Slowly, she surfaced. Where was… Oh holy hell, she’d fallen asleep on the couch, apparently some time ago, because Ben was back in his office. With at least Peter and Matt, the two who’d been arguing with him. Was Lucas in here? She froze, wondering if she should just keep her eyes shut and hope they hadn’t noticed her. Yeah, that was likely. From the direction of Peter’s voice, he was in the chair that faced the couch.

She’d fallen asleep like a sleepy, trusting child, her nose nestled in his pillow, arms wrapped around it like she’d wrap them around him, never wanting to let him go. God, she was like a Taylor Swift song, probably not the picture of mature woman at the moment. If they were looking at her, they’d know she was awake, because she was turning the color of a tomato.

The hell with it. She opened her eyes. Peter was actually standing, leaning on the wall behind the chair, all that restless energy too out front to be contained for long in a chair. Though he’d retired from the National Guard to be here for Dana, he still looked like he should be carrying an assault rifle, ready to lead a unit into a firefight. He was built like a muscular tank, and to the delight of every woman who met him, he was the one K&A man who usually wore khakis or dress jeans and form-fitting heavy weight tees that emphasized that physique. Since he oversaw a lot of the plant operations, the casual look was more appropriate for him.

Matt was as intimidating and riveting as ever in his dark suit, polished shoes. He was in what Marcie privately called his raptor pose. Though he appeared relaxed, ankle on the opposite knee, hands loose on the chair arms, there was something about the position of his head, the focus of the dark eyes, that suggested he was about to swoop down five hundred feet and pluck a hapless field mouse out of a dense meadow.

Ben had his chair pushed back with one foot against the edge of the desk. He was tapping a pen against the arm. None of them were looking toward her, but they all realized she was here. They hadn’t woken her. It was as if her being in Ben’s office made her part of his other belongings. She wondered how Lucas would feel about that. Had he already been here? Seen her?

“I have something else to handle now,” Ben said, tilting his head in her direction. “Are we done?”

“Yeah. Hey, don’t forget next Friday’s benefit.” Peter pushed off the wall. “Black tie. Stale finger foods, open checkbook. The girls are really looking forward to it.”

Today was Thursday. Were they anticipating him being gone for the next seven days, such that Peter was mentioning it now? She held her tongue, though cold dread filled her stomach. Had she known him well enough to anticipate his escape out of town?

Then Peter gave him a grin. “It will take you that long to get some unlucky woman to agree to be your date.”

“I’ll ask your wife,” Ben said dryly. “You know she’ll choose me.”

“Yeah. Keep it up, I’ll wrap your oversized appendage around your throat and choke you with it.”

“Don’t you wish yours was long enough to do that?”

“Gentlemen,” Matt warned in a mild voice. She knew he was a stickler about talking crude around women, at least in normal conversation. The others followed the same code, though she’d always noticed Ben strayed outside the lines more than the rest.

Through Cass, she knew he’d lived on the streets as a kid. Maybe that was why he slipped in the manners department more often, though she’d never seen Ben treat the K&A women with anything but the greatest respect. That street experience probably contributed to his versatility as a lawyer, but he’d have made a good investigator as well, because he could easily adopt different personas. He’d delighted her siblings with his command of accents. Cajun, Irish, Midwestern, New England. What she found interesting was how the accents would show up unconsciously when his moods changed, as if the situation called forth that particular personality.

When Matt rose and he and Peter headed toward the door, neither of them looked toward her, even though she pushed up on one elbow. Same situation as at Jon’s. She was Ben’s, a submissive waiting on a Master’s attention, and therefore not to be acknowledged by the other Doms in the room unless it was part of the plan. Given her immediate reaction to that thought, a nap hadn’t helped settle her as much as she expected.

“Remember what we talked about.”

Jon was in the room, standing by the door. He was addressing Ben, holding his gaze. Ben inclined his head, his mouth tight. “I’ll handle it the way I see fit.”

“Just be sure you handle it.”

Okay, she’d never heard Jon with that edge. Ben registered the challenge, eyes turning into shards of glass. “I said I would. Back off.”

Jon nodded, his blue eyes just as cool. Then he turned, pulling the door closed after him.

She wasn’t sure what to say. She was pretty sure that had to do with her, but she didn’t know what corner of the sheet to grasp to straighten it out. Surely Jon wouldn’t have told Ben what they talked about? Yes, of course he would. From her tea-party eavesdropping, she knew it caused Cass, Dana, Savannah and Rachel various levels of frustration. The well-being of their women came first, over and above issues of privacy, and all of the guys were hugely overprotective.

The Knights of the Board Room was what they’d been dubbed by a columnist, years ago, and though the guys would roll their eyes if anyone brought it up, it fit. It was as much about their old-fashioned code of chivalry as it was about their behavior in business and charitable circles.

Ben turned his chair then. She couldn’t read his countenance, but he rose, came to the couch, dropped to his heels next to it. His gaze covered her face, the open neck of the pink blouse, following the lines of her body down to the tailored skirt. As his gaze came back to hers, she was warmer all over, and more flustered.

“I told you not to come here today. Why did you?”

“Because you told me I had twenty strikes coming, and you only gave me eleven. So I still owe you nine.”

His lips tugged, a sexy half-smile, but as he studied her, the smile thinned. “That was what you meant by unfinished work.”

She nodded. “That, and that last document I didn’t complete.”

Ben sighed. He put his hand on her hip, and before she could anticipate him, he’d slid those capable fingers to her right buttock, cupping it firmly. When she flinched, his eyes darkened. “I’m a sadist, Marcie,” he said softly. “But not that kind.” His touch eased and he stroked her curves, giving her body another glance. “You have no idea what you look like, sleeping on my couch, your neckline showing that lace edge of your bra, your killer legs curved up. All this beautiful hair.” His other hand threaded through it, cupping her face. “Come on, get up. I’m taking you out for a beignet.”

“Café du Monde?” Her expression brightened. She loved the view of Jackson Square, the artists, the musicians and impromptu performances.

“Maybe another day. I want a good beignet, one where the dough is still handmade each day, not squirted out of a mass-production tube and served in a corral with a dirty floor and wall-to-wall tourists.”

“Ouch. I love it there.”

“Well, you’re young and stupid.”

“Better than old and grumpy.”

He gave her a pinch that made her yelp. “On your feet and leave your purse. I’m paying.”

She rolled her eyes. “You never let anyone treat you.”

“We split the check all the time. Just not with women.”

“Sexist pig.”

“Oink, oink.”

He took her to Café Beignet, which was a few blocks off Jackson Square, but she had to admit it was more intimate and relaxed, and the beignets melted in the mouth. They enjoyed them first, though he made her order a lunch she was sure she wouldn’t finish. Everyone seemed determined to make her eat.

As she finished off the last of the beignet, she was aware of his silent regard. She was licking the sugar off her fingers, because no one could resist doing that with a good beignet. She wished he’d let her clean his fingers with her mouth. She’d take them in deep, a clear reminder of what he’d let her do for him last night. The hinge of her jaw was sore and all she wanted was to do it for him again.

Reaching across the table, he caught her wrist. Bringing her fingers to his mouth, he sucked the remaining sugar off, sending electricity crackling all the way from her wrist pulse to her toes, awakening every major erogenous center in between.

When he was done, she had that queer little shake happening again. She couldn’t stop it. “Ben…”

“Ssshh.” He reached out, slid his knuckles over her temple. “Easy. Just breathe.”

“I-I don’t know why I k-keep doing that.”

“I do. Last night was your first time, wasn’t it?”

When she would have looked away, his grip tightened. “Marcie, any question I ask, you’ll answer, and you won’t lie to me. Not now, not ever. You understand?”

She managed a nod, though her teeth started to chatter. “Damn it…”

“Focus on me, what I want. Answer.”

“Yes.” She met his eyes, gripped their steadying influence, so her voice could stop quivering as much. “I’ve been to clubs, like I said. I just watched. I did a lot of Internet surfing.” Plus enough fantasizing to launch an adult Disney World.

“Did you go to the clubs alone?”

“I took one of my friends with me the first time. She isn’t into the scene, but I thought she was okay with me being that way, and would go with me to make it safer. She didn’t like how…mesmerized I was by it. It kind of freaked her out. After that, she pulled away from me, and I became more careful about who saw that side of me.”

“You went alone after that?”

“Only a few times. They were safe places, classy clubs. Then when I was in New York, Lucas’ friend, Marcus Stanton, took me fairly often. He went as a chaperone,” she added. “He’s a great Master, but he’s utterly devoted to Thomas. I got to watch them have a session, hand him things. I’m not stupid, Ben.”