Willing Sacrifice (Knights of the Board Room) (17 page)

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.

“No,” she said again, her fingers flexing against the light hold of the nylon. “That’s not part of this.”

The same thing she’d said about the picture in the hallway. Her boundaries were bold black marks in the sand. Despite himself, a twinge of resentment caught him. It was all right to blindfold and impede his senses, but not to restrain her? But then he remembered Thor. As tough a Mistress as she appeared to be, she didn’t bind him. He’d never seen her bind anyone, except in a symbolic way. A light wrap or easy-to-break cuffs. The illusion of restraint. Of course, she was so good at this, that was really all she needed, wasn’t it?

When he did another wrap around her wrist, her tension increased proportionately. “Max,” she said more sharply.

He pressed closer, slid his arm around her waist, fingers drifting to the waistband of her panties. He took his palm in a slow, easy glide over her mound, resting his fingers on her upper thigh. “I don’t believe I’m braver than you are, Mistress.”

The honorific came easily to his lips. She stilled as he spoke it, her focus now on something else. He shifted, slid his hand down her other arm in a reassurance before drawing it behind her. She quivered harder as he put the two wrists together with a simple twist tie. It wasn’t tight at all. She could get out of it in a blink, far quicker and more easily than he could free himself of the mask.

“It’s just for a moment. I want to imagine you tied like this, even if I can’t see you. Your shoulders drawn back, your breasts thrust out. The flush on your cheeks, your hair falling over your body, dressed only in your panties. And I want to do this.”

Kneeling behind her, he put his hands on her hips. He bent over those tied hands and put his lips on them, kissing her palms and curling fingers. He cruised over her ass, tongue teasing the seam between her cheeks through the silk as she shuddered. He went lower, explored that sweet crevice where the buttocks and thighs met, revealed by the high rise of the undergarment. When he nuzzled the sensitive intersection point, his tongue pressing briefly against the perineum, she let out a soft noise. Then he drew back, his thumb caressing the crotch of her panties before he hooked his fingers in the sides and took the last garment to her ankles.

He kissed the backs of her knees, her upper thighs, moving around her so he was on his knees before her. He kept his hands on her hips and lifted his face, nostrils flaring and all senses tuned for her reaction. Her focus was fully on him, he could feel the heat of it, and she was tight as a drum beneath his hands, as if she’d turned all that quivering energy inward.

When he straightened, standing on his knees instead of resting on his heels, he caught her loose hair in his hands, twisted it. “Kiss me, Mistress,” he murmured. “I need your mouth.”

The heat and wetness of it was enough to make him groan with pleasure, especially when she let out a matching, more feminine sound. Reaching behind her, he untwisted the nylons from her hands and then banded his arms around her hips as she cupped his face, holding on to him tightly as the kiss deepened. He broke it to move down to her breasts, finding her through the curtain of hair to cup those pretty curves and tease them with the heat of his mouth. She brought him to a halt by pressing against his shoulders and stepping back, her breath ragged.

“My clothes, Max. Dress me.”

Her tone was determined, even if it wasn’t entirely steady. She’d reclaimed the reins. He got back on his feet, with reluctance and some physical difficulty. She noticed the latter, her clever, firm fingers cupping him through his slacks. At her purring sound of approval, he growled. A warning that he could only be pushed so far, especially since, on his knees, he’d clearly scented how hot and willing her body was at this point.

When he turned back to the bed, he almost made the mistake of going for the leotard first. Realizing his error just as he had his hand on the garment, he switched to the tights instead.

“I’m in the chair, Max.”

He knew she’d shifted away from him, had heard the give of the cushion, the faint creak of the wood, and followed the sound, touching her knee, the arm of the chair. He knelt at her feet, working one leg of the tights up into a folded circle in his hand. As he did it, he was hit by an unexpected vision, and the flood of emotions that accompanied it.

Child-sized black patent shoes, the strap buckle a tiny pewter flower.
You put the tights on first, silly.
Amanda teasing him, an imperious four-year-old then. She’d asked if she could wear her pink dress to church.

He closed his eyes beneath the blindfold and clutched the tights hard enough he was glad they weren’t as thin as the nylons. Else he’d rip right through them. “Can you speak to me while I do this part?”

He needed to hear a woman’s voice to remind him where he was, what he was doing. Janet’s voice especially. He knew how to manage this kind of memory invasion, but this one was a little stronger than he usually handled in mixed company. He didn’t want his shit to fuck things up.

Given how attentive she’d been when she was putting the blindfold on him, he shouldn’t have been surprised that she understood and acquiesced without any coy games or challenging questions. He guessed he’d overestimated how much he could scramble her brain with his physical prowess. Of course the woman’s self-discipline was legendary. He’d have to work on that. Though at the moment, he was grateful for her ability to recover her composure quickly.

Her fingers slid through his hair. “Matt’s noticed us. He talked to me about you.”

Max grunted, figuring out the toe seam and working it over her foot. She had trim toenails, expected for a woman he’d yet to see without stockings on her legs. “Yeah. He gave me a ‘look’ when he left the car tonight. If that’s a hint of what Angelica’s dates are in for, she’ll be lucky if anyone will be brave enough to ask her out.”

“I bet a SEAL would be brave enough.” She tugged his hair.

“SEALs aren’t scared of anything,” he agreed, and smiled when she chuckled at him. He noticed her second toe had a swollen joint to it, and there was an unevenness along the outside edge of her big toe, like a scar. When his fingers passed firmly over her arch, he sensed an indrawn breath, a sound of pleasure, and he took an extra moment to massage there, some of his tension easing when she purred, no other word for it.

“Oh…God, you’re good at that.”

“Is this why you don’t wear spiky heels like Alice? Because you have bad feet?”

He detected a hesitation, as if he’d touched on the edges of something more important. “It’s very impolite to say that to a woman,” she said at last. “But yes. Years of ballet dancing gives many of us foot problems. Which makes what you’re doing feel…so…damn…good.”

“My pleasure, Mistress.”

“You’re good at that as well. Knowing just when to call me that so it works for us both.”

“I’m a quick study.” Reluctantly, he stopped with the foot massage but figured he’d give her a more thorough one, of both feet, after her class. He worked the tights up to her knee, then got the other foot started and up to the same level. Curling an arm around her waist once again, he brought her to her feet. She was completely naked except for that one garment at her knees, and it was a unique experience, to be blindfolded, somewhat at her mercy, even though he was the one fully dressed. She was an artist at what she did, explaining why she had a strong following at the club. But none of those males had ever been here now, in her home. He’d bet on that too.

He worked the tights up her thighs, thought again how few women would be confident enough to let a man be this intimate with their bodies. He had to put his hand inside the tights, find the cotton crotch panel to be sure it was aligned correctly, which gave him the opportunity to brush his knuckles along her labia, feel the moisture there.

Her hand settled on his shirt sleeve, gripping, her forehead briefly pressed to his shoulder as he rose to finish the task, sliding the tights all the way up over her hips. Then he necessarily—and pleasurably—had to run his hands down her body, under and over, to make sure everything was straight and in place, which put him on his heels as he touched her feet, double-checked the toe seams. Perfectly straight, following the bump of her toenails. His instructors would be proud, though he could only imagine their expressions if they knew how he was applying his “ditch-and-don” skill.

Next came the leotard, which was easier, and had the added bonus of requiring him to feel his way around her breasts to be sure the modesty panel was aligned properly. He rubbed his thumb over her nipple, kneaded the breasts until she gave him another breathless admonishment. As well as a gratifyingly reluctant reminder they needed to leave soon to be on time for the class.

That just left the skirt, slippers and jewelry. The first two were quickly done. He worked the earrings in behind the ones he removed, then it was time to do the necklace. She turned for him, putting her buttocks against his hard groin. If she rotated her hips on him, he’d have purred a little himself, but the way she kind of melted back into him, from shoulder blades to the firm ass, was intimate in a different, more moving way, especially when she turned her face so her cheek pressed against his biceps.

She lifted her chin as he guided the necklace around her neck. After he fastened it, he put his arms around her waist to hold her still. Kissing her throat, he nuzzled her beautiful hair again. “Did I pass, Instructor J?”

She didn’t respond. She’d tucked her head at an angle that suggested her eyes were closed, one of them pressed into the crease between his shoulder and chest. She’d gone somewhere else, taken there by this moment. He tightened his hold around her. “Janet. Okay?”

She nodded. He stayed silent then, just holding her, letting her deal with whatever had gripped her, making sure she could use the strength of his body and arms to get her through it. She’d become tense all of a sudden, as if fighting something, and he turned her around to press a kiss on her brow, her eye, her nose, finally brushing her lips. Her hands clutched his arms, and she drew a deep breath.

“Yes,” she said, her voice normal and even. “You passed.”

“A good beginning for learning lifts is what we rather inelegantly call the fish dive, though if you’ve ever watched a school of fish dive, there’s nothing inelegant about it. They swoop fearlessly toward the ocean floor, with unconscious grace.”