Page 28 of Going Deep
She looked at her leg, bared almost to the hip, then at him. “Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” With amusement glinting in his emerald gaze, he took the chair. “Feel free to shift around if you need to, for comfort. But don’t get up without asking.”
That sounded reasonable, given the context. “Yes, Sir.”
With a nod, he leaned back in the chair, pulled her list out of the envelope, and began to read.
Since he didn’t seem to require her attention, Ginger glanced around the room. The crowd had grown even thicker, with people crowding in two and three deep around the bar and milling around the tables. There was still a buffer around their little corner, three or four feet of empty space that was no doubt a sign of the respect—or maybe fear—that Michael commanded in the club. She could only be grateful for it. Her anxiety was stirring, fed by the crowd, the speculative glances and murmurs, and the knowledge that Michael was reading her deepest, innermost personal desires.
Reminding herself that she couldn’t control the opinions of strangers—and that she’d written those deep, personal desires precisely so he could read them—she closed her eyes, took slow, even breaths and did a quick, internal check-in. The anxiety wasn’t bad—more nerves than panic, more excitement than fear. Oh, there was a little fear, but curiously enough, it seemed to make her panties wet.
Or would have, if she’d been wearing panties.
Turning away from that uncomfortable thought—it felt very weird to be sitting there sans underpants—she opened her eyes. Michael was watching her, his gaze focused, the pages forgotten in his lap. And the nerves, settled only moments before, jumped back to life.
“Nervous?” he asked in a low voice rich with amusement.
“Yes,” she answered honestly and watched his lips curve into a smile.
“Are you always so honest?”
“No,” she confessed. “But Lola was pretty clear that lying about this stuff would be a very bad idea.”
The amusement in his gaze deepened. “And she was right.”
Her eyes darted down to the pages, loose in his lap, then back up. “Are you done reading already?” she asked, then winced. “Sorry. Am I allowed to ask that?”
“You’re allowed to ask anything you want,” he said. “And yes, I am. I do, however, have a few questions for you.”
Nerves danced in her belly, a not entirely unpleasant sensation. She’d never been anxious and sexually aroused at the same time before, and it was…different. “Okay. Did I miss something?”
“You were very thorough,” he assured her. “I just need to know if you have any injuries or conditions that might impact play?”
She frowned in thought. “I don’t think so, but I’ve never played, so I don’t really know.”
“Something that might prevent you from holding a certain position, like kneeling or having your arms bound above your head,” he elaborated.
She shook her head. “Nothing like that.”
“Do you have any chronic conditions, like diabetes, sleep apnea, high blood pressure?”
She started to shake her head, then changed her mind. “I have generalized anxiety disorder.”
His gaze sharpened. “With depression?”
“No. Just the anxiety. I take an SSRI for it.”
“SSRI side effects can include sexual dysfunction,” he commented. Casually, like they were talking about the weather. “Any issues there?”
“Some problems early on,” she admitted, striving to match his tone. Yes, it does look like rain. “They’ve pretty much gone away.”
“What problems?”
She wanted to squirm—this was all so damn personal—but kept her gaze level. “Difficulty reaching orgasm. It’s not really a factor anymore.”
“No, it’s not,” he agreed, his glittering eyes reminding her outrageously of last night. “Any other medications?”
She was getting uncomfortable, kneeling there in leather while her thighs got wetter. “Just birth control. An IUD.”
