“You don’t have to do this. I’m okay now,” he murmured as they moved down the hallway.

“I’m doing it for both of us. I’m looking forward to it.”

He gave her another one of his smiles. This one lit his eyes for a brief moment and turned her heart over. A reward for her bravery, maybe. Whatever it was, her body responded along with her heart.

He brought her into the studio and walked across the room to the small refrigerator in the corner. Reaching in, he took a bottle of ice-cold water out and returned to her. “The bathroom is over there.” He indicated a door with one finger. “This is going to take longer than last time and I want you comfortable. You can get prepared while I ready the room.”

He walked away from her and she stared after him, caught in his spell. She didn’t understand how he could be so intimidating and so gentle at the same time. So commanding, and yet his voice was velvet soft. He moved with grace, like a large jungle cat, every muscle rippling beneath the thin material of his clothing. He was barefoot and he didn’t make a sound as he crossed the room to select music. He was no longer looking at her, but she knew he was as aware of her as she was of him, and that somehow centered her.

She tried the cap on the bottle, found it loosened and drank. It was the little thoughtful things, she decided. He had done that before, loosened the cap so she didn’t have to. Opening doors. Walking with her on the inside on the street. Making her feel special and never leering at other women when she was with him.

She contemplated that as she went into the bathroom. When she’d been with him in the restaurant, various women had been trying to make eye contact with him. He had focused on her. He’d been sweet to the waitress, although firm with her. There were a lot of good things about Ricco Ferraro. He might like to live his life in the fast lane, but when he was with someone, he took care of them.

She secured the kimono tighter and stepped back into the studio, found a place to put down the water bottle and caught a glimpse of herself in one of the long mirrors. Her face was flushed. Her hair was a little wild. Her eyes were bright, and the color of her lipstick emphasized the pout of her lips – the pout Osamu had pointed out a million times, sometimes slapping her and calling her a “whore just like your mother.” It was the natural shape of her mouth – there was little she could do about it. She hadn’t considered that the lipstick would make her mouth even more noticeable. She’d been thinking in terms of what Ricco would like for his rope art.

Or had she? Osamu’s voice screeched in her head, a long litany of insults she suddenly couldn’t block out. She wrapped her arms around herself, ashamed that she’d come to him dressed in the red lace bra and panties. Osamu was right about her. She hadn’t been thinking about rope art. She’d been thinking about Ricco Ferraro.

Movement caught her eye as he turned and looked at her, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. His handsome features went from relaxed to scary, the lines deepening, his eyes twin black diamonds, hard and cold and very, very piercing as he strode toward her, bundles of black and red ropes in his hands.

“Fuck,” he spat out, the sound dark and ugly.

Mariko felt his fury as he strode across the room, the first aggressive move he’d ever made toward her. His rage was tangible, filling the spacious room, an ominous warning of his black mood. She couldn’t help but think the ropes were an extension of him, depicting the storms that raged in him in the color and texture of the various coils.

She stood her ground for two reasons. First and foremost, she was a shadow rider – an elite rider – and had confidence that she could defend herself if she needed to. Automatically her mind was already cataloging targets on him. Second, she believed absolutely that he would never hurt her.

Ricco kept coming until he was standing directly in front of her, in her space, so close their bodies were touching. He dropped the coils of rope on the floor and reached for her, his palm curling around the nape of her neck. Possessing her. When he did that, touched her neck, she knew he was connecting them together. Giving her his power. Taking hers. Exchanging. She felt empowered when he did that. Centered. Grounded. More, it made her feel as if she belonged to him and he to her – that there was only the two of them and he saw only her.

“In this room there are two people, Mariko: You. And me. No one else. Ever. Do you understand?” He pulled her hand up to his bare chest, her palm over his heart, her flesh touching slashing scars that told her he had saved her. “You and me. She will never be welcome here. I swear to you, I’ll deal with her.”

Just like that he made Osamu small and unimportant, because he knew. He saw the real Mariko, everything about her, even her insecurities, and he still wanted her. She could see that in his eyes, feel it in his touch.

She shook her head, dismissing the idea of him having to confront Osamu. “I stopped letting her hurt me.” She wasn’t certain he would believe that, because she didn’t know if she did.

“Look at me. I want to see your eyes. I want you to see mine because you have to believe that I’m telling you the absolute truth.”

She couldn’t resist. Who could? There was always that gentle note of command. Steel wrapped in velvet. She lifted her lashes and her heart jerked hard. Her sex clenched. Needy. Hungry. Shocking. His eyes were alive with so much. Rage that Osamu had made her feel less than she was. Hunger. That shocked her. It matched her own, maybe was even more. Something else. Something she’d never seen. It was difficult to recognize exactly what was there, but it made her heart flutter.

“She stole your heritage. At three, and even then, you were magnificent.” His eyes blazed with the fire of pure truth. “Absolutely magnificent.” He believed that and wanted her to believe it. “You’re even more so now. Do you understand me?”

She nodded because she couldn’t speak. No one had ever made her feel the way he did. No one had ever believed in her. Or complimented her. Or made her feel of value.

“This room is sacred. She can’t come in here and make you think less of yourself. Not here. I have to know you’re with me on that.”

Mariko nodded again. She didn’t want any other person in this room. Ricco created intimacy here – a sensual experience encompassing the two of them. A power exchange to be sure, but one that benefited both. It was mutual. She gave herself to him, trusting he would make the experience good for her. He accepted her gift of trust and made her feel as if she were the only woman in the world for him. Strangely, that feeling carried outside of the room as well.

“Here, you look in the mirror and see what I see. See the incredible, courageous woman I see. You give yourself to me. You stand there quietly, waiting. Believing I’ll take care of you. Trusting me. That kind of gift, woman, is beyond any price, but especially when given from a woman born and bred on control and discipline. Don’t think for one moment that I’ll ever take that for granted. I won’t. I know how vulnerable this makes you feel. By surrendering yourself to me, giving yourself into my care, you’ve given me more than any other person could ever give, and I’ll treasure that gift for all time.”