She couldn’t stop at that marker, because if she did, she would truly fall to pieces. She put her mental weight against that door, before she could hear the report of the gun, see the flash of fire, feel the wet blood on her neck… Or think about the most important reason for it, the straw that had brought her to that terrible moment. She didn’t want to share that now, not here. Couldn’t do it.
“That was when I started taking yoga.” Sensing somehow that he’d shifted closer to her, she blurted it out, pressing her palms against the glass to steady herself. “Something about it…it told me I could find peace there. I immersed myself in it, became an instructor. It helped me find the balance I needed.”
She turned then, faced him, and it was so hard, for so many reasons, to meet that steady gaze. “I can’t have what you’re offering, Jon. You’re too young, too late and I’m too fragile. It took me too long to pull myself back off the cliff edge and…” Her voice trembled once more. Closing her eyes, she steadied herself, spoke the desolate truth to that black space. “I won’t survive going there again.”
“I’m not offering anything.”
He moved then, closing the space between them. She wanted to shrink back against the glass, but managed to keep herself still. He had such a smooth way of moving, gathering an energy around him that would always turn a woman’s head. Her gaze latched onto the tie. His tie tack was a Japanese kanji symbol, one she recognized, because it was on a tapestry in her yoga studio. Perseverance.
Her palms tingled, wanting to reach out, touch it, flatten against his chest, feel his heat and heartbeat. When he laid his hands on her tense shoulders, she had another brief spurt of panic, but before she could wrench away, he’d pushed her against that panel of glass. It had absorbed a considerable amount of the sun’s heat, such that it burned through the fabric of her bolero and the thin blouse beneath.
“Let me go,” she whispered.
“No.” The resolve beneath the deceptive mildness was terrifying to her. Gentle, thoughtful Jon, so interested in the philosophy and spirituality behind yoga, yet he also understood the strength of it as well. A mountain could be placid, but it didn’t make it less immovable, less capable of demonstrations of utter power. However, while he could easily overcome her physically, he didn’t need that. His voice and manner alone arrested her.
“What I left you this morning wasn’t an offer, a suggestion or a proposal, Rachel. It was a command. I’m not going to give you a choice. Not right now. Because you’ve been given far too many. That isn’t what you need, is it?”
The ache low in her belly was becoming that spinning wheel she knew too well, a wheel with blades that were going to cut her insides to pieces. “Please…don’t.”
“Keep your eyes down, Rachel. You’ll meet my gaze when I give you permission. You understand?” The implacable tone shut that wheel down, made her knees weak. He leaned in, until his lips were at her temple, trailing down her skin in a highly distracting way until he reached her ear. “Tell me you understand.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she realized she’d latched onto his shirt at the waist, digging her fingers into the cloth as an anchor. A hard shudder ran through her body.
“Ssshh, girl. At the end of the third class I took with you, you told me you saw an old soul in my eyes. We talked about how we both believe in reincarnation, the idea that the physical body isn’t the sum total of a human being. You remember?”
She nodded. He tightened his grip. “Well, when I look in your eyes, I see a young soul, one who had her wings clipped too soon. She doesn’t realize they’ve grown back, that she can spread them out and fly, finally realize the potential that’s been there all along.”
“Jon—”
Shifting, he closed his hand over one of hers at his waist. When he detached her fingers, he gave them a quick squeeze and then turned, taking her across the room to the drafting table, the stool there. He slid a hip onto it, then perused her with that lingering, appraising look. “Take off the shoes.”
He’d tolerate no disobedience, no discussion. She didn’t know what that would mean if she resisted, but her pulse thudded hard against her throat. Her shoes. If that was all he was asking, she could do that, right? And truth, they were pinching her feet. As she slid out of them, giving up the two-inch height they’d offered, she immediately realized why slaves were made to go barefoot. There was a distinct difference in status, looking down at her feet clad only in thin stockings, positioned between his polished dress shoes. Her toes curled into the deep carpet.
“Now the hair. Take it down and hand me the pins.”
He’d told her to leave her hair down in the note. He’d told her a lot of other things in that note as well. Would she strip down here if he ordered her to do so, no matter who might come in? She realized then that Lucas hadn’t closed the door fully. It was pulled to the doorjamb, a small sliver of hallway visible. She needed to—
“Do as I tell you, Rachel. Trust your Master to take care of you.”
It made her stomach jump. Coincidence, or had he read her thoughts that clearly? No matter what it was, she’d already raised her arms, and was pulling out the pins, letting down the uneven wisps in front that fell like feathers against her face, caressing her cheeks and lips. Then, finally, the clip and ribbon that held the bun, the twisted tail falling against her neck in a serpentine curve that teased the modest open neckline of the blouse.
“Don’t straighten it. Hand me everything.”
She extended her hand, but he didn’t take them, not right away. He gripped her wrist, drew her between his spread thighs. Then he plucked the hair fasteners from her, set them aside.
“Put your hands on my knees and leave them there.”
That at least was easy enough. She relished even that limited touch, though she knew she shouldn’t. She shouldn’t be doing any of this. She felt the muscle layers that ran from his thigh into the kneecap area, a hint of the bone beneath. She remembered his execution of Sleeping Thunderbolt once again, the strain of those thigh muscles, the flex of the calves. The arch of his beautiful body. Her gaze drifted. The way his thin cotton trousers had molded his groin area, drawing her eyes there…
Slacks of course were cut loosely, but with his thighs spread, she could discern the curve of testicles and more than a hint of what else was there, giving her the gratifying torment of knowing he was also aroused.
“Rachel, did I give you permission to look at my cock?”
“No.” She dropped her gaze to her feet quickly.
“Good girl.”
When he cupped both strong palms around her throat, a moan caught there, beneath his touch. She’d never had such a startlingly intense reaction to such a simple contact, but he’d recognized it for what it was last night. You’ve wanted a collar for a long time… Untwisting the tail of her hair, he spread it over her shoulders. Then he moved up to her face, burying his fingers into the thick strands there, combing it all out with his fingers in slow, firm strokes that had her eyes closing, her body swaying toward him.
His touch dropped to her jaw next, cradling it, his thumbs sweeping along her throat again to send those ripples of reaction across her body, like a sudden breeze flitting over still water. When he pushed the jacket off her shoulders, she didn’t resist, might have even shrugged to help. It dropped to the floor behind her. Her heart thudded harder when he flicked open two additional buttons of her blouse, revealing her bra. It wasn’t overly sexy, a serviceable undergarment with a touch of pretty lace at the cups and enough padding that her nipples wouldn’t disrupt the way the shirt smoothed over her bosom. His arm slid around her waist, his fingers plucking the shirt free of her belted slacks.