Divine Solace (Nature of Desire 8)

When Lyda noticed, there was no mistaking it. The woman's gaze stopped full on her for a bated breath. Those silver eyes slid over her face, the cheeks Gen knew were flushed, down over her breasts, then to that shadowy place between her knees. Lyda pivoted, barked out a new set of combinations.

It thrilled her, Lyda's cursory acknowledgment of what Gen owed her as Mistress. But then Lyda aimed another look at Gen, lifted her hand, and brought her index and forefingers together, a clear direction to Gen to close her legs.

Swallowing, she did so. When the class launched into a combination that had them turning toward the back, she tried to assume Lyda had done it to protect Gen's modesty, but Gen knew it was more than that. The tightened jaw, the neutral flicker in the eyes, told her one gesture wasn't going to mend whatever she'd done last night. She wanted to fix it, to win back Lyda's approval...

The thought speared her with dismay, brought her up short. She'd wanted her mother's approval for so many things. Ironically, because her mother's expectations for Gen had been so low, she'd had no appreciation for the things that Gen accomplished, the things that mattered to Gen. If she was treating Lyda like some emotional maternal surrogate...

Sure, this had a sexual component to it, but the quagmire of the past could have a lot of different lures. Watching Lyda's unyielding expression, an unwelcome twinge of resentment disrupted Gen's arousal. As the class progressed, uncertainty jumped in as well. She wasn't going to do this to herself. She should leave.

When you most want to avoid her, that's when going to see her helps.

"That's it. Walk it off and get your butts to work. The lazy-assed rest of the population needs your hard-earned tax dollars."

At the good-natured retorts, Lyda grinned, the first time she'd showed warmth. She high-fived several fellow exercise nazis. As they dispersed, her gaze shifted to Gen. The smile disappeared. Tilting her head toward the door on the opposite side of the room, she moved toward it, disappearing from sight without waiting on her.

When Gen trailed after her, she found the door led into a private changing area for the instructors. Locker doors slammed on the other side of the wall, voices murmuring. The connecting door probably led to the public locker room.

"You look like you didn't sleep well," Lyda said. She'd stripped off the T-shirt and sports bra and was bending over a sink as she soaked a washcloth, applied soap to it to wash her upper body. Gen stared at the curve of her back, the bumps of her spine. She knew what women looked like under their clothes. It shouldn't be this fascinating. But this woman...it was. And Lyda wasn't even trying to be provocative.

"I'm sorry about last night. At the end. I'm not sure what I did wrong, but I know I did something. I didn't mean to piss you off."

When Lyda didn't immediately respond, uneasiness filled Gen. Straightening, Lyda met her gaze in the mirror over the sink. As she toweled herself off, her breasts moved with the vigorous motion. Lyda cleaned herself efficiently, every gesture packed with dense energy. Her nipples were dark and tight, the pale curves of her breasts probably damp and cool from the water.

"If you want to be Noah's Domme on a regular basis, he would be open to that transition. Especially if I order it."

She snapped her attention back to Lyda's face. "What?"

Lyda gave her a patient look. "All you have to do is ask, Gen. It's not in his best interest, long term, because you're not a Mistress. You're mostly a soft core sub, one who enjoys being an occasional top under supervision. We could plan some club sessions to keep it interesting for you both. You could send him back to me when you're done with it."

"'It' meaning him, or...?"

"Playing Domme." Lyda sounded so damn matter-of-fact about it.

"Do you categorize everyone, like one of your plants? Figure out the soil, fertilizer and sunlight I need, plant me where you know I'll flourish? Is that what you're doing with him? Finding the place to plant him?"

Setting the towel aside, Lyda turned and propped her hips on the sink. As she unclipped her hair and ran her fingers through it, she demonstrated no self-consciousness about her partial nudity. "Did you come to apologize or start a fight?" She lifted a brow. "Nice submissive posture out there, by the way."

"What do you want, Lyda?" Gen struggled to keep it even, rational. "I feel like you want something from me and I can't figure it out..."

"Nothing to figure out, Gen," Lyda said shortly. "When I want something from you, I tell you. You don't have to read my mind. I'm not some Oprah-watching, whiny excuse for a female beating myself up for my past mistakes and looking to blame them on someone else. I own what I have or haven't done with my life."

Anger surged at the direct hit. Gen took a step forward. "You don't treat me like I'm your equal. I don't like it."

"Every choice is yours, Gen." Lyda shrugged. "You don't like being around me, take your ass elsewhere."

"Would you care either way?" Like last night, the moment Lyda had called subdrop, Gen was flooded with too many things defying definition. Her usual penchant for safety, for simplicity, reasserted itself in her consciousness. Hey, remember me? I keep you from fucking up. But Lyda overrode that voice.

"Did hearing your husband declare undying love for you change the fact he wiped his shit on you like you were a doormat?" Lyda asked, eyes hard. "I can spout words for you, Gen, but if you can't feel the difference between us and that, then walk away. You're too damaged for this."

Just like that. Categorized, boxed and shipped. A red haze clouded her vision, burned her throat, choked her.

She'd slapped Amos once. The derision on his face had paralyzed her, concrete proof that whatever she'd imagined was love had never been that. It had spawned a rage so fierce, she'd picked an iron skillet off the stove and swung. She'd missed his head by a hairsbreadth. The derision had vanished and he'd scampered away like a guinea pig. If she'd connected, she could have killed him. The rage had scared her, but from then onward, she'd understood the term "crime of passion".

The thought flashed through her mind now, because she realized she'd closed the distance between them and actually lifted her hand. The hard quiver that went through her stirred emotions she was afraid to incite with further motion. Speak, scream. Say something before you do something horrible.

"It's not damaged. I'm confused," Gen snarled. "Give me room to breathe, to figure it out. Or give me something straight out without making it a game, damn you."

Lyda straightened off the sink. The graceful movement brought her toe-to-toe with Gen. Lyda lifted her own hand, manacled Gen's wrist with it. Holding Gen's gaze, she turned her face into Gen's palm, rubbed her temple to it, then pressed her lips to Gen's lifeline. All without breaking eye contact. Something trembled deep inside Gen, something even more wrenching. "Lyda..."