“I’ve come up with an exercise somewhat like that. I want you to help dress me for my class.” Now she lifted the piece of fabric. “You’ll wear this blindfold, so you have to do it all by touch and intelligence.”
He extended his hand. “Let me see the mask.”
She put it in his palm, her fingers whispering over it as she withdrew. It would cover his face fully, a hole for his mouth and nose, and lace down the back curve of his skull to ensure that he was fully blinded, no chance of cheating and catching a glimpse. He grimaced. A SEAL wasn’t above cheating if needed to achieve the objective, because the point was winning. A fair fight, while an exciting challenge, always made that more difficult. He had a more important concern, however.
“If it’s laced up, I can’t get it off fast.”
She pushed away from the doorway then. Even in her bare feet, she was as much a temptress as Medusa, making a man want to look at her, no matter the consequences. She put her hand on his wrist, moving the hand holding the mask out of her way to press against him. He’d donned his jacket for the ride, and now she slid her arm under it. Her fingers caressed the nine millimeter in the shoulder holster, then slid down his rib cage, to the pocket of his khakis. Dipping in there, she stroked his upper thigh and came back with a folded knife. He caught hold of her wrist as she brought it up between them, anticipating when she depressed the spring and the blade snapped out, wicked sharp, between them.
“You could cut the laces pretty quickly with this, but there won’t be a need. This is just you and me. No threat, no danger. You’ll be giving up control to me, obeying my will, performing this task to my satisfaction. Much like you did for your instructors. Giving them everything to earn their pleasure, their respect.”
Imagining his hard-edged BUD/S instructors as Dominatrices, complete with boots and corsets, was an image he didn’t necessarily want planted in his head, but it did loosen some of the tightness in his chest. He saw a smile flirting around her lips, a reassurance with the demand.
“I want something in return.” He folded the knife, returned it to his pocket. She kept one hand light on his chest, her other hooked on his belt. She was so close, but he could feel that dense energy between them, a wall she wasn’t yet ready to let down. It was intense, being this close to her and yet feeling held back by her will alone. He could shove through it, but he knew which doors were to be kicked down and which ones worked better with a knock.
She cocked her head. Waited, those dark eyes a seductress’s tool.
“I want you to let your hair down. I want to see it before you blind me.”
“Samson and Delilah.” But she hesitated at the thought, glanced up at him. “I won’t betray you, Max.”
“I know that.” He touched her hair. “I’ve often thought there was more to that story. I think she loved him, and they forced her to betray him, or tricked her into it. It probably destroyed her as much as it did him, in the end.”
“I won’t be tricked or forced. Not ever.”
“No. Not you. And not me either.” He gave her a significant look, and her lips curved in response. It made him want to bite her bottom lip. Instead, he waited, his fingers tightening on the satin face mask as she reached up, drew out the clips that held her hair. It tumbled down, a lovely set of waves and curls, all the way to her waist. He threaded his fingers through it, drew part of it over her right shoulder. He brought it to his face, nuzzling it with his lips. Her fingers tightened on his belt, and her head dipped, her crown brushing against his cheek, a gesture of intimate affection. Taking a deep breath, he resisted every urge he had to kick that door down, and gripped the hand at his belt, transferring the mask to her other one. Then he stepped back. “Will you leave it down?”
She nodded. “At least until we go to class. I need it out of the way for that.”
He was tall and she wasn’t, so it didn’t take much thinking to decide what to do to make it easier for her to put the mask on him. But he well understood the significance of him doing so.
He dropped to his knees.
Chapter Six
The expression on her face was overwhelming, overpowering. Sometimes, like this, he felt as if he was standing inside her. Her reaction to his willingness to surrender was something that stopped his mind, made him accept—at least in this moment—that there were things they drew out of one another that couldn’t be defined, classified. Things he hadn’t considered ever giving to a woman. For her part, she’d taken the time and care to research a significant aspect of who he was, tied her own desires to things familiar to him, challenges he’d met. It was diabolical, unexpected…and entirely impossible for him to resist.
She moved behind him. In bare feet, she had the walk of a ballerina, leading with a pointed toe, an arched foot, as if she was treading across the stage to begin a performance, and he expected she was. As she stepped over his bent legs, the toe of the non-leading foot slid across his calf, an intentional caress. She put the mask on his face, leaning forward to ensure the placement of the nose and mouth holes. The fabric stretched, allowing adjustment. Her hair fell onto his shoulder as she bent over him, and he lifted his hand to stroke a thick strand of it, drawing it out straight.
She was lacing the back of the mask. As it tightened over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, around the corners of his mouth, it reminded him of the hood of a diving suit. He had a picture of himself in one of those, without the diving mask that usually went over it. His sister had told him it looked like the coif a knight wore beneath his mail.
That shit had no place here. He’d intended to release Janet’s hair, let it ease back into its natural wave. Instead, at the thought, his grip tightened.
Janet’s hand overlapped his, held. “Put your hand at your side,” she said unobtrusively. “It’s all right. This will make you feel things, Max. It always does.”
He’d question how she could tell things had taken an odd turn for him, but he expected it was the same way snipers did it. He’d done some of that in Iraq. He wasn’t the best at it, not his go-to skill, but every SEAL knew how to perform adequately at five hundred yards. He’d watched and improved from the guys who had a natural talent for it, and quickly discovered an exceptional sniper was about more than marksmanship. From hundreds of yards away, they would gauge the intent of a potential enemy from his body language alone, determining if he was carrying a bomb on the back of his bicycle or just pedaling groceries home to the family. Every movement meant something.
He put his hands at his sides, focused on how she felt, her hands working along the back of his skull, her leg pressing against his side. When she was done, she spread her fingers over his face, let them whisper over his blindfolded eyes, his cheeks, tease his lips. He kissed them, brushing his mouth over her polished nails. She lingered there, let him keep nuzzling her knuckles, take nips of her flesh. She pressed her body closer against his back, telegraphing her elevated response. The mask was like a second skin, the thin barrier and the removal of his sight ironically increasing his sensitivity to her lightest touch on his face.
“On your feet. I’ll guide you into the bedroom.”
She hadn’t let him see the bedroom, so he was entering unfamiliar terrain. It had her scent though, that female mix of the things she wore. Lotions, lip gloss. He also smelled apples. She’d taken his hand as he got to his feet, and stayed at his side, her other hand on the small of his back, their bodies overlapping to get through the door. She remained that close as they entered the room, likely to keep him from running into anything. He was reminded of the one or two ballet productions he’d seen in his life, where partnered dancers crossed the stage in such a way. One technically guiding the steps of the other, one to lead, one to follow, but that could reverse in a heartbeat, if the dance required something different. SEALs could both lead and follow, adapting to change as needed.
She guided his hand to a carved wooden post. “This is my bed. The clothes I wear to class are lying on it. You must dress me in each piece, and get it exactly right. When you’re done, I’ll remove the mask. Unlike your instructors, I won’t be timing you, but you will get points for style.”
The comment came with a faint trace of humor and sexual tension. It made the room seem warmer, closer. Having no ability to see increased his focus on her voice all the more, but in a way it was no different than when he had her in the back of the limo with Matt or one of the other men. Max listened to the rise and fall of her voice, the emotions knitted into every sentence. Humor, exasperation, admonishment. Her intelligence and insight during serious discussions. It was how he’d figured out she had no accent, no tell that placed her in a particular part of the country.
There was a riveting quality to her voice as well. Until now, he hadn’t been able to clearly define what it was, but here it was unleashed and obvious. A sharp sexual confidence, capable of drawing a man to her like the laces drawing the mask tight against his face. It was also potent enough to keep a man at arms’ length when needed. I can give you your fantasies, but only on my terms, was what that voice said. And only if you beg. Something about that voice made a man want to beg, sure that what she offered would be worth it.
She didn’t ask him to beg, but he suspected that was because she sought something different from him. Maybe they were both in uncharted territory.
“Do I have the pleasure of undressing you first?” he asked, turning in her direction.
“It will be difficult to dress me without doing so,” she confirmed. “You may begin.”
First he explored the bed, finding the clothes. He identified each piece by recalling her pictures downstairs, as well as any movies or TV shows where there’d been ballet classes. They wore the things that were like one-piece swimsuits, but with sleeves. A leotard. He recognized that by the stretchy fabric, intrigued in a typical male way by the snaps at the crotch. The next thing took more time to identify. He lifted it, sifting it through his fingers. The silky fabric felt like an apron, with long string ties. Then he found the slit in the waistband and realized the ties would thread through, forming a short wraparound skirt. The next item gave him a chuckle.
