Chapter Eighteen
Kayla peered tipsily at her phone and pulled a face. “Jared.” She switched it off, emptied her shot glass and reached across the table to squeeze Stormy’s hand.
Stormy tried not to wince. It was already bruised from Dimity’s grip through the roller coaster.
“I’m really sorry you’ve been caught in the middle of all this,” Kayla said with drunken earnestness. “You’ve been so wonderful with our kids. And if I go home early, you lose your job.”
Stormy’s heart sank. The argument must be more serious than she’d realized. She’d noticed her employers weren’t getting on, but… “Do what you have to do. I’ll be fine.”
Kayla’s grip tightened. “Are you sure?”
“No, she’s bloody not,” Dimity interrupted. She added water to her pastis and the transparent amber liqueur turned milky. “Stormy needs more than a few weeks as a nanny for it to have any impact on a resumé. And stop drinking so fast, this stuff is upwards of forty percent proof.”
Stormy shuddered, recalling the aniseed taste of the French spirit, and sipped her craft beer. She had been tucking into a shared platter of hors d’oeuvres, but Kayla’s remark had killed her appetite.
Dimity was right; she needed this job.
“Harden up, both of you,” the blonde continued. “Kayla, don’t make rash decisions when you’ve been drinking, and Stormy, stop shooting yourself in the foot.”
“My God, she’s a female Zander,” Kayla muttered.
Dimity overheard. “Thank you,” she said crisply. “Don’t blame Jared for not answering his cell, he probably couldn’t hear it. You know how noisy promo functions are. And he’s not the type to hold a grudge and deliberately ignore your messages.” She looked pointedly at Kayla’s cell, but staring into the bottom of her empty shot glass, the brunette missed it.
“I want him to have fun,” she said. “I know how hard he’s worked for this. How hard we’ve both worked. But can’t he have some of that fun with his family? Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“For heaven’s sake, anyone would think you two have never fought before.”
“We haven’t.” Kayla swiped Dimity’s pastis and took a gulp. “At least not like this.” Tears brightened her eyes. “I feel like he’s leaving me behind.”
“Oh, honey,” Stormy said earnestly, “I’m sure that’s not—”
“For heaven’s sake it’s just the alcohol talking,” Dimity interrupted impatiently. “And you can have fun with us, Kayla.”
“Okay.” Kayla shot a startled look at Stormy. Why are you out with her?
Stormy still wasn’t sure. Which reminded her… “You’re sure Elizabeth seemed cheerful when you left?” she asked her employer again.
Dimity had ripped into Elizabeth immediately after staggering off the roller coaster. “Stormy and I are ditching fun times and recovering in a bar, and you are not invited. In fact, I may never forgive you for this.”
Elizabeth had departed with a smile saying her work was done, but still…
“Fine,” Kayla frowned. “Why wouldn’t she—”
“Puis-je vous offrir un verre, belle?” The guy who interrupted was suave, stylish and smiling at her and Stormy didn’t have to speak French to recognize an invitation.
She smiled apologetically. “Sorry, I’m married.” When he looked confused, she said to Kayla. “Show him your ring, cherie.” Trying not to laugh, Kayla held up her hand.
“Je suis ouvert d’esprit?” he said hopefully.
Stormy waited for Dimity’s translation.
“He says he’s open-minded.”
Still smiling, Stormy fluttered her fingers. “Au revoir.”
He tried his luck with Dimity, who dispatched him in French.
“I’m guessing by his sullen expression you weren’t suggesting he ‘have a nice evening,’” Stormy commented. “Can’t you at least try and save other people’s feelings?”
Dimity finished her drink before answering. “Non.” She slapped the shot glass on the table. “Whose round?”
“I’ll go.” Kayla found her purse. “Since I’m the only one who doesn’t get hit on.”
“You want to be hit on?” Stormy ventured.
She grimaced. “Only to repair a bruised ego.”
In her rush to get to the cocktail party, Kayla had forgotten to bring her ID and when she’d told security she was Jared’s wife, the guy had laughed and told her to “Se perdre, dondon.” Stormy wished Dimity hadn’t translated that phrase. Get lost, fattie. Little wonder she was upset.
“You should have phoned me,” Dimity said. “I would have authorized entry. And fired that son of a bitch.”
“Next time,” Kayla replied politely. Dimity would have been last on her list of Good Samaritans. Instead, Kayla had phoned Stormy in tears and ended up here.
Though “here” wasn’t such a bad place to drown your sorrows. They had decent views of the quartier from their corner window and the dim interior of the Parisian bar was a seedy and glamorous mix of gilded mosaics, velvet lamps and battered baroque furniture.
“So yeah,” Kayla added wearily. “A little male attention might counter the humiliation of being dismissed as a tubby fantasist.”
She gasped as Dimity went behind her and started untying the halter on her dress. “What are you doing?”
“Demonstrating a sad truth.” Dimity retied the halter straps higher and tighter and Stormy understood and started to laugh.
Kayla glanced down at her elevated cleavage. “They look like two apples bobbing in a barrel at a county fair.”
“Enjoy the harvest festival,” Stormy advised. “I had to buy breasts like yours.”
Dimity returned to her chair. “Now go order another round, but don’t bring any of your admirers back with you.”
Stormy nodded agreement. “This is a girls’ night.” It struck her that she hadn’t been the slightest bit interested in meeting guys since Las Vegas. And not because she was pining for Zander. Being in his orbit again—even on the sidelines—reminded her how exhausting it had been trying to keep up with his relentless energy. She suspected she’d glamorized their relationship after their breakup. When she’d had his attention she felt like a princess but when his attention moved on she’d been closer to a doll, waiting for reanimation. And how screwed up was that? Making Zander’s casual affection her reason for being?
“Wow,” she said reflectively, sipping her beer, “I think I’ve moved on.” She looked at Dimity, who was cutting herself a sliver of creamy Brie and topping it with a salty olive. If she was eating real food, then Kayla wasn’t the only tipsy—or troubled—one.
“So, tell me more about your mother.” Dimity’s admission of vulnerability had been as shocking as seeing a panty line on Wonder Woman.
“She’s such a victim, I can’t stand it. She won’t drive, she won’t take a single step toward building a new life. I get the horrible feeling she believes that if she’s helpless enough, Dad will come back.” Moodily, Dimity cut a bigger slice of Brie. “It’s easier to kill myself working for overtime bonuses and throw money at her than make her cry with another confrontation. I’m hopeless on sympathy.”
“No kidding,” Stormy said dryly.
“I know I need a life,” Dimity admitted, pushing the platter over. “I’ve just forgotten how to have one.”
“And I want a career.” Stormy spread some pâté onto a cracker as they watched Kayla and her cleavage being chatted up at the bar, by no less than three men. “I thought it was marriage and kids, but not yet. I’d love to keep working as a nanny while I night-school my GED and study for a childcare qualification.”
She’d been talking to herself mostly, but noticed Dimity staring at her with an unfathomable expression, and shrugged, embarrassed. “That probably sounds super easy to you, but I have no real schooling. I was brought up by a woman who relied on her boyfriends for cash handouts—it was either feast or famine in our house.
“All I had was my looks and by God, Momma expected me to use them like she did. That was how I thought life worked. Considering where I started from, wanting a GED is a miracle.”
“The fact you still have a nature that’s sweet and hopeful and gentle is the real miracle,” said Dimity and for once there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in her tone.
“Thank you,” Stormy said, touched.
“Can I give you some advice?”
She braced herself. “Go ahead.”
“Relax, I’ll try and put this nicely.”
If anything, that only made Stormy more nervous.
“I went to a party once as a porn star.” Dimity cut a sizeable wedge of cheese. “I padded my bra, added a platinum wig and I swear I was under siege all night. I said to guys, ‘You understand these are fake, right?’ Didn’t matter.”
She looked at Stormy. “I was channeling an image they associated with sex. Not their fault. Men and women have been programmed—by the media, by rock videos, by lingerie ads—to associate sexuality with someone who looks like you.”
“You’re suggesting I get rid of the implants?”
“I think your boobs are standing in your way—literally.” She gestured to Kayla at the bar. “Look what happens with an accentuated cleavage. Maybe soften the platinum. You wear contact lenses right?”
Stormy nodded.
“Start wearing spectacles to interviews. Remember, we’re also programmed to think someone with glasses is a brainiac. Bring your brand in alignment with who you really are.”
“I’ll think about it.” Posing naked for a men’s magazine was less threatening than being herself.
Kayla returned with their drinks, flushed with success and possibly more alcohol.
“Feel better?” Stormy asked.
“Temporarily,” she answered gaily.
“Then let’s toast the now,” Dimity suggested.
As they tapped glasses, a cute guy stopped by their table and grinned at Dimity. “Caught the American accents and got homesick. Saw you and wondered why I ever left. Can I buy your next drink?” He reminded Stormy of a Labrador who’d come across a wolf and mistaken it for another dog.
As Dimity bared her teeth, Stormy mouthed, “Be nice.”
She sighed, then gave the guy a smile so dazzling his face lit up in the afterglow and even Stormy and Kayla blinked. “I’m so sorry,” she said sweetly, “but I’m with my girlfriends. You would make my night by displaying both gallantry and intelligence and leaving without another word.” He started to speak, she held up a hand. “Doing so would leave me forever wondering whether I was a fool to let you go. Staying would confirm the opposite.”
Their fellow American stared at her. “You’re one weird chick,” he said and walked away.
“So I’m told.” Dimity cut a slab of Brie.
Kayla dug Stormy in the ribs. “She called us her girlfriends,” she whispered. “Does that mean we like her now?”
“I think,” Stormy said thoughtfully, “that maybe we do.”
* * *
“Good morning, all.”
His biographer’s cheery voice sliced through the breakfast chatter in the private dining room set aside for band and crew. Zander’s muted response got lost in more enthusiastic replies.
Sure, Elizabeth had agreed they’d play it cool, but holy hell, the sex…the emotion last night. He’d been shaken by it.
Picking up a plate from the buffet table, she took her time over the selection of French pastries—croissants, pain au chocolat and baguettes.
Swallowing another gulp of green tea, Zander shoved his uneaten poached eggs aside and returned to signing the several dozen Rage T-shirts for some radio station giveaway—a chore he’d meant to finish last night.
He felt kind of exposed this morning…unsettled. Like he needed to try on a few attitudes before adopting the right one.
Somehow Doc had misrepresented herself. He felt that strongly and was resentful of it, though fairness obliged him to admit it was unconscious on her part. She’d presented herself as cautious, sensible and conservative, then stormed into his personal space and planted her flag before he’d realized he’d left his flank exposed.
Zander tried to put his indignation down to exhaustion. They hadn’t gotten much sleep and he had a full day of promo, meet and greets, interviews and sound checks, culminating in another concert tonight. But one of those interviews was with his biographer and he realized he was actually nervous about it.
Something had changed against his will and his will wanted it back. Equilibrium, proportion, the brick in the wall…whatever the hell “it” was.
“I slept through the alarm,” he heard Elizabeth tell Dimity as she joined his PA at another table. “So how was the girls’ night out?”
Her demeanor was no different, that was good. Dimity launched into the blow-by-blow account of adventures Zander had already heard about and he tuned out until Elizabeth laughed her husky laugh and said, “You didn’t…really?”
Glancing over, he saw her polishing off a sizable breakfast. He looked at the congealing eggs on his plate and frowned. If he was unsettled, shouldn’t she be too?
And she was in looks, glowing, vibrant—sex really agreed with her. She caught him staring. “Excuse me a second,” she interrupted Dimity. “I need a quick word with Zander.”
Shit. He bent to his work, intensely conscious of her vanilla and cinnamon fragrance as she arrived beside him. He finished scrawling his signature before looking up to the same warm, friendly, open smile she gave him every day. So why did it hit him in the solar plexus today?
“Good morning. Just confirming our interview in your suite at ten?”
All business, Zander nodded.
“Great. See you then.” He watched the sway of her hips as she walked away.
“Wait up.” Doc turned and he braced himself. “It would suit me better if we reschedule for the afternoon.” A reminder that he was a busy guy with multiple demands on his time was important for both of them. Separation of personal and state. And, okay, he wasn’t ready to be alone with her. “I have a sound check at the stadium at two. Come along and we’ll interview during the drive.”
“Sure.”
No fuss, no drama, the Doc was a woman of discretion. But while he trusted her in public, Zander worried about what she expected of him in private.
He might have raised hopes last night—inadvertently—in the heat of passion. All that postcoital cuddling… He’d fallen asleep in her bed, for God’s sake. A tactical error that was bound to give a woman ideas.
Come to think of it, he wouldn’t put it past her to jump him the second they were alone. If last night had proved anything, it was that Elizabeth wasn’t shy.
Zander caught himself smiling and stopped. He would have to exercise self-restraint for both of them, keep sex out of all their professional interactions. A vision of Elizabeth interviewing him naked sprang immediately to mind and he had to cross his legs to discourage anything else springing up.
With an effort, he refocused on the T-shirt he’d just signed and saw not his name, but hers.
By the time one thirty rolled round, he’d remembered she’d suggested sex as a one-off. Despite paying no attention to it at the time, Zander seized on it with the fervor of a new convert.
When Elizabeth climbed into the limo—smiling at Luther as the bodyguard shut the door—he felt a pang almost like grief. But if he didn’t take this loophole, things might get messy. If things got messy, she might get hurt. And he was done hurting people—at least intentionally.
“Mind if I close the partition, guys?” she asked Luther and the driver when they were pulling into traffic. “My recorder picks up ambient noise.”
“Yeah,” Zander added. “And I might say something that will shock you both.” Now he had a strategy, he wanted to implement it.
The partition slid shut on male laughter and they were alone.
Elizabeth said softly, “Before we begin interviewing, I just want to say that last night was terrific.”
Zander steeled himself for the talk, the one where he gently reminded a lover of terms already agreed. His life consisted of hanging velvet ropes around his too small, infinitely precious, private space.
“I’m glad you talked me into it,” her brown eyes twinkled at him, “and I also want to say thank you for respecting the boundaries around our professional relationship. I don’t know why I was so worried you might expect more.” She pulled a wry face. “Ego, right?”
Zander stared at her. “Right,” he managed.
“And now that we’ve satisfied our curiosity, we can go back to real life.” Elizabeth placed the recorder between them. “So, let’s pick up from yesterday’s interview. You were talking about how music mainlines into the emotions.” She glanced at him expectantly.
Zander thought, it can’t be that easy.
Suspicious, he watched her through the interview, looking for signs that she was playing some kind of reverse sexual politics before remembering; Elizabeth didn’t do subterfuge. He was the paranoid one, thinking last night had meant something simply because he’d felt an onrush of affection for this woman.
This wonderful, honest, uncomplicated woman. Of course, his ego might be a little bruised by how effortlessly she dismissed their incredible lovemaking, but Zander’s self-protective psyche was moonwalking all over it.
A dizzying smorgasbord of possibilities opened up, all guilt-free and involving a naked biographer.
* * *
“Stay,” Zander said casually after their preconcert interview session. Elizabeth switched off her recorder before she answered.
“Why?” she replied equally casual but she knew the skip in her voice had betrayed her interest.
Zander clipped on a skull earring that nestled in the upper curve of his ear. It matched the skull ring on his finger and was made of the same beaten silver as the chain links nestled between the angel wings. “You know why,” he said huskily.
They were in his stadium dressing room in Manchester, Northern England, a few days later and he wore the same blood-red silk shirt he’d worn the day they’d met. The same black leather jeans, teamed tonight with black boots reflective enough to mirror your face in them if you got close enough. Elizabeth hadn’t gotten close enough. They’d been on company time.
Since their night together, the balance of power was a delicate one. Here, where Zander was king, he had an advantage. Elizabeth knew it. He knew it.
As if sensing her skittishness, he fastened the buttons on his shirt, neatly, precisely, covering the tattoo, the chain, the muscle. See, I’m just a guy about to go to work.
Yeah. Right.
All through his preshow rituals—the dressing, the adornment, the vocal warm-up—she’d had to dig her hands in the pockets of her jacket to stop herself from touching him.
“We agreed that sex was a one-time thing.” Hearing her ambivalence, Zander grinned. His perceptiveness was the most powerful turn-on of all.
“Yeah, we did. Now let’s agree that was a stupid idea. Think of me as your personal trainer for risk taking. We’ll build up slowly to a sexual marathon.”
“You and your energy-conducting penis are just seeking another convert,” she said crossly, watching him roll up a sleeve to reveal a sinewy tanned forearm. Tempted. The other night had been…fantastic. The fulfillment of secret fantasies she didn’t even know she had. More importantly, she’d still respected herself in the morning.
Zander turned his attention to the other sleeve. “My performance will turn on thousands of women tonight, but only you get to have me—if you want me. Who really has the power?”
Elizabeth weakened under that blowtorch gaze. There wasn’t a lick of moisture left in her mouth. Her eyes dropped to his lips and she swallowed. A lick or two now would be nice.
Someone tapped on the door and Dimity stuck her head in. “Zee, the VIP fans are waiting for their handshakes.”
“Elizabeth’s deciding whether to stay for the show.” He smiled at her. “Doc, if you’re interested in a different perspective, you can join these fans in the mosh pit.” The challenge in his smile was all too familiar, the appeal in his eyes completely new.
“I’ll stay.” Over the past few days, his diligence in not mixing business with pleasure had answered her greatest concern—that this rebel wouldn’t follow her rules. She could trust him.
His smile heated her blood. “And we’ll meet here after the show for a debrief.”
Oh boy. Come to think of it, there were still fantasies she hadn’t explored.
“Don’t bother to wait for us,” he added carelessly to Dimity. “We’ll take a car back to the hotel when the arena clears. Tell Luther to come by at midnight.”
“Sure.” The PA didn’t so much as blink and Elizabeth relaxed. Obviously the idea of her and Zander together was too preposterous to consider. She wouldn’t have been nearly as complacent if she’d seen Dimity’s smirk as she led the way to the VIP room.
* * *
In its uninhibited glee, a mosh pit wasn’t all that different from her niece’s recent birthday party, except a music rush replaced the sugar rush, Elizabeth bounced without a trampoline, and all her giddiness arose not from an attempted seat drop, but from the blistering sexual heat generated by the man on stage.
Zander had told her once his goal was to connect with each and every one of his audience, whether in the front row or the last. “When you give everything, boundaries dissolve.” As she synchronized with the uninhibited mass of friendly bodies, swaying through the ballads, pogo-ing through the anthems and hollering every chorus, Elizabeth absorbed that truth at a visceral level.
“I love you, Zander,” a woman shrieked beside her, detonating a chorus of echoing shrieks through the mosh pit. Looking at the blissful adulation on the upturned faces around her, Elizabeth laughed. She could have been at a Pentecostal revival meeting, such was the fervor.
From the stage, he grinned at her, a wild and reckless grin that set her pulse racing. Energy, electric and crackling, filled the air with a charge that was sex, and so much more.
“OMG, he’s looking at me,” yelled a woman behind her.
“No, he’s smiling at me,” yelled a guy’s voice.
Elizabeth’s amusement faded. Zander had a gift for intimacy with strangers and she was in danger of reading the way he made her feel as something private and special to her. Staying wasn’t a good idea.
The press of bodies suddenly claustrophobic, she struggled through the sea of human kelp to the far side of the stage.
As the band hit the last chorus of the final encore, she flashed her ID at the security guards and they pulled her free of the crowd. Hurrying to the exit and a ride to the hotel, she remembered she’d left her jacket—with her recorder, wallet and hotel key—hanging in Zander’s changing room. How could she have been so careless? Flustered, obviously. And another reason to stay with a professional relationship. Returning to collect it, she ripped a page from her notebook and scrawled a note. Sorry. Something came up. Eliz—
“I knew you’d run.”
She dropped her pen.
Zander stood in the doorway, a towel draped round his neck and his torso bare. Breathing hard from his encore. Sweaty. Raw. Beautiful. Dangerous.
“You planned this,” she accused, too rattled for tact. “You’re sex-ing me into helpless and needy.”
“Doc, I want you begging.” His post-show huskiness made his voice a rough caress. “But only so I can give you everything you need.”
Panic became desire. It thickened her blood, clouded her brain. What an invitation.
His eyes reinforced it, hot and hungry, male and demanding. “Give me control tonight. I promise you’ll like it.”
Elizabeth swallowed convulsively. She trusted him to follow her rules, but could she trust herself to? You’re just visiting Planet Z. This has nothing to do with your real life.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Zander stepped inside and locked the door, muting the noise outside. Leaning against it, he tossed the towel aside. “Take off your clothes.”
“W…what?”
“Your clothes,” he said. “Take them off.”
She hesitated. “Maybe I should grab a shower first. I’m all sticky from dancing.”
Unsmiling, Zander shook his head. “I want you real.”
With a shiver of intoxicating helplessness, Elizabeth stripped. He watched, legs planted wide, arms folded with his fingers curved over his biceps. Blue gaze burning.
When she reached bra and panties, self-consciousness kicked in. “You come here often?”
“I said naked, Doc.”
Unhooking her bra, Elizabeth glanced nervously at the door. Had he twisted the lock properly? “What about you?”
“We’ll get to that.” He hooked a thumb in his leather jeans drawing her gaze down to the bulge in the front of his pants.
“Okay.” Her attention still on his erection, she shimmied out of her panties, feeling wicked and breathless, apprehensive and aroused. “I’m ready.”
A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Woman, I’m the boss, remember? And before I service your fantasy, you have to service mine. Or should I say self-service? We talked about it the other night.”
One day I hope you’ll let me watch.
“Here?” Startled, she glanced around the sparsely furnished room. “Now?”
“Sit on the chair at the dressing table.”
Elizabeth looked at the bright, unforgiving bulbs circling the mirror, and remembered she was thirty-five. “I’m probably not comfortable with—”
“I don’t want you to be comfortable.”
The chair was leather, cold on her bare butt. She should probably have put something down… She swung to face him because it felt odd seeing her reflection naked and exposed. Ordinary. “I don’t think this will work,” she said sadly. “I’m not that uninhibited—”
“You’re a wild woman masquerading as a good girl.” Pushing away from the doorjamb, Zander strolled toward her. “Sex the other night scared the hell out of me. Tonight it’s your turn.”
“Really?” she said delighted.
Zander pulled up a chair, and faced her. “Terrified,” he admitted.
Something about the raw honesty of his hunger made her feel like the first woman. Fascinating and other. Brave.
“Show me how you please yourself.” He stroked one finger down his cock, through the leather and she copied the movement, self-conscious but willing to try.
Her fingers found the rhythm, but some part of her brain wouldn’t shut down and let her enjoy it.
“Open your legs wider,” he said. “I want to see everything.”
His voice, deep and gravelly, made her breath quicken. Maybe this could work.
“Talk more,” she ordered.
“No,” he said. “We talk too much. But if you need help.” He opened his fly and began stroking himself. Competent, workmanlike, male. She began to gasp. “Oh yes, that’ll work.” Sensation began to spiral.
Zander dropped to his knees in front of her, pushing her trembling legs further apart, pulled away her hand and put his mouth, his tongue on her, stroking just where she needed it. A climax rolled over her in intense waves. Elizabeth gave a strangled cry and surrendered to it.
She rejoined reality to find herself sprawled inelegantly, Zander kneeling between her legs watching her. She hid her embarrassment under a joke. “Okay, I’m done.”
With a chuckle, he trailed his way tenderly up her body, lingering on her breasts before taking her mouth. This kiss held no mercy, it took, demanded, but the hand cupping her sex was gentle—warm and possessive. “Darlin’,” he murmured, “we haven’t even begun.”
He stood, pulling her with him. His nipple ring pressed into the soft skin of her breast and she leaned in, wanting the discomfort, her hands sliding down the indent of his spine to his ass in those jeans and around to his exposed cock. She kissed the mouth that had given her such joy, lost herself in the pleasure of it.
He sheathed himself with a condom and something crashed to the floor as he lifted her onto the dressing table. “Wrap your legs around my waist.” When he entered her she smothered a cry against his bare shoulder, it was so good. “Hurry, hurry.”
“Elizabeth.” Her name on his lips, a song.
Their rhythm was ragged, wild and perfect, he still had his jeans on, and the leather tugged against her inner thighs with cool friction, in delicious contrast to the silken heat stoking her to climax.
A hammering on the door shocked her into awareness of her surroundings. In a panic, she started to disentangle, but Zander held her in place.
“Yeah?” he managed between breaths.
“Zee,” said Luther’s deep baritone. “Car’s ready when you are.”
“Give us another twenty minutes. We’re on a roll here.” His eyes laughed into hers, wicked, shameless. He began moving again, slow, sure strokes. “Is that okay with you, Doc?”
Elizabeth clutched his shoulders. “I…” Stalled. “Another fifteen should…do…it.” As soon as she heard Luther’s departing footsteps, she leaned forward and bit—hard—on the nipple ring.
“Ouch. Do that again.”
“Now I’m totally debauched,” she whispered, then murmured a protest as he withdrew.
“Not yet.” Zander turned her so they both faced the mirror and grinned at her surprised reflection. “But you will be.”