They stopped at a general store in one of the picturesque fishing towns. She bought cheese, blackberry preserves, a fresh tomato and a couple baguettes to go with the bottle of wine she had in the car already. He got her a fountain vanilla coke and himself a Dr. Pepper. As they pulled back onto the rural route that would take them to Tyler's reclusive home on the Gulf, he reached over and took her hand. He just held it, a simple, sweet gesture that tugged on her heartstrings as she watched his long fingers completely surround hers, the way his index finger stroked her knuckles idly as they talked and rode.

She had him pull off at a roadside picnic area to eat their snack. The location overlooked a breathtaking view of a small man-made lake that fed into the marsh areas.

Maples had been planted in the protected area, and they were starting to experience some fall color, which added to the scenic view. "Could you eat?" she asked.

He grinned. "I'm six four and two hundred twenty pounds of muscle, sugar. I can eat."

"Braggart. Mess with me, and I won't share dessert." She produced a small bag of M&M's.

"I hope you brought six more of those."

Bypassing the picnic table, she went further down the slope to the water. He helped her spread out the blanket she'd brought and then took an edge while she laid out their lunch, handing him the cheese, baguette and knife. "Can you cut off a few pieces for a sandwich? How many do you want?"

As they ate in easy silence, she took the time to study him. The way he ate, like a man, with whole hearty bites she knew would have him finished and eyeing her sandwich in no time. He had manners, though, using a napkin liberally and chewing with his mouth closed. Things like that were important, as was the way he wore his clothes. He wasn't a fashion plate, but his shirt was ironed and the jeans were not faded or ripped. It mattered to him how he presented himself, and she liked that. She reached out, stroked a hand through his hair, enjoying the feel of the curls, the way they ringed her knuckles like a baby's. Touching his cheekbone, she traced it as he chewed, feeling the movement of the muscle in his jaw, the wonder of him. Smoothed a finger over the trim moustache, stroked the beard line. As he had when she looked at him in the car, he sat quietly beneath her touch, not interrupting her pleasure with an interactive response. It stirred the deep primal part of her, the way he understood so instinctively how to be a submissive and please his Mistress. She knew he sensed the rousing of the Dominant in her, for his chewing slowed, his fingers curling on the napkin on his knee, adding to the heat of the stillness increasing between them. She liked that part, feeling the weight of anticipation unfurl in her lower belly and seeing he was aware of it, wary.

"What do you like, Mackenzie?" she asked softly.

Those silver eyes rose. "I like you."

His eyes were serious, his lips firm so that she wanted to take a bite out of them. "I meant, what do you like to do? Hobbies, passions? Other than the things you do at The Zone."

And how long had he done that? How many women had he called Mistress before her? It mattered, but it wasn't right to ask it, not yet.

"You mean, other than you?" He caressed her knee, laid a kiss on it, nuzzled, worked his way up her denim-clad thigh, nibbling so she felt the press of his teeth. She accommodated him, shifting to part her legs slightly for a moment, then tugged on his hair.

"Enough," she reproved, though she knew her voice was a bit breathy. "Hobbies, Mac."

"Tall ships," he said. "I like putting together models. I read a lot of those old sea stories, the really old ones you only find in junk shops or at library sales, things written by the sailors themselves in the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries. And cooking. I like cooking."

"Did you ever go on one? A tall ship?"

"Sure. There are trips you can take in the reproductions, where you sign on as crew and work a couple weeks. It isn't exactly like the good old days. They make you wear harnesses when you're worked out on a yard a hundred feet above deck."

"Well, it would be such a mess to clean up otherwise. Do you have your own boat?"

"A little McKee craft I take out sometimes on the weekends. I'll take you out sometime. In fact, I'd really like to take you." A shadow crossed his expression and she frowned. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm getting lost in you too fast, I think." He looked startled that he'd spoken so bluntly to her. "I mean...I didn't mean..."

"No, that's fine." She shook her head. "I like when you tell me straight out what's in your heart." And I like the fact that you're feeling out of control. "Motorcycles, tall ships...you are an adrenaline junkie, Mackenzie." Knowing what she knew about him, she expected nothing less. But there was at least one question to which she didn't know the answer, and she'd ask it before she lost her nerve.

"Are you involved with someone? I know you said you hadn't been married, but - "

He flicked a glance at her. "What kind of guy do you think I am?"

She lifted a shoulder. "It's not unusual for a man to visit the club scene alone, especially if his girlfriend isn't into it. Double life sort of thing. I know some married guys at The Zone whose spouses know about it, even give them their blessing, because they feel like it keeps the craving under control. Like a limited indulgence in drugs to keep it from becoming a destructive addiction. Or obsession." He didn't smile. "Hey." His hand covered hers on the blanket and she raised wary eyes to his steady ones. "I'm all yours, sugar. Okay?"

"Okay." Relief spread through her and became warmth when he kept hold of her hand and lay back on his elbows. She twisted her fingers over his, spread them both out, played idle finger games with him for a few minutes in silence as he studied her.

The air grew charged between them, and she pressed her lips together. "Me, either," she relented. "I'm not involved, or married."

"Good. I don't share."

It was a provocative statement, delivered with a tone and a direct stare that was far from submissive. She was bemused at the reaction of her own body, a jump in response at the possessive statement that tightened her nipples against the soft lining of her bra.

"Me either." She gave it back to him with a hard, penetrating look to let him know he was dancing on the line. "Not unless I order it, and I'm there to watch." He inclined his head. His move. "I...There's no command of yours I'll refuse, but...

I'm not much into men. The whole ass-fucking thing..."

"Has a woman ever done it to you?"

He sat up, linked his hands over his knees, and her sharp eyes noted the defensive posture. "Just some finger stuff or plugs, like you did."

"No Mistress ever - "

"Most found that they were wasting a perfectly good cock they could use for their own pleasure."

Defensive, definitely. Almost surly. She saw him bite it back, try for a smile to smooth it over.

"You're a submissive afraid to let go of control, afraid to have your most vulnerable areas investigated." She studied him, let him squirm a bit under her intent regard. "You tell a Mistress she can do anything to you, no safe words, no boundaries, but then you con her into doing only what keeps to the edges of your comfort zone."

"I prefer the word 'charm'."

"I call it like I see it." She took a bite of bread. "And you should know better than to argue with me about it at this point. Tell me why you're a sub, Mac. Why not be a Dominant? You obviously bleed alpha. What's driving you to submit to a woman sexually? Open up."

He opened his mouth, took the offering from her fingers, lightly nibbling one fingertip, then caught it in his mouth between his teeth. He did not let go when she exerted gentle pressure, and she narrowed her eyes as his hand lifted, circled her wrist, held her captive to run his tongue along her sensitive knuckles, nibble on the pads of her fingers. Instead of resisting, she relaxed, waited until she had his attention to lift a disinterested brow.

"You know, horses sometimes do this," she said. "Catch your hand in their mouth when they're playing, not realizing they can hurt you. Or at least people say that. But I think horses know exactly how strong and tough they are." She took her free hand, ran it along his jaw line. "I think they know they can take your fingers off, and they're reminding you that, no matter how often you ride them, what saddle or bridle you put on them, they're stronger, and can take you down in a moment." She slid her touch under his chin, squeezed his jaw with her fingers, exerting the bite of her nails until he got the message and eased up. "But those beautiful, magnificent creatures bow to our will. They serve us only if they trust that they're better off with the reins in our hands." She cocked her head. "Only if they believe without a doubt we're worthy of being in control."

He let go with his mouth and she removed her fingers, but he did not relinquish her wrist.

"I'd like to make love to you. Here. Now."

She swallowed, closed her fingers into a fist. "I don't think I'm ready to let you do that, Mackenzie. You don't trust me enough."

He shook his head. "It's to show you can trust me." For it to be as good as it should be, it had to be a two way street. He didn't understand that. Still, the idea of lying in the late afternoon sun, a touch of fall nipping in the air, with him inside of her... it was a difficult image to resist, particularly with his fingers playing over hers, his silver eyes marking every response of her body.

She could imagine how it would look to a hawk flying overhead, the two of them entwined, Mac's thighs and buttocks tightening and releasing as he slid in, drew out, the slow strokes she would demand, that would drive her to the edge, fulfilled. His smell, his arms wrapped around her, his lips against her neck.

He was closer now, his mouth only a breath from hers, his hand sliding to her waist, drawing her closer, drawing her down against him. She cupped a hand to the side of his head, met his tongue just inside his lips, then he drew her in, opening his mouth to devour hers, his arms closing around her, holding her secure, letting out a groan of pure pleasure she felt rumble in his chest, pressed against her aching breasts.

His hand closed over one ass cheek in tight denim, and used the hold to shift her over so she was lying on him, one of his thighs pressed up between her legs, sending a ripple of erotic pleasure shivering up through her lower stomach and chest, tightening her nipples against his hard body. His hand kneaded her ass, stroked the crease of thigh, two fingers sliding down the curve of her buttocks, in between her legs, curling under the intersection of stitched seams so the heel of his hand was against the base of her ass, his fingers hooked over her clit at the crotch of the jeans, pressing on her, kneading her like a cat, making her shudder, her breath coming faster.

"Let me put my cock in you," he murmured, kissing her neck, nuzzling, biting.

Her grip on reality was slipping away. He was entirely too potent, his hands sure, knowledgeable, knowing exactly how to drive sense and control away, coaxing her into compliance. His arm pressed against her buttocks, and she felt the metal of the onyx and silver wrist cuffs he had worn.

With an oath, she slapped her hands against his chest and shoved off him, rolling to her side, coming to her feet in a crouch, putting a good four feet between them.

"This is bullshit," she said, really angry with him.

He sat up. His color was high and his erection tremendous, distending the front of his jeans and making her wish she wasn't so sure of what she knew, or that she could forget it and just take what he was offering to relieve the throbbing want in her pussy.

"What's bullshit?" He asked. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't take that tone with me," she warned. "You won't charm or con me, Mackenzie. I told you. When we make love, it will be because that's what you want and I want, not because you want a change in conversational topic, and you figure a good fuck will distract me. I'm not the distractable type, not when it's important. I asked you why you play the sub side of the fence. I expect an answer." And this was important. Maybe too important. She wanted to slap him for making things this difficult, but his recalcitrance also turned her on, there was no denying that.

He looked very appealing to her, sitting there tensely on one elbow.

"I don't know," he said at last, irritation in his tone. "I...why is it women want to analyze? I just...do. When I'm with a woman, it's the way I feel. You're not complaining, are you? So why does it matter?"

Because you matter. Because the answer to the question is important to you, but you're afraid to answer it.

"I want you to stand up and unfasten your jeans, take them down with your underwear to your knees. I want to see you. And take those damn wrist cuffs off. Some other woman gave them to you, so I don't want to see them. You're mine, Mackenzie, and I don't share you, not even with memories." He hadn't expected that, or the gear change, she could tell. She watched him process it, glance around them, and she softened, leaned forward, laid a hand on his jaw. "We'll hear a car if someone pulls up. We'll have a few minutes before we see them. That's why I came down here. You can trust me to protect your privacy, Mac." He nodded. His gaze still held anger and frustration, but he obeyed, rising to his feet. He took off the cuffs first, dropped them to the blanket. Violet lowered herself to one hip, watching him intently as he took his hand to the button of his jeans and worked it loose with those large, capable fingers. He lowered the zipper, then pushed the jeans down his hips with his underwear, freeing his cock so it stretched out in full magnificent rigid glory.

"Unbutton the shirt so it's not in my way," she ordered softly.

He obeyed, and she watched him become longer and harder, his body responding to her commands and her perusal. She touched her tongue, just the tip to her top lip, and his testicles contracted.

"Now." She lifted her lashes. "Lace your hands behind your head. And don't move them unless I tell you to do so. And you are not allowed to look down. Not even once."

"Yes, Mistress."

"I like it very much when you call me that." She slid over along the blanket, ran one finger along his length, felt his heat, the iron hardness of him, noted the drop of moisture gathering at the tip. She smoothed her knuckles down the side of his hip, the top of his thigh. "Two of the ladies that will be there tonight are twins. They work in tandem, and they like pain. They're good at administering it, and they like to share subs. How do you feel about me sharing you with them, Mackenzie?" She watched his face, saw the shadow, saw it masked. "Whatever pleases Mistress."

"Hmmm. This does." She took up the white plastic spreading knife and spread some of the blackberry preserves on the top of his cock, just the length of the shaft behind the head. He drew in a breath as she covered him with her mouth, bringing his flesh and the tartness into it, circling the base of his cock with one small hand and squeezing firmly as she sucked and licked the condiment from him.

"Jesus Christ."

She smiled, drew back just enough to speak. "Keep your hands up there, Mackenzie. I want to play with you a bit. You're mine, aren't you? My plaything?"

"Yes, Mistress. God...yes."

She licked a long stroke down the underside to his scrotum, as if she were enjoying a lollipop. "Close your eyes. I want you to be totally focused on where I lick you next." He obeyed, though the effort it cost him was visible.

She brought her hands around him, her palms caressing his thighs, his hips. They trembled with the strain of keeping completely still as she'd ordered, while she slid her lips up and down his impressive length. His fingers clenched behind his head, the bicep muscles bunched in a way that made her want to rub oill all over his body again, polish those muscles to gleaming. In an ideal world, a Mistress could keep her slave stripped and oiled all the time, in public or out of it. She wouldn't mind the envious stares of other women, knowing she owned that erect cock, all that beauty and power at her command.

Well, if she could ever get him to stop being so damn stubborn, it would all be at her command. She glanced up to make sure his eyes were still closed and reached into her purse, running the base of her tongue along the ridge of his engorged head as she did so, and made the adjustments she needed with the bottle of lubricant.

She took her hands up his thighs, caressing his hips and curled around those muscular buttocks. He jerked at the cold touch of the new plug, his muscles starting to tighten, but she had already inserted the head of it and used his movement to thrust it past the relaxed muscle before it could clench up. It was a smaller plug, but large enough to be noticeable to the wearer.

"Violet," he made a strangled noise. "Not again."

"Eyes closed, Mackenzie, and keep your hands up there." She kissed the tip of him, licked the hand gently once more, and then used her hold on his waist to stand up, letting his bare cock brush her jean clad hip. She worked his underwear and jeans back up his legs, over his hips and delectable ass, buttoning and fastening the jeans so their snug fit and the tight hold of that powerful muscle would keep the plug in place. She had to maneuver the zipper carefully over his erection and put her hand in a couple of times to ensure it was tucked in properly. She felt his apprehension, saw the quiver of his arms as he restrained himself, fighting against instinct to relinquish himself to her hands.

"I won't use the remote," she said, taking her time buttoning his shirt, fondling his damp heated skin. "Unless you pull that crap with me again. You can't charm your way out of things with me, Mackenzie, and you won't drive me away by being threatening and surly. You can choose to walk away, and that's it. A polite, courteous break of contract because two people no longer see the benefit of being with one another, as one or both feels they have nothing left to offer the other." His hands were faster than she expected. Before she could blink, they were gripping her upper arms hard, and he'd lifted her to her toes. "I did want to make love to you," he snapped. "It wasn't bullshit. It wasn't a game."

"I'm glad to hear it. I told you before. To me, none of this is a game. Even when you try to play me, it's not a game." She stared up at him, used her elevated position to press her lips to his hard, angry mouth, nipping at him until they changed, yielded, opened. Abruptly he was consuming her, his arms sliding from their grip on her upper arms to clamp around her body, holding her against his taut, roused one. She played her fingers over his broad back, over his hips, clutched his ass and pressed on where the plug rested, exerting stimulating pressure and also making sure there was no visible indication he was wearing it. She didn't want to humiliate him, just enforce that he was hers.

"Violet," he groaned against her mouth, and it was hard for her to maintain a rational thought in his embrace. He was all-encompassing, the press of his torso an eclipse of heat that gathered her in, made her want to stay inside those strong arms, inside the span of his attention, for a few centuries. She stopped worrying and gripped the muscles of his wide back, clutched shirt and skin and surrendered to her own ferocity. Meeting his mouth with tongue and teeth just as furiously, her body quickened at every touch of his. His large hands dropped to squeeze, knead her buttocks, as possessive of her as she was of him.

It was insane. She'd never been so mad for anyone in her life. She wanted to eat him alive. She pulled away to suck in air. "Are you sure you don't wear some type of pheremone cologne?"

His grin was quick, feral, as distracted as a wolf taking a moment to acknowledge his joy in the hunt before the charge, the lunge to take a throat. Hers, in this case, his lips pressing on the vulnerable artery, biting the mark he'd left on her, this time nursing it, offering her an apology with his gesture even as his tongue flicked fire around it. She arched her throat and as she did it, turned her body, so her upper thigh was pressed against his prominent cock. His hand cupped her left breast, stroking, molding it, her nipple sliding between his index and middle fingers to squeeze with an intensity that was ruthless in its determination. He moved his thigh and it was between her legs, rubbing, setting off screaming nerves everywhere.

"Come for me," he whispered roughly. "For God's sake, give me something." It was a savage whispered plea. It came from the place inside him she desperately wanted to make open to her, so when she heard it, she wanted to reward him for that, and give to him.

As if her internal decision to grant his wish slammed down a lever, her response gushed forth, flooding her blood stream, tensing her muscles in that perverse way a physical release did, as if it was pulling energy from the body as quickly as a drawstring, taking the elasticity from every muscle and tendon.

She played the game so well that she did not permit herself orgasm often, so when she came it was hard, shattering. In this case, she could not say whether she had permitted it or he had won her surrender with his whispered words, his strong hands, his overwhelming determination to claim something of her, make her his Mistress.

For she knew that the Mistress was as much the possession of the slave, even if Mac did not know it yet. As a result, it was not without a little fear that she felt the waves come crashing down on her.

The full shock of it hit her pussy at once. Even under her clothes she felt the spasms clench her against the pressure of his leg, and she clung to him, breathing fast, soft breathy moans, a shaking that swept through her limbs and made him hold her tighter.

He pressed his lips to the soft skin by the corner of her eye and stayed there, working his leg against her, letting her writhe on it until her body weakened, the drawstring released, all the muscles going loose and quivering.

Holding her close, he held her up. His erection was an iron bar against her hip, and she was pleased he was that way, knew he would suffer from wanting her until she gave him leave to release himself in the way she designated. She also knew he would use all the considerable reserves of his personality to try and make her agree to the way he wanted to do it. Deep inside her, while fucking her pussy.

She was looking forward to the challenge, all the more because she wasn't sure what the outcome would be.

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