The bass alone conjured images of uncivilized sex, a man’s muscled body glistening with sweat, a woman’s pliant mouth opened on a soft, surrendering moan. Mac strode across the spacious area, his feet bare, movements fluid, similar to a wild animal on the prowl. In his left hand, he held shackles. In his right, a leather strap, thick and brutal. At thirty-two, he was Hollywood’s premier photographer of women in varying stages of undress—gorgeous black-and-white portraits, many with BDSM themes of females delighting in being taken, ravished, enjoyed. Jodi Bishop’s upper lip stuck to her teeth, her mouth was that dry. Tonguing her lip loose, she drank in Mac. At six-three, he was sinewy and solid. So damn male it made a woman forget to breathe. She dragged in some much-needed air but still felt woozy. Mac’s black tee hugged his broad shoulders and pecs just as Jodi would have liked to do. Beneath his left sleeve, a bold tat peeked out, its wide swirls gracing his brawny biceps.
