clit and pussy enough to keep her on the 154

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precipice, but drawing back each time she was close. Her breasts and nipples began to tingle painfully at the jolting, pleasure-pain that wanted his mouth, his touch. But he withheld it, teasing, rousing, bringing her almost there, retreating. She wanted to feel him come inside her, needed it.

“Watch them,” he said, directing her glazed gaze to Violet and Mac. They were

being roused anew by watching the two of them, such that Violet was kissing her husband, riding him again, his hands now free, hard on her hips, driving the pace this time.

Tyler’s words were ragged, indicating his control might be as frayed as hers. She squeezed down on him, turned her head against his grip to speak, her breath hot and wet against his neck.

“Master, please. Please come inside of me.”

With a groan, his control broke, telling her he’d been waiting for that gift, the gift of submission only she could offer his soul. When the hot streams of seed brought her to orgasm, she cried out, rising up even as his hands tightened, holding her steady on his cock as their bodies pounded together.

Moving like they were meant to be so fused, now and forever, she knew the

complex give and take of dominance and submission between them no longer needed explanation or apology. The answer could be no clearer than it was in a moment such as this.

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After the intensity of the earlier part of the evening, the rest of the night was quite mellow, social. Clothes were changed or donned as appropriate, and the seven of them reconnected to eat an elegant dinner, play card games in a screened gazebo by a manmade lake, drink wine and watch the moonlight play on the water. They discussed life and politics, and the philosophy of BDSM, as people of similar interests would who enjoyed one another’s company.

At length, it was time for Roland to head for home. Marguerite walked him to the door, allowed him to bid her an affectionate farewell, his lips brushing either cheek.

There was a slight hesitation as he hovered over her lips, giving her the choice. She drew back, softening the refusal of that privilege with a warm look, a press of his hands.

He gave her a rueful smile, a wink and retreated down the steps, lifting his hand in a parting goodbye.

She sensed the goodness in him, but also sensed he was still at that age he wasn’t ready to find one woman. He was having too much fun in the sampling. And that made her smile inside, reminding her of Chloe’s joy for life. She found herself wishing him a good life and a good love, a permanent woman to claim him when he was ready for it.

As she came back into the house, Mac was heading to his and Violet’s guestroom.

He was wearing a pair of jeans now that the tone of the evening had changed, though his Mistress hadn’t been inclined to allow him a shirt. Marguerite certainly didn’t object. However, he still nodded his head respectfully, murmuring “Mistress” as he went by her.

Marguerite watched him go up the stairs, the broad back marked by lash scars, the jagged bullet scar that had nearly ended his life.

“Mac?”

She realized at that moment she’d never directly addressed Mac Nighthorse, such that his name almost sounded odd on her tongue.

He stopped, turned. “Yes, Mistress?”

The tone of his voice distracted her, as she realized it was more gentle, softer than when he spoke to a man. Thinking about their conversations tonight at dinner, when he spoke to Leila versus Roland, or Tyler versus herself, she realized he’d done it consistently. And now that she thought about it, so did Tyler.

She crossed her arms over the banister, considered him with a frown. “Earlier

tonight, Violet suggested that men like you and Tyler don’t see a woman as capable of taking care of herself.”

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He smiled, apparently not the least offended. “Maybe we don’t believe a woman’s ability to take care of herself should relieve a man of the responsibility of looking after her.”

She opened her mouth, shut it as his grin deepened. “Was that what you were

intending to ask me, Mistress?”

“No. You distracted me. Your tone of voice,” she amended quickly at the twinkle in those silver eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t think it’s a question I have a right to ask. I’m not even sure why I want to know.”

“Mistress Marguerite, you can ask me anything.”

“Do your scars still bother you?”

He cocked his head, came down a couple steps. “Not the ones on the outside. The ones on the inside, sometimes. But I’ve figured out if you can’t heal them, you need someone to help you accept them.”

“Is that what Violet is to you?”

“She’s everything to me,” he said simply. “Without her, there isn’t a me. Not a me I’d want to live with, anyway.”

“And that loss of identity doesn’t worry you?”

Now his smile got broader. “It’s not a loss of identity, Mistress. It’s called finding yourself.”

When his gaze shifted, Marguerite turned to discover Violet standing at the

opposite end of the foyer.

Marguerite could think of no other word than reverent to describe how Mac looked at his Mistress. Not in the sense of overlooking her flaws, but of seeing everything in her he could ever need for emotional fulfillment. “When I’m with her,” he said quietly,

“I see who I really am, the mirror of my soul.”

“Mac and I are going for a walk on the grounds.” Violet pulled her gaze with

obvious reluctance from her husband. “So I know Tyler would appreciate your

company. Leila and Joseph have already gone to bed. He’s back at the pool house.”

“I’ll head that way.” Marguerite nodded to them both, left them with that energy pulsing between them. She wondered what it would be like to feel like that on a daily basis, to be inside one another so deeply that there were no doubts, even when you were at one another’s throats.

She took the long way, wandering through the living area, disturbed by Mac’s

words. No, disturbed was not the right word, but she didn’t know what was. She just knew she had an unexpected desire to simply lie down here on Tyler’s sofa, become part of his furniture, of his daily life, and never leave again.

He rose the moment she came into the pool house. When she got close, he reached out and she automatically put her hand in his to let him lead her outside behind the pool area. There was a sloping lawn here and she could see Mac and Violet as hand-in-157

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hand silhouettes walking along the pathway by the small manmade pond, a dotting of solar lights guiding them. The water glittered in the moonlight.

Tyler could tell her thoughts were bothering her, so he coaxed her to lie down with him on the soft grass in front of the bench. It was an earthy, sweet-smelling mattress, almost as sweet as the woman who lowered herself to the ground with easy elegance.

He raised one foot up to remove his loafer, then the other, then curled his bare toes into the sod.

“If there are better moments than this, I don’t know what they are.” He looked up at the starry sky, listening to the music he’d turned on inside the pool house, a classical piece. “This is my favorite time of day, when it starts getting dark and everyone around becomes a silhouette. We’re like the stars, aware of the other celestial bodies but undisturbed by them, surrounded by our own quiet world of darkness.”

“You’re composing again. And you’re right. The spirit is in space, not matter.” The smile in her voice came to him, as perfect as the music. He kept his eyes closed, letting it wash over him as he reached out and found her hand.

“Tell me what that means.”

“It means the power isn’t in the matter. It’s not the people or the music that give this moment its special quality. It’s the space between them where everything

important is, where it appears nothing resides. It defines the people, the music. If you meditate on that space, you find whatever it is that you call God. Do you have a faith?

You never told me.”

“I believe in this.” He tightened his grip. “More than that, it gets too complicated. I don’t think it’s supposed to be complicated.”

“You remind me of David.”

It was a quiet statement, a bare murmur of sound. Tyler waited several heartbeats, not wanting to push. “How so?”

“When I needed to do it, I could go into his head, surround myself with his

thoughts like a protective blanket.” She tilted her head, closed her eyes and he increased the pressure of his hand on hers, letting her know he was there. Quiet. Listening.

“I’d be on the bed…with my father. I’d thread my hands through the slats of the headboard and press my fingertips to the wall. I knew David was there, lying on his side of the wall, his palms pressed right where my fingertips were. So I wasn’t alone.

And though I could still feel the pain, hear what my father was saying to me, part of me was inside David. I told him that, a lot of times. I think it helped him to know it. He was a good person. Would have been a good man.” She turned her head, met his gaze with those blue eyes that were like looking into the vast expanse of the sky. “I like to think he’s an angel. Not the fluffy way people talk about, but one of the spirits who go out and guard the innocent, intervene on their behalf. Helping them survive the long cold hours of the deadliest time of night, when you’re sure pain is all you’re ever going to know. When I lost him it was like my heart stopped beating, but I could still breathe.”

“Marguerite…”

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She moved to her hip, rested her fingers on his face. “He was like you,” she

repeated. “You’ve been ankle-deep in it like David, unable to protect, and now you’re determined that the person you love will be protected in every way. I guess I

understand that when you push so hard. You know the difference between force driven by love and force driven by hate and evil. But can you rescue a damsel after the dragon’s already eaten her, spit out the bones?” She considered it, her hair rippling over her shoulder. “Do you pity me? Knowing what you know now, would you have treated me any differently?”

“Yes and yes.” He needed to touch more of her suddenly, intensely. He sat up,

putting his back against the bench seat and pulled her over onto his lap, held her in the cradle of his arms. She settled in with surprisingly little resistance, twining her arms around his neck, pressing her face to it. “Even knowing you wouldn’t want me to do either. But I love you, Marguerite. That encompasses everything. Pity, respect, a whole oceanful of admiration. Desire. I couldn’t have pushed certain things so hard if I had known about your life before but I would still have tried to make you surrender to me.

Because to me that’s about trust, not violence, and I think you deserve someone in your life you can trust. Though I admit the passion I have for you is so strong that sometimes it’s close to violence.”

“I like the fact you never lie to me,” she said after a moment. “And I wanted what you did that weekend. What you’ve done to me since. It’s hard to admit I understand a submissive’s mind so well now from their side of it. You didn’t give me the option of maintaining shields. And for the first time that I can remember…” Her voice lowered to a whisper against his skin. “I feel loved. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that.”

“I’ll be strong enough for both of us, angel,” he promised.

Rolling her head back on his shoulder, she gazed at him, a tiny smile at the corner of her mouth. “Arrogant man.” She parted her lips when he touched his fingers to them. Bit him. He smiled, though his body was rousing at the lazy heat in her

expression. But when she tilted her head back to look at the stars and became quiet again, he let her be at peace, content just to hold her.

Tyler’s gaze drifted down the lawn to where Mac and Violet were. The two of them were just defined shadows. When they stopped and turned to face each other,

something about their posture suggested the conversation had gotten more serious.

Violet’s gestures were even a bit nervous. Mac was still, as if he’d become a statue. Then he reached out, his fingers touching her face, slow, almost reverent. While Tyler watched, he went to one knee, framed her hips with his large hands, leaned in and pressed a kiss in the center of her stomach, bowing his head.

“Is she… Did she just…”

He glanced down, saw Marguerite was watching them, too.

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A moment later, they heard the wind bring a snippet of the conversation. Violet’s quick joyous laughter, tinged with a sob. Mac rose, taking her hands, leaning down to meet her mouth in a sweet, chaste kiss. A kiss that became less chaste very quickly.

“Yes,” Tyler said. “I think so.”

Marguerite rose, leaving the warmth of Tyler’s lap to watch the couple. They

resumed walking, only now they were like one person, Mac’s arm around her