Mirror of My Soul (4 page)

“I was worried. It’s not a crime to have someone care about you. To have that

person get pissed off when they’re worrying about you. If I hadn’t been inside your body, known you weren’t a virgin, the way you pull back when I try to penetrate you in any way would make me think you weren’t just goading me.”

“Goading you about what?”

“That you’ve never had sex.”

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Mirror of My Soul

“I didn’t say that. You asked me if I’d ever had sex. As if any of that was your business. I answered you truthfully.” At his furrowed brow, she spat it out. “I have never had sex outside of my family. Until you.” She met his look with a hard,

unflinching gaze for once, her battle line drawn. “And don’t go with the pity or psychotherapy, the sexually abused girl who turns into a Dominatrix because she can only experience sex when she holds all the power. Yes, I am the stereotype, the cliché, but I give my subs pleasure. I’m not a sociopath who causes harm.” Then she recalled the past few hours and the incident with Tim. She closed her eyes. “Unless provoked.”

“But who gives you pleasure?” Her spat-out revelation didn’t appear to cause a hitch in his stride, she gave him that. But Tyler was insightful. It would not surprise her if he’d come to an accurate conclusion about her background some time ago. She was, as she herself had just said, a cliché when it came to the dysfunctional symptoms.

“Learning to let go of the control, believing you can trust someone,” he continued.

“That’s key to the pleasure as well as the pain… For some people, it heals old wounds.”

A wound inflicted every morning as soon as awareness hits, as soon as my eyes open
? “I can never trust anyone.” It was simple, matter of fact.

“Then maybe, Mistress, you need to be one man’s sub forever so your Master can spend a lifetime proving that you can trust him, if that’s what it takes. One who’s willing to start over every morning with you, healing those wounds as often as they need healing. My intuition says you deserve to be happy.”

He raised her hand, looked at the ragged cuts on her knuckles she’d blotted with a paper towel until the bleeding had stopped. “I’ll pay for the mirror,” she said.

“I think it’s time for you to stop paying debts that were never yours to begin with.”

“I take care of myself.”

“Yes, you do.” His gaze lifted to the tastefully carved wooden Tea Leaves sign hanging over the porch. “You’ve created a life for yourself that is as amazing and fascinating as you are. It’s a reflection of you. All the puzzle pieces there for the person who wants to put them together. But I’m taking care of you now. And I’m going to take
very
good care of you.”

“You couldn’t save your wife, so you’re going to save me? Like I’m some kind of surrogate, your second chance? I repeat, fuck off, Tyler.”

She could tell that hit home, but he recovered more quickly than she expected. He gazed thoughtfully at her face. She could feel the imprint of his assessment on her strained features, the shadows deep under her eyes.

“You’re not a second chance, Marguerite. You’re an only chance opportunity for a man. For me. What you put in your note, it mattered to me. I appreciated it.”

She lifted her shoulder. “I’m not weak and fragile. I’m not incapable of taking responsibility. You have every right to expect my apology.” She raised her gaze to him, realized she was getting in the habit of meeting his eyes, something she’d never done with anyone. “It would make me really, really angry if you thought I was so delicate you couldn’t demand it.”

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Joey W. Hill

“I don’t believe you’re fragile that way. And I don’t believe you’re a coward,” he said quietly. “But sometimes I think when you have to be so extraordinarily courageous for so long, the well runs dry when it comes to facing your own desires, the things you want. So you don’t have to be brave about that, or in control.”

She looked at him, a tall handsome man with caring in his eyes, strength in his shoulders outlined against darkness. Something in her simply yearned. When she spoke, her voice was soft, no defenses, no games, just the words that were written on her heart.

“I don’t know how to let someone take care of me, Tyler. I don’t know if I’d be any good at it, if I can ever trust someone that much. And you need that. You deserve it. I see it in your eyes, in all that you are.”

He leaned down further, so they were considering each other eye to eye. Cupping her cheek, he rubbed his thumb over her lips in that way he did, that she knew he liked.

She liked it, too, the way he did it while gazing so steadily into her eyes.

“And I look in your eyes and see everything I could ever want. Trust in that, angel.”

She swallowed, treading into new waters. “I almost didn’t get out of the car.

Thought I’d sleep there until morning. This is as far as I think I can go.”

“I think you can go a lot further.” His eyes glinted with a wealth of meanings, none of them unpleasant, all of them capable of setting free nervous frissons of energy through her lower vitals, reinforcing that there were portions of her that still needed attention. “Let’s do this. Just put your arms around my neck. I know you’re tired.”

Tired didn’t even begin to describe her drained status. So she did after a brief hesitation. He gathered her in to him, slid his arms under her legs and lifted her off the steps, amazing her as he had before at how easily he did it, as if he could carry her forever. It was a foolish, romantic notion, as was letting her head drop onto his shoulder as he unlocked her door, closed them in, turned the deadbolt.

He took her upstairs where her living quarters were, showing her he had paid close attention on his visits to her place. The stuffed tiger told her he had good ears, too, apparently overhearing Chloe’s comments about him spoken through a swinging

kitchen door on their very first meeting. He paused at the top of the stairs only a moment, went left.

Tyler found Marguerite’s bedroom was a tranquil mixture of Eastern tastes and

Western whimsy. The four-poster bed with the carved floral headboard was

complemented by the framed Japanese water scene hanging over it, the soft glow of Chinese lanterns she kept lit and strung from each post like a canopy frame. There was a bamboo sea chest in the corner, some photographs arranged on its surface. Somewhat like those in the tearoom, only more personal. Pictures of the little girl whose party she had hosted, all large eyes under one of the big hats, her neck strung with elaborate rhinestone beads. Chloe and Gen conferring over a steaming teapot, Chloe laughing, her eyes alight with whatever dry witticism was falling from Gen’s lips. And one that surprised him as he let her feet touch the ground.

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Mirror of My Soul

It was a photo of him taken in a park in Tampa where he ran when he was staying at his place in the city. He sat on top of a picnic table, his body sweating from the run.

His hands dangled loosely between his knees. He had a half smile on his face where he’d apparently seen something in his people-watching that amused him. It was a very intimate picture, his knees splayed in the pose, the curve of his groin visible under the fit of his sweats. The long line of his inner thigh was defined as well as the curve of his biceps as he braced his forearms on his legs. His T-shirt was balled up in one hand. The dampness of the hair at his nape and temple from his exertions had been captured in the photo.

Stepping away from him, she turned her body so she blocked it. “It was chance. I was in the park that day, practicing photography. I saw you, decided to try a shot.”

“How long ago?” His voice was soft as he moved toward her, trapping her in that corner unless she made an awkward dodge to avoid it. She stayed still, though her body trembled the closer he got. It heated his blood, made his cock harder, made his heart ache in his chest. “Answer me, Marguerite.”

“About two years ago.”

Soon after the first time he’d seen her at The Zone, felt that odd connection

whenever their gazes met.

“You felt it, even then. As I did.”

She tried for a shrug. “Infatuation happens.”

“And yet.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, nudged her to the side. “The picture is still here. And it appears someone’s finger has touched the glass. Often.”

“It’s a good photograph. And the cleaning service I use probably does that when they dust the frames. I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” She shied away, skirted the bed and disappeared into her bathroom, closing the door.

Tyler let her go with an effort, hoping that it being the second floor and her own house, she wouldn’t try to escape again. His gaze returned to the picture. Marguerite had taken care and time with the photograph, capturing the expression she’d wanted, the aspects of his body, his posture. He was aroused and humbled at once by what the picture revealed about the photographer, about the way she might feel for him. He wished he’d been able to handle differently so much of what he’d done with her. No matter that his gut told him he was on the right track, that some fortresses could only be breached by acts of destruction, it hurt him deeply inside to cause her harm or pain in any way.

“I only want to love you, angel,” he murmured. “Just let me in. Let’s stop making every step into a fight.”

His gaze shifted to the shelf of books. Tea, Eastern philosophy. Pain management techniques, mental as well as physical. Interesting choice. His attention slowly covered the simple, sparse elegance of the room. Each item obviously was chosen for its significance to her, which underscored the importance of the photo. At her bedside nightstand there was a book of Haiku, a clock, a lamp. And though he was normally the 21

Joey W. Hill

type of man who accepted the boundaries of common courtesy, when it came to her the boundaries were thin. Especially after tonight. He moved to the nightstand and opened the small drawer, just curious to see if she was as sparse in the contents of what could not be seen as what could.

His gaze narrowed. A black silk scarf. A coiled belt with additional holes punched in its length. Two lengths of nylon rope. He turned, examined the four posts of the bed.

He found what he was looking for at the third one, at the foot of the bed. Reaching out, he ran his hand over one hourglass shape where the veneer was rubbed thin. It was not greatly noticeable, particularly if, as he suspected, the only one who entered the room was the one who slept there.

The anger in him which had settled to a simmer after he had seen her arrive safely, after he felt her body safe and sound in his arms, awakened like a dragon from its lair.

Marguerite stepped out of the bathroom. She froze when she saw the open drawer, his hand on the post.

“Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

She tightened her jaw, clenched her fists at her side. Anger flooded her, a reaction to her trepidation at his tone. She couldn’t back down from him, wouldn’t act like a person that owed him an explanation. Or her submission.

“It isn’t what you think it is,” she said sarcastically.

She’d not forgotten how fast he could move, just how quickly his temper could

motivate him to do so. Abruptly he was in front of her, had her turned and flat on her back on the bed, his body over hers. He yanked open the clasp of her cloak and caught the high neck of the nearly transparent dress beneath, ripped it all the way down, pulling it open so her completely bare body was beneath him. His trousered thigh pressed between her legs.

The moment the hard muscle flexed against her clit, she could not stop the

involuntary, almost violent reaction. The arching up of her body as if offering itself to him. She needed so much. She had to have him inside her. He needed to leave, so she could get it under control. She shoved at him and he rolled her over onto her stomach, pinning her wrists behind her back. He used one of the ropes from the drawer, firmly securing them, rendering her helpless.

“Let me go.”

“Not now, not ever.” His hand was on her bottom now, his fingers clutching her buttocks, squeezing hard, making her want to beg. “Is that what you do? You strangle yourself to make your cunt weep when your subs can’t?”

“I get aroused by my slaves.
All
of them,” she spat.

“I’m not your slave, angel. Don’t even try to be catty with me. And you do get aroused by what you do to them. But the key’s been staring you in the face all along, hasn’t it? You can’t get off without being restrained. Since it’s hard to tie yourself up in a way that makes you feel helpless, the way you need to feel to let yourself go, you strangle yourself. You told me you aren’t used to touching yourself to bring release, so 22

Mirror of My Soul

how do you do it?” His hand tightened on her left buttock, those strong fingers moving more deeply into the crease between. “You’ll answer me.”

“A pillow…and a towel. Between my legs. I use the other rope…to secure it.” She was glad she didn’t have to look at him now. His breath was hot on her neck, his body insistent against hers.

“Tell me.” His rigid cock beneath the trousers rubbed against her ass where his fingers pressed into her, making her whimper and push herself hard against the mattress, spearing herself with the pressure on her clit. “What do you fantasize about?

Who do you imagine is cutting off your air, controlling everything to bring you to climax? Making you come at his command, denying you everything until you give up your cream to his touch, his taste, the pounding of his cock?”

“I hate you.” She sank her teeth into the bed linens as he slapped her ass, setting off a ripple of nerve endings, the sensation shooting straight to her core.

“That’s what I thought.” Leaning over her, he removed the scarf from the drawer.

“There’s not going to be any more lying.”

She opened her mouth to retort and found it filled with the scarf as he gagged her with it like a bit, tied it behind her head. When he shifted, the silken fabric of the tie that had been dangling around his neck slithered against her throat. She closed her eyes as a hard shudder went through her.