I wrapped the towel tighter around myself. "Ready for what?"
She didn't answer.
I rolled my eyes.
Zo was waiting in the main room with an arsenal of red leather spread across the chaise.
"Finally." He clapped his hands together. "Let's make you fuckable."
I laughed despite myself. "That's the goal?"
"Baby, that'salwaysthe goal." He held up a piece of red leather—panties, barely there, with straps that would sit high on my hips. "Tonight, we're doing dominatrix chic, but making itfuckable. Powerful but pretty. Dangerous but delicious. Honey, we want you to walk in and his cock explodes."
He tossed me the panties.
I caught them.
He clapped again. "Put those on. Drop the towel. We don't have all night."
I looked at Hiroko. At her assistants. At the pet still crouched in his cage, watching nothing but his mistress.
Zo rolled his eyes. "Girl, nobody in this room cares about your body except me, and I've already seen everything. Multiple times. From multiple angles."
Fair point.
I dropped the towel and stepped into the panties. The leather was soft—buttery, expensive—but it still felt foreign against my skin.
Zo circled me like a shark, tugging at the straps, adjusting the fit.
"Good. Good." He grabbed the matching top—a red strappy thing that was more harness than bra, with leather bands that would cross over my chest and wrap around my ribs. "Arms up."
I raised my arms.
He slipped the top over my head and began fastening the buckles at my back. His fingers were quick, practiced. He'd done this before. Maybe not with leather fetish gear, but the principle was the same.
I whispered, "Do you know what we're about to do?"
"Me?" Zo snorted. "No. Why would I know? I'm just the talented and very sexy stylist."
"Hiroko won't tell me anything."
"Then she won't tell me either." He tugged a strap tighter. "I just know it's going to be freaky. This whole island is freaky. That man in the cage over there is freaky."
He lowered his voice. "Hepurredat me earlier, Nyomi. Like a cat. I almost threw my martini at him."
I bit back a smile.
Zo stepped around to face me, examining his work. His eyes traveled down my body—the red leather stark against my brown skin, the straps accentuating curves I sometimes forgot I had.
Then his gaze stopped.
At my hips.
He tilted his head and squinted. "Nyomi."
"What?"
"Those hips are spreading."
