“That's one of two shirts I own.”
“I'm sure Goodwill has plenty more where this one came from.” Letting the fabric fall away from his tense flesh, she moved around the rail, between him and the stained glass alcove with its peaceful fountain. She eased a hip onto the cushioned rail, the long thigh encased in latex no more than an inch or two from his nose. The folds of the silky camisole gathered just above it, making it hard to swallow. The fabric was nearly sheer, giving him the hint of bare flesh so close.
He had a death grip on the handles, knowing her ass had to be hanging just over his knuckles on the right. Lifting one of her booted feet in an astonishingly flexible movement designed to reduce a man's mind to a puddle of lust, she threaded it between his forearms so she was straddling the rail. One boot was planted on the prayer bench between his knees; the other remained on the outside of his body. His head was now essentially between her legs. If he turned his face, his mouth would be mere inches from the slick black juncture of her thighs, shadowed by the folds of lace.
Despite that temptation, he lifted his head, following the fall of her hair up to her implacable face, those blue-green eyes that studied him with powerful intent. “I'm not going to try to force you to do anything, Gideon,” she said, her voice a ruthless, feminine murmur. “I'm not going to manipulate you. You don't need that. It's a shield. I'm taking away your shields so you can face what you really need.”
“What's that?”
“I also won't give you answers you already have.” She leaned in, and the camisole slid away from her body, so that he was staring at two perfect breasts, the tips just beyond the range of his vision. Her hair brushed his face as she whispered in his ear. “There will be no money between us, Gideon. You will pay for your drinks, you will pay for any damage you do, but there will be no paid sessions. I am not your employee, nor your whore. When we are in this room, you are here to serve me, and you serve as I choose or you get out.”
“What am I, then?Your employee? Your boy toy?”
She straightened, tipped up his chin. When she did, he stilled, realizing she'd brought that blade right under his throat, was casually stroking it back and forth over his windpipe. He swallowed against the pressure of the razor edge.
She could kill him. All this time spent fighting vampires, and this night, weary and hungering for something only she could provide, he could be ended with barely a flick of her thumb.
For a moment, he wished she would do it. Almost wanted to beg her for it. She'd taken him right into a dark part of his soul he tried to ignore, but always knew was there. Growing larger every day. There was a flicker in her gaze, a tightening of her mouth, as he saw her recognize it. But her voice was terrifyingly mild.
“There's a segment of society that serves, but is not paid. That's what you are to me. In this room, you are my slave.” The edge of the blade dug in, but he found himself more agitated about the fact her words had accelerated his pulse than any physical harm she could do.
“I know you're big, brave and strong.” Her voice changed, hardened. “Come in here with your hidden knife, with your predator's eyes and clenched fists. Would you use them on me? Turn all those weapons against me?”
“No,” he muttered, wondering how she knew about the toe blade. When her hand dropped, he shuddered as her fingers stroked his fly, caressing the aroused beast beneath. She hadn't even looked, had known exactly how and where to touch. As she teased the ridge of his head underneath the strained denim, his breath got ragged.
“You think this is a weapon, too, don't you? But I could make you come like a boy in your pants.”
“Talk is cheap—”