Everything would be her choice. Even if her choice was to surrender to Mason.
Amara was looking at her closely. “Better, love? Less nervous?”
“Yes,” Jessica said, and realized she meant it. “Yes, I am.”
Amara’s eyes shone in approval. “I’ve met many admirable women, Jess. You’re one of them.” Before Jess could get over her surprise at that fierce statement, Amara gave her a mischievous smile. “Enrique, Mason and every person in that club will be delighted with us. And more importantly, we are going to be delighted with them.” Dropping her hold to Jess’s hand, she interlaced their fingers like favorite teen girlfriends. “Come on. I want to dance. This club has the best DJ you’ve ever heard. And the blackberry mojitos . . .”
When the limo stopped at the left side of the crowded parking area, Enrique bade both women to wait. Jess watched as he stared into space, then he nodded. “Lord Mason will come open your door, Jessica. Amara and I will meet you both inside.” Amara touched her knee, then Enrique handed her out of the car. Jess watched them go, Enrique settling a possessive hand on his wife’s hip, the sway of her agile hips attracting more than one interested glance.
As they left the car, the noise of the people entering the club poured in. She saw several Masters crossing the lot with elegant slaves on collar and leash. One was wrapped in a lush velvet cloak, but another was barely clad at all, in a web of straps and silver chain links. Both were stunning women with impassive faces, women who could have graced model runways. Being gorgeous was apparently a requisite for membership in such an exclusive club.
Focus on Mason. Just Mason. She could do this. You will be there as Lord Mason’s guest. You are not required to participate . . .
A shadow fell over the window. She didn’t have to look. She knew it was him, from the way her pulse leaped and her palms dampened. As the door opened, her gaze was down, so she saw his dark slacks, the polished boots beneath. He was apparently playing the urbane billionaire tonight, but in her pounding heart he was still the desert djinn. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be swirled away by him in those scorching sands, or if she should try to run.
“Jessica?” His hand extended into the vehicle. Broad palm, long fingers. Such a big man. Raithe hadn’t been that big, for all that, she realized. Perhaps about five ten, and she’d found his shoulders somewhat narrow. Because he’d dominated her world for so long, he’d become larger than life. Mason was the real thing. Placing her hand in his, she let out that held breath when his fingers closed over hers. Firmly possessive and gently protective at once.
After Mason’s third mark healed her body, she’d rediscovered the pleasure of eating. Every mouthful of food had compelled a sigh of pleasure, a moan of response. His fingers closing on hers made her feel that way about his touch, and he’d been gone only a short time.
She didn’t dare look up at his face and see what he was reading from her mind. Instead, then and there she made herself a deal, knowing it was a dangerous one. Tonight she wasn’t going to analyze her feelings for him, whether they were from some sick dependency or something far more terrifying. Tonight, as Amara said, she was going to enjoy everything the night had to offer, including him. Whether he liked it or not.
And she hoped he did get that thought.
Mason didn’t receive her challenge. His mind had stopped functioning. He had been exposed to countless breathtaking females, vampire and human. Amara herself was one of the most physically beautiful human women he’d ever known, and Lady Lyssa would have eclipsed ten Helens of Troy. However, he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had spent time on her appearance solely to please him, and him only. Amara did it for him, but also for Enrique. It was also in her nature to enjoy her own beauty.
The black dress was short and clung to every curve, emphasizing her lithe, toned body, the elegant strength of it. It was sleeveless, the shoulder straps keeping a distractingly tenuous hold on the neckline’s plunge between her unbound breasts, the nipples a subtle invitation against the dark fabric.
His sight, quicker than a mortal’s, won him a flash of the lace tops of her black stockings. She’d slid out of the vehicle carefully, trying to maintain ladylike modesty in the short dress, but sometimes enhanced senses brought divine rewards. The garters were embellished with a tiny, pale pink rose on each connecting strap. The spike heels with ankle straps she wore made his fangs sharpen in his mouth, thinking about nipping her above the strap, sipping from her, then working his way up each perfect leg.
He inhaled her. Powder, soap, shampoo, a fragrant body spray she’d applied in places that suggested she expected a man’s mouth nuzzling there. The only jewelry she wore were the silver bracelets and collar he’d put on her.
“Welcome home, Lord Mason.” She raised her gaze to his face and held it there. Gray, long-lashed eyes. They’d been highlighted with silver eye shadow. He was in danger of falling into those enigmatic pools, no matter how troubled the waters, and letting himself be sucked into her very soul. Her short curls were styled around her face in a way that made it impossible not to want to touch the delicate wisps and tendrils. There was a hint of gloss on those pink, kissable lips. Lips that a man would kill to have wrap around his cock.
By Allah, he’d gone right from appreciating her beauty to wanting to rut upon her like a savage, territorial beast. As he held her hand, studying her, he used the long pause to struggle for control. He wanted to drag her into his arms and kiss her senseless. He wanted his scent, his mouth, branded upon her. He’d been worried about the effect this place would have on her. He should have realized what it would do to him.
“I brought you a gift from Berlin.” He cleared his throat. You idiot, you’re supposed to tell her she looks stunning.
But he felt the tendril of wary pleasure that uncurled in her mind. Keeping her hand, he drew the necklace from his pocket. A Swarovski crystal, formed into a disk and etched so it appeared to capture the crescent moon in its sparkling depths. The faint pink glimmer to the faceted glass would look devastating on her, particularly if she was wearing only it and her stockings.
“I think you lied.” A hint of a smile touched her somber features. “You looked to see what I would be wearing tonight.”
“Just a fortunate guess. Allah didn’t want me to do anything to mar your beauty, so He guided my hand.” She tilted her head, and though that nervous flush remained in her cheeks, the tiny smile played around her mouth as well. “I didn’t realize you were a religious man, Lord Mason.”
“A woman can compel a man to a worshipful state,” he rejoined. “Particularly when she looks like you. Turn for me, habiba.” Her pulse thudded against her throat, both from the command and the name. She had missed him. It was there in her mind, wanting to be said, but she didn’t. Instead she turned on her heel, so his gaze fell on her sweet nape. Then his attention shifted lower.
He’d forgotten the primary reason she wanted to surprise him tonight. The tattoo. The back of the dress was a dramatic contrast to the front. For one thing, there was hardly any back to it. It plunged to no more than an inch, if that, above the cleft between her buttocks. Every time he guided her through a doorway tonight, he could settle his hand in that shallow curve, caress bare flesh. A surprising part of him wanted to cover her, conceal her from male eyes. However, before he could get disturbed by his jealousy, he was riveted by the design she’d chosen.
Robert had transformed the straight, long scars into stalks of bamboo. They’d been embellished with delicate leaves that did not detract from the tiger’s amber eyes glowing out from the depths of that mysterious forest, the shape of his face and hint of powerful shoulder. One paw reached out as if through the bars of a cage, and where it disappeared, it was obvious that paw would be on the top of her buttock.
“Would you like to see the rest, my lord?” Her voice was a whisper he would have missed if her spoken thought wasn’t also in his mind.
“Yes.”
Standing within the open door of the limo, her body was shielded by the car and his body. She slid the straps off her shoulders and eased the snug fit of the dress down past her hips and the rise of her buttocks, until she showed the tiger’s paw fully. The claws dug in to the crest of the left buttock, and several red drops of blood marked the slope. She’d enhanced them tonight with tiny slivers of ruby that sparkled, attached by one of those mysterious adhesives women used. She wasn’t wearing any panties, nothing to mar the design.
Her head was down, angled to the right, so he saw her waiting profile, the fragile curve of neck beneath his collar. When he realized she was holding the position until he indicated he’d looked his fill, until he told her she could dress again, something in his chest constricted with hunger. Not that he needed to breathe, but if he did, he knew he would have been unable to do so right now.
Mason tested her resolve, bringing the crystal over her head as she stood in that tempting pose. She held it as he latched the chain, followed it with his fingers and nestled the pendant in the crevice between her breasts, registering how her own breath elevated as his fingers brushed the top of the left curve.
He didn’t tell her to put the dress back on. He did it himself, curling his hands over hers. Both of them stretched the dress back up her torso. Then, because he could, and because he wanted to do so more than he wanted life itself, he smoothed his hands down over her breasts, to her waist, and finished at her hips, tugging the skirt back into place.
“Do you like it, Lord Mason?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“You know I do. You overwhelm me, Jessica.”
She turned then, those gray eyes full of intriguing shadows. The crystal sparkled. “Are you . . . do you have to tell me tonight?” He didn’t have to ask her what she meant. Mason pressed his lips together. “Not if you don’t wish me to. I should have taken off the collar,” he added gruffly, reaching up to touch it. “The bracelets will be sufficient, and it won’t detract from the necklace.” Her hand fluttered up, alighting on his. “Leave it?” she asked. Her words were somewhere between a request and a plea. I feel better . . . knowing I’m clearly marked as yours here. Safer.