Unrestrained by Joey W. Hill

According to Jimmy, she was an accomplished Mistress. The irony was that skill came from being a down-to-the-bone submissive. Even so, actively performing as a submissive was going to be new to her.
    While he might have barked at another sub for trying to rush the clock, galvanizing her into the right mind-set with an immediate show of discipline, he understood the level of conflict she was experiencing at this juncture. It wasn’t yet time for heavy-handedness. The pacing needed to be as precise as the way he knew she’d pour him a cup of coffee. That was part of the pleasure of this, yet he felt an anticipation to it that was new to him. Sharper, sweeter—a sense that the stakes were higher. He wasn’t gun-shy about relationships with women. Just very, very selective.
    He shifted his chair so he could look out at the pond, study the view and the gardens. Ostensibly, he was ignoring her, treating her as part of the furniture, here for his use. Though he’d said they’d wait until five, it gave her enough of a taste of it to quiet if not calm her. Her fingers were in a knot in her lap. Without changing the direction of his gaze, he reached out, covered and untangled them, closing his hand around hers. He simply held it, rubbing his thumb over her cool fingers as the birds twittered and the clouds drifted across the sky.
    His watch ticked to the appropriate hour. He waited a solid thirty seconds, then spoke.
    “Bring me a cup of coffee.”
    She jerked at the sound of his voice, probably pulling herself out of frenetic, internal-narrative ping-pong, but then she composed herself, rising in that serene way she had. He noticed that she waited until he withdrew his hand to do it. Her undiluted natural instinct for submission was absorbing to watch. It was also a serious test of his self-restraint.
    Circling the table, she lifted the carafe. The faint tinge to her cheeks showed all that was going on beneath the surface. She poured the coffee, not spilling a drop, then brought it back to him, placing the cup and saucer before him. She’d remembered he took it black. Damn, she was going to kill him.
    She waited as he lifted it, tasted. Then he nodded at her. “Very good. You can sit down now. At my feet.”
    Just a brief hesitation, then she sank to her knees. His groin tightened, cock hardening so rapidly he’d have gotten dizzy if standing.
Jesus.
Yeah, a submissive like this could get him revved up, but even for that, his reaction to her was unexpectedly strong. If she could see how hot his blood was boiling, the things he wanted to do to her, she might run screaming. Or not. The thought of her embracing anything he threw at her only made things worse.
    He put his hand on her hair, stroked a lock, twined it in his hand. She didn’t put a lot of goop on it that made it stiff. It was fine and silky, with a natural wave from her face. He liked the brown-bird color, the way it had gleamed in the sun when she’d walked out of the garden toward him. She had a sexy walk as well, wearing that pencil skirt and heels in a way that turned a man’s thoughts to fucking, no help for it. All the more so because it was unintentional. She was one hundred percent class.
    “Seventeen hundred hours,” he said, reminding her. Then he waited.
    To his intense approval, she pulled the blouse from her waistband, revealing a creamy band of skin as she reached up beneath the shirt. Her back arched, breasts thrusting outward in involuntary display as she unhooked her bra, worked the straps down through her sleeves and pulled the whole thing free. She folded and handed it to him. His thumb slid over the inside of one of the cups, feeling the warmth her breast had left there, and then he lifted the garment, inhaling the fragrance left by her skin.
    She had to stand to accomplish part two of what he’d demanded, but as he gave her a nod to permit it and she rose, he caught her hand, stilling her. Her attention followed his, to where Lynn was