She inclined her head, because around the Ferraros it was difficult to keep her composure. She either wanted to laugh or cry, or join in their ridiculous arguments. She loved the family. She loved the way they gathered at Stefano and Francesca's home, even if they lived in a penthouse in a hotel. Francesca had made the space into a beautiful, warm, welcoming home.
"Next time we come," Ricco said, "Mariko and I will be doing the cooking." He stood up and leaned over to kiss Francesca on the top of her head. "Are we paying Nao a visit later tonight?"
Stefano nodded. "Let's go around two. His caretaker will have settled down by then and we can have a private chat with him."
"You two taking off already?" Giovanni asked, nudging Taviano. The two men grinned at each other. Vittorio smirked and winked at her.
Mariko blushed all over again, but she didn't mind the teasing. She knew it was meant to be affectionate. It made her feel part of their family. More, Ricco moved closer and wrapped his arm around her.
"See you at two, Stefano," he said, shooting his brothers a quelling glance. He kissed his sister on the cheek and urged Mariko toward the door with his palm in the small of her back. He was silent in the elevator, withdrawing a little, although he held her close to him. She had noticed he did that before he practiced his art.
Just the thought of having him alone with her in the studio was exciting to her. She loved the way he moved, his confidence, how he handled the ropes as if they were a part of him. She couldn't wait to see just what he had in mind. The sexual tension stretched between them until every nerve ending in her body was so aware of him, she was certain she could orgasm without him touching her. He just had to speak.
Emilio drove them to the house and let them off at the side entrance. She realized, after the attack on the house, that even from above, the entrance was protected from every eye. Not even a marksman would be able to get either of them as they slid from the car and made their way into the house, the thick walls of the entry on either side of them.
"Are you up for this tonight? Physically? It may take time to tie you the way I want."
She nodded. "I'm ready."
"You know how to prepare yourself. Wear the red lace one-piece for me. The red stiletto heels. Nothing else."
His voice stroked her skin with velvet over steel. Dominant. Confident. So completely Ricco. She nodded, already so aroused she could barely speak. She loved that he could do that to her. That it was only Ricco who could see her this way. Needy. Hungry for him. Vulnerable. Somewhere between lust and love.
He reached out to cup her cheek, his thumb sliding over her high cheekbone, his dark eyes so intense she shivered again.
"I love you, Mariko. Never, never doubt that. I love you with everything in me."
The pad of his thumb, sliding back and forth over her skin, was mesmerizing. His eyes were hypnotic. She was so far under his spell she knew she would never get out, and she didn't want to. She wanted to spend her life with this man.
"I love you, too."
"If at any time I do anything you don't like, you tell me and we stop. If a tie hurts, you say so. Don't stay too long because you want to please me. It wouldn't. Shibari, to me, is decorative tying. I want to edge us into something more erotic. If you are uncomfortable or don't like it, you speak up. Do you understand me? The most important thing we have is communication."
She was already damp, and getting more so with every word. She wanted him. She wanted his art on her body. His ropes. His hands. His mouth. All of him. She had hoped he would take their art that one step further. "I will," she promised.
"This time, come to my room, not the studio."
She blinked up at him. They always worked in the studio. Just the thought of going to his room sent a rush of heat through her body. "I will," she said, not asking questions. She knew he wouldn't answer anyway, but he had something planned and she was certain she would be the beneficiary of that plan.
He brushed a kiss across her temple and then abruptly turned and walked away. She watched him go. He moved like a cat, all fluid muscle and rippling power. She knew, no matter how old she got, or how long she was with him, she would always feel that secret thrill when she watched him walk toward her or away from her.
She took her time with her routine, bathing in scented water, hydrating, doing her hair and makeup. She loved the way she felt in front of the vanity – so very feminine. That was a feeling she wasn't certain she would get used to. The red catsuit was stretch lace and it framed her curves with a delicate pattern, lying against her skin so lightly she almost couldn't feel it. The neck was low, but not plunging. The suit would have been modest if it hadn't been made of the fragile lace, leaving skin exposed everywhere.