#i am a simple woman. i see clothes in those colors and then the sylvia brainrot kicks in. and i have no choice but to buy them

[relicsongmel]

I could never be a lawyer in the Ace Attorney universe not because I know almost nothing about law outside of what I've learned from the games. Not because I can barely string together a coherent sentence let alone an entire argument when the pressure's on. But because I'd have to fight Franziska for her color scheme and that is a battle I cannot win

[anavoliselenu]

Claim me chapter 1

“Almost done?” I ask. “The sun’s been down for at least five minutes.”

Several yards away, Blaine tilts sideways, partially emerging from behind the canvas. I don’t move, but in my peripheral vision, I can see his shoulders, bald head, and shocking red goatee. “In my mind, you’re still bathed in light. Now stand still and be quiet.”

“No problem,” I say, and hear his growl of irritation at my blatant flaunting of his rules.

Despite the fact that I am standing naked in a doorway, our exchange seems perfectly normal. I am used to this now. Used to the way the chilled ocean breeze causes my nipples to peak. The way the sunset stirs something so deep and passionate in me that I long to close my eyes and abandon myself to the violent tapestry of light and color.

I’ve become blasé about the way Blaine’s eye sweeps critically over me, and I no longer flinch when he leans in so close that he almost brushes my breast or my hip as he adjusts my stance to the proper angle. Even his murmurings of “Perfect. Shit, Selena, you look perfect” no longer make my stomach tighten, and I’ve stopped imagining my hands closing into tight fists in protest, my nails digging into the soft skin of my palms. I am not perfect—not by a long shot. But it no longer makes me crazy to hear those simple words.

Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined that I could feel so at ease despite being so fully on display. True, I’d spent most of my life parading around on a stage, but during my pageant days I was always clothed, and even during the bathing suit competitions, my girl parts were modestly covered. I can imagine my mother’s mortification if she saw me now, chin lifted, back arched, a red silk cord binding my wrists behind me and then trailing between my legs to twine gently around one thigh.

I have not seen Blaine’s canvas for days, but I know his style and I can imagine how I look captured in pigment and brushstrokes. Ephemeral. Sensual. Submissive.

A goddess bound.

No doubt about it—my mother would have a cow. I, however, am enjoying it. Hell, maybe that’s why I’m enjoying it. I’ve shaken off Proper Princess Selena for Rebel Selena, and it feels pretty damn good.

I hear footsteps on the stairs, and I force myself to remain in my pose even though I want nothing more than to turn and look at him. Justin.

Justin Stark is the one thing about which I’ve not become complacent.

“The offer stands.” Justin’s words drift up the marble stairs to the third floor. He hasn’t raised his voice, and yet it is supported by such strength and confidence that it fills the room. “Tell them to take a good long look at their P and Ls. There isn’t going to be any profit, and by the end of the year, there won’t even be a company. They’re in free fall, and when they crash and burn, every one of their employees will be out of work, the company dead, the patents tied up in litigation for years as creditors fight about the assets. They take this deal, and I’ll breathe life back in. You know it. I know it. They know it.”

The footsteps stop, and I realize he is now standing at the top of the stairs. The room is open, designed for entertaining, and normally someone climbing the stairs would be treated to a view of the Pacific Ocean spread wide across the far side of the room.

Right now, what Justin sees is me.

“Make it happen, Charles,” he says, his voice now tight. “I have to go.”

I have come to know this man so well. His body. His gait. His voice. And I don’t need to see him to know that the tension in his tone isn’t tied to the thrill of chasing a business deal. It’s about me, and that simple fact is as intoxicating as champagne on an empty stomach. An entire empire needing his attention, and yet in that moment, I am his whole world. I am flattered. I am giddy. And, yeah, I am turned on.

I’m also smiling, which draws a sharp censure from Blaine. “Dammit, Nik. Get rid of the grin.”

“My face doesn’t even show in the painting.”

“I can tell,” Blaine says. “So stop it.”

He’s teasing me now. “Yes, sir,” I say, and then almost laugh when Justin coughs, obviously hiding a chuckle of his own. The “sir” is our secret, our game that we play. A game that will officially end tonight, now that Blaine is putting the final touches on the painting that Justin has commissioned. The thought is a melancholy one.

True, I’ll be happy not to have to stand stock-still anymore. Even the thrill of flipping the imaginary bird to my mother’s overbearing sense of propriety pales in comparison to the way my legs cramp at the end of these sessions. But I will miss the rest of it, especially the feel of Justin’s eyes on me. His slow, heated inspections that make me damp between my thighs and force me to concentrate so hard on remaining still that it becomes sweetly painful.

And, yes, I will miss our game. But I want more than a game with Justin, and I can’t help the eagerness with which I face tomorrow and the knowledge that it will simply be Justin and Selena with nothing between us. And as for any lingering secrets … well, with time, those will be brushed away, too.

Hard now to believe that I’d originally been shocked by Justin’s offer: one million dollars in exchange for my body. For my image, permanently on display on a larger-than-life canvas; and for the rest of me at his command, whenever and however he wanted.

My shock had been replaced by blatant pragmatism laced with equal parts of ardor and outrage. I’d wanted Justin as much as he’d wanted me, but at the same time I’d wanted to punish him. Because I was certain that he saw only the beauty queen, and that when he got a peek at the damaged woman beneath the polished veneer he’d reel from the affront to his expectations as much as from the lightening of his wallet.

I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.

Our deal had been for a week, but that week turned into two as Blaine buzzed around his canvas, the wooden tip of his brush tapping against his chin as he squinted and frowned and mumbled to himself about wanting just a little more time. About wanting to get everything—that word again—perfect.

Justin had agreed easily—after all, he’d hired Blaine because of his growing reputation as a local artist, and his skill in handling erotically charged nudes was undeniable. If Blaine wanted more time, Justin was happy to accommodate him.

I didn’t complain for less pragmatic reasons. I simply wanted these days and nights with Justin to last. Like my image on the painting, I was coming alive.

I’d moved to Los Angeles only a few weeks ago, intent on conquering the business world at the ripe old age of twenty-four. The thought that a man like Justin Stark would want me, much less my portrait, was the furthest thing from my mind. But there’d been no denying the heat that had burned between us from the moment I saw him at one of Blaine’s art shows. He’d pursued me relentlessly, and I’d tried my damnedest to resist, because I knew that what he wanted was something that I wasn’t willing to give.

I wasn’t a virgin, but neither was I widely experienced. Sex is not something that someone with my history—with my scars—rushes into. I’d been burned by a boy I’d trusted, and my emotions were still as ragged as the scars that marred my flesh.

Justin, however, doesn’t see those scars. Or, more accurately, he sees them for what they are—a part of me. Battle scars from what I have overcome and what I continue to fight. Where I thought my scars reflected a weakness, he sees an indication of strength. And it is that ability—to see me so fully and clearly—that has drawn me so irrevocably and completely to this man.

“You’re smiling again,” Blaine says. “I don’t even need three guesses to know what you’re thinking about. Or who. Do I need to kick our personal Medici out of the room?”

“You’re just going to have to live with her smile,” Justin says before I can answer, and once again, I must force myself not to turn and look at him. “Because nothing’s making me leave this room unless Selena is beside me.”

I revel in the velvet smoothness of his voice, and I know he means what he says. We’d spent this entire afternoon window-shopping on Rodeo Drive, celebrating the new job I will start in the morning. We’d walked lazily down the pristine streets, holding hands, sipping calorie-laden frozen mochas, and pretending no one else in the world existed. Even the paparazzi, those vultures with cameras that have become uncomfortably interested in every little thing Justin and I do, paid us little heed.

Sylvia, Justin’s assistant, had tried to put several calls through, but Justin had flat-out refused to take them. “This is our time,” he’d said to me, answering my unspoken question.

“Should I alert the financial papers?” I’d teased. “Doesn’t it affect the market when Justin Stark takes a day off work?”

“I’m willing to risk global economic collapse if it means a few hours with you.” He drew my hand up and kissed the tip of each finger. “Of course, the more shopping we do, the more we support the economy.” His voice was low and sultry and full of enticing promises. “Or maybe we should go back to the apartment. I can think of several interesting ways to spend the afternoon that have no fiscal impact whatsoever.”

“Tempting,” I’d retorted. “But I don’t think that I could stand the guilt knowing that I traded an orgasm for fiscal ruin.”

“Trust me, baby. It would be more than one orgasm.”

I’d laughed, and in the end we’d managed to avert global economic disaster (the shoes he bought me are truly awesome) and let me have my orgasm as well. Three, actually. Justin is nothing if not generous.

As for the phone, he’d been true to his word. Despite the constant vibrations, he’d ignored it until we’d pulled up in front of the Malibu house and I’d insisted he take pity on whoever was being so persistent. I’d hurried inside to meet Blaine, and Justin had lingered behind, reassuring his attorney that the world hadn’t collapsed despite Justin’s temporary absence from the cellular airwaves.

I am so lost in my thoughts that I don’t realize that Blaine has approached me. He taps my lower lip with the end of his paintbrush and I jump.

“Damn, Selena, you were in the zone.”

“Are you done?” I do not mind posing, and Blaine has become a good friend. But right then, I just want him gone. Right then, all I want is Justin.

“Almost.” He holds his hands up, looking at me through his makeshift frame. “Right here,” he says, using the brush to indicate. “The light on your shoulder, the way your skin glows, the mix of colors …” He trails off as he walks back to the portrait. “Damn,” he finally says. “I am a fucking genius. This is you, kid. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you could walk right off the canvas.”

“So you’re done? I can come look?” I turn without thinking, realizing too late that he probably wanted me to stay still. But suddenly I don’t care. All thoughts vanish. Blaine, the painting, the world around me. Because it’s not the painting that I see. It’s Justin.

He is right where I’d imagined him, standing on the top step, leaning casually against the wrought-iron banister and looking even yummier in real life than he did in my mind. I might have spent the entire afternoon with him, but it doesn’t matter. Every glimpse of him is like ambrosia, and I will never get my fill.

I soak him in, my eyes lingering on every perfect feature. His defined jaw highlighted by the shadow of stubble. The wind-tossed black hair, thick and smooth and so familiar to my fingers. And his eyes. Those amazing dual-colored eyes that are focused so intently right now that I can feel the weight of his gaze upon my skin.

He is dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. But even in such informal attire, there is nothing casual about Justin Stark. He is power personified, energy harnessed. And my only fear is the knowledge that one can neither capture nor hold on to a lightning bolt, and I do not want to lose this man.

His eyes meet mine, and I shiver from the shock of the connection. The athlete, the celebrity, the entrepreneur, the billionaire persona all fall away, leaving only the man and an expression that makes my blood heat and my insides curl with longing. An expression that is so raw and primal that were I not already naked, I’m certain that every stitch of clothing would have turned to ash, burned away by the heat in his eyes.

My skin prickles, and I have to force myself not to move. “Justin,” I whisper, unable to resist the feel of his name upon my lips. The word seems to hang in the room, trapped in the air that is thick between us.

By the easel, Blaine clears his throat. Justin shifts enough to look at him, and I think it is surprise that I see on his face, as if he’d forgotten that we aren’t alone. He crosses the distance to Blaine and stands at the artist’s side in front of the huge portrait. From my position, I can see the wooden frame across which the canvas is stretched and, to the side, the two men studying an image that is hidden from my view.

My heart pounds against my rib cage and my gaze does not waver from Justin’s face. There is something rapturous in his eyes, as if he is looking up at an object of worship, and his silent benediction makes my knees go weak. I want to reach out a hand and steady myself on the frame of the bed beside which I’m posing, but my wrists are still bound behind my back.

My immobility reminds me of the situation, and I fight another smile—I am not free. I am Justin’s.

In Blaine and Justin’s original concept for the portrait, I’d simply stood in this spot, the gossamer drapes set to flutter about me, my face turned away from the artist. The image was sensual, but aloof, as if someone was yearning for that woman but would never touch her. The portrait was stunning, but something was missing. Justin suggested that we contrast the free-flowing drapes that graze lightly over my skin with the constriction of a bloodred rope, and that we bind my hands behind me.

I didn’t hesitate to agree. I wanted the man. Wanted to be bound to him. To belong to him. To be claimed by him.

No longer would my image be unattainable. Instead, the woman in the portrait was a prize. An ephemeral goddess tamed by a worthy man.

Justin.

I search his face, looking for clues to his assessment of the portrait, but there is nothing. This is his corporate expression, the unreadable mask he wears so as to not give away his secrets. Justin is extremely good at hiding his secrets.

“Well?” I ask, when I can stand it no longer. “What do you think?”

For a moment, Justin remains silent. Beside him, Blaine shifts nervously. And though only seconds pass, the air is thick with the weight of eternity. I can almost taste Blaine’s frustration, and I understand the impulse when he finally blurts out, “Come on, man. It’s perfect, right?”

Justin’s shoulders rise and fall as he draws in a deep breath then faces Blaine with respect. “It’s more than perfect,” he says, turning to me. “It’s her.”

Blaine’s smug grin is like sunshine. “I gotta say, I’ve never been shy about bragging on my own work, but this is … well, it’s wow. Real. Sensual. Most of all, it’s honest.”

Justin’s eyes never leave mine, and I draw a shaky breath. My pulse pounds so loudly it’s a surprise I can hear anything else. I’m certain that the rising and falling of my chest must be visible, and I fear that Blaine can tell that I’m trying desperately to quell the wellspring of desire that bubbles violently within me. It takes all my effort not to beg Blaine to leave the room, to cry out for Justin to kiss me. To touch me.

A sharp beep shatters the heavy silence, and Justin yanks the phone out of his pocket, then spits out a curse when he reads the text. I see the shadows gather on his face as he slides the phone back, the message unanswered. I press my lips together as my skin begins to prickle with the first stirrings of worry.

Blaine, his head tilted as he inspects the canvas, is oblivious. “Nik, don’t move. I just want to touch up the light right here, and—”

The shrill ring of Justin’s phone interrupts Blaine’s words. I expect Justin to ignore the call as he had the text, but he surprises me by answering. But not before moving out of the room with such swift, firm steps that I barely even hear the curt, “What?”

He does not meet my eyes.

I force myself to stand still for Blaine, fighting a sudden wave of fear. This is not a business call; Justin Stark does not get upset over business. On the contrary, he thrives on the chase, on the conquest.

No, this is something else, and I can’t help but think about the threats that have been made against him, and the secrets that I know he still keeps. Justin has seen me stripped bare in every way possible. And yet it seems as though I’ve only seen glimpses of him, and those cast in shadows.

Get a grip, Selena. Wanting privacy for a phone conversation isn’t the same as keeping a secret. And every phone call isn’t some grand conspiracy to hide either his past or some new danger.

I know all of that. Even more, I believe it. But sane rationality doesn’t soothe the little pang in my heart or the knot of fear that sits tight in my belly, and standing stock-still and naked and bound is not a straight path to well-adjusted thoughts. Rather, it’s a twisting, winding road of angst, and I’m suddenly careening down it without brakes, and hating myself for going there.

I want to hug myself, but my bound wrists make that impossible.

The truth is that I’ve been on pins and needles since my former boss made his threats against Justin. Carl’s company had pitched a project to Stark Applied Technology, and when Justin declined, Carl blamed me. He fired me, too, but he didn’t stop there, and the last time I saw him he promised to fuck Justin over. So far, nothing has happened. But Carl is determined and resourceful, and in his mind, he has the moral high ground. As far as he’s concerned, Justin squelched one of Carl’s most important business deals. The projected loss of capital must be in the millions, and Carl isn’t the kind of man who would consider either the money or the slight to be water under the bridge.

That fact that nothing has happened in over a week bothers me. What could his silence mean? I’ve thought about it and thought about it, and the only conclusion I can reach is that something has happened—and Justin has chosen not to tell me.

I might be wrong—I hope I am. But worry and fear twist inside me, cruelly whispering that although Justin has shone a light onto all my secrets, his are still shrouded in gray.

“Well, hell, Selena. Now you’re frowning.” Blaine’s gripe is laced with a chuckle. “Sometimes I wish I could crawl into that mind of yours. I’d love to know what you’re thinking.”

I manage a smile. “Deep thoughts,” I say. “But not bad ones.”

“Good,” he says, but there’s a question mark in his eyes, and maybe even a hint of concern. I wonder what Evelyn, Blaine’s lover who’s known Justin since childhood, has told him about Justin’s past. For that matter, I wonder if Blaine knows more than I do about the man who has consumed me so completely. The thought only makes me frown more.

Justin is gone only a few minutes, and when he returns I am overwhelmed by the urge to run to him. “What’s the matter?” I ask.

“Nothing that looking at you won’t make better.”

I laugh, hoping he doesn’t notice that the sound is hollow. Once again, he is wearing the face he shows the public. But I am not the public, and I know better. I look hard at him, waiting for his eyes to meet mine. When they do, it is like a switch has been thrown. The hard lines of his mouth curve into a genuine smile, and once again I am alight with the glow of Justin.

He walks toward me, and my pulse increases with the tempo of his steps. He stops only inches from me, and I am suddenly finding it very difficult to breathe. After everything we’ve done together—after every hurt he’s soothed and every secret he’s seen—how is it that every moment with Justin can feel like the first one?

“Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?”

“I—” I draw in a breath and try again. “Yes,” I say. “As much as you mean to me.”

I am trapped in the heat of his gaze and his proximity. He’s not touching me, but he might as well be. There is nothing about me at that moment that isn’t a reflection of Justin, of how I feel about him and what he’s doing to me. I want to soothe him, want to stroke his cheek and run my fingers through his hair. I want to pull his head to my breast and whisper soft words, and I want to make love to him slowly and sweetly until the shadows of the night are gone and the morning light bathes us in color.

From his post at the canvas, Blaine coughs politely. Justin’s lips curve up in a grin that matches my own. We’ve done nothing more than look into each other’s eyes, and yet it feels as though Blaine has witnessed something deeply intimate.

“Yeah, right. So, I’m going to head on out. The cocktail party’s not until seven on Saturday, right? So I’ll come by that afternoon and see if she needs any last minute touch-ups. And I’ll take care of hanging her when I set up the rest of the canvases on easels.”

“Perfect,” Justin says, not looking at him.

“I gotta say,” Blaine adds, as he gathers his things, “I’m going to miss this.”

For just an instant, I think I see something melancholy in Justin’s eyes, but it passes almost immediately. “Yes,” he says. “So am I.”

I’m not sure when Blaine leaves, I only know that he’s gone, and Justin is still there, and he’s still not touching me, and that I’m going to go a little crazy if I don’t feel his hands upon me soon.

“Is it really done?” I ask. “I still haven’t seen it.”

“Come here.”

He reaches out, and I shift to give him my back, expecting him to untie me. He doesn’t, though. Instead he puts his hand on my shoulder and eases me toward the canvas. I have to move carefully because of the red silk cord wrapped around my left leg, but he doesn’t make any effort to untangle me. And he certainly doesn’t bother to pass me the robe that’s laid out on the foot of the bed.

I grimace, lifting my brows in question. Justin doesn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “Why, Ms. Fairchild, surely you don’t expect me to sabotage such an amazing opportunity.”

“Mmm.” I try to sound harsh, but I’m pretty certain he can hear the laughter in my voice.

He doesn’t respond, though, because we’ve reached the painting. I gasp—it’s me, yes. The curve of my ass, the swell of my breast. But it’s more than me. The image is alluring and submissive, strong and yet vulnerable. It’s also anonymous, as Justin had promised. In the portrait, my face is turned away, and my golden curls are piled atop my head, a few tendrils spilling down to caress my neck and shoulders. In the real world, those curls no longer exist, my long tresses having recently been traded for a shoulder-length cut.

I frown, remembering the weight of the scissors in my hands, remembering the way I’d hacked at my hair when what I’d really wanted was to take that sharp edge to my flesh. I’d been lost then, certain that the only way back was to hold fast to the pain like a lifeline.

I shiver. It’s not a memory I like.

Automatically, my gaze dips to the legs of the girl in the portrait. But her—my—thighs are close together and angled such that the worst of the scars aren’t visible. The scar on my left hip is, though. But Blaine has managed to make that raised welt part of the beauty of the painting. The edges are blurred, almost as if it’s in soft focus, and the red cord skims over the marred flesh, as if being bound too tight caused the wounds.

When you get right down to it, I suppose that’s true.

I look away, unnerved by the inescapable reality that the girl on the canvas is beautiful, even despite the scars.

“Selena?”

I glance out of the corner of my eye and see that Justin is looking at me, not the painting, and there is concern on his face.

“He’s talented,” I say, my lips flickering into a conjured smile. “It’s a wonderful portrait.”

“It is,” he agrees. “Everything about it is exactly what I want.” There’s a familiar heat in his voice, and I understand both his spoken words and what remains unsaid.

I smile, and this time it doesn’t feel plastic.

Justin eyes me, and I see the playful light in his eyes.

“What?” I demand, amused but wary.

He shrugs, then glances again at the painting. “It will be a miracle if I get any work done in this room.” He nods toward the stone wall above the fireplace where the painting is to hang. “And I damn sure shouldn’t entertain in here.”

“Oh?” He has a cocktail party scheduled for this very room in only two days.

Justin chuckles. “I find that it’s a social faux pas to host a party with a permanent hard-on.”

“Well, then, perhaps you should have planned to hang the painting in the bedroom.”

“I don’t need the image in my bedroom. Not when I have the real thing.”

“And you do,” I say, my tone teasing. “Bought and paid for. At least until midnight when I turn into a pumpkin.”

His eyes darken, all playfulness vanishing. “Midnight,” he repeats, and I wonder at the harshness I hear in his voice. After all, it’s not as if I will truly turn into a pumpkin when our game is over. And I certainly won’t be going away—to be honest, I don’t ever want to go away. All that will change is that there will be no more rules—no more “sir,” no more orders, no more safe-words. There will be panties and bras and jeans if I want them. And, yes, there will be a million dollars.

But above all else, there will still be Justin.

“Follow me,” he says.

Again, I glance at my leg, then give my bound hands a little shake. “Untie me.”

He stands for a moment, his eyes on mine, and I can see that we are still playing games. My pulse pounds in my throat, and my nipples are erect. My hands, tied behind me, pull my shoulders back and lift my breasts. They feel full, needful, and I graze my teeth over my lower lip as I silently wait for Justin’s touch.

A game, yes. But I like it. In this game, there are no losers.

Slowly, he lets his gaze drift down over my body. My breath is shallow, and small beads of sweat form at the nape of my neck. I can feel the moisture between my thighs, the quivering need, and it takes all of my effort to stand silent and still and not beg for him to please, please fuck me. The bed is just a few yards away, the prop Justin brought in for the portrait. There, I want to scream. Just take me there.

But I don’t. Because I know this man. And most of all, I know that everything with Justin is worth the wait.

Finally, he bends down and untwines the cord from around my leg, but when he gets to my wrists, he stops, leaving them bound together behind my back, the red silk trailing from them like a tail.

“Justin,” I say, trying to sound stern, but there’s no keeping the amusement—and the excitement—from my voice. “I thought you were going to free me.”

“Bought and paid for, remember?”

“Oh.” My word is little more than breath.

“Come,” he says, and the dual meaning isn’t lost on me, especially not when he slides the cord from back to front between my legs, then tugs on the end as if it’s a leash. A very erotic, very tantalizing leash. The smooth silk teases my yearning sex, the friction from the cord’s braiding making my legs so weak that I’m not sure I’ll make it to wherever he’s leading.

His tug is gentle, but enticing, and by the time we reach the spalike bathroom, I am weak with desire. Fire courses through my body, and I look with longing at the shower’s eight strategically placed jets. The thought of Justin standing behind me, his hands on my breasts, his lips brushing my neck, is almost more than I can bear, and I actually whimper.

Beside me, Justin chuckles. “Later,” he whispers. “Right now, I have something else in mind.”

My mind whirs through the possibilities. We have already passed the bed. He has resolutely dismissed my thirst for the shower. And as far as I can tell, Justin is paying no heed to the deep Jacuzzi-style tub.

I haven’t a single clue what he has in mind—but I don’t care. This night is no longer about the destination, but the journey. And considering the touch of Justin’s hand upon my shoulder and the tantalizing pressure of the cord against my sex, this voyage is turning out to be very pleasant indeed.

The closet into which he leads me is at least the size of the living room of the condo I share with Jamie in Studio City. This is not the first time I’ve been in here, but I still feel as though I need a map.

It would take me years to wear all the clothes that Justin has bought for me. And despite the fact that the left side of the closet is full to overflowing, I’m ninety-nine percent sure that at least a dozen new outfits have been worked into the mix since the last time I changed clothes in here.

“I don’t remember seeing that one before,” I say, nodding toward a silver dress that sparkles in the dim lighting and looks to be small enough and tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination.

“Don’t you?” His smile is slow and easy, and it matches the gaze that skims over me. “I can assure you that won’t be a problem after you put it on. No one will be able to forget it.”

“Least of all you?” I tease.

His eyes darken, and he steps closer, the movement adding slack to the cord and making it drop away from my body. My disappointment at the loss of contact is short lived, however. Justin is right there, only inches from me, and the air between us seems to hum. Every tiny hair on my body stands up, as if I’m standing in a lightning storm with danger crackling all around me. I gasp when his thumb gently strokes the line of my jaw. My lips part. I want to feel his thumb on my lips, in my mouth. I want to taste Justin. I want to consume him as the fire from his proximity is consuming me.

“There is nothing about you that I could ever forget,” he says. “You are burned into my memory. Your hair glittering in candlelight. Your skin, dewy and soft, as you step out of the shower. The way you move beneath me when we make love. And the way you look at me, as if there is nothing you could see inside me that would make you want to turn away.”

“There’s not,” I say softly.

Justin says nothing, but keeps his eyes fixed on me. He eases closer, so that my nipples barely brush the soft cotton of his T-shirt. The shock from the contact is electric, and I swallow a gasp. I am tingling all over, and as he gently strokes his fingertips down my bare arm, all I can think is that I want to press against him. I want Justin inside me. Rough, gentle, I don’t care. I just need him, right then, right there.

“How?” I say, barely able to force the question past the lump in my throat.

“How what?”

“How can you make love to me with only the whisper of a touch?”

“I’m a very resourceful man. I thought you knew.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and I see the hint of a sparkle in his eyes. “Perhaps I should offer you a more imaginative demonstration?”

“Imaginative?” I repeat. My mouth is dry.

“I’m going to make you come, darling Selena. Without the touch of my hands, without the caress of my body. But I’ll be watching. I’ll see the way your lips part, the way your skin flushes. I’ll watch as you try to control yourself. And I’ll tell you a secret, Selena. I’m going to be fighting for control, too.”

I realize that I have taken a step back as he has spoken, and I’m now leaning against the bureau that divides the his and hers hemispheres of this massive closet. It’s a good thing, because without that stalwart support, I doubt my trembling legs could keep me upright.

“What are you going to do?” I don’t understand why he says that I’m going to try to control myself. I’ve learned many things during my time with this man, and one thing I know is that with Justin, I am free to go utterly wild. Why then, would I want to rein that in? Why would he expect me to?

He doesn’t answer my question, and I find myself biting my lower lip and examining him through narrowed eyes as I try to discern some clue as to his intentions. He steps away from me, and though I am sure that it is only my imagination, the air seems to chill with the increasing distance. The cord that had dropped to the ground now rises. Justin pauses about a foot away from me, but he continues to tug at the cord, taking up the slack so that it lifts between my legs. He moves slowly, but soon I can feel it again. I am so aroused that I gasp from the contact, my body trembling in what is almost, but not quite, an orgasm.

My eyes find Justin’s, and I see his victorious grin. “Don’t worry, Ms. Fairchild,” he says. “I promise there’s more where that came from.”

He steps toward me, still taking up the slack so that the cord never breaks contact with my body. Each movement makes the smooth braid of silk shift slightly, and I close my eyes, concentrating on not biting my lip and on not grinding my hips. I don’t know what kind of game Justin is playing, but I do know that I want it to last.