Page 43 of Making Over Maris

It was exquisite. Artful. Erotic.

Merely the torso of a woman—a perfectly formed woman—wrapped in intricate knots and rope work. It was titled Shibari Isi. Her breasts were bare, pert, her nipples taut, ripe like cherries.

Sara glanced at Jack. He licked his lips. Like a guy who wanted to suck on those turgid tips but couldn’t.

“Do you like this, Jack?” she whispered.

“It’s, um, very nice.”

“Hmm.” She scanned down to his crotch. Yeah. He liked it.

They moved to the next photo. A woman with her head thrown back, her hand buried in the shadowed crux of her thighs. Her expression was one of absolute bliss.

A stab of jealousy gored her. She’d been close to that this morning. Still was in fact. Without conscious thought, she rocked her hips, enjoying the rub of cotton against her clit.

They continued through the gallery, studying the beautiful portraits—all of people in various stages of arousal or in differing poses. The offerings were varied. Some bondage, a little spanking, ménage. Jack paused—a tad too long—at one photo of a woman’s foot. Just her foot.

Sara made a mental note of that.

And again at another. A woman’s foot sheathed in a wicked shiny, patent stiletto. His throat worked as he studied it. And then they rounded the corner into an alcove where a whole new set of photos, in an entirely different vein, awaited. And Sara discovered something extraordinary.

She’d been watching Jack very closely, trying to discern what he liked and what he really liked. So she saw it. The flare of his nostrils, the way his pupils dilated, the sudden ashen color on his cheeks followed by a harsh, fast flush.

She glanced at the picture and froze.

A man. On his knees. A woman stood before him sheathed in tight latex. She wore the heels Jack had liked and held a wicked riding crop. From the blur in the photo, the Domme was in the process of slapping the crop into her palm.

The look on the man’s face was riveting. His lips were slightly parted. His eyes were glazed. Extreme bliss imbued his features.

Sara laced her fingers through Jack’s. Squeezed.

He glanced at her, his features blank. He swallowed.

“Ready to move on?” she asked.

He nodded but she noted the hesitation.

The next photo was of a woman hanging upside down from a hook in a warehouse, very much like this one, and the next was of two women tied together, breast to breast.

Jack paused at the third in the row.

Again. A man. This time, tied. His wrists were shackled to an X. Sara could only assume his ankles were as well. His cock was visible. It rose angrily on his belly, the head swollen against the ropes coiled tightly along its length.

Jack hissed a garbled word that sounded like, “Je-sus.” Sara was certain he wasn’t even aware he’d made a sound. She studied him, noted the tightness of his muscles, the small tick in his temple.

Exhilaration shot through her.

Holy crap. Jack was into Femdom.

Who could ever have predicted that?

The final photo on the wall was of a woman in full Domme regalia. She was gorgeous, from her sleek dark hair to the tips of her slinky, shiny thigh-high boots. As Jack stared at her, his breathing became shallow. His eyes glazed over. He repeatedly licked his lips.

Sara allowed him to study the picture as long as he wanted. Because this revelation was fascinating to her.

And her mind was whirling, running one scenario after another.

Because Jack was into Femdom.

And so was she.