Page 33 of Over the Line

He chuckled, proving he’d taken no offense.

Then he helped her onto her back. “Now for the clamps.”

Michael Dayton was sinfully handsome. His face was all hard angles, and his bright green eyes missed nothing.

Once more, very deliberately, he took hold of the chain and yanked.

The pain paralyzing her, she whimpered. He placed a hand on her mound, slapped her hard, then masturbated her to another completion. “God!”

“Turns out I like the unexpected as much as you do,” he explained with a wolfish grin.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“You may thank me at any time.”

Her manners had been remiss. “Thank you, Sir.” How much she meant the words surprised her. She had figured his climax had signaled the end of their encounter, so the additional orgasm left her dazed.

Only then did he sit next to her to remove the clamps.

She appreciated the paradox of him. Big and strong, but gentle and caring.

Like he had earlier, he alleviated the anguish of the blood rushing back in by immediately putting his mouth on her flesh and gently sucking. “Thank you for your consideration, Sir.”

“I’ll always take care of you, Sydney.” He dropped the clamps on the nightstand. “Would you like a shower?”

She hesitated. This was the moment she’d dreaded. They both knew he wasn’t just asking if she wanted a shower. He was inviting her to stay. She wasn’t big on the morning after. Yet she was reluctant to leave him.

Patiently he waited, never pushing her.

Rationalizing that she’d be fresher tomorrow for the drive back, she replied, “Yes. I think I would. Thank you, Sir.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Before she could respond, he scooped her from the bed.

“I can walk,” she protested, but the words sounded weak, even to her.

“No doubt.”

Other than that, he didn’t acknowledge that she’d spoken. He carried her into his bathroom.

“Good grief,” she exclaimed when he placed her feet on the tiled floor. “This isn’t what I expected.”

“I took out a bedroom so I could have a little space.”

“A little space?” she repeated, looking around. “I’ve stayed in hotel rooms smaller than this. Recently, even.” Though his en suite was huge, it was still in keeping with the rest of the house. Thin planks of aspen or pine—she wasn’t sure which—angled across the walls. A sandstone vanity had dual sinks with wall-mounted faucets. The room had several mirrors, one full-length. And oval-shaped princess-looking mirrors above the sinks actually tilted.

Wooden shelves held thick towels and even a few candles.

His large shower was tiled in glass. But the focal point of the room was a picture window that occupied the space above a soaker tub. “Do you bring a lot of women here?” she asked. It bothered her how much his answer suddenly mattered.

“The tub is for me. Nothing better for sore muscles.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Does it matter?”

It shouldn’t.