Stay with me, Mariko. I want you to stay. That’s all Ricco had said. In that voice. The one that whispered over her skin and seeped into her pores to drown her in him. In his will. He left it to her–her choice. But then, she was coming to understand, with Ricco Ferraro, she had very little will of her own. Once he told her he wanted her to stay, she’d been lost in the wonder of that. No one had ever wanted her. No one. Sometimes, not even the brother she loved with everything in her. Osamu had done her best to drive a wedge between them as they’d grown up until it had reached the point that Mariko wasn’t certain Ryuu wanted her around.
She paced around the beautiful room Ricco had given to her to use. She’d never had so much space. She thought it would overwhelm her, but she found she liked it. She especially loved that the French doors opened into a gorgeous garden. The police had questioned all of them for what seemed hours. Coming home to the solace of this room had been calming after everything that had happened.
She could tell Ricco was exhausted, but no one else seemed to notice–no one except for his oldest brother. The police questioned everyone over and over until the Ferraro lawyer had objected. They presented a united front always, and they kept Lucia, Amo and especially Nicoletta in their center, surrounding them with strength. Vinci made it clear to the police that they weren’t to question anyone without him being present.
She found it strange that Ricco’s parents hadn’t shown up when everyone else had, but then in all the conversations, she’d never once heard his parents mentioned by anyone. She knew they were alive, she’d researched the family thoroughly–although she’d missed Francesca’s connection. Her relationship with Stefano was new.
She was going to have to tell Ricco the truth. There was no other option. It was only right. She didn’t want to see the condemnation in his eyes, but she had to warn him. They all thought it was a possibility that the truck had been aiming at Nicoletta, but she knew better. She knew there was a hit out on Ricco and she wasn’t the only assassin sent. She would lose everything. She would lose him. His family. This place. Her hideout. Most of all, she would lose a very important ally.
She had to find Ryuu before it was too late. She’d been given three weeks to kill Ricco or Ryuu was a dead man. She didn’t know who had him, why they wanted Ricco Ferraro dead, but she knew even if she killed him, whoever had taken her brother would have no reason to keep him alive. Right now, she could demand proof of life whenever they called her, but once the shadow rider was dead, they would kill Ryuu. She had a place to stay in Ricco’s home, a base to work from. If she came clean, there was a possibility he would help her. More likely, he would throw her out.
She opened the French doors and stared out. It was a cool night, the breeze moving the leaves and branches around, casting shadows across the ground. Something moved at the far end of the garden and she took several steps outside to get a better look. At once her shadow connected with the others and raced toward the ones at the farthest end.
She recognized Ricco before she saw him. The connection between them had grown that strong–so strong when their shadows touched, it sent a jolt of heat rushing through her. His head came up and he spotted her immediately . . . or had he known the moment she opened her door and stepped into the courtyard? That was more likely. She didn’t feel surprise on his side at all.
“What are you doing up, Ricco? I thought you’d gone to lie down for a while.” At least her voice was pleasant. That was one attribute in her favor.
She had never been exactly desirable in Japan. She towered over the women there–and some of the men–but she’d always had a melodic voice. Osamu Saito had despised that about her as well, saying she tried to use her voice to seduce men. She’d become afraid to speak, just in case she’d incur Osamu’s wrath. The beatings were difficult. She found she had a temper, and she wanted to rip the broom handle from Osamu’s hands and give her a taste of her own medicine. She hadn’t, of course, because she might have been banned from shadow riding and it was all she had, but more, she’d made a deal with Osamu to keep her from beating Ryuu.
“I rested for a while. I’m glad you’re up. I’m in the mood to work.” Ricco’s voice came out of the shadows, low and intense. Sexy.
Her heart jerked hard in her chest. Fingers of fear crept down her spine. She’d applied to be his model, at his beck and call any time day or night for the next few months. She’d done that. Given her word. Signed a contract. Always her word had been gold. She would never go back on that with him if she could manage it. Fear wasn’t the problem–she could deal with nerves. It was the excitement welling up in her that frightened her most. The unfamiliar emotion was too strong. Too needy. Too everything she was unprepared to deal with.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get yourself ready. Hydrate, use the bathroom, dress in one of the one-piece things hanging in your closet, no underwear please. I’ll take a few photographs because even if I don’t use them for the book, I want to document your journey for you and this first session is an important one. In later sessions, we’ll have a makeup artist here, but this one is just for us. Me, to get rid of the building edginess that always means I need to do rope art or I’m going to do something crazy, and you, so you realize I would never hurt you and you’re always safe with me.”
“Something crazy?” She had to ask.
“I can be an adrenaline junkie. Fast cars. Climbing. Jumping out of planes.”
Fast women–but she wasn’t going there. She couldn’t. She had to stick to her plan as closely as possible. This might be her first and last session. One-piece things? When had they been put in her closet? She’d locked her doors.
Without a word she turned and went back inside. She needed to get her breathing under control. Her heartbeat was wild, a drum that wouldn’t stop pounding. It wasn’t fear of being tied and vulnerable as it should have been. There was some trepidation, but Ricco wasn’t a man to force a woman to do anything. He wouldn’t need to. A woman would want to do anything he asked of her.
She moved through her room to the closet, opening the double doors. She had brought very few clothes, but now there were several dresses, wraps, jeans and sweaters, and three of the one-piece, skintight suits all in her size. There was also lingerie that looked as if it would fit her as well. She’d had to provide her stats on the application. That had included her height, weight and clothes size.
She turned and glanced at the dresser. It was tall and ornate, beautifully appointed. Slowly, she crossed over to it and pulled out a drawer. It should have been empty, but it wasn’t.
Mariko lifted the underwear from the lined drawer. The dresser was made of cedar and smelled delicious. The panties were sheer lace, covering her front–barely–but leaving her buttocks bare. She took a deep breath and picked up the matching bra. As a woman, she should have the courage to wear such things. She should be proud of her body, no matter what the type, and walk with confidence, but she felt ashamed. It had taken every ounce of discipline she had to force herself to walk with her head up and her shoulders straight always–but she had done it.
Courage and discipline. Courage was being afraid and doing the task anyway. She wanted this for herself. She’d told herself she was doing it to get close to Ricco Ferraro, but she’d researched him very carefully and as far as she could see, even before she met him, he was a good man. Wild. An adrenaline junkie just as he’d admitted. Not a good bet for a husband–ever–but a good man.
She walked to the mirror and stared at herself. Her father, according to Osamu, had been Japanese, her mother American. Her brother looked Japanese. She didn’t look anything like them. Like any of them. She was used to being ridiculed, ignored, beaten and made fun of. She didn’t understand why looking different had warranted all that.
She touched her pale skin with shaking fingers. Her blond mane was a legacy from her mother. She had large hazel eyes, with long sweeping lashes, and a pouty mouth with full red lips. Her nose was straight and she had good bone structure–that was what had made her mother so photogenic.
Where her mother had been five foot ten, she’d only managed to hit five foot six. It was annoying to be in the middle. Not short, not thin, not tall and not model material. She felt clunky next to the small women moving silently through the house growing up in Japan. She always seemed too big for everything.
She knew she was going to die and that knowledge made her question everything about her life, the family she never had. Even her love for her brother. As they’d grown up, Osamu had by turns loved and hated him. He’d grown confused. Osamu had told them Ryuu’s twisted body was Mariko’s fault. She’d blamed Mariko for his inability to ride the shadows. Ryuu had sometimes sided with his sister, but as he grew up, more and more, he tried to get Osamu to love him, often going against Mariko to prove to Osamu he was loyal to her.
Was he worth dying for? The answer was yes. Ryuu was her only family, and she loved him with everything in her. It didn’t matter if that love wasn’t reciprocated every moment of the day; it was in her heart–and his. He was her only family and the only person in the world she had. She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t try to save him. On the other hand, she couldn’t murder a good man to trade for her brother’s life.
So that led her to this moment. She needed to know she’d done at least one of the things important to her. She wanted to feel beautiful. Just once. One time. From the moment Osamu had shown her the books with her mother as a rope model portraying all kinds of rope art from simple to bondage and suspension, she had studied that art. She knew the history. She’d gone to demonstrations. She had found herself moved by the various rope masters and how they treated their models–as if their partner were the only person in their world. Osamu’s taunts had backfired. Just once, even if it wasn’t real, she wanted to feel as if a man saw only her. No one else. For those moments, she was his world. His canvas. He saw beauty in her.
She began to remove her clothes in front of the mirror. She didn’t have the slender, beautiful body the other women in her household had had. She was all curves. Full, firm breasts; wide, curving hips; she even had a butt. How many times had Osamu made fun of her butt, saying they could serve tea on her bottom. For one moment, in defiance, she considered going to Ricco in a bra and those indecent panties, but she couldn’t make herself do it. It was bad enough to go with no underwear, even covered by the one-piece thing he wanted her to wear. There were three of them–red, black and white.
Mariko forced herself to pull on the black catsuit. It was tight, the nearly sheer, stretch lace material molding to every curve and emphasizing her narrower rib cage and waist. She could barely look at herself in it. It showed every single flaw she had, and that was her entire body. She nearly ripped it off and sank to the floor in a flood of tears, but that wasn’t allowed in her world. She took a deep breath and forced herself to continue.
She was very aware of time passing. Ricco had said they didn’t have much time. What did that mean? He didn’t call out to her or try to hurry her in any way. She used the bathroom and spent time on her makeup. She’d learned from another shadow rider, a young sixteen-year-old girl from England. The girl had taught her in secret, because if Osamu had found her with makeup, there would have been hell to pay.
Again, she stared at herself in the mirror, afraid to move. Her inclination was to run. To just disappear into the night. Never see Ricco or his family again. Never think about this moment of utter terror. She was attracted to him and she didn’t want him to see her as weak or ugly. She didn’t want him to know she’d come there with the thought to kill him. She had so many secrets to hide.
It would be so easy to leave, but she couldn’t pass up this one moment in her life. Face herself. She wanted truth. She’d been seeking the truth of her past, the truth about herself. Squaring her shoulders, head up, she turned away from the mirror. She was one of the best riders in Japan. She knew she was and had confidence that she could kill a man.
Could she find the confidence to look into her own soul? To be a woman and feel like a woman just once? She’d chosen this path because her mother had thought the art form beautiful. In studying the history and learning about each rope discipline, she had come to find beauty in it. She wanted to be a part of that before she died. She would become part of both her father’s and mother’s history and culture. She loved that idea. She just had to find the courage to do it.
Ricco was waiting in the studio. Lights were muted, which surprised her, and there was music playing, something soft and easy. The room, like all the rooms in his home, was spacious. Mirrors went from floor to ceiling on one wall. Cameras were in cases and there was an open closet full of props. Her heart pounded when she saw the rigging overhead that told her he might at some point want to suspend her from the ceiling.
He had his back to her, his hands moving over the coils of rope on the wall. There were all types of materials in various colors and he seemed to absorb the textures of each as his hand moved over the bundles. She was mesmerized by the way he touched them, almost a caress she could feel on her own skin. There were far more ropes here than in his room.
She shivered and rubbed at her arms, wishing she could hide her breasts and the way her nipples pushed against the material of the skintight suit. It wasn’t the cold, although the studio was cool. Her body had reacted to the way he smoothed his palm over the ropes. She held her breath as he turned, watching his eyes, needing to see that first expression, afraid it would be disgust and she would be humiliated all over again. She steeled herself. She was used to humiliation. She could handle it. But not from him.
Her eyes met his as the thought raced through her mind. For one moment his mask slipped and she saw his eyes go dark with desire. Every line in his face was etched with a sensuality that kept her breath trapped deep in her lungs. No one had ever looked at her like that in her life. Then the mask was back in place and he was stalking her. Like a great, fluid jungle cat.
She watched him come toward her, his muscles rippling beneath his tight tee. The material stretched over his chest so she could see the defined muscles beneath as he approached her. He looked utterly confident. The scrapes on his arms and face didn’t detract from his good looks at all. If anything, he looked even tougher.
“You look perfect, Mariko,” he greeted. “Absolutely beautiful.”
No reprimand for being late. For taking her time. For almost running away. She was ashamed that she’d considered that idea–just opening the French doors and disappearing into the night. He circled her, his body heat reaching her. Enveloping her. His scent surrounding her.
“You’re nervous.”
That voice. She loved how low and intimate his tone could be. How commanding. She was strong. She needed stronger. “Yes.” He’d made it a statement, just as he had said she was beautiful, as if she knew it and he was just acknowledging it. As if it were the truth. She heard the ring of honesty in his voice, but then he’d hit his head numerous times.
“It’s okay to be nervous, Mariko. You’re entering a journey that is both sensual and artistic.”
He moved behind her and touched her shoulder. She jumped and immediately felt ashamed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Talk to me. Communication is very important between us at all times.” He bent his head as he lifted the hair from the back of her neck. “For instance, I find your neck incredibly sexy. You look both vulnerable and sensual with your hair up. With it down, you look wild and beautiful. Just as sensual, but in a completely different way.”
She closed her eyes as his breath touched the nape of her neck. So warm. So male. He made her aware of every cell in her body because each went on alert when he was close. She was a rider and trained in every aspect of warfare, of engaging an enemy, defeating them. She knew anatomy, knew every pressure point. She knew the exact angle one had to use to break a neck.
She had absolutely no knowledge of what he was doing to her or how he could arouse her with just his voice and a gesture so small as the brush of his fingers on her body. He had barely touched her shoulder, lifted her hair, spoke in that low, compelling voice, and her body was aroused. Her breathing came in soft, ragged pants. He couldn’t fail to notice, he was far too tuned to the human body–especially a woman’s.
“I want to do a breathing exercise with you, but I will be touching your body. You have to get used to my hands on you and I need to know how you breathe so I never restrict you when we’re working together. Any time you’re uncomfortable, you need to say so. I have to trust that you’ll communicate what you’re feeling at all times. If I lay a rope incorrectly and it hurts you, I have to know.”
He was still behind her, his mouth against the nape of her neck, lips brushing tiny caresses with every word he said. That voice, so low and velvet soft, smoothed over her skin like his lips, until she couldn’t separate the two sensations. Already her breasts ached with need and she grew damp between her legs.
“Mariko.” His voice was gentle. “I need to know you’re all right with me touching you intimately.”
Just the way he said intimately was intimate. She wanted to groan and her mouth had gone suddenly dry. She not only wanted him to touch her, she needed him to do so. She swallowed hard and nodded. Slightly. A bare affirmation with her head because that was all she could manage. He didn’t move. He didn’t drop her hair back into place. He stayed behind her, his body very close to hers but without touching other than his hand and his breath. He simply waited.
“Yes. It’s all right.” She needed his touch more than she needed to breathe. How she managed to give him what he needed to continue, she didn’t know. For the first time in her life she felt weak with wanting. With need. Yet at the same time, she did feel sort of attractive. She was aware of herself as a woman, as feminine, when she’d always felt masculine. He’d given her that, and she’d be forever grateful.
His fingers curled around the bicep of her right arm. His touch was firm. Possessive. Held her captured there. “I’m going to put my hand on your upper chest. I want you to just breathe normally. Feel my breath moving in and out with yours. Just let yourself feel those sensations, Mariko.”
He placed his left palm gently on her just above the curve of her breasts. She’d never been so aware of her breasts in her life. How they could ache with need. Burn for him. For touch. His touch. She became aware of his body, standing directly behind hers, his hand guiding her back into his chest, her buttocks pressed against him. He was hard. All muscle. Heat enveloped her. Her body seemed awash in sensation.
His cock pressed tightly against her, right into the small of her back, a sword there, a male weapon, an instrument of pleasure, she didn’t know which, but she wanted to find out. She knew he wanted her, was very aroused, but then, he seemed to be very sexual and she was certain one couldn’t separate this practice from sex and art entirely. It was a sensual bonding between two people. Intimate beyond belief. Very, very erotic. Had all his models felt this way? Had he wanted all of them?
“Relax, farfallina mia, breathe for me.”
Little butterfly. She liked that. She forced air through her lungs and then let herself become aware of his chest rising and falling. It felt like a dance between them. She followed naturally. Easily. He kept his hand on her arm, strong and confident so that she felt safe with him.
“That’s my woman. I’m going to put my hand on your breasts,” he warned.
My woman. Did he call every rope model that? She told herself not to react, to keep breathing, to not wrap herself in his words. His palm slid from above her breasts, over the curve to cover her nipples with his palm. He just pressed heat there, feeling the rise and fall of her breath. He stood quietly, letting her get used to the feel of his hand on her. He was still behind her, taking more of her weight than she should have been giving him, but her legs were trembling.
Ricco’s face nudged aside her heavy fall of hair so his lips could whisper against the nape of her neck. “You’re doing great. Keep breathing as normally as possible. Feel me breathing with you.”
She did as he asked, mostly because the flare of pleasure she got from his praise shocked her. No one ever praised her. She excelled as a rider. Excelled in every area of training, yet not one instructor had ever praised her. Her fellow riders avoided her for the most part. They were never rude. None of the instructors or riders were rude, but they made it clear she was alone. She thought she would always be alone, until this moment. Even among the riders, she was the daughter of a whore, abandoned to the streets. She’d always be mixed race and not quite good enough.
She breathed in and out for him. For herself. To be someone strong and courageous. To be different because she needed to be different just once before she died. She needed to feel the freedom of arousal, and he gave her that. She wasn’t certain how, but he did, but that connection between them was extremely strong and compelling.
“That’s exactly what I need from you, Mariko,” he said softly, his lips caressing her skin and sending little darts of fire streaking through her body. “I’m moving my hand to your belly.”
He did, sliding his arm intimately around her to hold her to him with just his will. His hand didn’t press into her hard, or try to force her closer. He simply stood there, breathing with her. She felt her body relaxing into his. He moved then, sliding his arm from around her, releasing her right bicep as he stepped toward the wall holding the coils of rope, and she felt bereft.
“I was in a foul mood when you came out to the garden, and you’ve already managed to transform that into an inspiration.” He stood in front of the ropes but looked at her. “A pentacle harness I think to start. You’ll get a feel for the ropes and know whether we can continue.”
“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t we continue?” What was he looking for in her? Panic rose. He couldn’t already be thinking of replacing her. What had she done wrong? She needed to be here. She needed a base. She needed–him.
“Mariko, this is an exchange. You have to get something out of it as well.”
He was paying his rope model a great deal of money, that was what she was getting out of it, but she kept her mouth shut, because so far, it was much, much more. She’d never felt so close to another human being. He hadn’t even tied her yet and she wanted the feel of the rope. His rope.
“I think green to go with your eyes today.” He pulled the bundle from the wall and ran it through his hands like an old friend.
“My eyes are hazel.” Not green. Not brown. Hazel. Osamu had pointed out to her many, many times even her eyes weren’t special. They were ugly with their combination of green, brown and gold.
He smiled. “Right now, they’re very green. They change color. True hazel, like yours, is actually quite rare and very beautiful.”
She blinked, astonished that she could hear truth in his tone, mesmerized by the way the rope moved through his palm. Sensual. As if part of him. She watched him breathe in and out as he ran the rope through his hand again and again. She could watch him all day and never get enough. It was shocking how much she wanted him.
Ricco took a moment to just look at her, to breathe her in as he folded the rope in two, resting the center point in his palm. She was unexpectedly gorgeous. A treasure beyond any price. She was nervous, but excited, giving him the greatest offering he could ask for–her trust. She was a shadow rider. A woman meting out justice, always in control. She was giving that control over to him.
Mariko didn’t realize the incredible gift she was giving him. He’d watched her. Her reflexes were extremely fast. She was in not just good physical condition but superb condition. A rider needed control always. If she had come there to kill him, as he suspected, allowing him to tie her up was the last thing she should do, yet she was giving him her complete trust. Making herself vulnerable to him. Only to him.
She was a woman any man would be lucky to have, but he knew she belonged to him. He hoped he could get her to feel the same way. He would be asking a lot, to have her accept him as he was–with all the dark places inside of him. Her courage humbled him. The immense trust it took to allow herself to be tied by him, even in the name of art, was astonishing for a woman like her.
It was a true power exchange between them and he loved that. Even craved it. He needed a woman strong enough to accept that he would always need his ropes. They anchored him. Centered him. The moment he touched them, those dark shifting shadows inside him subsided.
He had been careful not to spook her. Right now, with their shadows connected, he could feel her slipping through his fingers. She had fight-or-flight syndrome in full force and he had to make every single moment with her count. He’d risked touching her to get a feel for her breathing. He needed to know in order to minimize the risk to her for potential trouble when he laid the ropes on her skin. He was very careful in his tying, always making certain his model was comfortable and safe, and now, having found Mariko, it was doubly important to him.
He wanted to be further along with her, in a place where he could see her naked body, where she’d give him that as well. Already he could see patterns on her, so many he wanted to try with her, his greatest model, the only one he’d ever have now. He wanted to spend every moment with her.
He used a stalking motion coming to her. Something he couldn’t help. This was his world, and she was his woman, his prey. He was going to seduce her into being just that for all time. He would do so with his ropes. His art. With the sheer force of his will. He would court her gently outside this room and teach her about her own body and that desire could be satisfied in many ways.
He had learned to kill and then he had killed. Many times. Fourteen was far too young for his artistic mind to accept the violence and he’d been fortunate that he’d met his teacher, a rope master of more than forty years. The art had saved his sanity and his life. He needed it like others needed air.
Deliberately moving into the light, so that his shadow connected with hers, he watched her body shiver with awareness as heat and need rushed over him and into her. She was drowning in desire. His? Hers? Their combined desire? He watched her skin flush and knew she felt the way he did. She was very sensitive to him. Open to him. With each line of rope, each pattern he created, he would wrap himself around her, adorning her body with–him.
Mariko couldn’t take her eyes from Ricco as he approached her, the green rope moving subtly, but powerfully, with his body. She didn’t want to panic, but she’d never been so aroused by or aware of a man as she was Ricco. His hands guided her, gently but firmly, in front of a full-length mirror. She didn’t want to look at herself. He was so gorgeous and she was just . . . Mariko.
He touched the rope to her face, sliding it along her cheek like a caress so she knew he was once again going to use silk on her. For some reason the silken ropes felt intimate, an extension of him. When he touched her with them, even just to slide the coils over her skin, it felt like sex and sin all wrapped up with his scent and his sheer will.
Very gently he pulled both arms behind her, and she felt the ties. Her heart hammered in her chest at the swiftness of his movement, the casualness, as if he’d done it a million times and there was no effort on his part. Just that quick he deprived her of two of her weapons.
She gave that gift to him, her submission to his will. To his art. But she knew now that it was so much more. Maybe he wasn’t aware of the enormity of her ceding power to him–she didn’t know him well enough to know what he thought with other models–but she was certain she had little time left on earth and she wanted her surrender to be to him. To a man she not only found attractive, but worthy.
Keeping his hand around her wrists, he nuzzled her hair aside from her neck so that he could press his lips against her ear. “You’re doing great, Mariko.”
He had to feel her tremble, but his hand smoothed back her hair and his voice held nothing but admiration, respect and praise.
“Are you afraid?”
He waited and she knew he’d wait forever for her answer. He wouldn’t continue. She knew he was giving her the opportunity to stop. She moistened her lips and nodded. “A little, but only of the unknown.” That was the truth, and yet it wasn’t. She was afraid of how he made her feel. Not just vulnerable, but so in need. She was damp with desire. Floating. She’d never felt that before. Almost euphoria.
“That’s my woman.” He whispered the words against the pulse pounding in her neck. His lips touched her ear and then her temple.
She dared then to raise her eyes to look into the mirror directly in front of her. He stood behind her, his head against hers, dark hair falling like sin across his forehead. His gaze met hers in the glass and she knew she would always remember that moment. His expressionless mask had slipped and she saw him, his fierce demons and turbulent needs mixed with dark, ferocious passion. He would never be like other men. He would always be dominant, scary to enemies and yet gentle with those he loved.
He reached around her and wrapped the double line around her torso beneath her pectoral muscles, all the while looking into her eyes in the mirror. His movements seemed effortless, casual, yet she was drowning in his focus, in his complete attention. She was used to disappearing no matter how large the crowd, but it was impossible to do that with Ricco. She was hot under the spotlight of his complete concentration.
She felt dizzy with need. Already her breathing had changed again, from slow and steady to ragged pants of desire. It was impossible to hide it from him. Her needs and desires were completely exposed for him to see, naked on her face, bare and visible on her body. It should have humiliated her. She should have felt embarrassment at the loss of control, but instead she felt a curious freedom.
He reached around her again and did something with the ropes, pulling them snug under her breasts. Her breath caught in her throat as he wrapped her breasts and continued creating the harness.
His mouth moved against the nape of her neck. “Breathe for me, farfallina mia.”
She tried. His hands were smooth and sure as the ropes slid over her body, wrapping her up in him. The rope was clearly an extension of him. She felt him in every wrap, every tension. The rope seemed, like her, to be completely under his spell, flying out of his hands to surrender to his will, a sensuous snake dancing to his tune.
She could see a pattern taking shape. A star. He worked fast, efficiently, smoothly, but his concentration wasn’t on the artwork so much as on her and the artwork together. Making her one with both Ricco and the rope, binding all three of them together.
Her mind slipped away as she gave herself over to his care. The ropes licked at her flesh, kissed her just as his lips moved occasionally on her nape as he worked. She lived for those moments. The rope seemed such an extension of him, giving her small sweet licks, gentle strokes, a scorching-hot bite and then back to the kisses. A tendril of fire curled through her body, spreading like a slow burn. Her clit pulsed in tune to her drumming heart. A shudder of pleasure slid up her spine.
She was wrapped in a rope embrace now, firm on her skin. Wrapped in him. There was no separating the two of them, rope and master. With every breath she took, she breathed in his power. Every sure movement of his fingers on the rope, on her, was a revelation. She had never thought there was beauty in such a thing as being helpless. She had seen art in ropes on a human body but she’d never felt that beauty until this moment. She had never, not once, considered that for her, there would be something sensual about the feel of being surrounded and embraced by rope–but there was that, too.
Her body came alive, humming, vibrating, even purring. All the while her mind floated, drifted on sensual pleasure she hadn’t known existed–or that she was capable of feeling. A bright, hot flare exploded in the vicinity of her chest and spread like flames through her body, radiating outward from the ropes as he cinched her breasts tighter. The bite was scalding hot, so sensual her sex pulsed and clenched by turns. Close. So close. Her breathing changed again. Ragged. Panting. Her face was flushed. She could see herself in the mirror and she looked–sexy. There was no other word for it.
“Beautiful.” He breathed the word. “You are so beautiful, Mariko. I would like to photograph you now, if you’re comfortable.”
For the first time, she believed him. She saw it. She saw herself through his eyes, the way he had the first time she’d walked into the conference room. She saw what the camera would see. What the world would see if he shared this moment, but instinctively, she knew he wouldn’t. It was too intimate and just between them. Just for them.
She saw green against black, a harness that shaped her breasts and formed a beautiful star. Like the flower arrangements and paintings in Japan, his art had balance and perfect symmetry. The tension was even. There wasn’t a single twist in the rope. There was no pressure on her body and she knew instinctively she wouldn’t have a single bruise. There would be no abrasions.
She nodded her head, although she wasn’t certain she wanted the camera to capture her wanton need, the lust she saw in the mirror. The invitation to him. It was only for him.
“Mariko, I need your consent.”
It was the voice she had grown used to. Waited for. Found safety and pleasure in. It was always velvet over steel. Soft. Low. Commanding. His voice sent shivers down her spine and kept her nipples as hard as rocks. His hands went to her shoulders, steadying her, and she realized she was swaying. Her knees felt weak but she knew she wouldn’t fall because he was right there.
“Do you need a few minutes?”
He was holding her. She wanted to keep him there, but this was what she had agreed to. He’d more than kept his side of the bargain. She had no idea she could feel so protected. So beautiful. So cherished. He made her feel all those things. She could give him his art–and it was beautiful. She knew whatever she had to learn for future artwork would be far more strenuous, but now that she had a taste of it, she wanted to know it all.
“I’m good now. Just for a moment I was somewhere else.”
He smiled. “That’s good. That’s what I’d hoped. You’re supposed to feel that, Mariko. If you didn’t, this wouldn’t work for us.”
She felt his caution when he slowly removed his hands and allowed her to stand on her own. She smiled to let him know she was okay. “If you want photographs, then go ahead.”
“Are you comfortable enough to last in the ties? You’re in superb physical condition, something important for the longer and more strenuous ties.”
He was already getting his camera, adjusting the light so that she felt its white-hot glare. Even that made her feel sensual. Every movement of her body in the ropes sent those little subtle licks and bites over her skin. Unexpected pleasure.
Over the next twenty minutes he moved around her, getting pictures from every angle in the same meticulous and decisive way he’d tied her. He checked each shot before he put the camera down and was back, standing in front of her, his fingers on the ropes. She felt each tug and vibration traveling through her body, once again, the ropes an extension of him. Her skin, beneath the thin, tight suit, was so aroused as he slid each rope off that every nerve ending flared brightly with a shocking flame of sheer desire.
He took his time. His hands slipping the bindings, fingers whispering along with the rope over her nipples, under her breasts, between them. Caresses that sent heat sliding from breasts to her feminine sheath so that her sex clenched and stayed damp in need. He murmured to her softly in Italian as the ropes slid away, leaving her feeling more exposed than if she’d been naked, praising her, telling her how pleased he was with their session, how beautiful she was. How courageous.
She found herself exhausted, as if she’d run a long race, and she didn’t understand why. She worked out every single day. She trained hard. Still, she wanted to just collapse on the floor, but Ricco lifted her into his arms, and cradled her against his chest as if she were precious to him. He made her feel cherished beyond anything else.
He carried her to the single chair in the room, sank into it with her on his lap and reached for a bottle of water. “Drink this, Mariko. All of it.” He kept his arms around her, holding her when she thought she might fly apart.
That had been the problem. She’d been soaring too high, unfamiliar territory for her, and now that she was back on the ground, a little disoriented and exhausted, she wasn’t certain what to do.
“It was only a harness,” she whispered against his throat.
He kneaded her wrists, first one and then the other. “It was your first experience. I’m sure it was unexpected.” He inspected her wrists, hands and arms before beginning a slow massage on her shoulders and the nape of her neck. “I am so proud of you. I couldn’t have asked for more for your first time.” He nuzzled the top of her head with his chin. Strands of her hair caught in the shadow along his jaw and even that felt sensual to her. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”
“Scared. Excited. Exhausted.” She hesitated. It seemed silly to not admit what he already knew. “Turned on. Very.” She confessed it in a small voice.
“I was surprisingly turned on myself. As a rule I am quite controlled.”
He gave her that back and it made her feel better. She let herself relax totally into him, enjoying the feeling his strength gave her. She’d been alone so long, she hadn’t expected to want his touch, to need it, but she was fast realizing she craved it.
“Are you willing to take the next step with me?”
She turned her head to look at him. That beautiful, scarred face. “Next step?”
“Are you comfortable enough with me to wear more revealing clothes, or none at all, depending on what I’m looking for?”
Her heart thudded, the rhythm a little erratic. She started to turn her head away, afraid he would see that was exactly what she wanted, but she was afraid. Shadow riders didn’t show fear.
He caught her chin before she could hide from him. At once she read satisfaction there. “Say it for me.”
She moistened her lips and nodded. “Yes.” A commitment then. To him. To them. Maybe before she died, she’d leave behind a book of beautiful Japanese art for Ricco. Someone would know she’d lived, and maybe he would think of her occasionally.
