FOUR

As Athena pressed her lips together, looked toward the pond, Dale could see her mind working in ten different directions. Though every submissive was different, she was an exceptionally unique package. According to Jimmy, she was an accomplished Mistress. The irony was that skill came from being a down-to-the-bone submissive. Even so, actively performing as a submissive was going to be new to her.

While he might have barked at another sub for trying to rush the clock, galvanizing her into the right mind-set with an immediate show of discipline, he understood the level of conflict she was experiencing at this juncture. It wasn’t yet time for heavy-handedness. The pacing needed to be as precise as the way he knew she’d pour him a cup of coffee. That was part of the pleasure of this, yet he felt an anticipation to it that was new to him. Sharper, sweeter—a sense that the stakes were higher. He wasn’t gun-shy about relationships with women. Just very, very selective.

He shifted his chair so he could look out at the pond, study the view and the gardens. Ostensibly, he was ignoring her, treating her as part of the furniture, here for his use. Though he’d said they’d wait until five, it gave her enough of a taste of it to quiet if not calm her. Her fingers were in a knot in her lap. Without changing the direction of his gaze, he reached out, covered and untangled them, closing his hand around hers. He simply held it, rubbing his thumb over her cool fingers as the birds twittered and the clouds drifted across the sky.

His watch ticked to the appropriate hour. He waited a solid thirty seconds, then spoke.

“Bring me a cup of coffee.”

She jerked at the sound of his voice, probably pulling herself out of frenetic, internal-narrative ping-pong, but then she composed herself, rising in that serene way she had. He noticed that she waited until he withdrew his hand to do it. Her undiluted natural instinct for submission was absorbing to watch. It was also a serious test of his self-restraint.

Circling the table, she lifted the carafe. The faint tinge to her cheeks showed all that was going on beneath the surface. She poured the coffee, not spilling a drop, then brought it back to him, placing the cup and saucer before him. She’d remembered he took it black. Damn, she was going to kill him.

She waited as he lifted it, tasted. Then he nodded at her. “Very good. You can sit down now. At my feet.”

Just a brief hesitation, then she sank to her knees. His groin tightened, cock hardening so rapidly he’d have gotten dizzy if standing. Jesus. Yeah, a submissive like this could get him revved up, but even for that, his reaction to her was unexpectedly strong. If she could see how hot his blood was boiling, the things he wanted to do to her, she might run screaming. Or not. The thought of her embracing anything he threw at her only made things worse.

He put his hand on her hair, stroked a lock, twined it in his hand. She didn’t put a lot of goop on it that made it stiff. It was fine and silky, with a natural wave from her face. He liked the brown-bird color, the way it had gleamed in the sun when she’d walked out of the garden toward him. She had a sexy walk as well, wearing that pencil skirt and heels in a way that turned a man’s thoughts to fucking, no help for it. All the more so because it was unintentional. She was one hundred percent class.

“Seventeen hundred hours,” he said, reminding her. Then he waited.

To his intense approval, she pulled the blouse from her waistband, revealing a creamy band of skin as she reached up beneath the shirt. Her back arched, breasts thrusting outward in involuntary display as she unhooked her bra, worked the straps down through her sleeves and pulled the whole thing free. She folded and handed it to him. His thumb slid over the inside of one of the cups, feeling the warmth her breast had left there, and then he lifted the garment, inhaling the fragrance left by her skin.

She had to stand to accomplish part two of what he’d demanded, but as he gave her a nod to permit it and she rose, he caught her hand, stilling her. Her attention followed his, to where Lynn was walking out the side entrance, over to the garage. She was talking to another woman, perhaps the assistant Athena had mentioned, and they were carpooling. As they got into the car and pulled away, Dale returned his attention to Athena. It looked as if it had surprised her, his paying more attention to protecting her privacy than she herself had.

He tightened his grip. “Your job is to obey my will, follow my direction exactly and immediately. Mine is to make sure you don’t have to focus on anything other than that. Understand?”

She nodded. She wasn’t pulling away, and he decided to use that, shifting his grip to her wrist. “Take off the panties one-handed,” he ordered.

Watching a submissive struggle with a logistical difficulty was another way of putting them off balance, taking up more of their attention, getting them in the right headspace. Plus it was a pure pleasure to have her putting her weight against his hold, relying on him for balance as she worked the skirt up to hook the thong panties with one set of fingers. She couldn’t screen herself from his view as much this way, so he watched the skirt bunch up over her thighs and then higher until he saw the point of her sex, covered by a smooth silky fabric, a tiny swatch of lace across the crotch panel. She was quite ladylike, his Athena.

She worked the thong down, and he won another brief glimpse of her clean-shaven pussy before the skirt draped back over it, barely. Now that the requested garment was at her knees, she straightened as if to pull the skirt back in place, but he shook his head. “I asked for the panties. That’s your first priority.”

Her hand shook in his, just a tiny tremor. The stress in her expression was a combination of arousal and uncertainty. She was all right; merely getting used to the new feelings.

Stepping out of the thong, she bent to retrieve it. Her arm remained in his grasp as she handed it over, but then he shifted that hold. He placed both hands on her thighs, fingers sliding beneath the folds of skirt to grip firm, silken skin. His thumbs pressed on the seam of her thighs and she adjusted so they were open to him.

“Good girl.”

He sat back then, the underwear in his lap, and picked up his coffee. “You can adjust your skirt and sit at my feet now.”

She complied, her cheeks a fetching pink as she wiggled the amount needed to accomplish the task. When she knelt at his feet, he saw her notice his arousal beneath the jeans. When he casually adjusted himself, straightening his cock beneath the denim, she moistened her lips.

It would be so fucking tempting to have her suck him off right here. He had a feeling she would do so the moment he commanded it, but it would be too much. She was handling herself well, but if what she implied was true, he was the first man she’d ever trusted with this side of herself, and she’d been married—and monogamous—with the same guy for over twenty years. It showed her strength, that she was reaching out this way. The gift she was giving him was priceless, and it came with a lot of responsibility. He had to protect her every step of the way.

The power of taking time was that it could wrap around a submissive, cocoon her, intensify every feeling for the both of them, and create a lasting experience that both would want to repeat, no guilt or regrets. It wasn’t a race, but a journey, and one that worked best if they stayed together during it, progressing to the point that they wouldn’t know where one of them stopped and the other started, the power exchange intertwined.

He took one more sip of the coffee, then set it aside. “Give me a tour of the property. I want to know the resources I’ll have at my disposal.”

“We don’t have a playroom or dungeon. I know it seems odd, for as much space as we have, but . . .”

“That’s fine. I actually prefer to work with the environment the woman in question provides.”

“Oh.” Though she nodded, there was an expression on her face that had him reaching down to touch her cheek, draw up her bemused gaze.

“That’s a rare pleasure for me. Most of my time with subs is spent in a club.”

Her shoulders eased. It mattered to her, that this was a relatively unique experience for him. Even more intriguingly, it had mattered to him to set her straight on that. He was correct—this relationship was going to be more. Whenever she sensed that possibility, like now, he noticed she became more nervous, but it was the good kind of nervous, the kind that was an aphrodisiac to a Master.

He slid his fingertip down her jaw, to her throat. “Every time you touch a particular chair, or walk across a rug, or handle a spatula in your kitchen . . . I want you to be thinking of me.”

She phased out on him at little bit at that, her busy mind obviously caught up in the possibilities, but she recalled herself. She drew back. “I expect we should talk about rules and boundaries. Limits.”

An entirely different matter from her earlier erroneous attempt to define the relationship itself. What she meant now was the structure that would guide her submission to him. Of course the word “limits” sounded forced from her lips, but he understood that. Most new subs wanted to get completely lost in the fantasy of total surrender, which was another reason a Dom needed to keep a firm hand on the reins, to keep the sub safe. Athena might have that temptation, but she had the wits and maturity to take it back to that track herself. They were on the same wavelength. He’d been about to suggest the rule discussion as part of the tour.

“Want to do that while you show me around? You seem like a good multitasker to me.”

“Most women are.” Her eyes smiled, even though the rest of her looked a little wound up.

“Athena.” He set the coffee aside, leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “You know there’s nothing to be afraid of here, right?”

“I think I want to be afraid, a little bit.”

“Yeah. I’ll take care of that, I promise.” The dangerous surge he felt at her admission must have shown in his face, because her color went high again, the pulse jumping in her throat. A strong Dom had a predator’s instincts, such that he had to tamp down the desire to push that adrenaline reaction. Today wasn’t going to be about that, he reminded himself. Again. “Let’s get started on that tour.”

—

She’d planned to take the paved walkways, not wanting to make uneven terrain an issue for him, but he was the one to step off the path, drawn by the various sculptures and how her landscaping was designed around them. She’d helped with those plans, so she was pleased to see his interest. He came to a stop at the section where a gravel path of white stone spiraled around the focus piece, a large bronze statue of a griffin. Its wings were spread, head lifted to the sky in a defiant cry. Standing a few paces away was a life-sized man with a drawn sword. His posture said he’d intended to engage the griffin, but his expression suggested hesitation, as if the beauty and savage power of the creature had overwhelmed him, or some other conflict held him back. The man wore a suit, like a contemporary businessman.

Dale looked from one to the other. “When the sun goes down, do they come to life and fight each other until dawn?”

“If they do, they’re quiet about it. My bedroom window’s right there.” She nodded to the second level of the house. “The artist called it The Choice. He provided no other explanation than that, leaving it to the viewer’s interpretation.”

“As the best artists do. It’s also a good way for the lousy ones who create junk to cover their asses.”

After that dry comment, Dale reached up to touch the griffin’s wings, the curve of the head, the texture of the feathers sculpted on his convex chest. He pivoted to look at the view beyond the griffin. Past the swordsman, the garden path passed between two large crepe myrtles and continued along a winding view of more flowers and trees, inviting the viewer to come that way, get lost for the afternoon. She knew such a wanderer would find benches tucked into leafy arbors, more statuary to study. Her gardens were always on the New Orleans spring garden tour. She loved following the tour groups, seeing how people reacted to what she, Hector and a landscape architect had created here, the designs evolving from year to year.

She trailed behind Dale for the same reason now, and for some additional ones. She was letting him form his own impressions, but she was also sorting out all the feelings he’d raised in the gazebo. On one level, she needed him to leave so she could take time to digest the momentous changes that had happened to her in the course of one meal, the things he’d awoken in her. Another, far stronger part of her, didn’t want him to leave at all. She was very aware of the loose movement of her breasts beneath the blouse, the friction of her thighs against her bare sex.

He’d shifted direction, moving toward a rotunda with a copper roof. She thought about distracting him, leading him to another section, but she’d let him get too far ahead of her.

Inside the rotunda was a beautifully detailed, marble three-foot-tall sculpture of the goddess Athena. She had her shield and spear, a lion at her hip. Her owl rested on her wrist, wings spread. The statue was mounted on a platform, water glossing the disc and falling into a fountain pool below. Dale’s head dipped as he studied the plaque beneath it. She swallowed, knowing the words he read.

For my Athena,
who brought the strength and wisdom
of a goddess to my life.
Thank you for giving a mortal man your heart.
Love you forever. Roy

“He had the rotunda built while he was sick. Told me he’d commissioned a very special statue and fountain for it. It was delivered a month after he died, with the plaque.”

She turned away and moved toward the house, leaving Dale to explore the rest of this portion of the gardens on his own. When she reached the patio built in front of the sunroom that connected two wings of the house, she sat down on a bench there. Closing her eyes, she took a steadying breath. Then another. She was in the middle of the third when the bench shifted, telling her Dale had joined her. She tensed, but he didn’t touch her. Just sat there quietly until she collected herself.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t anticipate my reaction to you intersecting with . . .”

“You owe no one an apology for being in love with your husband, Athena. You gave a hundred and twenty percent to every part of the vow. I’m honored that I’m the first you’re trusting with all of this. Ready to look at the inside?”

“I’m not sure.” She gave a half laugh, then shook herself. “Of course. We can go in through the sunroom.”

“All right.”

He rose, held out his hand. When she offered hers, he laced their fingers, gave her a smile and tugged her to her feet. As he opened the sunroom door, he released her, but only so that he could shift the touch to the small of her back, grazing her hip as she moved inside.

The sunroom was more of a nook, her favorite reading spot. It held one roomy easy chair, a side table and a walnut portable heating unit, a rug laid on the floor before it. There was a small bookshelf that held both her electronic reader in its charger and some print selections, the latest in her reading list. There was enough wall space for a couple of paintings, watercolor studies of anemones.

Roy had called it her nest. On rainy days in particular she loved sitting here reading, watching the drops slide down the glass and the garden view change with the movement of the wind. In the past couple of years, she’d spent a lot of her time at home here, wrapped in a blanket, dozing over her books, wishing she never had to leave the room, never face the emptiness of the rest of the house.

“That statue . . . it’s quite wonderful, but I’m not perfect, Dale.” She felt a little foolish, stating the obvious. It made her sound egotistical.

As Dale turned toward her, he hooked a thumb in his jeans pocket. “But you strive to be, in all aspects of your life. Where do you relinquish control, Athena?”

Because of the size of the room, he stood close to her, the walls behind each of them reinforcing that proximity. When he shifted toward her, the smallness of the room increased considerably. The forest green color of his shirt filled her vision. “I’m thinking you carve out pockets of time,” he continued. “Like when you’re in this room, reading a book for your own pleasure or looking at your garden. It’s your space, your time. That’s your moment to breathe. But that’s not the same as putting yourself in someone’s hands, letting them take the reins, is it?”

She shook her head, though she wasn’t sure how to answer his initial question. He didn’t press her for a response, however. Instead, he clasped her hand again. “I certainly hope you aren’t perfect. Else I’ll have to make shit up to punish you.”

The comment startled a laugh out of her, and his eyes twinkled. “Doesn’t that break some kind of Dom code?” she asked.

“Not mine. Now show me the house, woman. It looks like it’ll take days to get through it.”

“Hardly.” But she took the lead at his gesture, and began to familiarize him with the different rooms. Library, parlor, living areas, kitchen, bathrooms.

She mentioned polite details about the uses of the rooms, things she might have told any guest. After a few comments, he shifted his grip to her wrist, gave it a squeeze. “No more talking, Athena, unless it’s something I need to know. Be quiet and let me form my own impressions.”

He’d done the same in the gardens, only here he clearly had a different agenda. As they proceeded, she thought she might be watching how he approached missions. Evaluating terrain, resources, contingencies. Only this mission was one that involved her intimately.

He examined the tools Lynn had in the kitchen, drawing out a broad pancake spatula and slapping it against the flat of his hand, making her jump. He paid her no mind, however, putting the spatula back and moving to the refrigerator. On its stainless steel surface, Lynn kept a magnet clip to hold reminders of the week’s menu. He removed the clip, checked its grip on his fingers. Opened the freezer to study the shape and size of the ice in the icemaker.

With everything he noticed, her mind filled with provocative images. Him putting her on her stomach on the butcher block table, tying her arms and legs to it so he could apply that spatula for her “less than perfect” moments. Letting the ice glide along her back, melt and trickle down the valley of her spine as she wiggled and squirmed. He’d give her several more sharp slaps for moving. When her clit was engorged, he’d clamp the magnet clip on it, making her beg for mercy from the discomfort and overwhelming sensation at once.

They moved on to the bathrooms. He tested the strength of the shower rod and filled up the Jacuzzi tub the few inches necessary to run the jets. Reaching down, he ran his fingers over them, checking the water pressure and how easy it was to adjust the direction of the stream. In turn, she saw herself on her back in the tub, her knees pulled up over the side, her arms tied to the safety bar on the wall as he held her spread legs centered in front of a jet until she came, screaming from the inexorable water pressure.

“How many of these tubs do you have? Are they the same model?”

“Three.” Her throat was dry. “Yes.”

When they reached the second level, she showed him the guest bedrooms as well as the upstairs library she used as her home office for days when she worked here, on either Summers Industries’ matters or fund-raising efforts. He studied the neat arrangement of her desk, her closed laptop. In the guest bedroom, he ran his fingers over the sturdy wood posts of the canopy bed. Another guest bed had a wrought iron head- and footboard. He spent extra time with that one, lifting the mattress and box spring to see horizontal supports beneath. Without the bedding, the thing looked like a medieval instrument of torture. Her heart thumped a little faster, thinking of the more extreme things she’d seen done at the club with racks.

There was only one more room on this hallway, but when he moved toward it, she spoke for the first time. He’d told her to speak when there was something he needed to know, after all.

“Not that room,” she said. “It’s our bedroom. I mean, my bedroom.”

He paused. “I’d like to see what your private space looks like. It tells me important things about you.”

“I . . . Not this visit. All right?”

He gave her a close look, but he nodded, moving past her and back toward the stairs. When they reached them, he moved down the steps first. She thought about putting her hand on his shoulder, using that broad expanse to steady her descent.

She’d offered to pay him to avoid this, this confusing mix of the emotional with . . . what she was seeking. Okay, what she sought was emotional, but it was supposed to have limited boundaries. It had to, right? This felt . . . out of control. Things were getting mixed-up again.

She sank down on the top step, staring at him. Though he was several steps below her, he stopped immediately, proving how aware he was of her. He turned, one foot braced above the other, his hand on the rail. “You move like you have two real feet,” she said. “I wouldn’t have even known.”

“Yeah.” Coming back up the steps, he sat next to her, the stair wide enough to accommodate them both, though their hips were brushing. He bent his leg to put his hands on the toe and heel of his boot. The prosthesis was a tight fit down in the boot, because it took him a moment to work it off. When he did, her eyes widened.

“Oh. I guess I expected it to look . . .”

“Like a foot? Yeah, some do. I think at some point they realized it was far more important to make it work like a foot than to look like one. You saw that guy that ran in the Olympics with the blades? The guy who designed those based them on a cheetah’s back legs.”

She studied the prosthesis, momentarily distracted from her agitation. A pair of rectangular metal plates formed the “foot,” the upper one curving up to form an “ankle” with a coil between the plates for shock absorption and to provide different adjustments that would allow it to articulate like a foot and ankle.

“There’s computer programming in it, to help with different terrain and propulsion. You can adjust the ankle height for different shoes, so I can wear my boots. I was really lucky. Even with my benefits, I couldn’t have afforded something like this, but I got into a special prototype study. Having the ability to flex the ankle piece gives me more options on everything, even something as simple as wearing boots. When you’re wearing a prosthesis that can’t flex, you can’t really wear a shoe or boot that goes above the ankle.”

“It’s remarkable.” She reached out toward it, then hesitated. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be rude.”

“You have my permission to touch, Athena. At least my Lee Majors leg.”

That attractive crinkle at the corners of his eyes almost made her smile. Sitting here on the steps like a pair of kids, things were easier. She touched the metal, followed it up above the ankle, where it attached to a rod.

“That goes up to the socket, where my knee rests.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Only if the socket is fitted wrong or I do the wrong things. You also have to change out the stump socks at different times, use different thicknesses, because your leg changes shape throughout the day.” He shrugged. “Like anything else, once you figure out how to maintain the equipment, it becomes routine. I shower only at night, because if I do it in the morning, my socket doesn’t fit right.”

“So no morning showers together.”

“Unless we’re planning to go back to bed for the day.” His gaze heated on her, and the uncertain feeling returned. She clasped her hands together as he replaced the boot, pulled down the cuff of his jeans. When he straightened, he put his hand on the banister, his other resting loosely on his knee. “Are you reconsidering, Athena?”

She shook her head, then nodded. Then shook it again. Laughed at herself.

“If it was just about sex, it would be easy,” he said quietly. “Where you’ve been, your marriage, you can’t do dating or casual anymore. Right?”

She nodded, swamped by a sudden sick feeling. She’d been too craven; he was about to call it off. But then he curled his hand over hers on her knees. “Everything you’ve told me today, everything I’ve seen, tells me you’re what I call a power sub. You crave submission, but it takes a hell of a firm and steady hand to bring you to that level of trust, because in order to please everyone, you’ve had to stay in control of every freaking detail. That’s why I asked you about relinquishing control. To make it work, Athena, you’re going to have to learn how to do that. And as you do, no matter what limits you and I set, a lot of emotional stuff is going to unfold.”

A hell of a firm and steady hand. Those mesmerizing blue-green eyes projected a thrilling danger quality when he said that. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to run toward or away from it. She looked at her hands, twisted back into a knot beneath his, and sighed. “I’m sorry, Dale. I’ve been a Domme for so long, but here I am, one moment acting like a newbie sub, so high on the idea of a Master that I don’t care about contracts or limits. The next moment, you see my closed bedroom door and I want to make you leave, pretend I never did this.”

He shrugged, unoffended. “As far as experience, you are a newbie sub, which is why you were smart, choosing to work with an experienced Dom.”

“I didn’t really choose at all. I just saw you and knew . . . felt, that was what I wanted. In that moment.”

“An intuitive choice is still a choice. Sometimes better than a conscious one, especially for this.” He leaned against her shoulder, nudging her. “I’ll keep you safe, Athena. I can help you manage those initial feelings. You just have to trust me, girl.”

She turned her gaze up toward his attentive face then. Reaching out, she caressed his jaw, her fingertips touching his hair, the shape of his ear, the pulse in his throat. Those few sensations alone overwhelmed her. He watched her, not stopping her, but not encouraging, either. She withdrew her hand.

“I’m sorry. I . . . wanted to touch you.”

“Then you should ask me properly, Athena.”

Despite giving her the structure, the boundary, he had heat in those blue-green eyes, reminding her of his arousal in the gazebo. He would remain in absolute control, but he wanted her. He wasn’t detached at all. It was a heady awareness. Those “rash feelings” would help her move forward where she wanted to go, no matter how that path frightened her. But he’d told her he’d keep her safe.

A proper request came with a proper address, but he hadn’t given her specific direction on that. Perhaps he was waiting to see what would come most naturally to her.

“Please . . . may I touch you . . . sir?”

“No. But I’m going to touch you.”

Closing his hands on her upper arms, he pressed her back against the stairs, shifting so his knee pressed into the stretch fabric of the skirt, pinning her there. He loomed over her in the dim light of the stairwell, broad shoulders filling her gaze, his scent around her. When he leaned down, her helpless fingers curled against his sides, digging into his shirt.

“No touching me, Athena. Let go.”

She opened her fingers, so aware of how close he was to her. At first she thought he was going to kiss her, and she froze, but he moved lower, and that feeling eased. His chest slid against her breasts, then his mouth was on the pulse pounding heavily in her neck. The first contact of his lips made her shudder like a climax, intensified by his requirement that she simply lie there, held down by his strength, hands open and empty at his command. He traced that pulse with his tongue, making her whole body strain toward his without movement. When his hip bone pressed against her mound, she moaned.

He raised his head, his eyes holding hers. “You’re not sure about kissing yet. You tensed.”

“I—”

“I wasn’t asking a question, Athena.”

He bent again, moved to her jaw. Her skin was on fire, flame racing across her breasts, her thighs. “How do you masturbate, Athena? With a vibrator? Your hand?”

“V-vibrator.”

“Efficient, just like you. Until I come back for our first proper session, you won’t be using it. If you wish to have an orgasm that I haven’t ordered, you’ll use your hand. Your nondominant one.” He lifted her left hand, telling her he’d noticed she was right-handed. “If you can’t bring yourself to a climax with it within five minutes, you have to stop, and you can’t try again for twenty-four hours. You understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“All right.” He rose, bringing her back to a sitting position, then he lifted her to her feet, holding on to her wrists until she steadied. He was two steps lower than she was, so they were at eye level. “You have stationery? The pretty, girly kind?”

She nodded.

“Between now and our next session, you’ll write out what you think your hard and soft limits are. No erasing, no crumpling, no marking out. If you change your mind, write it all out. If you say “No paddling” but then you think you might want to try that, add “well, maybe some.” Pure stream of consciousness, no editing. No rereading. I’ll go over it before I start.”

“How will you know to plan that session . . . without that?”

“That’s my area to figure out. Relinquish control, Athena. That’s your area.”

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned to look up at her. She was standing on the same step, clutching the banister. “I’ll let myself out,” he said. “Lunch was good. Is sex part of our agreement?”

The man really needed to learn about segues. She blinked. “I don’t know. I thought . . . maybe it’s not the right thing for our initial sessions, because . . .” Well, he’d said it. She had no desire to date, no ability to . . . be casual. Sex was for intimacy, to express emotion. Not just to have a climax. “I didn’t know if our first sessions are supposed to get that personal.”

“Hmm.” Those eyes seemed capable of tunneling under her heart, uncovering all the aching uncertainty putting pressure on her chest. “Slide your skirt up to your waist and sit down.”

If he’d only told her to sit down, she could surmise it was because he’d noticed her knees were suddenly not so steady. She managed the skirt part, and because of the skirt’s snug fit, pulling it up to her waist left her naked from the waist down, the fabric gathered in her hand. At least the stairwell was shadowed.

“Lean back, put your elbows on the stair and plant your feet third step below where you’re sitting. Spread your knees as wide as they’ll go. Drop your head back and arch your back.”

By complying with his commands, she could no longer see him, but she felt the vibration when he moved back up the stairs. She heard the sound of his measured breathing, sensed him standing in touching distance of her spread knees. He would be staring at her bare pussy, at everything she’d exposed. With her back arched and without the bra, the thin silk of her blouse would delineate her nipples like the cherries on top of ice cream scoops for a sundae. Hard, firm cherries.

She imagined having a collar on her throat, a taut tether holding her head in this drawn-back position. A human pet, helpless to whatever her Master wished to do to her. The shocking idea intensified the coil of need in her belly, the arousal between her thighs.

“Beautiful. Your pussy’s wet. I can see how slick it is from here.”

She closed her eyes, swallowed, aching for one touch, the pad of his finger sliding over her labia, collecting that honey for a taste. He didn’t touch her, however.

“Yeah, you’re feeling it good, aren’t you?”

She nodded, a quick jerk, not able to articulate it. But he wasn’t requiring that. Just that she feel and listen.

“Stay that way for the next five minutes. Then put your fingers inside yourself, bring them to your mouth and taste yourself. You think about how I’ll taste you, the next time we see one another.” He paused. “I want to fuck you, Athena. If I took you right now, I’m worked up enough I’d leave you sore as hell for the next couple days. So you think long and hard about that sex question. I’ll be in touch.”

He left her then. Descended the stairs and left her throbbing. She clung to the sound of him moving through the lower level, crossing into the kitchen, the door opening and closing. Never in her life had she not walked a guest to the door, but he’d put her on the stairs like this, her legs spread and shaking, her pussy wet and nipples hard. She wasn’t sure she could get up.

It was way more than five minutes before she could.