In answer, he lifted her in his arms. She bowed up against him like a baby, letting out a little sigh. “First a bath,” he said.

“Too tired.”

“Tough. You need to soak before you sleep.”

“Will drown.”

“I won’t let you drown. Unless you provoke me.”

She let out a little snuffle at that, perhaps a chuckle. But she was in a half doze, completely dependent on him, no fight left…for the moment.

He set her on the padded wicker lounge in the master bath while he ran the Jacuzzi, added the salts. Then he turned to consider her. She was on her side, and her arm had fallen toward the floor, fingers half curled. She was boneless at this point. It would have made him smile, if it didn’t make other things hurt, just looking at her. Taking off his clothes, he put a decanter of whiskey and a glass next to the tub. Then he lifted her once again, set them both down in it, putting the jets on a low boil. She didn’t wake, merely shifting so her cheek was pillowed on his chest, her arms loosely around him. He slid his own arm around her back, resting his palm on her hip.

He’d doused the lights, only a street light outside casting a dim illumination up into the bathroom. Laying his head back on the tile, holding her, he took a swallow of the whiskey, swirling it in the glass with his elbow propped on the side of the tub. Fucking hell.

He passed his palm gently over her buttock under the water. Those marks would be there for a little while. He should be ashamed, but all the thought did was stir his cock back to life. Again.

No, he told it sternly. Give her a break, you sadistic son of a bitch. That one was directed at him, not his cock. His cock wasn’t sadistic in the slightest. It just wanted pussy. Mindless beast. Actually, not quite so mindless, because right now he had no desire to turn his mind to any other woman available to him. Just the one in his arms.

He tried, thinking of some of the most beautiful, hardcore and willing subs he’d had the pleasure of enjoying. As he did, his cock started to deflate. What the hell? He pointed his mind back to the abused ass pressed against his inner thigh, the feminine breath stirring his chest hair, and his cock rose again. Fuck.

It didn’t mean anything. She was real and in his arms, while the others were pale visions in his head. Guys were simple that way. When he pressed his lips to the crown of her head, she made a sweet noise of contentment, her fingers sliding along the small of his back, resting limply against the upper rise of his buttocks.

He liked that noise, liked the way she felt in his arms. She’d given his dungeon equipment a workout tonight, and it was about time. When he bought the townhouse, he’d liked the way it felt, except it never seemed right when he was there by himself. He’d cooked dinner for some of the guys and their wives a couple times, hosted a few business parties, but when he was alone, he preferred the Warehouse District apartment, which was really just an extension of his office with better kitchen facilities and a great flat-screen.

For a time, he’d kept most of his high-end dungeon equipment there, but he’d moved it here a couple years ago. There were two or three larger pieces at the other place, hidden behind a heavy plastic construction curtain he’d covered with decorative dark wood screens, since the Warehouse apartment was an open loft. At this house, he kept the high-end equipment behind a closed door. Both measures were to prevent the uninitiated from wandering into those areas.

That’s what he told himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t like coming to either place and seeing the equipment waiting for something he didn’t bring home to it anymore.

He had a discreet maintenance service that came in and kept everything cleaned and oiled, ready for use at any time. It was probably a waste of money, since he had access to Progeny’s equipment and that was where he went now when his cock needed a workout. But questioning costs was Jon and Lucas’ area, not his. He could wallpaper the house with Ben Franklins if he wanted. So he spent the money. Tonight he was glad he had, because he’d put all of it through its paces, testing Marcie far beyond what he’d expected her limits to be.

When it was all over, she’d put her mouth on his foot, called him Master. And for one fucking insane moment, he’d thought, You bet your sweet ass I am.

Jesus. He finished the whiskey, set it aside. Didn’t let himself pour another. You’re in charge of a beautiful girl tonight, buddy. No getting shit-faced. He’d save that for sunrise, when she was going to hate his guts.

He got her out of the tub, summoning a tight smile at her sleepy grumbling. He made her stand while he dried her off one-handed, since the other arm had to stay around her waist to keep her from oozing back to the tile. Guiding her arm around his neck, he lifted her once more. It was ridiculous, how much he liked just carrying her.

He could put her in the guest bedroom, but he needed to watch over her until she was in control of her faculties again. It had been a long night. So he was going to put her in his bed, with him, no matter how bad an idea that was.

He’d been fooling himself about this mentoring shit. He was a one-way track to nowhere, and Marcie was a bright, beautiful star who deserved the whole universe.

He took her into his bedroom, to the king-sized canopy bed that filled most of the room. The ceiling fan rotated slowly. Lowering her to the bed, he paused, studying her. He’d laid her down facing away from him, so he was looking at his handiwork from that angle, every mark, bite, her ass still a brighter pink than the rest of her silky skin. The caning marks, those short lines and stippling, overlaid the faint square impression of the spatula strikes. She’d loved it. Fought it, cried through it, embraced it, come like a damn nymphomaniac from it.

He should put on sweats, a T-shirt. Fuck that. He wanted to feel her against his body, and she had passed out now, anyway. Sliding in behind her, he arranged the covers over her to keep her front warm while he pressed against her back. His cock had ignored him of course, and was hard and eager when it came in contact with the soft pillow of her buttocks. He wanted more, but he didn’t want to cause her any pain.

Lifting her thigh, he slid just the head back into her ass. He’d lubricated her frequently, so there was plenty of oil there to allow him entry. He slid in a few more inches than intended but she made a soft sound, closed her muscles on him, just as he’d taught her, an automatic reflex. It made him growl, a satisfied predator. Cupping her breast, he murmured against her ear.

“Sleep, baby. You did well.” What a fucking understatement.

* * * * *

Marcie woke to find herself comfortably nested in the covers. What she’d hoped might be Ben behind her was instead a brace of pillows. It was about three a.m., the hour when restless spirits were most plentiful, explaining why she’d woken to find herself alone.

Rising with caution, she found she was stiff and sore, but overall moving better than anticipated, since she hadn’t expected to be able to move without undignified yowls of agony. She did yoga and MMA training, and those flexibility and strength workouts helped her, but she suspected the breaks Ben had taken between sessions had a great deal to do with it as well. He’d massaged her muscles and joints with those clean-smelling salves, washed her out with soothing tonics, changed her position at appropriate intervals, double- and triple-checked her bindings. Vaguely, she remembered him putting two pills on her tongue after that hazy bath, telling her to swallow, then making her finish up the glass of water.

Aspirin, brat. That, and the bath, should make things move easier tomorrow.

He knew just how extreme he was, and did the maintenance to ensure he left a lasting impression but not lasting damage. At least on a woman’s body. Her heart was a whole different matter.

His dress shirt was hanging on the armoire doorknob, above a bag of laundry with a dry-cleaning ticket. A reminder to him to drop it off today, she was sure. Things a single lawyer had to do for himself. Fingering the cloth, remembering it close to her face when he carried her up here, she pulled it from its perch, brought the collar to her nose. A combination of aftershave, soap, dry cleaning and what she really wanted to detect—male sweat, earned from his sexual exertion with her.

Considering, she threaded her arms into the sleeves. Oh my. For all her teasing him about his expensive indulgences, the feel of tailored cotton was…luxurious. Particularly if it smelled like Ben. These fibers had the enviable job of stroking that superb upper body all day long.

When she moved out into the hallway, she saw the French doors on the second level open to a narrow balcony. There were several potted plants there, as well as a couple outdoor chairs to view the enclosed alley below. When they arrived, she’d stolen a quick glimpse of it. She remembered a statue of a laughing child placed under the rush of water from a fountain. Thick greenery had swayed around it, a cobblestone path and a single chair suggesting a perfect nook to read and dream the lazy New Orleans day away. She wondered if he ever used it, or if it was his neighbor’s space.

Ben was leaning against the rail, but he wasn’t looking down at that scene. He had his head turned as if studying the nearby street, but there was a lack of focus in the green eyes that suggested his focus was internal. All he wore was a pair of faded jeans that rode low on his hips. It was so carelessly sexy it made her mouth water, despite the fact her body felt as if it had been through the sensual equivalent of being drop-kicked by the entire New Orleans Saints team.

There was also a loneliness to him. The moonlight gleamed on his hair, reflected the brooding look in his eyes, the wooden quality of his expression. It tightened her heart, made her go to him.

She stepped over the threshold. Since the balcony was so narrow, it brought her right up behind him. He tilted his head, aware of her, and she dared, laying her hand between his shoulder blades. She hadn’t buttoned the shirt, so when he reached back, took her hand beneath his arm to bring her closer, she pressed her bare breasts against him, her mound against the firm flesh beneath denim.

Laying her cheek on his back, she heard the strong thump of his heart. He held her hand against his abdomen, stroking her fingers and studying the night sky in silence. She touched those ridged muscles, traced them, and when she angled for more, he let her hand descend. Teasing the arrow of silky hair, she pressed her lips to his spine. He didn’t move, but she didn’t feel rebuffed. She thought he might be holding his breath.