Nature Of Desire: Worth The Wait Part 3

Julie saw her friend's mind turning with possibilities and shook her head. "He knows I'm learning about the BDSM stuff. He offered to give me more information on the rope end of things. I guess he figures it's a good setting to talk about it."

"That was either a poorly executed lie or a badly thought out rationalization."

"I'll let you decide. But...um, while I'm on the subject, I told him I might be interested in letting him do some rope stuff on me. Purely to increase my understanding of the dynamics we'll be bringing to life on stage. I can trust him for that, right? No caveats?"

Madison straightened, her speculation going to full wattage, but it was Logan's instantly sharpened gaze that caught Julie's attention in a heartbeat. Yep, he and Marcus were right there together in uber-Dom land. Julie told herself she was not going to fidget like some school kid under a taskmaster's hawk-like scrutiny. And didn't that thought just spur the fantasy train about Madison's husband to full throttle?

But that was the interesting thing. She had a rich fantasy library on Marcus, and could add volumes with someone like Logan, but it was Des who'd been the first to make her want to cross the reality threshold. She didn't think it was because he was less overwhelming in that role or more manageable. She felt safe and not safe with him, both in the right ways. It was like finding a kid on the playground with whom you clicked for reasons you couldn't explain. Past life regression worked as well as any other idea. She and Des must have been BFFs in a foxhole in WWII together, or some such nonsense.

"Yes. You can trust him," Logan said, relieving her by not asking her anything she might not be able to rationalize without stammering. "We call him Spiderman because he has a relationship with rope like a spider does its web. Very intuitive, though that intuition has been built through years of practice. And he puts his sub first, always. You'll be totally safe with him. Safe as you want to be."

"Good." Julie ignored that last comment, and the gleam in Logan's eye, because she was sure he knew that last statement had caused a somersault of reaction. d.a.m.n Doms.

"Julie." Logan had stilled the swing as if by some kind of marital telepathy, so Madison could reach forward and touch her hand. "I agree with Logan, but when you decide to do this, if you'd feel more comfortable having an un.o.btrusive third party there, I'd be happy to do it. With a Dom like Des, you might find yourself going pretty deep into yourself. I know what you said, but I'm thinking you're feeling an attraction to him, and..."

"No need for any warnings," Julie said quickly. "I told him I don't do relationships. Remember, the Loser race is over. You got married and I retired from the sport. This is strictly for research. I'm not denying there's a personal component, but it's taking a backseat to the professional. That's the way I want it."

She diverted them onto a new topic. While she was sure she didn't fool them into thinking there was nothing else to talk about there, they were considerate enough to leave it be. The concern in Madison's caring eyes that met and held Julie's for an extra moment, told Julie her friend understood.

All well and good, because the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach reminded Julie of the common belief she and Madison had shared about their failed relationships. At least until Madison met Logan and left Julie alone with the feeling.

That belief was that the real loser in all her past relationships-and why they'd all failed-was herself.

The Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden was in Belmont, another one of the satellite towns that perched on the edges of Charlotte's urban sprawl. Julie enjoyed the pastoral scenery as she drove the rural route to get there. After traversing the winding driveway to the garden's parking area, she parked next to a bed of brightly colored tulips interspersed with other flowers she didn't recognize.

She'd been born with two black thumbs and a lack of pa.s.sion toward adding to the green world, but she liked flowers and greenery as much as the next person, and possessed a cheerful grat.i.tude toward those who created such places. The flowers edged the walkway up to a large hexagon-shaped building with a cupola on top, both created with lots of sparkling gla.s.s.

Des was waiting at the door. Despite the small handfuls of people walking in and out of the building, and all the sights of a new place to see, he stood out to her the second her eyes pa.s.sed over him. She was struck again by his singularity. Yesterday he hadn't fit her image of a Dom or roofing contractor, yet had conveyed his capabilities in both roles without doubt. Today he didn't fit the manicured entryway, against the backdrop of a building she was sure was a pricey wedding venue. The contrast only enhanced his appeal. A man of mystery, yet one with an open, inviting personality.

He'd seen her and was walking to meet her. His hair fluttered over his shoulders, thick and all the more touchable for having been brushed to a silken sheen. He was wearing a black b.u.t.ton-down shirt loose over blue jeans that, unlike yesterday's, weren't faded or stained with his builder's trade. It gave her the pleasing sense he'd dressed up for her. She admitted she'd chosen her outfit with more care, though she refused to a.s.sign any significance to it, since for the past few weeks torn jeans and old T-shirts had been her uniform.

When he came closer, she noticed from the rolled-up sleeves that Betty and Marilyn were gone, the temporaries scrubbed clean. She inhaled coffee and French vanilla from the cup he was carrying. That enticing scent would linger on his lips. She'd left her mug in the car, but evidently they each needed a caffeine kick start.

"Good morning," he said.

She could strike up conversations with total strangers on the subway. Success in her business was all about networking, and she'd made plenty of useful contacts due to her social skills. People fascinated her as a general rule, and genuine interest in another human being was a great way to make friends. Des seemed to possess a similar knack, his self-a.s.surance making her curious about how he'd acquired those qualities. When they'd met yesterday, she'd let that curiosity lead her, but now she felt defensive, closed.

She recognized it, and it baffled her, but she didn't seem able to turn it off. His proximity turned it up even higher.

"Good morning." Retrieving the file folder she was carrying under her arm, she waved it before he reached her, like a sword keeping him outside her personal s.p.a.ce. "I have a favor to ask before we get started, if you don't mind. It'll only take a minute."

It was a legitimate request, but she'd brought it to reinforce the message that she didn't want this to move too far from a professional relationship. Should she have come at all?

Why did she always second guess herself like this? Every f.u.c.king time she found herself edging toward a relationship with a guy, all the confidence she possessed to excel in every other aspect of her life deserted her like rats from a sinking ship.

"Sure," he said, appearing far more casual about it than she felt.

She sidled to his left side, opening the file to let him see. Thank goodness her head was dipped, so when she closed her eyes briefly to inhale his scent, he didn't notice. But he touched her back between her shoulder blades and slid down, a rea.s.suring stroke. Opening her eyes, she glanced up at him. He was looking at her, not the folder, and his brown eyes were thoughtful.

"You okay?" he asked. "You seem a little tense. I promise this will be fun. No stress. Unless you have a flower phobia."

She forced a laugh. "I'm fine. I guess I'm stuck in work mode. These past few weeks have been crazy."

"Okay. Let's take care of it, and then put it away for the next couple hours. All right?"

There it was, that tone of voice, the direct look, a subtle, enticing taking-of-control that put a nervous twitch in her hand. It made the folder shudder like a trapped b.u.t.terfly. His gaze shifted to it and she forced herself to stillness.

"Yeah, okay." She looked down at the folder contents as if she'd just affably agreed to something far more innocent. His hand remained on her back as he pressed closer to her to share her view. The heat of the full palm contact penetrated her thin, silky blouse, a jewel blue color. She'd kept her hair up in a ponytail, though she'd taken more care with it, arranging short wisps around her face. The thick tail had an abundance of curls that wouldn't turn to frizz until the day gained more humidity, so for now it was looking good. She'd refused to sh.e.l.lac it with hairspray. He might want to touch her hair, bury his fingers in it, tip her head back to put his mouth on her throat...

So much for the pretense that this was an arm's length, friendly exchange of information. For one thing, she was standing well within his arm span.

His fingers played with the end of the ponytail, making her think he was wrapping short curls over his knuckles as she showed him what she'd brought. She'd never let anyone touch her so intimately, so casually, so fast. She needed to tell him to stop, to reinforce what she'd told him on the phone. She hated being one of those women who said one thing but acted just the opposite, whose words were a smokescreen to cover what she really wanted.

Long and short of it, she didn't want to get hurt one more time. She was done with the slide along the rainbow that always dumped her into a pot of ice cold sludge.

That reminder recalled her to sanity. She sidled away from him, breaking the contact, and thrust the folder at him so he had to take it from her. There. If she had to get more direct about it, she would. Hands off. Her mind approved of her self-control even as her skin registered severe annoyance at the loss of his touch.

"I know New York prices. I don't know Charlotte's," she said. "These bids I collected for Madison on other work seem low to me, but would you mind taking a look before I turn them over to her? I don't want to waste her investors' money."

Des slid the small pack he was carrying on his shoulder to the ground and handed her his coffee. He paged through the folder, skimming the data on the thin sheets of yellow and pink paper, tear-offs from estimate pads. She curved both hands around the cup.

He closed the folder, took his coffee back and handed her the paperwork. "All of those are good, with the exception of Bolton. That bid is way over the top. Derrick does great work, but for that price, Jesus and Joseph better be your carpenters. It should be about thirty percent cheaper. My guess is he heard your Yankee accent and figured he could squeeze more out of you because he's from Jersey himself. He knows how high prices are there. I'll give him h.e.l.l for that next time I see him."

"Oh no. Don't you dare deprive me of the pleasure." She wrote down the percentage, tucked the pen into the folder and walked with him back to her car as she spoke. "I've negotiated at h.e.l.l's Kitchen flea market. When I'm done, he'll be paying me for the work."

Desmond's eyes warmed in appreciation. "I believe it. Now put the work away. The world can spare you for a couple hours."

"Okay, but if the zombie apocalypse breaks loose by lunchtime, it will be your fault for distracting me."

"I'll accept full responsibility for that. And fight at your side against the undead to the very end."

"What if one of them bites me, turns me into a zombie?"

"I will pick up your parts as they fall off and duct tape them onto your s.e.xy, rotting torso."

She chuckled and put the folder in the car. His teasing helped reduce the uneasy sense that she was giving up her armor before entering a battlefield. Locking the vehicle, she pivoted toward him. "Okay, I'm ready. Let's go look at pretty flowers."

"All right." As they walked companionably side by side toward the entrance again, he c.o.c.ked a brow at her. "I don't usually use this as a lead-in, but I'm guessing it's why you're so jumpy. You said no relationships. Care to explain that?"

She couldn't claim he was being too personal, since she'd brought up the subject, right? "I know I said that, and I hate it when people bring up something that's an obvious discussion point and then say they don't want to talk about it, but I'd prefer not to go into it. I just don't want to give you the wrong idea about why I'm here today. You're interesting and fun, and I wanted to spend more time with you and learn about the rope part. Is it okay to leave it at that?"

"Absolutely. But I'm going to hold your hand, because you look like you need it."

She should object, but his grip was strong, and she didn't feel caught. She felt like a bird who'd been cupped in his very safe palm.

He released her to toss his coffee in the trash and hold open the front door. Inside the lobby, he approached a large horseshoe reception desk and handed the lady a ticket he must have bought before Julie had arrived. When she offered to pay her fair share, he shook his head. "I have a season pa.s.s here, and I get guest tickets at a discount. I'll treat."

"I'll buy lunch."

"No need. I rarely have a date outside a rope session, so paying your way gives me the chance to feel manly. Come on. There's so much beautiful stuff here, you'll fit right in."

He b.u.mped her body at the compliment, a gentle flirtation. He was trying to help her relax. She was impressed by his non-pushy intuition, and annoyed at herself for being in need of it. It really had been a while since she'd tread in these waters, and she hadn't expected to be so weighed down by the millstones of the past. She could call this not a date all she wanted. They both knew what it was. The heated energy between their two bodies, the sure clasp of his hand on hers, and the little dance inside her when he implied she was beautiful, were all proof of it.

He'd also caught her attention with the rare date comment. Another common ground for them, though she wondered what his reasons were for not dating, when he was so wonderfully, despicably good at it.

"How about before we go to the orchid area, I show you around the park some? I a.s.sume you haven't been here before. It's also probably smart to scope the terrain so when those zombies come, we'll know the best defendable ground."

"A man who plans for the worst. I appreciate that." Her hand involuntarily-so she told herself-tightened on his and he gave her that smile that made her feel like she'd be okay with him. He was going to be kind.

Kindness had become the quality she valued most in a relationship, one that was far too rare. Though she was well aware of the conflict in her nature that craved a pa.s.sion that wasn't always kind, that would be edgy and demanding, she knew wanting both was like p.i.s.sing in the wind. When the choice had to be made, kind was the better option. She'd learned that lesson.

For the next hour, he gave her an unhurried tour of the outdoor garden areas that he seemed to enjoy as much as she did, despite his familiarity with them. The Ca.n.a.l Garden was a long, rectangular koi pond with a fountain display where sparkling arches of water ran all the way along its length. The Lost Hollow, the children's garden, enchanted her. It included what Des dubbed the Troll Cave, a stone hollow underneath a wooden bridge with square rock seats where the kids could sit and enjoy the coolness. With a little stooping, it worked for adults, too, so she sat with him under there. Des amused her by singing high note choruses from Air Supply songs to demonstrate the acoustics.

They visited the Serpentine and Ribbon Gardens, then looped back to the White Garden, a sheltered courtyard decorated with beds of white flowers. Tall, slender-stemmed dancing flowers, thick ground covers and medium-sized cl.u.s.ters were interspersed with the variegated greenery.

Throughout his tour, they talked about different topics. Initially about their surroundings, then what gardens she'd visited up in the New York area, and the tomato plants she'd attempted to grow on her tiny window balcony in New York. If she hadn't forgotten to water them, and the cat upstairs hadn't discovered them and used them for a litter box while she was caught up in her long theater hours, she was sure the poor things could have supplied the metropolis with tomatoes.

He asked her about hobbies and she confirmed the theater was her main pa.s.sion. She found out he didn't watch much TV and preferred music, which launched a discussion of favorite songs, bands and music periods.

During all that, he kept holding her hand. He'd drop it periodically to ill.u.s.trate a point, or change hands as they shifted around one another on the garden paths, but inevitably, their bodies would b.u.mp and the hands would relink. She began to wonder if it was him doing it, or both of them, because it seemed so natural to let her hand find his and their fingers intertwine. As he spoke to her, he kept leaning in, brushing her shoulder and body with his hip, a casual intimacy that heightened her awareness of his proximity in an unsettling way, while simultaneously making her more comfortable with his touch.

It was when they were in the White Garden, surrounded by the lacy purity of those flowers, that she realized she was reclaiming her sense of herself. She was also feeling lighter, no longer carrying around the past relationship worries she'd had in the parking lot.

"So how old are you?" she asked. "You look like you're twenty-five, but you're more mature than any twenty-five year old I've ever met."

"I'm old enough to drink, though I don't."

"Does that have to do with why you check your blood sugar? I a.s.sumed you have Type II diabetes."

"Type I, but yeah. Most diabetics can drink, at least in moderation. I'm just not one of them." He sat down on one of the benches and looked up at her. "But I don't really like to talk about that. Not just for the sake of curiosity."

"Oh." That stung a little, but since he said it so matter-of-factly, she told herself not to take it as a personal jab. She was surprised to hear he was Type I, but it explained why he didn't fit the expected profile for a Type II diabetic. She wanted to respect his feelings, but she hoped he'd let her have one follow up. "Is it okay if I ask why you feel that way?"

"Sure." His casual shrug relaxed her again. "I was diagnosed at six years old, after a near fatal case of DKA. Diabetic ketoacidosis," he added. "It wasn't the only health problem I had, so a lot of other s.h.i.t went along with that. For too long I wasn't a person. I was symptoms and medications and what did I eat today, and have you tested your blood sugar, and endless lectures. 'Des, experimenting with drugs or alcohol could kill you.' And they didn't mean it like you say it to normal kids. It was: 'A couple drinks or try that pill, and kaput. End of you.' Blah blah blah."

He shook his head. "I didn't ever care about being in the drug scene or getting drunk, but the endless hyperawareness was like being a specimen in a jar, no matter where I was or who I was with."

"Wow." She sat down next to him. "That would suck for anyone, but especially for a kid. I get it. I'd never want to talk about that again. I'm surprised you don't carry a sign that says, 'You can ask me about my diabetes if I can twist off your left nipple.'"

He laughed. "I hadn't thought of that. I'll get a few T-shirts made up." He considered her, then he shifted to lift the tail of his black shirt. On his belt he had a wallet holding something that looked like a pager. However, a tube, thin as pencil lead, was connected to it, the other end inserted into his abdomen several inches above his belt. The tube was held in place by a round piece of adhesive tape. Despite her curiosity about the set-up, she couldn't help noticing he had a very well-defined abdomen.

"When you want to touch me"-his gaze met hers- "I didn't want this to startle you. It's an insulin pump." He tapped the pager-looking device. "You don't have to worry about dislodging the cannula just by b.u.mping it. The cannula's the tube part. The adhesive over the injection site is so strong I have to have prescription wipes to remove it."

He was suggesting he antic.i.p.ated her touching him, something she rather antic.i.p.ated herself, despite any pointless admonitions to the contrary. She wanted to trace the muscles of his abdomen now, brush her fingertips over the arrow of silky hair between them.

"So you can shower in it and everything?"

"Shower, sweat like a roofer. It's not moving." He flashed her a smile. "Though I sometimes remove the pump when I do roof work because I burn through so many calories I don't have to worry about insulin. I can use other pieces of tape to hold the connector to my body, unless it's a day when I'm moving the injection site, and then I just remove it all together and check my numbers more often."

He'd made the decision to tell her, but she could tell he was ready to move on, so she glanced up at him through her lashes. "If I asked to touch it as an excuse to fondle those awesome abs of yours, would you be okay with that?"

"Well, I told you about it because I wanted to avoid a clinical discussion during a pa.s.sionate moment. It sounds like you're right on board with my unsubtle plan to get you to touch me as much as possible."

His tone was teasing, but mild, as if he antic.i.p.ated her flipping back to gun-shy again. She was sure he could feel the chemistry between them as strongly as she could. The only way that chemistry wasn't going to trigger something between them was if she bolted.

The look in his eyes as his attention dropped to her mouth and slid down over her torso to her hands wasn't conducive to that move, because his expression was no longer kind. He'd mixed his gentle tone with the gleaming edge she craved, and she was losing ground fast.

Her clever wit deserted her and, when his hand closed over hers, she was tense. He didn't pull her hand toward him. Instead, he shifted his grip to her wrist, holding her as his fingers slid over her pulse, stroked her forearm. She kept her gaze on his throat as he brought his other hand to her face, caressing her cheek. His thumb moved over her lips to her chin, exploring her. She closed her eyes, absorbing his touch.

The breeze wafted through the courtyard, the sun a mild heat on a partially cloudy day. The flowers offered a mixed musk of light fragrance, deep earth, nourishing fertilizer.

At last he drew her hand to him, sliding it up under his shirt. She touched the tube and round adhesive lightly, his grip still guiding her, and then she caressed his abdomen on her own as his hand loosened and he let her do as she wished. He returned to his absorption with her face, fingertips gliding over her cheekbone, back down over her lips, around the back of her neck to thread through her ponytail as she dipped her head, brushing her ear and cheek against his hand.

His abdomen was muscular, but not so overly pumped that it was more rock than flesh. He was a manual laborer, and she liked the way that translated into layers of muscle and warm skin. She pressed her fingertips into it like she would firm, damp clay. As she did that, she also felt small hard lumps beneath the skin.

"Scar tissue," he told her, as her fingers quested. "Over time, the pump causes that. They don't hurt."

His grip returned to her wrist, and he drew her touch away from him, holding their fingers loosely linked on his knee. She opened her eyes, and he glanced toward the entrance to the garden, a subtle pointing. A group of chatting Red Hat ladies were wandering into the White Garden.

"Thirsty?" Des asked as she took in the delightful array of purple and red hat designs, embellished with velvet, feathers and sparkling brooches. "We could grab a drink from the cafe before we walk over to the Conservatory."

"That sounds great."

They rose and he escorted her through the main lobby to the cafe to get them both a drink, her a soda and him a flavored water. Finding an outdoor table with a peaceful overview of the Four Seasons garden, they settled in. They sat across from one another, and Des slid his long legs out so his calves bracketed one of hers, rubbing companionably against it.

She locked her fingers around her soda. Neither of them had said a word about what they'd just done, what it meant. He seemed as comfortable now as he'd been before they'd entered the White Garden. She didn't want to be the idiot who had to put a label on it, dress it up, make it anything beyond...feeling. Words ruined things. It had felt s.e.xy, stirring, comforting. Time had stopped and things had balanced, while all the right things somersaulted and tilted. Maybe this was all part of him acclimating her to a future rope session together. That would make sense, right? No need to make more of it than that.

"You know," she said. "You've totally ruined my chance to talk about my traumatic adolescent experiences. Training bra woes, dealing with the cattiness of Paula Winfield and her letter girl squad. Pimples. All that sounds so trivial compared to facing death at six years old."

His eyes sparkled. He had thick, dark lashes, and his eyebrows were ebony thickets she wanted to trace and smooth. "You're right, it was selfish of me to bring it up," he said. "But you can still tell me. I'll make sympathetic noises. And if you and the letter girls had a fight in the locker room where everyone was half naked, I will listen very attentively. So what was wrong with Paula? Was she too pretty?"

"It wasn't that. It was what was under the melts-in-your-mouth, not-your-hand, candy coating. That wasn't pretty at all. "

Des took a sip of his water and nudged a Ziploc bag of snack mix he'd pulled out of his pack toward her. It appeared to be a combination of pretzels, cereal and nuts.

"I've never heard a woman compared to a peanut M&M."

"Women are plain M&M's." She took a handful of the mix. "Men are peanut ones. For obvious reasons. Did you make this, too?"

"Yeah. It's pretty easy." He crossed his arms on the table, leaning forward, his lips quirked at her M&M observation, she was sure. She realized she was in a similar position toward him, creating an intimate triangle of body language.

She drew back and cleared her throat. "All right, I promise I'm not obsessing about work, but I'm too curious not to ask some questions about the Dom thing. Is that okay?"

He c.o.c.ked his head, his lips unsmiling and eyes intent upon her, capable of waking up every part of her body. She wasn't usually this easy of a mark. He was a roofer who dressed like a homeless surfer, and, and, and...

"It's okay to ask." He interrupted her internal redundant babbling, thank G.o.d.

"From the stuff I've read, each Dom and sub seem to have a sense of who they are, deeper layers of meaning. The more I understand those layers, the better scenes I can help create. So tell me what kind of Dom you are. "