THREE

Roy, can you believe Mel Harper is still trying to get me to step down as board president?” Athena chuckled grimly as she pulled weeds from around the marble setting for his memorial statue. Watching Dale’s efforts had inspired her to plant a few new flowers. Though she had a landscaping crew to maintain the estate grounds, this quiet corner with its small hobby garden and a bench for reflection was hers to manage. At least once a week, she came here to talk to Roy, do some weeding and thinking, and make sure the area remained interesting. Experimental groupings of shrubs and flowers alternated with seasonal plantings and decorations. At Christmas, she’d put a small lit tree near the statue, along with a group of garden gnomes to represent elves. That would have made him laugh.

She didn’t believe the soul lingered with the body, but if Roy came by, she wanted him to see that she was thinking about him, remembering him with as much joy as sadness. The bronze had been fired with a handful of his ashes, the rest scattered in this section of the garden. In the statue, he was golfing, in midswing, his face crinkled with that good-humored look that said he expected a slice that would plunk the ball right into a sand trap. She’d never had any passion for the game, so it was one thing they rarely did together, but she’d clearly remembered that expression from the couple times she’d accompanied him. He was an abysmal golfer, so bad the club pro had given up on him. She’d wondered why he continued to play, when he succeeded at almost everything else he did. Roy had shrugged.

Ah well, life will knock you on your ass now and then. Gives you a reason to prove you can get up, right?

One night, she found a different use for his golf clubs he’d appreciated. She’d used one of the irons to tap his inner thighs while he was tied up, pressed the club end against his balls, lifted his chin with the shaft.

“You’d be proud of me. I met with Mel after the budget meeting and told him if he was so set on being president, he’d better plan my murder, because that would be far easier on both of us, versus all this wrangling in every meeting. I told him to let me know if he decided to go that route, so I could unleash my flying monkeys on him.”

After a startled moment, Mel had chuckled, with charming self-deprecation. You called my bluff, Athena. Roy told me not to underestimate you. I guess I’ve been testing you. My apologies.

“Maybe we’ll have a little less passive-aggressive dart throwing now, at least from him. Larry’s still a pain in the ass, but that has more to do with his desire to get under my skirts than higher on the board. I wish he wasn’t such a damn good financial manager. Now, don’t get riled up.” She waved her hand at the statue. “I can handle him. You know I can.”

When it came to the advances of other men, Roy had been clearly protective. My wife. My Mistress. Jimmy had once told her that a lot of people new to the scene didn’t realize that men who needed to experience submission could be just as possessive of their significant other as any male. You don’t turn in your man card just because you need to be tied up and spanked, he’d declared.

“It looks like we’ll be seeing an overall profit this year, despite the economy. I’m going to adjust the employee bonuses accordingly and bump up the healthcare contribution. Oh, Tessie Maddox in Shipping had twins. Can you believe it? That poor girl. Her husband’s not worth the time of day, but I notice Jesse over in Receiving has been babysitting for her, running her errands. I’m not one to argue with the ‘what God has brought together, let no man tear asunder,’ but I tend to think that hormones brought Tessie and her husband together, not divine power. Jesse’s a much better match for her. I guess we’ll see if Tommy Lee becoming a father will make him a man.”

She thought then of Dale, what he’d said about being a man. She was mature enough to know one heroic rescue at a gas station didn’t guarantee he was a man a woman could count on a hundred percent—heroism in a relationship was sometimes as much about being there to help unload the dishwasher as to rescue her from a mugging—but it was an impressive start.

Of course, what she was considering with respect to him, was it the same thing as pursuing a serious relationship? If she went the way her mind was going on it, it was definitely safer to keep this a compartmentalized thing, restricted by a lot of boundaries that wouldn’t cross into her daily life. Many club sessions fit into that mold. Two people coming together for a specific purpose, a mutual need, for a couple of hours once a week or even less often. Sometimes those people were married to other people, or, if the person they played with was their significant other, the club was the only place they exercised the Dom or sub tendencies.

No matter her thoughts on the long term, it was smart to approach it that way from the beginning. If it evolved beyond that, fine; she’d cross that bridge when it became necessary, but it was best to start with low expectations, one focused goal.

But what was her goal? With Dale, even during that brief moment in the potting shed, things tended to get off track, started to cycle around his indomitable will, not because he was imposing it on her, but because she slid under it like an umbrella in a rain storm.

“Mrs. Summers?” Her cell beeped, the speaker feature turned on. “Your guest is here.”

“Thank you, Lynn. Show him to the gazebo and make sure he has a drink. Bring out the hors d’oeuvres. I’ll be right there, soon as I wash my hands.”

Time had escaped her. Glancing at her slim gold watch, she realized he was right on time. “Well, here goes, Roy. I’m nervous as a girl on her first date. I bet you’re laughing, old man.”

She kissed her fingertips, pressed them to the foot of the statue. “I love you, baby.” Then, pushing aside the familiar weight of sadness, she moved away from the area, headed for the guest house behind the pool area. She washed her hands, checked her hair and makeup. Removing the coveralls she’d been wearing to protect her blouse, she slipped on the skirt she’d hung up in there earlier, prepared for this eventuality.

With any other guest, she would have been waiting near the door to personally greet them. A twinge of hostess guilt struck her for not doing the same with Dale. However, she’d been jumpy as a cat since noon, so she’d needed to do something. She could lie to herself, say it was the residual tension she sometimes nursed after board meetings, mostly due to dealing with personalities like Mel’s, but the truth was it was all about Dale.

She’d thought long and hard about the question she’d ask him. There was no requirement that she ask it, but she already knew she was going to do so. As a result, tiny manic frogs were jumping in her stomach.

Beyond that, for the first time in over two years, an attractive man she desired was coming to have lunch with her, and his parting words were practically branded in her mind—at this stage of the game . . . I have a feeling I’ll be the one doing the telling. She wasn’t even going to count how many times she’d thought about his firm caress of her breast. He’d touched her as if he already owned her.

She touched that same place, taking a deep breath as she did so. “I am forty-six years old,” she told the mirror. “I am Athena Francesca Summers, a grown woman. If I simper, giggle, blush or do something equally ridiculous during this meal, I will stab myself with my own fork. So there.”

He’d seemed to like the pencil skirt she’d been wearing, so today she wore one in purple, with a pale yellow blouse over it that had a sash that tied at her hip, the ends trailing down the side. The fabric gathered at the throat like a mock turtleneck, no decorative distraction between it and where it nipped in at her waist. As a result, it enhanced the size and shape of her breasts, drawing male attention to them. It was classy yet sensual. A message of hands off combined with I am a woman and won’t conceal it. She slipped into a pair of two-inch heels and headed back up the garden walkway to the gazebo. She hadn’t worn hose today, her legs excellent enough to get by without them in the informal venue of her home. Her hair was clipped loosely on her nape, a few tendrils loose and curling around her face.

She knew she was an attractive middle-aged woman. Even so, it was still gratifying to see him turn at the sound of her heels, watch his gaze latch onto her with obvious appreciation, coursing over her legs, the sway of her hips, the movement of her breasts. When he reached her face, the heat in his eyes made her body react as if he’d licked a trail right up her inner thighs. At the sight of him, she had to take a steadying breath of her own.

He wore black jeans and a forest green long-sleeved shirt. Her practiced eye knew it was a good quality Egyptian cotton, which defined his broad shoulders well. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms and the black watch he wore. She expected it was a military-grade or diver’s watch. It had an outer dial that measured degrees and several smaller dials within the face. Given he’d been a SEAL, she was sure it was rated for underwater use. A man who wouldn’t be lost, no matter where he was. The watch was probably a convenient trapping; he could likely make the same calculations in his head if needed. And wasn’t she getting fanciful? In another moment she’d be imagining him in a cape and tights.

He was dressed appropriately for their lunch, but if he’d intended to maintain a sense of social distance, acquaintances getting to know one another better, he might have chosen slacks and a tucked-in dress shirt. The fact he’d selected a more informal outfit, a contrast to her more formal one, suggested something far different. It wasn’t rudeness; it was anticipation of the roles they were both projecting. She wouldn’t say playing, because it didn’t feel that way at all. Her thoughts on the watch might be wrong, but she wasn’t off base on this. There were no casual or unintended messages at this lunch. Whether unconscious or not, she’d chosen every aspect of her appearance carefully, and intuitively she knew he’d done the same.

His short dark hair lay smooth and gleaming against his head, and when those multicolored eyes reached her face, she was having a hard time not curling her fingers to hide their tremor. His dark lashes intensified the color, the matching brows giving his already strong face a more authoritative cast.

It’s a pleasure to see you again. As she drew closer to the gazebo, she knew that was what she should say, initiate some polite chitchat. But she didn’t. Anything like that died in her throat, the effort of forcing it out too much. It would be obvious how wrong it was.

She’d had Lynn set up their lunch in the large gazebo, because there was a good breeze today and it overlooked the man-made pond. A pair of ducks was swimming across it. Sometimes, in the early morning, deer came from the woods that backed her property, drank from it. Grazed on the lawn. The pear tree grove also screened the gazebo from the house, making their meeting private. Lynn and her assistant would bring the food or more drinks when Athena rang them, and not before.

The china gleamed, the silver was polished. The ironed tablecloth moved gently in the breeze coming off the water. The ceiling fan blades made a rhythmic hum.

She came to a stop a few steps away from the gazebo. He settled his hip on the rail, one long leg braced, the sole of his other boot sliding along the wood floor. They were the same boots he’d worn the other night, the ones with the silver tips.

“Come here, Athena. Stand in front of me.”

A breath fluttered from her throat like a startled butterfly. She stood in place for another blink, teetering on indecision. Not a decision about what he wanted her to do, because the moment he said it, she wanted to go to him, but a decision about what it meant if she did. Dreams and fantasy were about to step over the line into nascent reality, and things could go wrong. Some things were better staying fantasy, letting dreams alone be the place where she let go of the reins.

Her gaze slid back up. Over his legs, the way his thighs outlined his groin area, though the loose shirttails hid most of that from view. Was he wearing the belt he’d worn the other day? He had a drink on the rail next to him. The dark amber liquid suggested Lynn had brought him a whiskey, or maybe a Coke mixed with something else. She didn’t yet know his drinking habits, beyond black coffee.

She started to walk. It was nine steps to him. She made it five, and then she was at the table, her hand on the back of one of the chairs. She couldn’t move further.

“Have you thought about what you want, Athena?” he asked. “Do you have an answer for yourself?”

He didn’t ask if she had an answer for him, because he’d already understood that the question had never really been for him. He knew what she wanted, as much as he understood she had to accept her answer to make those last four steps.

“One more time, Athena. Come to me.”

He wasn’t coaxing. He was commanding. Those outside their world didn’t understand that the command wasn’t backed by a threat, but something far more powerful. Over here, by the chair, she was outside of herself, lost. Adrift in a world of beauty muted by a cloudy veneer she couldn’t penetrate until she dropped her shields, let herself accept the vulnerability that came with full awareness of who and what she was.

One and two. Three and four. Like hopscotch when she was a little girl. She stood directly in front of the silver tip of his boot now, her elegant pumps aligned with it as the center point.

She stared at his chest, dropped her gaze to his thighs again. His arm rested on the right one, the side where his hip was half-cocked onto the rail. His nails were clean, the potting soil that had collected under them gone, but they were still rough hands, a workman’s hands. One of those hands lifted, cupped the side of her breast, just as before. She pressed her lips together, that fluttering moving down her sternum, spreading out beneath her rib cage as he curled his fingers, stroked her with his knuckles. He didn’t touch the nipple, but it tightened beneath her bra, aching for him to do so. It was one of her thinner ones, so she was sure her response became visible to him, the breeze blowing the light fabric of her blouse against her. But apparently it wasn’t enough to suit his tastes.

“After five o’clock, when they’re all gone, I want the bra off. You understand?”

She nodded. Then she closed her eyes, shuddered hard. He shifted off the rail, standing. Roy had been six feet. Dale was about the same, perhaps a couple of inches taller. His shoulders were wide enough to block her view of anything behind him, even if she’d taken a step back. Now he put his hands on her upper arms, a brief reinforcement of his words. He touched her hair.

Letting her go, he pulled out a chair, gestured. “Sit.”

When she complied, he retrieved his drink from the rail and took the chair next to hers. Though he leaned back, his knee stayed close to hers. “So tell me what you want, Athena.” His expression wasn’t hard or unkind, just unrelenting. She reveled in that inflexibility, the decisiveness, and it gave her the courage to set a course.

“I’d like to try a few sessions here. With you.”

“Not at the club?”

She shook her head. There were certain Dommes at the club who wouldn’t understand this, an established Mistress deciding to switch. She didn’t want to handle explanations, field veiled insults from people she liked to think of as friends. But beyond that, she was Roy’s wife there. “I would pay you. A professional arrangement.”

“No.” His tone brooked no discussion on that point. “We do the sessions, see how it goes.”

“Too personal. I need for it to stay professional.”

“Then hire yourself a pro. That’s not my deal. You connected with me, you want something from me. Same goes. You’re not a timid woman, Athena, and I’m sure as hell not shy about what I want. I want to see where this leads. How about you?”

If she looked over her shoulder, she thought she’d see Jimmy’s shocked face and the entire membership of the club behind him, judging.

“It’s just you and me here,” he said. “I know you worry about what others might think about this side of you. That’s expected. But I’m interested in your husband. If he was alive, what would he think?”

“If he was alive, I wouldn’t be considering it. He needed something different.”

He studied her. “Athena, did he know you’re a submissive?”

Just like that, a simple statement that shifted her world. She’d almost backed out of this meeting several times, embarrassed at her foray into an area she experientially knew nothing about. Yet every morning she’d woken from dreams where her subconscious embraced it. Flashes of her on her knees, Dale’s hands on her, his mouth demanding things that went far beyond her body and deep into the core of who she was . . . of who she might be. She woke from such journeys aroused, uncertain but titillated, flushed by the rush of imaginings that pursued her outside of sleep.

During the daylight hours, she’d tried to contain and trivialize them. But when he acknowledged the truth now, all of that internal chatter died away. It simply . . . was. Like the breeze riffling his short hair, the intent focus of his blue-green eyes. It was as if he’d lifted a boulder off her chest, releasing the anxiety she’d been carrying, thinking about this moment.

“I’m not sure I even knew,” she said. “Not until he died. It wasn’t something I thought about. It wasn’t onerous or awful, being his Mistress when he wanted that from me. I loved him, loved making him happy, and he made me happy. People don’t understand that anymore. What honor and cherish, responsibility and love really mean.”

“No. They don’t.” He spread his fingers out on the tablecloth. She’d said something that had surprised him, she could tell, but she wasn’t sure in what way until he gave it to her. “A lot of people have a hard time understanding what drives a SEAL to do what we do. Honor and duty, responsibility . . . love of country . . . sacrifice. They don’t understand, because so many of them no longer know what those words really mean. They’re not monuments and medals.”

“Just the way marriage isn’t about flowers and diamonds on your anniversary.” She met his gaze.

He nodded. “You’re concerned what others at the club would think of you, but you don’t seem to feel that way about your husband’s memory. You don’t think he’d judge or condemn you for it?”

“No. His form of submission was a deliberate decision to surrender. He had a need for it like a beer at the end of a hard workday. A more intense ritual than that, but still related.” She offered a faint smile, and his lips curved in answer. “But he always understood I did this because he asked me to do it. Not because I had a driving desire to be a Mistress. I enjoyed the pleasure he took in my efforts, that others took in watching.”

“Because that’s what a true service sub does,” Dale responded. “She takes pleasure in pleasing others. Her Master, all those in her life. A Master takes pleasure in holding power, a sub in surrendering to it. The way she surrenders may be mistaken for the flip side of the coin because of what you just described. You weren’t a Domme to him. You were a Domme for him.”

He was so straightforward, stating ideas she struggled to articulate because she couldn’t see their shape from outside herself. She nodded, quietly amazed by the relief of claiming it as truth.

He leaned forward. “Put your hand on the table. Spread your fingers apart.”

Curious, she did. He began to trace the outline of her hand with his forefinger. Because of the spread of her fingers and the size of his, he made contact with her skin, a light tease as he followed outside to inside, outside to inside. Then he stopped, his forefinger resting on top of one of her nails, a subtle gesture indicating she should leave the hand where it was. All her nerves were tingling, from that point of contact all the way up the inside of her arm.

“You have a pretty substantial Internet biography,” he said casually. “You raised over a million dollars for Louisiana charities last year. Matched that from your own holdings. And you run the board of Summers Industries.” He glanced around the grounds. “From what I saw of your staff, you also run an efficient household. You take care of your people. They look happy to have you as an employer, and they’re protective. They all gave me the once-over, like if they were required to ID me to the police, they’d be ready. And willing. If they didn’t take me out first.”

It was an unexpected change of topic, but he left his fingertip on hers, holding her in that magnetic field he was projecting. She had to clear her throat first to respond.

“Lynn, my head housekeeper and cook, has been with us for more than ten years. Same with Hector, my groundskeeper. Lynn’s assistant, Beth, has been here for five years, and most of the men who work with Hector are long-term employees or his family members. We’ve been through a lot of holidays, birthdays, family crises. It’s perhaps made us a little more closely knit than most employer-employee relationships.”

Lynn had helped her prepare Roy’s body before the funeral home came to pick him up. She’d told the hospice nurse she’d do it, but she needed help to move him. Lynn had volunteered, but Roy was such a big man, the housekeeper called her son, Delray, who was also part of Hector’s maintenance crew. They did it together, the three of them, putting Roy in one of his golf outfits, khaki slacks and a butter yellow placket shirt. On the left chest, there was an embroidered logo from one of his favored golf courses, an alligator with a golf ball sitting on his nose while a golfer put his foot on his snout to take a swing. It had always made her smile, the crocodile’s aggravated expression, the golfer’s intent concentration.

After she’d tied his loafers, she sat down in a chair. Delray sat on one side of her, Lynn the other, and then they held hands and cried together for a little bit.

“Are you ready for this, Athena?” Dale spoke in a low voice. Not interrupting her memories as much as stepping into the room and taking her hand. Prepared to lead her out of it, back to the present. “Or are you still grieving?”

“I don’t think you ever stop grieving someone you loved for so many years,” she said. “You learn how to make his memories part of your life, how to interweave them into your future, rather than letting them hold you down in the past. That’s what I’m ready to do.”

He nodded, his gaze telling her he approved of the answer. She knew SEALs were a small force, only a few thousand of them total, and they were assigned highly hazardous missions. As such, he would know the shape and feel of loss in a sharp, immediate way, one that would be empathic but not pitying. He’d likely faced some of the same lessons about grieving she had.

It might seem incongruous, that a New Orleans steel magnolia who’d lived in financial comfort and safety all her life could have things in common with a man who’d lived a large portion of his life in dangerous, difficult situations, but she’d learned emotions and loss were things all people faced, no matter what path they walked. People tended to celebrate their differences, make it their clarion call of accomplishment to the world; she’d learned it was discovering the similarities, the connections, that brought quiet joy and built lasting relationships. Such connections could sculpt happiness. And reassurance, especially in an uncertain moment like this.

“You’re self-disciplined and selfless, and being both of those things takes a powerful will,” he observed. “Anyone who doesn’t really understand what a Dom and sub are about, would find it hard to believe you’re not really a Domme. What we are deep inside is often the opposite side of what we show to others. Deciding to reveal that, explore it, brings balance. Are you seeking balance, Athena?”

“Yes.” She looked down at his hand. He’d spread out his other fingers so they rested between hers. Just his fingertips, the curved digits above like a cage holding her hand there, a restraint she willingly accepted.

She moistened her lips. “How does what you feel . . . differ? As a Dominant, I mean.” She’d often wondered, but of course had never been able to ask anyone without inviting curiosity about why she wouldn’t know the answer herself.

He blinked. Crow’s-feet from his age and exposure to the elements accentuated his eyes, adding to his rugged appeal. It balanced the beauty of his thick lashes, though she couldn’t imagine anyone looking at this man and thinking him effeminate in any way. “I take pleasure in a sub’s reaction, but my power over her gives me something, too. Like I said—two sides of a similar coin. It brings Master and sub together.” He turned his gaze back to her hand. The sharpening of his attention drew her own like a rope cinching around her wrists, the slack end coiled around his strong hand.

“Close your eyes, Athena.”

When she complied, he moved his index finger, but this time he traced her forefinger only, sliding down toward the V between it and her middle finger. When he reached it, he slid back up the inside of her middle finger, then returned to her forefinger again. “Part your legs, as much as you can in that snug skirt of yours. Are you wearing panties?”

“A thong. Yes.” The skirt was tight enough panties caused unsightly lines, so she’d gone with the thong.

“After five, that comes off as well. You’ll give it to me, so I can smell how wet you’ve gotten during our two hours together.” His finger began to move again, sliding slowly, slowly down the inside of her forefinger. “Imagine this is my hand, moving over your ankle”—he passed over her first knuckle—“then past your knee.” It quivered beneath the table, her legs instinctively pressing against the hold of the skirt, trying to widen for him. Her back arched against her chair.

“Now, deeper, deeper, until I reach your cunt.” His fingertip caressed that tender juncture between index and middle finger. “It’s hot and wet for me, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She was breathless, lips parted, a flush climbing her cheeks, but not from embarrassment.

“Good. That’s how I intend to keep it.” He massaged that small V of skin, and she vividly imagined him rubbing her between her legs, such that she made infinitesimal lifts from the chair, her buttocks flexing. “Now, I’m moving from your cunt to your stomach, your sternum . . .” He moved up between the two knuckles, tracing the vein on the top of her hand, following the line to the joint of her wrist, and then he captured the wrist in his hand. “All the way to your neck.”

Her chin had lifted, no words needed. She’d followed the vision he was painting her right to where he’d end up, with his hand wrapped around her throat. She swallowed as if she could feel its constriction and his hand tightened on her wrist.

“Did you ever buy Roy a collar?”

She shook her head. “That wasn’t . . . something he wanted.”

“But it’s something you want, isn’t it?”

She nodded, a quick jerk as if he had his hand there, limiting her mobility.

“We’ll see about that. Open your eyes.”

When she did, his attention was on her face. She’d noted his concentration when he’d been handling Willow, but it was far more powerful to have it up this close, and focused on her. She also saw a hint of what he’d been talking about, what exercising his skill as a Dominant gave him personally. She’d found pleasure in being Roy’s Mistress, but she hadn’t found this, an internal zone that was perhaps a related form of what a sub found when they completely let go. Within these bare few minutes, he’d stepped inside that zone for a Dom, and he’d very nearly taken her with him, by doing nothing more than touching her hand.

It overwhelmed her, not so much the newness of it, but how easily he’d made it happen. How easily she’d let it happen. She pushed away from the table, pulling from his hold. She rose and took a few steps away, drawing a deep breath. She was facing the house, her gaze fastened on the turrets that rose to the blue sky, pointing toward fluffy clouds. Tomorrow she was hosting a tea for the Daughters of the Confederacy. Afterwards they’d visit Metairie cemetery to do their monthly tending of the graves of the men that no longer had families to watch after them.

“I can’t let this affect my personal life. It has to stay separate.”

“I wasn’t planning to spank you in front of your staff. Or tie you down on your boardroom table.”

She gave a half chuckle at that image, though she was a little appalled by how it flooded her mind. Him stripping her naked and binding her on the table where she’d overseen so many decisions. He’d take a switch to her as he’d done Willow, such that her nails would gouge the wood, her perspiration seeping into it. Then he’d make her beg to come by putting his mouth between her legs.

She told herself not to be carried away. Reminded herself she knew nothing of him. A momentary impression at the club had become this lunch, this significant turning moment of her life. If a submissive at the club had told her she was contemplating such a course of action, she would have chided her for being too impulsive, even unsafe. But she could trust Dale with her physical well-being, couldn’t she? He’d already proven that.

“Hey.”

She turned. His penetrating look seemed to recognize every one of the churning emotions she was experiencing. And though his tone was gentle, he maintained the unrelenting expression, telling her he still held the reins. Like how a confident rider held the reins on his horse, communicating to the complex and responsive creature that she was safe under that restraint. Able to gallop and fly without fear—as long as it was at his command.

That was another key difference, she realized. A Dom had no desire to let go of those reins. He reveled in holding that control, seeing what the horse would do under his skilled touch, how far they could fly together.

“We all have lives that stay separate from this, Athena. But if what you’re trying to say is that whatever feelings develop between us have to stay separate, that’s something I can’t help you with. Feelings go where they want to go. Neither Dom nor sub has any control over those. If that’s your main worry, we have lunch and walk away from this.”

Sensible, intelligent, logical. A touch of inexplicable sadness gripped her. “Okay. Fair enough.”

He lifted a brow as she came back to the table. “So?”

She sat down, unfolded her napkin, smoothed it over her lap, even though there wasn’t yet any food to make it necessary. She needed the action. He waited her out until she raised her gaze. “I don’t want to walk away.”

He nodded. “All right. You promised me lunch. I’m hungry.”

It made her smile, and she saw the humor flit through his gaze in response. It calmed her nerves a little more. They’d have lunch. One step at a time.

—

Lynn had prepared a salad with ham-and-cheese bread as appetizers, followed by her incomparable stuffed crab. There was a homemade sherbet promised for dessert. When Dale complimented her cook’s skills warmly, Athena was amused to see Lynn flush with pleasure beneath his regard almost as quickly as she did.

Roy would laugh at both of them. She remembered a particular day he’d complimented her on a dress. He’d gazed at her longer than the usual habit for a man married almost two decades to the same woman. It had made her blush. He’d lifted her hands to his lips, kissing both of them. “I am the luckiest man in the world. And now you look like a lovely young girl.”

“You made me feel that way.”

“I should do that every day.” Then he’d kissed her mouth.

Dale had a similar way of paying attention to a woman that made it impossible not to feel . . . well, womanly, in all the right ways.

During lunch, he eased away from the more intense subjects. He asked her about the history of the house. The 1700s plantation home with antebellum Greek revival architecture overlooked the Mississippi River. Its extensive grounds had once been a sugar plantation. She told him anecdotes about the various families that had lived in the house, the exaggerated rumors that claimed Queen Victoria had given them a bathtub as a gift. She told him the story had been spun by one of the past owners who was drinking heavily with gambling companions. They’d all ended up in the bathtub, singing bawdy sailor songs and “God Save the Queen.”

He chuckled over that, the velvet timbre of his voice twining around her. She’d slipped her feet out of her shoes as they were eating, and when he shifted his position, she realized her bare foot was within an inch of his boot. Not giving herself too much time to think about it, she slid her toes over the top of it. She did it lightly, not wanting to be caught indulging such a whimsical, intimate gesture, but then she realized what was under the leather didn’t feel exactly like the foot she expected. Curious, she moved up a little farther, above the ankle, her toes sliding under his jeans’ cuff. The boot gave easily beneath the pressure, as if what was beneath was mostly empty. What she felt was more like a rod than a leg. There was no leg there.

“I notice a woman playing footsy with me a lot quicker on the right side.”

He’d noticed pretty fast, given that all of it had all happened within the past few seconds, with barely a pause in the conversation. Now she lifted her eyes to his. “Your eyes are like sea glass,” he said. “That soft green color.” Reaching out, he made her left eye close when he brushed her lashes, lightly. “These are almost blond.” Then he pulled off another piece of the ham-and-cheese bread, offering it to her.

When she shook her head, he took it instead, his healthy male appetite warming her. Lynn would say he was a man who was a pleasure to feed. Athena could cook quite well herself, and if there were evenings they’d be spending here alone during the dinner hour, she might like that opportunity.

“May I ask about it?”

He picked up his sweet tea to take a swallow, then wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin before answering. “Right now you can ask me whatever you’d like, Athena.”

Right now. The qualification reminded her that the clock was moving toward the five o’clock hour. If he’d intended to tighten that little screw on the wire of sexual tension that strummed between them, he’d succeeded admirably. He didn’t seem visibly concerned that she’d figured out his handicap, but then he didn’t really act like it was one, did he?

“How did it happen?”

“The details of the mission are still classified, but basically it was the result of an underwater explosion. A dislodged boat prop sliced into it and the docs couldn’t save it, not by the time they got me to them.”

“How long ago?”

“A few years before I was eligible for retirement. I was able to do other work, serve as an instructor, help with tactical planning for missions, but I was no longer in active combat situations.”

No, discussing the leg didn’t seem to bother him at all, but being cut out of active missions was a different matter. He’d made his peace with it, but in the tone of his voice, the way shadows darkened his eyes, she saw how hard-won it had been. “I’m sorry.”

“Being a SEAL is a calling.” He shrugged. “You know you’ll retire one day, and I was able to do it after I served over my full twenty years. But even so, getting your legs cut out from under you before you’re ready for it—a bit literally, in my case—it’s tough. You miss it like a drug. It’s hard to find anything to match it. I met an astronaut once who described going into space the same way.”

She thought of those first days without Roy, figuring out who and what she was when what seemed like ninety percent of how she defined herself, motivated herself, structured herself, was gone. She still cried for him most nights before she went to sleep, hugging his pillow hard to her chest. “So how did you figure it out?” she asked softly.

He reached out, sliding a fingertip down her cheek with exceptional tenderness. “I dealt with it day by day, same as you. Some days I was a total bastard.”

Matter-of-fact as his tone seemed, she expected the information was something he rarely shared. Perhaps the fact he was helping her embrace something she’d never shared with another gave him the comfort to speak plainly with her. She liked the idea of that connection, though thinking of him coming so close to a fatal injury made her heart hitch in her chest, no matter that it had happened some time ago.

“Ever been married?” she asked.

“Once. She left me about ten years into it, before this happened to my leg, thank God. I’m glad she didn’t have to deal with that. Being married to a SEAL was hard enough for her. No children,” he added. “You?”

She shook her head. “Our lives were full enough without them. We both have brothers and sisters with children, and we handle the operating costs for a children’s home in Louisiana, so we can enjoy their company whenever we wish. We’ve hosted picnics and carnival days for them here. Why didn’t you and your wife choose to have them?”

“Never had enough motivation to make it happen. Guess we should have seen that as a sign, too, like we both knew we weren’t going to make it for the long haul. As a result, I’m glad we didn’t take that step. I came from divorced parents and remember how much it hurt when they split. Kids are tough, they get over things or figure it out, but Pam and I were the types who would have stayed with one another to prevent doing that to a kid, even when the marriage fell apart. And kids pick up on that shit, no matter how much we tell ourselves they don’t.”

She nodded. “So was there anyone for you . . . when it happened? To your leg.”

His eyes warmed on her. “Trust you to think of that. SEALs are a family. The guys in my unit, other guys I’d worked with along the way, they helped me pull through. We don’t let one of our own wallow in self-pity. If I even thought about it, one of them was there to kick me in the ass, remind me of the ones who come back without both legs, paralyzed from the neck down or in a box. And if I was too pathetic, they’d pull out the big guns. They’d make me go hang out in the children’s cancer ward.”

She winced, and he nodded. “Yeah. Anybody who can pity themselves after seeing how those kids deal with things just deserves a headshot to put everyone else out of the misery of dealing with him.”

At her smile, he gave her one of his own. “So I made it work. Turning a loss into a win is one of the codes we live by.”

We. He didn’t speak like he was retired, but he’d called it a calling, and one never left behind a calling. She thought of him, though, his leg being cut away on an operating table, waking up to face how that changed his life. She was glad he’d had others to stand by him.

“You had a little bit of a limp that day, after you helped me at the gas station. But you’re not limping now.”

“Yeah. The prosthesis and the gait training I’ve had let me walk pretty normally. Only time you’ll notice anything is if I’ve overdone.”

“Like the gas station.” At his look, she shifted topics, recognizing the typical male desire not to linger too long on any perceived weakness. With private amusement, she expected that trait would be exacerbated considerably in a SEAL, retired or otherwise. “So, the Dom thing. When did you figure that out?”

“I don’t remember the exact day, but I remember some key pivotal moments.” He tilted his head, considering. “I was at a buddy’s barbecue. One of his neighbors was there with his spouse, and something about the way the two of them interacted caught my attention. Whenever the husband needed something—another beer, another plate of food, whatever—she would go get it for him. When she came back to him, she’d settle at his feet on a folded towel, like she was more comfortable sitting on the lawn. At different times, when he was talking to people, he’d have his hand on her shoulder, his thumb inside her shirt collar, playing with this pewter choker she was wearing. It nagged at me, as if I was seeing some kind of secret code happening, and of course that was exactly what was going on.”

She agreed, since she was attuned to those nuances herself.

“Other Doms told me figuring it out was like opening up this whole part of themselves that had always been there,” he continued. “Driving them in their real lives. When I looked back at the way I drove myself to excel in the SEALs, how I took charge of so many missions, how I was with my wife . . . SEALS are pretty much alpha personalities, and though that’s not a given for a Dom, we’re also trained to evaluate, to notice details, to follow as well as lead. It’s a balance, a give-and-take of power to accomplish the mission, and that give-and-take was something that was second nature to me. More than I realized.”

He shifted his legs into a more relaxed sprawl under the table, one that aligned his booted feet on either side of her chair. It put her in the center of his attention, and felt that way. They were getting close to five o’clock, and his movement suggested how closely he was tracking the time. The fact he kept his tone mild, conversational, only enhanced the underlying tension between their two bodies.

“I approached the guy later, eased into the subject matter, and he confirmed he and his wife were part of the D/s lifestyle. He directed me to a few reputable clubs, gave me some direction, and I went from there.”

His gaze moved from her face to her throat, sliding with casual pleasure over her upper body, down to her legs. “When we’re down range—on a mission—we’re in a hyperalert mode, a sustained intensity. Sometimes, when we get back, we have to hang out at a buddy’s house, defuse, until we’re fit for civilized society again. It’s not a good thing to evaluate everyone in Walmart as a target.”

“As tempting as that can sometimes be,” she said wryly.

“Especially during the busy times,” he agreed. That shadowed look returned to his expression. “When I retired, I threw myself into work, a million volunteer jobs, working like a reformed drug addict to fill the hours, but it didn’t ease the ache. You miss the adrenaline rush in a way that’s indescribable. I didn’t want to just rock climb or run a triathlon. I wanted something that felt meaningful to more than myself. The camaraderie, the bond between you and your team when you’re active, the way you depend on one another, it’s hard to replace that. You help take care of SEAL families while your buddies are deployed, hang out with them when they’re home, but it’s not the same.

“When I was evaluating a sub in a club environment, working with her, taking her to subspace, I found that quiet space inside, where I could be focused on every single detail, like when on a mission. Her well-being is completely in my hands. She’s depending on me to get her through it. And that bond brought it all together. Not the same, but enough to give me peace.”

Now he straightened, his hand dropping back over hers, fingers on her wrist. She went still, and he cocked his head. “For instance”—he stroked her wrist bones—“if you were tied, I’d notice your circulation, how the knots are tied. Your facial expressions, the acceleration of your heartbeat. Every single thing I do creates a reaction. If I lean forward, just a few more inches into your personal space”—he did so, bringing his face closer to hers—“your breathing changes, and the tension in your body increases. Staying aware of those details determines what my next step will be, how I’ll approach the next task, how to keep you safe, and deliver you to the end goal. Mission accomplished.”

When he eased back, she took a breath. He noticed that, too. He’d mesmerized her, as effectively as a snake charmer. She cleared her throat.

“Have you been involved with anyone since your wife?”

“Nothing serious.”

“Are you gun-shy?”

“On the contrary. I’m very comfortable with guns.”

She narrowed her gaze at him and his lips curved. “You’re the one who spooked about setting limits,” he pointed out. “Spouting off about paying me.”

“Spouting off?” She lifted a brow and the smile turned into a grin. It made him even more handsome. Then he sobered.

“I’ve already said I won’t agree to you turning this into a compartmentalized club session. You accepted that. Now you’re asking questions that are cycling back to that again. Will this be a relationship or simply about the Dom/sub stuff? The purpose of your question is to control the situation, define it. That’s not your job. You understand?”

The nebulous set of feelings she was letting out of a box that had always stayed closed seemed to understand. Yet he was correct; another part of her was uneasy and struggling with it, wanting to find some way to respond that put things on even ground between them, manageable, at her pace. Under her control.

Being at the mercy of the vacillation of her own mind was wearing on her nerves. She glanced at the carafe Lynn had left plugged in to keep the contents hot. “May I get you some coffee?”

She didn’t ask as a hostess. Perhaps she was testing his acuity, but if she was, he aced the test. “It’s ten minutes to five, Athena,” he said mildly. “Are you trying to move up the clock?”

She paused, then nodded. How would he react? Would he make her wait? “Please,” she said. Her voice had a tremor in it.

“No. Ten more minutes.”