Page 81 of Making Over Maris

She strolled over to the foyer and picked up her bag. It clanked ominously. “I think we’ll do this downstairs.”

His heart plunged. “Downstairs?”

“You did say that was your playroom, didn’t you?”

He swallowed. God. The timbre of her voice when she said that… “Okay.”

He led the way, excitement and maybe a trickle of fear flooding him.

She paused at the bottom of the stairs, surveying the room. It was a large, comfortable den the length of the house, outfitted with a media center on one side and his workout equipment on the other. “Over here, I think.” She headed to the right and dropped her bag on the bench.

He followed, uncertain. What would she—

“Strip.”

Oh, God. His belly lurched.

He should have tanned.

All of a sudden he wished he’d had a glass of wine with dinner. Maybe six.

“Come on, Jack. Don’t hesitate. It will only annoy me.”

He turned to the sofa where Ding was spread out, watching them with inscrutable eyes. It was…unnerving. “Um. Sara?”

“What?”

Jack flushed. “Can we put the cat out?”

Sara glanced over at Ding. Who blinked. She burbled a laugh. “Yeah. That might be best.”

Jack handed her the book and picked up the cat. He opened the slider and dropped Ding onto the patio. Naturally, the tabby glared at him before flouncing off to hunt in the foliage on the hill.

Still, Jack closed the curtains. Because seriously. This was nerve-racking enough without an easily offended witness.

He turned and faced Sara. “W-where were we?”

She crossed her arms over those slinky latex-covered breasts and tapped her toe. “I think I ordered you to strip. And you hesitated.”

Her expression made him eep. He quickly ripped off his sweater. And the linen shirt beneath.

Her eyes fixed on his bare chest. “Continue.”

“My pants?”

“Of course your pants.”

Holy hell.

He divested himself of his slacks and his briefs and stood there, trying not to cover his junk. She wouldn’t like it if he did that. He was fairly certain.

She walked around him, checking him out. That it was Sara, dressed in a latex catsuit and six-inch heels, nearly unmanned him. He trembled before her.

“You’re hard.” She stroked his cock. He groaned. The warmth of her hand, the tight grip, felt so fucking good. “Did you play with yourself last night as you looked at that book?” She stood close to him; the scent of her perfume, mixed with her arousal, made him lightheaded. Her hand moved up and down, measuring his erection.

“Y-yes.”

“Hmm. Did I say you could do that?” Her grip tightened. He clenched his teeth as exquisite pleasure assailed every nerve.