She couldn't help but feel pleasure just in looking at him. Sitting relaxed across from her, leaned back in the chair, knees splayed in the tight jeans. That powerful bare upper torso bathed by the light of the two lavender candles he'd brought with the lavender roses to decorate her table. He'd taken time, care, to make sure the setting was lovely, romantic. He wasn't just here for sex. He was wooing her as well. It was...flustering. The way he kept gazing at her wasn't staring. It was a physical caress over every part of her, and she was certain he was far too aware of the effect the attention had on her.

They left the more controversial topics alone at dinner, and talked about the things they wanted to know about each other. Usually, the first date outside of a dungeon was cautious, information warily given, but Violet found she could talk about anything with him, and he was generous with his responses to her questions as well. She learned where his family was from, what kind of upbringing he had, what made him want to be a cop. He was a good listener, and attentive to her in a way that kept her blood on a slow simmer. Mixing their casual conversation with intimate reminders that he intended to serve her needs, he brought her more wine before she asked, retrieved her napkin when she dropped it on the floor, placing a light kiss on her calf when he was down there. And of course doing it all in nothing but a pair of jeans, so his naked chest and shoulders were accessible to her gaze and touch at all times.

She had eaten four bites of the most incredible pasta she'd ever tasted before she realized he wasn't eating.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing. Do you like it?"

The corner of her mouth lifted. "It's wonderful. Did you poison it? Is that why you're not having any?"

He smiled, did not touch his fork. "I would not presume to eat until my Mistress permits it, and until I'm certain the meal is to her satisfaction." She nodded. She put another bite to her lips, her body roiling at the sight of him, waiting on her will, his food untouched, capable hands lying flat on either side of the plate, his chest moving with even breaths. His eyes watched her every movement, lingered on her lips as they became glossed with the light oill on the pasta.

"God, you are too much," she murmured. "Eat." Before I leap over the table and eat you alive.

"So, can you tell me why you aren't married now?" She covered his hand when she asked and he turned it over, lacing his fingers with hers. "Is it the job?" He picked up his fork, so he wasn't looking at her when he shook his head. "It's hard for someone like me to make a go of it with a woman without her knowing coming in what I want, the sub angle. I've tried to have relationships without it and it doesn't work. Whether it's an unhealthy craving, or an obsession, I don't know. I guess you'd have the same trouble finding men out there who want you to tie them up and slap them around."

"Why do you think I went into law enforcement?" she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You're not giving me the total truth, Mac." He raised his gaze and she held it, steady, unwavering, waiting him out. She saw the annoyance rise, then recede, become rueful resignation. She could almost see him weigh every option to evade the question, discard it. She decided to push a little. "I figured it was primarily the job that's kept you closed off from women. It's obvious there's a lot of anger in you."

He shrugged, lifted his wineglass. "Only when the Buccaneers piss away a game."

"Hmm. From everything you've told me, it sounds like you did a pretty good stint in undercover work, before you went public and then made Detective. I've read the articles. Undercover cops have difficulty reintegrating into life. It takes some of them years. They develop paranoia. Control issues. They avoid committed relationships, because they spin so fast from marriage to divorce it's not worth the effort. They can't share everything they've experienced, so it poisons them from the inside, unless they find a way to deal with it, share it. Just like soldiers." She didn't play with the stem of her wineglass or pick up her fork, kept him pinned under her relentless gaze. "Now you've chosen to go undercover again."

"I cook. I have hobbies. I enjoy trawling places like True Blue and The Zone, getting a couple nights of release here and there." His eyes glinted. "That's how I get the shit out of my system that collects from the job. I'm not a stereotype, sugar."

"Don't get mean with me, Mackenzie," she said mildly, but she put a warning in her eyes that was unmistakable. "You know, I went online. Couldn't find anything about you, but I scoured a lot of stuff about police activity in Tampa, hoping to find a mention of you. I found an interesting photograph from a crime scene. It was a cop coming out of a sewer, one arm broken, dragging a body with him by the other. You couldn't really see his face, except for this one eye, because it just so happened his head was turned halfway toward the camera. They didn't name the officer." Mac changed position again. "Well, that day sucked."

"You darken out the rest of that picture, that guy with all that deadly fury in his face could have been a Viking raider from centuries ago."

"Now you're romanticizing."

"I'm a woman," she smiled. "I'm allowed. But I'm also a cop, and I could tell that if you ever seriously pissed that guy off, there would be nothing, not an AK47, not a tank, that would stop him from rolling right over you. I've seen some of that fury come out in you, when I've pushed your buttons. But you know how to hold it back." She cocked her head. "You're not what I expected, in a lot of ways."

"Being violent is easy, too easy," he brushed it off. "Holding back, being gentle, restraining your strength when it's not needed, that takes  - "

"Character," she said. "Loads of it."

The tension lessened between them somewhat, especially when she reached out, covered his hand with both of hers.

"A good Mistress has to know how to do the same," he murmured. "So you should know."

"Mackenzie." She wanted more than that from him, so she waited him out.

He blew out a breath. "Jesus, you're like a terrier. I've seen a lot of things." He moved restlessly. "It's difficult to open up when you see what we see. Too many cops like me do the double life thing with spouses, and it tears them apart. I couldn't do it.

Didn't want it. Especially if kids got involved." He paused. "This is hard to talk about, Violet...Mistress. Can we...what was it that kept you from being married?"

She toyed with his fingers, felt his tension vibrating through his touch and made the decision to ease back for the moment, since he'd made the effort. "Okay. Why I'm not married." She lifted a shoulder. "Most guys think you're asking them to turn into, what did you call it? A pony? And I guess some Mistresses are looking for that, a Mother-son fetish thing. But I wanted a man, not a boy. I wanted the hardest bronc to ride." She leaned forward, her eyes covering his gleaming shoulders, the flat nipples, the tight line of hair down his sectioned stomach to the waistband of the jeans. Her hand reached out, traced a scar on his collarbone. "Not because someone had a cruel strap tightened on his balls or was digging into him with spurs to make him buck, torturing him into ferocity. I wanted the horse that was going to make me earn the right to the ride. I wanted to tame my slave, not have him come housebroken." He met her halfway, captured her face in a hand that was a little too strong, too forceful in its grip. "Well sugar, you don't get much more unhousebroken than the 'pit bull who runs the yard'."

Her blood ran hot at the look in his eyes, the challenge, the invitation to play. With him, she sensed it would always be this way, the periodic reminder that she hadn't taken on a groomed pet, but a volatile, complicated man with alpha stamped all over him. And that was part of the excitement she hadn't known she craved.

"Arrogant stud," she agreed. She pulled her face from his grasp, put her hand on his chest, applied pressure. "Lean back in your chair. Spread open your legs so I can see that impressive package of yours."

He grinned, a show of teeth. "Make me, sugar."

The first night, it had been a challenge, a proving of her worth. It was still that, but tonight there was a playfulness to it that stirred her blood almost as much, mainly because she knew beneath it he was still testing her. She had rattled him, shoved him off his foundation at Tyler's, and she'd unbalanced him further, by making him as a cop when he hadn't had a clue that she'd been one. And now, forcing a partial confession of what had held him from opening up for a woman. The alpha in him was still trying to figure out where he could one-up her.

She sat back in the chair and smoothly crossed her legs, raised her fingers to the tiny row of buttons at the top of the modest neckline.

"You know why you didn't make me as a cop, Mackenzie?" One button flicked open.

"Why?" He had picked up his wine glass again, but she noticed he didn't drink. She took two more buttons through their eyelets, spread the fabric so the valley between the rise of her breasts was visible. Ran her fingers lightly over the visible curve. He swallowed.

"You're a male, chauvinist...pig." Three more buttons and she caressed the full breast, tracing one finger down the milky crescent, playing with the nipple beneath the fabric. He adjusted his seat and she tilted her head, deliberately studying the swelling going on beneath that zipper, the straining inseam where his testicles were fighting for room in diminishing capacity.

"You support women being cops, judges, but when the bullets are flying, you're wishing like hell there were no women around. It drives you crazy that you can't order them all back. You want a woman to dominate you in the bedroom, but you feel it's a man's responsibility to protect a woman, keep her safe from harm. It's a paradox only a Mistress could understand. A woman who understands you. You want to see how hard my nipples are now, aching for your touch, your mouth?"

"Yes," he rasped.

"Then sit back, spread your knees open, and stroke that long hard ridge in your pants for me. Masturbate yourself through your jeans. I want to see your hips move, thrust in your hand, slow, like you want to fuck me."

"Let me fuck you now."

"Not the way it works, Mackenzie. Obey me." She sharpened her tone, and he leaned back, watching the play of her hand over herself the whole time as he opened his knees, stretching the fabric tight over himself so she saw the long length of him testing it further. His hand moved over it, hesitated, then he began to stroke himself as she'd commanded.

"Yes," she purred. "That's it." She opened the dress to her waist, giving her more room, allowing him see the shape of her fingers kneading her breast, tightening on the nipple beneath the thin cloth. She arched, letting out a breath as she kept her gaze on his hand, sliding down over himself and back up, the way a man did, his eyes hot for her.

His long legs were stretched out on either side of hers, one beneath the table, one out by her chair, and with her other hand, she reached down, slid a hand up his thigh, tightened her grip on it.

"Unzip your pants," she murmured. "Take them to your knees, so I can see you hold your cock in your hand. Jerk off for me."

"Let me please you with it, instead."

"Do what I tell you and it might get to bury itself in my pussy. But I want you close to exploding, Mackenzie. Show me how much you want me." His hands went to his waist and he slipped the button, slowly took down the zipper. He had to rise out of the chair to obey, for the pants were that tight, and she enjoyed watching the undulation of his hips, the careful maneuverings necessary to wriggle out of them, push them to his knees. He sat back down, his cock ramrod straight between his thighs, and his hand went back to it. She could almost feel the heat emanating off of it, and her pussy wept for it.

You'll just have to wait, girl. Waiting is part of the fun.

"Good," she said. "Very good. Keep fucking yourself." She removed her hand, slowly did the buttons up back to her throat. Her nipples remain high and taut against the shirt of the dress, holding his attention. With deliberate, casual movements, she cut herself a slice of the chocolate torte waiting in the center of the table. Laid down the knife. Licked one finger. Glanced casually over him to make sure he was obeying her.

Lifting the saucer, she settled back with it and her fork, and took off a small bite, all the while watching him perform for her.

"Tell me what you want, Mackenzie. No posturings. Tell me what's going through that male chauvinist mind of yours. Keep it going." His hips pumped forward with his motions, and she could hear the faint slap of his ass against the slick surface of the chair as he thrust up through his fist. She knew her feigned indifference was increasing his desire and his frustration. She was lightly perspiring herself. He slipped his grip down, the loose skin stretching over that long, tall organ. She held the bite of chocolate up to her nose, deeply inhaling the scent of it, and getting that peculiar, heady musk of the male erection with the aroma.

"I want to ram myself into your wet pussy," he said, low, so she almost couldn't make out the words, just the guttural threat. "I want to bend you over this table, ruck up your skirt and fuck your ass for making me do this in front of you. I want you under me. I want to feel your body squirming beneath me, your legs locked around my hips. I want you wet and begging me to make you come. I want to own you, body and soul, the way you own me."

Violet blinked. A slow, controlled opening and closing of her lids. It took her a moment to remember she had cake on her fork. She opened her mouth, took it in, and knew this was the most incredible feast her senses had ever been offered, the light chocolate cream in her mouth, the scent in her nose, and the visual feast he made before her.

She separated the remaining cake from the cream and used her fingers to collect it.

"Stop," she ordered. "Put your hands behind you and cup them under. Hold your ass, one hand on each cheek, hard and tight, the way I'd hold it. And don't let go, no matter what."

It took him a moment to obey, his expression heavy and dangerous, hungry. Well, she was hungry, too.

When he finally obeyed, she leaned forward and began to smear the gnoche on his cock. The tip, the sides, the area of his clean-shaven balls. He had obeyed her to the letter, his scrotum and pubic area clean except for one neatly trimmed triangle just above his cock.

He groaned as she put methodical care into it, going back to the plate to get more of the gnoche until his cock was slathered in it. Then she rose, took up her cloth napkin, and blindfolded him with it. The muscles in his shoulders twitched, nervous and impatient, but he did not resist her or disobey, keeping his hands cupping his ass.

"A slave should never see his Mistress with her head below his, even when her actions are to serve her own pleasure," she said. "That's why I wouldn't let you look down at me at our picnic, made you close your eyes." She went to one knee and took his chocolate-coated cock deep into her mouth.

It took all she had not to bite down on it, take in his taste, mix the pleasure and decadence of the dessert with the decadence of enjoying him. She licked, consumed the chocolate cream, tasted his cream in the mix, took him firmly in her hand at the base.

His breath rasped hard as he struggled to obey her mandate and not move as she cleaned every impressive inch of him, her eyes noting every flex of his powerful thighs, the ripple of reaction across his abdomen, the tightening of his balls under the caress of her fingers. Her own reaction was sliding her thighs wetly against one another, and she made noises of enjoyment in the back of her throat, telling him what he could not see, how much she wanted him, was ravenous for him in fact, to the point that she wanted to keep him with her always, never let him further from her than a short cock leash would allow. Now she no longer wondered why some Doms were fond of keeping their subs in The Zone on a collar and leash, to reinforce the servitude and the bond.

"I want you," she muttered, and he growled in response, a primal response that she saw him struggle to take to civilized English.

"Sugar, I'm more than ready for you."

She rose, took off his blindfold and found his eyes blazing in response. "I'm protected from pregnancy," she said, her own voice thick with desire. "Will you...I don't want anything between us."

"I trust you. And you can trust me, sugar. With anything." His voice was ragged with male hunger and something else, something that roused her heart into her throat, and mixed sweet emotion with overpowering lust.

"My Mistress honors me," he said, low, urgent. "Let me serve you. I need you, Violet."

She swallowed, nodded. Undid the buttons again, and slid the dress off her shoulders. His eyes followed its slide to her feet, and she stood before him, clad in nothing but her skin and her equal need for him.

"You can move your hands," she whispered, and moved forward.

He caught her at the waist, lifted her effortlessly over him. Violet put her hands to his shoulders, gripped, dug in as he slowly, perfectly lowered her onto him, his silver eyes locking with hers as he took her down, inch by blissful inch. Her thighs trembled as they spread over his on the descent, making the sensation of his invasion that much more excruciatingly pleasurable. His fingers tightened on her waist and she savored that touch almost as much, every sensation he was offering her, including his hot breath on her neck.

She came to rest on him, just a blink after she wondered, as she had the first time, if she could take all of him, and knowing she would, no matter what. She had to have all of him deep inside of her, her cunt closed around him like a possessive fist, stroking him, working him. She raised her legs and he helped her, his hands sliding under her thighs so she was at the right angle, and the position seated him impossibly deeper so she cried out in reaction, digging her fingers into his back as his hands moved back to her waist just above her hips. His eyes met hers, full of dangerous intent that shivered over her skin.

"Hang on, sugar," he advised.

He lifted her and brought her down, hard, letting her feel the full force of his primal need. She screamed as her pussy convulsed around him, but he was drawing her up again, making her feel the rush of all that hot hard length against her wet inner folds, and she knew she never again would settle for a lover who did not have the incredible upper body strength Mac possessed. In a mere handful of days, there were many other

"never agains" that Mackenzie Nighthorse had injected into her life.

He kept his gaze on her face, not doing anything but watching her desire grow and reflecting it in his own expression. That made her even more helpless and hot, his total absorption in building her response by controlling the rate of rise and descent on his cock.

"Come for me, Mistress," he said, rough. "Come like you've never come for anyone else."

That wasn't going to be difficult, considering the sensation he was coaxing from her now was more intense than anything she'd ever experienced. But he was begging her to lose control, lose control for him.

"I already have," she whispered. Her body arched as he plunged her onto him again, then lifted her high so she felt the ridge of that broad head at the lips of her opening, then down again, like the rush of a roller coaster, the exhilarating pitch, a well-oiled machine working at the perfect speed to achieve explosive combustion. He didn't let her use any of her own strength, kept her moving in sync with the press and lift of his large hands at her waist. He would not let her hips thrust and move at the ferocious rate she might have chosen. He was giving her a slow, torturous build, a climax that would shatter her, leave her spent and weak in his arms, and she...she just wanted. She was all want now, a creation of formless, overwhelming desire. The shuddering reached through her, a ripple that quickly grew to a tidal wave shooting out from all directions from the well of her subconscious. She called out his name, part fear, part wonder, as the orgasm slammed down on her.

He was there, making her ride him still, keeping her at a pace that drew it out even longer, and the flashes behind her lids were like watching a never-ending ribbon of stained glass shatter before the power of a blinding sun. He increased the pace, brought her down hard on him now, and bringing his hips into it, so all she felt was that thud of impact, over and over, merging with her heartbeat, pulling everything loose in her. She shrieked as he leaned forward, caught one quivering breast in his teeth, bit down on the nipple and suckled hard, sliding his hands around her waist and hips now, seating him in her firmly and deep, changing the angle so he was rubbing against that incredible spot, giving the orgasm she thought was on its descent a new power that snatched her up and roared her over another pinnacle. She screamed with the pleasurable agony of it, only able to move in incremental amounts on his hard length, still pulsing, unspent within her. She milked him with her convulsing muscles, tugged on his hair, dug her nails in and used her teeth on his neck, just below his ear. It was excruciating to move upon him now, every motion like touching the most sensitive of harps, her body making plaintive notes for him, wanting something from him to give the song its meaning.

"Mistress," he growled. "May I come for you?"

She was enough of a Mistress that she waited a full minute as he kept up the rhythm, and his breath grew clogged and desperate, their gazes holding , sweat slick on both of their bodies.

"Mackenzie," she whispered. "On my command. This pussy is yours and it demands your seed."

She tightened her muscles on him and worked him in those tiny movements. One, two, three...

"Obey your Mistress, Mackenzie. Come for me. Now." Though the stimulus of everything else could do it, she knew that it was her words that pulled him over, more than her head, mouth or pussy did. He stiffened in shock, his hands digging into her waist in a moment of delicious, bruising lack of control, and then his hips were lifting her off the chair as he drove her up, making her hold on as he bucked beneath her, groaning and then growling, shouting his release, unable to maintain control any longer before the power of the whispered command, proof of her hold over him. Violet felt his warm juices spurt into her, and she cried out at the renewed sensation, held his head close, his rough jaw scraping her breasts as he clung to her, rammed into her until the last drop was gone. Until their desires were, for the moment, sated.

When she regained some sense of her surroundings, everything around her looked hazy, surreal. She had to blink to bring it all back into focus. She was wrapped around him, arms and legs tight around his body, her head resting on his shoulder, lips pressed to that round curve that led to the hard biceps. He held her close, his arms all the way around her so his fingertips were at her ribs, just below her breasts, putting her in a cocoon of his strength, his heart thundering against hers.

"Are we dead?" She managed at last, and his chuckle trembled through her body, shook them both.

"If that's dying, sugar, everyone would line up to self-terminate." His hand touched her face, her hair, seeking, and she managed to lift her head, though she was grateful to lean the weight of her cheek in his palm. "God, you're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen," he muttered. His lips pressed against her cheek, and when she closed her eyes, his voice resonated through her head, her heart. "You're so small," he said softly. "And yet, you're the most formidable woman I've ever met." There was a pause, his voice dropping even lower, and she kept her eyes closed, willing him to open to her, say what was inside his soul.

"I want to hide you somewhere safe, and at the very same time I would give anything to just kneel at your feet, brush my mouth along your thighs, remind you I'm there to service you however you want me." His voice was wondering. "Mouth, tongue, cock." He touched her face, parting them so their eyes were able to meet. "Heart, soul, mind. It seems I've been wanting that for such a long time." He swallowed. "And you're right. It was the job. Sometimes you get so dirty, you don't believe you can have something so fine. I really didn't believe I'd ever find it, a woman who could get past all of that. I didn't even know I'd given up on it." He shook his head. "I can't go further than that. I don't know how to say what I'm trying to say." Beautiful, she thought. He was perfectly beautiful. Perfect and beautiful.

She kept rolling it through her mind as she laid her head back down on his shoulder, until she was murmuring it like a quiet lullaby. It took her into a post-coital doze she could not stave off with his hand stroking her head, his body rocking her to sleep.

* * * * *

When she woke, she was in her bed, still naked, and he was spooned behind her, keeping her warm. His even breathing told her he slept. She was glad for it. For the time to slowly turn over in his embrace, look into his face, etched by the dim buffet lamp light spilling in from the hallway, and lay her palm over his chest.

Everything moved too fast, and this should seem so, but every moment with him felt dipped in molasses, something outside of time, and something she could call back and savor at length whenever, however long she chose to do so.

"Mackenzie Nighthorse," she murmured.

His eyes opened, that beautiful color that was not gray or pale blue, but simply silver. She'd always preferred silver to gold, the clean purity of it, the lack of ostentatious pretension that clung to gold. He lifted his hand to trace her cheek, rub his thumb against her full bottom lip. She bit him gently and he smiled, a slow, sleepy expression that made her heart do a slow roll in her chest.

She settled her cheek on his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heart beneath her ear while he stroked her hair from her temple, smoothing it down the side of her skull, curling it over her ear, rubbing her ear between his fingertips as he did so. It was an incredible feeling, that gentle stroking and fondling together, a non-sexual touch that was as intimate as a sexual one, and she felt herself drifting, her weight melting into him, as if she were a snake lying on a sun-baked rock, absorbing the sensations to the point that all of her became liquid, formless, so relaxed were all her muscles.

"You don't like men touching you, do you?" she said softly. "That's a boundary.

When Mark had you in his mouth, your cock was responding, but every other part of you was resisting. It helped break you down as fast as anything else. " It was a long pause, but at last he nodded against the crown of her head.

"Say it for me, Mackenzie," she whispered. "Trust me to want you, no matter what."

"I prefer not to have men touch me, Mistress. If that doesn't offend or displease you."

"Manners. I like that. It doesn't. And I'll let you in on a little secret." She tipped her head up, tapped his chin. "I'm not wild about having other women touch you, either. "

"I'm willing to make the most monumental of sacrifices to keep you happy." She was beginning to adore the many versions of that smile he possessed. This one had a rakish, teasing quality to it.

"I want something, Mac," she said.

"Anything, Mistress."

"No. I'm...I'm not asking it that way." She hesitated. "It's been a long, long time since I've asked this of anyone. It's like you said. You learn to let the club scene be enough, but even when you get the guts to take it out of the club, it's still... the focus. I want..." She stopped, shook her head. "I'm afraid to tell you what I want."

"Then let me take the risk," he said, lifting up on one elbow and turning her onto her back so she was looking up into his face. "I want to see you, Violet. Enjoy your company. Not just for sex, not just for D/s play. I want to go out to dinner. I want to see movies with you that we'll both like or hate, or argue about it afterwards over coffee. I want to have you over with my friends to watch a football game, and I want to take you and your beagle out for walks on the beach."

"How did you...how'd you know I have a dog?"

His eyes twinkled at her. "The pictures on the bureau. Water bowl and leash in the laundry room gave it away, too, though I had a bad moment thinking they were for me."

She snorted. "Detective. Forgot."

"Shield, real gun and everything."

The smile died from her eyes, and she reached up to cup his jaw. "You're sure." He pressed a kiss into her palm. "I'm sure. I like you, Violet. You turn me on in a million different ways, but I want more. Every time I'm around you, I want more. If you're offering the chance of all, I'm game. Let's go for it." He gave a half chuckle.

"Though it's a scarier thought than anything I've ever faced on the job." She didn't have to ask him why. Because the job couldn't break your heart, not if you learned how to detach yourself at the right moments. There was no detachment to this, not if they wanted the full prize.

"Nevertheless," his eyes glowed in the dark, making her tingle in warm places.

"You've invited me in, and the only way to shut me back out is to tell me to get out.

And I might need to remind you, I'm not the type of sub who always obeys his Mistress."

But he was hers. For the time being, he was hers.

She slid out of bed for a minute, went and switched off the light in the hallway. She came back into his arms in the protective anonymity of darkness.

"You said," she paused, searching for the right words, "you didn't know you'd given up on finding it. There was more than that. Tell me what else was in your heart. I know you said you couldn't, but I want you to try. For me." His face was a quiet silhouette in darkness for several moments, his hand lying on her stomach, the fingers moving in an absent caress. "I don't know," he said at last.

"I've tried all sorts of rationalizations, but I just have two things in my gut that I know for sure. That I have to be a cop, and that I've been looking for something in a woman all my life... I didn't figure out the submissive part of it until about ten years ago.

Didn't accept it at first, but even after I did, I knew there was something more. Sort of like it was the means, but not the end. There was something about it just out of reach, like that climax that goes only so high, so that you know something's missing.

Something I didn't know..."

Her breath clogged in her throat. He chuckled, but it was a strangled, nervous sound. "Forget it, I - "

She found his face in the dark, touched him with insistent urgency. "Mackenzie, I order you to say what you were about to say. Now. I mean it." His body moved into hers, a man so large he filled her bed, his eyes burning with desire. "It was something I didn't know, didn't understand. Not until I met you. I was looking for you. My Mistress. Mine," he said fiercely. "It's you. You're the beginning and the end of it all for me. The reason for it. I know it doesn't make sense after less than a week. But I know it. I just do."

She brought her hand to his neck, drew him down to her. He could have closed the distance himself, but in this moment she knew he would wait for her to do it, to show that she accepted his admission. Because it was his nature to wait for her bidding. Not any woman's bidding. Hers.

But once she gave him that acceptance, the rebellious sub she knew took over. He yanked her up to him, brought his mouth hard down on hers, his other hand cradling the back of her head, holding her tight against him, letting her feel his need and strength, what he could offer her, what he was offering. Her body gave up its own strength, let him hold her, consume her, and it wasn't until she felt his lips move to her cheeks that she realized that they were wet with her tears.

Her eyes had adjusted so she could see his startled expression in the dim light, and she smiled at him. "Did you think you were the only one affected by what's between us?" she asked thickly, reaching up to touch his face with trembling fingers. "I've never been as terrified or happy or...anything, as I've been since I met you."

"You broke me down. I told myself that I couldn't afford you."

"So leave." She smiled as he snorted.

"I can't." There was a long pause, but she could feel him gathering his thoughts, so she stayed still against him, waiting.

"It was never supposed to be about... what's between you and me. You were right.

I knew what I was, but I didn't believe it, not all the way down to my soul. I was afraid to, because I thought it was about strength and power."

"It isn't."

"I know. I just don't know what it's about now, but I guess it doesn't matter."

"It matters. And I know what it's about, Mac." She brought her lips to his. "It's about surrender. For both of us."

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