Unrestrained by Joey W. Hill

make the world a better place, they’d do it again.
    But this wasn’t like that. It wasn’t even comparable to how she’d been a Mistress to Roy. Then she’d had his pleasure uppermost in her mind. Dale was asking her to treat this as an exercise, no one to please or understand but herself. She had no precedent for that.
    From his demeanor, she was sure that any attempt to politely distance herself from the situation would be met with a frank response that left her as vulnerable as if she were sitting naked at the Garden Club. She heard the clank of the collar and tags of one of the dogs scratching outside.
    She’d faced unexpected situations where she needed to adapt, evaluate and organize her response quickly. She could think on her feet. That, and the earlier feeling, the one that made her think she could tell Dale anything she was thinking, gave her the courage to test these waters, to see if she was right about what she was truly wanting.
    She slid off the stool. The shed wasn’t large, but she could circle him at close quarters. He was beautiful. Sculpted with hard muscle, as she anticipated. He had some scars. When she was behind him, she lifted her hand over one, but she didn’t touch him. Her fingers hovered several inches from a mark that was likely caused by a bullet. She’d noted there was a similar one on his front side, somewhat lower. It had punched through him from a vantage point above, perhaps from a window. Or maybe from the ground, an enemy trying to deflect his charge. The thought of him facing that made her anxiety about this seem absurd.
    Did he have scars below the denim as well? If he did, they hadn’t hampered him last night when he threw her attacker onto her car hood.
    With his shirt off, the jeans belted so they sat at his waist, his ass was molded nicely by the fit. She imagined catching her fingers in his belt loop, closing the area between them to dare one kiss between his shoulder blades. She’d press her body against his so the curve of the firm buttocks pressed against the tight coil happening in her abdomen.
    “You can touch me, Athena.”
    His permission perversely made her draw her hand back to herself. She returned to his front. When she looked up into his face, he was regarding her with that unsmiling look. Her legs quivered, and she realized she was feeling a little lightheaded. She should move back to the stool. Instead, she sank down to her knees in front of him, wanting to study and absorb him from this angle. Feel.
    As a girl, she’d gone to see
Saturday Night Fever
with her mother. She recalled the opening scene, where John Travolta was clad in nothing but a pair of snug dark briefs while styling his hair. The camera angle had been shot from the floor, practically from between his feet. The girls in the audience had squealed at the provocative angle. Her mother had laughed at their reaction.
    To capture that view, the camera person had to be kneeling, looking up at him. What if, when the scene was over, the person on their knees stayed there, until he reached down and bade her to rise? Even at that tender age, the idea had captivated Athena. As it did now.
    She put a light-as-a-feather hand on Dale’s right leg, above his knee. Her gaze coursed up the terrain of his powerful thighs, to the curve of cock and testicles beneath the denim. He didn’t wear his jeans tight, but they held to his shape and moved with his body as needed. Just right. She slid her attention to his belt and the layers of muscle above, then lifted her eyes to his chest. He had a mat of fine dark hair, not too thick, but not thin or nonexistent, either. She had friends who tittered over bare-chested twentysomethings, even as they laughed at themselves for ogling men so much younger than themselves. Such men were pretty of course, but a mature man that looked like this would steal her attention any day.
    Roy had no patience for the idea of men going to stylists and fussing over their appearance,