This one . . . she wasn't formidable at all. Not physically, but what she did bring into the room preceded her by about ten feet, and packed a punch.
Maybe about five-six. A little on the slim side, but a body that wouldn't quit, C curves and an ass that would fill out a pair of jeans in a way that would make even a non-vampire crave to bite. Instead of such casual attire, she wore painted-on latex black pants and stiletto heels she worked like a pro. He'd expected some equally intimidating corset, so that she was tight and armored from neck to toe. Instead, she wore a lace camisole, one that gathered on her hips and gave the outfit a casual, sexy look. Her slim throat displayed an onyx choker with an earth goddess pendant on it, and her hair, a sable brown, was loose on her shoulders, shining waves that coaxed a man's fingertips.
It was an unsettling mix of Mistress and sub, vanilla next-door girl and experienced woman. Hard to pin down. He'd never seen her before, because he was sure as hell certain he'd have remembered her.
Maybe even asked for her, when he'd asked for nothing else. He'd basically said,Figure out what I want or go fuck yourselves . He'd been kind of surprised they'd accepted his membership, and suddenly he realized they'd never stopped auditioning him. This was who'd been evaluating him, the guy who couldn't tell them what he wanted because he didn't know himself.
When her gaze came to him, he was pinned by killer blue-green eyes that should have belonged to a mermaid. They were framed by brown lashes, and underscored by a soft, small mouth that was an unbelievable tender pink, frosted with a light gloss.
Though he was unbalanced, he wasn't fooled by such fragility. This woman ran the show.
“Your real first name, Mr. Smith. Your given name. I don't care about your last name.” He'd heard of women who purred, or who had a touch of velvet in their tones, a practiced art. But he realized he was wrong when he thought the way she walked in the stilettos and wore the latex was professional, learned. Her sexuality was innate. There was a rasp to the voice, a husky pleasure just in the speaking, that touched him as if she'd run fingertips up his bare spine while he was strapped to a whipping post, unable to do more than strain toward her.
Holy hell, where had that thought come from?
She moved into the room, sliding a shard of wood gracefully out of her way with her foot. The stilettos were boots, laced with scarlet ribbon, crisscrossed on metal hooks that stopped just above her ankle.
Tiny charms clinked together at the ends of the laces as she moved. “Please pick up the broken dresser and set it against the wall. Then I would like you there.” She nodded toward a prayer bench in the corner, set before a tranquil fountain and stained glass depiction of a male angel. Backlights drew the eye to the blue of the angel's robes, the silver of his sword and wings, the darkness of his hair.
“I'm still waiting on your name, Mr. Smith.”
“Why should I do anything you ask? What makes you so different from the others?” Of course he knew, but he wanted her to prove it. Was afraid she would.
She considered him. He knew body language. If she was daunted at all, if there was any tension to her, it was faint, and it wasn't anxiety. It was the irresistible drug of female arousal. He knew the really good ones were into what they did, even in a place where you paid for it, but some part of them stayed detached, that invisible line between client and proprietor, strangers.
She wasn't detached at all. That beast that had been raging in him, that he'd carelessly unleashed toward the others, made him fear for her now. Because the beast wanted her. It hadn't wanted the others. That soft hair alone was taunting him closer.
As if she knew his thoughts, she tossed it over her shoulder in a smooth, elegant move, a faint smile coming to her lips as his eyes followed it. “You should do it because I did notask you to do anything.