Mariko was intelligent and sane. She was going to come out from under the embrace of the ropes and then she’d want to leave him. He wanted her to look at him and see him. The man. Not just the rigger. That was part of him, but it wasn’t all of him. He had to find a way to make her see – and love – all of him.

“Mariko.”

Deliberately he said her name low, an order, getting her attention. She froze and then turned toward him. He was already close, moving swiftly, using a panther-like fluid motion, deliberately mesmerizing her, forcing her to focus wholly on him. She blinked as he reached for her shoulders, pulled her slightly but very firmly toward him so she was a bit off-balance and had to lean her body into his. Her gaze never left his. She was drowning there. Swallowed whole by him – just the way he wanted.

Her skin was warm to his touch – warm from her bath. She smelled heavenly, a combination of citrus and vanilla. He found that a little ironic because what he was about to do to her was considered anything but vanilla. He inhaled, taking her into his lungs. She was already there, wrapped around his heart. He looked down at her, his heart jerking hard in his chest as she looked back up at him.

Her face was beautiful to him. Classic bone structure, exotic eyes with sweeping, feathery black lashes, and that mouth… that fantasy mouth. He couldn’t resist bending his head to capture it. Her lips were perfect. Soft. Yielding. One hand went to her throat, his fingers seeking her pulse as he kissed her.

He didn’t kiss women while he had them tied. He didn’t make love to them or want to make love to them. They were part of his living art, something he needed to balance the rage with the poet in him. Then there was Mariko with her mouth and her smile and the way she moved up behind prey when she made a kill. Sheer poetry.

She tasted like she smelled, like orange blossoms and some exotic spice that blended so well with the vanilla, he was instantly addicted. He couldn’t stop kissing her, his arm snaking around her, yanking her into him possessively. He felt possessive. A bit like a caveman. He now understood the urge to carry a woman off and claim her for his own. His need was primitive. Savage.

She kissed him back, and that was his undoing. If she hadn’t, he would have found the strength to step back, to change his artwork from seductive to a quick image that would satisfy her, and he’d let her go back to her room alone. But she kissed him back. With her kiss, she took his heart and every bit of good he had in him. He was better with her. He knew he was. More. He was simply more.

He had the rope in his hand, it was always there, an extension of him, and this time, when he grasped her wrists, he was decisive. In charge. He felt her pulse jump and her heart accelerate. Good. He wanted her entire focus on him. He lifted his head just enough to break their kiss, to look into her eyes as he pulled the robe from her body and allowed it to pool at her feet.

He loved the way the black lace looked on the floor around her bare feet. He would photograph her that way, but he knew he wouldn’t share that particular picture with anyone else. This was the night he was going to make Mariko irrevocably his. He wanted to read every thought, her body language, the things she said to him without speaking.

When he pulled her arms so decisively behind her back and bound her, he heard – and felt – the air leaving her lungs softly. Her lashes fluttered but not before he caught the flare of desire in her eyes. Her gift to him was precious. Something to cherish. He knew a woman like Mariko would never submit her body this way to a man she didn’t trust implicitly. Never.

He was humbled by her generosity. His body was as hard as a rock. He’d never had a problem wanting women. He liked them, and he’d loved sex until a few months before the accident when it seemed everything was the same. He was going through the motions. Jaded. He hated that word, but he knew he’d embodied it.

“You’re not getting a bargain, Mariko,” he whispered in her ear as he tightened the ropes, declaring his intention to keep her. She might not recognize it yet, but he was talking with the one thing that was always constant in his life. Always grounding. His ropes.

Her lashes fluttered again and then she was looking into his eyes. He didn’t know if he was drowning or if she was, but he moved the rope along her back, the sweet curve of her shoulders, fastening the pentacle harness he loved against her skin. This time her breasts were bare and he could worship them as he quickly built the frame of his vision around them, along the tender undersides, laying the ropes carefully on her skin so there was no discomfort.

He worked quickly and decisively, but kept his hands on her bare skin, stroking and caressing, letting the rope subtly help him with licks and bites of flaring heat. He paid attention to the way she sucked in her breath, her eyes widening, the dark of desire creeping into the beautiful hazel, making them pure amber.

He stepped very close again, seeing the haze in her eyes as he kissed her gently. Tenderly. His mouth wandered down her throat over the curve of her left breast. He flicked her nipple with his tongue, teasing, watching her reaction closely. The lift of her breasts as she inhaled sharply. The way she moved into him, not away. Satisfied that she was giving herself to him, he suckled her right breast, bringing every nerve ending to life.

Ricco took his time, a slow dance of seduction, lavishing attention on her breasts even while his hands moved with new rope, the one with the measured knots. One between her breasts, hooking onto the harness there. One just below her ribs and one pressed tight into her clit, almost like before, but this time, right over it where every movement would send a streak of fire racing through her body. He passed the rope under her and back up between her sweet cheeks to attach it to the halter.

When she was drifting in the haze of desire, he caught the harness rope and cinched down, sending streaks of lightning through her breasts as well as rubbing sensuously over her sex. He saw the ripple on her flesh as her body came alive, crying out for release.

Mariko gasped, her eyes flying open, centering on him immediately. Exactly what he wanted – and needed. Her complete focus. He smiled wickedly at her and teased the rope so that it vibrated over her sweet spot, sending more ripples of pleasure through her body. He could give her so much more. So much. He wanted her to look at him and feel aroused. He wanted her to see or smell the ropes and feel that same way. Every time she saw a rope, he wanted her to see only him, to want only Ricco.

He’d never used his art for seduction – or for erotic play. He knew his brothers thought he did, but for some odd reason, he had separated the two things in his mind so completely that having a woman in the ropes wasn’t a turn-on to him. Women were, not the ropes. He had no interest in bondage other than as an art form. He’d learned because he studied everything about the art. He loved the old prints from Japan and he liked to study the masters’ works.

The art of bondage was beautiful to him, but he’d never found it particularly seductive. Now he understood why. For him, there was Mariko. Only Mariko. He wanted to give her everything he was. The ropes were a part of him and he had extensive knowledge on how to keep her on the very edge of ecstasy for a long time. He wanted that for her. For them.