Shadow Reaper (Shadow Riders 2)

"Let's get back to Nicoletta," Ricco said. "She's fierce in a fight. I know we can't teach her to ride shadows, but she should be taught to defend herself. We could have her train with both hand to hand and weapons. I think she'd be more inclined to stick around if she was training. She'd feel more in control and able to defend Lucia and Amo."

"I totally agree," Vittorio said. "She's a little hellcat and needs something to channel all that aggression. Maybe eating more pasta." He scooped more onto his plate.

"You're going to turn into pasta if you keep eating like that," Giovanni pointed out. "I agree as well. Train that girl, but then we'll have to read about her doing in every high school boy making a pass at her."

A collective groan went around the table. Mariko hid her smile. There was genuine caring in their voices. Nicoletta might not know it, but the Ferraro family had her back.

"I think it's a brilliant idea," Emmanuelle said. "And you can only hope she's doing in the high school boys who make a pass at her rather than partying every night like certain ones sitting at this table did."

"Don't be ratting us out," Vittorio said. He tried to look innocent but failed.

Everyone laughed, including Mariko. She loved sitting there listening to all of them. She knew she would always love it. Beside her, Ricco was solid and warm, his hand on her nape or holding hers against his thigh. He touched her often, gently, barely there, but enough to let her know he was close and aware of her.

"You deserve to be ratted out as many times as you stopped me going out the window," Emmanuelle said, pretending to glare at her brother.

"Because you were meeting the prince," Taviano said. "That was strictly forbidden, but you did it anyway. You were in high school, and he was not only too old for you, but he is the enemy."

Emmanuelle rolled her eyes and took another bite of garlic bread. "Taviano, what do you think about training Nicoletta?"

"I think it's a good idea. I agree that it might make her less likely to run and we can all get some sleep. We do need bodyguards assigned to her on an everyday basis."

"She's not going to like that," Emmanuelle said with a little sniff of disdain. "Especially if Emilio trained them and they're under his jurisdiction."

Stefano set his wineglass back on the table. "Nicoletta is family whether she likes it or not. We took her in when we made the decision to get her out of that situation. She'll have bodyguards whether she likes it or not, and because she's family, that means they'll be trained by and work under Emilio." It was a decree, nothing less.

Mariko found it fascinating to watch the interplay within the family. They all got a vote, but Stefano had the last word and everyone accepted it as such. No one ever appeared to really argue with him. Maybe Francesca, but it seemed she didn't have to argue much. Stefano clearly gave her anything she wanted.

Mariko glanced up at Ricco and found herself blushing. He was looking down at her with a look on his face that took her breath and made her heart flutter. No one looked at her like that. It was the same look Stefano got on his face when he looked at Francesca. Adoring. Loving. She felt the burn of tears. She didn't have a clue what to do when Ricco looked at her that way. Everything he was offering to her was new. Sometimes she felt like she was in the garden maze, trying to find her way.

He leaned down and pressed his lips against her ear. "I think it's a Shibari night. A special one. You. Me. The ropes. A very erotic pose. I've been sitting here looking at you and I can already see the exact image I want."

She shivered. Her sex clenched. She was aware of her body beneath the modest clothes she wore. The lacy demi bra and sexy little panties that left her buttocks bare, but had a small bow right at the base of her spine with three strands of cord wrapping around to the front. Ricco liked lingerie. Once, in the ropes, he'd whispered that he liked knowing she wore it just for him. That no one else could see what she gave him.

"We have Nicoletta covered," Stefano continued. "She's got Enrica right now, but when this is over, I'll put the two new men on her. They're good. Emilio has them well trained and both were Special Forces before they came home. I like them."

"Too fucking young," Taviano objected simultaneously with Vittorio.

Mariko had to hide her smile again. It was funny how the brothers all talked alike. Thought alike. Had similar expressions. Voted alike. She smiled up at Ricco, blushing, the color moving up her body like the touch of his hands. She wanted the ropes around her. She wanted to see desire building in Ricco's eyes. The lines of lust carved deep into his face. Mostly she wanted that feeling of belonging. Of being so seductive he couldn't resist her.

"Taviano, I know damn well you didn't just stop at the cameras," Stefano said, sitting back in his chair, reaching for his wineglass. "What else did you learn?"

"The software he's using is very advanced. Very. I traced that directly to Forward Technologies."

Mariko gasped and sat up straight. "That's the same company that supposedly sent my brother the ticket to come to the United States. They booked the hotel room for him using a company card, but the card was later reported as stolen."

"To find out the owner of the software company took a bit of doing. Vinci got involved as well as Rigina and Rosina. After we peeled off all kinds of layers, it seems the Yamamotos own the software company, along with the company that produced the faulty casing on the race car. The Yamamotos also own a leading security company complete with the exact same cameras used to keep track of all of us." Taviano picked up his glass of wine, smiled at his siblings and took a drink.

"Nao Yamamoto," Stefano said. "Why wait so long?"

"He didn't make his move until after his father died. He wouldn't have wanted to shame them further," Mariko said. "I suspected Nao and actually watched him for several days before I came here. There was nothing out of the ordinary happening with him. He has a caretaker who is with him at all times, but he went to work and then went home. I checked his home and his offices. Ryuu isn't being held there."

"If he had these companies hidden, he probably has more," Stefano said. "Our family certainly does. I'll get Vinci and the others on it. We're all looking, Mariko. Everyone is."

She inclined her head, because around the Ferraros it was difficult to keep her composure. She either wanted to laugh or cry, or join in their ridiculous arguments. She loved the family. She loved the way they gathered at Stefano and Francesca's home, even if they lived in a penthouse in a hotel. Francesca had made the space into a beautiful, warm, welcoming home.

"Next time we come," Ricco said, "Mariko and I will be doing the cooking." He stood up and leaned over to kiss Francesca on the top of her head. "Are we paying Nao a visit later tonight?"

Stefano nodded. "Let's go around two. His caretaker will have settled down by then and we can have a private chat with him."

"You two taking off already?" Giovanni asked, nudging Taviano. The two men grinned at each other. Vittorio smirked and winked at her.

Mariko blushed all over again, but she didn't mind the teasing. She knew it was meant to be affectionate. It made her feel part of their family. More, Ricco moved closer and wrapped his arm around her.

"See you at two, Stefano," he said, shooting his brothers a quelling glance. He kissed his sister on the cheek and urged Mariko toward the door with his palm in the small of her back. He was silent in the elevator, withdrawing a little, although he held her close to him. She had noticed he did that before he practiced his art.

Just the thought of having him alone with her in the studio was exciting to her. She loved the way he moved, his confidence, how he handled the ropes as if they were a part of him. She couldn't wait to see just what he had in mind. The sexual tension stretched between them until every nerve ending in her body was so aware of him, she was certain she could orgasm without him touching her. He just had to speak.

Emilio drove them to the house and let them off at the side entrance. She realized, after the attack on the house, that even from above, the entr

ance was protected from every eye. Not even a marksman would be able to get either of them as they slid from the car and made their way into the house, the thick walls of the entry on either side of them.

"Are you up for this tonight? Physically? It may take time to tie you the way I want."

She nodded. "I'm ready."

"You know how to prepare yourself. Wear the red lace one-piece for me. The red stiletto heels. Nothing else."

His voice stroked her skin with velvet over steel. Dominant. Confident. So completely Ricco. She nodded, already so aroused she could barely speak. She loved that he could do that to her. That it was only Ricco who could see her this way. Needy. Hungry for him. Vulnerable. Somewhere between lust and love.

He reached out to cup her cheek, his thumb sliding over her high cheekbone, his dark eyes so intense she shivered again.

"I love you, Mariko. Never, never doubt that. I love you with everything in me."

The pad of his thumb, sliding back and forth over her skin, was mesmerizing. His eyes were hypnotic. She was so far under his spell she knew she would never get out, and she didn't want to. She wanted to spend her life with this man.

"I love you, too."

"If at any time I do anything you don't like, you tell me and we stop. If a tie hurts, you say so. Don't stay too long because you want to please me. It wouldn't. Shibari, to me, is decorative tying. I want to edge us into something more erotic. If you are uncomfortable or don't like it, you speak up. Do you understand me? The most important thing we have is communication."

She was already damp, and getting more so with every word. She wanted him. She wanted his art on her body. His ropes. His hands. His mouth. All of him. She had hoped he would take their art that one step further. "I will," she promised.

"This time, come to my room, not the studio."

She blinked up at him. They always worked in the studio. Just the thought of going to his room sent a rush of heat through her body. "I will," she said, not asking questions. She knew he wouldn't answer anyway, but he had something planned and she was certain she would be the beneficiary of that plan.

He brushed a kiss across her temple and then abruptly turned and walked away. She watched him go. He moved like a cat, all fluid muscle and rippling power. She knew, no matter how old she got, or how long she was with him, she would always feel that secret thrill when she watched him walk toward her or away from her.

She took her time with her routine, bathing in scented water, hydrating, doing her hair and makeup. She loved the way she felt in front of the vanity--so very feminine. That was a feeling she wasn't certain she would get used to. The red catsuit was stretch lace and it framed her curves with a delicate pattern, lying against her skin so lightly she almost couldn't feel it. The neck was low, but not plunging. The suit would have been modest if it hadn't been made of the fragile lace, leaving skin exposed everywhere.

With every step toward him, her excitement grew. Her heart hammered out a rhythm. There was an accompanying throbbing deep in her sex. Her clit felt swollen, her pulse pounding right through it. She hesitated at the door, unsure whether to knock or just go in. She'd been sleeping in his bed the last few nights so it seemed silly to knock. Still, he'd been fairly formal after leaving Stefano's apartment.

She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Ricco looked up immediately. He had rope in one hand and bamboo pole in the other. He didn't smile, but his gaze drifted over her possessively. His eyes darkened and the lines in his face were carved with sensual lust. He looked sinful in his low-cut, button-up jeans. Only two of the four buttons were done up so she could see his muscle, the dark ripple of hair and the vee that was so intriguing, disappearing into his jeans.

She turned around for him and then, turning back so she could watch him, she did slow stretching. She needed to warm up her muscles before he began tying, especially if it was going to be a long, complicated tie. His camera sat on the nightstand. He intended to take pictures.

He walked toward her, his stride confident, nothing lazy about it. He was all business, his features serious, a look she loved on him when he was practicing his art on her. Her heart jerked hard in her chest as she caught the scent of the rope. Sweet grass. He was using hemp. The texture of the rope was different than what he'd been using on her. Ricco was mesmerizing as he slid the rope through his hand, checking, she knew now, for splinters and burn speed to ensure her comfort.

He caught her hands decisively, tied them and pulled them up and over her head. The movement was very controlled, setting her heart pounding. She didn't know why she had such a reaction to Ricco when he was so dominant, but she loved how he took control, even when she knew one word from her and everything stopped.

His breath touched her neck as he lifted the heavy fall of hair and began braiding it. The tug felt like a massage on her scalp, and it wasn't until he pulled her arms down behind her that she realized her hair was braided into the rope and her head was tilted at an angle so that she couldn't move. For one moment panic set in. It was silly really; she'd been tied so completely she couldn't move, and yet it was immobilizing her head that caused her to become anxious.

His lips slid down the nape of her neck. "I've got you, farfallina mia. I'll always have you." His arms came around her and he pulled her back against his body. He was rock hard, his body strong, his heart beating against her back, his cock pressed tightly, intimately against her bottom. "Do you want to stop?"

She didn't. She wanted this with him. Just as it grounded him, it did the same for her. The connection between them was so intense when he tied her, she craved that closeness. She felt like she could see into his soul--and he into hers.

"Your breathing changed." His hand moved up her body to circle her throat. With her head slightly tipped back, her throat was exposed and his palm wrapped around it easily, so that it seemed as if her heart beat right into his hand. "When I'm with you, Mariko, my focus is wholly on you. Always you. I see everything you do. The way your body responds to me, to my art."

His fingers trailed down her chest to the upper curves of her breast. One finger continued, sliding over her right nipple. The lace was open and allowed him to touch bare skin. Her nipples were already peaked, tight little buds. The brush of his fingers sent fiery darts shimmering through her body straight to her sex. She wasn't certain she would survive.

"The feel of your skin is so warm and soft, better than silk. The lace, so fine and fragile, and the rough of the hemp in contrast. With your arms up over your head, your breasts are lifted in invitation. Such a beautiful temptation."

The words, murmured in such a low, compelling voice, sent goose bumps over her skin, flutters in her belly and had her sex clenching, spilling more welcoming drops of cream for him.

His hand moved under her breasts and settled on her hip for a moment before he stepped back, the rope in his hand.

"This is a tortoiseshell body harness, but I see it on you a bit different than I might tie it normally. Your skin . . ." He trailed off and continued working, bringing a double line around under her breasts, laying the ropes along her rib cage to ensure they didn't interfere with her breathing. "The lace, so fragile, and the harsher texture of the rope will look beautiful with this tie." His arms went around her, the rope snaking around, and then his breath was once again against her ear. "Every time I look at you, you take my breath away."

His fingers moved down her back, following her spine to the base, where he laid his palm briefly. The contrast between his skin on hers and the rougher brush of the rope he held sent waves of heat crashing through her. She wasn't certain how much time passed after that as he built the tortoiseshell body suit. He worked fast and then slow. He touched her often. Her hair, running his lips down her exposed throat, his tongue touching the nipple peeking out through the lace, a brush of his hand over her buttocks.

She was acutely aware of him at all times. Her body waited for his touch, craving it. A string of knots went down her front from un

der her breasts and down her back as well in perfect symmetry, and she found herself squirming a little, wanting those knots in other places. He didn't give her that, but he worked close, his head down sometimes, brushing across her nipples until they felt on fire.

"Stop squirming," he murmured absently, and his teeth nipped at her buttocks. She couldn't stop the little cry of need from escaping as his hand slid down her leg, following another long knotted rope. He was on his knees now, in front of her, his breath adding to the heat building in her sheath until she thought she would fragment into a million pieces. The tension coiled tighter and tighter with no relief.

She tried to concentrate on the music, to take her mind off the need that had grown out of control. She'd never felt so sensual, writhing in the ropes at times, trying to rub her thighs together in an effort to alleviate the terrible ache that grew every moment. She found herself living second to second, waiting for his touch. Waiting for his breath. The brush of his hair. The rope was tight, wrapped around her like his arms.

Her mind began to chant, please, please, please. She couldn't think, she could barely breathe with needing him. The rope slithered down her left leg and he began tying with that decisive precision, his concentration seemingly on his work while all her concentration was centered on him.

Her skin felt raw with fiery nerves. The sensitive bundle of nerves inside her feminine sheath pulsed and burned. His tongue was suddenly on her inner thigh, licking at the wetness there. She cried out, writhing again, unable to be still when her body was no longer her own but entirely his. His hands gripped her thighs, fingers digging into the flesh beneath rope and lace, holding her still while he indulged himself. His tongue was wicked, sinful, sliding up her inner thigh, dancing along the crease of her lips, flicking at her clit hard, so that her entire body shuddered, and then it was gone, back to her other thigh.