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  Mac didn’t.

  He lived on a street of very well-kept terrace houses. His address was the ground floor flat of the third from the corner. She’d actually had the taxi drive past twice. No doubt reinforcing his notion she was casing the joint for some doubtful purpose. What did Mac do for a living? He couldn’t live there on the proceeds from Erotic Leather Quarterly.

  She’d done what he suggested—left his address on her refrigerator, her bathroom mirror and by her telephone. “Always tell someone where you’re going,” he’d cautioned her on the phone. “I’m honest and trustworthy, I promise, but you never know…”

  “I’ve only your word for your honesty and trustworthiness,” she’d replied.

  He’d chuckled. “Wise lass, Ginny. Always be careful.”

  She’d also called her stepsister Alicia. She and Ginny had covered for each other since they’d been in school together. Mind, she’d given Alicia a very doctored account of her expectations for the afternoon.

  Perhaps she was foolish, but she trusted Mac. He’d always looked her in the eyes, the mark—her father always insisted—of an honest, straightforward man.

  She now stood on the pavement across the road from this putatively honest and straightforward man’s house, her heart racing, her hands sweaty and, if truth to be told, panties damp. She needed to compose herself. This was exactly what she’d asked for and Mac was going to deliver. Taking a deep breath, she crossed the road, mounted the five stone steps and pressed the white china button beside his name.

  The bell echoed inside. Ginny imagined long corridors, high ceilings and big cavernous rooms.

  “Ginny!” He had the door wide open and was smiling as if he’d just been given a raise, won the lottery or at they very least discovered a willing young woman right on his front doorstep. He reached out, took her hand in his and pulled her into the house, shutting the door behind her.

  She’d done it! And now…another deep breath.

  “Don’t look so worried, Ginny. You’re not late, if you had been, I’d have to punish you but you’re not, so look on this as coming to play for the afternoon with a friend.” Her cunt had clenched at the mention of punishment, and she wasn’t entirely sure if she was relieved or disappointed at being spared. “Come on in, Ginny,” he went on. “Let me show you around.”

  “Around” was a large bedroom, a small but luxurious bathroom, a narrow kitchen with packages from a well-known caterer on the countertops and a sitting room-cum-dining room that gave onto a terrace.

  “It’s lovely!” No two ways about it—but left her wondering again what he did for a living. Thoughts of drug dealing or illicit slave trading sprung to mind, but dissipated at the smile in his eyes.

  “Don’t look so worried, Ginny. Come on out back and have a seat while I get lunch together.”

  “Out back” was a lovely terrace overlooking a pocket-handkerchief of a garden and the backs of the houses in the square.

  Sitting on a wrought iron chair in the sunshine, surrounded by stone pots of begonias and lavender and even a small lemon tree, seemed far, far, removed from their intimate conversation in the dimness of Tarantella. Everything here was in the light, and that raised her anxiety level a few more notches.

  “Here!” He placed a flute of sparkling water in front of her. “Not being cheese paring, honest,” he said, “but I’ll keep the wine for later. We both need command of all our faculties for this. Me to know what I’m doing, and you to not miss a single sensation, and, Ginny—” he reached over and took her hand “—sensation is what I’m promising you. Agreed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, remember what I said on the phone about safe words?”

  “If I use it, you’ll stop.”

  “Right, and, Ginny, never, never play with a partner who won’t agree to one. You need that and so does any decent or caring Dominant. Things might not work out as either of us expect. It’s a first, for both of us. I don’t know—apart from a few hints you gave me on the phone yesterday—what really turns you on or how much you can tolerate. We’re both learning. Remember that.” She nodded. “Answer me, Ginny.”

  His voice was soft, but demanded a reply. “Oh, yes, right. I agree. What safe word?”

  “What’s your full name?”

  “Virginia Amy Elizabeth Wallace.”

  “Let’s use that then, agreed?”

  “All right.”

  He smiled. “All right then, you brought the scarves?”

  “Here.” She reached into her bag and pulled them out. They sat in a heap of colored silk on the white painted tabletop.

  “Good girl, now before we eat, ask me what you’re dying to know.”

  Could she? It was downright personal, but heck, he’d offered. “How can you afford to live in Belgravia?”

  “Brilliant, Ginny! Congratulations on a) doing what I told you and b) getting it out without blushing or stammering.”

  Now she was blushing, but so far no stammers. “Well then?”

  “Let me put your mind at rest re drug deals or illegal activities. It’s mine. Or at least the lease is. Left to me by my godmother ten years ago. It was horrid and run-down. Probably the only property around that hadn’t changed hands during the eighties boom. I had to take out a mortgage just to pay the death duties and it takes almost every spare penny I have to keep it up. You wouldn’t believe the council tax I have to pay but I rent out the top two floors and the basement. I see it as my pension plan.”

  “Either you are very honest, or I’m thoroughly naïve.”

  “Naïve you’re not, Ginny. Anxious, curious and horny, no doubt, and you’re sensible to be cautious, but I’ll play straight with you, Ginny. I’ve been in the kinky scene since my university days. I’m now thirty-five. I’ve had more play partners than I can remember to count, but I seldom invite one of them here. We meet in clubs or a private dungeon I belong to. I’m breaking my own rule bringing you here but, somehow, I felt you weren’t quite ready for either of those. They can be pretty intense. I don’t want to scare you. I want to excite you, thrill you and delight you, and give you the climax—or better still, climaxes—of your life.”

  “And lunch, too?” Flippancy might help her ignore the damp now soaking her panties.

  “Definitely.” He stood. “Pop into the loo, get rid off your panties and I’ll get the lunch out.”

  Her throat went dry, her gullet all but clamped shut, a great weight churned in the pit of her stomach and what was going on deep in her cunt was nobody’s business and all this just to take off her damn knickers!

  Mac was already clanging dishes and clinking china, quite unconcerned with her turmoil. Wasn’t this what she dreamed of? Sitting in the sun, with a warm breeze all the way up and thinking about what she’d take off next.

  Ginny stood. It took less that three minutes to nip into the loo in the hall, yank off her admittedly flimsy panties, shove them into her pocketbook and get back on the terrace as Mac brought out a platter of pate, Melba toast and black olives.

  “Got them off?” he asked as he put a bone china plate in front of her.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He laid the table with cutlery and nipped back in for another bottle of sparkling water. “Give them to me.” He held out his hand.

  It took a moment or two to realize he was not talking about Melba toast or forks. “My knickers?”

  “Yes, Ginny. They’re mine now. Just as you are. For this afternoon you belong to me. Your pleasure belongs to me. Your climaxes belong to me.” He stretched out his hand and stiffened his wrist to emphasize his demand.

  She dug them out of her bag and placed them in his outstretched hand. They looked even skimpier between his long fingers.

  “Nice,” he said, eying them appreciatively before tucking them in his pocket. “I’ll keep them for now. Be a good girl and you’ll get them back before you go home.”

  “And if I’m not?”

  “You ride home on the District line w
ithout them. The draught as you go down the escalator would be quite an—” he gave a teasing smile “—interesting sensation.”

  “And if I get run over and carried off to hospital?” Damn, she was sounding like her mother!

  “They’ll think you’re a wild, naughty woman.” He was obviously enjoying this. “Have some pate.” He handed her the plate. “And some Melba toast. And, Ginny, I’m counting on you being wild and naughty. You are, aren’t you?”

  “Whenever I get the chance. Hasn’t happened as often as I’d like.”

  He looked as if she’d offered him a new car—complete with insurance for life. “Oh, Ginny, be wild and naughty with me as often as you like.”

  Chapter Four

  Mac couldn’t tamp down the wild elation bursting inside. She was incredible! Sharp, eager, willing and by the evidence on the panties deep in his pocket, aroused already. Some naggy part of his brain—no doubt the caution learned of hard experience—told him she couldn’t be this marvelous, that she was too good to be true and would fail him utterly or run out of there crying rape. But, seeing the hope in her eyes, his heart warmed.

  Perhaps he was too jaded and cynical to really believe there was a woman who would be “the one” or that love at first sight was possible. Or was he? Five lines of copy had drawn him to her, seeing her in the cafe had thrilled him and he wasn’t sure there was an adequate enough word for what he now felt deep in his gut—and he wasn’t thinking about his erection, but something deeper, even more persistent—hope.

  “Have an olive,” he said.

  She took one, bit into the wrinkled black flesh, licked her lips, chewed briefly and swallowed, her eyes widening. “They’re wonderful!” She popped the rest into her mouth, chewed and turned away for a second as she spat the pit into her closed hand. When the pit hit her plate, it made a quiet ping.

  “Like them?”

  She nodded. “Best I’ve tasted in years. They’re like the wonderful, ripe ones you get in Greece.”

  “Sicily.” Better put her straight. “I brought them back a couple of months ago when I visited my sister. She lives near Syracuse.” Catching the curiosity in her eyes, he went on. “She’s a potter, married to a local lawyer. Went out there for a cheap holiday fifteen years ago and stayed. They’re from her father-in-law’s olive grove. They always send me home with great jars of olives and tins of olive oil…” he paused, time perhaps to notch up her anticipation a bit. She was getting far too distracted by the food. “I don’t cook that much, but find olive oil wonderfully useful as a massage oil and a lubricant.”

  Oh, dear! She almost choked—not what he’d hoped for—but she coped well, reached for her water and downed most of it. Then glared. “Thanks, just what I needed while swallowing.”

  “Would have been worse if you’d been drinking.”

  Had he pushed too far? No, she smiled and rolled her eyes. “Not really. I’d just have ruined your nice linen tablecloth.”

  “But you didn’t. Neither did you pass out. Instead you are curious about alternative uses for Nonno’s first pressing.”

  Bingo! She smiled.

  He pushed the plate of pate toward her. “Finish it up. I’ll get the rest of the meal.”

  He gave her five minutes to stew while he decanted the contents of the little packets onto two dinner plates. Wasn’t quite as elegant-looking as on the catalog illustration but appetizing. Almost as appetizing as Ginny. He glanced out of the window. She hadn’t eaten the last of the pate but was sitting back, sipping her water and looking worried. Time to get back outside. He grabbed a plate in each hand.

  She smiled as he came though the French door. “Looks wonderful!”

  He bit back the cliché about her looking wonderful, too, but heck, her smile was getting contagious. He grinned at her. “Enjoy! Can’t claim the credit, but I do know how to pick a good caterer. Hope you like salmon.”

  “I love it!”

  She tucked in with gusto. He might as well do the same, keeping one eye on Ginny, of course. Not an arduous task. He loved the way her copper hair shone when the sun caught it, and they little crinkles at the corners of her eyes as she smiled. And she smiled a lot, not the nervous smiles he’d noticed yesterday or even earlier today, but joyous grins at her enjoyment of the lunch, and—he hoped—his company and the afternoon ahead.

  “That was wonderful!” she said, pushing her plate away. “Fantastic but I don’t think I can eat any more.”

  “I do have pudding, a rather decadent concoction of raspberries, apricots, whipped cream and hazelnut meringue, but I thought we’d keep that for later.”

  “Yes,” Ginny replied, an odd nervousness setting in her chest, threatening to churn up the lunch she’d enjoyed so much. Mac’s hand on hers and the gentleness in his eyes stirred another emotion entirely.

  “Worried?” he asked. “You can leave anytime, I promise. Walk out now if you want to. No hard feelings.”

  “And miss that pudding? And what about all the promises you made yesterday?”

  “You want that, Ginny, are you certain? If you stay, I’ll demand obedience. Do whatever I want with you. Strip you naked. Tie you down with those scarves you brought. Forbid you to climax until I choose. Make you wait, make you suck my cock on your knees. I might even spank you, if you take too long to obey or resist me. Are you really ready and willing?”

  It took a second or two to get her voice box operating again. A racing heart and a tight throat rather constricted her larynx. “I won’t really know unless we try, will I?”

  His wide mouth curled at the corners as he put his hand over hers. His touch was gentle but she felt his strength and suspected if she tried to pull away, it wouldn’t be easy. “Neither of us will, Ginny. I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

  Oh, dear, had she gone on too much about earlier letdowns? No, he didn’t seem too worried. “You haven’t so far, Mac.”

  “I’ll endeavor to give you want you need, Ginny. Remember your safe word? What is it?”

  “Virginia Amy Elizabeth Wallace.”

  “Good, use it and I’ll stop, otherwise, you may cry, wail, yell ‘no’ or shout, moan and complain to your heart’s content, and I’ll ignore you completely.” He stood up, raising her to her feet as he kept hold of her hand. “Ready to obey, dear?”

  “Yes.” Nervousness and anticipation made the hoarse whisper echo in her skull.

  He stood, drew her close and dropped a kiss on her forehead. Steamed heat poured from his lips. His kiss imprinted on her skin as he pulled back and looked down at her. Her heart echoed against her ribs. There was no mistaking the heat and desire in his eyes. A need that mirrored her own.

  “You never kissed me before.”

  “No,” he replied, “I wasn’t sure of you.” He yanked her close, one arm around her shoulders, his free hand cupping the back of her head, holding her steady as his mouth met hers. His first kiss had heated her. This one inflamed. Her lips opened under his and his tongue touched hers. He held her against him, pressing her breasts into his chest and his erection into her belly as his tongue caressed hers. His lips sent her mind whirling and her body responded like dry tinder to a match.

  Somewhere in the void beyond sensation, a woman sighed and a man groaned, independent of her awareness, apart from the incredible sensations that coursed though her. She felt her own moisture between her legs, sensed her own need and his desire, and ached for more and more and more.

  She kissed back, reaching up to his strong shoulders and melded her need into his. She was vaguely aware of his hand trailing down her back, lifting her skirt and cupping her naked bottom, of his fingers stroking and caressing but not quite reaching where she wanted them.

  She rocked her hips and he took his hand away, breaking the kiss gently. “I need more,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

  “I know, and, Ginny, you’re going to get more. More than you can imagine. Soon. Right now, help me with the washing up.”

  Damn! She bit back
the instinctive gripe, suspecting it was part of his game, and the washing up was pretty straightforward—a few plates and knives and forks in the dishwasher, leftovers in the fridge and scraps in the bin. But none of it easy with a raging libido.

  She’d never been this easily aroused. Heck, her nipples hurt, and just meeting his eyes a couple of times had her close to panting for it.

  It was ridiculous, but wonderful, and she couldn’t wait for what came next. But she’d have to. And one glance his way convinced her he was thoroughly enjoying her all too obvious need.

  Her libido simmered down enough to let her remember his comment. “Did you really mean it about not climaxing without permission?”

  “Oh, yes.” He put a finger under her chin and tilted it up. “You haven’t, have you?”

  “Not yet but—”

  “But you really want to, eh?”

  “Let’s say your kiss got me really worked up.”

  His chuckle came from deep in his belly. “It was intended to, Ginny. I’m going to get you very, very worked up. Now be a love, go grab the scarves off the table and meet me in the bedroom.”

  Taking a deep breath, she followed him out of the minuscule kitchen, turning to the left into the sitting room while he went on down the hallway and opened his bedroom door.

  “I’ll be here, waiting,” he called glancing over his shoulder.

  Right. She darted across the sitting room, grabbed the scarves off the table on the terrace, resisted the temptation to toss them in the air and watch them flutter over the gardens on either side and stepped back into the flat.

  Seemed a long, long way down the corridor. The bedroom door was ajar and as she pushed it open, Mac was standing by the bed. He’d pulled down the covers and was arranging a pair of black manacles on the pale sheets. He looked up, waving a manacle at her. “See, Ginny, just as you wanted—or almost. Not exactly velvet, I’m afraid, but some sort of plush. It’ll feel very nice tightened around your wrists.” Just as her cunt was tightening looking at them. “And you’ve got the scarves? Good! Bring them over here.”