Cutting Loose

He studied her for a moment. “Well, it depends on how you define professional. Actually I—”

A sudden commotion came from the living room, and over it rose Sabrina’s voice. “Okay, guys, show time. Everyone into the living room. True Sex is starting.”

The Marquis looked at her. “I think we’re being summoned.”

All the party guests were clustered around the wide-screen TV. Trish might have been tall, and taller still in her heels, but in front of her rose a nearly impenetrable wall of heads and shoulders. She made a noise of frustration.

“Over here,” the Marquis whispered, pulling her to the stairs across the room. “It’s not close, but at least you’ll be able to see something. Stand on the step.” His hand was warm under her elbow, guiding her onto the stair. She felt an abrupt, fierce longing for a touch that was more than just a hug among friends.

And the documentary began.

Bare skin. Naked bodies. Unapologetic sexuality. Sabrina had vowed that her documentary was going to be something new and she was right. It wasn’t cold and academic, it was natural, unguarded, often undignified.

And at times, completely and utterly erotic.

Trish watched the screen, but her awareness was focused on the man standing behind her. All she could think about was the heat, that magical warmth of another human body. She watched a couple take a lap dancing lesson, the man kissing his partner exuberantly at the end, and the wistful desire for the same kind of intimacy rose up in her. So many years, she thought, it had been so many years since anyone had touched her like that. She swayed lightly, hit by the sudden, intense need to lean back against the Marquis.

On the screen, the documentary switched to a couple playing with light bondage. “It’s an incredible turn-on, when you know you can trust that person enough to let go,” said a woman in a black peekaboo bra and G-string, holding hands with her partner. “I know I’m safe, I know if I say ‘red,’ everything stops. And it frees me up to let go.”

“It’s all about trust,” agreed her partner, shirtless, in leather trousers. “It’s about watching her body, seeing what turns her on and knowing when to stop.”

On the screen, the woman lay on the bed and stretched her hands toward the bedposts. At the touch of the silk ropes, she shivered a little and stretched in arousal. “There’s something amazingly erotic about just giving up control and worrying only about what I’m feeling,” she said in voice-over as her companion trailed his fingers over her nipples. “I just let him take me away.”

What would it be like, Trish wondered—no responsibility, no self-consciousness. No worry about what she was supposed to do. Bondage had always seemed like an alien concept but suddenly she could understand. A chance to just relax and abandon herself to the touch of a lover. A chance to thrill herself with the fantasy.

“Puts an interesting spin on it, doesn’t it?” the Marquis murmured to her, curving his fingers around her shoulders and leaning so close she could feel the warmth of his breath.

An interesting spin, indeed, Trish thought. Suddenly she felt suffocated. She wanted out, she wanted air.

She wanted to be alone with him.

Without a word, she stepped around him and began to mount the stairs. She didn’t have to look to see if he was following her.

She knew he would.

The night was clear, the sky speckled with stars, at least the handful that you could see in L.A. The rooftop was deserted. Trish walked to a corner and leaned on the concrete barrier to look out at the city lights. She felt the same anxiousness she did when on a roller coaster, just before the cars begin to rush headlong down the first drop.

The door clicked as he closed it behind him. Trish didn’t turn, though she could feel his presence over her shoulder as he neared.

“Why the sudden rush to get outside?”

Trish shrugged. “It was stuffy in that room. I wanted some fresh air.” She only waited a second before asking, “Why did you follow me?”

“Maybe there really is something amazingly erotic about giving up control. Don’t you want to find out?”

In the humming silence, she turned to find him smiling at her, a wicked grin on his face. Somewhere deep inside, in some primitive part of her, a slow beat began to pound. “Take off your mask.”

He leaned sideways on the barrier next to her and lightly stroked her bare arm with his fingertips. “I think it’s better this way.”

“What are you hiding?” She stared at his mouth, wondering what it would feel like on hers.

“Perhaps I’m a wanted criminal, laying low for the night.”

“I’d almost believe that.” Under his fingertips, her skin began to heat.

“Of course, that makes you my accomplice. What’s your name, just so I know for the trial?”

“Trish.” She shifted her body a bit toward his. “And yours?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I kind of liked my lord.”

“My lord?”

“Or master. Don’t worry, I don’t really get pleasure out of causing pain. Although I do have to confess to a certain fascination with my flail tonight,” he added, running his fingers slowly through the strands as though absorbing the texture. “There’s something about the feel of leather against bare skin that’s incredibly hot.” He stroked the strands of leather over her fingers. “Don’t you think?”

Trish stared into his eyes, dark and unreadable, and shivered.

Then he moved his hand and ran the knotted leather straps over the soft, bare skin of her shoulder. “You’re very sensitive there,” he said softly. “You’re shaking.” He trailed the strands around the slender column of her neck.

She could feel herself tremble as she’d done earlier, in cold, in arousal, in excitement. He traced a finger where the leather had been.

Trish moistened her lips. “Take your mask off,” she said quietly.

“But isn’t it sexier for me to leave it on?” He set the flail aside. “Eyes without a face. The anonymous lover in the dark.” He stepped closer and slipped his fingers into her hair. “It’s so soft,” he whispered. “That was the first thing I wondered when I saw you, how your hair would feel. And how it would be to kiss you.”

Panic vaulted through her. She hadn’t done this in a long time. She didn’t remember how, wasn’t sure she’d ever done it right to begin with. Being alone with him had seemed like a lark, but now she thought, no she was sure, it was a bad idea. Better to leave it as an unexplored possibility. Better to keep him from finding out who she really was. Better to end it now.

And then his lips touched hers, and thought whirled away, leaving only feeling.

So sweet. So warm. She hadn’t remembered that a man’s mouth felt like that. He didn’t stick his tongue down her throat like the men—boys, really—she’d kissed before. He wasn’t hurried and clumsy. Instead, he took his time, learning the shape of her mouth, sliding his hand over her cheek. It was undemanding and it made her relax. It was delicious and it made her savor.

Then he went deeper, taking her beyond enjoyment and making her want. When he sucked at her lower lip, she matched him; when he teased with the tip of his tongue she followed, suddenly eager to learn his flavors. It was half remembering, half finding her way beyond places she’d been before.

His hands slid down over her hips, warm against her. Earlier that night, she’d craved the feel of his body against hers. Now it was happening and she couldn’t stop smiling. Look at me, she wanted to shout, I’m kissing someone. And what a someone.

The feel of his lips nibbling along her jaw and down her throat drew a small, incoherent sound from her. Then his mouth was on the tender skin of her upper breasts and all she could do was gasp. Something tugged in the center of her. This was what it felt like, she thought, this was what it was all about, this tempting, teasing touch that lured her, pulled her toward a door to some hot darkness where only sensation mattered. Half anxious, half impatient and wholly engaged, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back.

Only to feel a hard bolt of arousal shoot through her as he slid a fingertip under the edge of her bodice and brushed against her nipple. Blindly, she clutched at his hair and the wig slid to one side. With an impatient noise, he pulled it and his mask off, tossing them away even as he kissed her throat.

She wanted his mouth on hers, craved his taste, wanted him to drag her into that trembling haze of desire, that place she’d never felt before. When she heard his soft groan, she laughed against him exultantly.

And then he raised his head and Trish caught her breath. Shock flowed through her like ice water. She knew, suddenly, why his voice had sounded familiar. She knew why she felt so at ease with him. She knew his face, oh yes, she knew his face. Of course she did—she’d seen it fifty feet high in the movie theatre, and in smaller versions on television, in the newspaper, in magazines.

Ty Ramsay, action star extraordinaire.

Ty Ramsay, Sabrina’s cousin, the fatally sincere heartbreaker.

“Jesus,” she murmured.