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“And I don’t know if I’d like any of it,” I say. “I don’t even know what I like. I’ve never done anything like this before. So I don’t have a list. I’ve got years of watching other people be stupid in bars, and the internet.”

It’s out. I don’t take it back.

Lenart studies me for a moment.

“Then we’ll find out,” he says. “Tell me what interests you. And what doesn’t.”

“That’s a pretty long list of things I haven’t figured out yet.”

“We have time.”

I glance around his private room, at the mirror, the leather chaise, and the cabinet with its doors closed.

“What if I want to try something and change my mind?”

“Then we stop.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” His gaze holds mine. “You don’t have to know everything you want before we begin, Tara. You only have to tell me what you’re comfortable with.”

I consider that.

“And if I want you to take charge?”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

“Then, sweetheart, you need only ask.”

Lenart sits across from me, perfectly still, waiting for my answer. I look at his mouth, remembering those fangs against my lip. Jesus. I have no idea what I'm getting myself into, but I really, really want to find out.

“Take charge,” I say.

“Red stops everything,” he says. “At once. Yellow means slow down, or wait, or ask you. The same words the hosts use, upstairs and down. The bond doesn’t change one word of it.” He holds my eyes. “Say them back to me.”

“Red, it stops. Yellow, you slow down.”

“Good.”

He stands.

He doesn’t take my hand this time. He just looks down at me and says, “Stand up, Tara,” in a voice I haven’t heard before. It’s quieter than the one he uses upstairs, and it isn’t a request.

I stand up.

“Come here.”

There are about two steps between us. I take them. He still doesn’t touch me. He looks at me for a long time, at my face, my mouth, my throat, the braid over my shoulder, the leash I forgot to take off my belt this afternoon, still looped through the belt loop. His eyes stop there for a second. His chest stops moving.

Then he lifts one hand and touches the side of my neck with two cool fingertips, just below my ear, and I feel it in my knees.

“You’ve been looking after everything,” he says. “The dog. The bar. Your uncle’s books.” His fingers move down the side of my throat, slowly, and stop at my collarbone. “For the next little while, you’re going to let someone look after you. All you have to do is tell me the truth. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He takes his hand away. “Take your shirt off.”

“Is that a request?”