She’d helped him understand that.
Quite a woman.
Quite a Domme.
After she’d spent Friday night with him, he’d fed her breakfast the next morning. And with his usual impeccable timing, Z had called to check on him, to tell him to take Saturday night off from the Shadowlands…and that Anne didn’t need to come in either.
So Ben had talked her into going to St. Pete’s Vinoy Park for the Tampa Bay Blues Festival. Curtis Salgado. The Bluetones. The inspiration had been an unexpected win. Who would have guessed she played a saxophone—and loved the blues?
Who would have guessed she would have known his photography work? That had been a hell of a rush.
And today, since she was curious about how photographers worked, she’d been easy to coax into a long hike at Honeymoon Island so he could set up shots with the mangrove backdrop before the afternoon showers. The light right before a storm couldn’t be duplicated.
Anne had no trouble keeping up with him—she was certainly in shape—and while he’d been taking pictures, she’d thrilled Bronx by playing fetch with him.
With his toes, Ben rubbed the retriever sacked out at his feet. During an early counseling session, Z had told him to get a big friendly dog. The idea hadn’t been appealing in the least. So one day, Z had dropped off a puppy—and left while Ben was still protesting.
Manipulative bastard.
But it’d been impossible to stew at home when the puppy had to be taken for walks. And taught not to eat boots and picture frames. And fed and watered. Difficult to be morose when a game of stick-throwing—or just coming home—would send the furball into a dance of delight.
Although no longer a frisky puppy, Bronx had turned into a damn fine friend.
And Bronx thoroughly approved of Anne.
Me, too, buddy.
Ben rubbed his jaw against her silky hair, inhaling the light floral scent. Her skin was so delicate he could see the faint blue lines at her temples and under her eyes. She hadn’t worn makeup today. Her eyelashes weren’t black, but a dark brown. He wanted to feel that thick fringe brushing against his cheek.
She’d been an excellent companion all weekend—fun to talk with, fun to hike with, pulled her own weight. While he’d packed his photography gear, she’d made the sandwiches they’d taken in a cooler. When he cooked supper, she’d done the clean up.
To his surprise, she’d not stayed in her Domme armor all weekend.
Of course, she’d slip into the role if he pushed her. Or when she felt like messing with his head.
And he totally enjoyed the added zing when she did. Oh yeah. When she got that look in her gunmetal blue eyes and her voice took on that low tone of command, his blood sizzled and his cock jumped to attention.
Because he was submissive. That sure wasn’t a term he’d figured would ever apply to him. He gave a half-laugh that roused his woman.
His Mistress.
Well, whatever the fuck he called her, she was his.
She blinked up at him, half-irritated, her eyes still foggy with sleep, her mouth too fucking appealing.
By the time he’d kissed the annoyance off her lips, she was awake.
After turning to straddle him, she took his face between her palms. “What were you laughing about?”
“Nothin’ important.”
“Benjamin.” She slid into the Domme mode within one breath. And there his body went, responding with pleasure and arousal…and a heightened urge to make her happy.
Submissive. Fuck. “Thinking about dominance and submission. You’re a Domme. Not sure I like calling myself a submissive”—and definitely not a slave—“even though I get off on this.”
“Ah.” She lowered her ass onto his thighs. As her hands flattened on his chest, her gaze stayed on his face. “It’s an insulting word in our culture, especially when applied to a guy.”
She looked away. Thinking. “All humans—men particularly—strive for power, and in our society, that usually means management positions. CEOs. Presidents. But not everyone enjoys being in command.”
“Yeah. I’m more of a loner—photography gives me that.” He kissed her palm. “But you like giving the orders. I can see it.” She practically glowed when she was in full Mistress mode.
“I do like it. I started topping my last year in the Corps. An older friend in my battalion showed me the ropes, so to speak. Something…clicked…and I knew I’d found what had been missing in my life. ”
“You’ve been a Domme for well over a decade.” Or closer to fifteen years. No wonder she seemed so comfortable with who she was.
“Mmmhmm. You know, you’re certainly not the only soldier who enjoys being taken under command. In the army, did you want to lead the troops or were you happy to take orders?”