"We are getting to know each other, Mariko. You should know yourself as well. This is an exchange of power. We're in it together. You must be able to talk to me. Let me know what is uncomfortable, what you like. What you don't like. What frightens you. What makes you feel as if you're flying."
Did people actually feel that way in the ropes? She couldn't imagine it. Still, she had committed to this, but if she allowed him to tie her hands, she would be in such a bad position. She glanced around the room. The shadows had lengthened just a little bit, telling her time was slipping away. He was patient. He didn't speak again, didn't try to persuade her, leaving it entirely up to her to make the decision.
Taking a breath, she extended her arms to him, her palms together. Her heart was wild now, and she felt a little faint.
He didn't slip the rope over her wrists like she thought he would. He leaned into her, his mouth against her ear. "Breathe for me, Mariko. Just breathe."
The rope slid along her cheek, a whisper of silk. It moved down her throat to caress her bare skin where her top exposed her shoulders and neckline – and it was a caress. It felt sensual. She found herself shivering. His breath had been warm, his lips brushing her earlobe. Ricco Ferraro was far more dangerous to her than she'd ever imagined, in ways she hadn't even considered and wasn't in the least prepared for.
There was no way to deny that voice. She forced air into her lungs, afraid if she didn't, she might faint, or worse, disappoint him and herself.
"That's my girl."
Her heart jumped at his praise – that soft note of encouragement, of approval, even admiration. He knew she'd never done this before and he was willing to see her through it. She had to hand it to him. He wasn't a man trampling on his model to get her to do as he wished.
"Look at me. Look at my eyes when I tie you. I want to see your expression, to know if you're okay. If you're not, I'll know and I'll remove the rope immediately."
It took courage to lift her gaze to his. Not because it would send him permission to tie her wrists, but because looking into his eyes was a very dangerous endeavor. A woman could get lost there, and Ricco Ferraro wasn't a man to trust with one's heart. She knew that much from her research of him.
She stared into his dark, dark eyes – so dark they appeared black. Gorgeous. Compelling. Intense. She almost forgot what he was doing, but then the silk moved against her bare skin, sliding sensually, an extension of his fingers. Not just his fingers, she realized; an extension of him. That was why the rope felt so powerful and sensual touching her skin.
She expected to feel claustrophobic and afraid, but she didn't. Not as long as she was looking into his eyes. She could read people, hear them for what was beneath their words, not just the pretty things they said. Looking into Ricco's eyes, she knew she was safe with him. She felt safe. More, she felt free. It was strange, that feeling of freedom, as if by tying her, he had released her spirit – beaten down, so encased in the beliefs of others, what was right, what was wrong, what she was – so that she could just be. Simply be.
"Look at your wrists. They're so delicate, so feminine. Your skin is extraordinary. To me, you're like a beautiful flower. Your fingers are strong, yet you look so fragile. Tell me what you see when you look at the ropes against your skin."
She could barely force herself to look away from his eyes. His hands were over hers, his thumb sliding along the back of hers, a small, light brushing, back and forth, that she felt deep inside her most intimate spot. It was as if he'd made a connection between him, her hands and her sex.
Slowly, reluctantly, she dropped her gaze from his eyes to her hands. The red rope stood out against her bare skin, but instead of looking bizarre or ugly, the knots were intricate and beautiful. They formed two wrist bands, wide and lacy, lying against her wrists like delicate cuffs. His hands enveloped hers, holding her with exquisite gentleness, almost as if he really thought her that fragile flower and he guarded her with care. That made her feel a fraud, but she couldn't bring herself to pull away from him.
"Are you uncomfortable?"
Was she? In so many ways, but not the way he meant. She'd never felt more sensual. More attracted to a man. More intimidated or exhilarated. This was a dance between them, and it could end up fatal to her – or to him – but it was beautiful and she didn't want it to end.
"No." That wasn't strictly the truth and her gaze jumped to his. She not only felt the censure but saw it. His disappointment. That hurt. An unexpected arrow. She shook her head. "No, but yes. The ropes aren't uncomfortable. I thought I would have claustrophobia, but I don't."