With every step toward him, her excitement grew. Her heart hammered out a rhythm. There was an accompanying throbbing deep in her sex. Her clit felt swollen, her pulse pounding right through it. She hesitated at the door, unsure whether to knock or just go in. She’d been sleeping in his bed the last few nights so it seemed silly to knock. Still, he’d been fairly formal after leaving Stefano’s apartment.

She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Ricco looked up immediately. He had rope in one hand and bamboo pole in the other. He didn’t smile, but his gaze drifted over her possessively. His eyes darkened and the lines in his face were carved with sensual lust. He looked sinful in his low-cut, button-up jeans. Only two of the four buttons were done up so she could see his muscle, the dark ripple of hair and the vee that was so intriguing, disappearing into his jeans.

She turned around for him and then, turning back so she could watch him, she did slow stretching. She needed to warm up her muscles before he began tying, especially if it was going to be a long, complicated tie. His camera sat on the nightstand. He intended to take pictures.

He walked toward her, his stride confident, nothing lazy about it. He was all business, his features serious, a look she loved on him when he was practicing his art on her. Her heart jerked hard in her chest as she caught the scent of the rope. Sweet grass. He was using hemp. The texture of the rope was different than what he’d been using on her. Ricco was mesmerizing as he slid the rope through his hand, checking, she knew now, for splinters and burn speed to ensure her comfort.

He caught her hands decisively, tied them and pulled them up and over her head. The movement was very controlled, setting her heart pounding. She didn’t know why she had such a reaction to Ricco when he was so dominant, but she loved how he took control, even when she knew one word from her and everything stopped.

His breath touched her neck as he lifted the heavy fall of hair and began braiding it. The tug felt like a massage on her scalp, and it wasn’t until he pulled her arms down behind her that she realized her hair was braided into the rope and her head was tilted at an angle so that she couldn’t move. For one moment panic set in. It was silly really; she’d been tied so completely she couldn’t move, and yet it was immobilizing her head that caused her to become anxious.

His lips slid down the nape of her neck. “I’ve got you, farfallina mia. I’ll always have you.” His arms came around her and he pulled her back against his body. He was rock hard, his body strong, his heart beating against her back, his cock pressed tightly, intimately against her bottom. “Do you want to stop?”

She didn’t. She wanted this with him. Just as it grounded him, it did the same for her. The connection between them was so intense when he tied her, she craved that closeness. She felt like she could see into his soul – and he into hers.

“Your breathing changed.” His hand moved up her body to circle her throat. With her head slightly tipped back, her throat was exposed and his palm wrapped around it easily, so that it seemed as if her heart beat right into his hand. “When I’m with you, Mariko, my focus is wholly on you. Always you. I see everything you do. The way your body responds to me, to my art.”

His fingers trailed down her chest to the upper curves of her breast. One finger continued, sliding over her right nipple. The lace was open and allowed him to touch bare skin. Her nipples were already peaked, tight little buds. The brush of his fingers sent fiery darts shimmering through her body straight to her sex. She wasn’t certain she would survive.

“The feel of your skin is so warm and soft, better than silk. The lace, so fine and fragile, and the rough of the hemp in contrast. With your arms up over your head, your breasts are lifted in invitation. Such a beautiful temptation.”

The words, murmured in such a low, compelling voice, sent goose bumps over her skin, flutters in her belly and had her sex clenching, spilling more welcoming drops of cream for him.

His hand moved under her breasts and settled on her hip for a moment before he stepped back, the rope in his hand.

“This is a tortoiseshell body harness, but I see it on you a bit different than I might tie it normally. Your skin…” He trailed off and continued working, bringing a double line around under her breasts, laying the ropes along her rib cage to ensure they didn’t interfere with her breathing. “The lace, so fragile, and the harsher texture of the rope will look beautiful with this tie.” His arms went around her, the rope snaking around, and then his breath was once again against her ear. “Every time I look at you, you take my breath away.”

His fingers moved down her back, following her spine to the base, where he laid his palm briefly. The contrast between his skin on hers and the rougher brush of the rope he held sent waves of heat crashing through her. She wasn’t certain how much time passed after that as he built the tortoiseshell body suit. He worked fast and then slow. He touched her often. Her hair, running his lips down her exposed throat, his tongue touching the nipple peeking out through the lace, a brush of his hand over her buttocks.

She was acutely aware of him at all times. Her body waited for his touch, craving it. A string of knots went down her front from under her breasts and down her back as well in perfect symmetry, and she found herself squirming a little, wanting those knots in other places. He didn’t give her that, but he worked close, his head down sometimes, brushing across her nipples until they felt on fire.

“Stop squirming,” he murmured absently, and his teeth nipped at her buttocks. She couldn’t stop the little cry of need from escaping as his hand slid down her leg, following another long knotted rope. He was on his knees now, in front of her, his breath adding to the heat building in her sheath until she thought she would fragment into a million pieces. The tension coiled tighter and tighter with no relief.

She tried to concentrate on the music, to take her mind off the need that had grown out of control. She’d never felt so sensual, writhing in the ropes at times, trying to rub her thighs together in an effort to alleviate the terrible ache that grew every moment. She found herself living second to second, waiting for his touch. Waiting for his breath. The brush of his hair. The rope was tight, wrapped around her like his arms.

Her mind began to chant, please, please, please. She couldn’t think, she could barely breathe with needing him. The rope slithered down her left leg and he began tying with that decisive precision, his concentration seemingly on his work while all her concentration was centered on him.

Her skin felt raw with fiery nerves. The sensitive bundle of nerves inside her feminine sheath pulsed and burned. His tongue was suddenly on her inner thigh, licking at the wetness there. She cried out, writhing again, unable to be still when her body was no longer her own but entirely his. His hands gripped her thighs, fingers digging into the flesh beneath rope and lace, holding her still while he indulged himself. His tongue was wicked, sinful, sliding up her inner thigh, dancing along the crease of her lips, flicking at her clit hard, so that her entire body shuddered, and then it was gone, back to her other thigh.