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“Holy hell,” Sean whispered, his voice deep and ragged a few inches from her ear as he leaned closer to the computer screen to get a better view. “That’s you?”
5
SEAN DIDN’T WAIT for her answer.
He grabbed his beer off the desk so fast it spilled out the top of the long neck, trailing dark lager across the back of his hand as he made tracks away from the computer screen and away from the image now deep-fried into his mental sexual circuitry. He didn’t know whether he needed the cold beer more for his dry mouth or to combat the raging hard-on he’d fought successfully sitting next to Donata for two hours until that damn photo materialized on his monitor. Drink the brew? Or pour liberally over his lap?
God. Damn.
He settled on a long drink, knowing neither option would solve his problem. He’d never forget the image of Donata strapped to a board that might have been a weight bench or an incline sit-up support. Thick black strips of leather wound around her naked body to hold her in place so that the juncture of her thighs was covered—barely—although her breasts were visible between two other strips. Her hair, longer then, spilled over the board in a mass of messy curls and her eyes were rimmed in black like a rock star or an Egyptian queen. A tattoo of a rose in full flower had been inked inside one hipbone and her spread legs seemed to strain against the bonds. But she’d been staring at the camera with an exaggerated pout on her red-painted lips as if to assure the viewer her light S&M pose was only for show.
And what a hell of a show it had been.
He looked through the bottom of his suddenly empty beer bottle and wondered where it had gone.
“Yeah, it’s me.” Donata’s voice didn’t penetrate his consciousness for a long moment after she spoke. “I guess we can’t hide my past any longer, but I appreciate you not pushing me to make the photos part of police records when the hard copies arrived a few days ago. I’ll add the information first thing tomorrow morning and—”
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