He’d chosen black jeans and a blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and open at the throat. He’d belted the jeans with a new black belt, and wore his black cowboy boots under the denim. It was dressy enough for a party at a fancy house, but would leave him more comfortable than a suit for whatever the night would hold.

  When the doorknob turned on the bathroom, he wasn’t sure what to expect. If Les and Julie had helped her pick it out, then he expected it to be pretty, classy. When she stepped out, it was both those things. But it was also something that took his breath away, because of what he’d said—she was wearing it.

  He’d dated cheerleaders and girls who liked looking hot. Not trashy, but a short skirt and a snug top showing off a fine figure looked damn good on them.

  This was…he couldn’t explain why her outfit struck him as so incredibly sexy. It was more than her looking beautiful, fuckable. It was because of what the dress said about the woman wearing it.

  The deep wine color enhanced the rich shade of her shiny brown hair, which she’d curled and clipped back with a long flat barrette. The bodice of the dress was silky, with an embroidered pattern like feathers. It fit her upper body perfectly, molding the sweet lines of her small breasts, the nip of her waist. The skirt flowed over her hips and fell to mid-calf, the fabric so light it swirled around her legs and hips as she moved.

  A wide sash outlined her waist, a bow embellishing the hip. Overlapped cap-like short sleeves showed the bare lengths of her graceful arms. The dress’s sculpted neckline wasn’t low, but it did expose her collar bones and a wide crescent of skin beneath. She wore a silver necklace with a tiny wine-colored rose as the pendant. Wisps of hair curled around her brow and forehead, framing her face.

  She’d put on makeup. Lightly, thickening the already thick lashes and making her luminous hazel eyes capable of piercing a man to the bone when she lifted them to look at him. Her lips were a delicate pink that picked up the wine color of the dress.

  He’d rarely seen her in anything but sneakers or flat sandals. The silver strappy shoes she wore were wedges, a couple inches high. He motioned and she did a slow full turn for him, so he viewed the contours of her waist from the back, the outline of her shoulder blades against the thin fabric. The skirt flowed like water, highlighting the flare of her hips, giving him glimpses of shapely calves and ankles. She wore filmy silver-gray stockings.

  Her underwear might be her usual practical cottons, but if Julie and Les had bought her something to coordinate with the dress, he might owe them a fervent thank you. He’d let himself find out later. Right now, he wanted to tell her in a million different ways how damn humbled and amazed he was to be her escort. Yet babbling like that at a woman wouldn’t really reassure her that he was a Dominant in control of his own emotions, as well as her well-being.

  So he held out an astoundingly steady hand. Everything in him tightened up at the way she immediately came to him. He kissed her knuckles, found her hand cold. Just like that, his uncertainty melted away, as it often did when he could focus on making sure she was okay, rather than his own confidence, or lack thereof.

  “You are beautiful,” he told her. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Now she flushed and her lips parted, but he cut across her. “Think carefully before you tell me I’m wrong. I’m dying to know what you’ve got on under that dress, and a good spanking would answer that. Plus make us late.”

  She pressed her lips together, her hazel eyes flashing with a mix of emotions. He squeezed her hand. “Let’s go.”

  The sun was setting, offering some pretty scenery as he drove them out of their rural location to the main highway. It would connect them to another lush area of marshlands and maritime forest outside the city. Tyler’s place was more northwest of Tampa.

  She was quiet on the drive, and he didn’t talk a lot either, staying closely attuned to her body language. Some tension, her hands curled in her lap. Fingers twitching. Back straight. He noted each time she swallowed, the movements of her lips.

  It was that which finally clued him into what was going on. It punched him hard in the center of his own desires for her. So far, he’d seen it at this level only when they were fully into a moment intended for that, like in the hammock or in her room.

  She was really aroused.

  He’d gotten her hot and bothered at the kitchen table and deliberately left her that way. Then she’d fixed herself up in an outfit intended to be attractive, to appeal to him. They were both hyperaware they were headed for a party attended solely by Dominants and submissives.

  And she would be at the party as his.

  When Rory saw a pull off with a good view over the marshes, he took it, putting the van in park. He unlocked the driver’s seat so he could turn it toward her, which put him closer, his knee brushing the side of her leg.

  “Look at me, Daralyn,” he said.

  She did. The sun was fast disappearing over the horizon, making her pupils even darker, her face shadowed, but he could see the tense set of her glossy lips. When he extended his hand, she laid hers in it. He rested their clasped hands on her thigh, and locked gazes with her.

  “Put my hand where you know I want it to be,” he said.

  Where he knew she wanted it to be.

  The changes in her expression, in her body, all of her responses when he used that tone, were enough to make him want to do nothing more than keep her naked in his bed. She was staring at him with such raw hunger and unvoiced need. A hard shiver ran through her, particularly her thighs.

  She adjusted their grips so that she was holding his wrist, but he saw the struggle in her. Some snarl of emotions was hampering her. He refused to let her past tamper with her reaction, dilute the truth of it, derail her. Not tonight.

  “Don’t make me tell you twice,” he said, low. “You better be dripping wet for me, because you know that’s what I want. If you’re not, I’ll be making sure that I fix that, right here and now.”

  She was barely breathing, and he put his free hand on her face. “Do it,” he breathed, and there was literally nothing in the universe but the two of them.

  Slowly, she guided his hand under the flowing skirt, her thighs parting for him. He felt the brush of the lace tops of her stockings. When she brought his fingers to her sex, her labia were swollen into a plump cushion against the silk and lace of a very impractical, non-cotton pair of panties. The crotch was damp and sleek under his caressing touch. As he feathered his fingers over it, her hand tightened on his wrist.

  “Now take your hand away. Reach around the seat on either side of you, as if I’d tied your wrists back around it.”

  She complied, which lifted her upper body. He fervently hoped she was wearing a bra that matched the panties. He thought she was, because the thinness of the dress’s fabric showed the points of aroused nipples. He rested his gaze there as he stroked her. A tiny moan caught in her throat, firing his own desires.

  “Are you close to having an orgasm, Daralyn? Use words.”

  “I—I think so.”

  “If you get too close, tell me. I don’t want you to have one yet.”

  He saw the delightful flash of exasperation, and let it go unremarked, especially when he saw a chaser of panic, a darting glance toward him. She was afraid he’d seen it, the involuntary rebellious feeling. He’d love her to trust him enough to one day beg him, and beg him hard, for what she wanted. Let him punish her for that rebelliousness, but in a way that wasn’t a punishment for it at all.

  “Easy. Relax for me.” It was a warning to keep her from jerking at the wrong moment. He curled his free hand around the side of her seat to steady himself as he leaned further forward and found his way beneath lace and silk, working his fingers in at the right angle. Two fingers, sliding into that wetness, stroking the swollen, veined tissues that spasmed against him, clutching his fingers.

  Her breath left her, her shoulders flexing in reaction. As he rubbed his thumb with slow purpose over her clit, he brought the other hand back to cup her cheek. Her gaze shifted to his face, then away, feral, needy. Propping his forearm against the side of her seat, he closed his hand over her throat, which snapped her gaze back to him. She might not hold it for more than a blink unless ordered, but her attention dropped to his mouth and clung there, telling him he had her full attention.

  “I love watching you come apart like this. Love touching you. You like it when my fingers are inside you, don’t you? Nod for me.”

  She did, and though he’d told her to do it, she meant it. “Oh…” Another sound escaped her as he changed his rhythm, and suddenly there was panic. “Rory, I can’t…”

  “It’s all right, baby. I changed my mind. I want to watch you come. Do it now.” If tonight went as intended, she’d be built back up to that same level of arousal in no time.

  Every part of him was right there with her as she lost herself to it, body arching and pulling against the hold she had on the seat back. As he worked her clit and thrust within her, easily now, thanks to the drenched heat of her cunt, the moans increased in strength. Her head rocked back and forth, then thrashed as she hit that peak, her cry echoing through the van, resounding in his chest. Her spread legs convulsed hard as she kept them open for him, despite the strong wave of sensations. He felt like he could absorb the shudders in her body through his own.

  He kept it going until she came down from that edge, floating like a feather back to the van and to him. She was mumbling, and he dipped his head to her mouth. “What?”

  “So…new. Didn’t know it could feel like that, and be…okay.”

  Like most teenage boys, he’d been jerking off practically since the moment he’d learned how good it felt. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to her, to be discovering at twenty years old that a climax was something to be enjoyed, not suppressed, not feared or something to feel shame about.

  He had been the one to give her that gift. And he would keep giving it to her, as creatively and as often as he could make it happen. He kissed her, making it strong, possessive, how he was feeling it, the way she was needing it. When he was done, he pulled back enough to stare into her confused, dazed eyes.

  “Who do you belong to, Daralyn?”

  “You,” she whispered.

  “Why did you come?”

  “B-because you told me to.”

  “Exactly. Good girl.” He pressed his lips back on hers, kissed her with his fingers resting inside her, until she settled into it, until he knew nothing else was competing with what he was telling her, trying to make her believe different. But he wasn’t going to leave it that open-ended.

  “Daralyn, nothing you feel tonight will be wrong. Okay?” He eased his fingers even deeper, watched her twitch, tremble. “Anything that worries you, you’ll tell me, and I’ll make it better. At this kind of party, I’m totally in charge. Not a single step, not a single thought you have, will be made without that safety net there. Tell me you understand.”

  She stared at him. That limitless mix of emotions was back in her gaze. He needed her to believe him, and he put it in the edge of his voice, the sternness. An extra little thrust. That last one seemed to be the defining moment.

  “Yes.” The first syllable went up a couple octaves, in breathy response to the penetration. “I understand.”

  “Good.”

  He withdrew his hand, tasted his fingers while she watched and trembled. “Guess we are going to be late now,” he observed. “I’ll tell Des and Julie it’s all your fault.”

  Flashing her a grin, he started up the van again.

  He was glad he told her all that when he was feeling a hundred percent sure of himself, because soon after, they turned onto Tyler’s property, and a whole lot of unsettling variables came into play.

  Tyler Winterman’s driveway was practically a mile long, through old growth maritime forest. When the house finally came into view, Rory was sure if John Cooper saw it, it would become his next bird house.

  The restored antebellum mansion was a graceful vision of tall windows, Grecian columns, a hipped roof that expanded into a half circle with blocked molding over the front entranceway. The grand double doors were accessible up eight marble steps, carved in a giant crescent around the two weight-bearing main pillars.

  The property matched the house, the structure sitting on a spit of land bordered on two sides by a wide, winding tributary of the Intracoastal Waterway. The current ran steady and strong. Since a wide balcony ran around all the sides of the house he could see, he expected there were no bad views from any part of the house.

  He reminded himself of what Des had said about Tyler, and pushed aside his kneejerk wariness of someone far outside his income bracket. Logistics were less easy to overlook. He wasn’t seeing a way up those steps, short of getting himself out of the chair and hauling himself up, dragging the chair with him. He might be able to find a more graceful way of getting inside from another entrance. Walkways flowed from the steps and disappeared around the corners of the house behind mature azaleas, magnolias and an array of rose bushes that probably bloomed their heads off in spring and summer.

  While a practical necessity, looking for an alternative entrance always made him feel like a burglar looking for an unlocked window. The alternative, sending Daralyn up to knock on the door and find out how he could get in, wasn’t much more appealing.

  As he circled around and opened her door, she was staring at the place while sitting still as a mouse. Except her hands, which were tangling and untangling in her lap.

  “I bet he has dust bunnies under his couch, just like everyone else.”

  That surprised a little smile out of her, which made him feel more at ease, too. He gently tugged her out to stand next to him.

  “Do you think Marcus and Thomas have been to this kind of party before?” she asked.

  “Much as I’d prefer not to imagine that, yeah, I’m sure they have.” As they moved toward the front door, between pushes, he kept touching her hand on his shoulder. It helped him get his act together, not worry about shit that didn’t matter. If they had to go around the house, they would. She’d follow his lead, so he’d make damn sure it was a relaxed one. This was an adventure, like Disneyland.

  They also didn’t have to rush inside. He could take all the time in the world and just talk to her, settle them both down. He stopped at the base of the stairs, gazing up at the door. The bronze knockers were a pair of lion heads. He squinted. Or maybe tigers.

  He glanced at her. “Thomas said this would remind us of one of his fancy gallery shindigs.”

  “Pretty clothes, drinking fruity wine out of sparkling long-stemmed glasses, wandering past all the pictures, saying smart things about them.” She managed another ghost of a smile. “That’s how he describes it.”

  “Exactly. The people who can’t think of anything just stand there and look thoughtfully at them. Praying that no one asks them to say anything smart.”

  “If they do,” a deep, cultured voice came from behind them, “you say—quite solemnly, but with a particularly jaded air—‘I’m still processing the author’s intent.’”

  Still holding Daralyn’s hand, Rory turned to see a man standing on the paved walkway. He was framed by a pair of hydrangea bushes heavy with purple-blue blooms. With that background and in belted charcoal grey slacks and an open-necked black dress shirt, he exuded a mix of Southern gentleman, old money and urban sophisticate.

  His dark hair was touched with silver, and his broad shoulders and fit body reminded Rory of Ben Affleck’s version of Bruce Wayne. Meeting the man’s vaguely familiar gaze, he found the amber-colored eyes steady and warm. Friendly. The man closed the distance between them and extended a hand to Rory. “Tyler Winterman, your host. We met briefly at the wedding, but I’m not sure we ever had the chance to speak.”

  As Rory accepted the hand, he liked the grip. Strong, but nothing to prove. Also not too purposefully weak, like Daralyn’s professor had done.

  Tyler turned his attention to Daralyn. “And you’re Daralyn,” he said. “You belong to Rory.”

  Her eyes widened slightly, her lips parting. “I…yes, sir.”

  When Tyler spoke to her, Rory put his hand back over hers on his shoulder. Tyler’s gaze grew even kinder, registering the cue of her nervousness. It made Rory like him more. It also prompted him to add his own two cents.

  “It’s a privilege and a gift I’m working to earn,” he said.

  Tyler’s expression reflected approval. “Which is part of why you’re here tonight. As a good host, my intent is to ensure you have the experience you’re seeking. Even if you’re not entirely sure what that is.”

  Marcus had said he’d respect their privacy as much as possible, but Tyler would have to be told some things about them, in order for their host to vet Rory and Daralyn properly for this kind of party. While that had admittedly made Rory a little uneasy, he understood the need. Marcus had offered additional reassurance.

  “He’s an arrogant dick. But Tyler’s also the best kind of Dom, through and through. He’s one of the most respected in the BDSM scene, which is a pretty close-knit community.”

  Tyler gestured toward the marble stairs, taking a few steps in that direction so Rory followed and saw what one of the pillars had concealed. There was a ramp. And not one tacked in as an afterthought. It was an integrated feature of the entranceway, the strip between the ramp and the adjacent stairs a sunken planter with blue-green ornamental grass, the feathery tops bobbing in the breeze. Another reason he’d missed the ramp’s presence.

  “The exit to our gardens in the back are ground level, so no obstacles there,” Tyler said. “I’d like to bring you into the house first, though, so we can talk privately about the protocols in place tonight.”

  Rory took the ramp, Daralyn next to him on the steps. She passed her hand over the tops of the ornamental grasses between them, smiling when the feathery tops tickled her wrist. She spread out her fingers to enjoy the sensation, sending Rory a pleased look.