Thinking of the past few minutes with Max, Rachel remembered what Dana had said about her night with Peter and Ben. Had Jon done things for Dana, under Peter’s direction? Did she want to know? Did she want to experience such a thing for herself? If any part of those unsettling things Dana had said earlier about the K&A men were true—and certainly she’d experienced something of the sort in Jon’s office—it was a very likely possibility.
It was pointless to speculate. She’d already told herself things were going no further than tonight. Tonight was her fantasy. Tomorrow she’d have to grip reality, no matter what.
Not for the first time, that weak litany reminded her of buying a whole chocolate cake on impulse, having a piece, then going to bed with the firm self-admonition that she’d throw the rest away in the morning and never have another fattening, decadent bite. She was old enough to be smarter than this. But here she was anyway.
At five to seven, she put his salad bowl on his dinner plate, scooped the blackberries, goat cheese and shredded greens into it, ladling a light drizzle of vinaigrette over it. She’d wrapped the bread in a towel and put it in a basket to his left, including a small dish of olive oil with herbs. The eggplant parmesan was on a trivet, the casserole dish sealed to hold in heat. She poured half a glass of the red, setting the bottle in a pewter wine holder to breathe.
Unpinning her hair, she let it cascade onto her bare shoulders. Though she’d been naked most of the day, now she felt truly vulnerable and bare. Kissing Dana, teasing Max, it had been…adventurous, playful. But this…the trembling in her lower belly told her this was something else entirely, if her mind wasn’t already telling her that. It was consumed with him. He’d be parking in the lot, walking up to her building. If her neighbors were out, walking their dogs or doing their evening jog, they’d see him. They’d wonder about that handsome, charismatic man, wonder whom he was going to visit.
Would they believe it was her, the middle-aged tenant of 401D, the one they usually saw leaving in exercise clothes or her practical therapy wear? Could they imagine her now, kneeling like this, waiting by his chair, waiting to serve his every desire? Could they imagine all the things he might do to her tonight?
She’d had to dry herself between her legs more than once over the course of the day, her arousal an ebb and flow, depending on the direction of her thoughts, or Dana’s provocation. Now her thoughts made a heated drop trickle over her calf, where her legs were folded beneath her. It was too close to time, so she didn’t move. She had the titillating thought that he would want to see her arousal, wouldn’t want her to wipe it away. Collecting it on his fingers, his tongue, his cock…that was his right, not hers. When the clock chimed seven, all rights were his.
He’d be walking up her stairs. He wasn’t the elevator type, not for a mere three floors. The shaking was back, sweeping out from her lower belly, through her thighs, her breath shortening. She’d left the door unlocked, as he’d commanded. Her only responsibility now was to wait.
Her gaze lifted to the clock. One minute. Her eyes closed. The building had excellent insulation. Even the McPhersons, who lived directly below and who had two young boys who didn’t do anything at a walk or low decibel, rarely penetrated the quiet of her corner apartment. It was something she’d always appreciated, but now she wasn’t as pleased by the solid weatherproofing on her door that muffled approaching footsteps. But she could envision it. His walk, the way his body moved, the intensity of the blue eyes.
For hours he’d filled her mind, but now she hungered for the real man. His scent, his heat, his presence. Even if it was just the sound of his shoes rasping along the concrete walkway, she couldn’t wait another second to grasp some tangible evidence of him. Her * was back to throbbing beneath that metal sheath, a tiny heartbeat.
The door latch turned, and she had to make her fists relax. Just in time, she remembered the position he required. Straightening her spine, she laced her fingers at the small of her back, which thrust out her breasts. As she spread her knees to shoulder width, her hair whispered over her left shoulder, falling forward over the breast. She was staring down at her p-ssy, seeing the tracks of her arousal on her thighs, the flush of her erect nipples. The satiny finish of her red heels pressed into her buttocks.
The time for panic, the “what the hell am I doing?” was past. She was committed to this path now, for tonight. There was a freedom in that, such that one anxiety went away, leaving an entirely different kind in its place.
Her breath slipped out in a sigh as she caught his scent. She literally felt his energy enter her apartment, spread out, touch her. The bolt turned, the doorknob locked and the chain slid into place. Each metallic click twisted her tension even further. Suddenly, the throbbing in her * was a fire. With one touch, he could set her off, all that banked sexual need recognizing that release was so close…but if it was his desire, he could also prolong it for hours.
He’d stopped at the archway to her dining nook. She could feel him assessing everything, how she’d followed his instructions. If she was braver, if she could believe in a future, she might have said, no matter how her voice shook, “Good evening, Master.” But she didn’t. She just waited.
When he moved, stopped behind her, her fingers flexed in their tangle at her lower back. He touched her hair, and she gasped, trying hard not to lean into his hand, but wanting to, more than she’d wanted to do anything her whole life. Her calves were now so slick with her juices she had to tense her thighs so she wouldn’t slide to one hip.
Above her knotted hands, something ticklish, soft, slid up her spine. Flowers. He let them spill over her shoulder so she could turn her face into that spray of wildflowers, a plethora of colors, textures, fragrances.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The flowers slipped away, and she heard the whisper of them being laid on the tablecloth. Then his fingers slid over her spine. It was such a dizzying rush to feel that contact, it took her a moment to realize he’d unlocked the padlock to the waist chain.
“Lift your chin, keep your eyes down.”
That firm, even voice. Her p-ssy spasmed, hard, and she made a small whimper, even more desperate than what Max had heard. When he touched the collar, she spoke before she could stop herself.
“Please don’t.”
He stilled. “Please don’t what, Rachel?”
“Don’t take the collar off. Please.”
“I won’t. I’m taking everything else away though. No talking again until I give you permission.”
He unhooked the chain in front with a set of pliers, and it dropped into the vee of her lap. It glanced off the * hood, making her jolt.
“Lean forward on your hands. Calf pose. Knees spread the same width.”
The asana required a concave position for the back, like a sway-backed cow, but it also lifted the ass pertly in the air. With her knees spread out that way, he was seeing everything. He removed the chain from her waist and from between her buttocks, and then his fingers slid between her legs, cupped the * piece and the clamp inside her labia that had held it in place, as well as kept her p-ssy open. She shuddered, but managed to hold her position. When he pulled it all away from her, leaving her in nothing but the collar, she moaned at the friction, her arms quivering.