herself and crossed the patterned tiles, ensuring each step she took was one of measured control and precision. He didn't drop his eyes from hers. She didn't catch a glimpse of any challenge, just a steady watchfulness.
She intentionally stopped inside his personal bubble and raised the glass to his face.
"No roofies? Really?"
"No, ma'am," he answered.
"Then drink."
He didn't hesitate when she tipped the glass toward his lips. She watched as his head tilted back, watched the strong column of his throat work as he swallowed, and watched a drop of tea slip from one side of his mouth and wander down his chin. The urge to lick it from his tanned skin slammed into her like a fist to the stomach.
She gasped from the shock and yanked the glass from his mouth. He sputtered and choked, obviously surprised. Tea splashed onto his T-shirt, dampening it.
"Oh God, I'm sorry--" She bit off the apology. Dominas didn't apologize, right? They do things like take the glass away and maybe even deliberately spill it. Control, right?
"No harm done," he said, appearing oblivious to her struggle for composure. He turned while swiping a muscled arm across his dampened chin, blotting the stray moisture from his skin, and walked out. "Let's get out of the kitchen. I have the other room set up."
She followed, cursing herself for an ass for doing so. Dominas didn't follow. They led. Brazen it out. "So far, I'm not impressed with your service."
"I'm sorry, goddess." He stopped by a closed door and opened it. A spare bedroom opened up before her. "I'm only eagerly anticipating you"--a cough interrupted him, probably the remnants of the tea tickling his throat--"getting your hands on me."
Taking a long pull from the iced tea glass, she deliberately made him wait for her. The delicate flush of peach filled her mouth in a welcome way on this hot, muggy summer day. She scratched one side of her burgundy-painted mouth and swept the interior of the room with a critical gaze.
A spare bed, double-sized, filled one corner and wore black and gold linens of an Egyptian design. A writing desk stood against the far wall. A line of crops and floggers marched across the desk face until they fetched up against a reading lamp. The wide leather belt caught and snared her attention, and she jerked her attention away from it. A large wooden wardrobe occupied the remaining wall. One door was ajar, allowing her to see other bondage equipment hanging inside. A simple wooden kitchen chair with arms stood in the middle of the room.
"Your throne," he murmured.
His breath stirred the hair beside her ear. His scent filled the air, something earthy and wholly male. She shivered as it closed around her, but didn't leave the doorway. Instead, she took another drink of the tea.
Was she hesitating? Yes, I am. Why?
The truth was this wasn't her thing. She had little desire to cause a man to grovel at her feet. It did nothing for her. She preferred a strong man, one who could--and would--take charge; someone who had the strength to enforce his wishes inside and outside of the bedroom; a formidable potency of will; someone she could rely on.
But she was here, and it wouldn't ever be said she'd backed down from anything. And maybe this was the change she needed. Who knew? She stepped over the threshold and entered the room. Something shivered up her spine. A herald, she told herself. She'd just made a huge change in her life, and her soul recognized the monumental shift.
Right?
She heard him move behind her and turned, finding him in the process of shutting the door. "Leave it open."
He did as instructed and gave a smile full of dimples and mischief. His delightful gray eyes offered an impish sparkle. "I'm so hungry for this," he confessed.
She stifled a sigh. The new me, she reminded herself.
"Then let's get to it." She crossed the room and made herself comfortable on the so-called-throne. The purple blanket, folded into a chair cushion, did not go unnoticed. Purple. The
She intentionally stopped inside his personal bubble and raised the glass to his face.
"No roofies? Really?"
"No, ma'am," he answered.
"Then drink."
He didn't hesitate when she tipped the glass toward his lips. She watched as his head tilted back, watched the strong column of his throat work as he swallowed, and watched a drop of tea slip from one side of his mouth and wander down his chin. The urge to lick it from his tanned skin slammed into her like a fist to the stomach.
She gasped from the shock and yanked the glass from his mouth. He sputtered and choked, obviously surprised. Tea splashed onto his T-shirt, dampening it.
"Oh God, I'm sorry--" She bit off the apology. Dominas didn't apologize, right? They do things like take the glass away and maybe even deliberately spill it. Control, right?
"No harm done," he said, appearing oblivious to her struggle for composure. He turned while swiping a muscled arm across his dampened chin, blotting the stray moisture from his skin, and walked out. "Let's get out of the kitchen. I have the other room set up."
She followed, cursing herself for an ass for doing so. Dominas didn't follow. They led. Brazen it out. "So far, I'm not impressed with your service."
"I'm sorry, goddess." He stopped by a closed door and opened it. A spare bedroom opened up before her. "I'm only eagerly anticipating you"--a cough interrupted him, probably the remnants of the tea tickling his throat--"getting your hands on me."
Taking a long pull from the iced tea glass, she deliberately made him wait for her. The delicate flush of peach filled her mouth in a welcome way on this hot, muggy summer day. She scratched one side of her burgundy-painted mouth and swept the interior of the room with a critical gaze.
A spare bed, double-sized, filled one corner and wore black and gold linens of an Egyptian design. A writing desk stood against the far wall. A line of crops and floggers marched across the desk face until they fetched up against a reading lamp. The wide leather belt caught and snared her attention, and she jerked her attention away from it. A large wooden wardrobe occupied the remaining wall. One door was ajar, allowing her to see other bondage equipment hanging inside. A simple wooden kitchen chair with arms stood in the middle of the room.
"Your throne," he murmured.
His breath stirred the hair beside her ear. His scent filled the air, something earthy and wholly male. She shivered as it closed around her, but didn't leave the doorway. Instead, she took another drink of the tea.
Was she hesitating? Yes, I am. Why?
The truth was this wasn't her thing. She had little desire to cause a man to grovel at her feet. It did nothing for her. She preferred a strong man, one who could--and would--take charge; someone who had the strength to enforce his wishes inside and outside of the bedroom; a formidable potency of will; someone she could rely on.
But she was here, and it wouldn't ever be said she'd backed down from anything. And maybe this was the change she needed. Who knew? She stepped over the threshold and entered the room. Something shivered up her spine. A herald, she told herself. She'd just made a huge change in her life, and her soul recognized the monumental shift.
Right?
She heard him move behind her and turned, finding him in the process of shutting the door. "Leave it open."
He did as instructed and gave a smile full of dimples and mischief. His delightful gray eyes offered an impish sparkle. "I'm so hungry for this," he confessed.
She stifled a sigh. The new me, she reminded herself.
"Then let's get to it." She crossed the room and made herself comfortable on the so-called-throne. The purple blanket, folded into a chair cushion, did not go unnoticed. Purple. The
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