“I could have done it with a few more jumps,” she defended herself. “It’s just about building momentum. But your help was appreciated.”

“Hmm.” He stared down at her, and the unfathomable look quieted her. Dropping the silver strand over her head, she put the green on him. Her fingers slipped over his hair, touched his neck and ears, rested on his shoulders when she was done, her thumbs touching his throat because he’d loosened his tie, unbuttoned the collar. Because he didn’t say not to do it, she stroked that small expanse of skin, scratched it with her nail.

His gaze heated, his hands dropping to take a firm hold of her ass, kneading, no matter the passing cars or sidewalk pedestrians. There weren’t so many of those here, but the occasional matronly dog walker could make her more self-conscious than the anonymity and colorful nature of a big Canal Street crowd.

It was exactly why he did it. She knew it was a test. So she didn’t look around, didn’t squirm away. Fortunately, the passing hours and his and Rachel’s combined tending had made her buttocks far less sore. “I’m going to do something now,” he said. “As I’m doing it, you tell me what goes through that imaginative brain of yours.”

Lowering his head, he nudged hers to the side with the touch of his mouth on her temple. Turning her face toward his broad shoulder, pressing her nose into the smooth line of his dress shirt over his pectoral, she shuddered as his mouth landed on the juncture of her throat and shoulder. He bit her there, a controlled motion, teeth slowly depressing as his tongue stroked her. Her breath shortened, and she almost forgot to do what he’d told her to do.

“You’re winding a rope wrap from below my knees to my ankles.” Her trembling increased as the pressure did, the clamp of the bite. “You do the same to my arms, from wrists to elbows, behind my back. My breasts…they’re thrust way out because of that. So you do a binding there as well, one rope above, one below, a crossed knot in the middle, and then you attach that to the arm wrap. You put me over your shoulder, completely helpless. You take me to a sofa, bend me over the arm and…”

He relaxed his jaw, then started that depression again, interfering with her ability to think. His fingers were kneading her ass in rhythmic squeezes, and she was leaned into him, pressing her mound harder against him, sensation clenching in her pussy.

“Say it, Marcie. Say it the way you know I want to hear it.”

“You’d fuck me in the ass until I was screaming to come, biting the cushions.”

“Do I let you, or make you suffer? Make you beg?”

She smiled, though her fingers were digging into his biceps, holding on. God, how did he do this so well? “I’d come at your command, right now,” she whispered.

“It takes awhile for a sub to learn how to do that. Come at her Master’s command.”

“Not if she’s been practicing for seven years.”

He stilled. She cursed herself for reminding him of that time when she was too young for him, since it underlined his belief that she was still too young for him. But it was true. In her fantasies, she’d work herself up with fingers or vibrator, but she wouldn’t come, not until he was standing in her mind, real and strong and tall, commanding her to do so.

“I think we’ll test that.” He lifted his head then, brushing the abused area with his mouth before he adjusted her blouse back over it. He tweaked the green beads on his neck. “Why green?”

“They match your eyes. Sort of. They’re sparkly and your eyes have fire, especially right now.” She looked up into his face, her own flushed, and her eyes pretty much on fire as well, she was sure. “I want to do that for you. I want to come for you.”

“You can tell me what you want, Marcie, but I run things, not you. You understand?”

“Yes, Ma—sir.” She wouldn’t mess it up, would play the game the way he wanted to play it, even if that made her dishonest.

His eyes narrowed, but he slid an arm around her, resuming their walk.

“So you’ve become a homeowner since I’ve been gone,” she teased him. “An apartment in the Warehouse District and a house in the Garden District. When I was in high school, you were living in hotels.”

He shrugged. “A hotel has concierge and maid service, dry cleaning. Choose one within walking distance to a good breakfast and dinner place, and you’re all set. But property is a good investment.”

“So why not rent them out and keep living in the hotels?”

“There are times I have the desire for privacy.” He gave her an appraising look that sent heat washing over her.

“I figured you bought them so you could have a fully stocked kitchen.”

He shrugged. “Not as important as it used to be.”

He’d said he still brought a dish to the monthly dinners with the whole K&A family. But when she was in high school, he’d made her family meals all the time, taught any of the kids to cook who wanted to learn. Since Marcie had a driver’s license, she was in charge of grocery shopping after school. He’d text her cell, instructing her on what he needed and expecting her to have it waiting for him at the house when he arrived after work.

Watching him cook was like everything else about him. A visual feast. He’d go through the groceries she bought, examine all of them carefully. He’d taught her how to pick out something at the right freshness, the brands that were better quality than others. He teased her, giving her a hard time if she brought him the wrong stuff. He’d affect a French accent, throwing up his hands and exclaiming, “I cannot work in theez coundiseeons…” In truth, the man could make an awesome meal out of a bag of flour and a tin can of sardines.

He’d taught her to cook the basics, but she’d been hopeless when it came to anything more complex. A truly great cook had an intimate relationship with the ingredients, understanding flavors and textures in a wandering, intuitive way she was far too literal and goal-oriented to ever comprehend. She preferred to provide the artist the supplies, watch him work and enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Now he said a kitchen “wasn’t as important as it used to be”. From that tightening around his mouth, she could tell they were getting into a tricky area. Not wanting to lose ground, she changed direction. “It’s expensive, eating out all the time. Until Lucas married Cass, we only did it on really special occasions.”

“Well, taking all of you out for a meal was like taking out an army of meerkats. You can hardly blame her.”

“We were very good,” she protested. “You were the one asked to leave the McDonald’s play area for getting too aggressive.”

“Not my fault those five-year-olds couldn’t handle a little competition. That’s what’s wrong with America these days. Raising a bunch of pansies who don’t want to win.”

She pinched his side, but was gratified when he brought her closer. She threaded her arm around his waist, under his jacket, and he didn’t discourage her. It was easier to walk that way, after all. His body was a sinuous ripple of motion under the shirt as he walked. She curled her fingers over his belt, held on.

“Speaking of dinner, let’s get some before we head for the house.” He gestured to a restaurant across the street. “Come on.”

He kept pressure on her waist, holding her still until he was okay with their clearance, then they crossed the street. She’d known how to cross the street on her own for some time, of course, but it didn’t offend her. In truth, such gestures could be devastating to a woman’s senses. All the more because Ben was oblivious to their potency. From watching Cass and the others, she’d learned it wasn’t about denigrating a woman’s independence. It had nothing to do with the men’s opinion of female capability, but everything to do with their absolute conviction that a man’s role was to protect and cherish.

The restaurant was one she hadn’t tried before, an elegant place with full-length white table cloths, candlelight. The walls were pre-twentieth-century brick covered with artwork by local talent, and the place had the smell that the old, historic buildings did. A jazz band was jamming in the corner, filling the place with music. Ben had the maître d’ show them to the upstairs level and a corner table on the balcony, though the round table could seat six. They could hear the music vibrating through their feet and drifting up the wide staircase, without their conversation being overpowered by it.

“If Noah’s working tonight, I want him as our server,” Ben told the maître d’.

“Of course, Mr. O’Callahan.”

Ben held out the chair that was tucked in the corner, touching her shoulders briefly before he took his own seat next to her. “Any allergies?” he asked as the man disappeared down the stairs.

She shook her head. When she would have opened her menu, Ben took it away, sliding it under his own. “Take off your panties,” he said.

Just like that, he took the reins, told her they were now Master and slave. Or Mentor and sub-in-training—to him. Either way, her body responded accordingly, with aching need and anxiety fluttering in her belly. Though it was difficult to do without rising, she worked the panties off under the snug skirt.

“Hand them to me. No balling them up.”

No one was up here, but he’d anticipated her self-consciousness. There were people wandering the street below the balcony, looking up to study the diners. As attractive as Ben was, he’d probably get his share of looks. He wanted to see if she’d quake. Instead, steeling herself to be whatever he required, she hung them on one finger, let them dangle provocatively and extended them to him. His lips twisted, and he took them from her. Her face colored as he raised them to his lips, his nostrils flaring, taking in her heated scent. “These are wet. Who’s been making you wet?”

“You. Only you.”

“You sure that jogger’s femoris didn’t do it for you?” His tone was serious, despite the flash of humor. But either way, she’d give him no less than honesty. Not when he was completely in command like this.