He caught her throat, holding her face so she was staring at herself in the mirror, staring at him. Her mouth stretched wide, her eyes teared, and strangled shrieks tore from her throat. He kept working her with the other hand, had her up so high on her toes he put uncomfortable pressure on her jaw, keeping her straining, quivering, gasping.

As she cried out, he turned his face into her throat and bit, sucking on her skin fiercely, marking her tender flesh just below the top edge of the soft turtleneck collar. A glazed glimpse at the mirror showed him biting into her like a vampire, her breasts thrust out, nipples jutting, body jerking uncontrollably in his powerful hold, his hand working between her legs. With her skirt pushed up and gathered around his forearm, his large fingers were visible through the sheer cloth of her panties as he thrust and scissored, pinched her clit.

Because of that hold, the balance of pain and discomfort with the pleasure, it was the most unusual and intense orgasm she’d ever experienced. Like a whitewater rapid ride, bumpy and thrilling, scary, a cyclone of unpredictable sensations as she cried out and shuddered, made pleading noises. The waves of feeling kept hitting her from all sides, spinning her mind, making her body buck. Just when she thought she was coming down, he’d move his fingers or alter the pressure on her throat and she was bleating with helpless noises once more.

At last her body itself gave out, convulsing like a fever victim, leaving her mind blank, facial features numb, making it difficult to speak. She was panting, seeking air. At a certain point she’d unconsciously let go of the counter, had grabbed hold of his forearm across her body. Now she saw she’d dug her nails into his flesh, drawn blood. He’d have at least three crescent marks there. She was still holding him that tightly, but she couldn’t make herself let go.

“Does Lucas know what you are?”

Her gaze fluttered up to meet his in the mirror. He had his jaw pressed to the side of her head, his lips cruising along the hair at her temple. It wasn’t tenderness, not exactly. He looked like he was learning her scent like a predator, so he could hunt her again.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what he and Cass talk about.” Enough belligerence slipped into her voice that she earned a deeper push of those fingers. Plus a third one, despite the constricted nature of her post-climactic tissues. She bit her lip.

“Does Cass know?”

“Yes.” She swallowed against his hold, met that formidable stare. “She and I talked…when I figured it out. She also had me talk to Dana. In case I felt reservations about discussing certain things with her. I asked her not to tell Peter. So I don’t think any of the other…”

“Guys” didn’t fit, not at this moment. Five hardcore Masters, bonded like a wolfpack. A more respectful honorific was needed, but her brain was too foggy to figure it out.

“Christ.” Though he still held her on her toes, he slid his fingers out of her. Her hands convulsed against his arm, the one she’d marked. If he rolled down the sleeve, he’d get blood on it. When he eased her back to her feet, she was already reaching for the basket of thick paper hand towels. Her fingers shaking, she tried to run one under the water.

“Got to wipe that blood off,” she said, hearing her voice break. “Make sure you don’t mess up your shirt.”

Marcie: I know you’ve had sex with a million women. How many women have you had that mattered?

Ben: I’m not having this conversation with you.

Marcie: Why?

Ben: Because it’s entirely inappropriate, and none of your business.

Marcie: I’m just curious what it is you really want.

Ben: Men aren’t that complex, Marcie.

Marcie: Maybe most men aren’t. But I think you are. Otherwise you’d just answer the question.

Phone call between Ben and Marcie

Chapter Four

He pressed against her back, closing his hands on her wrists. “Stop.” He spoke against her hair. Pulling the towel from her hands, he set it aside. “Come here.”

Since she was already right against him, she wasn’t sure what he meant, but it didn’t matter. Turning her in his arms, he picked her up, smooth and easy. In the small sitting area adjacent to the bathroom was a settee, probably to give him a place to sit down and put on his shoes if he was dressing in here. Now he set her down on the firm cushions. “Stay there.”

Returning to the sink, he blotted the blood off his arm, quick and functional. Then he wet another paper towel and brought it and a couple dry ones with him. Nonplussed, she watched him drop to one knee beside her, bringing them to eye level. Cupping her chin, he dabbed at her mascara, dried tears she hadn’t realized she’d shed when he took her over so completely. She didn’t understand why that would make her cry, but it felt right, like it should.

Reaching out, she touched the pocket of his shirt, her fingers hooking briefly in it, caressing the man beneath. “No handkerchief,” she managed.

“It was in my coat,” he said. “We’ll make do with this.”

He sat back on his heels then, out of her reach. Bending his head, he gripped her ankle, began to massage the strained arches, her toes, through the silk of her stockings. “Oh.” She suppressed a moan of sheer joy at the sensation. The little ripple between her legs at the intimate touch surprised her, her body responding as if that hollow of her foot was an erogenous zone.

“Unzip your skirt,” he ordered, his head still bent over his task. It took a little fumbling, since coordination wasn’t happening right now, but she managed to reach behind her and do that. Rising, he lifted her back onto her bare feet, and then worked the skirt off her hips himself. The strength and yet precision of his hands captured her, the way he was able to remove the skirt with firm pressure, no jerking or awkwardness. On one hand, it was a reminder of how many women he’d undressed. On the other, it was undeniably sexy, the competent way he did it, no haste.

“How you breathe in this is beyond me.”

“Lycra and cotton blend. It’s a wonderful thing.” She hiccupped on the chuckle, felt a little silly and more than a bit nervous, flushing as he flicked a glance at her. The skirt dropped to the ground around her bare feet. She wanted to cross her arms over herself, rub arms that now had goose bumps. Instead, her hands had landed on his shoulders as he’d bent to free the skirt, and they were still there. Until he straightened, and then they slipped to his forearms, her fingers curling into the folds of his sleeves. He took her wrists, lifted her hands away from him, but gave them a squeeze.

“At your sides, Marcie. You don’t have permission to touch me.”

It was odd, how it kicked in. That post-climactic lassitude, the numbness of her brain, didn’t make her numb to instinctive obedience to her Master’s order. Though he said it in a relatively mild tone, she immediately put her arms at her sides. Keeping them there became a little more difficult when he hooked her panties, drew them down her legs, his fingers following the same track over her thighs. She twitched, made a small noise. He stopped, glanced at her, and she stilled again.

Giving an approving nod, he continued, taking them down to her feet. “Step out of them.”

When she did, he set them aside. Now she was wearing only the snug sleeveless turtleneck and her garter belt and stockings, framing her bare sex. In the mirror over the sink she saw the silver glint of the clit jewelry against her pale skin. It was a barbell with a slender chain dipping from each of the ends, a faint tease to her clit and labia when she moved, though of course she hadn’t needed the additional stimulus today.

Ben sat back on his heels, studying her. She dared a glance down at him, the strong face, those brilliant green eyes, the dark hair falling over his forehead. He had such a strong face, a solid jaw, the slope of his cheek bones beautifully sculpted. He was everything a man should look like. Even the casual power of his pose, resting on one heel, arm on his thigh, the other reaching out now. She bit her lip as he touched that tiny chain, his thumb and forefinger pinching it, giving it a tug. She closed her eyes at the sensation. God, she’d just climaxed, and yet her body was so attuned to him, so hungry.

She had damp tracks on her inner thighs, her labia wet from her climax. Given his focus there now, she expected he was going to wipe away the come from her thighs with the other paper towel. Instead, he put his hands on her hips, shifted forward and put his mouth there instead.

She sucked in a gasp. He hadn’t told her to widen her stance. In fact, his hands tightened, holding her still as he licked his way up to her pussy. Then he was on it, suckling away her juices, teasing her labia and clit as he cleaned her in a deliberately functional way, indulging a Master’s desire to taste his toy while she stood still and suffering, aching for him. She kept her lips pressed together tight but couldn’t help the pleas in her throat, the involuntary twitches from the stimulus to over-sensitized skin.

At last, he sat back. Only then did he use the paper towel, rubbing her dry, letting her feel the stroke of his fingers through it. Lightheaded, she swayed, and he put his hand back on her hip, steadying her.

“Don’t lock your knees.”

She’d forgotten, but he’d noticed. He noticed everything. Now he eased her down to a sitting position on the couch, perching her on the end of it so her pussy was exposed to the cool air. “Spread your legs, Marcie. Put your hands behind you, straighten your back, then I want you to meet my gaze.”

He rose, moved back to the sink while she obeyed. Lifting her gaze was more difficult than expected. He hadn’t even taken off his clothes, while she was half naked, the bottom half, which was a far more vulnerable feeling than topless. He was leaning against the sink, watching her. His cock was a thick root against the restraint of his slacks, making her wet her lips. She’d of course seen men get aroused, but not to such obvious thickness, and not with the complete lack of self-consciousness he had about it. He’d given her a climax, but taken nothing for himself. She wanted to service him the way a slave should, sucking his cock until he had his own release.