“You’re so damn big,” she whispered.“Why, thank you cariño,” he said.”

“Damn, you’re soft. I have trouble keeping my hands off you.”Okay, serious melty stuff.”

“That’s an awful lot of littles, don’t you think?”“Perhaps.” He displayed his hand. “Big.” He set hers next to his, so small and delicate contrasted with his thick, blunt fingers. Why did holding her fragile hand raise every protective instinct he had?”

“You mean you’re not God? Nooo, say it isn’t so!”

“Look at me, sugar.” She lifted her eyes, and he wiped away the tear that spilled over. “I could tell you what I do and don't do, but you wouldn't believe a word I said. So let's get this over with.”

“She took a second look at him, at his fancy tailored suit. Dark gray with pinstripes. Oh please, like she’d really believe he was a dom at all? “Gabrielle Anderson. Are you sure you’re Master Marcus?”“Why would you think I’m not Master Marcus?” he asked. Well, good grief. She waved a hand at him and kept the duh from slipping out. Just in case he really was Master Marcus. Maybe he hadn’t changed yet or something. “The suit? Where are your leathers or latex or…biker jacket or vest? And black? Did you forget to wear black?”He stared for a second, as if she’d turned into a drooling idiot, and then simply roared. Deep, full laughter—amazing coming from someone who looked like he should have a stick up his ass.”

“I’m a firm believer in equality at all times—”“At all times?” She glanced at the cuffs clipped to his leathers. “Why do I find that hard to believe?” And why the heck was she arguing with him. Mine, mine, mine.“At all times,” he repeated. “However, in the bedroom or in the club, I am a lot more equal than you.”