by Joey W. Hill
“If it’s laced up, I can’t get it off fast.”
She pushed away from the doorway then. Even in her bare feet, she was as much a temptress as Medusa, making a man want to look at her, no matter the consequences. She put her hand on his wrist, moving the hand holding the mask out of her way to press against him. He’d donned his jacket for the ride, and now she slid her arm under it. Her fingers caressed the nine millimeter in the shoulder holster, then slid down his rib cage, to the pocket of his khakis. Dipping in there, she stroked his upper thigh and came back with a folded knife. He caught hold of her wrist as she brought it up between them, anticipating when she depressed the spring and the blade snapped out, wicked sharp, between them.
“You could cut the laces pretty quickly with this, but there won’t be a need. This is just you and me. No threat, no danger. You’ll be giving up control to me, obeying my will, performing this task to my satisfaction. Much like you did for your instructors. Giving them everything to earn their pleasure, their respect.”
Imagining his hard-edged BUD/S instructors as Dominatrices, complete with boots and corsets, was an image he didn’t necessarily want planted in his head, but it did loosen some of the tightness in his chest. He saw a smile flirting around her lips, a reassurance with the demand.
“I want something in return.” He folded the knife, returned it to his pocket. She kept one hand light on his chest, her other hooked on his belt. She was so close, but he could feel that dense energy between them, a wall she wasn’t yet ready to let down. It was intense, being this close to her and yet feeling held back by her will alone. He could shove through it, but he knew which doors were to be kicked down and which ones worked better with a knock.
She cocked her head. Waited, those dark eyes a seductress’s tool.
“I want you to let your hair down. I want to see it before you blind me.”
“Samson and Delilah.” But she hesitated at the thought, glanced up at him. “I won’t betray you, Max.”
“I know that.” He touched her hair. “I’ve often thought there was more to that story. I think she loved him, and they forced her to betray him, or tricked her into it. It probably destroyed her as much as it did him, in the end.”
“I won’t be tricked or forced. Not ever.”
“No. Not you. And not me either.” He gave her a significant look, and her lips curved in response. It made him want to bite her bottom lip. Instead, he waited, his fingers tightening on the satin face mask as she reached up, drew out the clips that held her hair. It tumbled down, a lovely set of waves and curls, all the way to her waist. He threaded his fingers through it, drew part of it over her right shoulder. He brought it to his face, nuzzling it with his lips. Her fingers tightened on his belt, and her head dipped, her crown brushing against his cheek, a gesture of intimate affection. Taking a deep breath, he resisted every urge he had to kick that door down, and gripped the hand at his belt, transferring the mask to her other one. Then he stepped back. “Will you leave it down?”
She nodded. “At least until we go to class. I need it out of the way for that.”
He was tall and she wasn’t, so it didn’t take much thinking to decide what to do to make it easier for her to put the mask on him. But he well understood the significance of him doing so.
He dropped to his knees.
Chapter Six
The expression on her face was overwhelming, overpowering. Sometimes, like this, he felt as if he was standing inside her. Her reaction to his willingness to surrender was something that stopped his mind, made him accept—at least in this moment—that there were things they drew out of one another that couldn’t be defined, classified. Things he hadn’t considered ever giving to a woman. For her part, she’d taken the time and care to research a significant aspect of who he was, tied her own desires to things familiar to him, challenges he’d met. It was diabolical, unexpected…and entirely impossible for him to resist.
She moved behind him. In bare feet, she had the walk of a ballerina, leading with a pointed toe, an arched foot, as if she was treading across the stage to begin a performance, and he expected she was. As she stepped over his bent legs, the toe of the non-leading foot slid across his calf, an intentional caress. She put the mask on his face, leaning forward to ensure the placement of the nose and mouth holes. The fabric stretched, allowing adjustment. Her hair fell onto his shoulder as she bent over him, and he lifted his hand to stroke a thick strand of it, drawing it out straight.
She was lacing the back of the mask. As it tightened over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, around the corners of his mouth, it reminded him of the hood of a diving suit. He had a picture of himself in one of those, without the diving mask that usually went over it. His sister had told him it looked like the coif a knight wore beneath his mail.
That shit had no place here. He’d intended to release Janet’s hair, let it ease back into its natural wave. Instead, at the thought, his grip tightened.
Janet’s hand overlapped his, held. “Put your hand at your side,” she said unobtrusively. “It’s all right. This will make you feel things, Max. It always does.”
He’d question how she could tell things had taken an odd turn for him, but he expected it was the same way snipers did it. He’d done some of that in Iraq. He wasn’t the best at it, not his go-to skill, but every SEAL knew how to perform adequately at five hundred yards. He’d watched and improved from the guys who had a natural talent for it, and quickly discovered an exceptional sniper was about more than marksmanship. From hundreds of yards away, they would gauge the intent of a potential enemy from his body language alone, determining if he was carrying a bomb on the back of his bicycle or just pedaling groceries home to the family. Every movement meant something.
He put his hands at his sides, focused on how she felt, her hands working along the back of his skull, her leg pressing against his side. When she was done, she spread her fingers over his face, let them whisper over his blindfolded eyes, his cheeks, tease his lips. He kissed them, brushing his mouth over her polished nails. She lingered there, let him keep nuzzling her knuckles, take nips of her flesh. She pressed her body closer against his back, telegraphing her elevated response. The mask was like a second skin, the thin barrier and the removal of his sight ironically increasing his sensitivity to her lightest touch on his face.
“On your feet. I’ll guide you into the bedroom.”
She hadn’t let him see the bedroom, so he was entering unfamiliar terrain. It had her scent though, that female mix of the things she wore. Lotions, lip gloss. He also smelled apples. She’d taken his hand as he got to his feet, and stayed at his side, her other hand on the small of his back, their bodies overlapping to get through the door. She remained that close as they entered the room, likely to keep him from running into anything. He was reminded of the one or two ballet productions he’d seen in his life, where partnered dancers crossed the stage in such a way. One technically guiding the steps of the other, one to lead, one to follow, but that could reverse in a heartbeat, if the dance required something different. SEALs could both lead and follow, adapting to change as needed.
She guided his hand to a carved wooden post. “This is my bed. The clothes I wear to class are lying on it. You must dress me in each piece, and get it exactly right. When you’re done, I’ll remove the mask. Unlike your instructors, I won’t be timing you, but you will get points for style.”
The comment came with a faint trace of humor and sexual tension. It made the room seem warmer, closer. Having no ability to see increased his focus on her voice all the more, but in a way it was no different than when he had her in the back of the limo with Matt or one of the other men. Max listened to the rise and fall of her voice, the emotions knitted into every sentence. Humor, exasperation, admonishment. Her intelligence and insight during serious discussions. It was how he’d figured out she had no accent, no tell that placed her in a particular part of the country.
There was a riveting qualit
y to her voice as well. Until now, he hadn’t been able to clearly define what it was, but here it was unleashed and obvious. A sharp sexual confidence, capable of drawing a man to her like the laces drawing the mask tight against his face. It was also potent enough to keep a man at arms’ length when needed. I can give you your fantasies, but only on my terms, was what that voice said. And only if you beg. Something about that voice made a man want to beg, sure that what she offered would be worth it.
She didn’t ask him to beg, but he suspected that was because she sought something different from him. Maybe they were both in uncharted territory.
“Do I have the pleasure of undressing you first?” he asked, turning in her direction.
“It will be difficult to dress me without doing so,” she confirmed. “You may begin.”
First he explored the bed, finding the clothes. He identified each piece by recalling her pictures downstairs, as well as any movies or TV shows where there’d been ballet classes. They wore the things that were like one-piece swimsuits, but with sleeves. A leotard. He recognized that by the stretchy fabric, intrigued in a typical male way by the snaps at the crotch. The next thing took more time to identify. He lifted it, sifting it through his fingers. The silky fabric felt like an apron, with long string ties. Then he found the slit in the waistband and realized the ties would thread through, forming a short wraparound skirt. The next item gave him a chuckle.
“Even women have trouble putting these on themselves,” he complained amiably. It was a pair of filmy tights. He found no underwear or bra. “Are questions allowed?”
“Only a couple, and only if I think they’re relevant. So ask wisely.”
“Do you wear panties or bra under these?”
“No. Modesty panels are built into the leotard, and I’m too small-breasted for the support to be necessary.”
“Your breasts look just fine to me.”
“So says the blindfolded man. Thank you, but I wasn’t criticizing myself.”
“Sorry. Forgot I was dealing with a miracle—a woman happy with her body. Glad we share that opinion.” It was a truth he hadn’t considered before. In the time he’d known her, he’d never seen or heard her demonstrate self-deprecating behavior about weight, age, hair. She put herself together well and had a straightforward confidence about that.
“I’ll let it go this time.”
He found a pair of worn canvas slippers that he expected were ballet shoes, given the feel of the soles, and the elastic bands over the top of the foot to hold the shoe on. Running his hands all the way up to a plethora of pillows, he found nothing else, but was thorough about it, moving to the end and then working his way around the bed to the other side. She’d moved out of range, for she was no longer at the end of the bed, but he could sense her presence in the room easily enough. Her scent, the slight catch of her breath, was to his left, so she was by the door.
He noticed she had a king-sized bed, a lot of mattress for one woman, and it was impossible not to imagine sharing it with her. Did she ever invite that kind of intimacy with a man? Not likely, since her sex life seemed confined to the club. Until now. What would it be like to wake up draped over her, her soft ass against his groin first thing in the morning, that perfect small breast cupped in his hand?
When he reached the bottom of the quilted spread on this side, he hit something small. Jewelry. He caught the ball-shaped earrings, perhaps pearls, before his big fingers sent them popping off the cover like grasshoppers.
“Woman, you are evil.”
“I’m disappointed. I would have loved to see you on your elbows and knees, hunting for my earrings.”
He snorted. “I’ll bet.”
There was a necklace, a chain with a charm on it. The charm was too small for him to discern the shape. He wouldn’t waste a question on that, since he’d find out once the mask was removed. Of course, now that he knew he had to get her into tights, he had a feeling it might never be removed.
He went someplace in his head he usually preferred not to go. He thought about dressing Amanda for church. Okay, tights had that toe seam, and a tag in the back, like underwear. Unless his diabolical tormentor had removed it. Thank God, they didn’t come with the seam up the back of the leg like the nylons Marcie preferred to wear. She worked for Savannah’s company, Tennyson Industries, but whenever she came to the office to meet Ben for lunch, that provocative look could make any man with a pulse walk into walls.
“I said no time limit, but our time is not unlimited.”
He straightened. Circling the bed, using the posts for guides, he moved toward her voice. She was standing approximately three paces from the bed, but she stopped him at two, her hand grazing his chest to bring him to a halt. His brow creased beneath the mask at her silence. Was she just studying him? “I wanted to be sure I knew what and where everything was before I undressed you,” he explained his thoroughness. “Didn’t want you to stand there being cold. The necklace and earrings were a good trap.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d find them.”
Okay, that gave him a clue. There was an odd note in her voice that made him reach out. She lifted her arm again, but this time he wasn’t put off, following her wrist down to her elbow, then to her upper arm, closing the distance between them. He fingered her earlobe, locating the gold teardrops he remembered she was wearing, then moved down her throat, to the simple strand of pearls. He wouldn’t remove the earrings until he was ready to insert the others, using them as a guide.
“The necklace, it has meaning, doesn’t it?”
She said nothing, and he let it be. Instead, he put his hands to her waist, unbuttoned the suit jacket she wore. It was a pretty thing that weighed almost nothing. As he slipped it off her shoulders, feeling the welcome silk of her skin since she wore a sleeveless shell, a wave of that strawberry smell, mixed with some vanilla, reached his nose.
“Are you wearing that perfume between your legs? Because I’d love to taste it there.”
She put her fingers on his lips, an admonishment, but he felt the promising quiver in her fingertips. “No more talking, sailor. That’s an order.”
“Roger that.” Her body shifted under his hands, her arms lifting so he could pull the shell from her waistband, take it over her head. Her breasts, the weight of them pressing against the lacy cups of her bra, brushed his shirt front. He imagined the stretch of her body, the tilt of her rib cage. He couldn’t wait to watch her dance. He couldn’t wait to do a lot of things.
Putting his arm around her waist, holding her there with a palm on her ass, he bent to drop a kiss between the cleft of her breasts. To avoid rebuke, he multitasked, unhooking her bra at the same time. The straps tumbled down her shoulders, sliding over his knuckles where he’d moved his hands to her upper arms. He took the opportunity to press a more insistent kiss on the rise of her right breast. He knew the nipple would be pearling up into a tight point, so close to his mouth. Before she could reprove him, he backed toward the bed, keeping his arm around her waist so she moved with him. He laid the bra on the bed, then felt for the side zipper of her skirt. A whisper of cloth, and the lined garment fell to her feet. Dropping to one knee, he put her hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got you. Just step out of it.”
When she did, he folded the skirt and set it on the bra. He followed her leg up to her thigh, then prayed for restraint as he found she was wearing lacy thigh highs. The bloody woman was standing before him in a scrap of underwear, no bra and thigh-high stockings. Everything in him wanted to pull out his knife, slice off the mask. His cock was already hard and he was sure quite visible against the hold of his khakis. Her fingers slid over his shoulder, along the side of his neck, those lethal nails scraping, conveying her need. He wasn’t the only one affected. His blind state was arousing her as well, her breath becoming more erratic.
If he stood up now, captured her mouth in his, would she call it game over, let him take her on that king-sized bed, plow into her wet folds, get lost in it with him?
But this was part of it, wasn’t it? For as impatient as he was now, what would it be like when he had his task completed, mission accomplished, proving he could do as she desired? He would be nearly insane with lust, her body would be willing and wet. Even so, he already anticipated she would make them wait until after her class. Because that was the game for her. Denial and teasing, until the power of it would overwhelm them both. It could result in a quick violent fuck, but he expected once drawn out to a certain point, such mutual arousal would reach a level where the culmination would slow down, having become too excruciatingly powerful to rush. Like this.
When she worked men at the club, there was a clean line to the power exchange, everything resting in her hands, her shaping the sub’s reaction like a sculptor. At the end of a session, he could tell she was satisfied by her work of art, yet she was still separate from it, washing the clay from her hands before she returned to the real world. She was testing different waters with him. At the end of their night, there would be no separation. He was going to make damn sure of it.
He wanted to inspire lingering feelings. When she was at work, he wanted her fingers to still on her keyboard as she thought of his mouth, his touch, the way he thought of hers, the maze behind her dark eyes. Instead of being washed off, the clay would dry on their skin, making them both part of the sculpture.
He knew she had concerns about that kind of closeness. When it was managed well, fear guided a man or woman, helped him or her make wise choices. She was a woman who managed her fear quite well in that regard, but he still sensed it there. He wanted to bring her to the point she understood he didn’t have to be a sculpture at all, but a living, breathing part of her own soul.
Wow. That was unexpected. He stopped, taking a breath. She was right. Wearing the blindfold took the mind into some unlikely places.
Hooking the top of one stocking, he slid it down her gorgeous leg, taking advantage to liberally caress the length of it. He pressed a kiss on the inside of her thigh, right where the lace had held the stocking fast. She gripped his shoulder as she shifted her feet, let him pull the nylon free. “Your coat.” Her voice was strained. “I want it off.”
