September 17th

"Open your eyes."

With reluctance, Greg does as m'lady commands. For the first part of this session he is on the platform, bound naked to the Saint Andrews cross with the usual leather restraints; however, this time he faces out, a circumstance that wouldn't bother him normally. But with his arms and legs spread apart and held immobile (though very comfortably, he must admit), the display of his once-athletic body now encumbered with mid-life love handles and a slight sag in his pectorals, and worst of all, the hideous gully of the scar which adorns his ruined thigh, all combine to make him feel like a poorly repaired antique in a thrift-store window. At least the lights are low, limited to a few oil lamps placed here and there, protected by clear hurricane shades.

He tugs at his bonds and watches m'lady as she comes toward him. She wears a scarlet figured-silk juban with long flowing sleeves, the folded panels down the front open to reveal glimpses of her breasts, belly and thighs beneath the gleaming material. Her hair is down, tumbled about her shoulders in a fall of old-gold splendor. He feels a rush of desire, and immediately regrets it. His penis and balls are bound together with silk cords. The bindings are not constrictive of course, they're very carefully placed, but an erection is impossible. That doesn't stop Little Greg from trying.

M'lady smiles. "Men," she says. "So hard-wired for visual stimulation." She stops just a foot away, and puts a hand to his cheek. The wide sleeve rustles softly as she lifts her arm; he catches a whiff of her perfume, the subtle amber musk she wears sometimes. "I know you don't agree, but you look very handsome. Sometimes I think it would be lovely to have a setting like this in the living room, just so you'd be on display for my enjoyment." Her hand glides down, brushes the old scar on his neck, trails over his collarbone to the divide of his chest. He can't stop a little moan of both longing and protest. Her touch warms his skin. Then she puts her hand on his chest, above his heart. "Are you ready to go on? Do you need meds? Some water?"

He shakes his head, comforted a bit by her genuine concern—until she goes to the standing tray and looks over the items lined up for her inspection. He watches with some anxiousness as she selects a flogger with thick, supple thongs. When she comes to him, he steels himself for what's ahead. Intellectually he knows she won't hurt him, but the small boy within, the one who still huddles locked in the dark, is the one who's afraid of pain, of the white-hot strike of the leather on vulnerable, shrinking flesh.

"Gregory," her soft voice caresses him. "Look at me." Slowly he does as she tells him. M'lady holds up the flogger. "Tell me where you want to be touched," she says. Greg stares at her as his wrists twist in the leather restraints. He hadn't expected this. Part of him is intrigued, the other part wary of a ruse.

"Don't . . . don't hit me," he says. He fights to get the words out through a constricted throat.

"M'lady," she reminds him. "I won't hit you. I'll touch you. There's a difference. What's your answer?"

He eyes the flogger. "Sh-shoulder, m'lady," he says. He can handle pain there better than anywhere else for some reason, as he knows from extensive experience.

Dana nods. When she lifts the flogger he can't help but flinch. The thongs drift over his skin, a caress, not a strike. They move from left shoulder to right, a slow path made of small, lazy circles that take in the base of his throat and the notch of his collarbones. He tips his head back and swallows a groan as his trapped penis swells in its silk-web prison. Slender fingers touch his chin, bring his head down.

"Face me," m'lady says. He looks at her, but can't hold it; his gaze slides away. Her palm cups his cheek. "Gregory." When he does finally lift his eyes to her he finds she watches him unsmiling, but there's a warmth in her regard that eases his fear. "Tell me where you want to be touched."

"Chest," he says at last, and watches as m'lady uses the flogger to gently swat first his left breast, and then his right. His nipples harden under the stimulation, his belly tightens with need.

"Where next?" she whispers.

By the time she reaches his abdomen he's sweating, his back arched as he tries in vain to ease the throbbing ache in his bound genitals. When her fingertips rest, light as thistledown, on the root of his penis, he can't stop a groan.

"Do you trust me not to hurt you?"

"Yes," he manages to say, and in this moment it's the truth, something even the frightened little boy deep inside agrees to. "Yes, m'lady."

She removes the cords with maddening slowness and takes him in hand, brings him to the edge, pauses, lets go. He watches her, panicked that she'll walk away, to see her take something from under the tray. It's a step-stool, not much more than a wooden box with a wide, thick top. She places it in front of him, moves it closer, then stands on it. Her gaze is almost level with his now. With care she lifts her right leg, a graceful movement, and rests the back of her knee on his hip. As she slides forward, she guides him inside her and rises up to take him in. He gasps at the incredible feel of her, warm and wet and tight. Her hands rest on his shoulders as they begin to move together. Because he's spread-eagled and isn't wearing the TENS unit, she has to do the work for both of them, but he knows quite well she's more than capable. She takes him from need to orgasm with slow, steady strokes; her soft voice cries out, her body trembles right before he releases, his pinioned hands clenched and then opening, his face pressed against her temple as bright waves of pure pleasure sweep through him.

They shower together afterward, and take a lengthy rest in their bedroom. While he loves every moment of sex with her, he has to admit that the time they cuddle together is just as delicious. He loves to have her close, his hand on her hip or cupping her breast, her silky hair spilled across the pillow, across his skin; the way she rests her cheek on his chest, rubs her foot gently up and down his calf, trails her fingers over his arm.

They spend Friday evening at home, crashed out on the couch to channel-surf with beer and pizza. It's pure heaven with Dana there next to him, to steal pepperoni off his slices and offer kisses flavored with hops and garlic and herself, bold and spicy. They watch part of a Doctor Who marathon on BBC America and finally, sometime around midnight, head off to bed, almost too sleepy to make the short walk. When he falls asleep it is to the feel of her warm breath against his skin.

September 18th

It's a nice Saturday morning in early fall—warm, sunny and bright, with the first hint of the change in season to show here and there. At least that's what Greg presumes surrounds him, because he can't see any of it. His eyes are held closed with soft paper tape, and a pair of wicked cool sunglasses on to hide the fact. He's blind as a bat, and that's the whole point. The second part of his session has begun.

"We'll use one of the local shopping centers, since that's more familiar territory for you," Dana had said at breakfast. "I need to pick up a few things anyway, and you can wait for me outside the stores. It'll be a good exercise in focusing on one thing to help you stay calm in public."

The journey was a pleasant one; Dana's a good driver, competent and calm, so he can relax and even doze a little, though he's still got knot of anxiety deep inside that even her assurances won't untie. Eventually they arrive at the Princeton Shopping Center, a place he has visited on occasion and knows fairly well. He gets out of the car and feels the soft breeze on his face, the warmth of the sun. Then Dana moves in at his side. Normally he wouldn't like having someone guide him like this. But she doesn't crowd him or use her sight advantage to dominate. She's just there, a quiet presence.

"Do you have on the ring I gave you?" she asks, a hint of provocation in her tone.

He does indeed wear it, the weight a reminder of her on that most intimate part of himself. "Yes." His voice sounds loud in his ears. The wind ruffles his hair, brings a fugitive, tantalizing trace of Dana's scent, clean and fresh.

"And the bracelet?"

"Yes, mistress," he says in his creepy-servant voice, just to make her laugh.

"Good." She moves forward, guides him without touch. He relaxes as her confidence becomes apparent.

"You've done this before," he says.

"It's a good tool, I've used it often for others and done it several times myself. Curb," she pauses to give him time to find the rise and step up. "Now I'm going to give you a two-way radio. If you want me or you need to talk, you can call and I'll be there immediately."

"Oh, that's a mistake on so many levels," he says, already thinking of all the havoc he can wreak.

"I know you're seven years old when it comes to technology," Dana says, and he can tell she's amused. "Stay focused on why we're here, okay? Just keep the torment down to a dull roar, that all I ask."

"Buzzkill," he says as they enter the main concourse of the shopping center. It's a bit warmer here because it's enclosed. He can hear generic store music play, the echoes of talk and laughter in the open space, the rustle of bags and the muffled clack of booted feet on tiled floors. A rill of anxiety goes through him, but even as he hesitates, Dana comes to a stop.

"Take a breath," she says softly. "All of these people are here to shop, just as we are. They're not thinking of you or me." Her words hold reassurance without condescension. He relaxes slowly, lets himself sense the impersonal air of the talk and actions he can feel and hear around him. After a few moments he stops and sniffs the air, makes a big deal out of it; there's a delicious scent of cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee from somewhere nearby.

"I suppose that's a hint for second breakfast," Dana says. "All right, let's indulge ourselves."

They end up at a table with two lattes and fresh rolls. "There's a plate directly in front of you. Cup's at two o'clock, spoon and knife's at three, and napkins at nine," Dana says in her quiet, matter-of-fact way. She is correct, and his trust in her deepens another fraction. In her place he probably would have teased her, even though this is a therapy session and more or less serious business.

The coffee and rolls are delicious. He and Dana eat and exchange a few words, mostly her observations of the people around her; she tickles his interest without intensity or too much seriousness. Greg feels that tight little knot deep inside begin to loosen. He's in the dark but he's not alone, and he's not forgotten or abandoned. In fact, this whole thing has begun to take on the feel of an adventure.

"Okay," Dana says when they've finished. "Are you ready for the next step?"

They stroll together, her small hand in his. Maybe he actually enjoys this; his leg aches a little, but he's not in any real pain for the first time in years, and he has a beautiful woman at his side. And no one seems to pay much attention to them. He's listened as shoppers pass by, but there are no whispers or comments in their wake, just the inane chatter that passes for conversation with most people. After a few minutes Dana says "We've arrived at one of the stores on my list. I won't be long. I'd like you to sit outside and wait for me. Are you willing to do that?"

The anxiety creeps back, but it's not as strong as before. "'kay," he says, cautious.

"If you need me, use the radio," she says calmly. "But before you call me, if you can, try to concentrate on one thing to help you relax." Her hand rests on his shoulder. "See you in a few minutes," she says, and then he's alone. She hasn't been gone more than thirty seconds when he keys the mike.

"One Adam-twelve, one Adam-twelve, see the first rack of crullers at Yum Yum."

"Ha, very funny," Dana says, but he can hear the smile in her voice.

"What are you doing?" he wants to know—a pointless question, but he feels like being a pain.

"I believe in some cultures it's called shopping."

"Smartass woman. Could you be more specific?"

"No. Stop trying to distract yourself." She's gentle but she means it. "Concentrate. I'm here if you really need me."

"How long will you be?" he whines. "I'm not sitting out here forever."

"Not long. Now let's see how things go." And she's gone. Greg feels a little stab of unease, but is reassured by the fact that she answered him without hesitation, and she didn't get angry or upset. She will honor her word. So he settles on the seat and does his best to relax.

It's tough at first. He can't see people come at him. While the crowd seems to be sparse, he can hear shoppers go by on either side of the bench. Then it happens: someone brushes his leg. He grips his cane in one hand and the two-way in the other, and hates the fact that he's shaking. He activates the receiver. "Gardener," he says, his voice tight with nerves.

"I'm right here," Dana says immediately.

"Someone . . ." He can barely get the words out. "Someone touched my leg."

"Was it deliberate?"

"No," he says, eased by her matter-of-fact, quiet tone. "No, they were just passing by."

"Okay. Well done," she says to his surprise. "Now I know your senses are on high alert at this point, so let's use them rather than try to stuff them back into the box. What else do you feel? I mean physically, what's touching you?"

"Not you. Think we could do something about that?" he says in a suggestive tone.

"Later." There's a purr in her voice that sends a little shiver through him, because he knows she means it. "So, tell me what you feel."

With reluctance Greg pushes aside the thought of sexual delights headed his way after this excursion, and considers the question. "My clothes . . . the ground under my shoes—the—the bench."

"What kind of bench is it?"

"The kind you sit on," he says. "Duh."

"Yes, I had deduced that much," Dana says wryly. "But you haven't seen it. Describe it to me."

He puts a hand on the seat. "Stone—no, poured cement or concrete." He traces the contours. "Kidney-shaped. That has to appeal to pissed-off shoppers."

Dana's chuckle is sweet and musical, even over the small two-way speaker. "What else?"

"Feels like fine sandpaper." He trails his fingertips over the surface. "Cool but not cold."

"Good. Keep going." He hears a rustling noise like a paper sack in the background as Dana speaks.

"What did you buy?" he asks, intrigued.

"You'll find out in a minute. I'm on my way." A few moments later she sits next to him. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a moron," he says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his words at his weakness.

"Greg . . . this isn't about perfection or failing or anything of the kind," Dana says softly. "It's about finding out what's behind the fear, facing and accepting it, as you did when you took me with you into the memory of the closet." She puts a hand on his good thigh. "How do you really feel?"

"Not as anxious," Greg says, a little surprised to find it's true. He leans in and sniffs Dana's hair. "You smell like herb. They're selling pot in Princeton storefronts now, I take it."

"This store carries organic herbs and ingredients," she says. "I thought we'd make rosemary chicken for supper at your place tonight."

Immediately he imagines his silent kitchen alive with the bustle of cooking, music in the background, the two of them together on the couch to enjoy the meal as they eat and tease back and forth, relaxed in each other's company. The anxiety fades even further in the wake of this new vision, a surprising development.

"What are you thinking of?" Dana's soft voice enters his fantasy.

"Having dinner with you," he says. There is a crinkle of paper, and the presence of rosemary intensifies briefly as she lifts the bag to his nose. He breathes in the pungent marine-pine scent and the image in his mind grows sharper, more clear. He smiles a little, pleased.

"It seems smell is a strong sense for you," Dana says. "Let's work with that."

They visit a few more stores, and all of them have an olfactory story to tell: a coffee seller, the air thick with the dark richness of roasted beans and steamed milk; a smoothie stand awash in the bright clean reek of citrus and fresh mangoes, bananas, pineapple; a bakery with brownies fresh out of the oven, the fragrance of cocoa and vanilla, butter and sugar melded together in mellow sweetness. The last stop is a newsstand that sells a few foreign-language items. He knows Dana comes here often, he's found copies of French magazines and novels in her backpack and at her place; he enjoys having her read aloud to him, to trade opinions and gossip in idiomatic French. This place too has a characteristic smell, a pleasant fug of fresh ink, salted roast cashews and pipe tobacco.

It's while he waits for Dana to complete her purchase in this last stop that he realizes he hasn't really noticed anyone around them. The number of shoppers seems to have increased, but his focus has been elsewhere. Maybe this will work after all . . . And then he senses someone's approach. This isn't just a passerby or someone who brushes by; whoever it is heads directly for him. He tenses as his anxiety returns a thousandfold. Memories of being shot point-blank in his own office crowd into his head. He raises the two-way. "Help!" he snaps as he fumbles for his cane, just as a familiar voice says

"House?" in a doubtful tone.

"Oh shit," Greg groans as Dana arrives at his side.

"I'm here," she says, breathless. "I'm here."

"House, what-what the hell is going on?" Wilson comes closer. Now he sounds alarmed. "What's wrong? Why are you wearing sunglasses? Did something happen to your eyes? Are you okay?"

Greg puts down the two-way, takes off the glasses and peels the tape from his eyelids. He's shaking, and he hates it. When Dana puts a hand on his shoulder he flinches, waits for her to slap at him, yell, lecture. Instead she sits down at his side and says nothing, just offers her presence. His anxiety subsides a little, even as anger starts to grow.

"Why is Doctor Gardener here?" Wilson says. He sounds sharper now, accusatory. "What the hell are you two doing?"

"Having an orgy in the shopping center, of course," Dana says with some asperity. Wilson shifts his glance over to Greg. Annoyance flickers in his dark eyes.

"You know, I think I understand why you like her," he says. "She's as big a smartass as you are."

"It's a therapy session, okay?" Greg snaps. "Things were going fine until you showed up."

Wilson's brows rise in alarm. He lifts his hands in a 'don't shoot the piano player' gesture. "Hey, I didn't know! I—I thought you were in trouble or something." He pauses. "Therapy session? Here? In public?"

Greg glances at Dana and nods—go ahead and tell him. "Gregory suffers from hapnophobia, primarily, with incipient agoraphobia complicating matters," she says. "We're working on lessening the fear through gradual exposure to groups of people, using a variety of techniques."

"Hapnophobia . . . fear of—fear of being touched?" Wilson sits down, his entire focus on Greg now. Concern emanates from him in waves. "That's why you've been avoiding the lobby and the elevator at work." He shakes his head. "Why didn't you say something?"

"It's often quite difficult for the patient to admit they're afraid of touch," Dana says quietly. "The concern and attempts at reassurance by friends or colleagues can make matters worse, because most people use touch to offer comfort or reassurance."

"And that amplifies the fear," Wilson says. He glances at Greg, then down at the floor. "So I just ruined the session."

"Right on the first guess," Greg growls at him before Dana can speak. Wilson raises his hands again in that placating gesture so characteristic of him.

"Okay, okay. I'm—I'm sorry." He hesitates. "Is there anything I can do-?"

"Yeah. Get lost," Greg snaps. Wilson rolls his eyes.

"How did I know that was coming?" He gets to his feet. "My apologies. Nice to see you, Doctor Gardener," he says, and takes himself off.

It's later that evening, when they're in the kitchen at work on dinner, that Dana says "He really does care about you, you know." She takes the chicken out of the oven while Greg dishes up the potatoes.

"Wilson's an insufferable button-pushing control freak who makes cats look incurious by comparison," Greg says in reply, and takes clean plates out of the cupboard.

"That he may be, but he considers you his friend. I don't think he has all that many," Dana says. She sets the roasting pan on a pair of potholders lined up on the counter, picks up her glass and takes a sip of wine. "He was genuinely concerned for you. It was an honest mistake."

Of course Greg figured that out two seconds into Wilson's little visit. He just grunts, unwilling to discuss it further. Dana lets the subject drop, but he knows she'll come back to it eventually, if not tonight then sometime when he won't be able to avoid it. But he'll deal with that when he comes to it.

The evening is every bit as pleasant as he'd imagined. Later rather than sooner they clean up, and work side by side—an action he'd never imagined he'd choose voluntarily under any circumstance, but it's actually enjoyable with Dana there to make him laugh as they clear the table, put away the food, rinse the plates and utensils and stack them in the dishwasher. Then they go to the living room, where he watches some tv and she works on file notes, curled up at his side with his arm around her, as his fingers play idly with her hair.

When they finally go to bed they make love, a slow and wordless journey that leaves them both clinging to each other, awash with afterglow and the delight of a thorough exploration of each other's bodies. Now he can touch her whenever he likes and he takes full advantage of that fact, but pleasant memories of being held fast, of someone else in control just for a little while, drift through his mind as he lies beside Dana, her warm body spooned next to his. The last thing he hears before he drops off to sleep is her soft, even breathing.

September 19th

Dana woke as the first fingers of sunlight entered the room through gaps in the blinds. Greg was deeply asleep for once, his lean body relaxed. She watched him for a long time, and enjoyed the peace she saw there. It was a rare moment for a restless soul, and she was pleased to know he was capable of it. After a while she eased out of bed and went to her overnight bag. When she returned he stirred. "'swrong?" he mumbled.

"Nothing," she said, and kissed his cheek. "Go back to sleep, it's too early to be up yet." He growled and pulled a pillow over his head. Dana bit back a laugh and placed the items she'd retrieved in the nightstand drawer, got up and headed for the bathroom.

She had the apartment to herself for an hour or two. In that time she unloaded the dishwasher and put things away, sorted clothes to be washed and got a batch ready, wrote out a quick shopping list and returned with two full bags, the Sunday Times and a bouquet of chrysanthemums. She'd bought them on impulse. Now she understood why. In Greg's kitchen they looked impossibly lovely; their soft, earthy autumn colors lent some interest to the bland white tiles and walls. She arranged them in a cheap pressed-glass vase she'd purchased because Greg didn't have anything to put them in, and set them on the counter.

Once the chores were done she went to the fireplace and built a fire with some of her applewood branches and logs, the ones she'd brought over on her last visit. She took her time, enjoyed the sight of the first flames and the tentative warmth and fragrance they offered. When the blaze was well-caught she left the doors open a bit, turned on a table lamp and curled up on the couch with her files, a cup of coffee at her side, curtains drawn against the overcast skies. It promised to be damp and chilly today; Greg would probably be hurting more with the change in weather. She'd planned a breakfast to bake in the oven, a frittata that would warm the kitchen and fill it with the homely smell of cooking, a pleasant comfort on such a dreary day. The thought filled her with happiness, so much so that she paused, a bit surprised by the intensity of the emotion, and reflected on the cause.

She had spent several years caring for her father in a manner similar to this, until it had become impossible for her to do everything he required. There was a peace in routine, in everyday chores, to create order out of chaos . . . Ah, Dana thought with a wry smile, there it is. She knew herself well enough to understand her need to find something to control when her emotions felt as though they were very much out of her mastery.

I love Greg. The thought wasn't a new one; she'd known it for some time now. He could be cruel, abrasive and manipulative, but he was also capable of incredible tenderness and understanding, and a depth of feeling few people could imagine, much less attain. And bravery; she'd never met anyone with so much courage. He was strong and he was fragile, and she loved him all the more for the dichotomy. But she wasn't sure how he felt about her. He'd experienced many betrayals and rejections from people who supposedly cared for him, it would be difficult if not impossible for him to open his heart to someone once more. He would probably always be suspicious of her motives—was it love or her work as a counselor that movitated her actions? Reassurances meant nothing to him, he valued deeds above words most of the time. She could only offer her trust and be worthy of his in return, and hope it was enough.

Soft rustling sounds from the bedroom told Dana the object of her thoughts was awake and headed off for his morning ablutions. She set aside her work and went into the kitchen to start the coffeemaker.

She was putting out a mug and the sugar bowl when Greg came in, yawning. His hair was tousled, there were bags under his eyes and his bathrobe hung open, revealing the wrinkled tee shirt and flannel bottoms he'd slept in. He limped slowly across the room, his hand on his ruined thigh, and took possession of the mug. Dana knew better than to touch him or say anything; he usually needed some time to get reconciled to the discomfort of waking up. She busied herself with emptying the cold dregs of her first cup down the drain. Greg poured a generous amount of joe into his mug, dumped in three heaping teaspoons of sugar, gave it a token stir and headed out to the bedroom, still silent.

The casserole was in the oven keeping warm and Dana was slicing brioche when he came in again. This time he was dressed, though he hadn't bothered with his hair or tucked his shirt into his jeans. "Good morning," she said softly, and received a grunt in response.

He ate a good breakfast though, two helpings and several slices of toast. He didn't join in the cleaning up, just retreated to the living room. When she came in a short time later he'd claimed the couch by stretching out full length on it, with her work relegated to the coffee table. Dana noted his provocative expression and said nothing, just moved to the easy chair by the fire and picked up a file. Greg turned on the tv. Silence fell, disturbed only by the sound of the fire crackling and the click of the remote as Greg advanced steadily through channels. Finally he switched off the television. Dana glanced up to find him staring at her.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, using a note of quiet inquiry.

"I'm not your father," he said roughly. "You don't have to coddle me."

Dana put the file aside. "Did I do too much?" she asked. Greg looked away.

"I'm not so feeble I need to have every room warmed up for me and all my needs seen to before I even ask for them," he said harshly. "Stop it. I'll let you know what I want you to do."

She nodded, though she felt a little unreasonable sting of hurt and rejection. "Okay. I apologize." She picked up the file and opened it.

"That's it?" Greg sounded incredulous. "You're just going to let it go at that?"

"I had the feeling I was doing too much, but sometimes . . . it's an old habit," she said. Greg continued to observe her with that piercing gaze.

"Feeling insecure?" he said, and there was mockery in his voice now.

"Yes," Dana said simply. She looked down at the file. "I like being with you, but I'm not sure how you feel about me. I'm not fishing," she hastened to add, "just saying. So I . . . I overcompensated, which isn't fair to you. I'm sorry."

Silence greeted this statement. The hurt grew a little. Guess that answers my question, she thought, and focused on the notes in front of her.

"Hey." She looked up to find that diamond-hard stare had softened slightly. "You're too far away."

Dana fought to keep the smile from her lips. "You're taking up the whole couch."

"A smart woman like you can't figure out how to fit on here with me? I'm so disappointed."

"Tight quarters," she pointed out.

"All the better." He leered at her, brows raised. Dana closed the file. She gave him an appraising look.

"You know, I could bring out those lovely silk ties sitting in the drawer of the nightstand," she said slowly, and enjoyed the way his brilliant gaze darkened just a little with a mixture of lust and apprehension. Such a sensualist, she thought, and set aside her files to rise to her feet.

When she came back to the living room Greg hadn't moved, but he watched as she approached. She knelt by the couch and put the ties in his hand, then offered her wrists. Greg's eyes widened, then narrowed.

"An apology," he said.

"Yes," Dana said, "but also an opportunity." She smiled at him.

He said nothing for a few moments. Then, "Strip." His voice was low, a little rough, with an edge of uncertainty that went straight to her heart. She said nothing however, just did as he commanded, glad the room was warmed by the fire as well as the heating system. When she was naked he sat up and gestured at the couch. "Sit."

He tied her wrists together, his lean fingers testing the bonds to make sure they were secure but not tight. Her ankles were next. Then he lay on his side and patted the empty place in front of him. "Lie down." His words held a sharpness she'd heard before in other voices, other encounters; he was excited by her submission. Dana did as he told her, and stretched her arms above her head when he lifted them. He looked down at her, that vivid gaze uncertain now, doubtful. Dana smiled at him.

"I do trust you," she said.

"Bad idea." He sounded dismissive, but his hand drifted down to cup her breast. She pushed gently into his touch, as she enjoyed the way he rubbed his callused thumb over her nipple. "Lie still." When her lips parted to speak he put his finger against them. "No talking."

She captured his fingertip and stroked it with her tongue, sucked on it gently. His pupils dilated as his eyes darkened with need. He took his hand away, leaned down and kissed her, soft and then hard and demanding. When he lifted away she moaned in protest but didn't speak and didn't move. He smiled. "Good girl," he said, and snorted softly when she stuck her tongue out at him. Slowly his hand moved down her body, caressing her, exploring. When he trailed his fingers over her belly she gave a pleading moan and dared a little wriggle.

"Ah ah, naughty girl." Greg sounded stern, but his gaze held a fugitive humor. "Roll over."

Dana's mouth went dry. She blinked and swallowed, but didn't hesitate. She struggled onto her front and put her head down, body tensed as her heart began to speed up. When Greg's hand came to rest on her left cheek she flinched.

"So much for trust." Greg sounded disgusted. "Sit up."

Dana obeyed, her face flushed, to find Greg glaring at her. "You think I'm going to hurt you," he snapped. "You really believe I'd do that?" When she didn't answer he rolled his eyes. "Speak already."

"Thank you," she said. "It isn't that I don't trust you, it's—it's an old memory . . . someone who did hurt me long ago." She hesitated. "I'll tell you about it if you want to hear the story."

After a moment Greg nodded. Dana drew in a breath. "Okay," she said softly, and clasped her hands together. The deep crimson of the silk tie around her wrists contrasted with the paleness of her skin. She concentrated on it and willed the words to come. She hadn't planned to talk about this, and found it hard to dredge up the old memory. "Okay, well . . . when I started university, it was a big change for me. Everything before had been regimented, organized, scheduled. I went to school, practiced piano, took care of my father. I hadn't even been kissed, never gone on a date . . . and then I found myself dealing with people trying to get me into their bed. It was utterly wonderful and completely terrifying at the same time." She sighed. "One evening my boyfriend took me to a party where everyone was into bondage. It didn't sound appealing but he talked me into it. There were the usual dabblers, the ones who enjoy wearing the gear and talking the talk but have never so much as picked up a flogger with serious intent. But there was a couple . . . they were hardcore, a master and servant." She stopped, felt her gut tighten.

"Let me guess," Greg said. She winced at the sarcasm in his voice. "They hauled you off to the bedroom and did terrible things."

"No . . . no, it wasn't a rape or anything like that," she said. "But the master gave me a safe word and . . . and when I used it he wouldn't stop. He was spanking me and I was tied—tied up—and he . . . he hurt me . . ." She remembered her fear.

"So you thought you'd use me to exorcise your demons."

"No." Dana turned her gaze to Greg's, appalled. "No, I would never do that. I would ask you for help, but it would be your choice."

"Then what just happened?" Greg demanded. "You didn't count on me spanking you."

"I hadn't planned that far ahead," she said, determined to be honest.

"You're an idiot," he said harshly.

"Sometimes, yes. This was spur of the moment. I . . . I wanted to show you that I do trust you. Implicitly. But the memory . . . it's very strong." She shivered as she remembered the pain of the hard blows.

Greg stared at her. Dana held his gaze, her face still warm. "Safe word," he said finally. "What was it?"

"Jasmine."

"Clear sign of jerkdom, giving you a word like that." He studied her for a moment. "Stand." She obeyed as he sat up. With a sardonic smile he patted his legs. "Lie down on your belly." Dana hesitated; she didn't want to cause him pain if she put her weight on his bad thigh. Greg sighed and propped a cushion over his right leg. "You let me worry about things. Now lie down. No talking except for the safe word." She complied, careful not to press on his scar. When she was stretched out once more he ran his hand along her back to rest on her sartorius, the slight smooth plane just above her ass. When he traced the outside of her cheek she shivered, but it wasn't with fear this time. There was no threat in his touch; it was slow, gentle, considerate. With care he cupped her in his palm. "So soft," he said, almost under his breath. His thumb moved back and forth, caressed the underside. Dana closed her eyes and felt something tighten low in her belly. She moaned as his fingers teased the divide, eased her thighs apart just enough to slide between her labia. He stroked the thin folds, callused fingertips moving over sensitive flesh.

When he finally found her clitoris Dana had to fight not to push into his touch. He gently pinched her and chuckled at her sharp moan of frustration. "Impatient," he chided. "Just relax." He circled the pulsing nub, gently pulled back the prepuce to expose the little knot of nerves hidden beneath. She shuddered and bit her lip. Her hands gripped the arm of the couch as he rubbed her lightly. And then his free hand came to rest on her right cheek. He gave her a little pat. It was barely more than a caress, but the sensation went straight to her core. "Everything all right?" There was mockery there, but genuine concern too. She uttered a pleading groan as she longed to lift her hips and force him to bring her to climax. He gave her another smack, this one a bit stronger, and increased the intensity of his stimulation. Dana shuddered as he gently kneaded her cheek between each swat and moved from one side to the next. There was no pain, only the excalation of a delicious tension that finally erupted in an intense wave of sweetness that flooded her senses.

For some time he played with her, to give her exquisite little aftershocks of orgasm between random slaps that were more sound than anything else. Dana relaxed slowly, aware her cheeks tingled and were a bit swollen but no bruises, no welts; she was in good hands, literally.

"Sit up," Greg said at last. Dana obeyed, aware that he had an enormous bulge under the rough material of his jeans. She dared to rest her hands lightly on his fly. Greg said nothing, just watched her with those vivid blue eyes as he waited see what she would do. She slid down to the floor, knelt in front of him, put her hands on his knees and moved first one leg, then the other so that she could settle between them. When she reached out with her bound hands to unzip his jeans he didn't stop her. He groaned softly when his erection sprang up, dusky from being trapped too long in a confined space. Dana leaned forward, her arms pinned beneath her as she took him into her mouth. Now it was his turn to shudder and moan as she worked him with slow, relentless strokes; his hips lifted as he released finally in short, sharp bursts. She waited until he relaxed before she eased him out of her mouth, pressed a kiss to his thigh and rested her cheek against his belly, as thoroughly used up as he was.

And then she was raised to sit beside him. He loosened the silk ties on her wrists, massaged the pink marks with a gentle touch. When she was free she took his hands in hers and kissed them, brought them to her cheek. He said nothing, but when she opened her eyes, a slight smile tugged at his lips.

"It was good, huh?" he said, and now the uncertainty he'd probably felt all along was allowed to show. Dana returned his smile and nodded.

They cleaned up in the bath together and spent the rest of the day on the couch. They watched football and dozed, getting up only to feed the fire or answer the door for the pizza delivery. Dana lay against Greg's lean body, enfolded in his arms, and felt her heart swell with happiness. I know this won't last, she thought, I know there are difficult times ahead, but right now, in this moment, it's enough for both of us.

"What are you thinking?" Greg's quiet voice broke into her musings. Dana reached up to stroke his cheek, trace the line of his bottom lip.

"That I'm happy," she said. "I hope you are too."

"Mmm," he said after a long pause. There was bewilderment in the sound he made, and a sort of pleased, slightly anxious surprise as well. "I am."