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He turned to his desk. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Banks. I’m sorry we couldn’t work—”

  “Wait!” She grabbed his sleeve and quickly released him as his eyes jerked to her grip. Lips pursed, she lifted the soft pink sweater over her head. Something clattered to the floor. Her clip. Mercifully, all that hair fell in wild disarray around her shoulders.

  Her head tipped forward, her gaze fastened to the floor as her shoulders lifted with each breath. Her arms rested at her sides, her sweater choked tightly in her right fist as it hung by her thigh.

  He’d seen just about every type of lingerie to ever be invented. Yet somehow her bra took him by surprise. It was a longline bra, the sort that reached the lowest rib. Her modesty enchanted him. Not a single shred of indecency showed through the satin material, as it was sewn of dark navy blue fabric and patterned with pale coral flowers. At the crest there was an overlay of lace, but the satin underlay kept her nipples hidden.

  He presumed her to be about a 36DD. Her waist was quite trim, and it seemed absolutely imperative to discover if her panties matched this antiquated bodice.

  Using his knuckle, his tipped her chin until she faced him, but her eyes remained closed. “Eyes on me, Ms. Banks.”

  As those soft russet lashes lifted, he spotted such fire banked in the depths of those hazel pools, he grinned. “Your bra is very sexy and unexpected.”

  Her lashes fluttered as her lips parted. He’d clearly surprised her. Stepping around her back, he lifted her arms away from her body and she gasped.

  “Keep your arms out like that,” he whispered over her shoulder as he straightened the tape and slowly wrapped it around her chest. She breathed rapidly and it took some skill to keep the tape in place. Thirty-six, just as he assumed.

  The tape dropped and he cupped her breast with his free hand, drawing another gasp from her. “Are you a double D, Ms. Banks?”

  “I’m a C, sir. If you don’t mind—”

  He chuckled. “No, you’re not.” He ran a thumb over the satin, just enough to have the satisfaction of feeling her nipple bead beneath his touch before his hand fell away.

  Keeping her off balance, he swiftly wrapped the tape around her waist and returned to his desk to jot down her size. “Slide off your skirt, please.”

  “What?”

  “I need the measurement of your hips, thighs, and ankles.”

  “Am I being sized for a unitard?”

  “No, a partner. We’re nosy. Strip.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but her fingers went to the hidden zipper at the side of her skirt. Her clothes were not cheaply made, he noted, wondering how she afforded such things on a teacher’s salary.

  When the skirt lowered she quickly bent to fold it in a way that would prevent wrinkles. His cheeks tightened with a full smile when he noted her simple tan slip, complete with lace trim and slit. A hundred dollars said she wore old-fashioned stockings, too, for the simple propriety of it.

  “Remove the slip.”

  She huffed, but did as he asked after placing the skirt over the back of the chair. Beautiful. Blue satin panties to match the print of her bra. Nothing too risqué beyond the luxurious fabric. Her ass remained mostly covered and her front was disguised enough for the remaining mystery of her body to drive him crazy.

  Slowly, he circled her, scrutinizing her attire. The stockings were trimmed with a thick scalloped lace that didn’t require garters. How many times a day did she reach under her desk to adjust them?

  As he dropped to a knee to better measure her hips, he breathed in the sharp trace of feminine arousal. His eyes closed, finding her unique scent a touch more tempting than others. Glancing up, he noted that her eyes were again screwed shut, and he smirked. She was a shy little thing.

  Taking no mercy on her, he measured her hips quickly but then shifted gears. “Spread your legs, Ms. Banks. Those knees should never be touching.”

  “That’s not what I was taught.”

  “The curriculum’s changed. Wider.” He slowly dragged his finger up the inside of her leg until he reached the apex of her thighs, and she let out a panicked squeak. Holding the tape he looked closely, breathing her in once more. Her scent was getting stronger.

  He took his time with her ankles and thighs. Some of his clientele had very specific tastes; that wasn’t to say one size was more popular than another. There were just as many who sought after petite women as voluptuous. All sizes were a commodity at Fernweh, because their specialty was finding counterparts.

  As soon as the last measurement was taken, she let out a sigh of relief and reached for her slip.

  “Wait,” he said, and she stilled. Her gaze was punishing as it collided with his. Maybe he should just let her dress. He almost chuckled. That wasn’t happening.

  “Well?”

  He did chuckle then, not used to hearing that tone from the submissive clientele. “I suggest we finish the interview before you dress.”

  “Is there another reason I need to be naked?”

  “I enjoy looking at you. And you’re far from naked, Ms. Banks.”

  Her eyes widened, but she didn’t tell him to go to hell. Interesting.

  Shaking her head—perhaps even a bit titillated at the idea of being on display—she snatched up her slip and slid it over her thighs. His disappointment faded as she stopped there, ignoring the rest of her clothing and perching on the chair, arms akimbo. Who was she kidding? She obviously liked being partially dressed.

  “Go on,” she directed, with an air of exasperation.

  He arched a brow. “I believe it works better for everyone if I give the orders, Ms. Banks. Let’s move to page eight.” He flipped the application to the back. “Date of your last clitoral orgasm.” Smothering the urge to see her shock firsthand, he kept his eyes on the paper, pen poised at the question. “I’m waiting.”

  “You expect me to know the exact date?”

  “Roughly.”

  After a long pause, she sighed and muttered, “Yesterday.”

  He silently chuckled as he recorded her response.

  As his gaze returned to hers, heat tightened his gut. “And was this achieved individually or with a partner?”

  “I was alone.” Her voice had turned small.

  Her answer relieved his discomfort. “How frequently do you masturbate, Ms. Banks?”

  “Whenever I can’t sleep.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question?”

  “Almost every day.”

  “Almost?”

  “Every day.”

  “I see. And the date of your last vaginal orgasm?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Generalize. Years? Months? Weeks?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had an orgasm without clitoral stimulation.”

  He marked down her answer. “That’s not uncommon.”

  “I’m aware.”

  He stilled, not caring for her change in attitude. Setting the pen on the desk he leaned back. “Is there a problem, Ms. Banks?”

  “You’re doing this for your own entertainment. I’ve already answered all of these questions on the application you threw in the trash.”

  “And we’ve established you weren’t one hundred percent honest on that form.”

  “I was on this part,” she argued.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he met her gaze with unyielding challenge. Her willfulness might be a larger issue than her lack of endorsement. “Ms. Banks, I understand the instinct to challenge my decisions, but you’re here because you asked to be. I do not appreciate having my choices questioned, nor do I often provide justification for my decisions. Fernweh is my business and it’s my job to properly run that business. If this is going to be an ongoing issue for you, we can stop now.”

  ***

  Mr. Duval was definitely not in a humorous mood. She’d
either misread him completely or offended him. Contrite, she nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not pointing this out to chastise you, sweet. I’m merely stating a fact. While willfulness can be amusing and admirable at times, brattiness is best suited for playgrounds and daycares.”

  She gaped at him. “I wasn’t being a brat.”

  “You were sulking. You still are.”

  She grimaced. Her lips pursed to prevent further argument, which really was a struggle. Had she always been a brat? Did other people see her that way?

  “Shall we continue?”

  Silently, she nodded.

  “Name of your last sexual partner?”

  She drew in a deep breath. “Zack Shifton. Can I ask why that’s relevant?”

  “You may. If you’ve slept together and you’re not still with him, you’re clearly incompatible. In the chance case that he might be a member of Fernweh, we like to do a background check.”

  She supposed that made sense. But . . . “If he were a member, wouldn’t it be against the rules for him to sleep with me being that I’m not a member?”

  “It depends on each individual’s preferences. We don’t go by a standard set of rules recognized by a prudish society. Some couples encourage their partners to stray. Others invite swingers into their relationships, or thirds, or even trade off for an agreed length of time. It all depends on who is setting the rules.”

  She swallowed and whispered, “I don’t think Zack’s a member here.”

  His mouth curved in the slightest grin, deepening the slight creases around his eyes. “You never know.”

  She supposed that was true. When he didn’t continue with the questioning, she shifted. Her body had been unusually tense ever since he’d caressed her breasts while taking her measurements. Not to mention the way he touched her thighs and lingered longer than any seamstress ever had.

  Her gaze traveled to his fingers. There was no telltale wedding band, but who knew with this crowd? He could have a wedding piercing from his lover, who might be named Buck. Besides, Mr. Duval was definitely too much testosterone for her.

  His broad shoulders stretched the fine fabric of his dress shirt as his intense gaze studied her. He was tall and there was something mesmerizing about his jaw, the way the shadow of a beard threatened to rumple his sophisticated appearance. She bet he looked amazing in a simple T-shirt and jeans but could hardly picture him in such. His clothing was clearly selected to translate his authority.

  Hopefully, if she passed the qualification process, she’d be put into the system and matched with a partner who appreciated her gentle disposition and didn’t think she was a brat. Perhaps they’d find her someone who understood chivalry wasn’t dead, someone who treated his woman like a lady yet heated her blood in private.

  “You’re blushing, Ms. Banks.”

  “Pardon?”

  “There is a pink flush creeping from your breasts to your throat.”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Duval, but a blush is supposed to be on a woman’s cheeks. I’d appreciate it if you would direct your attention there instead of at my chest.”

  He chuckled, slow and threatening. “Would you? Well . . .” He folded his arms over his chest, gaze clearly locked on her bra. “I’d like you to unfasten your bra.”

  She scoffed. “You’re a rascal.”

  “And you’re a brat. I’m waiting.”

  Hastily evaluating her options, she asked, “What if I say no?”

  “We could always see how many swats it would take to make your ass blush the same color as your chest.”

  “What?”

  “A spanking, Ms. Banks. I believe you marked it on your last application as something you’d enjoy. Unless, of course, you weren’t being honest.”

  Would he really spank her? Would she let him? Would she enjoy that? No, probably not. It seemed she’d drifted into an alternate universe where anything was possible.

  “Decide.”

  Startled into action, she lifted her back from the chair and unlatched the line of hooks and eyes hidden behind the seam of her bra. Her shoulders contorted as she eased forward, her arms straining as her fingers worked to find each tiny latch. As the half corset parted, her heavy breasts sagged with the easing support. When she released the last fastener, she folded her hands lightly on her lap and waited. Her gaze once again focused on the expensive carpeting.

  “I’m waiting.”

  Setting her scowl to his expectant face, she snapped, “You only asked me to unfasten it.”

  “Oh, my mistake. I should have been more specific. I want to see your bare breasts.”

  She’d never come across someone so brazen and uncouth. What sort of man barked out orders to women like that? What sort of woman attended meetings like this? Suddenly, she seemed the more corrupt of the two. Again, she wondered what she was doing there.

  “Ms. Banks.”

  The peculiarity of the entire encounter resembled days past. Moments when life caught her so off guard her mind failed to process events at the speed at which they unfolded. Days like that were never good and always ended badly. She was past that. She was no longer a desperate child but a respectable lady, or so she thought.

  Claustrophobia set in, but it was more than her surroundings suffocating her. It was the lingering sense that things like this didn’t happen to other women. Disappointment swamped her as she realized she’d willingly walked into another poor choice, openly hoping to find normalcy.

  Shame and self-doubt had her rethinking her steps and calculating the fastest way back to her little town full of sheltered secrets and unrequited urges. Her head shook and she whispered, “I can’t do this.”

  “Pardon?”

  She silently laughed at her own stupidity. The material of her skirt teased her back from where it draped over the chair. Her sweater rested to her left. Taking a deep breath, she stood and collected her belongings. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  His chair creaked as he abruptly stood, but she was too focused on getting dressed and getting out of there. She considered grabbing her application from the trash and the one on his desk, but there was really no point, being that she submitted it electronically. The original was probably on his hard drive.

  “Ms. Banks.” His tone was concerned, as she struggled to fit her head through the neck of her sweater.

  Her gaze skimmed the furniture for her clip. Searching the floor—there it was—

  He grabbed her upper arm and stilled her progress. “Tell me what just happened.” She couldn’t look at him.

  What an utter waste of time this trip had been. One more humiliating step toward the nothingness that amounted to her existence. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

  His voice was low. “But you did.”

  “That was a mistake.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to get my clip. It’s under your desk.”

  “Forget the damn clip.”

  She shut her eyes. His hand remained on her arm, keeping her there, but not holding her with force. She swallowed and strained to calm down.

  “Tell me what changed,” he whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it my terms?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Then what?”

  She shook her head. “I—I don’t know. Everything just became surreal and overwhelming for some reason and it felt . . . wrong.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. We’re two adults—”

  “But I don’t know you.”

  He sighed, his touch falling away. “Have a seat, Ms. Banks.” Placing a gentle hand on her spine, he ushered her back to her chair and her body lowered. The soft trickle of water topping off her glass filled the silence. “Take a sip,” he instructed, guiding the glass into her hand.

 
After she sipped, he took the glass from her and lowered his body so they were face to face. His hand rested on her knee as he squatted before her. His green eyes were bracketed with creases that no longer spoke of amusement. His gaze full of concern, he studied her.

  “Did you change your mind about being here? Think before you answer. You came here because you required a service we provide. Does that service still appeal to you?”

  She was so lonely yet saw no solution to her solitary existence, not when the thought of venturing out into the world was crippling. She’d done online dating but found nothing notable. The silence of her home was deafening, and she refused to become a crazy cat lady. Worse, her quiet life made the outside world all the more daunting. Every time she ventured outside her home, the presence of others grated, emphasizing every harbored insecurity she owned until she was convinced she didn’t fit in anywhere.

  Her anxiety had spiraled to the point where she could barely make it into a store and to the register. Her breaking point, the moment she admitted to herself how out of control her anxiety had gotten, came when she thoughtlessly shoplifted a bottle of shampoo because a man in the drugstore looked suspicious. It used to be a simple sense of not fitting in, but lately it had bloomed into a crippling fear of being too different, too vulnerable, and too alone to protect herself from an ever-changing world.

  She very much wanted someone to look after her and love her, but she no longer knew how to find such a person on her own. With social paralysis as debilitating as hers, she didn’t see dating as a possibility. “I’d like to meet someone who accepts me as I am.”

  “And do you believe Fernweh can help you find that?”

  She swallowed. It seemed a lot to hope. “I don’t know.”

  His hands, large and warm, closed over hers. “You’re freezing.”

  “Sometimes I—”

  There was a sharp knock at the door. She slipped her hands out of his grip as he stood. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  Hunching low in the chair so her bare shoulders were hidden, she waited as he opened the door, using his body to hide the interior of the room from whoever was on the other side. “I’m with someone. I’ll call you when I’m through.”