“You’re a . . . priest?” she asked, though it didn’t matter. Men of God were still men, and the john might not even be a priest. How many “doctors” had she met who didn’t know one end of a stethoscope from the other?

He didn’t reply, just removed his clothes, taking off his pants and folding them, doing the same with his shirt and collar. Candlelight showed off his muscles, hard and sinewy, a strong man and handsome, though she couldn’t see his eyes through his dark glasses.

He could have been a male model, she thought, but for the wicked scar on one leg, a jagged, red gash that seemed to pulse. She tried not to think of what might have caused it. A horrid motorcycle accident?

Maybe something worse.

Shuddering inwardly, she caught a glimpse of the bill he’d tucked under the empty vase on the table. A C-note . . . but it was off—Ben Franklin’s eyes blackened. Her skin crawled a little; then she told herself to get over it. So the hundred-dollar bill was marred? So what? It would spend as easily as a crisp new one. And it would make a good dent in the rent she owed, get Harold off her back.

She turned her attention to the job at hand.

His cock hung limp.

“Wear this,” he said, and as he walked closer to her, she caught a glimpse of something sparkling in the candlelight, little glass beads oozing through the fingers of his right hand.

A rosary?

What was this?

Did he expect her to kneel and pray with him?

Talk about kinky!

“You haven’t said what you want,” she told him. He was close enough to kiss her now, to yank off her tube top or push her skirt over her hips.

If he wanted to.

“Submission,” he said softly, and leaned forward, nuzzling her neck. “Total and complete submission.”

“Whatever you want,” she whispered back, smiling, her hands reaching upward to circle his neck, her breasts pushing through the flimsy knit fabric of her top to rub suggestively against the hair that was thick upon his chest. “Everything’s for sale . . . even submission.”

“I thought so.” His smile twisted a bit as he walked her backward through the open bedroom door.

Was there something in his hands? She’d felt something . . . more than the rosary.

“Take off your clothes.”

“No prob.” At least he was getting down to business. She did a quick little striptease for him, hoping to see some life come to his dick, but the damn thing didn’t so much as twitch, not even when she held her breasts in her hands, letting her nipples peek through her fingers.

Wouldn’t you know?

“You look good,” she cooed, working on his male ego.