He was there. He stood, waiting for her, talking to Richard, the front doorman for The Zone.

Just seeing him there made her feel like a sailboat catching an evening wind. Certain parts tightening up, others loosening as the sails strained forward eagerly with the wind. The captain relaxed at the helm, knowing she could ride this tack for awhile, just enjoying the beauty of what lay before her. Leave the cares of land far behind.

The last two times she'd left him, he'd been pretty much naked. But even seeing him in clothes-the black jeans he seemed to favor and a blue dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows-made her instantly, noticeably wet. The way he stood, leaning against a column of the entranceway, arms crossed over his chest. He smiled at something Richard said, and she let out a soft gasp as her pussy vibrated in response. Maybe she should have used one of her toys this week. She'd gone from work stress mode to high arousal mode with barely a pause in between. She knew what those silky curls on his head felt like now, twining over her fingers, and she wanted to be touching them. Black, silver and white. He would smell good, as he had the past two times; soap, a touch of aftershave or cologne, and heat. That heat had its own scent. If they could extract an oil from it, they'd have an aromatherapy candle any woman would want.

The sun had not yet set, and so he wore sunglasses, which just drew attention to his mouth, the strong jaw, the smooth beard. She wanted to see his eyes.

He turned his head and though he shouldn't have even noticed her, his attention slid into the parking lot of the convenience store, found her and her car in a matter of several seconds. He said something to Richard. The other man grinned, offered an appropriate male gesture of farewell. Then Mac was walking toward her.

She couldn't help smiling at him as he crossed the street, and she kept smiling, an easy thing to do, until he stopped at her open car window, leaned in. He took in her casual appearance, a snug pair of blue jeans and deep hunter green placket shirt. "You look like you have a secret." He touched his finger lightly under her chin.

"I do, Mackenzie. You're it. Take off the sunglasses."

And because it pleased her to do it, the moment he complied, she curled her fingers in the open neck of his shirt, brought him in for a kiss, a touching of lips that she deepened, or maybe he did. Their tongues tangled, and she felt the heat of it rush up from her toes to the point of fusion, energizing every part of her, erasing any weariness or stress she'd carried from the mundane world. His hand came up, cradled her face, his fingertips in her hair in a romantic, protective gesture she liked very much. When she broke the kiss, she was smiling still.

"I missed you," she said, and his eyes crinkled in an attractive way, returning her grin. They were looking at each other like a pair of foolish teenagers, and though she knew she should be appalled, she wasn't. She was just...happy. Excited.

When she lifted her leg over the gear shift and moved into the passenger seat, she could tell she'd surprised him. "I want you to drive. If you can handle a stick."

He laughed then, and it coated her like melted chocolate, a warm sound. She wondered if he had any idea how deeply sexual a creature he was. Not the prettiest or most handsome man she'd ever seen, but beautiful and sexual in the way predators were. Mesmerizing.

He opened the door and slid one leg in, ducking his head to take the pilot's seat of the black Stealth. He gave her a sidelong glance, and she leaned over, reached down between his legs and released the seat lever so it eased back, making room for his longer frame. Taking her hand back over his leg, she caressed his thigh with her palm, enjoying the feel of the hard body beneath the denim.

"Talk about a ticket magnet," he observed, familiarizing himself with the controls and readjusting the mirrors.

"I have a Fraternal Order of Police sticker," she informed him, poker-faced. "I give regularly."

"Mmm-hmmm. I'm sure that stops them from pulling your ass over."

She grinned, reached over and took the sunglasses from the open collar of his shirt where he had hooked them, put them back on his face. "Just shut up and drive. Take I-75 to state road 48. It's not the most direct route, but it will be less traffic."

When Mac glanced over a moment later, she had taken a brush out of her purse and removed the wig. He missed a gear and winced at the resulting complaint from the engine. Fortunately, a stop light caught them at the next major intersection so he could turn and look at her without risking both their lives.

Short, sassy auburn hair curled wildly around her face and stopped just above her shoulders, enhancing the impression of a forest fairy he'd had when he first saw her. She looked toward him with that big, beautiful violet gaze, and he felt his heart skip a beat and stumble, just as he'd made the engine do. "What color are your eyes?"

She rummaged in her purse again, withdrew a lens case. She pulled the contacts from her eyes, put the case away, then blinked at him with irises that were a soft blue like the Caribbean, so close to the lavender of the contacts he suspected they were more enhancement than a different color.

"The light, Mackenzie," she said gently.

He jerked his attention back to the road when the guy behind them blared his horn. He missed another gear accelerating. She raised a brow. "Are you sure you've driven straight gear before?"

He chuckled. "Sugar, last time I drove one, there were a lot less distractions. You've got to give me a moment to catch up."

She smiled, and he could tell his reaction pleased her. "So, what do you drive?"

"I've got a pickup for hauling and a bike for everything else. A Honda VTX."

She frowned. "Motorcycles are very unsafe."

He shot her a pointed glance. "And I suppose you got this thing so you could drive Miss Daisy around?"

She relented. "A motorcycle, hmm? Those long legs with all that power between them." She ran her nail down his thigh and his cock tightened against the crotch of his jeans. "Will you take me for a ride sometime?"

He grinned. "Sure."

"Will you let me drive?"

"You got a bike license?"

"No."

"Then, no."

"Oh, that's just an excuse. You just don't want me handling your wheels."

He looked her up and down. "You can handle anything you want of mine, sugar, but when we get to the bike, that's in the same territory as marriage."

"Have you ever been married?"

Violet knew the answer, even before he shook his head. Not her slave. She was sure he'd never let a woman get that close. And it made her woman's heart wonder why, though she suspected she already knew a large part of the reason.

"Want to explain that?"

"I can't." His gaze shifted, and his voice was quiet, telling her he wasn't avoiding the question. "It has to do with some things I just can't talk about."

"Ever?" She reached out, touched his face so he would look her way.

"Not yet," he said.

"An honest answer, so I can live with that. "

They drove in companionable silence for some time, and she enjoyed watching the capable way he navigated the car through Tampa's traffic to the interstate, the way he shifted gears, the movement of his long legs as he maneuvered the brake and clutch. Actually, she thought she could make a pastime out of just watching him. He was aware of her intent stare, she could tell, but he handled it well, his sub training kicking in so that he did not try to make conversation. That would have intruded upon her obvious, deliberate perusal and been considered rude.

Nevertheless, her scrutiny aroused him. She could tell by the flicker of his eyes, the press of his lips, the occasional swallow that moved the muscles of his throat. It wasn't until they merged into the interstate that she relented and broke the silence.

"Would you like to turn on some music?"

"Sure."

She opened the console, held up a handful of CD's for his inspection.

"Smashmouth? Matchbox 20? Avr...Avril Lavig...Ay-ya-ya-ya."

"Avril Lavigne," she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Well, thank God." He plucked out one of the choices. "At least you have a Credence Clearwater Revival tape."

"I'm sure my father probably left that in here."

"Brat."

"Old fogey."

She considered him as he put in the CD, the teasing look in his eyes doing amazing things to her pulse rate. "How old are you, Mac?"

"Depends on the day."

"Mackenzie."

He glanced at her, relented. "Forty-three. You?"

"I turned eighteen a month ago, I swear."

He let out a low whistle. "Well, you're out of luck then, sugar, because I only date high school girls." He lifted her hand, pressed an open-mouthed kiss on her knuckles that shivered through her. "I'd guess twenty-seven."

"Would it make you happy, me being that much younger than you?"

"You make me happy just being near me, sugar. But if I'm right, it would scare the shit out of me."

She smiled. "I'm thirty-two. And I know what scares the shit out of you, Mac." She leaned forward, pressed her lips to his neck. "It's not my age."

Chapter 8.

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 secluded 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 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 working 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 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 haven'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 that 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.