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When he slipped off her shoes, rubbed her arches with his other hand, she moaned softly at the pleasure of it. "You're a hell of a dancer," he said.
"You're a pretty
good one."
He chuckled at that. "You're coming down. Else you would have told me I was utterly perfect in all ways."
"So subspace makes a woman completely lose her mind." She was glad to see her lips were no longer quite as numb, though it was still an effort to form words, let alone smile. The dampness of his seed was on her thighs, against her pussy where he'd readjusted the panties. Warm semen had trickled out of her, making her glad the panties would absorb some of it, so she'd smell that masculine scent later when she undressed.
"Do you know what I'm thinking?"
"You're a woman. I couldn't even begin to guess. It's like predicting which of the flying balls will be the winning bingo number."
She ignored that. "Clarence always delivers after ten o'clock in the morning. I'm thinking that first package on my first day here was put there by you, to get me to come over to your store. You sent Troy over to make sure I'd found it."
"That's pretty manipulative. Doesn't sound like me at all."
She smiled against his flesh, then sobered. She wanted him to come home with her like he had the other night, but she already had a sense he wouldn't do that, not unless it was clear she wasn't oriented enough to go home alone. While she thought about faking it just to get him there, she was pretty sure he'd see through the ruse. Plus, the sad reality was, when this feeling went away, she'd probably need space to think about what had happened tonight, what egg had been cracked open and whether what had been released had been ready to be born.
"You dance with your whole body," he said. "Arms, legs . . . hips, breasts, ass, your gorgeous hair." His fingers stroked through it. At some point she'd released it from the barrette that held it off her neck. "If you decide to do one of those strip dancing classes respectable women take to arouse their husbands, I won't object."
"I'll let you know when you're my husband."
Clearly, she wasn't evaluating what was coming out of her mouth. When she stiffened, he merely stroked his knuckles along her jaw. "Sounds like a hell of an incentive to propose. But only if you promise to do the dance at the reception, instead of the traditional first waltz."
Just like that, he took them back to safer footing, somewhat. She imagined him sitting in a chair in the center of a ballroom while she started the provocative dance in front of a faceless crowd. Circling him, peeling away clothes as his gaze got hotter and hotter . . .
"If you have any living parents attending, deal's off. Completely. Waltz only."
He chuckled. "Just as well. My dad has a bad heart. It might finish him off, though he'd argue it was a hell of a way to go. Even if he had to explain to my late mother how he got to her in the afterlife."
As if sensing she was starting to feel a little hemmed in, he eased her onto the sofa cushion next to him. He unbuckled the collar, their gazes holding. When he set the collar aside but rested his hands briefly on either side of her neck, a flesh-and-blood collar, her lips parted at his touch there. She thought again of what he'd said. You'll feel my ownership, no matter what you're wearing.
He glanced toward the bathroom. "You can clean up to go home, if you're ready for that."
She felt his eyes on her as she rose, moved unsteadily in that direction. He seemed to anticipate her so well, but that was what he did, wasn't it? What made her different from any other woman he'd initiated into this world? They'd probably all been overwhelmed by it.
She cleaned herself up, put her blouse back on, adjusted her skirt and balled up the wet panties, tucking them in her purse. While it seemed decadent not to be wearing any under a short skirt, she was going straight home. In the aftermath, cold wet panties against one's crotch was not the best feeling, a reality check of its own.
When she emerged, he was sitting on the arm of the couch. He'd been studying the stocks he'd worked on tonight, but as she opened the door, he looked in her direction, gaze sweeping over her.
"I'm not sure . . . about this weekend."
He nodded. "Anytime you want to call anything to a halt, Madison, all you have to do is remember your safe word." He extended a hand to her. "Come here."
She balked at the door, fingering the molding on the threshold. "It's too much, Logan." She said it to that inanimate object, rather than to him. "You're like a tsunami. I can't hold on to anything when you sweep over me, and eventually I'm going to hit something. Like a car or a building, some immovable object, and I'll be bashed to bits. Please don't say I'm taking this all too seriously, that I should think of it as fun and games."
"I wouldn't. That's usually your line, remember?" He said it mildly, with no censure. He still had the hand out. "Come here. Now."
She dragged her feet, but she came. When his hand closed over hers, she let it lie limp in his grasp. She just wanted to go home. "It can't be real."
"Why not, Madison? Because so often what you thought was real hasn't been, and you're wanting to fold the cards before the house can call?"
"It feels like the only control I have with you."
That crash he was talking about had her in a solid grip, but she hadn't lost her self-awareness, not entirely. She was lashing out at him for no good reason. Even so, when he caught her chin, she tried to pull back. He only tightened his grip, forcing her to look at him.
"Think about what we just did, Madison. How you felt. It all felt right, didn't it? Don't be defensive, God damn it. Just answer honestly."
