She closed her eyes. “Jon, we can"t have this conversation. I can"t have this conversation. It was stupid and pointless. That part of my life was over a long time ago.

I"d accepted it. It was just…”

“I started something I didn"t finish, and left you nowhere else to go.”

“No.” She opened her eyes immediately. “This was my stupid decision, Jon. You weren"t responsible. I appreciate you coming by to check on me, but…” It was as if he were weighing the significance of every word that came from her mouth, noting every minute change in her expression, the uncomfortable shift of her body. Since he was sitting on her bed, his hip brushing her thigh, he now slid his hand from her cheek to her shoulder, his thumb resting on her collarbone. It effectively stopped her babbling. She couldn"t seem to continue, to tell him she was fine, that he needed to leave.

“Breathe,” he said. “Like when you start your class. Three count. And keep your eyes on mine.”

His thumb shifted so it was on the pulse in her throat, making short strokes there as she drew in a breath. She felt foolish, but she took that deep breath, drew it in for a count of three, even as she remained conscious of those two points of contact, his hand on her throat, his hip against her leg. When she let it out, emotion welled up in her chest, making it tighter. She got the second breath out, and it got worse, such that more tears spilled forth.

“I don"t want you to see this.” Her voice broke. “I can"t—”

“One more,” he said, not unkindly, though his hold on her throat increased, underscoring the relentless command.

It was a shudder of sobs, more than an indrawn breath, and as it crested, they broke. She"d cried a lot over the past day and a half, but this was different. This was the way a person cried when someone was there to hear, to help. Pulling her into his arms, he turned them so they were stretched out on the bed together, one of her arms wrapped around his back and the other around his neck, her face buried into his chest.

He stroked her, crooned to her as she shook and cried, until she"d cried out the fear and shame, and was left limp with exhaustion.

If she was going to experience soul-deep weariness, she couldn"t have asked for better immediate surroundings. He smelled like sage and sandalwood aftershave, and beneath that, more faintly, something that was like motor oil and burning wood. His hair was under her fingertips, silk she was able to stroke in nervous movements, trying to regain her composure. Since he was wearing slacks and dress shirt, his tie loosened, she realized he"d come from work. Because she"d had her cheek pressed to the tie, it was now water spotted. Drawing back enough to see it, she saw it had a subdued silhouette pattern of dark blue dolphins against a deep ocean blue, like seeing the magical creatures leaping through the waves at night.

“I like your tie,” she rasped. She smoothed her hand over it, the man beneath.

“What you said, „one of mine". I don"t understand. I can"t—” His hand closed over hers, held it still. “I want to know more about you before we start talking about me,” he said. That velvet voice became irresistible when it dropped to a rumble, like now. “What did you mean when you said this part of your life was over a long time ago? Have you served a Master before?” He made it sound so normal. Of course, it was part of his life, like yoga class or going to work. It made her want to cry again, but she had no tears left.

“No. My husband…he and I divorced some time ago, and he wasn"t into that. I"ve never been able… I"m not really, either. I got confused. Chalk it up to midlife crisis.”

Her other hand pleated and worried at the tie under his grasp. Her fingers were cold compared to his.

“Hmm. So if it"s never been a part of your life at all, why did you say this hasn"t been part of your life in a long time?” Catching both her hands now, he brought them into a prayer mudra and folded his over them, giving her warmth but also bringing her gaze up that pointed direction of their fingertips, to his penetrating gaze.

“Jon.” Why was she saying things she couldn"t possibly explain, to him or anyone?

“It was a mistake. Can we please leave it there?”

“The only mistake you"re making right now is not trusting me.”

“I"m not going to tell a man young enough to be my son that sex hasn"t been part of my life for nearly six years.” Longer, if she counted when she"d stopped being able to enjoy it.

Then she realized what she"d said, and panic clutched her stomach. If he asked her about Kyle…

“All right,” he said gravely. “You don"t have to tell me that. But maybe you could tell me why. And I"m only old enough to be your son if you had me when you were barely a teenager.”

The relief that he hadn"t taken it as a direct reference to her being a mother was quickly replaced by another sick feeling. He was going to make her say it. Despite the blow to her already nonexistent pride, maybe it would push him the necessary step back from her. It still shamed her to speak the words.

“I can"t do it. I don"t get…excited. Not the right way. And the things I want…” She sat up, pulling away, and huddled on the edge of the bed. She felt so worthless, used up. A whole cauldron of emotions she couldn"t handle was bubbling up. Why the hell was she saying these things? Because she"d dreamed of having someone understand.

No, she"d wanted someone she loved to understand. But no one loved her. And she was having to explain it to this handsome, charismatic man, a Master who could have anyone. Multiple anyones, such that a cop had thought she was “one of his”.

The bed shifted as he rolled off the other side and came around the end of the mattress. Any other time, she would have watched him, because she loved to watch him move. But today, seeing such a thing could lacerate her heart even more deeply.

She wondered if a cardiac surgeon had ever been asked to do a heart transplant merely because the heart had been slashed to ribbons from too many serrated emotions.

When he stood in front of her, she kept staring at the floor, her bare feet beneath the floppy cuffs of the pajamas braced on the bed railing. “Jon, I know this sounds so ungrateful, but can you please go? Just leave?”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Yes.” She forced it past the hard lump in her throat. No, no, no.

Reaching out, he stroked his hand through her limp, unwashed hair. She closed her eyes, not wanting to revel in the male strength in that touch, but unable to keep herself from turning her head into the stroke, pressing hard into the heel of his palm, holding there while his fingers made short caresses of the area around that pressure point. It was a long moment before he spoke.

“For a year, you"ve kept me at arm"s length with that wedding ring, making me believe something that"s untrue. I should have followed my intuition sooner, because I knew it didn"t fit. I don"t pursue married women, and yet I kept coming back to your studio, unable to stop seeing you. I asked you a question just now, and you lied to me as well. Rachel, look at me.”

His fingers dropped to her chin. When she couldn"t manage the motion herself, thinking of how swollen and blotched her face must look, no makeup, he forced her face up to meet his intent gaze.

“You won"t lie to me again. Do you understand?”

With that trace of steel in his voice, her reality shifted. She was standing in an open doorway, and he was ordering her across the threshold. Her trembling soul recognized it, even as the rest of her wasn"t yet brave enough to wrap her mind around it.

“Do you understand how to answer me, Rachel?”

She swallowed. She couldn"t. He didn"t know how often she"d stood here. Her dangerous decision to visit Club More had been evidence of what taking that step could do to her. There"d never been anything across that threshold except a sickening drop into disappointment, humiliation and a complete loss of self-worth. She was at the bottom of that well now, with nowhere left to go unless someone gave her a shovel to start digging. And she was terrified that was what this was.

He dropped his touch from her chin, but only to turn his hand over, offer it to her.

When she placed her hand in it, his fingers closed over hers.

“Rachel.”

“I can"t, Jon. I"m afraid.”

“Good. An honest answer.” Tugging her off the bed, onto her feet, he walked backward toward her bathroom, bringing her with him. As he studied her features, his serious mouth curved unexpectedly. “You have such thick lashes,” he said. “A doll"s lashes. And a mouth so soft and pink, it makes me think of your pussy, how soft and pink it must be.”

Words so sensual and graphic at once. Though she knew men still saw her as a sexual being, there was a significant difference between recognizing it and letting it in.

Responding rather than blocking it off or neutralizing it. Her reservations, all the reasons she shouldn"t be doing this, were going down the drain as if Jon had reached inside her and pulled that plug.

He switched their positions, so he was backing her over the bathroom tile, cold on her soles. Then she was on the lavender bath rug, which she scented with that herb so that the movement of her feet over the pile brought the aroma to her.

Stepping away from her, he nevertheless held onto her hands until their fingers were templed against one another. Sliding free, he turned her vanity chair around and straddled it to face her, his forearms crossed on the top and thighs braced out wide.

“Take off your clothes, Rachel.”

“Wh-what?”

“You heard me.” That same tone of gentle steel and steady unwavering gaze. He was pushing that door open wide inside her and she lacked the ability to shut it, to refuse him. “Remove your clothes and get in the shower. Leave the door open. I want you to wash yourself thoroughly. Do you shave your pussy?” When a doctor asked personal things, there was a clinical detachment to it that saved it from being inappropriately intimate. The way Jon was asking her this, it was in-the-deep-end-of-the-pool intimate, but his confidence made it appropriate, as if he had every right to demand answers. Her quaking stomach wasn"t disagreeing, even as her knees were beginning to wobble at what this was doing to her. As he"d proven already, this was normal for him. For her it was a dream, one that she"d had for so many years it had become a painfully obsessive addiction. Her breath was coming short again, and she reached out for the shower door to steady herself.