“Even women have trouble putting these on themselves,” he complained amiably. It was a pair of filmy tights. He found no underwear or bra. “Are questions allowed?”

“Only a couple, and only if I think they’re relevant. So ask wisely.”

“Do you wear panties or bra under these?”

“No. Modesty panels are built into the leotard, and I’m too small-breasted for the support to be necessary.”

“Your breasts look just fine to me.”

“So says the blindfolded man. Thank you, but I wasn’t criticizing myself.”

“Sorry. Forgot I was dealing with a miracle—a woman happy with her body. Glad we share that opinion.” It was a truth he hadn’t considered before. In the time he’d known her, he’d never seen or heard her demonstrate self-deprecating behavior about weight, age, hair. She put herself together well and had a straightforward confidence about that.

“I’ll let it go this time.”

He found a pair of worn canvas slippers that he expected were ballet shoes, given the feel of the soles, and the elastic bands over the top of the foot to hold the shoe on. Running his hands all the way up to a plethora of pillows, he found nothing else, but was thorough about it, moving to the end and then working his way around the bed to the other side. She’d moved out of range, for she was no longer at the end of the bed, but he could sense her presence in the room easily enough. Her scent, the slight catch of her breath, was to his left, so she was by the door.

He noticed she had a king-sized bed, a lot of mattress for one woman, and it was impossible not to imagine sharing it with her. Did she ever invite that kind of intimacy with a man? Not likely, since her sex life seemed confined to the club. Until now. What would it be like to wake up draped over her, her soft ass against his groin first thing in the morning, that perfect small breast cupped in his hand?

When he reached the bottom of the quilted spread on this side, he hit something small. Jewelry. He caught the ball-shaped earrings, perhaps pearls, before his big fingers sent them popping off the cover like grasshoppers.

“Woman, you are evil.”

“I’m disappointed. I would have loved to see you on your elbows and knees, hunting for my earrings.”

He snorted. “I’ll bet.”

There was a necklace, a chain with a charm on it. The charm was too small for him to discern the shape. He wouldn’t waste a question on that, since he’d find out once the mask was removed. Of course, now that he knew he had to get her into tights, he had a feeling it might never be removed.

He went someplace in his head he usually preferred not to go. He thought about dressing Amanda for church. Okay, tights had that toe seam, and a tag in the back, like underwear. Unless his diabolical tormentor had removed it. Thank God, they didn’t come with the seam up the back of the leg like the nylons Marcie preferred to wear. She worked for Savannah’s company, Tennyson Industries, but whenever she came to the office to meet Ben for lunch, that provocative look could make any man with a pulse walk into walls.

“I said no time limit, but our time is not unlimited.”

He straightened. Circling the bed, using the posts for guides, he moved toward her voice. She was standing approximately three paces from the bed, but she stopped him at two, her hand grazing his chest to bring him to a halt. His brow creased beneath the mask at her silence. Was she just studying him? “I wanted to be sure I knew what and where everything was before I undressed you,” he explained his thoroughness. “Didn’t want you to stand there being cold. The necklace and earrings were a good trap.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d find them.”

Okay, that gave him a clue. There was an odd note in her voice that made him reach out. She lifted her arm again, but this time he wasn’t put off, following her wrist down to her elbow, then to her upper arm, closing the distance between them. He fingered her earlobe, locating the gold teardrops he remembered she was wearing, then moved down her throat, to the simple strand of pearls. He wouldn’t remove the earrings until he was ready to insert the others, using them as a guide.

“The necklace, it has meaning, doesn’t it?”

She said nothing, and he let it be. Instead, he put his hands to her waist, unbuttoned the suit jacket she wore. It was a pretty thing that weighed almost nothing. As he slipped it off her shoulders, feeling the welcome silk of her skin since she wore a sleeveless shell, a wave of that strawberry smell, mixed with some vanilla, reached his nose.

“Are you wearing that perfume between your legs? Because I’d love to taste it there.”

She put her fingers on his lips, an admonishment, but he felt the promising quiver in her fingertips. “No more talking, sailor. That’s an order.”

“Roger that.” Her body shifted under his hands, her arms lifting so he could pull the shell from her waistband, take it over her head. Her breasts, the weight of them pressing against the lacy cups of her bra, brushed his shirt front. He imagined the stretch of her body, the tilt of her rib cage. He couldn’t wait to watch her dance. He couldn’t wait to do a lot of things.

Putting his arm around her waist, holding her there with a palm on her ass, he bent to drop a kiss between the cleft of her breasts. To avoid rebuke, he multitasked, unhooking her bra at the same time. The straps tumbled down her shoulders, sliding over his knuckles where he’d moved his hands to her upper arms. He took the opportunity to press a more insistent kiss on the rise of her right breast. He knew the nipple would be pearling up into a tight point, so close to his mouth. Before she could reprove him, he backed toward the bed, keeping his arm around her waist so she moved with him. He laid the bra on the bed, then felt for the side zipper of her skirt. A whisper of cloth, and the lined garment fell to her feet. Dropping to one knee, he put her hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got you. Just step out of it.”

When she did, he folded the skirt and set it on the bra. He followed her leg up to her thigh, then prayed for restraint as he found she was wearing lacy thigh highs. The bloody woman was standing before him in a scrap of underwear, no bra and thigh-high stockings. Everything in him wanted to pull out his knife, slice off the mask. His cock was already hard and he was sure quite visible against the hold of his khakis. Her fingers slid over his shoulder, along the side of his neck, those lethal nails scraping, conveying her need. He wasn’t the only one affected. His blind state was arousing her as well, her breath becoming more erratic.

If he stood up now, captured her mouth in his, would she call it game over, let him take her on that king-sized bed, plow into her wet folds, get lost in it with him? But this was part of it, wasn’t it? For as impatient as he was now, what would it be like when he had his task completed, mission accomplished, proving he could do as she desired? He would be nearly insane with lust, her body would be willing and wet. Even so, he already anticipated she would make them wait until after her class. Because that was the game for her. Denial and teasing, until the power of it would overwhelm them both. It could result in a quick violent fuck, but he expected once drawn out to a certain point, such mutual arousal would reach a level where the culmination would slow down, having become too excruciatingly powerful to rush. Like this.

When she worked men at the club, there was a clean line to the power exchange, everything resting in her hands, her shaping the sub’s reaction like a sculptor. At the end of a session, he could tell she was satisfied by her work of art, yet she was still separate from it, washing the clay from her hands before she returned to the real world. She was testing different waters with him. At the end of their night, there would be no separation. He was going to make damn sure of it.

He wanted to inspire lingering feelings. When she was at work, he wanted her fingers to still on her keyboard as she thought of his mouth, his touch, the way he thought of hers, the maze behind her dark eyes. Instead of being washed off, the clay would dry on their skin, making them both part of the sculpture.

He knew she had concerns about that kind of closeness. When it was managed well, fear guided a man or woman, helped him or her make wise choices. She was a woman who managed her fear quite well in that regard, but he still sensed it there. He wanted to bring her to the point she understood he didn’t have to be a sculpture at all, but a living, breathing part of her own soul.

Wow. That was unexpected. He stopped, taking a breath. She was right. Wearing the blindfold took the mind into some unlikely places.

Hooking the top of one stocking, he slid it down her gorgeous leg, taking advantage to liberally caress the length of it. He pressed a kiss on the inside of her thigh, right where the lace had held the stocking fast. She gripped his shoulder as she shifted her feet, let him pull the nylon free. “Your coat.” Her voice was strained. “I want it off.”

He nodded, shrugged free of it. She took it from him, turning away but staying within touching distance. He realized she was draping it over something behind her, probably a chair.

“I’ll let you keep the gun. In case you feel the need to defend yourself.”

He pressed his lips together at that, merely removing the other stocking the way he had the first. Only this time, with her back to him, he had the pleasure of letting his thumbs slide down the tender crevice of her knee. She held on to the chair to balance as he pulled it free.

He held both delicate pieces in one hand as he rose. Her buttocks brushed the front of his slacks. With his greater height, he let the stockings slide along her shoulder, the side of her throat, then down her back. As she stayed still, her body vibrating with sensation he could feel, he trailed the fabric down her arm, to her wrist. When he began to wind it around that slim target, she tensed.

“No,” she said. But she didn’t move away. Her hand balled into a fist beneath his hold, the wrist flexing. Though he couldn’t see her face, he felt that tension that had emanated so strongly from her twice. In the hospital and then again at the club.

Someone had hurt this woman. Hurt her badly, violently. And though it was ironic that it called up related feelings inside him, a fierce desire to visit on her attacker threefold whatever had been done to her, he had the self-awareness, and the understanding of her state of mind, to yoke it back so it couldn’t interfere with this moment. Any more than it was already doing.