He moved close to me, our bodies nearly touching. I kept my eyes on his chest as he gently draped one of the ties around me, cool and soft on the nape of my neck. The tiny hairs under my ears stood up at the feel of the silk sliding across my skin. Every sense I had was on high alert.

He smelled like fresh laundry, and a trace of something else lingered on his skin. It was almost like the scent of paper, or an overworked photocopier. I felt the heat from his hands close to my throat, and the hairs on his forearms tickled my collarbone for an infinitesimal moment.

My attention remained focused on the buttons of his shirt. I was very worried that if I met his gaze, my hyperawareness of him would shine out of my eyes like a flashlight.

“We’ll just leave this here for now,” he murmured, flicking one end of the tie against the underside of my chin. “Are you ready?”

Not even remotely.

I nodded mutely, but I let out a little gasp when his fingers touched my chin and tilted my face up. It was so tempting to screw my eyes shut, like a little girl trying to pretend that something didn’t exist if she couldn’t see it. I’d had plenty of practice with that before.

But he wouldn’t let me retreat. He looked at me directly and without guile, as usual. What was a little different this time, however, was the way his eyes darkened into stormy seas.

“Trust me.” His simple words wormed into my heart as his warm breath landed on my lips.

My voice cracked as I said, “Mister Gage.” It wasn’t an answer or a question, a protest or a plea. I honestly didn’t know what I wanted to say, and whatever was building in me halted as he lifted the other piece of fabric to my eyes.

He smoothed his thumbs across the strip of silk over my eyes, spreading out from the bridge of my nose to my temples. The tie was held firm between his fingers—those nimble fingers that paused in my hair briefly before they met again at the back of my head.

“Is that too tight?” he asked as he pulled the half-knot.

The sound of the silk rubbing against itself whispered in my ear. I shook my head. His hands clutched my hair and held me still.

“I’m not done.” His fingers tangled in my hair as he finished tying, pulling a few strands just enough to make me suck in a breath.

He froze. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” My nipples hardened into tight buds as his breath washed over my forehead. “I, uh, no,” I repeated.

Gage had never touched me this much in the whole time I’d been working with him. Just the memory of his hands in my hair was enough to make me wobbly in the knees.

He dragged his thumbs across my covered eyes again, like a parent wiping away their child’s tears. Tracing his index fingers lightly over my eyebrows, he made an indistinct but satisfied noise.

“I can’t see anything,” I complained.

I was so blind that I flinched when his mouth dipped to my ear. “Good,” he chuckled.

Reflexively I swayed toward him, like a flower toward the sun. He pressed his thumbs gently into my cheekbones, then his fingertips left a trail of fire down my jaw and neck. On the journey he slipped the other tie from where it dangled around my neck, and pressed it into my trembling hands.

“Tie me up,” he ordered in a low voice.

Yeah, those were words I definitely never expected to hear from my boss’s mouth.

I took the cloth from him. It was soft in my grip, supple but strong. He held his hands out in front, nudging my knuckles so I’d know where to reach. Ha! Knowing where he was? That was definitely not my biggest problem right then. On my first loop around his wrists I heard a voice break through our little bubble.

“Behind the back, Gage! No cheating!” I didn’t even know who had said it, but we both realized our error.

“Okay, then. Hold on.” He wound the tie around my own wrist for a split second while he spun around, and reached his hands back toward me again.

He had less flexibility this way, less range of motion. I had to step even closer in his personal space so he wouldn’t have to contort his arms and shoulders too much. Without being able to properly judge my proximity, he touched my blouse just under my breasts when he reached back. I gasped as his exploring fingers curled against the material.

He laced his hands together into a fisted ball at his lower back. I sensed, rather than saw, the muscles of his back shifting underneath his shirt as he stretched. His deltoids likely came together in a mouth-watering inverted triangle beneath his shoulder blades. For one crazy moment I wanted to lean my face against him, to feel the heat and hardness of his body moving under my touch. Take shelter behind his broad back and powerful, unbending will.

Damn.

Instead, I fumbled with the tie, drawing the ends together like I was tying a simple bow. His head tilted, and his voice came over his shoulder and down upon me.

“Tighter, Madeline.”

I paused, my hands wrapped around his strong forearms. They were warm and flexed in my grasp, presenting me with a dilemma. Grabbing his wrists a little stopped me from trembling. If I held on too tight, however, they might tremble more.

He spread his hands apart to demonstrate the ineffectiveness of my knot. “You can do better than that.”

“Some of us didn’t spend our summers sailing and camping,” I hissed as I tightened the knot. My fingertips felt the silk dig into his skin just to the point where he flinched and grunted. “Good enough, sir?”

“I think so.” He pivoted to face me.

We stood before each other, paralyzed momentarily by our respective handicaps. I could not see him. He could not touch me. When my stomach rumbled audibly, it occurred to me that I wasn’t sure when I would get to eat, since I was feeding him. Damn it.

Susan’s voice drifted closer to us; she must have just finished her “meal.” “Here, I’ll help you get seated.” She must have only been talking to Gage, however, since she merely snapped in my ear, “Vending machines are down the hall.”

I had to grope for my chair while Susan personally escorted the king to his throne. Thankfully we seemed to be seated right next to each other. The idea of trying to do this across a hotel banquet table would be ridiculous. I’d have to almost crawl over it in order to get any food in his mouth.

She pressed the Feeding Implement of Doom into my hand. “Good luck!” she trilled before fading out. Gage was silent beside me, but somehow I pictured him smirking.

I toyed with the utensil, my frown deepening. It was metal with a long neck, around a foot long, and a coiled bottom. “Okay, I give up. What am I holding?”

“A whisk of some sort.”

“Fantastic,” I muttered.

“We can do this, Madeline.”

His confidence was admirable, if misplaced in this situation. “Do you have a plan?”

“Communicate.”

“Oh god, we’re going to starve to death. I’m going to be responsible for Brian Gage, gajillionaire godlike CEO, gnawing on the furniture in this beautiful rustic lodge.”

“Rustic, my ass. Our suite is two grand a night.”

His grumbling managed to ease the knot in my chest—the one wound almost as tightly as the one at his wrists.

“Godlike?”

Damn, he’d caught that.

“Okay, effective personal communication, here we go!” If I got through this with my dignity, I would consider it a success. Maybe I could put it on my resumé. I rolled my eyes beneath the blindfold.

“Stop rolling your eyes at me.”

My mouth fell open. “How did you know?”

“I can see your eyeballs move underneath the fabric.”

“Okay, that’s kind of creepy and disgusting.” Plus, maybe he’d tied it too tight.

“Says the woman about to put her hand in a plate of pasta.”

I pursed my lips. “This is not effective personal communication, Mister Gage.”

“The plate is on your right.”

I felt around for it, landing a little too close. He was right—my hand did dip briefly into the spaghetti. Then my flailing hand landed on his hard thigh. Actually, I was quite high on his thigh.

Without thinking I squeezed his firm muscles, my fingers splaying out and reaching up. A groan escaped him as he tightened under me.

My mouth went dry and I felt hot all over. “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” he said tersely. “But perhaps you could move your hand now. You’re getting marinara sauce on my pants.”

Ooops. So far we were failing this exercise, and it was only the first evening. I shuddered to think what was in store for us tomorrow and Sunday. The prospect of a hot shower and cool sheets was becoming more and more compelling.

Determined to get this done so I could head up to my room—no wait, our shared suite—I felt for the plate again and moved it to a better position. After swiveling a little in my seat to face Gage at a forty-five degree angle on my right, I brandished my whisk.

“Any suggestions on the best way to go about this?” I asked him.

“Carefully.”

Great. I tossed the whisk from hand to hand, thinking about the way it was constructed. Eventually I tried scooping some spaghetti onto it, but heard it slide off back onto the plate. Pushing down to smush it in didn’t work well either.

“Try twirling it,” Gage suggested.

So I did. That strategy seemed to work better, as the whisk felt much heavier when I raised it from the plate.

Gage hummed. “That looks like a lot of pasta.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” The hole in my stomach was deepening into a cavern as I smelled the food in front of me.

“Okay, you’re a little turned around in your chair, right? So from where you’re sitting right now,” he said slowly, “I’m at your two o’clock. If you lift the whisk to about the level of your chin and stick it forward a bit, I can try to bend over and eat from it.”

I bit my lip, and carefully raised the utensil. A piece of spaghetti slithered off to land in my lap. “Ew.”

“Front and forward, Madeline.”

I thrust my right arm out, hitting something that let out a yelp. With my other hand I frantically patted around to discover I’d stabbed him in the neck with a giant ball of pasta. His Adam’s apple was slick with sauce, and a few strands had snaked inside his shirt.

“Agh! Why did you bend forward already?”

Fwip!

“Goddammit, stop waving it around!” he yelled.

I huffed but stilled my weapon hand. “You were supposed to wait until I reached out!” My left hand swiped pasta off him.

“I was trying to meet you halfway,” he snarled. His throat, rough with the shadow of his beard, vibrated under my touch.

I walked my fingers down his neck to pluck some spaghetti off his collarbone. It would have been a lot easier without the blindfold. “That wasn’t the plan. I reach, then you bend, remember?”

“I’m not good at waiting for other people to do something.”

“No shit.”

“Madeline…”

Leaning this close to each other, it wasn’t hard to reach into his shirt and smooth my hand across the upper pectoral muscles of his chest. I was just looking for spaghetti, after all. More pasta fell off the whisk I held up in my right hand. Gage bent toward me.

“Don’t move,” he commanded. “I’m going in.”

His attempt to eat off the end of the whisk made my grip waver a little. He chased it with his mouth, probably seething inside that he couldn’t use his hands to hold me still. It was the first time Brian Gage was bending for me, and I couldn’t see it thanks to the blindfold. Fuck my life.

“Keep your hand steady,” he said sternly.

I tried to hold my whole body immobile and taut while he bit, chewed, and swallowed. His attention was totally directed on the pasta, it seemed.

Though my right hand held the whisk up, my left palm rested over his sternum. Or was I supposed to move that hand? I curled my fingers in so that the knuckles of my fist pressed against his warm chest. Strangely, he didn’t make any move to dislodge my hand, but maybe he was just afraid I would karate chop him in the trachea by accident. His heart thumped against the backs of my fingers like an impatient tattoo.

This was easily the weirdest dinner I’d ever had.

“Okay,” he finally said, leaning back a fraction. “There is a napkin on the table at around twelve o’clock. Please use it.”

Phew. I carefully placed the whisk back down on the plate, narrowly avoiding dipping my elbow in the sauce as I pivoted. Then reluctantly I withdrew my hand from inside his shirt, trying to ignore his quiet moan as my thumb briefly pressed into the hollow at the base of his throat. After I located the napkin I held it out timidly. With my luck I would smother him next, or poke him in the eye.

“I’m not afraid of it, Madeline.”

Okay then. I stretched my hand out more confidently, stopping when I met resistance. My other free hand reflexively flew up to check what I’d run into this time, and I felt the curve of his nose and mouth.

He tried swiping his face across the napkin to clean up, while I took the opportunity to feel for more wayward sauce with my left hand. Really, my hand only trailed over his cheekbone because I didn’t want him to be messy.

His breathing quickened as he nuzzled against the napkin in my hand, the purr in the back of his throat still rumbling softly against my fingertips when he hummed. This would have been a good time for him to remind me about the company policy on sexual harassment. In retrospect, he might have brought it up when I practically palmed his crotch, but that was an accident—mostly.

“Wipe my neck,” he directed hoarsely.

I swept my right hand over his chin and down his neck with the cloth, steadying myself with my left.

It was disorienting not being able to see anything. From what I could hear, the room had almost emptied out, the others clearly finished with the exercise. Vague sounds came from the hallway outside, but unless Susan was standing at the side silently waiting for us, my world at that moment consisted merely of me and Gage.

My left hand cupped his clenching jawbone, but he didn’t shake it off. Wiping his neck with my right hand I tried to be judicious, but my left thumb dipped into the corner of his mouth.

I inhaled sharply as his lips closed around the first knuckle of my thumb, then sucked it in further.