Wilder Jasinda - Alpha

Contents TITLE COPYRIGHT DEDICATION 1: THE ENVELOPE 2: INTRODUCTIONS; THE ARRANGEMENT 3: FIRST KISS 4: TESTS 5: OPERA 6: GIVING IN 7: REMOVING THE BLINDFOLD 8: PRIVATE QUARTERS 9: THE DATE 10: OWNED 11: TURNING THE TABLES 12: IN THE MIRROR 13: TRUTH 14: THE STORY 15: GOING IN CIRCLES 16: THE LETTER 17: ANYWHERE PLAYLIST ALSO BY AUTHOR NOTE VALENTINE

ALPHA By

Jasinda Wilder

Copyright © 2014 by Jasinda Wilder ALPHA All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Cover art by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations. Cover art copyright © 2013 Sarah Hansen.

This book is dedicated to four amazing women: Vilma, Ivie, Rachel, and Angie. For loving me and for loving my books. I am eternally grateful for your support and encouragement.

1 THE ENVELOPE “Miss St. Claire. Come in, please.” My boss, Mr. Edwards, waved a hand at the two chairs facing his desk. “Have a seat, Kyrie.” He said it wrong, as always, pronouncing it Kye-ree. “My name is Keer-ee,” I couldn’t help correcting him for what must have been the eighteenthousandth time. Mr. Edwards slid into his modern black leather desk chair and then unbuttoned his suit coat. “Yes. Of course.” He tugged at the cuffs of his pressed white button-down shirt, cleared his throat. “Well, Miss St. Claire, I’ll cut right to the chase. We’re letting you go, I’m afraid. It’s nothing to do with you — it’s simply that we’re streamlining our workflow, and as the newest, and least experienced member of our team…well, your services have become somewhat superfluous.” I blinked. Twice. Three times. “I’m…what?” “Superfluous. It means—” “I know what superfluous means. I just don’t understand why this is happening. Just last week Don said I was next in line for a permanent position—” Mr. Edwards cut me off with a raised hand. “Don was incorrect, and I do apologize for the misunderstanding. You see, Don had a rather unfortunate habit of making promises he had no authority to make, and no wherewithal to keep them. He, too, has been let go.” A discreet clearing of his throat indicated the subject was closed. He opened a drawer and withdrew an envelope. “Your final paycheck, Miss St. Claire. It includes a two-week severance allowance. You’ll clear out your desk immediately. Should you require a referral, you may submit a request in writing through the appropriate channels.” I shook my head. “No, please—Mr. Edwards, you can’t do this. I need this job, you don’t even know. I’ve never been late, never failed to do my job better than anyone else in my pool. Please, give me a chance—” “Miss St. Claire. Begging will not change the facts. The matter is closed. You were assigned to us through a temp agency. Temp, meaning temporary. As I said, this isn’t a punishment. We are not firing you—we are simply letting you go now that your position is no longer necessary. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a conference call in a few moments.” Mr. Edwards arched an eyebrow at me expectantly. “Fine.” I stood up, smoothing my navy pencil skirt over my hips, turning away. “Prick.” “Excuse me?” Mr. Edwards rose to his feet, a fist clenched at his side. “What did you say?” I lifted my chin. “I said, prick.” I used the same condescending tone he so often affected. “It’s a derogatory term meaning penis. Meaning, you…are…a…dick.” I turned away again, and grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. I was stopped by a hand on my wrist. “Now, now, Miss St. Claire. You don’t want to go namecalling, do you? I can very easily call your temp agency and make sure you never work in their pool again.” His fingers tightened on my wrist, and I felt his breath on my neck. “And…you know, there may be one way you could keep your job. Possibly even get that permanent position you mentioned.” I felt him press up against me, felt the evidence of what he wanted from me. And, I won’t lie, the thought crossed my mind. Once. Very, very briefly. I needed this job. I was already two months behind on rent, three months behind on my electric bill, barely keeping up with my tuition and my brother’s, plus the ever-mounting costs of caring for Mama. I could do what this doucheknob wanted, and keep my job. It wouldn’t take long. A few unpleasant minutes, if that long. He was old, past sixty,

I’d guess. Fit enough for his age, but by no means virile. But…no matter how desperate I might be, that would never happen. Not like this. Not with this guy. If he was hot, and I wanted to, maybe. It would be one thing if this were a kick-ass job that really paid the bills. But it was a temp job. Hourly, and a shitty hourly rate at that. Barely enough to cover one bill, much less all the bills I had to pay. I turned, letting him hold on to my wrist. For the moment. I lifted my eyes to his, putting on my best poker face. “Yeah? Just like that? That easy, huh? Suck you off, and you’ll let me keep my job? Let you fuck me over the desk, and I’ll get the permanent position, too, I bet.” He missed the dangerous calm in my voice. “Now you’re thinking.” He licked his lips, lifted a finger to touch the apex of my cleavage—the little of it that showed in my conservative work outfit. “You’re a very attractive young lady, Miss St. Claire. I’m sure we could come to an agreeable arrangement.” God, I hated the arch, faux-formal way he spoke. An agreeable arrangement. I forced down my revulsion for a few more seconds. “What did you have in mind, Mr. Edwards?” My spine crawled with disgust as his eyes leered and his tongue flicked out over his thin, pale lips. He made short work of his belt, and I heard the telltale zzzzhhrip of his zipper going down. I didn’t look, didn’t want to see what he’d just pulled out. “Well, let’s just see how you do, and we’ll go from there.” He leaned back against the edge of his desk, a greedy smirk on his face. “And…unbutton the blouse a bit.” I toyed with the button of my shirt, staring into his sludge-brown eyes. “You want a little show, huh, Mr. Edwards?” I freed the top button, which I would’ve done on the elevator anyway. I felt my breasts loosen a bit, no longer quite so constricted. His eyes devoured the expanse of cleavage. “How’s this?” “Very nice. But…how about a bit more?” I nodded, as if this was perfectly reasonable, still refusing to look down at his crotch. And then, without warning, I snapped my head forward, felt my forehead connect with his nose, felt cartilage break. I stepped away as crimson blood sluiced from his nose. “How about fuck you, Mr. Edwards?” I left him bleeding, sagging against his desk. I shuddered as I caught an accidental glimpse of his wrinkled, veiny, now-flaccid penis hanging over his zipper. God, I could’ve gone the rest of my life without seeing that. I opened his door and walked out, glanced down at my shirt, and cursed as I realized I had a few droplets of blood on my blouse. I stopped in the women’s room and dabbed cold water onto the stain, then retrieved my belongings from my desk. I didn’t have much to get, a few granola bars, some spare tampons, and—most importantly—my framed photo of Mom, Dad, my younger brother Cal, and me. It was taken several years ago. Before. Before Dad was murdered. Before Mom got sick. Before I went from innocent, naïve, privileged college girl to primary breadwinner for three people, one of whom didn’t even recognize me most days. Before life went completely down the drain, putting all my dreams out of reach, leaving me desperate, exhausted, stressed, and frustrated. I stuffed my things into my purse and walked with as much dignity as I possessed toward the bank of elevators, hiding my mirth as I saw Mr. Edwards being escorted out by security. His pants were buttoned, but not zipped, and his once-impeccable suit was spattered with blood. Two more security staff members were going from cubicle to cubicle, looking for me, I supposed. I took the stairs and exited the building. Since my temp agency never had any parking spots available, I caught the bus over to their offices, hoping I’d be able to find another job right away. My contact, Sheila, tapped on her computer for several minutes, then turned to me with a slight frown. “I’m sorry, Kyrie, but we just don’t have anything else right now.”

“He sexually assaulted me, Sheila.” Sheila let out a long breath. “I understand that, Kyrie, and he will be dealt with accordingly, but that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t have any work available at the moment.” I tried to keep breathing. “Can you check again? I’ll take anything. Literally anything.” She looked again, and then glanced back up at me with a shrug. “Nothing. I’m so sorry. Maybe try again in a few weeks.” “I won’t have an apartment in a few weeks.” “I’m sorry, honey. Things are tight. What can I tell you?” She laid a manicured hand on mine. “Do you need a few bucks? I can spare you—” I stood up. “No. Thanks.” I did need the money, desperately. I’d skipped lunch today, just to have a bit more cash to go toward the rent. But I wouldn’t take pity charity. “I’ll figure something out.” Slowly, I walked back to get my car from the parking lot. I started it, and then remembered that, because I’d just been fired, I wouldn’t get my parking slip validated. Shit. There went another fifteen bucks I couldn’t spare. The drive home was long in more ways than one. I’d been working in an office downtown, but I lived more than forty-five minutes away in the suburbs north of Detroit. My car was running on fumes by the time I got home, and my stomach was empty, rumbling and growling and gurgling. I struggled to hold back the tears as I checked the mail. I was fumbling through the envelopes, muttering “fuck…fuck…fuck” under my breath at each new bill. There was DTE Energy, Consumers, AT&T cable and Internet, water, gas, Cal’s tuition, my tuition, Mom’s hospice bill…and a plain white envelope with no return address, just my name—Kyrie St. Claire—handwritten in neat black script in the center, along with my address. I tucked the other bills into my purse and stuck the envelope between my lips as I inserted my key in the lock. That, of course, was when I saw the white notice taped to my apartment door. Eviction Notice: pay rent or quit within 3 days. I was still a hundred dollars short on rent. Or rather, short of the one month of rent I could scrounge up. I had been hoping to avoid eviction long enough to be able to catch up on the past due amount. But that wasn’t going to happen now. I’d just been fired. Still holding back tears, I opened my door, closed it behind me, and stifled a sob. I let the envelope fall to the floor at my feet and covered my mouth with my fist, tears hot and salty in my eyes. No. No. No tears, no regret, no self-pity. Figure it the fuck out, Kyrie. Figure it out. I pushed away from the door, knelt to retrieve the bizarre envelope, and flicked the light switch. Nothing. Of course the power had been turned off. On top of everything, I was starving. I’d had one of my granola bars on the drive home, but I needed something more. The only food I had in the kitchen was one package of ramen, some ketchup, two-week-old Chinese carryout, and a bag of baby carrots. And a single, lonely little cup of black cherry Chobani. Thank you, Jesus, and all the Greeks for Chobani. And thank you for the fact that the yogurt was still cold. I took my yogurt from the dark, still-cool fridge, opened it, grabbed a spoon from the drawer, and stirred it up. I opened my blouse all the way, unzipped my skirt, and perched on the counter, eating my yogurt, relishing every bite. Apart from the meager amount of food, I had one paycheck for not quite eight hundred dollars for two weeks of temp office work, plus my severance pay. That was it. Finally, I couldn’t hold back the sobs any longer. I gave in and let myself cry for a solid ten minutes. I tore off a piece of paper towel—my last roll—and dabbed at my nose and eyes, making myself stop. I’d figure this out. Somehow.

The strange envelope caught my eye. It was sitting where I’d left it on top of the microwave. I reached over and grabbed it, slid my index finger under the flap. Inside was…a check? Yes, a check. A personal check. For ten thousand dollars. Made out to me. I took a deep breath, put the check face down on my lap, and blinked several times. Hard. Okay, look again. Yep. It said, Pay to the order of Kyrie St. Claire, in the amount of ten thousand dollars and zero cents. At the top left of the check was the payer: VRI Inc., and a P.O. box address in Manhattan. And there, in the bottom left-hand corner, on the single line opposite the illegible signature, was a single word. YOU. All caps, all in the same bold, neat script that appeared on the envelope. I examined the signature again, but it was little more than a squiggly black line. I thought there might be a “V,” and maybe an “R,” but there was no way to be sure. I guess that would make sense, given the fact that the payer was VRI Incorporated. But that didn’t tell me much. No note, nothing in the envelope except the check. For ten thousand dollars. What the hell was I supposed to do? Cash it? Ten thousand dollars would pay current rent due, as well as the past due amount; it would get the electricity turned back on after paying what I owed them…ten thousand dollars would pay all my bills and still leave me enough to get the brakes on my car fixed. Ten thousand dollars. From whom? And why? I knew no one. I had no family other than my mom and brother. I mean, yeah, I had Grandma and Grandpa in Florida, but they were living off Social Security, and were about five minutes from moving into a nursing home…that I couldn’t pay for. They’d asked me for money last year. And I’d given it to them. What if I cashed this, and it was…like, the Mob? And they’d come for what I owed them, and they’d break my kneecaps. Okay, that was stupid. But, for real, who on earth would send me money at all, much less this much? I had one friend, Layla. And she was almost as desperate as I was. Nonetheless, I called her. She answered on the fourth ring. “Hey, bitch. What’s up?” “Did you—this is going to sound really dumb, but you didn’t mail me a check? Did you? Like, you didn’t secretly win the lottery?” I laughed, like it was joke. “I mean, you didn’t, right?” Layla guffawed. “Have you been drinking? Why the hell would I mail you a check? I don’t even have checks. And if I did, and if I had money to give you, why would I mail it to you?” “Yeah, right. That’s—that’s what I thought.” Layla caught the tone in my voice. “What’s going on, Key?” I wasn’t sure what to say. “I. Um. Can I come over? For…a few days?” “Your electricity got shut off?” “I also got evicted.” “No,” she breathed. “And fired.” “What?” Layla shrieked. “Didn’t you just tell me you were going to get the permanent job?” “I was sexually propositioned by Mr. Edwards.” “Shut the fuck up.” “He said I could keep my job if I sucked his cock. I mean, he didn’t say it in so many words. But he made it clear…by pulling his dick out.” “Key. You’ve got to be kidding me.” Layla’s voice was flat, disbelieving. “Wish I was. I’ll never get that mental image out of my head. Ugh.” I didn’t fake the shudder of revulsion. “Know what I did?” “What?”

“I head-butted him. Broke his nose.” “You did not!” I nodded, and then realized I was on the phone. “I did. I totally did.” Layla was silent for a minute. Then, “Damn, Kyrie. That’s a hell of a shitty day.” I heard the light bulb go off. “What was that about the check?” “Can I come over? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” I had to force my voice to stay calm. “Of course. Bring your blankie, bitch. Let’s have us a sleepover.” Layla would never let me down. I mean, she couldn’t pay my rent for me, but she’d let me stay on her couch until doomsday if I needed to. She lived with her boyfriend, Eric, so we couldn’t be roommates anymore, but she’d always welcomed me. I changed, packed my bags—which didn’t take much time—and left my shitty, third-hand furniture where it was. Either I’d be able to come back for it, or I wouldn’t. Nothing to do about it now. At Layla’s, I kicked off my shoes and accepted the Bud Light she handed me. Layla was half-black, half-Italian, all attitude and curves. Long black hair, dark brown eyes, and flawless mocha skin. We’d been best friends since the first day of college, roommates for two years, until she met Eric and got serious enough to move in with him. Eric was…okay. Smart, good-looking, nice…and a small-time pot dealer. I didn’t actively dislike him, but I didn’t get what Layla saw in him. He wasn’t a bad guy, just not my cup of tea. She knew it, and she didn’t care. She liked him, he liked her, and it worked for them. Whatever. I sat back on her ratty couch, drained half of my beer, and then handed Layla the envelope. Or, as I thought of it, The Envelope. “I got this in the mail today. Just like that. Out of the blue. Open it.” Layla frowned at me, then examined the outside. “Nice handwriting.” “I know. But look inside. And…maybe sit down.” I took another long pull of my beer. Layla perched her butt on the arm of the couch beside me and withdrew the check. “Holy shit!” She looked at me, her eyes wide. “Key, this is ten thousand dollars. You know what you could do with this?” “Yeah. I do. But…where did it come from? Who sent it? Why? And more importantly…do I dare cash it?” Layla sighed. “I get your point. I mean, part of me says ‘duh, cash that bitch!’, but the untrusting part of me says ‘hold on now, sister.’” “Exactly. I’d never be able to pay this back. Not ever.” I finished my beer, and got up to get another one, found a box of old pizza in the fridge. “Can I?” I lifted the box. Layla shrugged. “Go for it. So what are you going to do?” “I don’t know, Layla. I wish I did. I—I’m at the end of my rope. If I didn’t have you, I’d be living in my car right now. Daddy’s life insurance policy ran out six months ago. I’m short on rent, and all my other bills are past due. Cal’s tuition needs paying, and so does mine. Fuck, everything is due. And I don’t have a job. I looked for weeks to find even this temp job. I’ll never find another one. And now…right when I need it most, this” —I snatched the check from Layla and shook it— “shows up. I don’t see how I can not cash it. I’ll just have to hope I don’t end up owing, like, Sal the Slicer or something.” Layla nodded. “That’s a risk. You don’t know who this is.” She taps the check. “Did you Google this VRI Incorporated?” “No electricity, remember? I couldn’t use my computer. And I’m out of data on my cell phone plan.” “Oh.” Layla slumped into the chair in front of her PC, which was almost as old as mine. She brought up Google, typed in the name and address, and scrolled through the results. “Nothing. I mean, there are tons of companies with that name, and the fact that it’s a P.O. box means whoever it is

doesn’t want to be found.” “No shit, Sherlock. Short of hiring a fucking P.I. or something, I don’t see how I can find out who this is.” “So you cash it.” “So I cash it.” We spent the evening drinking. I got blitzed on about eight beers and passed out on the couch, since I didn’t have to be up in the morning. Layla and I both had an afternoon class, so we slept in until almost eleven, which was nice. After breakfast and a shower, Layla and I went together to the bank. I stood in front of the teller, two checks in my hand, shaking like a leaf. Eventually, I managed to hand them to the teller. I asked her to deposit them, and give me back a thousand dollars in cash. When that was done, the teller handed me a receipt and an envelope full of the cash she’d counted out to me. I put two hundred dollars in twenties in my purse, and left the other eight hundred in the envelope. I stared at the bank balance on the receipt: $9,658.67. We left the bank, got into my car, and drove to the university. True to form, Layla made no mention of the money, no hints at how many bills she had due, how much she could use even a couple hundred bucks. Couple hundred? Shit, to girls in our situation, even twenty bucks would be a godsend. She wouldn’t ask, not ever, no matter how much money I had. Just like I wouldn’t ask her if the situation were reversed. She’d never ask for anything unless she was in dire straits like I was now. Before we got out and went to class, I put the envelope of cash into Layla’s hand. “Here.” I folded her fingers over the edge. “I know you need it.” Layla stared at me. “Um. No.” I nodded. “Um, yes. You didn’t think I wouldn’t share with my best friend, did you?” “Kyrie. You can’t give this to me. You need it.” I smiled at her. “You do, too. I have enough now. You’re not just my bestie, Layla. You’re…you’re like family. So just take it and say thank you.” She sniffled. “You’re gonna make me smear my mascara, hookerface.” Layla took a deep breath, blinked, and visibly forced away the tears. “Thank you, Kyrie. You know I love you, right?” It was a big deal for her to say that. She’d grown up in a tough household. No abuse, just cold and closed off, not the kind of family that exchanged declarations of love on a regular basis. I knew she loved Eric, but I’d never heard her say it. I was very much the same, growing up in a stable and happy home, but not one where everyone was given to frequent hugs or I-love-you’s. Layla and I had been best friends for more than three years. We’d gone through thick and thin together, faced nearstarvation, faced asshole boyfriends and dickhole professors and betraying ex-friends, bar fights and cat fights and apartment break-ins. I’d been there for her when she had been sexually assaulted by a jealous ex-boyfriend, and she’d been there for me when Mom had her breakdown, necessitating longterm hospitalization. Yet, for all that, despite the fact that we’d both take a bullet for each other, we didn’t tell each other we loved one another. My turn to blink back tears. “I love you, too.” “Now shut up with the girly bullshit. I’ve gotta get to class.” She leaned over and hugged me, and then left my car, clicking across the parking lot in her three-inch heels. I sat for a few more minutes. My class was a lecture, so I could easily slip in the back and catch up on what I missed if I needed to. I pulled the bank receipt out of my purse and stared at it, wondering if I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life, taking that money. I mean, I needed it so, so bad. No question about that. I was at the point where I’d have to resort to stripping or hooking pretty soon, and that wasn’t much of an exaggeration. And that’d be just to feed myself, let alone keep a roof over my head. This money was literally a lifesaver. But the one lesson in life I’d learned was that nothing was ever free. Someday, someone would

come looking for what I owed them. I’d just have to accept that, keep it in mind, and try to not be too surprised when my debtor came knocking. I tucked the receipt away and went off to class. Afterward, I popped into the tuition office to pay my bill, and then stopped by the rental office on the way home and paid up what I owed, plus next month’s rent. It was an incredible feeling knowing I was caught up through the entire next month. I sent out checks and spent the evening on the phone with utility companies, getting caught up. By the time all my bills were paid, my checkbook ledger said I had a little less than two grand left, including my final paycheck. My brakes would cost a few hundred to replace, which would leave me with a tiny little cushion to live on. Thank you, whoever sent me that money. I pushed the thought out into the ether, wondering, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, who was behind the mysterious check. And what he, or she, or they would want in return. * * * In the middle of the following month, I was collecting the mail on the way home from work. I’d finally, after weeks of filling out applications for hours every day, found a job. As a hostess at Outback. Yuck. But it paid. Not much, but something. I’d stretched the cushion from that big anonymous check as long as possible, but it was gone already. I was caught up on my bills, and didn’t have to pay rent for another few weeks, but the panic was still there. So imagine my shock when, tucked between a utility bill and a coupon circular, was The Envelope. Same script, no return address. And inside? Another check for ten grand. On the notes line, another single word: belong. You belong. Shit. Not good. Not good. Not good at all. I called Layla, and she agreed that the meaning could be ominous, but she also agreed that since I’d cashed the first one, I might as well cash the second one. I was in deep; I already owed whoever it was more money than I’d ever be able to pay back, so why not dig myself in that much deeper? If they came collecting I’d be just as fucked, so I might as well enjoy it while it lasted, right? So I cashed it. Paid bills. Fixed the AC on my car, and replaced the long-dead radio. I went behind Layla’s back and paid her rent. Attended class, went to work, begged for extra shifts, begged to be trained as a server. And, eventually, I got the server position, which helped a lot. The month passed, and soon it was the middle of the month again. As the days folded one into the other, I tried to ignore the hope that I’d get another Envelope. And I did. My hands shook, as they always did, when I opened it. This time, there were two words on the notes line: to me. Ohshit. Shitohshitohfuckohshit. You belong to me. Layla was justifiably freaked out, as was I. But still, there was no hint as to whom I belonged. So, with nothing else to do, I kept on living. Paid my bills, tucked away some extra, helped out Layla. I had a free day—a canceled class, and I wasn’t scheduled to work. So I visited Mom. Which I hated. It was my duty as her daughter to visit her every once in a while, but I didn’t see the point most of the time. I parked outside the nursing home, made my way past the elderly residents as they listlessly

watched TV in the rec room, passed open doors with sick, frail humans in mechanical beds, passed closed doors. I stopped outside Mom’s door, which was always closed. I took a deep breath, girded myself with as much strength as I could summon, and pushed in. Mom was sitting on her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, hair lank against her skull, unwashed and greasy. She hated showers. They could get to you through the showerhead, Mom claimed. Getting her clean usually took several orderlies and a sedative. “Hi, Mama.” I took a hesitant step closer, waiting to see how she’d be today before trying to hug her. Some days, the paranoia made it dangerous to get too close to her. “They’re laughing at me. They’re closer today. Closer. Coming in through the windows. CLOSE THE BLINDS!” she shrieked suddenly, lunging off the bed and tearing at the window with her fingernails, scrabbling for the nonexistent cord. I grabbed her wrists and pulled her away. “I’ll close them for you, Mama. It’s okay. Ssshhh. It’s okay.” She hesitated, peering at me. “Kyrie? Is that you?” I felt my breath catch. “Yeah—yeah, Mama. It’s me.” Her eyes narrowed. “How do I know it’s really you? They try to trick me sometimes, you know. They send agents. Lookalikes. Sometimes the nurses in this awful prison you’ve got me in pretend to be you. They dress up like you, and they talk like you. Tell me something only my daughter would know. Tell me!” she hissed, baring her teeth at me. I tried to stay calm. “I fell off my bike when I was nine, Mama. Remember? I cut my knee open and had to walk four blocks back home. My sock was so full of blood I had to dump my shoe out. You gave me a Popsicle. Grape. Only, I was crying so hard, I dropped the Popsicle into the tub. You made me rinse it off and eat it anyway. Remember that?” “Maybe it is you. What do you want? Here to cut my rations? Take my privileges?” I felt my heart crack a little. “I’m just here to see you, Mama. You know this isn’t a prison. It’s a nursing home. They take care of you.” “They beat me!” She pulled up her sleeve, showed me fingerprint bruises on her arms. I’d freaked the fuck out the first time she’d showed me those. She did it to herself, the nurses said. I didn’t believe them at first, but then I’d seen Mom gouging her fingers into her own arm, had seen her hitting herself so hard she had to be sedated. “Mama, I know you did that to yourself. They don’t you hurt you here. I promise.” “You would promise, wouldn’t you? They make me hurt myself. Mind control. It’s in the medicine they give me. Mind control, to make me hurt myself. You’d say anything to get rid of me. You hate me. That’s why you’ve got me in prison. You hate me. You’ve always hated me.” Her lip curled, and her eyes took on a frantic gleam I knew all too well. I braced myself for the inevitable. I feel a tear prick my eye. “No, Mama. I love you. You know I love you.” “You love me. My daughter would never say that. You’re an impostor! A fake! You’re their agent! Get out! Get away from me!” Mama rushed at me, and I had to back away quickly to avoid her flailing hand. I jerked open the door and fell backward through it, felt myself caught by a nurse. “We’ve got her, sweetie. She’ll be okay—she’s just having a hard day. She didn’t sleep well last night. She hasn’t had her meds yet, and we’ve got to give her a shower today.” The nurse patted me on the shoulder. “She knows you love her. She was asking for you the other day, you know. Asked if you’d come to visit her soon.” “She—she did?” I heard my voice break.

“She did.” “Well, if she asks again, tell her I love her. Tell her—tell her I’ll visit again soon.” Inside the room, another nurse was talking Mom down. I watched for a moment and then turned away, waving at the nurse. I cried on the way home, as I always did after visiting Mama. After Daddy’s murder, she’d gone from bad to worse, and then from worse to impossible. She’d always had mood swings and bouts of paranoia, but it had been manageable, especially as long as she stayed on her meds. But then Daddy was killed, and the schizophrenia had taken over, and no amount of medication could keep her level. Daddy’s life insurance policy had paid the bills for several years, but eventually it ran out, and that left me in a really bad place. I couldn’t bring myself to apply for welfare, and my applications for student loans and grants and scholarships were still processing. And, all the while, Mom got worse and worse. My brother Cal had his head in the sand about it all. He went to school in Chicago, never came home, never visited Mama, never called me. He had his life, and as long as I helped him pay for his tuition, he’d be fine. He worked, too, paying for his own room and board, but I’d always promised myself I’d take care of him, no matter what. Growing up, I’d cooked and cleaned for him, gotten him to school, packed his lunches and helped him apply to Columbia College, helped him find an apartment and a job and taught him how to budget. So it wasn’t that he wasn’t thankful to me and for all I had done for him—he just couldn’t handle Mom. I didn’t blame him. I sent him some extra money when I got home from visiting Mom, and then dashed off a quick email to him, asking how he was. He’d respond after a day or two, probably. Meantime, the checks kept coming. One a month, ten grand every time. The notes ended, though, after that short, cryptic, and frightening message. I kept cashing them, kept tucking away as much as I could afford to save. I never stopped wondering who was sending them, but there was never any clue. I tried looking online again, but never made any headway. Months turned into a year, and I was a semester away from finishing my bachelor’s in social work. I needed a master’s for what I wanted to do, so I still had a lot of school left. And now I owed my mysterious benefactor $120,000.00. And then, on the one-year anniversary of the first check arriving in the mail, there was a knock on my apartment door. I’d just gotten out of the shower, so I wrapped a towel around my torso and another around my hair, then slid the security chain in place and cracked open the door. “Yes? Can I help you?” I asked. There was a tall, slender man of indeterminate age standing on the other side. He was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and a black tie. He was holding the kind of hat that limo drivers wore. He also had on a pair of black leather driving gloves, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a bulge at his chest that indicated he was carrying a pistol. His eyes were pale green, hard, cold, and scarily intelligent. “Kyrie St. Claire.” It wasn’t a question. His voice was low, smooth, and as cold as wind-scoured steel. “Yes?” “Get dressed, please. Wear your nicest clothes.” “Excuse me?” “If you own any lingerie, put it on. An evening dress. The blue one.” I stared at the man through the crack in the door. “What? What are you talking about?” His face remained impassive. “My name is Harris. I’m here to collect you.” “Collect me?” I spat the word. “What am I, a piece of jewelry?” “Did you or did you not cash twelve checks, ten thousand dollars each, for a total amount of one

hundred and twenty thousand dollars?” I swallowed hard. “Yes, I did.” “Do you have the funds available to repay it?” I shook my head. “I don’t. Not all of it.” “Then you will comply. Now. Please, dress. Your finest lingerie, the blue evening dress, jewelry. Style your hair. Apply makeup.” “Why?” “I am unable to answer any questions.” He stepped closer to the door. “May I come in, please?” “I’m—I’m not dressed.” “I am aware of this. I will pack your belongings while you dress.” “Pack my belongings? Where am I going?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Away.” I swallowed again. “For how long?” “Indefinitely. Now, no more questions. Will you let me in, please.” It was phrased as a question, but it wasn’t. He could easily break down the door—of that I was certain. And he had a pistol. His eyes pierced mine. “Please, Miss St. Claire. I know this is an unusual situation. But you must understand. I am here not only to collect you, but to protect you. I will not harm you, I swear. I will not attempt to watch you change. I will pack your clothes and other belongings, and I will accompany you on your journey. I cannot answer any more questions.” “I just—I don’t understand what’s going on.” Harris blinked at me, and then let out a short breath. “I’m sure you remember the message from the first three checks.” I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow past the lump of fear in my throat. “‘You belong to me,’” I whispered. “Yes. That is what’s going on. My employer has sent me to collect what is his.” “Me.” “Precisely.” “What does he want with me? Who is he?” Harris’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “I told you, Miss St. Claire, I cannot and will not answer any further questions. Now, let me in. That chain is a nuisance, and my job includes removing nuisances. Do not make this difficult, please.” I closed my eyes, counted to five, and then realized I had no choice. I knew he was armed, and I knew I had no way out of this. He’d promised he wouldn’t hurt me, but that was little consolation. He was a scary-as-fuck man, and I was a girl alone, in a not-so-great apartment in a pretty shady neighborhood. No one but Layla would even miss me if I disappeared. “Can I call my friend to tell her I’m—going away?” “After we’re en route.” “What will you do if refuse to cooperate?” I asked. Harris lifted a corner of his mouth in a smirk that chilled my blood. “That would be…unwise.” I held my ground. “What would you do?” “I could open the door, overpower you, sedate you, and bring you along regardless.” “What if I called the police?” Harris sighed. “Miss St. Claire. That is entirely unnecessary. This is not a bad thing that is happening to you. I am not a Mafia enforcer. I’m not going to break your legs. I’m here to bring you to meet my employer, who has so graciously provided for you this past year. He only wishes to arrange…repayment.” “I don’t have the money to pay him back. I never will.”

“He isn’t interested in money.” “He. You said he. So he wants…me?” Harris licked his lips, as if he’d erred. “You will comply willingly. Nothing will be forced on you.” “But I don’t want to go with you.” “No?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Surely you must be curious.” “Not enough to go with you. You scare me.” “Good. That’s part of my job. But I promise you, I will not harm you, and I will not allow any harm to come to you. You are safe with me. But time is short. If you’re going to refuse, I’ll be forced to go back to my employer and report your recalcitrance. The next step would likely involve forcible methods of retrieval. Just come with me. It will be easier for us all.” I sighed. “Fine.” I closed the door, unlatched the chain, and let Harris in. He eyed my apartment with open amusement. “I must say, I would have expected you to find yourself a nicer place with the money you’ve received.” “Nothing lasts forever. I had no guarantee the checks would keep coming. I can afford this place on my own. Sort of.” “Wise of you.” Trying to delay things, I asked. “Can I get you anything to drink?” Harris blinked at me. “No. Thank you. We don’t have much time. Get dressed, please.” I went into my bedroom, rifled through my closet until I found the blue dress I’d worn to a fundraiser gala with my last boyfriend. Harris knew I had a blue dress, and that in itself was terrifying. It wasn’t an expensive dress, but it fit me like a glove, showed off my curves and accentuated my skin and hair. I glanced at Harris, who had my two suitcases—Mom and Dad’s old luggage—on my bed and was packing all of my jeans, yoga pants, skirts, blazers, dresses, and blouses with military efficiency. I lifted the dress. “Will this do?” Harris looked up, examined the dress, then nodded once. “Yes.” I dug the one set of lingerie I owned out of a bottom drawer. It wasn’t expensive, but again, it was perfect for me. Deep crimson lace, the perfect shade to offset my tanned skin and blonde hair. I stepped into the bathroom, locked the door, and dropped the towel. I examined myself in the mirror. I was medium height, a touch over five-seven, with naturally tanned skin and thick blonde hair. I was curvy enough, on the heavier side of average for my height and build. I saw myself as being pretty on most days, and sexy if I tried hard enough on a good day. Nothing special, but not ugly. I put on the lingerie, then set about doing my hair. I did it in loose, spiraling curls, pinning my bangs to one side. I slipped my dress on, zipped it up the back, and then applied my makeup. I didn’t wear much, just some foundation, blush, eye shadow, and lip stain. Nothing heavy or overdone. I put on a pair of teardrop diamond earrings and a matching necklace, a high school graduation gift from Daddy. Finally, after about thirty minutes, I was ready. I looked at myself in the mirror again. Not bad, Kyrie. Not too bad. I nodded at my reflection, summoned my nerves, and stepped out. Harris had my suitcases packed, and was closing the drawers of my dresser. He looked me over. “You’re very beautiful, Miss St. Claire.” I ducked my head, oddly pleased by his compliment. “Thank you, Harris.” He nodded. “Now, if you’re ready?” “Everything is packed?” “All your clothes and underthings, jewelry, and the phone charger. I assume everything else you need is in your purse.” He lifted the suitcases and moved toward the front door. I followed him, then paused as he opened the door. “What about my apartment?” He set the suitcases in the hallway, waiting for me to exit so he could close the door behind me.

“Everything is taken care of.” “What—what about Cal? And Mom? And—” “I repeat, Miss St. Claire: Everything is taken care of. All you need to do is follow me.” He watched me, his pale green eyes calm, patient. I let out a shaky breath. “All right, then. Let’s go.” I shouldered my purse, shut off the lights, and locked the door. I followed Harris outside into the late evening sunlight. There was a low, sleek black MercedesBenz parked away from the other cars, angled to take up two spots. He set the cases by the trunk and withdrew a key fob from his pocket. The hatch opened, and then he placed the cases inside. He had all this done before I even had a chance to put a hand on the door. Harris opened the back right passenger door, held it for me as I slid in, and then closed it gently. Within seconds, he was in the front seat, and the engine roared to life. He drove us to a small airport, passing through a security checkpoint, and then he parked on the tarmac beside a huge private jet. I swallowed hard as I stared out the tinted window at the airplane. Was this really happening? Ohgodohgodohgod. I was nothing short of terrified. “If you wish to make a phone call, now is the time, Miss St. Claire,” Harris said. I dug my phone from my purse and called Layla. “What’s up, Key? Wanna meet for drinks?” I let out a breath. “I—can’t.” “Why not? What’s up?” I blinked hard. “I’m going away.” “Wh-what? What do you mean? Where? Why? For how long?” “I don’t know, Layla. I don’t know. The checks? All that money? I’m about to meet the man who sent them.” “Who is it?” Layla demanded. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. A man showed up at my door an hour ago and said he was here to collect me. I’ve been collected, Layla.” “Does he know you’re calling me? Are you, like, in danger?” I forced myself to breathe calmly. “I don’t—I don’t think so. I don’t really have a choice, but I’m not in danger. Like, I don’t think anyone is going to kill me. I am scared, though. What’s going to happen to me?” I whispered the last part. “Kyrie…Jesus. This would only happen to you.” I heard her breathe, sounding as shaky as I did. “Where are you?” “Oakland County International Airport. About to board a fucking massive Gulfstream or something like that. A big private jet. Right now I’m sitting in a Mercedes-Benz.” “Ohmigod, Kyrie! So whoever this guy is, he’s loaded.” “Yeah.” “And you owe him—what, a hundred and twenty grand?” “Yeah.” “How are you going to pay him back?” Layla asked. I blinked hard, fighting tears of fright. “This guy, Harris, he said my benefactor isn’t interested in money.” Layla sucked in a sharp breath. “He’s interested in you, then. Something tells me you’ll have to put out a hell of a lot to pay back that much money, honey.” “Layla!” “Just sayin’, babe. It’s true.” “I’m not a whore. I’m not going to use sex to pay him back.” My voice shook.

“You may not have a choice.” “I know. That’s why I’m so scared. I mean, I’m no prude. You know that. But…what if he’s, like, eighty? Or some kind of…sultan? You know? Those girls who end up in slavery in Saudi Arabia?” “I’m scared for you.” A knock on the window startled me. Harris opened the car door. “It’s time, Miss St. Claire.” “I have to go, Layla.” “Be—be careful, okay? Call me as much as you can, so I know you’re alive.” “I will.” “So…I’ll talk to you later, Key.” She tried to sound casual about not saying “goodbye.” I loved her fiercely for that. “Later, babe.” I used the fake accent that always made her laugh. She laughed, and then hung up on me. I sniffed, smiling, feeling somewhat reassured by talking to Layla. Harris closed the door behind me, and then gestured to the movable stairway leading up to the door of the jet. “Ready?” I shook my head. “Not even close.” “Understandable. There’s champagne and other refreshments on the plane. Shall we?” He touched the small of my back with three fingers, a gentle nudge. I ascended the steps on jelly-weak knees, and entered the jet. It was…stunning. Like in a movie. Cream leather seats, flat-screen TVs, thick carpeting, a silver bucket of ice sitting on a special tray near one set of seats, with a bottle of what I assumed was hideously expensive champagne. A flight attendant in a navy blue suit was already on board, ready to wait on me. I glanced at Harris in shock. “You’re entering a whole new world, Miss St. Claire,” he said. “One with many privileges. Sit, relax, and try to calm yourself. You will not be harmed, you will not be entering into any kind of slavery. You are merely…changing situations.” I nodded, unable to speak. I sat, buckled in, and held on to the arms of the seat as the jet taxied and took off. When we were airborne, the flight attendant poured me a flute of champagne, which I sipped slowly and carefully. I needed to take the edge off my nerves, but I needed my wits about me for whatever came next. The flight was a little over three hours, and then we landed with a gentle bump at a private airfield. I had no idea where we were. I exited the plane and followed Harris to a waiting car, this one a stretch limousine. He held the door for me, closed it, and then slid into the driver’s seat. He said nothing, only waited as someone else loaded my suitcases into the trunk. I’d half expected to see someone sitting in the shadows of the limousine, but there was no one. Only long expanses of black leather, lights, and a radio, and more champagne. I folded my hands on my lap and waited as Harris drove. It was a long journey, and we got closer to what looked to be New York. We went over the Brooklyn Bridge and into Manhattan. We wove through thick traffic, heading uptown. After almost an hour of driving, high-rises piercing the night sky all around, Harris pulled the limousine into an underground garage. My heart was hammering as Harris led me, sans suitcases, to the elevator. The elevator rose quickly, leaving my stomach in my heels. Harris was silent, standing beside me, hands folded behind his back. The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and we stepped out. We were in the foyer outside what I guessed was a penthouse. Thick, dark slate-blue carpeting, navy blue walls, wide mahogany French doors, a flowering tree in one corner, and a floor-to-ceiling window revealing a breathtaking

view of New York City. Harris stopped by the doors and turned to face me. “This is it. As far as I go.” He reached into his suit coat pocket and withdrew a length of white cloth. “If you agree, I will put this blindfold on you. By allowing me to put it on, you are agreeing to willingly follow every instruction given to you without hesitation. If you do not agree, I will take you home, and repayment of the funds will be expected forthwith.” He blinked at me, waiting. “Do you so agree?” His voice was formal. I took a deep breath. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” Harris lifted a shoulder. “There is always a choice.” I searched myself. Could I do this, knowing what would likely be expected of me? I lifted my chin, summoned my courage. “I agree.” Harris nodded once, and then moved behind me. I felt him place the blindfold over my eyes, the white cloth folded several times so I couldn’t see a thing. He tied it gently but firmly behind my head, and then I felt his hand on my back, the same three fingers he’d used to nudge me onto the jet. I heard a door handle turn and the faint hush of a door sliding across thick carpet. A push, and I made my feet carry me forward. Two steps, three, four, five. “Until the next time, Miss St. Claire,” I heard Harris say behind me, and then the click of the door closing. It was a decidedly final sound. I stood, shaking, trembling, blindfolded, waiting. I heard a footstep off to my left. “Hello?” I asked, my voice tremulous, breathy. “Kyrie. Welcome.” The voice was deep, smooth, lyrical, hypnotic, rumbling in my bones and thrumming in my ear. A finger touched my cheekbone, warm, slightly rough. The fingertip scraped ever so gently across my cheek, up over my ear, brushing a loose tendril of hair away. “Please, don’t be afraid.” He was close. I could feel the heat emanating from him. I could smell him—spicy, masculine cologne, soap. His voice, God, his voice. It made me shiver. Confident, almost kind, warm. “I have waited a long time for this moment, Kyrie.” “Who—who are you? Why am I here?” A pause. “You don’t need my name just yet. As to why you’re here?” His voice lowered, hushed, a growling murmur that made my stomach clench. “You’re here because I own you, Kyrie.” “What—what are you going to do to me?” I hated how weak, how afraid I sounded. “Everything.” His voice was thick with promise. “But nothing you won’t enjoy.”

2 INTRODUCTIONS; THE ARRANGEMENT I gulped, probably loud enough for him to hear. “If you won’t tell me your name, what do I call you?” He chuckled, and the sound of his laughter caressed me, mocked me. “You and I are completely alone, Kyrie. If you speak, it can only be to me. You need call me nothing.” “So I don’t have to call you ‘sir,’ or ‘master’?” His voice went sharp and cold. “I am not a dominant, Kyrie. You are not my slave, nor my submissive.” He moved, now standing behind me. He was close to my ear, and I felt him at my spine. “I own you, but you will submit to me willingly.” “I will?” “You will.” “Why?” I wanted to turn, to touch him, to take the blindfold off. Something prevented me, and I didn’t dare examine what it was. “For the period of one year, I mailed you checks for ten thousand dollars, one every month. You cashed and used them all. You spent my money, Kyrie. You lived on my generosity. My reasons for this will remain a mystery to you…for now. But you are in my debt. You would have been homeless and starving without me. Your mother would not have received the care she needs without me. Your brother would not have a home or an education without me. So…I don’t just own you, Kyrie. I own your mother, and your brother. They are both wholly dependent on you, and thus, on me.” I swallowed again, blinked away tears. “What do you want from me?” The words were barely a whisper, almost inaudible. “Kyrie…Kyrie…” His voice soothed and stroked me, deep and soft with tenderness. This man, his voice…it was magical, so expressive, so changeable. The power in his voice terrified me. He could manipulate me with the mere tone of his voice, frighten or calm me with mere words. “You need not be so afraid. Allow me to reassure you somewhat. As I said, I am not a dominant. I do not derive pleasure from inflicting or receiving pain. I derive pleasure from control, from obedience. You will do what I say, comply to my wishes but, I promise you, you will always find my wishes to be for your own pleasure, and for your own benefit. I will never hurt you. Never. I will not strike you. I will not bind you, or if I do, it will be your own compliance that keeps you bound.” “Why?” I blinked behind the blindfold, squeezed my eyes shut, and felt a tear trickle down my cheek. “Why me? Why will I obey you?” Obey. I hated that word. I’d never been obedient. I didn’t always do what I was told—or at least not easily. Even as a little girl, my parents learned it was best to ask me nicely rather than command me. Forcing me into something with brutish commands would bring out the sharp side of my very short and very explosive temper. This man, unseen, unnamed, expected me to obey him. Felt that he owned me. Now my tears were of helpless rage, because…I had a sinking feeling he was right. “Because you care. Because you have honor.” That same rough, yet tender, pad of his finger slid across my cheek, near the corner of my mouth, wiping away my tear. “You will obey me because you must. I do not, and never will, expect you to repay me monetarily —” “No,” I couldn’t help snapping, “you just expect me to fuck my way out of debt.” “Incorrect, Kyrie,” he responded. His voice was calm, but sharp as razors and cold as the vacuum

of space. “Here is another promise I will make you: You and I will not engage in penetrative sexual intercourse unless you ask for it. And you will, Kyrie. That’s my promise, here. You will ask. You’ll beg me for it. But it won’t happen until, and unless, you ask me for it.” “You’re very sure of yourself,” I said, trying to sound stronger than I felt. In truth, the raw sincerity and utter surety in his voice shook me to the core. He believed what he said to be nothing but the unquestionable truth. “Yes, I am.” Now his voice was a mere breath of heat on the shell of my ear. “I will make sure you beg me for it.” Holy shit. What was I supposed to say to that? I could barely stand up. The potent mix of emotions this man engendered in me had me trembling, knees knocking. I was turned on, I had to admit. And that scared me. So badly. I didn’t want to want him. I didn’t want to be owned by him. But somehow, with nothing but a few words and touches, he had me aching in ways I’d never thought possible. “See?” His fingertip traced the apple of my cheek, ran beneath the swell of my lower lip. “Already you begin to understand. You’re turned on, Kyrie. I can smell it on you. Your nostrils are flaring. You’re trembling and blushing. You hate it, though, don’t you?” I didn’t answer. “Don’t you? If I ask you a question, I expect an answer, Kyrie.” “Yes.” “That’s okay. Hate it all you want. Fight it. Try as you might, you can’t help it. I own you, Kyrie St. Claire. And soon you’ll come to accept this.” “Never.” “Ah. Rebellion. There’s your spirit. That temper of yours, Kyrie. It’s gotten you in so much trouble, hasn’t it?” He sounded amused. “Mr. Edwards is still recovering, you know. You smashed his nose into smithereens.” I reeled. “You…you know about that?” “Of course I know about it. I know everything about you.” He stepped away, his voice slightly distant. I heard the tinkle of glass, of pouring liquid. He took my hand in his, pressed a tumbler into my palm, lifted it to my lips. “Drink.” I touched the liquid to my lips, tasted the fiery burn of expensive Scotch. “Eeew. No.” “Drink.” His voice was a whip. “I dislike repeating myself.” I drank. My esophagus was coated in lava, and then it hit my stomach like a hundredweight of bricks. My blood turned to fire, and my head spun. “God, that’s gross.” But, even as I said it, I felt my body going light, heated by the Scotch and lifted up as if I were a hot-air balloon. I drank again, and it wasn’t as bad. “Yet you drink again, of your own volition.” I heard a smile in his voice. “You drinking the Scotch is a very apropos metaphor for the way you react to me. You don’t like it at first, but it burns away your resistance, and soon you find yourself going back for more.” I drank again, a small sip, and the lava on my throat, in my stomach, the fire in my blood, wasn’t so bad. It emboldened me. “You said you don’t expect me to pay you back monetarily. Yet you said you won’t have sex with me unless I ask for it. So what do want from me?” “Merely yourself. Your utter and immediate obedience in all things. Your life.” I heard him swallow. “And here’s why you’ll find yourself obeying. Beyond the heat in your loins that you feel, and the way you react to the mere sound of my voice…you’ll obey because you know the hold I have on you. I will continue to provide for your mother and brother as long as you obey me. They will be very well cared for, in all things. As will you. The kind of treatment you received on the jet is a mere glimpse of the life I will provide for you.” “And if I don’t comply with your every whim?”

“I will send you home. You would sign an ironclad nondisclosure agreement, and you’d be free to go.” “Just like that?” I put all the sarcasm and bitterness I possessed into those three words. “Just like that.” “And I wouldn’t have to repay you?” “No.” He paused for effect. “Except, you wouldn’t receive another dime. And you still have a very long way to go to finish your degree. The jobs you’re trained for right now will never offer the funds necessary for you to take care of your mother and brother. And even if you could stay afloat long enough to finish your degree, and get a job in your field, do you really think a social worker could ever make enough money to pay the kinds of bills you’ve got hanging over your head?” “I’d make it work.” “Yes, Kyrie. I do believe you’d kill yourself trying.” He paused to sip his drink again, and I took another drink as well. “You could take that route. And you might be able to make it work. But…your choices are limited. Very limited. How long do you think it’d be before you’d end up in a strip club? Before you’d sell your body? Before you’d start doing what that vile pig Edwards asked of you, simply to keep a job you so desperately need?” I couldn’t answer. He was all too right. I hung my head in defeat, held out the glass, unable to grip it any longer. He took it from me. “Exactly.” His voice moved away, and I heard glass on wood as he set my tumbler down. “Or you can stay here with me. Play along with my little game, and have all your bills paid.” “How is this different from prostitution?” I demanded, my voice shaking. “I’m selling my life, my body, my fucking soul to you, to pay the bills.” “If you wish to consider it prostitution, then I suppose that case could be made. But it isn’t. Consider it instead to be…commerce.” “Commerce? A deal?” “Exactly. A deal. But this is not a sexual deal, Kyrie. I might endeavor to stimulate your senses, to turn you on. I do not deny that I’m attracted to you, and that I have been for a long time. But I am not attempting to coerce you into having sex with me. I will persuade you, one step at a time. And that, Kyrie, is no different from what goes on in bars and clubs every night. No different from what you yourself have engaged in.” He was near me again, circling me, sipping and speaking. “You go to a bar, you spot a likely young gentleman, attractive, well-dressed, a certain gleam in his eye, a swagger to his gait. You let him strike up a conversation. He buys you a drink or two or three. Maybe you give him your cell phone number, or maybe you simply return with him to his place that very night. “Or maybe you go on a few dates with him first. You’d flirt, ask a few questions, determine whether or not his personality jives with your own in a satisfactory way—whether the initial attraction remains. Eventually, if all the conditions are met, you’d end up in bed with him. And, perhaps, this would last for a few weeks, or even a few months.” He paused, and here his voice seemed almost bitter, sounding ever more like a derogatory lecture. “All this is predicated upon a set of societally agreed-upon unspoken agreements. You are engaging in social commerce. He buys you drinks, buys you dinner. Flowers, perhaps. If he’s particularly well mannered, he’ll open doors and pull out your chair. But you are acting out a game. If he were to step beyond the parameters of this prearranged code, you would reject him outright, most likely. If he simply walked up to you and said he wanted to take you home and fuck you, how would you respond?” I swallowed, hard. “I’d—I’d probably be pissed,” I admitted. “That’s…crass.” “Precisely.” His voice softened, his breath once more in my ear. “It’s not that you would be opposed to him taking you home and fucking you. Oh, no. That, after all, is precisely the goal of the

game our fair society has set up: to fuck. But the manner of one’s approach makes all the difference, no?” “Yeah,” I said. “Pretty much.” “Tell me, Kyrie. What’s the difference between sex, making love, and fucking?” “It’s…subjective, I think. The difference in definition varies from person to person.” “Yes, I know. That’s why I’m asking you what you think.” I blinked behind the blindfold, an instinctive reaction to thinking. “Could I…sit down? Please?” “Of course. How rude of me to leave us standing here in the foyer.” He took my hand. “Come.” “Wait…the blindfold…aren’t you going to take it off?” I pulled back against his hand, reached for the fabric covering my eyes. Strong fingers imprisoned my wrist, stopping me gently but firmly. “No. Not yet. Not for a while, I think.” “What? What do you mean, not for a while?” I jerked my hand free, turned to where I thought he was standing. “I mean that I’ll remove the blindfold when I’m ready to do so. I am not yet ready for you to see me. You have four other senses, Kyrie. Focus on those.” “Are you, like, ugly or disfigured or something?” He laughed, and the sound was loud with raw amusement. “How very blunt of you, Kyrie!” He took my hand once more, and I couldn’t help a shiver running through me. His hand was huge, swallowing mine completely. Rough with calluses, yet gentle. “No, I do not believe I am thought ugly by those who have seen me. And I am not in any way disfigured. I am not particularly old, or young.” “Then why can’t I see you?” “Because this is part of my game. It pleases me. I like the way the blindfold looks on you. I like the control it gives me, how dependent on me it makes you. You could, at any time, remove it. You are not shackled, after all. But you have not taken it off, have you? Nor will you. You’ll leave it. You want to give control over to me, Kyrie. You’re afraid to do so, but you want to.” “I am afraid.” Admitting it out loud, to him, made my fear more real yet, strangely, less panicked. “I know. And that’s okay. Fear makes us cautious. I don’t expect immediate total compliance. I don’t expect you to trust me quite yet. I have to earn that. And I will. You’ll learn to trust me. And when I feel you have learned to trust me, and when I feel that I in turn can trust you, that’s when the blindfold will come off.” I felt his hands lightly grip my shoulders from behind, and I let him guide me into a walk. He directed me for what felt like a hundred steps, and then he turned me to the left, and we walked another hundred steps. He turned me around and nudged me backward until I felt a couch or a chair touch the backs of my knees. I sat down into a deep leather chair, and sighed in relief as my fear and nerve-weakened legs relaxed. His fingers lifted one of my ankles, and I felt an ottoman slide underneath my feet. I sank deeper into the chair, finding it to be immensely comfortable. “A moment, if you will,” he said, and I heard his footsteps recede, back in the direction from which we’d come. He returned in a few moments, “Here, Kyrie. Your Scotch.” I held out my hand, and he pressed the cold glass tumbler into my palm. I lifted the rim to my lips, sipped the thick burning heat, and this time I relished the taste. “Now, where were we?” I heard his voice coming from off to my left. I turned in the chair slightly so I was facing him. I realized even as I did so, how arbitrary that convention was. Facing a person when you spoke was a habit borne of eye contact. I was blindfolded, and thus facing him was pointless. I stayed as I was, though. “You were asking me to define the difference between sex, making love, and fucking.” “Yes, precisely.”

I thought for several moments, composing my response. My “host” was an intelligent, articulate man, speaking as if he’d been very well educated. He had a hint of an accent, from somewhere in the United Kingdom, I thought, although it was faint enough that I couldn’t place it any more precisely. I had a feeling he would appreciate a considered response to his question. Why I cared whether he appreciated my response was, again, something I didn’t care to examine. I did, though, and I couldn’t deny it. “It’s about emotion, I think,” I said. “Sex is the clinical term, the context-less word for the act. It means nothing else, holds no meaning or importance beyond the mere physical act of engaging in sexual intercourse. Making love is…well, obviously it’s about love. It’s about the expression of the way you feel about someone. Fucking is…I guess I think about it as something crude. Rough and empty of emotion. Hard and fast. Although I guess it doesn’t have to be rough or hard, just…devoid of emotional exchange. You’d fuck someone you just met at the bar. You wouldn’t, and I think couldn’t, make love with someone you just met. You have to know them, understand them, care about them, actually love them to make love, whereas you can fuck anyone, anytime, no emotions or connections required.” “And have you personally experienced both?” I hesitated to answer. “I…I don’t know. I think so? I thought I was in love once. I thought what we had meant something. I’ve had sex, obviously. I’ve hooked up with guys I didn’t know super well, but I’ve never slept with any of them right away. It would have to be after a few dates. I guess I’ve got a three-date minimum, you could say. It’s not something I’ve ever laid out in so many words, but, now that I’m thinking about it, it’s true. I’ve never had sex with anyone I hadn’t been on at least three dates with—at a minimum. And I don’t always sleep with guys I’m dating.” “You didn’t answer my question, Kyrie.” I sighed. “I don’t know, okay? I guess, yes, I have experienced both. With Matt it was sweet and meaningful, although we never said ‘I love you.’ But the other guys I’ve slept with, it’s only been about the act, really, so according to my own definition, that would have been fucking.” I was shocked to hear myself answering, so openly, such deeply personal questions. I wasn’t usually so forthcoming. “What about you? Have you experienced both?” My question was met with a long moment of silence. I wasn’t sure he’d answer. But then he did. His voice was slow, as if he was thinking about his words as he spoke them. “No, I must confess I have not. I have never made love before. I have only fucked, if we’re using your definitions.” “What is your definition, then?” Another long silence, and the slowly spoken response. “There has only ever been the act, for me. It has always been devoid of meaning, devoid of emotion. That is by design, however. No one has ever meant anything to me. I have never let them, or wanted them to. My sexual partners have always been very carefully chosen for their willingness to engage in sex with me upon my terms. By contract, actually. Not a financial contract, as I have never paid for sex, but a contract of silence. Meaning, they can never speak of their time with me.” “You’re very private, then.” He actually laughed. “Oh, Kyrie. You have no idea how private I am.” “Why?” The question came out of my mouth before I could stop it. Again the long, thoughtful silence. “The only reason I’m answering your questions is to put you at ease. Normally, I wouldn’t respond to such interrogatory conversational gambits.” He sighed. “I do not trust, Kyrie. Not anyone. Not ever. I do not rely on anyone. I do not allow anyone past my walls. And by walls, I mean the literal walls of my home, and the metaphorical walls around my heart and my life.” “You’ve been hurt.” Again the words fell from my lips before I could stop them.

“Haven’t we all?” “Yeah, I guess so.” I took a long sip of my drink. “I still don’t understand what you want from me. Why we’re playing this game.” “All I want from you, Kyrie, is you.” “Then why…like this?” I gestured to the blindfold, and then away, meaning the way I was picked up. “Why the checks? Why the hired goon saying he was ‘collecting’ me? Why the blindfold and the…the mysteriousness? Why? If you wanted me, why not simply arrange to meet me?” “Would you have come?” I heard leather creak, and his voice sounded nominally closer, as if he’d leaned forward. “If I’d arranged so that we ‘accidentally’” —I heard the quotes around the word— “met, would you have believed me? What would I have said? ‘Oh, hello, Kyrie, I’m the guy who’s been sending you the checks.’ I think not. And if I’d arranged a meeting and gotten to know you under what would be considered normal circumstances, and then eventually revealed that I was the one who’d sent the checks, would you not have been upset that I’d kept the truth from you? That knowledge would’ve tainted whatever relationship we’d established up to that point. Am I wrong?” I sighed. “I guess you’re right. I hadn’t thought about it that way.” “I am a very honest man, Kyrie. Perhaps you’ve noticed that. I will say the exact truth. I wish all my interactions to be truthful. This way, the truth has been established from the outset.” “Okay, I get that. But why the secrecy, then?” “As I said, I am a private man, Kyrie. Few people meet me in person. You are, as a matter of fact, one of only four people who have ever been past those doors. Harris, whom you met; my housekeeper, Eliza; and Robert, the second-in-command of my business affairs. And now you. I am not ready to reveal myself to you, for my own privacy and sense of security. And also…” He trailed off, as if considering carefully his next words. “Also…I am keeping a secret from you, Kyrie. A very deep, very dark secret. One that affects us both, and one that will change the very fabric of our relationship. And I am not ready to reveal that to you, either. When I tell you this secret of mine, you will very likely walk away, and I will have to let you. Seeing as I’ve just gotten you here, I’m not ready for that to happen. I’m telling you this much now so you’re aware that I’m keeping something from you.” “But you won’t tell me what it is?” “No.” “Why?” “Because I’m afraid to, Kyrie. Because I’ve been waiting a very long time to bring you into my life, and now that I have you, I’m jealous of the time I get to spend with you.” Something in that statement unnerved me. But what, though? Oh, yeah. “Clearly I’ve never met you. But yet you say you’ve been planning for this for a long time. Which means you’ve been stalking me?” He sighed. “Essentially, yes. Watching. Waiting. Protecting.” “Protecting?” “Yes, Kyrie. Protecting. I’ve kept an eye on you. How do you think I knew to send the check when I did?” I heard him shift, a pause, and then the sound of an object being set upon a table. A few moments later, a door opened somewhere, and footsteps approached us. “Harris.” “Hello, Harris,” I said. “Good evening, Miss St. Claire.” “Harris here has been the eye I’ve kept on you. His primary instruction was to watch, unobserved, and never, ever make any contact, or allow you to ever feel watched. Did he succeed in that?” I thought long and hard. “Yes, I suppose so. There have been a few times where I had a vague sense of being watched, but mostly, no.” “I have a file on you, several flash drives full of photographs. And let me reassure you that you’ve

never been photographed in any way that would violate your privacy. There are no nude or revealing photographs, no shots of you in private with any of your boyfriends or…liaisons…over the years. Just enough to inform, to know.” “To know what? And why?” “To know you. To be sure that you’re okay, safe, provided for.” “But I wasn’t provided for. I wasn’t safe.” “Yes, you were. You never starved. You were never in any direct danger. I only interfered when I felt there were no options left. And there were a couple of times Harris acted to keep you safe, although you may not be aware that anything even happened. He is, after all, very good at his job.” He paused, and then continued. “Harris?” Harris spoke. “Miss St. Claire. Do you remember St. Patrick’s Day two years ago? You and your friend Layla went out drinking. You two drank from noon to well past two in the morning. You were both extremely intoxicated.” I blink behind the blindfold, thinking back. “Yes. I remember.” “You were wearing a lime-green T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Layla was wearing a…well, I suppose one could call it a dress. It was…rather short.” I couldn’t help but laugh at his description. Layla’s dress had barely covered her ass, and if she moved wrong, the bottom of her ass did actually show beneath the hemline. Then the fact that he knew exactly what we were wearing that night sank in, and I started shaking. “You were…there?” “I was always there, Miss St. Claire. Out of sight, but there. You and Layla were too drunk to even walk straight that night, but there were no cabs, and the bus didn’t go where you needed to go. So you ended up walking—and I use the term ‘walking’ very loosely—all the way home. Seventeen blocks. At two in the morning, in downtown Detroit.” I shuddered as I remembered that night. We had been living together then, in a shitty-ass apartment downtown. We rarely ventured outside past dark and never, ever, alone. That night, though, we did. And we’d thought, the next day, that it was a miracle we’d made it home alive. Now I was starting to think it was less a miracle than Harris’s unseen protection. “That was an insanely bad decision on our part,” I said. “We woke up the next day amazed that we’d made it home intact.” “You shouldn’t have,” he said. “You almost didn’t.” “What?” I took a sip of Scotch, for courage. “What do you mean?” Harris answered. “Layla was so drunk you basically carried her the whole way. She couldn’t stand up, couldn’t walk, couldn’t even speak. You weren’t much better off, but you managed somehow. I’ll never know how you did it. You actually puked a few times, while you were dragging your blackedout friend.” Harris’s voice was bemused. “You remember anything from that walk home? Any sense of danger? Anyone who might have proved to be a threat?” I thought hard. That walk home was a blur in my mind. I remembered very little, just a few random thoughts: how heavy Layla had been, how tired I was, how drunk, how badly I wanted to be home. I remembered trying not to think how much farther we had to go, focusing on one sidewalk square at a time, ignoring the ache in my legs and in my back. It was as Harris had said; I had essentially carried Layla home. “I have a vague recollection of…three men. At a street corner. They were shouting at us, I think. In some other language. Spanish, maybe? I think…I think they followed us for a while. I remember…I remember trying to walk faster, but Layla was so heavy, all but unconscious.” “Yes. Those three. They did follow you, in fact. For three blocks. And they were indeed shouting at you in Spanish. The things they said…it’s good you don’t speak Spanish. They were saying vile things to you. I won’t repeat them, but it was disgusting.” “Would they have hurt us?” I had to ask.

“Oh, yes. They fully intended to rape and kill you both.” Harris’s voice went cold, hard. “That’s what they were saying. Telling you exactly what they intended to do. Their plan was to follow you home, wait till you got your front door open, and then push you both in. Rape you, kill you, and leave you in your own apartment. No one would have ever known what happened, and they would never have been caught. There were no cameras in your building. No one knew you’d left the bar — no one was expecting you. It would have been days before anyone found your bodies.” I felt sick then. “They…how—what stopped them?” Harris didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was arctic and dark. “Me. Once I realized their intentions, I…confronted them.” He hesitated again. “By ‘confront’ I assume you mean you…fought them?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but I couldn’t help asking. He answered. “Harris doesn’t ‘fight.’” “Then what?” I asked. Harris cleared his throat. “They were scum. I do not take lives lightly, but I enjoyed ending those three. I did the human race a favor when I slit their filthy fucking throats.” A wave of dizziness washed over me. “You—you killed them?” “Quickly, and easily. Don’t feel any guilt for their lives, Miss St. Claire. They intended to take turns raping you two for hours. They were evil, sadistic creatures with not even a speck of humanity in them. I showed them the mercy of quick deaths.” “But you…you killed them. For me.” “Yes. I did. And I would do so again.” “Then there was also the matter of a potential mugger, just this past month,” he said. “Harris made sure the mugger never reached his intended point of ambush. That particular individual was merely… persuaded, shall we say, to give up a life of crime.” “Indeed,” Harris said. “I can be rather persuasive.” I had a hard time breathing suddenly. “What—what else did you do on my behalf?” He answered. “Only one other matter required intervention. The last gentleman you dated. Steven Higgins.” “Steven? What did you do to Steven?” “The Steven you knew, and the real Steven…they were not the same person.” He paused, and I heard the tone of his voice shift to address Harris. “You may go. Thank you.” “Good night, sir. Miss. St. Claire.” I heard Harris’s footsteps recede, and the front door close. “What do you mean?” I asked. “I dated Steven for six months. He was really great.” “Steven Higgins is a vile, vulgar, abusive animal with disgusting predilections.” His voice was thick with contempt. “Wh—what do you mean?” “He is a predator, and the worst kind of abuser. He hides his true self well, hides it until he’s sure his prey is too deeply ensnared and too weak to get away.” “I—I don’t understand. Steven never laid a finger on me. Not—not that way, at least. He was never anything less than a perfect gentleman.” “As I said, he is predator. A hunter. He spent six months with you, assessing you, drawing you in, making you think he was kind and innocent and…vanilla. He was a BDSM dominant, Kyrie. Although those who practice BDSM would take great offense to labeling a monster like Steven as a dom. What Steven enjoyed was not BDSM, but merely torture. I have photographic evidence, police reports. I’ve put the file in your bedroom for you to look over later, as I realize my word won’t be enough to convince you of the veracity of my claims.” He sighed. “I couldn’t let Steven get his hands on you, Kyrie. He breaks women. Ruins them. Destroys them. I suspect he’s responsible for at least one death,

and I further suspect his taste for blood and inflicting pain will only grow.” “Taste for blood? He’s…killed people?” “Yes. I don’t have hard proof as to the latter claim, but considering the way his victims are left when he’s done with them, I find it hard to believe he’s never gone as far as killing someone, if only by accident.” I swallow hard. “I don’t—I don’t understand. What is it he likes?” “It starts innocently enough. Rough sex. A few slaps here and there, under the guise of spanking. But it grows worse as time goes on. It is much like the way a lobster is boiled, really. The water grows hotter and hotter, and the poor creature never even realizes what’s happening until it’s too late. The girls he chooses as prey grow fond of Steven, of his nice-guy act. They enjoy sex with him, initially. They don’t mind his propensity for a few rough moments. They tolerate the increasing violence of his attentions. And then he moves to bondage. Ties them up. Binds them to the bed. Has his way with them. Again, it seems innocent enough, if you like such things. He establishes a safe-word, follows all the correct protocols for those who engage in the world of rough sex. But eventually the safe-word has no effect. He won’t stop. His slaps turn to punches. His gentle whipping loses its gentility. His rough sex turns to violence. It becomes rape. Torture. Beatings that last for hours, leaving his victim bloody and helpless, and then he rapes them to his satisfaction, which is its own torture. I have firsthand reports from his victims for you to read.” I feel myself shaking all over. “I—are you for real?” “Yes, I am. As I said, I know you won’t trust my word, so when I take you to your room, you will have an opportunity to peruse the file I had Harris put together.” “What did you do to Steven?” “I merely had Harris convince him that it would be in his best interests to vanish from your life. Permanently.” “You didn’t have him killed?” “No. He hadn’t done anything to you, so I couldn’t justify it. I would have liked to, however. He is a filthy, vile creature. I did report him to the authorities, however, so hopefully he will be stopped before he hurts anyone else.” I thought back to my time dating Steven. I wasn’t one to jump right into the sack with a guy I was dating, so we didn’t sleep together until we’d been dating for nearly two months. He’d never pushed, simply waited patiently until I indicated I was ready. He was unfailingly polite, always a gentleman, paying for meals and opening doors, buying me flowers, taking me on some of the most romantic dates I’d ever been on. When we finally did sleep together, it was…nice. Fairly plain, actually. Not spectacular, but not bad. Just average. He seemed to like missionary sex, at the beginning. And then, after a month of sleeping together, we started trying other positions. And…yes, he did spank me a few times. Not hard, but it startled me, coming out of nowhere. I hadn’t minded it, actually. I’d felt weird about not minding it, and had spent a drunken night talking with Layla and wondering if I was a freak and just didn’t know it. She’d assured me that not losing my shit over one little smack on the ass didn’t make me a freak. From then on, things with Steven heated up a bit. It had seemed at the time as if he was merely turning up the heat, as if we were discovering things together. That’s how it had felt to me. But now, with what I was being told, I wasn’t so sure. Innocent, plain vanilla missionary sex…a little smack on the ass…and then the sex got rougher, more inventive…and I’d gone along with it all. Nothing untoward had happened. He’d never hit me on the face, never tried to choke me or tie me up, but I could easily see how that could have happened. If Steven had suggested tying my hands up, just to try it, I would have gone along. I knew that for a fact. And then I would have been totally at his mercy, because I’d started trusting him.

“You’re not lying, are you?” I asked, my voice shaky. “I never lie. Never. And, furthermore, I have no reason to exaggerate or invent such things. I can see that you’re beginning to believe me.” I shrugged. “It makes a scary kind of sense. The slow progression of things, it was exactly as you said.” I thought back to the way things had ended and that, too, fit with what I’d been told. “He just vanished. I was really hurt, actually. Between one date and the next, he just…vanished. No call, not even a text. Like, I thought he’d just…left, without even dumping me.” “It was the safest thing, Kyrie. I’m sorry that his disappearance caused you pain, but it was that or allow you to suffer at his hands, and that was simply not an option. I will not allow you to come to harm, Kyrie. Not ever. I may not be able to prevent you from suffering emotional pain, but believe me when I say that I would if such was within my power.” The sincerity in his voice surprised me. It sounded for all the world as if he really did care, as if he felt deep and powerful emotions toward me. But yet he wouldn’t even tell me his name, or let me see him. It didn’t make any sense, and it scared me. Was he unstable? There was no way to know, and I’d put myself right his hands. “If you’re willing to believe me, I’d rather not let you see the file,” he said. “It’s…very graphic, and very disturbing.” “I still want to see it,” I said. “Are you sure?” He sounded closer, but I hadn’t heard or felt him move. “It’s not pretty, what he does to women. And the most awful part is that he gets away with it. If a girl were to report him, he’d just say it was consensual, because…it was. At the beginning. But by the time they realized what was happening, it was too late. But it becomes their word against his, and the girls are often too traumatized, too frightened of him to say anything.” “I want to see it. I also want to see the information you have on me.” “I’m not sure that’s wise. It wouldn’t do you any good. It’s nothing but basic information. Photographs of you going about your day. Financial information, medical information, university records.” “Why do you need all that information on me?” “Because I wish to know who you are.” “And who am I?” “Hmm…” He sighed, the sound of someone gathering his thoughts. “You are Kyrie Abigail St. Claire. Twenty-six years old. Daughter of Katharine Eileen Tilson St. Claire and Nicholas Calvin St. Claire. Your mother suffers from bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, and is currently residing at the Ravenwood Care Home in Auburn Hills, Michigan. Your father is deceased. You have one brother, Calvin Matthew St. Claire, who is currently attending Columbia College in Chicago. Your best friend is Layla Irene Campari. You have one living set of grandparents, maternal, living in Fort Lauderdale. No other immediate family. You have a bachelor’s degree in social work from Wayne State University, and are currently pursuing your master’s. You are five foot seven, and your weight fluctuates between one-thirty and one-forty. Blonde hair, blue eyes. No medical conditions. You had your appendix out when you were sixteen. You have been supporting your mother and brother on your own since your father’s passing seven years ago. Your favorite color is lavender. You have a slight addiction to black cherry Chobani yogurt, and you have a tendency to overindulge in alcohol when stressed. You have a second-degree black belt in tae kwon do, which you began pursuing at the age of eleven. You have had five sexual partners. No pregnancies, abortions, or miscarriages. You have been on birth control since you were eighteen. You hate broccoli, and your favorite dish is chicken Parmesan.” A pause, and then he cleared his throat. “What else? Oh, yes. You were arrested for shoplifting when you were fourteen, convicted, and served one hundred hours of community service. I

believe that’s everything.” I couldn’t breathe. Literally. My chest seized, my lungs froze. My heart stopped. I coughed and tried to suck air into my lungs, and failed. The glass of Scotch tumbled from my hand and fell to the floor with a crash. I clawed at my throat, at the blindfold, at my chest. I felt a big warm hand on the nape of my neck, strong and implacable, forcing my head down between my knees. “Breathe, Kyrie. Breathe in.” His voice, his honey-thick, well-deep voice was at my ear, murmuring, comforting. Soothing. I opened my throat and forced air into my lungs, dragging in huge gulps of air, breathing out, in, out. His hand remained on the nape of my neck, a gentle touch. “That’s good. Keep breathing. It’s all right. It’s all right.” “You—you know fucking everything about me.” I jerked away from him, stumbled to my feet, and lurched away. I felt his hand catch my waist and pull me forward, just as I felt my heels and the backs of my knees hit a table. “You know—fuck—you know everything. Every goddamned thing there is to know. How many sexual partners I’ve had? Jesus. Jesus. I’m gonna be sick….” Glass crunched underfoot. I heard a door open, and then the tinkling of the broken glass being swept up. “Thank you, Eliza,” he said, his voice soft. “Of course, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?” Eliza’s voice sounded on the older side, a touch of an accent, Hispanic, possibly. “No, that will be all for now. Dinner is ready, yes?” “Not just yet, sir. About half an hour.” “Very good, Eliza. Thank you.” Footsteps receded, a door closed, and I sensed we were alone once more. “Are you all right, Kyrie?” I stepped out of his touch, straightened my spine, forcing my breathing to even out. “I suppose. I could use a few minutes alone.” “Of course. This way, please.” His hand on the small of my back pulled me into a walk, guiding me forward. “I’ll show you to your rooms. You will have a moment to refresh yourself, and then we will dine.” “And I’m supposed to do all this blindfolded?” I asked. “In your own quarters you will be allowed to remove the blindfold. And if we are not together, while I am working, for instance, you will have the freedom to roam my home at will. My private apartments are inaccessible to you, so you need not fear running into me by accident.” He nudged me around a corner, and I heard our footsteps echoing in what sounded like a huge hallway. “As I have stated, you are not a prisoner. The front door is unlocked. The elevator will take you to the garage, and from there to the street, where you will find a taxi readily available. I will even arrange a flight back to Detroit, if you wish. If you choose to leave, your belongings will be brought to you, along with the nondisclosure contract. You are free to go at any time. You are free to remove the blindfold at any time. But if you do, our agreement is voided, and my financial support will cease immediately. You would have, at most, three months before your various debts caught up with you and your situation became untenable. I urge you to consider wisely, Kyrie. I give you my word of honor that you will not be in any way mistreated, harmed, or forced to do anything to compromise your morals, values, or physical safety.” I wobbled on my three-inch heels, unnerved, still shaky with fear and confusion and disorientation. “This is such a fucked-up situation. You know that, right?” “Yes, I suppose this is a rather unusual situation.” His voice was rife with amusement. His hand curled around my waist, halting me. “We’ve reached your quarters. I will send you in, and then you may remove the blindfold. Please leave the dress on, however. You look incredible in it. Eliza will bring you to the dining room in thirty minutes.”

A door handle opened, and I was nudged forward. His hand rested on my lower back, his palm against my spine and his fingers splayed possessively on my side. As soon as I realized how bizarrely comforting and familiar his touch felt, he withdrew his hand, and I was left in an even greater state of emotional confusion. “I’ll see you soon, Kyrie.” Warm lips brushed my cheek, his breath Scotch-laced and hot. I shivered at the feel of his lips on my cheek, not even an inch from my mouth. “Yeah,” I said, letting every last shred of sarcasm I possessed paint my voice. “You’ll see me.” He only laughed, a rumbling chuckle. “It won’t be for long, Kyrie. I promise. Just try to trust me, and the blindfold will come off.” “Trust you? How the hell am I supposed to trust you? I don’t know even know your name! I’m blindfolded!” “You have to give yourself over to me. It will be frightening, I know. It goes against nature, especially for one who has been through what you have. I know this. I know the enormity of what I ask. But I wouldn’t ask it of you if I didn’t think you capable of it. And I wouldn’t ask it of you if it wasn’t necessary, for me.” His finger trailed along my cheek. “Hear this, Kyrie: As you learn to trust me, as you give yourself to me, so will I learn to trust you, and give you myself.” That shook me to the core. I searched for something to say, for some way to react, but I had nothing. No words, no knowledge of what to say, what to feel, what I even thought of his statement. “Enough of this for now. Refresh yourself, and join me for dinner. There is an intercom on the wall just to your left. Press the green button and ask for Eliza if you find you’re ready before thirty minutes have passed.” “Can I call Layla?” A brief hesitation. “Yes, I don’t see why not. Be discreet, please.” “Okay.” “Goodbye, for now.” I heard the door close and latch, and his footsteps recede. I stood in place for a moment, and then reached up and removed the blindfold. I turned in place, examining my surroundings. And, once again, my breath was stolen. The room itself was mammoth, big enough to fit my entire apartment in, with room to spare. And one entire wall, from floor to ceiling, was glass. I drifted over to the windows, blinking, gasping in awe. Manhattan lay spread out before me in unrivaled beauty, a myriad of towers and lights and cross-hatched streets, yellow headlights and red taillights, cycling stoplights…never had I seen anything like it. For several minutes I could only stand with my nose to the glass, staring out at the city. How many floors up was I? Very many, clearly. I couldn’t recall the inside of the elevator, except for a memory of polished chrome and dark wood. I thought hard, and realized there had only been two buttons, one for the top, and one for the garage level. But, judging by the view beneath me, we were at least fifty stories up. There were several skyscrapers nearby, and I could see the tops of all of them. Finally I tore myself from the view and examined the rest of the room. Thick, plush, cream carpeting, a twelve-foot ceiling. On one side of the room was an accent wall, painted a dark maroon and decorated with a very high-end reproduction of Vermeer’s The Girl With the Pearl Earring. There was a waist-high pedestal beneath the painting that held a vase, which looked to be some kind of priceless work of art. The other walls were a neutral tan color with dark wood-paneled wainscoting. There was a dark brown leather couch, love seat, and chair in the center of the room, with a glasstopped coffee table. Opposite the accent wall was a wet bar and a small table with two high chairs, and an enormous bookshelf containing all of my own personal books, DVDs, and CDs, plus a vast selection of fiction from all genres. Beside the bookshelf was an elaborate music system, the kind of high-end technology that was custom-made for each client. On the coffee table was a manila file folder. Steven. I sat down on the edge of the couch and pulled

the folder onto my lap. I hesitated, and then flipped it open. Front and center was a close-up photograph of Steven, taken with a zoom lens from a distance. The look in his eyes was…feral. Evil. Scary. Nothing like the gentle way he’d always looked at me…at first. The next page was a dossier, personal information on Steven. I perused it briefly, then flipped the page. I nearly dropped the folder, so surprised was I at the next photograph. It was of a young woman with blonde hair, but that was about all I could make out of her features. She’d been beaten bloody, unrecognizable. I had to choke back my own horror. The next photograph was of her as well, of her body. She was naked in the photograph, and she had a terrifying array of welts, bruises, contusions where she’d been actually whipped, it looked like, the kind of wound you’d see in a movie showing someone being flogged. The wounds covered her from head to foot, on her arms, legs, back, thighs, stomach, breasts…. There was a whole series of photographs of different women with similar injuries. All of them were blonde-haired and blue-eyed, similar in age to me, similar even in body shape. There were medical reports on each of them, and even a few copies of police reports. Those were the most terrifying. They read exactly how I would have described the beginning of my relationship with Steven—how I had described it. Except with them, it didn’t stop where mine had. The women described how he’d talked them into things gradually, eventually getting them to agree to be tied up, handcuffed, bound in some way, and that was when he began to truly hurt them, starting with little slaps and moving to punches, kicks, using whips and canes, all sorts of awful things. I couldn’t finish reading after learning about one girl who had been permanently blinded in one eye. I closed the file and set it on the coffee table, hands shaking, stomach roiling. He’d been telling the truth. If not for him, for his interference—or help, more accurately—which I’d never even known about, I’d be another series of photographs in this file. It took a long time before I was able to stand up and finish my exploration of my rooms. I moved through the doorway beside the wet bar and found myself in a bedroom, which also featured a floor-to-ceiling wall of glass. There was a four-poster bed with a full canopy, the same thick cream carpeting under foot, an enormous armoire, and a sitting area near the glass wall, two simple but comfortable-looking chairs and a small table, the kind of furniture that is understated but insanely expensive. There was no television, which was fine by me, as I wasn’t much for TV. I opened the armoire and found it to be full of my underclothes, yoga pants, and sleep tees. A single doorway opposite the glass wall led to a marble and tile palace of a bathroom. The glass wall theme continued, with a jetted soaking tub set into a pedestal near the window, a sprawling vanity already stocked with all my makeup, my brushes, my hair dyer. There was a tiled shower with an incredible-looking rainfall showerhead, also stocked with all my shower supplies from home. Another door led to a walk-in closet bigger than my bedroom, bathroom, and living room combined. The walk-in closet was so big it had its own sitting area: an island with shelves containing all of my shoes and purses, a three-way full-length mirror, and a glass-fronted case containing all of my jewelry. My clothes were all hung up together, taking up one tiny little corner of the closet. The rest of the space? Stocked with dresses, skirts, blouses, jeans…all brand-new, with tags, in my size, from all of the most expensive stores in the world. The scariest part? They were all my style. I’d gladly wear every single item in this closet. I had to sit down as I considered the implications of what I was seeing. He’d moved me in. Everything I owned was here. He knew my sense of fashion, which kinds of dresses and tops I’d like, and I’d seen an entire section of the closet devoted to lingerie. I’d not examined the lingerie, but I assumed it was all in my size. I was close to hyperventilating again. It took serious effort, but I got control of my breathing, calmed my ever-present panic enough to function, and went back into the bathroom. I wanted the taste of Scotch out of my mouth. I found my toothbrush in a little cup, along with my own half-used tube of Crest toothpaste, the end crimped and

rolled partway up. It was beyond bizarre to see my toothpaste and toothbrush here, in this bathroom. I pushed away my emotions as best I could and brushed my teeth, rinsed, and used the mouthwash— again my own third-empty bottle of Listerine. I remembered watching Harris pack my clothes, but how had my other belongings gotten here and unpacked? He’d stuffed my clothes rather hurriedly into a suitcase and herded me out the door, and then taken me directly to the airport. So very strange. It was undeniably impressive, but creepy and unsettling. With my teeth brushed, my makeup retouched, and my hair fixed, I went back out into the living room of my suite and stood at the window, staring out at the view of the city and trying to get a handle on my own emotions. Obviously, my strongest emotion was fear. I’d been “collected” without warning, flown across the country, and brought to the palatial penthouse home of some wealthy, secretive man who claimed to own me, and who knew every detail of my life, who knew everything about me, down to my taste in clothes. I didn’t know his name, and I didn’t know what he looked like. But his voice…god, his voice. Every word he spoke felt intentional, thought-out, carefully chosen and perfectly enunciated. He could go from warm and tender and personal and intimate to sharp as a razor and ice-cold. His voice caressed, hypnotized, penetrated. I knew the feel of his hands. He had big hands, strong hands. My entire hand had fit easily in his palm, his fingers easily closing around mine. His voice came from above me, it seemed, so I imagined him to be fairly tall. I was curious. I wanted to know what he wanted from me. Why me? That was the biggest question I had. Why me? He’d watched me for “a long time,” he’d said, and the depth of his knowledge about me made it clear that he wasn’t lying or exaggerating. But yet, despite this, I’d never, ever sensed his presence in my life. Never had the feeling of being followed or watched, except for those few times that he’d already explained. He’d never interfered with my life, never sent creepy letters or made stalker phone calls. When I’d been in the most direly desperate straits of my life, he’d…saved me, and claimed to not want financial repayment. And he’d also promised that he wouldn’t force sex on me. He just wanted me to…what? I still didn’t know. Be here? Have bizarre blindfolded conversations, blindfolded dinners and cocktail hours? Be his non-sexual blindfolded mistress? He had a housekeeper, so I doubted he was going to try to turn me into some odd Cinderella, doing his laundry or whatever. So what did he want? Just me, it seemed. I couldn’t make heads or tails of what it was he actually wanted me to do, and I had a feeling I’d never figure it out. I’d only discover that through experience. And yet, for all my fear, I realized—if I examined my own emotions honestly—that I felt no sense of danger. I didn’t feel threatened by him. I didn’t feel like he was crazy or unstable. Eccentric, surely. Strange and reclusive, definitely. But…dangerously unbalanced? The kind of stalker who would leave me in dismembered packages in a refrigerator? No. So…the arrangement? Was I going to go along with his wishes? Obey him? Or go home, and return to being one step away from destitution? I couldn’t do that. Cal was depending on me. I loved my little brother. He was all I really had, and he needed me. He deserved the best chance at a normal life that I could give him. Cal was a smart, good-looking kid with a solid head on his shoulders. He could go places. He was studying filmmaking, and I’d seen some of his pieces; he was talented, and I could see him making it in Hollywood. But I’d have to make sure he finished college. He was already working as much as he could and still go to school. He was a determined kid, and I knew if worse came to worst, he’d find his own way…but I was his big sister, and I’d been his only real parent figure since he was eleven. Mom was helpless, and would never recover. Ravenwood was the best place for her. If I couldn’t pay the bills, she’d end up a

ward of the state and would be moved to some shitty nursing home where she very likely would be abused by the staff. I couldn’t let that happen. And, finally, Dad was seven years dead. I’d already made my decision. When I let Harris put that blindfold on me in the vestibule outside the front doors, I’d made my choice. I wouldn’t back out now. I couldn’t. This was for my mother and brother. And…yes, for myself. I wanted to know more about this mysterious man who now owned me. So, with a deep breath, I touched the intercom button. “Eliza? I’m ready.”

3 FIRST KISS Eliza was a short and slender Hispanic woman with thick black hair tied back in a long braid that was gray at the temples. She wore a simple uniform of black slacks, a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and practical black clogs. She had kind, intelligent brown eyes that looked me over in a thorough assessment. “I am Eliza,” she said in her lightly accented voice. “If you are ready now, I will escort you to the dining room.” “Sounds good.” I extended my hand. “I’m Kyrie.” “It is my pleasure to meet you, miss.” She nodded at me, inclining her upper body slightly, a vaguely formal gesture. “This way, please. Would you like a tour?” I nodded. “Sure.” She led me out of my room and into a hallway. The floors were dark wood, polished to a gleam. I followed Eliza to the end of the hallway and into what I realized was the room I’d sat in with him. I was really irked by not having any kind of name to use, even in my own thoughts. It was a small sitting room with two deep leather chairs and a small table. On one wall was a side table that held a silver tray, a decanter of dark amber liquid, and three crystal tumblers. I’d broken one of those glasses, I realized with dismay. “I’m sorry about the glass,” I said. Eliza shrugged. “It is no matter. It was just a glass.” “Just a glass? Those look like crystal.” She nodded. “Yes.” “It wasn’t, like, a family heirloom, or anything, was it?” Eliza shook her head. “No, nothing like that. Please, do not worry. Such things are no matter to him. Possessions can be replaced, and he does not put high value on mere objects.” She gestured at the sitting room, the foyer, and the hallway leading back the way we’d come. “You’ve seen this area, then. Follow me, please.” From what I’d seen so far, Eliza was a quiet, efficient woman. She didn’t ramble on about the artwork on the walls, or the vases on the pedestals, or the suits of armor that stood to either side of the front door. She merely led me from room to room, occasionally pointing out items of interest. Such as the original Vermeer in the formal living room, the frame encased behind thick temperaturecontrolled glass. Or the suit of armor from the twelfth century standing at attention beside a regal grandfather clock. Or the first-edition copies of famous books in the library. God, the library. It was a dream, that library. It looked like nothing so much as the decadent extravagance from Beauty and the Beast: fifty-foot-high ceilings, shelves stuffed with books stretching the entire height, with rolling ladders for access to the highest shelves. There were three levels to the library, accessible by hidden spiral staircases, each level having nooks with deep plush chairs and reading lamps and little round tables. When Eliza saw my reaction to the library, she cocked an eyebrow at me. “He likes books,” was her deadpan statement. I gave a short bark of laughter. “No kidding. This place is amazing.” “Yes, it is,” she agreed. “This building was specially designed and built to my employer’s specifications. What is usually referred to as the ‘penthouse,’ meaning the uppermost floor of the

building, really encompasses something more like the upper three or four stories, which obviously accounts for the abnormally high ceilings in this room in particular.” Next, she showed me an industrial kitchen, as well as a smaller and more home-like second kitchen, saying that I’d use the secondary kitchen for my day-to-day needs. There was a breakfast nook off the secondary kitchen, tucked up against more floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. There was a single door set at the end of a short hallway just off the secondary kitchen. “What’s through there?” I asked. “His quarters. The door is always locked, and that is the only area that is off-limits to you,” she said, gesturing for me to follow her. She took me up an internal elevator to an open area with an indoor pool. The ceiling was glass, revealing the night sky. Through a door off this room were a sauna, a full bathroom, a massage room, a weight room, and a dojo, complete with sparring dummies and a rack of wooden practice weapons of all kinds. Finally she led me back down the main floor and halted outside a pair of French doors, not far from the kitchens. “Through this door is the dining room, where he awaits you. If you are ready?” Eliza held up the blindfold. I nodded, and she moved to stand behind me, tying it around my head. Once more, the world went black, and I was reliant on my other four senses. “I feel I should say…I have worked for him for twenty years, Miss Kyrie. He is a good man. He has his own strange ways, and likes things just so, and he demands excellence in all things, but…he is a good man. I know you must be afraid, but please, you do not need to be. If there is anything I am able to do for you, you have only to ask. I am the chef as well, so if you wish any particular foods or would like a specific dish, just ask me. You have only to call for me via the intercom, and I will respond.” She patted me on the shoulder, and then I heard the door open and her hands took mine. “This way, please.” She led me about fifty steps, my heels echoing on a tile or marble floor and far-away walls. “Miss Kyrie, sir.” “Thank you, Eliza.” His voice came from my left, approaching over soft footfalls. “We will begin with the first course when you’re ready.” “Very good, sir.” Eliza’s footsteps receded, in the opposite direction from where we’d come, and then a door opened and closed. I felt his hands on mine, engulfing mine, pulling me forward several more steps, and then he pulled out a chair, guided me in front of it, and settled me down with his hands heavy but gentle on my shoulders. When I was sitting, his hands remained there, thumbs massaging between my shoulder blades. I was tense, I realized, and his strong, gentle pressure felt wonderful. Too wonderful. I almost moaned aloud, but managed to hold it back. “So tense, Kyrie.” “I’d say I have reason to be a little tense, don’t you?” “Mmm. I suppose you do, at that.” His palms ran down my arms, and his thumbs worked into the knots around my spine with smooth, powerful, rolling strokes. Jesus help me, that felt good. “Are you hungry, Kyrie?” My stomach gurgled, answering for me. He laughed, and I heard a chair scrape across the floor beside me. “How’s this going to work?” I asked. “You can’t expect me to eat with this blindfold on.” “You’ll see,” was his cryptic response. A few seconds later, I heard a door open, and plates were set down before us. I smelled soup, beef stock possibly, and fresh-baked bread. Eliza left, and I fumbled in front of me for a spoon, found it, and then hunted for the edges of the bowl. I found it, only to jostle it so scalding liquid sloshed onto

my hand, causing me to jerk away and curse. “Kyrie, Kyrie. So impatient. Give me your hand.” His voice was equal parts amused and disapproving. I hesitated, and then held out my throbbing hand. My palm rested against his. I heard a utensil clink against glass, and then something intensely cold slid over the burned flesh at the web of my hand, between thumb and forefinger. I hissed in surprise, and then moaned in relief as the ice soothed the burn. After a few seconds, he set the ice cube on a tray or plate of some kind, and a cloth dabbed at my skin, drying it. And then my hand was lifted, and I his lips touched the burned place on my hand, kissing it. I felt a blush run through me, shuddering down my spine. “What—what are you doing?” I asked, my voice squeaking. “This…” he answered, between kisses. “Does it feel better now?” “I—I…yes…” I breathed. The touch of his lips was tender, sensual. The ice had soothed away the burn, leaving a faint tingle, and then his lips skated across my skin, warm and moist, and I couldn’t stop a shiver, couldn’t stop a gasp. His lips moved from the web of my thumb to the back of my hand, no longer soothing now, but kissing for the sake of kissing. Oh, god. He was kissing my hand? No one had kissed my hurts since I was a tiny child. My mother was never the kiss-it-better type, even on her best days. And my father, well, he’d been loving enough, but was often absent, working all the time. Now the kisses moved across my knuckles, around the edge of my hand. I swallowed hard past the distraught lump in my throat, but still couldn’t catch my breath. Another kiss, to the knife edge of my hand. He turned my palm face up, and his lips touched the center of my hand. My fingers curled involuntarily and touched a stubbled upper lip, then brushed against his nose. His skin was so warm, soft yet rough, a perfect contradiction of manhood. Lips brushed over the heel of my palm, to my wrist. Oh, god, oh lord, oh shit. The touch of his lips was…overwhelming, gentle, sweet, insistent, and almost erotic. I was panting in shallow breaths, and as his lips kissed my forearm, it finally happened. I moaned. I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t believe it had happened. The sound was blatant arousal, breathy and sensual. I felt more than heard his rumble in response, and he pressed a kiss to the inside of my elbow, a place no lips had ever, ever touched. I was rocked to my core by the electric heat that flushed through me at the feel of his mouth just there. He felt my reaction, and kissed me there again. I exhaled, tipping my head back on my neck and fighting for composure. But I had none. Not even a shred. His fingers threaded through mine from behind, his palm resting on the back of my knuckles, and his other hand cupped my elbow, holding my arm out for him. Another embarrassingly breathy moan slid from my throat as his lips touched my bicep, moved to the inside, that soft and tender flesh there. Hot soft wet lips, kissing me so intimately, so tenderly, I couldn’t prevent the sound from escaping me. I’d never been touched this way, never been kissed this way. His lips hadn’t touched mine, hadn’t touched me anywhere at all but my hand and arm, and yet I was more aroused than I’d ever been in all my life. I was shaking from head to toe, hot all over, mouth hanging open, barely breathing. “Kyrie…Kyrie…so gentle, so responsive. Do you feel that? I know you do, my sweetest thing. I know you feel it.” His voice was a low, murmuring thread, his breath touching my shoulder now like a sun-hot wind. “It’s lightning, isn’t it? Pure lightning, arcing between us. Every time my lips touch your perfect skin, you blush and you shiver. I’ve barely touched you, barely begun to kiss you, only just learning the secrets of your body, but already you react so beautifully. Kyrie…Kyrie…you are so beautiful. Such a precious thing, and I simply cannot wait to make you sing, to make your body hum and shiver for me.” I had no breath, heard no sound but his voice and the poetry in his words. If I’d heard anyone else speak that way, I’d mock and scoff. It would sound so contrived, but somehow with him, with his rich

and melodic voice, it sounded perfect, natural. And his words, god. I couldn’t help but react to such statements. I felt my spine arch, felt my head turn to the side and my neck curve away, offering the column of my throat to him. No one had ever said such things to me. I’d been called sexy, hot, pretty. One guy had even called me “deliciously fuckable”; I’d had mixed feelings about that one. I’d been told I had a “bangin’ body,” and I’d been told I had fantastic tits. Once, I’d been told my eyes were lovely. That was a good one. But…this was different. His voice, a deep murmur in my ear, thick with sincerity, rife with something like awe…it took his poetry to a new level. It made what should have been a fairly common and trite compliment—“so beautiful”—into something different, pushed it into a new realm. And…he couldn’t wait to make me sing? Make my body hum and shiver for him? What the hell did that even mean? But I had a suspicion. I did feel the lightning. I couldn’t deny that. Mere kisses along my arm, and I was moaning. If he could elicit that reaction from such simple touches, what could he get from me with more intimate attentions? I shuddered as the thought ran through me. His lips—now skimming along the ridge of my shoulder and into the curve at the base of my throat —smiled on my skin. “Yes…you feel it. You feel what I could do to you. What I will do to you.” He trailed kisses up my neck, one…two…three…and then his lips were on my jaw, nearing my chin—is he going to kiss me?—his lips slid up, up, paused just beneath the corner of my lips. “You want me to kiss you, Kyrie? Don’t you? You’re afraid, but you do. I can feel it in you, sense it in you. Ask me, Kyrie. Ask me to kiss you.” His lips hovered, just barely touching my flesh, at the corner of my lips. I trembled all over. The words bubbled up in my throat, crashed against the wall of my teeth. Kiss me. Please kiss me. I clenched my jaw, squeezed my teeth together to stop the words from coming out. “No? Not yet, hmm?” His breath touched my cheek, and then his lips descended, ever so briefly, to the swell of my lower lip. He kissed me so softly, so quickly, I might have imagined it. And then I felt a nip, sharp teeth catching my lip, and I gasped. “Very well. I can wait.” I breathed out as I felt him move away, and then I heard a spoon clink against china. “The soup is going cold. Open up.” His voice was neutral once again. “You’re going to feed me?” I hated how weak my voice was, how affected I sounded. “Yes, of course. Now. Open up. It’s beef barley soup, and it’s to die for.” I hesitated, and then the clenching gurgle of my stomach had me parting my lips. A spoon slid against my mouth, over my teeth, and I closed my lips over it, tasted, swallowed. “Mmmm. You weren’t kidding. That’s amazing.” “Eliza is one of a kind. No one cooks like she does.” I heard him take a mouthful of soup for himself, and then the spoon nudged my lips again. “Would you like some bread?” I nodded as I swallowed, and then felt something scratch my lips. I smelled fresh-baked bread, opened my mouth for it, and tasted the rich, light flavor of a baguette. He’d dipped it in the soup, softening it, and I took the bread from him, bit, chewed, relishing the flavors. Thus it went, him feeding me, taking some for himself. It should have been awkward, but somehow it wasn’t. His fingers, as he fed me, would brush my lips, my cheek, and I didn’t flinch at his touch. Once I nearly nuzzled into his hand, and then scolded myself for being ridiculous. But it was so surreal, so absurdly romantic and strange, that I couldn’t fathom my own reactions, couldn’t help being swept away, just a little. I heard the door swing open, followed by the sound of wheels rolling over the floor. “Was the soup to your satisfaction, sir, Miss Kyrie?” Eliza asked as she removed the bowls and set down something else in front of me. “It was amazing, Eliza,” I answered, “thank you.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Truly wonderful, as always.” “The main course is salmon,” Eliza said, “freshly caught and baked with herbs. Beside it you will find hand-made garlic mashed potatoes and green beans.” “Ah, Eliza, this looks excellent,” he said, his voice smooth with appreciation. “And the wine?” I heard a cork pop, and liquid being poured. “This is a ’96 pinot gris,” Eliza said. “It is from the winery in France.” She said this last part as if describing something he would be familiar with. “Ah, perfect,” he said. His next words were addressed to me. “I own several wineries throughout the world, one of which is in Alsace-Lorraine. While I own it, I made sure the original family continues to run it, seeing as they have been making wine there for more generations than I can number.” He took my hand in his, and pressed a wine glass into my palm. I curled my fingers around it, brought it to my nose, and sniffed. “I don’t know much about wine,” I admitted. “I know you’re supposed to sniff really good wines, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to smell.” He chuckled. “Perhaps another time we will endeavor to teach you the finer points of wine appreciation. But tonight is not that time. For now, simply enjoy it.” I lifted the glass to my lips and took a small sip. Holy fucking shit. This was as much like the wine I was used to as a Ferrari was like a 1989 Ford Escort. I made a little noise of appreciation, and took another sip. This time, I held the wine in my mouth, swirled it around my taste buds. I’d seen things on TV or in movies where some wine snob, usually wearing a beret and a frilly scarf, took dainty sips and then used absurdly unlikely verbiage to describe the wine, things like hints of verdancy and overtones of oak. What bullshit, I’d always thought. Only, with this wine, I really could taste countless different flavors, undertones and hints and notes. I couldn’t identify them, or describe them, but I could taste them. “Wow,” I ended up saying. “That’s…amazing.” Lame, totally lame. “You’ve never had real wine before, have you?” I shrugged. “I guess not. I mean, I’ve had wine before, obviously. But I’ve never had a bottle that cost more than, like, twenty dollars.” “Hah.” His voice was openly derisive. “That is not wine.” “Well, it’s what I’ve had. I can definitely taste the difference, though.” “That’s good. If you’d said something like ‘wine is just wine,’ I might have had to rethink things a bit.” He laughed, making it a joke, but I wondered if he’d been serious. “You’d just send me home, then?” I felt for the surface of the table with my empty hand, and carefully set my wine glass down. “Maybe I should’ve pretended to not taste the difference, then.” “It was a joke, Kyrie.” “Was it?” I turned my head in the appearance of looking at him. A habit, an empty gesture. His warm fingers brushed a wayward strand of hair away from the corner of my mouth. “Yes. It was. I like nice things. I am extremely wealthy, so I fill my home with the best of everything. But all of it is just…things. In themselves, they mean nothing. I enjoy expensive wines because they taste better than cheap wines. But it’s still just wine.” His thumb slid across my upper lip, and I had to stop myself from turning into his touch, from nipping at his thumb with my teeth. “And tell me the truth, Kyrie. Would you really go home? Just like that?” I had no answer. I tried subtly to move my face away from his touch, unnerved by my own intense reactions to him. “Would you?” His voice sharpened. “Answer me, Kyrie. If I told you that you could return home, right now, without breaching our accord, would you?” I pulled in a shaky breath, flattened my hands on the table. “I—”

“I don’t think you would.” His voice was close, his breath hot on my ear, speaking just above a whisper. “You feel it, Kyrie. If I kissed you right now, I do think you might faint. You’re barely breathing as it is.” “I’m breathing just fine,” I lied. “Would you? Let me go home right now?” “No, I don’t think I would.” “Why not?” These two words slipped, breathless, from my lips. His breath moved, warming my ear, then my cheek, and then, oh god—I felt his lips on my skin, mere centimeters from my mouth. “This is why.” As close as our faces were, I still barely heard him. My heart was pounding, hammering, thudding in my chest, sending blood pulsing in my ears. My skin was tingling, my hands shaking. Nerves, anticipation…fear? Parsing what I felt was impossible. I only knew I dreaded and needed in equal measure the feel of his lips on mine. So close. Yes. There, please. A kiss, a single kiss. I’d only known this man for a matter of perhaps two hours, yet his lips were grazing mine, and he wasn’t breathing, either. How was this possible? I didn’t know his name. I didn’t know what he looked like. I only knew the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands. He could be sixty years old, he could be ugly, he could be so many things. But somehow, in that moment, barely an atom’s breadth between our lips, it didn’t matter. “All you need say is ‘yes,’ Kyrie.” I felt his words, heard them, but just barely. “Say yes.” No. No. No. “Yes.” A huge, warm hand cupped the back of my head, a palm rested on my cheek, fingers threaded into my hair, nestled against my ear and along my jaw, cradling my face, drawing me to him. It took but a mere shift of my head, acquiescing by tilting my chin up ever so slightly. Why was I allowing this kiss? I shouldn’t. But…I was. I had to. And it was just a kiss. I’m such a liar. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was power. Control. Acknowledgment of his demands. Conceding to his game. Oh…what a game. From the moment his lips met mine, I knew he was a master of this, the art of seduction through a kiss. Slow, hot, wet, insistent. His lips moved on mine, his hands held me in place, not allowing me to pull away until he was ready to let go. He kissed me as if he had something to prove, and indeed he did. He proved to me that this kiss was only the beginning. I’d been kissed before. Many times. There were awkward and sloppy kisses, those tension-fraught moments of fumbling intensity as a teenager. There were more skilled kisses, passionate and intentional. There were kisses that stole my breath, kisses that merged seamlessly with the shedding of clothes and the joining of bodies. But never, before this moment, had there ever been a kiss that stole my will to pull away, that devoured my capacity for thought, that removed my ability to resist, to feel anything but the kiss. He tasted of white wine, light and sweet and slightly sour and cold. I forgot to breathe; he gave me his breath, and then took it back. I had no control over my hands. I felt them moving, felt them lift and reach, and then felt the stubble-rough warmth of his face under my palms. He didn’t pull away; he allowed me touch him. It wasn’t a deep kiss, or long. There was no tangling of tongues, no intrusion or demands. It was slow, soft, and exploratory. Introductory. A promise. An invitation. When he pulled away, I was left waiting, wanting, wondering. The kiss should’ve continued. I didn’t want it to stop. No one had ever kissed me with such possessive, gentle insistence, and it was addictive. I let out a breath, a shaky, tremulous breath. “That’s why.”

“Oh.” “Yes. Oh.” He gave my cheekbone one last graze with his thumb, and then I heard a utensil scrape against a plate. “Open.” At his command my mouth opened of its own accord. A fork touched my lips and tongue, and I tasted metal, and then salmon, light and flaky and perfectly flavored with herbs. He took a bite, and then told me to open again, feeding me potatoes, thick and strong with garlic, and then green beans, buttery and crisp. It was the perfect meal, filling and balanced and bursting with flavor, and even the oddity of being blindfolded and fed like an invalid faded. Eliza brought dessert the moment we had finished the main course. It was a crème brûlée, creamy and sweet and thick. “You weren’t kidding,” I said. “Eliza is an amazing chef.” “I chose her out of a thousand candidates. I spent nearly a year vetting each individual applicant. I only interviewed four of them, and Eliza, obviously, is the one I chose. She is a miracle worker, truly.” “A thousand candidates?” He made an mmhmm noise as he took a bite of dessert. “To be my personal housekeeper? Those were only the ones who made the initial cut. There were a total of nearly two thousand, more than half of whom lacked the proper skill set. Eliza does nearly everything for me. She cooks, does my laundry, cleans my personal quarters, and sees to any other household needs. Shopping, tailoring, the like. She works more hours than most corporate CEOs, and in compensation I pay her a salary that those same CEOs would be murderously jealous of.” He fed me another bite of dessert, speaking as he did so. “I demand excellence, and, if I am satisfied, I compensate most generously.” “She cleans this whole place by herself?” “Oh, no. I have a private firm that comes twice a week. They are under contract, of course. But they are not allowed in my private quarters. No one is. Eliza is the only person who has ever been there. Not even Harris has crossed that threshold.” “So you trust Eliza, then.” “Totally.” His voice grew tense with emotion. “She has been in my employ for twenty years. She was my very first full-time employee, and she has seen my business grow from a seedling to what it is today.” “I’m confused. You said you chose her out of a thousand applicants. But you also said she was your first employee. How did that work?” He sighed. “You are sharp, Kyrie. A thousand people is a lot, but I chose her from my father’s roster of employees. It was…a kind of test, I suppose you could say. He gave me the freedom to choose any one employee from his ranks, and only one. He wanted to see who I’d choose.” A pause, the scrape of the spoon seeking the last of the crème brûlée. “The joke was on him, though, because Eliza was from his own personal household staff. She was being groomed to be his housekeeper.” “I bet he wasn’t happy with that turn of events.” “No, he wasn’t. He tried to change the agreement, but I’d made him sign a written contract.” He laughed. “I learned from the best.” “Who is your father?” His voice went sharp. “Nice try, Kyrie. You will learn my identity in due time.” I yawned. “It is growing late, and you have had a trying day. Allow me to see you to your room.” “Well, I don’t have a choice. I will have to allow you to do that since you’re the only one who can see.” “The blindfold chafes at you, doesn’t it?” “Obviously. I hate relying on anyone for anything. This is the definition of helplessness.” He stood, the chair grating on the floor, and then he took my elbow, sliding my chair out as I stood.

“That is the point, Kyrie. Reliance. Dependence, helplessness. You have had no one but yourself to rely on for so long. So long. And now it is your turn to allow me to take care of your every need.” “I thought it was about control. And privacy.” We walked in silence for several moments before he responded. “Yes, that is true as well. The blindfold serves many purposes.” “And when will you take it off?” “When I feel you and I are both ready.” “And when will that be?” He pulled me to a stop, turned me, and pressed my back to the wall. I felt his presence before me, trapping me, huge above me. His voice, so close, came from well above my head. “Do you trust me?” “No.” “No?” “Not—not completely.” “Why not?” I swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know what’s happening. To me. Between us. Why there’s an ‘us’ here at all. Part of me feels—I don’t know—coerced. Blackmailed. But you’re right, I do feel a—a connection. A possible connection, more like. A chemistry. That kiss was…intense. But I still don’t know what I want. What you want.” I hesitated. “I looked at the file.” “You shouldn’t have,” he said. “I almost wish I hadn’t,” I said. “But I did, and…thank you. For protecting me from him.” “Of course. I couldn’t sit by and allow him to hurt you.” “So…that goes a long way toward helping me trust you. But…it’s not that easy. Not for me. I don’t…I can’t just decide to trust someone. It takes time. Effort.” “And that is why the blindfold must remain.” One finger touched my chin, tilting my face up. “Kiss me.” It was a command. “Ask me.” “No.” “Then, no.” “You’re not grasping the arrangement, it seems.” “I don’t do commands very well.” “And I don’t repeat myself.” His voice grew sharp. “But, just this once, for you, I will. You want to know what I want? What this is about? It’s about trust. Obedience. Compliance. You obey, I learn to trust you. If I trust you, I will give you my name and allow you to see me. Then I’ll allow things to go further. If I don’t trust you, this will take much longer, and be much harder.” “You said you wouldn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to.” I heard a smile in his voice. “And that kiss, at dinner? Did I force that on you?” “No.” “And I am not forcing you to do anything now.” “You’re commanding me to kiss you.” God, I hated how petulant I sounded. “And don’t you want to?” I smelled his cologne, felt his heat. I couldn’t help but remember the kiss, and I knew he was right. I did want to kiss him again. I didn’t want to desire the kiss, but I did. I wanted to feel his hand on my cheek, his lips on mine. “Damn you,” I breathed. “I can read you like a book, Kyrie. You’re flushed. Breathless. You feel my presence. You want this. You want me. You’re afraid of your own desire, and you’re even more afraid of me. But you don’t need to be afraid.” He placed both of his palms on my cheeks. Tilted my face up. “Now…kiss

me.” I obeyed his command. I kissed him. I pressed my back against the wall and lifted up on my toes, touched my lips to his. Our mouths met as I sighed. It was an outbreath of need, of eagerness, of relief, of frustration. He sucked my sigh into his mouth and pulled my face to his, gently yet irresistibly. Our mouths, and his hands on my face, these were the only points of contact between us, yet…I felt him surrounding me. I felt as if he’d somehow blocked out the whole world, including my own fears. As if one taste of his lips erased my nerves and my fears and my hesitation, so all that remained was his mouth upon mine. That in itself terrified me. My hands once again betrayed me. They rose and reached out, touched a hard, broad human wall. Silk, cool and smooth, met my touch; a tie. My fingers splayed out, and my palms flattened against his chest. I felt thick muscle beneath his clothes. My hands drifted up and discovered broad shoulders. Far, far up. This man was very tall. I found the column of his neck and let my hands travel up to touch his jaw, rough and scratchy with day-old stubble. I began to search upward, attempting to learn the features of his face as if I were blind, but one of his hands pinioned my wrists together, drew them down, held them between us. My fingers fluttered in his grip like a wind-tossed sparrow, and the kiss continued. Deepened. The fires of my passion, once drowsy, were sparked. I lifted up higher on my tip-toes, leaned into him, and now it was not merely a meeting of mouths, this kiss, but a giving and a taking. No longer just a kiss. An agreement that yes, I want this. I shivered as his mouth moved on mine, his face twisted to the side, our noses brushing, bumping, and the shiver was also an admittance that said yes, I am afraid of this. Even so, the kiss continued, driving, demanding. Becoming more and more, until this kiss shattered all the others, drowning the memory of any other kiss. The tip of his tongue slid across the seam of my lips, yet before I could open my mouth, he was stepping away, freeing my wrists. From a foot or two away I could hear his breathing was harsh and labored. Good to know that at least he hadn’t been unaffected. As for me? I was shaking all over, hands pressed flat to the wall beside my hips, my back arched, my shoulders against the wall, head still tilted up as if in memory or parody of the kiss—The Kiss. I heard a knob twist, the whisper of a door opening across the carpeting. His hands grasped my shoulders, and he guided me to the doorway. I felt his front against my back, and his hands slid down my arms, crossed over my stomach. He held me to him, just briefly. By the feel of his chest rising and falling with his breath, I was aware of his height. So tall. I barely reached his chest. “Close your eyes,” he murmured. “I have a blindfold on,” I reminded him, even as I closed my eyes behind the cloth. “Close—” “They are, they are,” I interrupted him. He made a sound of disapproval at my insolence, but said nothing. His fingers caught the ends of the blindfold, pulled them apart, untying it. “Do not fail this test,” was all he said, as the blindfold fell away. I kept my eyes closed, facing forward, listening carefully, so attuned to every sound. I heard him take a single step back. Two. Three. I wanted so badly to open my eyes and spin around, but I didn’t. Why didn’t I? Because I was enjoying this game. “Goodnight, Kyrie.” “Goodnight….you.” He chuckled, the sound growing distant.

Silence. I opened my eyes and found myself in the living room of my quarters. On impulse, I spun around, tiptoed to peek around the edge of the door. I was just in time to catch a glimpse of someone extremely tall, a flash of blond hair, cropped close to his skull. Black pants, suit coat. He rounded the corner and was gone. I closed the door, leaning forward to let my forehead rest against the wood. What was I doing? I kissed him. Twice. A man I knew literally nothing about. Yet I couldn’t deny that they were by far the best kisses of my life. And…I wanted more.

4 TESTS I thought sleep would come instantly to me. I’d started the day at home in Michigan, living life as usual. Within a matter of hours, my life had been totally changed. Now I was in Manhattan, locked away in a tower like fucking Rapunzel. Only, I could leave whenever I wanted. The only thing holding me here was my own stubbornness, my curiosity, my need to make sure the only family I had left was taken care of. I smiled to myself. I might be blonde, but my hair wasn’t that long. So I wasn’t like Rapunzel at all, except for being in a tower. And there were many towers in those old fairy tales. Was this a fairy tale? If it was, I sure as shit wasn’t any princess. My…captor? My provider? What was he? A prince? He could be. Maybe he was some kind of European royalty; they did still have royalty in some European countries. He definitely seemed to have the mannerisms of an aristocrat. Proper speech, a touch of formality in even the most private and intimate situations, elegant manners. He even cursed with elegance. Clearly very well educated, obviously wealthy. I had a sense that he came from money, from privilege. He was not some dot-com startup billionaire, some rich real-estate yuppie. He was born into wealth, but something made me think he’d made his own fortune as well. The clues were there, after all, especially in the story of how he’d hired Eliza. I didn’t think he meant to reveal that much of himself to me this early, but the story told me a lot about him. I struggled to go to sleep, and failed. There were no clocks in my rooms, so I could not tell the time. I had my phone somewhere in my purse, but the battery was dead, and honestly, I found myself not caring what time it was. Late, I knew that much. Harris had shown up at four in the afternoon. I’d just gotten home from a lunch shift at Outback, and had showered off the restaurant stench. A good four, almost five hours, had passed from the time Harris and I left my apartment to arriving here in this high-rise palace. Another hour from first meeting to dinner…it had to be past midnight, easily. Dinner had been long, slow, drawn-out affair. We’d lingered over each bite. There had been long silences between us, stretched-out moments devoid of empty conversation. Those silences, they should have been awkward, but they weren’t. I wasn’t given to small talk, to idle chatter. I’d been on dozens of first dates in my life that had never gone anywhere, simply because I wasn’t interested in inane babble. I had no patience for men who rambled on and on. Shut up about the stupid football game. I couldn’t care less about fucking football. The Lions suck, they’ve always sucked and they will always suck. Shut up about stocks. I don’t care which stock rose ten points and which went down five. What does that even mean, and in what universe am I supposed to care? If the conversation doesn’t interest me, I’m out. Like, done, right now, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, do not finish the date. I’ve stood up in the middle of a meal and said, “Thanks for the effort, but this isn’t working out.” I’d rather eat alone and in silence than make idle small talk. And my mystery man, mister tall and blond, he seemed to be the same way. He didn’t speak unless he had something worthwhile to say, and I appreciated that about him. No wonder I couldn’t sleep. My brain went in endless circles, flitting from thought to thought like a butterfly in a field of wildflowers. I thought of that glimpse of him I’d gotten. He had to be at least six-four, maybe taller. Every time I’d been around him, he’d moved almost silently, his footsteps light and quick. As I’d watched him round the corner, he’d moved easily, despite his height. He’d looked lean and muscular, but not burly.

I mean, this was just conjecture based on a single split-second glance, but that was my impression. And that too worked for me. I wasn’t impressed by guys who had muscles on muscles, twenty-inch biceps and pectoral muscles bigger than my own tits—which weren’t small, by the way. If a guy was that beefed up, he’d obviously spent hours and hours in the gym. Staying in that kind of shape took dedication. Good for them, sure, great, go for it. But I wanted the guy I dated to have time for me. If he set aside three or four hours every day just to go to the gym, then that was three to four hours he didn’t have for me. Call me selfish, but I expected my boyfriends to be more dedicated to me than to their weight bench. Plus, why do you need to be that big? Do you go around lifting heavy things all day? Do you routinely need to lift a four-hundred-pound…thing? Um, probably not. What even weighs four hundred pounds that you’d come across in everyday life? I couldn’t think of a single thing. No, give me a guy who’s in decent shape, who can hold an interesting conversation any day of the week. Give me a guy who can show me a good time without having to flex his muscles six times a minute, just to make sure they’re still there. I would want to say, Yes, buddy, you’ve still got your muscles. They didn’t go away in the last five minutes. And, no, I’m still not impressed by how much you can bench. Can you carry me to bed? Can you last long enough to make me come? Those are the important things. Get me to bed, get me off. If you can manage those things, I’ll be impressed. This was why, at twenty-six, I was still single. Most guys didn’t pass the first-date test, much less the long-term test of holding my interest for more than a month. SportsmoviesIworkOUTlookatmymusclesI’msobuff. Shut up, I DO NOT CARE. Use the muscle in your skull, and then the one in your pants. Impress me with your vocabulary, and then your sexual attentiveness. See, that was the other thing. I didn’t really need a guy to be able to go for hours and hours. That got boring real fucking fast. Heh, that’s punny. No, for real, though. I’d rather come fast and come hard than be fucked for hours on end. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I loved sex. It was great. But hours of it? Probably not. Figure out what makes me moan, and do that until I come. I guarantee, if you did that, you’d come, too. That was just how it worked. Me, and probably most other women, I’d wager. Except, most guys didn’t seem to get that. They seemed to think harder, faster, and longer meant better when, in reality, that was very often not the case. Mystery man? Holy shit. He could turn me on with mere words. A whisper in my ear. A touch to my cheek. A kiss to my jaw. He had me squirming and wet and aching at dinner, and he only kissed me, fairly chaste kisses at that. No tongue, no heavy petting. My clothes stayed on, and in place. Shit, he turned me on more with a few kisses to my hand and arm than any other guy had managed in an entire night of fullon sex. It wasn’t hard to make me hot and horny, nor was it hard to make me come. I was…average, I’d think. I didn’t have a hair trigger, and I rarely came more than once. But if you paid attention to my signals, you could get me off pretty easily. What happened at dinner? Unreal. Just…totally unreal. I got out of bed, dressed in a T-shirt and underwear, and paced the living room, my thoughts racing. I ached. Deep down, between my legs. He’d made me hot, and he’d left me hanging. I didn’t like that. I wasn’t in some kind of sexual frenzy, just…mildly frustrated. Left curious, wondering, needing more. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I left my room and wandered toward the kitchens. I didn’t bother dressing, since only Eliza would be around to see me, assuming she was still awake. Mystery Man—God, I really needed to find out his name—had said he’d be in his private quarters. Really? Private quarters? Who says that anymore? The dirty-minded teenager in me wanted to make a joke about it. When faced with situations that I had a hard time dealing with, my go-to reaction was humor, usually bawdy and inappropriate.

After a few wrong turns, I found the industrial kitchen, gaping and echoing and dark. An eightburner Wolf gas range with an expansive, gleaming hood vent, double Wolf ovens, an unlit stone pizza oven with a long-handled paddle leaning against the wall, a wide island with a white cutting board running in front of a bank of closed, silver-topped, refrigerated containers. This was a restaurant kitchen, done in luxury-grade. There was a walk-in refrigerator, a walk-in freezer, and a six-foot-tall wine cooler stocked with bottle after bottle of what I assumed was thousands of dollars in chilled wine. There was another freestanding refrigerator dedicated to nothing but beer: Stella Artois, Newcastle, Smithwicks, Guinness, Harp, Yuengling, Duvel, Chimay…every kind of beer you could imagine except cheap domestic. No Bud Light or Coors here. I probably shouldn’t tell him I rarely drank anything but Bud Light. That was due more to budgetary restrictions than taste preference, but still. I chose a Harp, rummaged through half a dozen drawers until I found a bottle opener. I wandered, beer in hand, until I found the breakfast nook. I stood with my nose near the glass, staring out at the still-bustling city. I smelled him before I heard him. Honestly, I don’t think I ever really did hear him approach. I smelled his cologne, felt him behind me. “Don’t turn around,” he murmured. “I won’t.” The room behind us was dark, so there was no reflection of him in the window. An admission burbled up and out; I had to know what he would do. This was my test for him. “I peeked, earlier. You were going around the corner. You’re really tall, and you have blond hair.” There was a long, significant hesitation before he responded. “Why did you tell me? I wouldn’t have ever known.” I shrugged, swallowed a mouthful of beer. “I don’t know.” A lie, but I couldn’t very well tell him my real reason for spilling the truth. “Hmmm.” I heard liquid glug in a bottle neck, and deduced he was drinking beer as well. “You shouldn’t have peeked, Kyrie.” “I know. I’m sorry.” Strangely, it was a genuine apology. Why did it matter? I couldn’t answer that question, except to say that it did. There was no point in denying his effect on me, no point in denying that I wanted his approval, his trust. What was it about him that created this reaction in me? He was standing far enough behind me that we weren’t touching, but close enough that I felt heat coming from him. I should have felt self-conscious about my attire—or lack thereof—but I wasn’t. Not with him. And again, why wasn’t I? I wasn’t a prude, nor was I shy. I could rock a bikini without feeling self-conscious, but I wasn’t a show-off, either. I didn’t flash more skin than I felt comfortable with. The T-shirt I was wearing just barely cleared the bottom of my ass, leaving almost my entire lower half on display for him. And this didn’t bother me in the slightest. I felt…at ease despite being half-naked around a man I’d known for less time than it had taken me to fly here from Detroit. “I told you not to fail that test.” “Yes, you did.” “And yet you still peeked.” “I’m a curious girl, what can I say?” “You’re a bad girl.” His voice was low, dark, thick with promise. “Yeah?” I heard the teasing rasp in my voice, and wondered who it was. Not me, surely. “What are you gonna do about it?” I swallowed hard, waiting for his response. I felt his fingers pinch the cotton of my shirt, lifting it. He let it rest on the swell of my ass. The underwear I wore was somewhere between lingerie and basic briefs. It was the kind of lacy panty that was molded to my ass, cutting in tight between my ass cheeks. Light pink in color, comfy, sexy. Now I

felt revealed, exposed. I wasn’t breathing; I didn’t dare. I’d been bad. Disobedient. Even thinking in those terms made me squirm with discomfort. I wasn’t a child who worried about disobeying. But yet the feeling persisted, fear mixed with excitement. Something warm and rough cupped my ass. I swayed, nearly dropping my beer. I tried to breathe. I was getting dizzy from having held my breath for so long. His hand caressed first one side, and then the other. He sucked in a short, sharp breath. “Bloody hell, Kyrie. So damned perfect.” His words weren’t really meant for me, it seemed, stumbling out of his mouth in a barely audible mumble. I was about to demur, to remind him I wasn’t perfect, when he spoke again. Louder, to me, this time. “No more peeking, yes?” Once again, I opened my mouth to speak when I was cut off. This time, by a quick yet stinging smack to my right ass cheek. It wasn’t hard; it didn’t hurt. It just…surprised me. I gasped at the unexpected contact, and then the gasp morphed into something else when his palm smoothed and gentled my stinging flesh. “No more peeking, yes?” His tone was prompting, demanding an answer. I was too surprised and mixed-up to form words. I nodded, hoping that would do. Apparently not. The light, sharp slap came to the left side of my butt this time, once again followed immediately by a soothing circle of his warm hand. “No…more…peeking. Yes?” “Yes…yes.” The answer flew from my lips, breathless, and then I sucked in a long breath, finally able to breathe. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” His hand rested on the bell of my hip, casual, possessive. Familiar. As if it belonged there. “I thought…I thought you said you weren’t into that?” “Did I hurt you?” “No,” I admitted. “It was a reminder. I expect answers when I ask questions. I would never, ever cause you pain. A bit of a sting, that’s all.” His breath stole over my neck, and his voice rumbled in my ear. God, I wanted so badly to turn around. “And you liked it, didn’t you?” I knew I had to answer. “Yes.” My answer was barely a breath — it didn’t count as speech. It was a susurrus of mortification. “If you truly don’t like something, if it causes you prolonged discomfort or pain, tell me. I should, under all circumstances, be able to read your responses to what I do, but if for some reason I miss something, just tell me. But please—for both our sakes—examine yourself before you ask me to stop. Find out if you really truly want me to stop. Or if you’re merely afraid of liking something new.” I took a long pull off my beer and then, in an instinctual gesture that surprised me as much as him, I think, I leaned my head back until it met his chest. I kept my eyes closed, per our agreement. “This is all so…much,” I heard myself admit. “So different. So strange. So scary. I don’t know what’s happening to me. You—you do something to me. Just by—I don’t even know—without trying. Like you know all my switches and buttons. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t possibly know what makes me tick this well. No amount of stalking, watching me from a distance, could tell you what turns me on.” “Yes, you’re right.” His voice, coming from so close, from his chest, from above my head…was loud, pure energy and vibration. “I told you, Kyrie. I can read you like a book. You’re scared, but you want this. You hate the fact that I affect you so much, but you like it in equal measure. The fear makes it that much more exciting.” Glass touched wood, and then he took my bottle and set it down as well on the table behind us. His

hands slid down my arms. His body towered behind me. His breath blew on my neck. “Eyes closed, Kyrie.” “They are,” I told him. “Good.” A brief pause. “Do you trust me?” “I’m trying. I’m getting there.” “For all that I’m in control here, this still moves at your speed. I will push your boundaries, push you beyond what you think you’re comfortable with, but not so fast that your fears take over.” Fingers, tangling in mine, big and hard and hot, twining with my own, small and trembling and cool. “Tell me what you want. Right now. One thing that you want to feel.” There was no hesitation. “Another kiss.” “Good girl.” I hated that phrase, the way it was said, praising my response. “I’m not a fucking dog, so don’t ‘good girl’ me.” He chuckled. “Touchy, touchy.” “I’m not touchy. I just resent being spoken to as if I’m a poodle that finally managed to sit on command.” I’d have thought, with this little exchange, that the mood for kissing would be gone. But no. Oh, no. My eyes still closed, I still felt his breath curl over my cheek, sandpaper skin sliding softly against my jaw, warm lips brushing mine. And, just that fast, my complaint was forgotten. I twisted in place, my feet remaining planted, my torso turning and leaning back. It was an offering, yet another way for me to show him that I was giving in to this. You know how I said I didn’t sleep around on the first date? Well, I rarely even kissed on the first date, either. I wasn’t a prude; I’d said this before. I just didn’t believe in diving headfirst into a physical relationship if there wasn’t some kind of emotional or personal connection in place. I didn’t expect forever love from a guy I was dating. I didn’t expect sweep-me-off-my-feet romance— although it was always nice—but I did expect him to put some kind of effort into getting to know me before he tried to get in my pants. So why the hell was I letting this man kiss me? Why was I asking him to kiss me? He’d admitted to having watched me for a long time. He knew things about me no one should know. That was still in the back of my head, that question, why did he watch over me? Could it really be called “stalking” if he never made contact? To me, a stalker was someone who watched your every move, sent you creepy letters and made heavy-breathing phone calls, who stood outside your bedroom window and watched you change, whacking off all the while. A stalker was someone with an obsession, an unhealthy, unsafe infatuation. Naïve it might be, but I didn’t believe that of my Mystery Man. Definitely naïve. I mean, look at where I was. I’d been collected. Collected. That still irked me. “You can’t ever shut off your brain, can you?” I felt his words on my lips, shaking me from my thoughts. “No, not really,” I said. “What were you thinking about?” he asked. “It must have been rather fascinating, if it was able to distract you from kissing me.” “Sorry. I just…this whole situation is weirding me right the fuck out. I don’t kiss on the first date. I don’t obey. I can’t forget that you watched me, that you know every little thing about me.” I moved out of his embrace, held out my hand, and wiggled my fingers until he put my beer into my hand. “You can read me. You’ve said it, and it’s true. That freaks me out, too. I’m just…I’m freaked out. I may not feel afraid, or in danger, but I can’t stop trying to figure this situation out. And yeah, I can’t really get into a make-out session when my brain is running a million miles a minute, trying to figure out what the fuck I’ve gotten myself into.” I took a sip and sighed after swallowing. “And…why me?”

I felt his presence recede a little, heard him take a swallow of his beer. I faced away and stared out the window. It was a constant effort to not turn around, yet for some reason, it was an effort I continued to make. “All that is understandable.” He paused to drink. “Why you? Let’s just say for now that…I’ve got my reasons. I chose you because I want you. I know that doesn’t really help much, but it’s all I’m willing to say at the moment. So besides that, what could I do to alleviate some of your fears?” I tapped my fingernail against the bottle. “I don’t know. A name? A nickname? Something for me to call you? It doesn’t have to be your real name, just…something.” “Hmmm. That is a reasonable request, I suppose.” A deep breath. “You may call me…Roth.” “Roth?” “Yes. Roth. It is…one of my names.” “You have more than one?” He laughed. “Of course. Don’t you? Kyrie Abigail St. Claire. One could, conceivably, call you Abby, or Claire. In the same way, part of my name is Roth. It is a truth I’m giving you, and for a man as…reclusively private as I am, that is no small gift.” When put that way…. “Thank you,” I said. “You are welcome.” He was there behind me, close and hot and huge, once again. “Eyes closed.” I did as I was bid. I closed my eyes, forced my breathing to stay even when my instinct was to hold it, bated and anxious, until I knew what he was going to do. Breathe in, breathe out. I was a ball of tension, shoulders bunched, fists clenched, one hand around my beer bottle, the other digging my nails into my palm. In an effort to prove something—whether to myself or to him I wasn’t sure, nor even what I was trying to prove— I tilted my head back and finished my beer in four long pulls. Of course, I then had to cover my mouth and let out a long, quiet belch. “Philistine,” he said, an amused lilt to his voice. I laughed. “Hey, I muffled it.” “True enough. Now, are you finished?” “Yes.” “Good.” He took my bottle and set it down. His hands cupped my elbows, slid up to my shoulders. I shivered, and felt my tension ratchet up. “You’re tense again. Relax, Kyrie. I won’t hurt you. Surely you know at least this much by now.” I tried to force myself to relax but that, of course, was a contradiction in terms. You couldn’t force yourself to relax. His thumbs circled into the muscles of my back, his fingers kneading my shoulders. That helped. And then I felt him sweep my hair off my neck, over one shoulder. My tongue flicked out and ran across my lips, anticipating his touch, his kiss. What I got was a cool breath blowing until I shivered, and then his lips met my pebbled flesh and the heat of his mouth washed over me. Every part of me loosened and contracted all at once, my tension receding even as eagerness had me expanding and straining. Another kiss, to the slope of my neck. His finger tugged aside the neck of my shirt, and his lips touched my shoulder. He moved closer, near my throat now. One hand held the thick sheaf of my hair aside, and the other carved down my arm, knuckles brushing the outside of my braless breast. The shivers were constant now, every touch causing my skin to tighten and my muscles to tremble. I tilted my head aside, and his lips stuttered over my neck to kiss my throat. I felt his hair brushing my chin, his bulk leaning over my shoulder. I reached up with one hand, drawing in a deep breath, nerves jangling as I dared to touch him back. My fingers slid along the back of his neck, across his hairline, and into his hair. I heard him growl deep in his chest, disapproval or pleasure, I couldn’t tell, but he

didn’t stop me. I let my fingers curl into the soft thatch of closely trimmed hair, wondering at myself, at this situation, at this man, finding no answers and not even really caring. He kissed behind my ear, and his hands drifted down my front, skimming the cotton of my shirt in a not-quite touch. He grasped the lower hem, fists bunched at each of my thighs. I was frozen, not breathing…I was pretty sure even my blood had stopped pumping for a moment. “Such thin cotton…” he murmured, his voice rough with suggestion. “I could rip it apart so easily. Have you bared to me, just that easily. I could kiss you…everywhere.” I put my hand on his, between his fists, keeping my shirt down. “Roth…don’t….” “No?” I felt his hands stretch apart, felt the cotton starting to give. “You’re still scared, Kyrie? Don’t you want to feel my lips on your skin? I know you do. You want it. You’re afraid to want it. You’re afraid to give in to me. But you want to, just as much. Have you ever really given yourself to a man before? I don’t think you have. And certainly never to a man like me.” “A man….” I swallowed hard, fighting for words. He had my brain spiraling, my body shuddering, my blood thundering, my common sense eroding, and my senses humming. “A man like you?” “Yes, Kyrie. A man like me.” Another tug of his fists, and I heard a distinct rip. “A man who knows exactly what he wants, and exactly how to get it.” “And…and what do you want?” I was trying so hard to stay calm, and failing miserably. Rrrrrrip. I felt cool air on my navel. “To make you come” —rrrripppp— “harder than you ever have in your life.” “Shit….” “To hear you scream. To feel you tremble under my hands.” Rrrrrrrrrrrriiiip. The shirt was torn open to the space between my boobs. One more tug, and it would come free. “I’m going to make you come so hard you’ll cry.” “Roth….” I wasn’t sure why I said his name. As a plea? Have mercy? Please, yes, I want that? No clue. Only that his name was all that came out. “Yes, Kyrie. You’ll be saying that, very loudly. You can scream as loud as you want, sweet thing. No one can hear you.” His words should have terrified me, but they only made my thighs shake and my heart thud with anticipation. “Are you ready?” “No….” “Well, at least you’re honest about it.” Rrrrriiippp. All that held the shirt on my body were the sleeves, and his presence behind me. “You can tell me to stop any time, Kyrie. I will. Immediately.” Stop. The word wouldn’t come out. I’d stopped breathing again, and had to suck in a lungful of oxygen before I passed out. My hands were trembling at my sides, my eyes squeezed shut. I was still covered, though, the torn shirt resting on the very outer edges of my areolae. “A twitch of my hands, Kyrie. That’s all it will take. You’ll be bare to me.” He ran his fingertip along my clavicle, toying with the ripped collar of the shirt. “Or…one word from your mouth. But you have to choose. Right now. Tell me to stop, right now. And do you know what will happen if you don’t?” “Wh—what?” “I’ll use the shirt as a blindfold, and I’ll lay you down right here, on the floor. I’ll make you come again and again. Until you can’t breathe and can’t move. Until you’re crazy with ecstasy.” Fuck. I wanted that. Jesus, I did want that. “And—and you?” “What about me?” He sounded baffled. “What will you want…from me? In return?” “What will I want from you? Just your moans, Kyrie. Just the flush on your perfect skin. Nothing but that.” That was too good to be true. That was a lesson I learned early on in life: If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. He traced the hollow at the base of my throat with a finger. “Or, tell me

to stop. I’ll leave you alone, and you can go to bed. We’ll resume this another night, but for tonight, you’d be…safe.” Safe. Did I want that safety? Yes, and no. I didn’t doubt his ability to do exactly what he was promising, and I didn’t even want to think about how long it had been since I’d had an orgasm. But I also needed to know if he’d really stop when I asked him to. The trouble was, testing him would leave me aching and frustrated. It had to be done, though. I’d never be able to totally trust him unless I knew he was as good as his word. His hands were poised to brush my shirt away and, if that happened, I’d be lost to his touch. “Stop.” I was proud of myself for getting that word out, for making it sound strong, sure, all the things I wasn’t feeling in that moment. His hands froze the very moment the word left my mouth. “As you wish.” I felt him step away, and my entire body ached, screamed at me to beg him to come back, touch me, finish it, do as he’d promised he would. “It’s too much…too soon,” I explained. “Kyrie…darling, you don’t need to explain yourself. I understand completely.” “You’re not…mad?” Why the fuck did I care? Why did that come out sounding so ingratiating, so weak, so small? Ugh. “No, of course not. Perhaps a bit…disappointed. Not in you, per se, but…simply left wanting. I don’t think you grasp the depth of my attraction to and desire for you. But you will.” I smelled him, felt him close, his voice suddenly buzzing in my ear. “You will. You want this. You’re testing me, Kyrie. Don’t think I’ve missed that. So this is me earning your trust. Have I passed your test?” I squared my shoulders, breathed deeply. Nodded. “Yes, Roth. You have. Thank you.” “Count to sixty, and then you may go.” “Okay.” “Goodnight, Kyrie…again.” “Goodnight, Roth.” I heard his footsteps recede, and I counted to sixty. I lost count, thinking about how he’d called me “darling.” Eventually I assumed more than a minute had passed, so I went back to my room, clutching the edges of my shirt together. I sat on my bed, the shredded remains of my second-favorite sleep Tshirt on my lap. How easily he’d ripped it. I gripped the edges of the back of the shirt and pulled. I barely got the cloth to stretch. I had to exert all my strength to get the hem to tear; he’d done it as easily as ripping a sheet of paper. Yet for all his obvious strength, his touch had never been anything less than exquisitely gentle. He’d given me a name. He’d stopped when he obviously hadn’t wanted to. Part of me wanted to say that it was enough — I could trust him, I could let whatever was going to happen, happen. But another part of me held back. He’d outright told me he was keeping a secret that would change everything. For me, for him, and for us. How strange was it that there was already an “us.” I put on a new shirt, lay down on the bed. Instead of trying to sleep, I let my mind wander, let it imagine what it would be like to just…let go. To give in totally to what he wanted. Something told me it would be pretty damned amazing. Just take it one day at a time. That was what I told myself. One day, one experience at a time. I was aching all over. Needing him to finish what he’d started, refusing to do so myself. Eventually, as the sliver of darkness between the drawn curtains began to turn gray, I fell asleep. I dreamed of big hands touching me softly. I dreamed of those hands tugging the blankets up closer to my chin, of a tall silhouette in the corner of my room.

When I awoke to a gleam of late morning sunlight, I swore I caught a whiff of his cologne in my room.

5 OPERA I was left to my own devices most of that next day. I found an astonishing assortment of my favorite yogurt stocked in the secondary kitchen refrigerator. I took that to the breakfast nook, which was kind of a mistake, since all I could think of was what had happened there hours earlier. I spent most of the day in the library, drifting from shelf to shelf, rolling the ladders around with my hand outstretched, pretending I was Belle, reading a bit of this, a bit of that, curling in the deep chairs like a cat. I mean, if you had a gargantuan library all to yourself, and that library had rolling ladders, wouldn’t you do the same? It was an irresistible temptation. I hadn’t had a day to do anything and nothing since being a teenager, and it was glorious. I might or might not have just sat on the couch in my room for something like two hours, basking in the sun, watching the city shift and move through the windows. I had a lazy lunch in the breakfast nook once again, and then set out to explore on my own. I had a pretty good idea of the layout of the place from Eliza’s tour, but it was a mammoth apartment, and I still had a tendency to get a little lost going from the library to the kitchen, and from the foyer to my room. After a couple circuits of the hallways, I knew my way around. I’d saved the little hallway leading to Roth’s rooms for last, and in the late afternoon I found myself standing outside that doorway, staring at it, wondering what was beyond it. What was he doing? Was he even here? Maybe he’d been whisked away in a helicopter to some business meeting across the city. Or maybe he was sitting at a mahogany battleship of a desk, scribbling with a fountain pen on fine white stationery. I didn’t see him doing anything so mundane as checking email or making phone calls, although I knew he must do those things. I was lost in those musings when the doorknob twisted, and the door began to slide open. Immediately, I spun in place, facing away. The speed and alacrity with which I’d turned away stunned me. I knew why I’d done it, though. I’d committed to the game, and I wanted him to reveal himself to me in his own time. Sneaking a glimpse felt like cheating. I was never the kind of kid to go looking for my birthday or Christmas presents. The largest part of the fun, for me, was the surprise, the not knowing what I’d find when I tore into the wrapping paper Christmas morning. “Kyrie.” I heard the surprise in his voice. “What were you doing?” “Honestly, just wondering what you were doing in there. Wondering what your rooms look like.” I heard a soft step behind me, the click of the door closing, and then his hand on my waist. “I wasn’t going to try to go in. I was just wandering around, and I ended up here.” “You couldn’t get in if you tried, actually. The door has a lock coded to my thumbprint.” “Oh. You really take your privacy seriously, don’t you?” He chuckled. “You have no idea. The entire building is reinforced to withstand a direct missile attack. There is no way into the parking garage without a thumbprint and a retinal scan. The elevator that led you up here also requires a thumbprint, and is one of only two access points to this floor. I have my own private elevator and garage, of course. Access to and from the room is also secured via coded doors. The only people who have access to the garage and this apartment, as I said when we first met, are Eliza and Harris, both of whom you’ve met, and Robert, whom you have not met, and likely will not any time soon. He doesn’t come here often.” “That’s…a little crazy, honestly.” I could almost hear the shrug. “I suppose so. I have my reasons for taking such precautions. It is not merely idle paranoia.”

“You have enemies, then?” “None that need concern you.” His tone clearly dismissed the subject. “Have you ever been to the opera?” “I…the opera? No. Why?” “Would you care to accompany me?” “Blindfolded?” “Yes, of course.” “Seems strange, but sure. Why not?” “Very good. You should get ready, then. I have a dress for you to wear. Eliza will bring it to you and help you get ready. Shall we say one hour?” “I can be ready in an hour.” “Excellent. Goodbye for now, Kyrie.” I heard an electronic beep, and the door opened, closed, and he was gone. I went back to my room, stripped, and got in the shower. And, let me just say, holy shit. It wasn’t just a shower. It was a fucking car wash for a human. Aside from the giant rainfall showerhead directly above, there were eight adjustable nozzles set into the wall, as well as a wand for those hardto-reach places. It was the single most glorious shower of my life. I didn’t want to get out. Every last shred of tension left me as I stood in the scalding, battering spray, letting the heat soak my muscles. Eventually, though, I had to wash up and get out, which I did with reluctance. I could see a lot of showers in my future. I was toweling off when Eliza appeared, a gown bag draped over her arm. “Pardon me, miss. I was just bringing you your gown.” She set the bag on the bed and unzipped it. “My name is Kyrie,” I told her, uncomfortable with having someone treat me with any kind of deference. It was odd, and I didn’t like it. “Certainly,” she said. “Would you like my assistance?” “Sure?” I wrapped the towel around my torso and watched as Eliza delicately withdrew the gown. I wanted to see what it looked like so I could choose appropriate undergarments. I almost snorted as I realized what my thoughts sounded like. Appropriate undergarments. Roth’s —and Eliza’s—formal speech was rubbing off on me. Normally, I would’ve just thought “the right underwear.” The gown was…like nothing I’d ever seen. Not in real life, at least. I mean, I watched the Golden Globes and the Oscars and whatever enough to know that this was one expensive dress. It was… stunning. Incredible. It was the kind of thing Jennifer Lawrence or Olivia Wilde would wear. Not me. I swallowed hard as Eliza held the dress up by the hanger. She nodded as she assessed the way it would look on me. “The dress,” Eliza said, eyeing me curiously. “It is a Dior.” I choked. “I. What?” “Mr.…my employer, he spares no expense.” “He told me his name was Roth,” I said, realizing Eliza was under an injunction to not reveal anything about him. “Ah. Mr. Roth. Yes. He thought I should inform you of this.” “This is a Dior gown?” How much would such a thing cost? I had no way of knowing. A lot. A lot a lot. “How is that possible? I thought those had to be, like, custom-fit?” “The logistics of how he managed it are beyond me. But he assured me it will fit you perfectly.” Eliza set the dress on the bed and went into the closet, rifled through the lingerie, handed me a black satin set. Strapless bra, barely there thong. I peeked a glance at the tag of the bra: Fredericks of Hollywood. My size, of course. “This will do, I think.” She turned away as I dropped the towel and put on the underwear, and then the bra, which pushed

my tits up so they assumed almost unlikely proportions. I mean, I was fairly well-endowed, but this bra did literal magic for my cleavage. She rifled through another section of the closet, and then handed me a slinky, silky midnight-blue dressing gown. I slipped it on, tied it, and actually sighed out loud at the luxurious feel of the cool fabric against my skin. “Why don’t we get your hair and makeup done, and then we shall see the effect in total. Come, sit.” She ushered me to the vanity, held out the chair for me, and then threaded her fingers through my hair. “You—you’re going to do my hair?” Eliza nodded. “Yes. Of course.” “So you’re his housekeeper, plus you do hair and makeup?” She smiled at me, the first warm, genuine smile I’d seen from her. “‘Housekeeper’ isn’t really an accurate word for my duties, I think. I do whatever Mr. Roth needs. Harris sees to his personal safety and security, as well as acting as chauffeur. Robert assumes business matters, and I tend to his personal needs.” “Is there anything you can’t do?” She grinned again as she began brushing through my hair. “Close a business deal. Shoot a gun.” She gestured at the dress, lying on the bed. “And wear that dress.” Thirty minutes later, she had my hair falling around my shoulders in loose spirals, swept away from my eyes and sprayed to stay for the evening. Shit, she was good. My hair looked amazing. And then, with the same efficient skill, she did my makeup. Light foundation, a bit of blush, smoky eyes, bright candy-apple-red lipstick. She stepped back when she finished, nodding. “There. I think that’s good. You are very beautiful, Miss Kyrie.” I smiled at her. “Thank you, Eliza. I mean, for doing my hair and makeup. It looks amazing. Better than I could have done on my own, that’s for sure.” “It is no matter. It was my pleasure. Truly.” She hesitated, as if deliberating whether or not to say more. She licked her lips, glancing into my eyes and then away. “Mr. Roth, as you may have noticed, is extremely private. He lives alone, spends nearly all of his time here. I am, most of the time, the only person here. So, to have someone else in the house is pleasant. To have another woman? It is truly a pleasure.” “You must get lonely, then, huh?” She shrugged. “Sometimes.” I sensed it in her, and I wondered if she was married, if she had kids, or if she lived here, lived to serve Roth. I didn’t think asking her outright would be polite, so I didn’t. Instead, I just leaned in to give her a tentative hug. “Well, I’m here. For how long, I don’t know. But while I’m here, we can be friends.” “That would be…” She sighed, as if hunting for the right word. “Nice. It would be nice.” A glance at her watch, and her eyes widened. “We need to finish getting you ready. Harris will be ready to pick you up at six precisely. Neither Harris nor Mr. Roth appreciates tardiness.” “Yeah, somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” I took a deep breath. “Let’s get me into this dress, then.” Eliza held the gown for me as I gingerly stepped into it, adjusted the skirts and then fitted the bodice to my breasts. Holy shit. This dress was tight. I mean, it fit, but it was molded to my curves like a second skin. Walking would be tricky, something told me. I very rarely wore dresses this tight. It was emerald green, sleeveless, the hem sweeping the floor around my feet with room to spare for a pair of heels. It looked a bit like the dress Jennifer Lawrence wore to the SAG awards, actually, just in a different material and color. There was a pair of heels to go with the gown, emerald green to match

the dress. Shit. This outfit was probably worth more than I’d ever made in my entire life. And then Eliza reached into a pocket of her apron and withdrew a wide black box. When she opened it, I had to steady myself with a hand on the wall. Lying on the black satin inside the box was an elaborate emerald necklace, a pendant with an emerald the size of my thumb, teardrop-shaped, suspended on a chain woven from twisted strands of platinum. As well, there was a pair of matching teardrop emerald earrings, also chased with twisted and braided platinum. “Holy…holy shit, Eliza.” I bit my lip, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. “I can’t wear that. It’s…I can’t even fathom how much that set costs. It’s on loan?” Eliza lifted an eyebrow. “Loan? Certainly not. Mr. Roth has no need to…borrow…jewelry.” Her tone was amused, almost contemptuous. Not of me, but of the concept of borrowing. “He purchased this set for you, for this occasion.” “I—I. Um. I don’t even know what to say.” I sucked in a breath, extended a finger to touch the pendant of the necklace. “I’ll feel self-conscious wearing all this. I don’t know if I can do this.” “You are a very beautiful woman, Miss Kyrie. You have absolutely no need to feel self-conscious. And besides, you will be dining in private with Mr. Roth, as well as sitting in a private box for the opera. You will not be walking the red carpet, as they say.” She put a hand on my bare shoulder, her palm cool and dry and comforting. “You can do this.” “I can do this. I can do this.” I breathed deeply once more. I forced strength into my voice. “I can do this.” “Now turn, so I can put this necklace on you.” I turned, and felt her rest the necklace on my breastbone. It was heavy, and cold. “Now the earrings.” She threaded the pin through my earlobe, fastened it, and then repeated the process on the other side. “Perfect. Now…let’s look at you in the mirror.” We went together into the closet—a term that didn’t begin to describe a space that was bigger than my entire Detroit apartment—and she positioned me in front of the three-way mirror. When I caught sight of my reflection, I had to blink hard to hold back pinprick tears. I didn’t look like me. I looked like some elegant, sophisticated creature that resembled me. The way Eliza had done my hair and makeup accentuated my sky-blue eyes and the natural tan of my skin, and the dress…Jesus, the dress. It hugged every curve, made my tits look huge and round and—if I said so myself, pretty damn perfect —and made my rather generous hips into an hourglass figure. My shoulders seemed slim and sharp, my breastbone and throat a sleek curve. The necklace and earrings sparkled and blazed in the incandescent light, their color a perfect match for the dress and offsetting my skin tone as if made for me. “You are going to take his breath away, Kyrie.” Eliza held my shoulders, and I felt oddly close and connected to this woman I barely knew. “Thank you.” She nodded with a small smile, and then bustled deeper into the closet, opened a drawer, and pulled out a slim black clutch. Valentino. “You’ll need this.” There were drawers full of purses? How had I not discovered this? I needed to explore this closet more; it was a woman’s fantasy, in both design and contents. My mind spun. I found my old purse in the armoire, retrieved my I.D., some cash, and my debit card. I doubted I’d need any of that, but it didn’t seem right to go out without it. I unplugged my cell phone, and realized in that moment that I’d never called Layla. She’d be pissed. And jealous. And worried. Shit. I’d have to call her from the car. I closed the clutch and nodded to Eliza. “I’m ready.” “I’ll bring you to the roof, then.” “The roof?”

Eliza nodded, leading me from my suite of rooms at a quick pace. “Yes. Harris will be flying you directly to dinner. Mr. Roth will meet you at dinner, and you will go together from there to the Met.” “Fly?” “Yes. In a helicopter.” “A helicopter. I’m being flown in a helicopter to dinner.” I felt dizzy. “While wearing an outfit that costs more than several houses.” “Welcome to Mr. Roth’s world, Miss Kyrie. He does nothing in half-measure.” “No shit.” Eliza frowned at me as she gestured me through a door that led to a small elevator. “You know, Mr. Roth disapproves of cursing under most circumstances. Not from any moral or religious standpoint, but because he considers it…unnecessary, and inelegant. So, a piece of friendly advice…consider attempting to curse less frequently.” Upward we went, exiting after a short ride onto a wide blacktop helipad where Harris was waiting, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. He stood in front of a sleek black helicopter, large enough to carry at least four people, possibly more. “I will try. Thanks for telling me, Eliza.” I turned and hugged her again. She was stiff through it, as if unused to being hugged. “For everything.” “My pleasure, Miss Kyrie. Now go. Have a fun evening.” I waved at her, and then crossed the helipad toward Harris. “Hello again, Harris.” He inclined his head to me. “Miss St. Claire.” He extended his hand toward the helicopter. “If you’re ready?” I nodded and he opened the door, holding out his hand to help me in. I eyed the step up into the craft, and then realized that I could not make it. “Yeah, not gonna be able to get up there in this dress,” I said. Harris didn’t say anything, merely placed his hands on my waist and lifted me in. He did so easily, as if I weighed nothing. His touch was businesslike, platonic, not lingering. As soon as I was in and settled, he closed the door, and I fished my phone from my purse. I had one phone number in the “favorites” screen of my iPhone: Layla. She was, actually, one of maybe a dozen phone numbers I had, period. I dialed her, and held the phone to my ear as Harris slid into the pilot’s seat and began warming up the engine, flipping switches and consulting a clipboard and doing all sorts of things in preparation for takeoff. “KYRIE!” Layla’s voice was a piercing shriek, so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. Harris turned in the seat and gave me an amused glance. “WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN, HOOKER?” I put the phone back to my ear and sighed into the speaker. “Layla, calm the hell down. You’re making my ears bleed.” “You said you’d call me again, Key. It’s been, like, two days. I was about to call the cops.” “Don’t do that, Layla. Please. For real. Don’t. I’m fine, totally fine.” “You haven’t been, like, dismembered or tortured yet, have you?” “Since I’m calling you, I’m gonna go with probably not.” I heard the whine of the engine getting louder. “Listen, I don’t have a lot of time, so I just wanted to call and say I’m okay.” “What’s that noise?” “That’s the engine of the helicopter.” “Helicopter?” I laughed at the concerned yet incredulous tone of her voice. “Yes, helicopter. I’m in a private helicopter, about to be flown to have dinner with…my benefactor.” For some reason, I didn’t think I should tell Layla his name, even though she was the only person in the whole world that I trusted

completely. “And then we’re going to the opera.” “The opera? Private helicopter? What the fuck is going on, Key?” I sighed. “I don’t even know where to start.” The engine was roaring now, making conversation difficult. “Are you sitting down?” “Why?” “Because you should be. I’m wearing a Christian Dior gown, Layla. Matching shoes. Emerald necklace and earrings that could pay for a fucking mansion. A Valentino clutch.” “Holy fucking Jesus toast, Kyrie.” “Jesus toast?” She growled. “Don’t make fun of my inventive swearing, damn your eyes. A custom Dior gown? Do you have any idea how much—” “Layla, that’s just the tip of the iceberg.” Harris glanced at me over his shoulder and circled his index finger, meaning he was about to engage the rotors. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. But…I’m okay. This is…I’m gonna go with this, Layla. It could be…good. Really good. He’s interesting.” “What’s he look like? What’s his name?” “I don’t know what he looks like yet. And I probably shouldn’t tell you much more. He’s…very private.” “But you’ve met him?” “Yes.” “Yet you don’t know what he looks like?” I sighed. “Layla, it’s…complicated. I’ll tell you what I can, when I can. For now, just…don’t worry about me. I’m good.” “Okay, babes. Just be careful. Rich guys are weird.” She made a kissing sound. “Go, then. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your fancy helicopter ride to your fancy dinner and fancy opera, Miss Fancy.” “Shut up, Layla. Don’t be an idiot.” “Can’t help it, I learned from you.” “Sure you did,” I laughed. “’Bye.” “’Bye.” I ended the call, put my phone on vibrate, and tucked it back into my clutch. “Sorry, Harris. I’m ready now.” “It’s all right, Miss St. Claire. You were very circumspect with your friend. That’s good. He’ll appreciate that.” He flipped a switch, and the rotors overhead began whirring. He gestured at a pair of headphones with a microphone boom hanging nearby. “Put those on.” I carefully slid the headset on, mindful of my hair, and the noise of the engines and rotors faded. I could hear Harris clearly as he said, “Buckle up as well, please.” I buckled up, and then had to grip the armrest as the helicopter lifted off the ground, making my stomach fall away. Up, up, and up, and then we banked, tilting to the left, giving me an incredible bird’s-eye view of Manhattan through the window beside me. “Holy shit. The city looks so different from this perspective.” “Indeed it does,” Harris responded, his voice clear through the headset. “I didn’t know you were a pilot as well, Harris.” He let out a single chuckle. “There are many, many things you don’t know about me, Miss St. Claire.” “Such as?” He didn’t answer right away, instead touching a button and rattling off some kind of official flightplan information on a different radio channel. When he was finished he returned to my channel and

spoke. “Such as…I’m licensed to fly helicopters as well as airplanes, everything from single-engine prop planes to military heavy lifters like C-130s. I’ve flown tens of thousands of hours as both a civilian and in the military.” “I thought you seemed like you’d been in the military,” I remarked. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. U.S. Army Rangers, retired.” “And how long have you worked for Mr. Roth?” He turned to glance at me. “He gave you his name?” He sounded surprised. “Just that much.” “That’s impressive. I’ve worked for Mr. Roth directly for five years, and for his company for eight. Meaning, I’ve worked for him for a total of eight years, five of which I’ve spent as his driver and pilot.” “And bodyguard, and private investigator.” “Yes, and those things.” He banked again, and then resumed speaking. “I worked directly for Mr. Roth for almost a year before he even gave me that much of his name. And here you spend less than forty-eight hours with him, and you’ve gotten his name from him. Pretty impressive.” “All I did was ask,” I said. Harris laughed. “I asked, too. A month and a half in. Know what he said? He said, ‘Ask me any more personal questions, Harris, and you’ll end up shoveling elephant dung for the circus.’” “He actually used the word ‘dung’?” Harris nodded. “Yes, ma’am. He doesn’t like swearing under most circumstances. If he does, you know he’s serious as a goddamn heart attack.” He gave me another glance, this one inquisitive, curious. “When I showed him what I’d found out about your…boyfriend…Steven…he was more upset than I’ve ever seen him, before or since. He said, and I quote, ‘Make sure that vile piece of shit doesn’t lay a finger on her, Harris. Make sure he knows who she belongs to. If he resists…fucking bury him.’” I shivered. “Obviously Steven listened,” I said. Harris’s voice was cold and terrifying. “I didn’t leave him much choice.” “I don’t want to know what that means, do I?” “No. Probably not.” Silence extended between us. I tried not to think about Steven, or what I’d seen in that file. I wanted to enjoy tonight, this experience. I focused on the view outside my window, Manhattan beneath me, bathed in the golden light of early evening. Harris banked the helicopter a third time, and then I felt us going lower, watched as we approached a high-rise with a helipad on the roof. Soon the building was out my view, and we descended straight down. A gentle bump, and we landed safely. “Wait a moment for the rotors to stop,” Harris said. “Don’t want the wash to mess up your hair.” He flipped a switch, and the engine’s roar turned to a receding whine, the rotors slowing to a stop. He stepped out and opened my door, placed his hands on my waist, and lifted me down. He gestured at the nearest door. “This way, please.” I followed him through the doorway, which led us into a small foyer area and a single elevator. He pushed the call button and stood beside me, hands clasped behind his back, a distinctly military atease posture that seemed second nature. The elevator doors opened, and he gestured for me to go first. Then he stepped on and pushed a button for a few floors down. My heart was starting to beat a little harder, knowing I was about to meet Roth once more. The elevator doors opened, and I stepped off into a small, dark room. It was lit by dim red lights hidden behind thick stands of bamboo planted directly into the floor on either side of the room. Opposite the elevator was a set of double doors, black lacquer, thick and heavy-looking, banded with hammered black iron, the handles wrist-thick rings.

Harris moved to stand beside me, and glanced at the doors and then at me. He reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a long strip of green fabric, the same shade and material as my dress. “Ready?” I inhaled, held my breath a moment, and then let it out. “Yes. I suppose I am.” Harris tied the blindfold around my head, and then placed his hand on my shoulder. I heard a ring squeak on the door as he lifted one of them. I felt his balance shift, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on my shoulder as he pulled open the obviously heavy door. I smelled food, Asian, possibly. Rice, searing meat, vegetables. I heard flames leaping, low voices. Harris guided me through the door. “I’ll see you later, Miss St. Claire,” he said. “Wait…you’re leaving me here? I don’t know where I’m going, I’m blindfolded, remember?” I felt panicky, fearful. Harris was now familiar to me. I didn’t want to be left alone in another strange place. I wasn’t in Roth’s house anymore, or in a vehicle. I was in a restaurant. Were there people watching me, staring at me, wondering who this weird blindfolded lady was? I was embarrassed, hating the blindfold, hating the vulnerability, hating that people I didn’t know could see me when I couldn’t see them. I felt a hesitant, cool touch on my shoulder, heard a soft male voice with a faint Asian accent. “Miss St. Claire. Please, my name is Kim. I will bring you to Mr. Roth. He has given instruction.” “You’re all right, Miss St. Claire,” Harris said. “Have a good night.” I heard the heavy doors closing. “This way, please.” I felt Kim’s hand take mine, placing my fingers on his arm. “Follow, please.” I moved with careful, precise steps, and my host seemed to understand the limitation of my dress, as he moved slowly enough that I didn’t feel rushed or off-balance. I heard the voices again, but they were all off to my right, and they all seemed to be speaking the same language. Chinese, maybe? I wasn’t sure, having very little familiarity with Asian languages. “Are there any other people here, Kim?” I asked. “No, no,” came the response. “Only Mr. Roth, me, you, the chefs.” “Oh. Okay. Thank you.” “Yes, yes.” Kim stopped, and I heard a door, the slight squeak of oiled hinges, and a latch opening. “This way, please.” Another few dozen steps, and then another pause, another door opening. “Miss St. Claire, sir,” Kim said, a hand on my elbow urging me forward. I heard a chair sliding, and then Roth’s hands were on my arms, my wrists, taking my hands in his. “Kyrie. Welcome.” “Thank you,” I said. “Where are we?” He led me four steps, pulled out a chair, guided me into it, and then resumed his own seat. “This is Longjing. It’s a Chinese restaurant I own.” His strong fingers tangled with mine. “You look…simply ravishing, Kyrie. I knew that dress would suit you when I had it made for you, but I had no clue how positively breathtaking you would look wearing it.” I felt myself blushing. “It’s incredible, Roth. Thank you.” I ducked my head. “For the dress, for the whole experience so far.” “Do you like the jewelry?” I let out a disbelieving huff of laughter. “Like it? Roth, it’s…incredible. That’s not the right word…there aren’t any words. I’ve never worn anything like it.” “That’s the point, my lovely. No one has. That set was designed for you, for that dress.” “I…what?” Roth’s thumb caressed my knuckles. “You deserve the best, Kyrie. And that is what I intend to give you.”

“I just…I don’t even know what to say, Roth. Everything is so…much. I can’t even fathom how much you spent on what I’m wearing.” “You want to know?” He sounded amused. “If you want to know, then I’ll tell you. Altogether, what you are wearing cost over one hundred thousand dollars.” My mind was boggled. “Why?” He laughed. “It’s nothing, Kyrie. We’re not even going to be seen tonight, either. Not in the public sense, when what we wear would be judged.” “Do you do public appearances like that?” I asked. “Very, very rarely. And only if I absolutely have to.” “So then all this,” I gestured at myself with both hands, “is just for…what, for kicks?” “For…kicks?” I heard the puzzled frown in his voice. “You mean just because? No. Not at all. You are the most beautiful woman I know, Kyrie. You should be adorned to showcase your beauty. I had this dress made so you would feel beautiful, and so I would enjoy looking at you all the more this evening.” His voice lowered, became intimate, close, rumbling. “Do you feel beautiful, Kyrie?” I gave myself time to think before answering. “Yes. I do. Very much so.” I couldn’t allow myself to dwell on his most beautiful woman I know comment. I’d go crazy if I did. “Then it was money well-spent.” A pause. “Stop thinking of the cost of things. That is my business, for me to worry about. I spend what I want, when I want. All you need do is be yourself, and try to trust me.” “I’m working on it.” “I know. Now, if I’m not mistaken, Kim is here with the first course.” At that very moment, a door opened, and I smelled food. This time, having eaten with Roth once before, I simply sat and waited. I felt Roth lift my hand and place a glass in it. I lifted it to my lips, sniffed, smelled white wine. I heard utensils clicking and tinkling, bowls being set down, and then the door closed. “This is Sichuan Beef,” Roth said. “A little spicy. Open.” I opened my mouth, felt chopsticks touch my lips, felt his hand at my chin. I bit down, and he withdrew the chopsticks. A little spicy, he said. It was fiery, and I had to blink against the burn. “God, Roth! That’s not just a little spicy, it’s f—it’s crazy hot!” I just barely remembered his dislike of cursing and caught myself. I took a sip of wine to wash away the heat in my mouth. Roth laughed. “It’s not spicy to me. But then, I suppose I do enjoy things a little spicier than most. I spent several years in China and the surrounding countries, and developed a taste for spicy food.” “Let me try another bite, now that I’m ready for it.” I parted my lips, bit down when he fed me a morsel of meat and rice, with some kind of vegetable. This time, ready for the heat, I was able to taste past it, and actually enjoyed it, although it did clear my sinuses a bit. “So, what were you doing in China?” He answered as he chewed. “I was…developing business contacts, you could say.” “That’s vague.” “On purpose. Perhaps eventually I’ll tell you more about what I do, how I made my fortune. But not now. It’s not relevant at this time.” I had kept my hand on my glass the entire time, so I wouldn’t have to find it again, or have him give it to me every time. I took a drink, sniffing past the bite of the spice. We talked more as we ate, again the conversation staying light. It was the kind of thing I usually hated, but it was also exactly what I needed, the appearance of normality to offset the oddity of being blindfolded. There were several courses to the meal, each better than the last, and almost all of them spicier than I usually liked. By the time the meal ended, my tongue was tingling. “Not so much spicy food next time, huh?” I said, taking a sip of my second glass of wine.

Roth laughed. “Sure. For you, anything. But here, that’s just the way Kim cooks. He’s a master with la jiao.” “La what?” “La jiao,” he repeated. “The chili peppers that made the food spicy. It’s Kim’s signature.” “You mean Kim was the chef?” “This is his restaurant. I provided the capital and some of the direction, but he runs it and does the cooking. It’s very exclusive, very expensive. Normally, you wouldn’t be able to get a table here unless you had reservations six months out.” “But for you….” I insinuated. “I get my way.” “Clearly.” I heard his chair scrape, felt his fingers trail over my shoulders and back. “Would you care for dessert? Or would you like to proceed to the show?” “I’m full,” I said. “We can go if you’re ready.” “Good answer.” He took my hand and led me back the way we came. I heard the heavy doors open, and then the sounds of the kitchen and the low chatter of voices receded. I heard the elevator whirring. A short ride later, we were moving across what sounded like a large foyer with marble floors, my heels echoing with sharp clicks. Another door opened, and Roth’s hand on my lower back urged me through and outside. The sounds of New York assaulted me, horns honking, voices, shoes, rushing vehicles, sirens. It was a warm evening, in contrast to the cool of the restaurant and the lobby we’d just left. I heard voices nearby. “Look…she’s blindfolded. I wonder why?” “Look at that dress!” “Did you see her necklace?” “That’s a Maybach, I think….” “Holy shit, he’s gorgeous….” And then I heard a car door open and Roth helped me into the car, gently nudging my head to make me duck. I slid in and across, feeling leather underneath my hands. The door closed and I felt Roth beside me, and then the engine purred and we were moving. Tension rolled off Roth. “Are you okay?” I asked. “I would have preferred a private entrance, but that wasn’t possible, unfortunately.” He took my hand, and I found myself naturally threading my fingers through his. “We have a private entrance at the Met, thankfully.” “What are we seeing?” I asked, ignoring my own embarrassment over the things I’d overheard, and the fact that I wouldn’t be really seeing anything. “La Bohème. A very enjoyable presentation. The bel cantos performing this are wonderful, and really, you won’t be missing much being blindfolded. The music is the thing.” I’d heard of it, but knew nothing about it. The rest of the ride was quiet, but Roth’s tension was still palpable. “You really don’t like being around people, do you?” I couldn’t help asking. “What makes you ask that?” His voice was thin and razor sharp. I shrugged. “I can just feel how tense you are. That whole scene back there really upset you.” “You can feel all that?” I nodded with another small lift of one shoulder. “Yeah. It’s coming off you in waves.” I heard him suck in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “You are very perceptive, Kyrie. Especially considering you don’t have the use of visual cues.” His fingers squeezed mine. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing. I heard car horns, and the sense of motion

ceased, indicating we were stopped at a traffic light or were stuck in a traffic jam. “You are correct, of course,” Roth said, after a few minutes of silence. “I dislike crowds. It’s not that I don’t like people, per se. I merely prefer my interactions to be…one-to-one, on my terms. There is so much one cannot control in a public, crowded setting. And my life experience has taught me to… shun…such situations whenever possible.” The vehicle moved again, and we rode in companionable silence. After twenty minutes in the car, which was punctuated with sporadic conversation, Harris stopped the car, and I heard him get out and come around to open our door. Roth slid out, and I extended my hand. He pulled me, helping me out of the car. A wash of overlapping voices hit me from my left, cameras clicking, questions being shouted. I heard another door open, this one right in front of us, and Roth’s hand on my lower back urged me forward. I moved as quickly as I could in my three-inch heels and tight dress, knowing Roth would want to get inside before the photographers caught sight of us. After a dozen steps, the door closed behind us, shutting off the babble of noise from the street. “This way please, Mr. Roth,” I heard a soft, awed female voice say. Following the usher, I assumed, Roth guided me onto an elevator, down what I guessed was a hallway and into—I assumed—a private box. I could hear the orchestra warming up, the jarring cacophony of instruments. Now more than ever I hated the blindfold. I wanted to see. My first time at the New York Met, and I was blindfolded. I couldn’t see the stage, the architecture of the theater, the seats; I couldn’t watch the people filing in and taking their seats, adjusting wraps and suit coats. I couldn’t look for famous faces. Roth helped me find my seat, and then I felt him settle in beside me. “The show should begin shortly. Would you care for a drink?” I shrugged. “Sure. Whatever you feel like is fine.” “What’s wrong?” “I’ve never been to the opera, never been to the Met, and I…I just want to see everything. This blindfold is frustrating.” His thumb skated over my shoulder, and I felt him lean in close to me. “I know, Kyrie. I know. I’ve got a phone call to make. You can look around while I’m gone.” His lips touched my shoulder, my neck. I shivered, felt my skin pebble, my blood race. “I’ll be back soon. I’ll send someone in with a glass of wine.” “Okay. Thank you, Roth.” “Of course.” I heard him leave, and I was alone. I reached up behind my head and untied the blindfold, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the sudden influx of light. Oh…oh, my god. I’d seen pictures of the Met, of course, so I sort of knew what to expect, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality. It was huge. The box I sat in was directly opposite the stage, at the very top, so the entire theater was on display for me. Of course Roth would have the best seat in the house. The seats were filling quickly, the stage curtain was pulled closed, and couples filed down the aisles, led by ushers, to find their seats. A pair of opera glasses sat on the seat beside me, recently vacated by Roth. I used them to get a closer look at the people in the audience, scanning for familiar faces. The door to the box opened and a server came in, carrying a tray bearing a single glass of white wine. “Anything else I can get for you, ma’am?” he asked. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” I expected him to leave, but he didn’t. He shrugged and gave me an apologetic smile. “I’ve been given instructions to wait here with you until Mr. Roth returns.” I frowned. “Well, whatever makes you happy.” I went back to scanning the crowds and sipping my wine, making the most of my time without the blindfold. A few minutes later, the lights began to dim, and the orchestra struck a single note. A knock on the

door behind the server made me jump in my seat, but he seemed to be expecting it. “I’m supposed to…errrr, tie a blindfold on you…now. Ma’am. I’m sorry, but those are my instructions.” The server was a very young man, barely out of his teens, acne-scarred and awkward. He took a step toward me, and I handed him the blindfold. “Ah, that explains why you had to wait here.” I closed my eyes as he placed the cloth around my head and tied it. It was way too tight, but I could feel his hands shaking, feel the awkward nerves billowing off him, so I took pity on him. “That’s fine, thanks.” “Sorry, ma’am.” I shook my head. “It’s not your fault.” “Can I…can I ask why…? Why the blindfold?” I wasn’t sure what to say. “I—um. It’s kind of a long story, actually. It’s…a game my boyfriend and I are playing.” The door opened, and I heard Roth’s tread behind me. “And it’s none of your business, Michael. More wine for the lady, and your best single-malt Scotch for me, please. Thank you.” “Right away, sir.” Michael sounded relieved to have something to do that would take him away from me, from the blindfold, and from Roth. I heard a chuckle from beside me. “Poor kid was about to wet himself, I think.” “He did seem a bit nervous. Especially when he had to tie the blindfold on me.” I touched the knot. “Speaking of which, I think I’m losing circulation, he tied it so tight. Can you loosen it for me?” Strong fingers worked at the knot, loosened the blindfold, and then retied it. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you,” Roth said as he fussed with my hair, feathering his fingers through the ends. “I don’t blame him, but he was…rather openly ogling you.” “Ogling? I don’t think he was ogling.” “He was ogling. Staring down your front, actually.” He traced the line of my clavicle, and then down, down, closer and closer to the opening of my cleavage. “It’s not his fault, though. Not entirely. You are…impossible to look away from. You aren’t his to look at, however.” “No?” “No.” “Then whose am I?” I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear his reaction. “Mine, Kyrie. You are mine. You belong to me. To me alone. I won’t share you, not even with harmless children like our friend Michael the server.” At that moment Michael returned, and Roth replaced my empty glass with a full one. “Thank you, Michael. Now, that will be all until intermission. Here you are.” “Th-thank you sir. That’s…very generous of you, sir.” Michael’s voice was awed, stunned, and I imagined Roth had given him a massive tip. A hundred-dollar bill, maybe. The door closed, and the orchestra began playing. Within the first five minutes, I was hooked. I couldn’t understand anything, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t see anything, but I didn’t care. The music, the singing, it was rapturous, hypnotic, needing nothing else to be magical. For a while, Roth and I sat side by side, merely listening, and then I felt his hand on my knee. I tensed, but allowed his hand to remain. And then…his hand slid upward. Just an inch, but enough to make my heart rate increase. Another inch, and now I knew he was playing a game. How far would I let him go? Every nerve ending in my body was on fire, and his fingers were barely at my thigh. I swallowed and tried to tune out the feel of his palm on my quad. Tried to listen to the singing, to the orchestra, but it was in vain. I felt his breath on my neck. I forced myself to keep my head upright, even though every instinct was telling me to tilt my head aside, to offer him my throat. His mouth was hot and moist on my neck, kissing just beneath my ear. I could barely hear past the thunder of my heartbeat in my ears. His hand

was sliding higher now, and it was becoming intimate, becoming dangerous. I was trembling now. Unable to move, frozen stiff. The music faded to the background. A warm palm cupped my cheek, turned my head to the side. “A kiss, Kyrie.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, and leaned in. I knew better than to deny him a kiss; I knew better than to deny myself a kiss. He tasted of Scotch, smoky and fiery, and his breath was slightly cold from the ice, his lips soft and damp on mine, moving with strength and confidence. His hand was at my hip now. His tongue ran along the seam of my lips, once, twice. Tasting, inviting. A third time, demanding now. I opened my lips and felt his tongue graze my teeth, and then my own tongue flicked out to touch his, and that was when I knew I was lost. The kisses we’d shared before were delicate, exploratory. They had been introductions. Slow, and soft, and easy. This one was not. It was hot, hungry. It demanded my attention, demanded that I give in, that I give back. I kissed him back, and I did so because I wanted to. I wanted his kiss. But…his hand. It was resting on my hip, fingers pressing into my flesh through the fabric of my dress. Bunching, gripping. Our kiss continued unbroken, and I had to turn toward him, to pivot my body to face him. I reached out and clutched at him, tangled my fingers in the material of his coat and shirt, pulling him closer. He moaned, a vibration in his chest, an approval. The heel of his palm slid low, over my hip, over my belly. I pinched my thighs together, breaking the kiss. I wanted to ask what he was doing, but I was afraid of the answer. His fingers crawled over my thighs, fingertips brushing the material of my dress, a feather-light touch. I was shaking, my forehead against his, breathing raggedly, my hands fisted in his dress shirt. “Roth?” It was all the question I could manage. “Kyrie. Don’t make a sound. Okay? Keep quiet for me.” “Keep—keep quiet?” “Yes. I’m going to make you come.” “You’re…you are?” He didn’t answer. At least, not with words. His mouth found mine, and I was taken away again, transported by the skilled power of his kiss. His hand rested on the space between my thighs, over my dress, an inch from my core. I felt his fingers curl against my thighs, slide upward. My legs were pressed together, and my dress was tight. But yet, when his fingertips grazed over my core, even through the dress I felt it, and I shuddered. Another brush over the apex of my thighs, and I felt my legs fall apart, just slightly. His lips on mine were demanding, unrelenting, stealing my breath, his tongue swiping over my teeth and tangling with my tongue, tasting my lips. His fingers pressed in, and I gasped into his mouth. “Oh, Kyrie. So beautiful. And I haven’t even really touched you yet.” His voice was a low murmur, his breath hot on my lips. “You want me to touch you?” I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know how. I did, yet I was afraid to let him. I knew if I did, if I let him touch me, let him make me come, that I’d be even more lost to him, to his game. But I already was, wasn’t I? I’d given in to him. I’d let him blindfold me. Let him kiss me. He’d seen me braless, in a Tshirt and underwear. I was already aching for his touch. “I asked you a question, Kyrie.” His fingers slid down my thigh, toward my knee. I felt him lean down, grasp my ankle and lift my foot. He grasped the hem of my dress. He pulled, gently and implacably sliding the fabric up, up, baring my calves, my knees, and now my thighs. “Do you…want me…to touch you? It’s a simple question. Yes or no will do. Do you want to orgasm? Right here, right now? In this theater? Surrounded by thousands of people? You’re probably already wet for me, aren’t you? A few strokes with my finger, and you’ll come apart, I bet. I’d just have to slide my finger inside you, and you’d be whimpering. I bet your clit would be so sensitive, so tender. You’d be tight, too. So tight. When you came, you’d clench around my fingers, and you’d have to bite down to keep from

screaming. You want that, don’t you, Kyrie?” I let out a shuddering breath, let my head thump back on the seat. “Y—yes. Yes. I do. I want that.” My dress was bunched beneath my thighs now, and his hand was curled over my thigh, caressing the round muscle and sliding up, up. “Say it. Tell me what you want me to do. I need to hear you say it, Kyrie. Tell me what you want me to do to you.” “Unh…” I couldn’t make words form in my head, or on my lips. All I could do was gasp and breathe as his fingers drifted between my thighs—still closed together—and grazed the scrap of silk over my folds. “I—Roth…I want you to—to touch me.” “I am touching you. You’ll have to be more specific.” His lips nibbled on my earlobe, over the shell of my ear, kissed behind it, down and around beneath it, kiss, kiss, kiss, to my throat. I wiggled my bottom on the seat, wanting to open my thighs but still afraid to totally give in. “Oh, god…I want—I can’t say it….” “Then you don’t get it.” His touch moved away, back to the top of my thigh. He traced the length of my leg from knee to hip with one finger, back down. Moved in slightly, traced the same path from knee to apex along the inside of my thigh. I moaned in frustration, trapped between desire and fear. “God, Roth.” “In your life, at this time, those two words could be considered synonymous.” He nipped at my throat, kissed up to beneath my chin, and then his tongue flicked out and tasted the corner of my mouth. “You know what you want. Don’t be afraid, Kyrie. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to make you feel good. I’m going to make you feel better than you’ve ever felt in your life. All you have to do is tell me what you want me to do. Whisper it, as soft as you please. I’ll hear you.” I felt his finger slide in and rest on the seam of my thong, at the very edge of my core. His touch moved down, lower, and then traced back up. I shivered from head to toe, shaking, still not really breathing. “Touch me. Touch me there.” “Where?” I hesitated. “My pussy.” The words were barely audible, but I knew he heard them. “Put your fingers inside me. Make me come. Please, Roth.” “Ah, now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” “Yeah, it kind of was,” I said. He laughed, a gentle chuckle. “Don’t you ever talk dirty, Kyrie?” “No. Not really.” “Well, you’ll learn.” He traced the line of my opening with his finger. “Are you ready?” “I’m ready.” “I don’t think you are. Not really. Not for what I’m going to do to you.” He kissed his way down my breastbone, and then his lips came to rest on the slope of one breast. “Remember, not a sound.” I nodded, and then his finger slid underneath the elastic at the inside of my thigh. I couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Every single sense was attuned to his finger as it neared my opening. I let my thighs open a bit, felt them shaking. I sucked in a breath, held it, waited. I felt his touch on my folds, brushing over my close-trimmed pubic hair. “So soft, Kyrie. I can’t wait to feel you.” His words were felt more than heard, pitched just loud enough to be audible. His finger extended down my opening and then traced up, slid back down and back up. Three times he did this, each time the tip of his finger going slightly deeper. I was wiggling in my seat by the time he had his finger inside me up to the first knuckle. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to have me shaking all over, anticipating, needing. I had to breathe now, and my lungs were expanding and contracting furiously, my chest heaving.

He stilled then, one finger barely inside me. I frowned, groaned, just barely able to restrain myself from writhing my hips to get more of his touch. “Not a sound, Kyrie. Not so much as a groan.” “Okay, sorry.” I was aching, hot and throbbing, wet. Needing his touch, needing him to make good on his promise. I needed this. He was there, right there, but not moving, not touching. And then, just as I was about to ask him to touch me again, he did. His finger slid in, a little deeper. He dragged it up between my lips, and I had to bite my lip to keep silent as the rough pad of his big index finger brushed against my clit. I did gasp, but it was a quiet intake of breath. I tensed, my hands still fisted in his shirt. I let my hands fall, releasing his clothing. One of my hands rested on the armrest of my chair, the other on his forearm, gripping the corded muscle and firm flesh. I felt his muscles moving as his finger circled my clit. My hips lifted, fell, lifted and fell, moving with the slow rhythm of his finger. And then, suddenly, his finger dipped into my channel, into the wetness and the heat. “God, Kyrie,” he murmured. “You’re wet. So wet. I love how wet you are. You’re tight, too.” His words had me blushing even as his finger withdrew to flick against my clit once more, making me flinch and writhe, biting my lip. He circled my engorged nub with his thick finger, and I wanted to moan, to groan, to swear, to say his name. Anything. But I couldn’t. Somewhere, out beyond the bubble of this box, someone was singing. Her voice was powerful, rising and falling, lush and rich, the song growing louder and faster, other voices joining hers. The song was reaching a crescendo, voices overlapping and competing. His finger slid into me again, going deep, withdrawing, slathering my own juices over my clit, dipping in, moving over me, circling once, twice, three times, dipping in, never letting me find a rhythm, never letting me get too near the edge of climax. He added a second finger, and I wished I could tell him how much I liked that, but I didn’t dare, because if I made a sound, he’d stop, and then I’d die. I was writhing now, lifting my hips up off the plush seat, seeking release, biting down on my lip so hard I thought I tasted blood. My breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, grating past my teeth, rasping from my throat. Keeping quiet was proving impossible, and the fact that there were people just a few feet away in the adjacent boxes made this all the more frightening and risky and exhilarating, making my need to stay silent that much more imperative. Yet I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I heard a slight, nearly inaudible whimper slip from my throat, and Roth’s finger stilled immediately. I felt the burgeoning swell of impending orgasm recede, making me panic, frantic. I writhed, gripped his hand in mine and tried to make him move. “I couldn’t…couldn’t help it…couldn’t help it….” “I know, lovely girl. I know.” Roth’s voice was in my ear, rough and low. “You’re so close, aren’t you? You want to come. You need to come. But you can’t. Not unless I let you.” He wanted me to beg. I knew this. I wouldn’t. No. I wasn’t that far gone. I wanted to come, but I wasn’t prepared to beg him for it. I tossed my head from side to side, clenched my thighs tight around his hand, pinning his hand in place. “Oh, Kyrie. You won’t beg, will you? Too proud for that.” His finger, still inside me, curled, twitched, and I jerked, my body spasming as he brushed my clit. “You’re right there, Kyrie. A few more of these” —he brushed my nub again, and I felt heat and pressure coiling in my belly— “and you’ll come all over my hand. All you have to do is say ‘please, Roth.’ Two little words. It’s not even really begging. It’s just…asking me nicely.” It was acknowledging his control, his power over me, and we both knew it. But then, that was the entire point of this game, wasn’t it? I had his blindfold on. I was playing his game. So why not this,

too? I wanted it, and I was right there, so close. I was on the verge of biting clean through my lip at that point, my hips fluttering in desperation I couldn’t control. Two words. Let him have his control. “Please…Roth.” Who needs dignity when you can have public orgasms? At that moment, as the words tumbled from my lips, the song coming from the stage reached its pinnacle, climaxing even as Roth’s fingers pinched my swollen clit and sent rockets of ecstasy firing through me. I clenched my teeth together and let my hips roll violently in time with his two circling fingertips. Just as the pressure in my core reached critical mass, Roth’s fingers dove into my channel, slipped out, dove in, and then resumed circling. It was just enough of a disruption in rhythm to pull me back from the edge. He was making me crazy, making me wild. Growls boiled in my throat, just barely held back, primal sounds of frustration at his games. He could make me come whenever he wanted, and I knew it. He was teasing me. Once more, he slid his fingers deep into me just as I was about to explode. I dug my fingernails into his forearm with all my strength, a plea and a warning. I fisted my other hand into his shirt, jerked him toward me, felt his mouth crash against mine. “I played your game, goddammit,” I growled. “Now just fucking give it to me.” His laughter was a long, low rumble, and then, just as I was about to do something really crazy, like bite him, he covered my mouth with his, thrust his tongue between my lips and fingered me right over the edge. “Come, Kyrie.” It was a command. “Come now. Right now, baby. Right now.” I had never so willingly obeyed before. He devoured my helpless moan of release with his hungry mouth, kissing me and flicking his tongue against mine and flicking my throbbing clit and pinching it and circling it, pushing my climax higher and higher until I was breathless and my heartbeat ceased and my body was arched up, only my heels touching the floor, my shoulders against the chair. It was too much, too much, too hard, too explosive, wrenching me apart, yet he didn’t relent — he continued to ravage my mouth with his, circling my clit and sliding his fingers into me and driving me to heights I hadn’t known were possible. Eventually, my body could take no more, and I fell back to the chair, panting, limp. I brushed a tendril of hair away from my mouth, and then let my hand flop to the side. Only, instead of the chair, my fingers found Roth. More specifically, found his thigh, and then his zipper. And the massive, ironhard erection straining behind it. Yet, before I could do more than register what I’d accidentally touched, he was pinioning my wrist and pulling my hand away. “Not yet, Kyrie.” “Doesn’t it hurt?” “Yes.” “Are you going to…take care of it? Or…or let me?” I asked. I expected this, knew it was coming, knew it was part of the game. “No. Not any of that.” “You’re just going to stay hard like that?” A pause. “Yes. It will go away eventually.” “But won’t that…cause problems?” “That’s my worry, not yours.” His voice brooked no argument. Too bad I didn’t plan on listening. “I don’t get it, Roth. I thought that’s how this was going to work.” “Don’t think you know how this is going to go, Kyrie. You don’t. This isn’t about getting off. For me or for you.” His was pitched low, barely audible over the sound of voices chattering through intermission. “When you touch me, you’ll be looking into my eyes. Don’t you remember what I promised you when we first discussed our arrangement?” I nodded. “What was it? Tell me, Kyrie.” “You told me we wouldn’t have sex unless I asked for it. Unless I begged for it.”

“Correct. And are you starting to believe me?” “Yeah, I think I am.” “Good. Now, fix your dress before Michael arrives with our refreshments.” I tugged the skirt down past my hips, then stood and let it fall to the floor, adjusting it until it felt like it was straight. I felt Roth’s fingers pull at the fabric, adjusting it slightly, and then his hand moved to rest on my hip, possessive and familiar. I sat down again, and I felt his shoulder nudge mine. “I thought you should know, Kyrie…I have never seen anything so beautiful as your face when you come for me.” “I don’t think I’ve come so hard in all my life,” I admitted, flushing slightly. His lips touched my ear. “Oh…darling Kyrie. That was just the beginning, sweetheart. The things I’m going to do to you when we’re alone…you don’t even know.” The promise in his voice had me shivering, clamping my legs together at the rush of heat that flooded me all over again. I could barely focus on the rest of the opera, wondering if he’d touch me again, if he’d kiss me again, wondering what else he could possibly do to me. Yet he didn’t. He simply held my hand, his thumb occasionally caressing my knuckles. All through the opera and the car ride home, I halfexpected to feel his touch find my core again, but it never came, and I was left off-balance, wanting more, wanting to touch him, to rip the blindfold off and see him, to see if his erection had subsided, wondering what he would do next. He held my hand on the elevator ride up to his penthouse, all the way to the door of my rooms, and then he took both of my hands in his, pressing my back to the door. I tilted my head up, ready for anything. “Good night, Kyrie.” His lips brushed mine, swift and dry. That was it? Make me come in the middle of the opera, then nothing? Just…good night? “Good night, Roth.” I was frustrated, confused. His hand left mine, opened my door, and I stepped back, turned around, away from him. He untied my blindfold, yet instead of taking it as he had the last time, he put it in my hands. I saw his hands. They were even larger than I’d expected. I placed my palm against his, comparing. The tips of my fingers barely reached the middle of his, so he could fold his fingers over mine. His hands were rough, callused, thick and strong. The nails were cut close, filed into neat, even arcs. Not manicured or buffed, just cared for. He was still, frozen behind me as I held his one large, tanned paw in my smaller hand. I turned his palm to face down. The skin on the back of his hand was leathery, lined. “Your hands are rough.” “Yes.” “I was under the impression that you grew up…wealthy.” “I did.” “But yet your hands….” He didn’t answer right away, but neither did he pull his hand from mine. I couldn’t help slipping my fingers through his. “I grew up very, very wealthy. My father is, even still, one of the wealthiest and most successful businessmen in the world. You wouldn’t have heard of him, because he keeps a low profile, stays out of the news and such. But yes, you’re right, I grew up rich. Spoiled. I never did a thing for myself as a child. My food was cooked for me, brought to me. My bed was made for me. I was driven everywhere by a chauffeur. I had bodyguards and personal attendants, private tutors. I grew up getting whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.” His voice was so close, pitched to barely a murmur, each word hesitant, as if he couldn’t believe he was saying all this. I didn’t dare breathe for fear he would clam up. “Such was my life until I turned eighteen. I spent a lot of time with my father. He was my hero. I idolized him. I wanted to be like him. I watched everything he did, went to work with him and asked questions and took notes, learned everything I could about business. I was being

groomed to be his heir and successor. Or so I thought. Then, on my eighteenth birthday, my father took me to the gates of our estate in rural England, where a brand new BMW M5 was waiting. My father handed me a briefcase, told me to open it. Inside that briefcase was my passport and one hundred thousand British pounds. Also in that briefcase was a Beretta M9, three clips, and a box of ammunition. My father handed me the keys to the car. I will remember his words for the rest of my life. He said, ‘You’re on your own, now, son. That is your inheritance, and it’s all you’ll get from me. Go. Earn your own fortune. You can come back to visit anytime you want. But if you stay longer than a month, I’ll charge you rent, and any money you borrow I will expect to be repaid with interest. I earned what I have with my own two hands, and so will you. Goodbye, and I love you.’ And then he turned and walked away, closing the gate behind him.” “That’s…kind of cold. I mean, he just…kicked you out, just like that? Cut you off?” “Just like that. I had the clothes on my back, the car, and the contents of the suitcase. That’s it. I had friends, of course, places I could go, enough money to buy my own flat or stay in a hotel. But yet, I knew enough to know that a hundred grand would vanish rather quickly if I wasn’t careful.” Roth pulled his hand away, finally. “The story of how I ended up where I am now is a long one, and an often unpleasant and dark one, and I will not tell it now.” “Wow, Roth. That’s…crazy.” He didn’t respond. “Yes, I suppose it is, at that.” He sighed. “You know, what I just told you is more than I’ve ever told anyone.” “I suspected as much. Thanks for telling me.” “Good night, Kyrie.” I felt him back away, and then he was gone, the door clicking closed behind him. And, for the second night, it took me a very long time to fall asleep.

6 GIVING IN I was a ridiculously sound sleeper. I always had been. My dad used to say that I could sleep through the end of the world. I’d sleep through thunderstorms that shook the whole house, through my alarm clock blaring in my ear. It would take a rough hand shaking me for several minutes before I’d finally wake up, and even then I’d be groggy, disoriented. I drooled when I slept. It was embarrassing. It was part of the reason I’d never lived with a guy, to be totally honest. By drool, I don’t mean a cute little bit at the corner of my mouth. I mean my pillow would be damp when I woke up. It was gross, but I couldn’t help it. And what guy would want to sleep next to a girl who drools a pool of spit all over him and the pillow? I never woke up in the middle of the night, not ever, not for anything. Once I fell asleep, I was down until my body was ready to wake up. Yet, two days after the visit to the opera, I jerked awake in the middle of the night. I hadn’t seen Roth since the opera, which had made for several very long and very boring days. I woke up, peering at the clock beside me: 2:39 a.m. Why was I awake? My heart was hammering, thudding in my ears. I peered around the room, but all I could see were shadows and vague shapes, faint reflections of deeper shadows from the mirrors in the bathroom. My room was almost pitch-black, the only light coming from the clock beside my bed. I wasn’t alone. Suddenly and completely, I knew this. “Hello? Roth?” “Yes. It’s me. Close your eyes.” His voice came from the doorway leading to the living room. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.” “Close your eyes, Kyrie.” I did as he instructed. “They’re closed. Not that it makes a difference, this room is so dark.” “Keep them closed.” I heard his voice moving nearer, heard his feet on the carpeting. I felt the bed dip under his weight. My heart began hammering even harder, pounding in my throat. His hand touched my leg, near the knee, moved upward, to my thigh, to my hip. Up my waist. I was covered only by the sheet, wearing a T-shirt and underwear. His hand slid over my breast, cupped it, and then kept moving. He found my face. His thumb brushed my chin, my cheekbone. And then I felt silk pressed to my eyes, and I lifted my head so he could tie the blindfold. “I apologize for my absence these last few days, Kyrie. Business called me away. But I’m back now, and I’m going to make up for my departure.” He pulled the sheet down, tossed it aside. “Put your hands beneath the pillow, under your head.” I slid my hands under the pillow as instructed, and kept my questions to myself. I had a feeling I knew what he was going to do, and I wasn’t about to argue. His finger traced my cheekbone once more, brushed a tendril of hair away, then slid down the curve of my throat. “Is this shirt important to you?” I shook my head, then realized he might not be able to see the gesture. “No. The last one you ripped was, though.” “My apologies, in that case.” He grasped the neck of my T-shirt in both hands, and I felt his knuckles against my breastbone, felt his hands tense, and then the cotton ripped open from top to bottom. I felt his presence leave the bed, heard a switch click. “That’s better. Now I can see your lovely body. You have such perfect breasts, Kyrie.”

Cool air washed over my exposed torso, making my skin pebble and my nipples harden. My hands clenched into fists under the pillow. I braced myself for his touch, but when it came, it wasn’t where I expected it. His finger touched the seam of my mouth, slid from corner to corner. I parted my lips, felt his finger slide into my mouth, and I tasted salty skin. I bit down gently, and I heard a hiss as he sucked in a breath. His finger left my mouth, carved a line down my chin, down my throat, between my breasts, over my diaphragm and stomach. When he reached my underwear, his finger hooked under the elastic and continued its southward journey, bringing my panties with it. I lifted up, and his finger ran around to my hip, bringing the fabric down, and then across my pudendum to the other hip, and then the garment was gone, tossed away. I was naked for him now, except for a ripped scrap of T-shirt around my arms. My nipples were diamond-hard, my breath coming in long, deep pulls, lifting my boobs and letting them fall. My thighs were pressed together, and I felt his gaze on me, knew he was staring at me, memorizing my body. I let my legs fall apart, let him see me. “Kyrie…you are so fucking beautiful.” His voice was low, reverent. “And you are mine.” I flinched in surprise when I felt his palm graze my left nipple, and then relaxed into his touch as he cupped me. His hand moved to my other breast, and then slid down the curve of my waist, to the bell of my hip. Over my thigh, up the inside, and then his finger was tracing the dampening line of my cleft, sending a hissing breath out of my lips. “No need to be quiet this time, Kyrie. You can make all the noise you want. Scream for me, if you want. Say my name. Right now, say my name.” “Roth….” As the word left my mouth, his finger slid into my pussy, and I said his name, drawing it out into a groan. He coated his finger in the slick juices of my folds, and then dragged it over my clit. He didn’t need to do that, though, because I was already wet, already throbbing for his touch. I knew how hard he could make me come, and from the moment I felt him rip my shirt open, I wanted it, needed it. Giving into him was becoming easier. “Spread your legs, Kyrie. Wide open.” I obeyed, drawing my knees up and letting them fall apart. See? I didn’t even question him — I just did what he told me like a good girl. “So perfect, Kyrie. Your pussy is like a flower, pink and pretty and begging for me to open its petals.” Who the hell talks like that? I wondered, but the thought was faint, because his words had a powerful effect on me. He thought my pussy looked like a flower? Jesus, that was kind of hot. Weird, and unexpected, but hot. His fingers traced over my opening, slid down one labia and up the other, dipped in to caress my clit, and back out. And then his weight shifted, and I felt his broad shoulders brushing the inside of my knees, and I felt his stubble on my inner thigh. Oh, god. Oh, god. He was about to go down on me. I wanted to tense, wanted to hook my knees over his shoulders and beg him to lick me senseless, wanted to beg him to take off the blindfold so I could see him, so I could watch his head between my legs. I did none of that. I held absolutely still, kept silent, and waited. His hands curled around the outside of my thighs, and I felt his breath on my soft, sensitive skin. His stubble was rough on my flesh, but his tongue sliding up my folds made up for it. In fact, the contrast of his scratchy stubble on my thighs and his tongue wet and hot and slow along my opening was delicious and erotic, and I couldn’t and didn’t try to stop a moan from escaping my lips. His fingers walked along the hollow of my hips, found the lips of my pussy and pulled them apart, and his tongue flicked in to swipe around my swollen clit in a long, wet circle. “Kyrie…you taste so good, Kyrie. I’m going to lick your sweet, perfect pussy until you beg me

stop, but I won’t stop. I’ll keep licking you until you can’t take it anymore, and then, when you’ve come so hard and so many times that you think you’re about to die, I’ll make you come again. Have you ever come so many times you passed out, Kyrie? That’s what I’m going to do to you. Right now. Tonight. I’m going to eat your sweet wet little pussy until you pass out.” His words rumbled and his voice purred like a lion’s growl, and his breath was hot on me, and his fingers were gentle but insistent, and I nearly came just from his voice, just from his words, just from his promises. I bit my lip and moaned as his tongue slid up my opening, his tongue flattened and fat. He licked me like that a few times, his tongue going stiff as it swiped over my clit. As the tip of his tongue left my pussy, I felt my hips lifting, rising of their own accord, seeking contact. Moans were leaving my lips nonstop now as his tongue narrowed and speared into me, diving in to circle my clit. The rhythm, oh, Jesus, the rhythm he set was slow and deliberate and maddening. Designed to make me crazy. Designed to make me beg. He used nothing but his tongue. For a time I had no way of measuring what he was doing, just licking and circling me in no discernible pattern. Heat swelled inside me, and pressure bore down on me like drowning at the bottom of a pool. My breath came in groans, and my hips lifted and fell to the wild sequence of his tireless tongue. And then, just as I was about to scream from frustration and need, the fingers of his right hand trailed around my leg and up the inside of my thigh, and then I felt a single digit pierce my folds and curl against my inner walls, crooking to stroke me high and deep, eliciting a gasp that became a whimper. I couldn’t help but hook my heels over his shoulders, and he grasped my hips in both hands, tugged me down the bed, grabbed a pillow, and shoved it under my lower back to lift my ass off the bed. My hands were fisted under the pillow, shaking, desperate to tangle in his hair. His hands slid over my body, soothing and smoothing, exploring and possessing. His palm grazed my breast, cupped its weight, and then his fingers pinched my nipple, tweaking and twisting, adding a sharp line of barbed-wire heat to the pressure and fire inside me. I felt his other hand arcing over my belly, across my hip, my thigh, sliding over the damp and trembling line of my pussy, and then his finger traced down the opening and pushed in. I groaned, and then let a tiny breathless scream leave me as his tongue flicked against my clit. Another finger joined the first inside my pussy, and his tongue moved in slow circles. Two fingers stroked inside me, curling up and in, and the pace of his tongue quickened. Heat billowed in my core, pressure set my thighs to trembling, and my heels crossed over each other on his back, holding him to me. My hands needed to touch him. I needed to. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I kept them in place, just as he’d told me to do. I was moaning loudly now, hips writhing against his mouth. My orgasm was quick and hard, pulsing through me like lightning strikes. “Shit…Roth…oh, god….” I heard myself gasp. “That was a good start.” His voice came from between my legs. “But it was just a start.” Just a start? That orgasm had left me limp and sweaty, shaking, barely able to catch my breath. I realized that he might not have been kidding when he’d promised to make me pass out. I’d only had multiple orgasms once in my life, and that had been a…memorable evening. The guy in question had been a U.S. Marine on leave, and we’d only had that one night together, but holy shit had he been good. He was an amateur, I realized, in comparison to Roth. I’d come hard, and it had only taken him a few minutes. My thoughts were dissolved by his fingers sliding out of me and moving up to caress my throbbing, aching clit. I groaned, and Roth groaned with me. “This time, I want you to come as fast as possible.” He licked me once, hard. “Are you ready, Kyrie?”

“I…I don’t know if I can again.” “Oh, you can.” He licked me, and I felt a bolt of something hot shoot through me, making me gasp. “See? Come for me, Kyrie. Come again.” He put his lips to my clit and sucked, three fingers sliding in and out of my tight, clenching opening. He sucked hard, and my hips left the bed, lightning hitting me with each pull of his mouth on my throbbing nub. And sure enough, within seconds I was teetering on the edge, and his free hand drifted up my body to pinch my nipple, pinching as hard as he was sucking. I groaned, and as soon as I fell over the edge, his touch turned light, his tongue flicking my clit and his fingers gently stroking my nipple. I screamed aloud, coming hard, back arching. “Good, Kyrie. Very good. That was beautiful.” I felt him crawl out from between my thighs and up my body. “Now, while you’re still coming, touch yourself. Put your fingers to your pussy so I can watch you make yourself come.” I was arched off the bed even as he spoke. There was no way I could come again. No way. I ached. I hurt. I was completely limp. When I didn’t comply, I felt him grab my hand and shove it between my thighs. His palm touched the back of my hand, and his fingers moved against mine, pushing my middle digit against my clit. “I can’t…I can’t.” “Yes, you can.” I felt him lean over me, felt his tongue, which surely must be tired by now, trace a lazy circle around my nipple. “Touch yourself, Kyrie. I want to watch you make yourself come.” I moved my middle and ring fingers in a tentative circle. I swallowed hard and bit my lip as almost painful heat throbbed inside me. Roth was pressing kisses to my tits, cupping my right boob and pulling it toward himself, licking my thickened nipple, circling the areola with his tongue, and then letting go and paying the same attention to my right side. His hands weren’t idle, though. He was stroking me, caressing me all over. Grabbing my hip and kneading my tits and holding my waist. I felt my hand moving, felt pressure build within me once again as my fingers moved in compliance with Roth’s command. How could I possibly come again? He’d brought me to climax twice within, what, fifteen minutes, if that? Jesus. I didn’t think it was possible, but he’d done it. And now, his mouth on my tits and my own fingers circling my clit with quick, sure movements, I was right there again. What was it about Roth that affected me so powerfully? His voice? His dirty talk? His confidence? I wasn’t sure, but there was something about him that just pushed me to boiling point. I was teetering on the cusp of orgasm, lost to sensation, my fingers touching myself in the way only you can touch yourself, knowing your own hot spots, knowing the perfect speed and perfect rhythm. His lips were wrapped around my right nipple, and I felt a line of heat connecting my tits to my core, and as my fingers moved and his mouth suckled, that line was being tugged, jerking yet another orgasm from me. I exploded with a shriek, hips rocking, back arched as far as my spine would allow. There was no warning. He slammed his mouth against mine, tongue sliding between my lips still open in shock, his palm huge against my cheek. I buried my fingers in his hair and kissed him back, exhausted and wrung out and shaking all over, giddy, delirious, and dizzy. “Roth…holy shit, Roth.” “You need a break, don’t you, beautiful?” His voice buzzed against my mouth. “Yeah,” I breathed. “I’ve never come so hard, so fast, or so many times in all my life.” He laughed, a low rumble of amused and erotic promise. “Oh, Kyrie. I’ve just gotten started. I’m not giving you a break. Oh, no. Now it’s time to dial it up a few notches, I think.” “Wh—what do you mean?”

I felt him move somehow, but I couldn’t determine what he was doing. And then…I heard a telltale buzzing. A vibrator? He was going to use a vibrator on me? “You tensed, Kyrie. Relax. Trust me.” “Roth, I really don’t think I can—” I started to protest, but I felt something soft and rubbery vibrating against my inner thigh, and I forgot what I was saying. I could. I realized it in a split second. I could come again, and if he used that on me, I would. I was tensed, thighs closed, mouth open, back arched, shoulders back, fists clutched in his shirt. “You can, Kyrie. You will. Just relax.” I let out a long breath and relaxed the tension in my muscles. He moved the vibrator against my opening, a slow, teasing drag between my labia. “Good. Just breathe. Just feel. I’ll go slow.” I felt him press the tip between my lips, wiggle it slightly, and then pull it out. It slid up my cleft, down, and back up, pushing deeper with each stroke. He had it on a low setting, and it was just barely vibrating. I spread my legs apart, giving him access, giving myself over to letting him have his way with me. This was a game now; how many times could he make me come? I gasped as he pushed the buzzing tip inside me and then slid it out, coating it in my essence, making it slick so the next time he moved it between my folds, it moved easily and smoothly, filling me. I felt an “mmmmmmmmm” of need escape my lips, and then the tempo of vibration increased, once, twice, a third time, and then it was humming madly, setting my entire body on fire, and he was sliding it in and out of me, and I realized the vibrator had a smaller, secondary tip angled to bump against my clit as he slid the entire thing into me. He moved it slowly, drawing it out, pausing, and sliding it in gently. Not fast enough. Not hard enough. I needed more. I took the vibrator from him and moved it the way I needed, harder, faster, deeper. “That’s it, Kyrie. Just like that. Take it. Make yourself come again. You’re so beautiful, Kyrie, and never more so than when you’re coming apart for me.” He whispered in my ear, caressing my skin, tweaking my nipples. “And now you’re going to come again, aren’t you?” “Yeah, shit…I am….” I was barely able to get words out, to make sense, going frantic with need as I felt another climax building inside me. “I’m gonna come again….” “Not until I tell you to, Kyrie. Don’t come yet.” “I thought—” “Slow down, Kyrie. Not yet.” I tried to obey, but I couldn’t. I needed to come. The need was huge and fiery and sharp inside me, a frantic pressure. “Bend your knees. Pull your heels up against your ass and let your knees fall apart.” I did as he told me, drawing my heels up so they pressed against my butt cheeks, and then let my knees fall apart. I was spread open for him, and I was still working the vibrator, albeit as slowly as I could, frustrated and unsure what he wanted, what he had planned. As soon as his fingers brushed my thigh and slid down to cup my ass, I knew what he was going to do. “No,” I gasped. “Don’t, Roth.” His hands, clutching my ass, froze. “No? You really don’t want me to touch you there? I won’t, if you say no again.” Did I? Did I dare let him? I deliberated, trying to come up with reasons why not. I was still afraid of his power over me; I was afraid of how much I had let him do to me, when I didn’t know him, had never even laid eyes on him, didn’t even know his fucking name. I didn’t know his fucking name, yet I’d let him eat me out and let him finger me, in public, in a box at the goddamned Met. He’d given me commands, and I’d obeyed. While I was thinking, he slid his finger up the crease of my ass, a teasing touch. I was hovering on

the verge of climax, moving the vibrator in torturously slow motion, sliding it in and out in increments and centimeters, drawing it out, feeling the driving, maddening need to finish, to come, and all the while he was teasing me, sliding one thick, long finger along my ass. “If you don’t say no, then it’s going to happen, Kyrie.” He pressed his lips to my ear, and I felt the heat and presence of his body over mine, felt his shirt against my skin, his pants brushing my legs. “You’ve got ten seconds to decide, Kyrie. In ten seconds, I’m going to slide my finger between the cheeks of your tight round ass and I’m going put my finger in your asshole, and you’re going to come so hard you’ll cry. You want it, don’t you? I can feel it. You do. You’re a dirty girl, a bad girl, and you want this. Deny it, Kyrie. Tell me no. Tell me you don’t want it, and I won’t do it.” He went silent, and I knew this was my chance, my one chance to demur. No. Two letters, a single syllable, a single breath. Easy to say, so easy. Yet it didn’t come out. Because…fuck it. I did want it. I wanted anything he could do to me. Everything he’d done so far had been…incredible. So why not this? “Tell me you want it, Kyrie. Tell me what you want me to do.” Roth’s voice was an insistent murmur in my ear. His finger slid in, moved deeper, brushed against the tight bud of knotted muscle, and I felt myself tense, felt my heartbeat hammer harder. The decision was already made. At every step, with every new thing he asked of me, I fought him. Said no at first, acted like I didn’t want what he intended. Yet I always gave in, always realized I did want it. I did want him. “Do it, Roth.” My voice was stronger than I felt. “Touch me.” “Where, Kyrie? Touch you where? I want to hear the words.” His fingertip pressed in, a slight pressure, just enough to tantalize me. The vibrator was buried deep inside me, buzzing crazily, and I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do a damn thing except want him to push that finger in and bring me to completion. “In…in my ass. Put your finger in my ass, Roth. Do it. Please.” Was that my voice? That husky, demanding rasp? Roth growled. “Like…this?” As he said the words, he pressed gently and with increasing pressure. I forced myself to relax, to take it. “Yeah. Like that. Just like that. Oh…shit.” “So tight,” Roth murmured. “So fucking tight.” I barely held back a shriek as he slid his finger into me up to the first knuckle. And then he wrapped his other hand around mine and forced me to get the vibrator moving, and his tongue dragged over my nipple and flicked it, and I was helpless, screaming, coming just like that, and he was wiggling his finger deeper and the vibrator was thrusting into me hard and fast, guided by both our hands, and I was clutching at him with my one free hand, seeking him, needing him. I found his hair, curled my fingers into a fist and held on, rode the tidal wave of climax with shriek after shriek, my voice going hoarse at the end, my hips rolling. Breath left me, dizziness washed over me, and then my body went utterly limp. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t even move my tongue inside my mouth. Couldn’t move my hands or my legs. I couldn’t even twitch. I felt him draw the vibrator out of me, and his finger, and then he left the bed. Faintly, I heard water running. I was a puddle of jelly, boneless, helpless. Unconsciousness flooded through me, but just before it did, I felt the bed dip. Felt his presence beside me. Felt fingers tugging at the blindfold, taking it off me. I felt his skin against mine. “Sleep, Kyrie. Sleep now.” HIs voice was low, nearly inaudible, and gentle. Tender. It was still a command, and I obeyed. But not before I realized he had me tucked against his chest, his arms around my waist, one hand threading his fingers through my tangled hair.

7 REMOVING THE BLINDFOLD I woke up slowly, gradually, and intermittently. My first sensation was one of warmth, and then of the kind of drowsy, all-consuming, cocoon-like comfort that makes you never want to move again, except to burrow deeper into the blankets. My next sensation was one of…I wasn’t even sure. Something…off. Some strange and unfamiliar sensation. I tried to suss it out without opening my eyes, without really moving or altering my breathing. What was it? It was connected to my sense of soul-deep comfort. The warmth, the softness. I burrowed into the blankets, seeking to go deeper, back to sleep, and that was when I realized what it was: skin. Muscle. A faint thumpthump….thumpthump under my ear. I wasn’t lying on a pillow. I was naked, and I was tangled up in sheets and blankets and arms and legs and flesh. Roth. In bed. With me. I didn’t have my blindfold on. I tried not to freak out. What was going on? Had he fallen asleep by accident? That didn’t seem like him. “You don’t have to pretend to be asleep, Kyrie. I knew the moment you woke up.” His voice was in my ear, sleep-thick and muzzy. “You’re in bed with me.” “Yes.” “I’m not wearing the blindfold.” “No.” A pause. Then his massive paw-like hand cupped my cheek. “Open your eyes, Kyrie. It’s time.” I blinked my eyes open. His chest was tanned gold, scattered with a smattering of blond hair. The sheets were rucked around his hips, and I saw a hint of an Armani Exchange logo peeking out. I took a breath, shifted slightly. His hand was on my back, his arm wrapped under my head. We were…cuddling. I had never, not ever once, cuddled with a guy, during, before, or after sex. Not on the couch while watching a movie, not in a car, not in a movie theater, not in bed, not standing up or sitting down. I didn’t cuddle. Guys didn’t try. Even Steven, who I’d been the most serious about, who I’d dated for the longest amount of time, hadn’t really cuddled with me. We’d never spooned, never spent the night together. We did what we did together, and then he left, or I did. Now, here I was, cuddling with Roth. This, more than any other moment so far, had me terrified of what was developing between us. The fear came from the fact that I’d never felt safer, never felt more comfortable, more at peace. I liked cuddling. I liked feeling his arm around me. Feeling his chest under my ear, against my cheek. His leg thrown over mine. I was delaying. Roth, however, was still and quiet, simply waiting. I tilted my head up, pulled back slightly so I could take him in. Holy shit. He was nothing short of male perfection. Sharp, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, luscious, kissable lips curved in a faint smile, eyes the color of a clear winter morning sky, palest blue. Blond hair sweeping over his forehead and across his temple, messy and effortlessly gorgeous. As we lay

face to face, my toes barely brushed his knees. I could run my big toe over his shin, if I stretched. I felt my heart swell and crack. Of course he was the most ruggedly, powerfully beautiful man I’d ever seen. Of course he would be. Of course he would stare at me with eyes so understanding and expressive and intelligent that I couldn’t and wouldn’t dare look away. I licked my lips, feeling a driving need to bolt, to run into the bathroom and lock the door and have a breakdown sitting on the closed toilet seat. “You’re beautiful,” I blurted. “Thank you.” He ran his thumb over my cheekbone. “Speak your fears, Kyrie.” “This. Us. Everything. You. You scare me. Because you’re…amazing. I didn’t want you to be…so incredible. I wanted you to be a rich arrogant asshole. I wanted you to force yourself on me as repayment so I could hate you. I wanted you to be ugly and cruel so I could walk away.” Where were these brutally honest words coming from? Somewhere deep inside me, where truth resides. “But you’re not. You’re compelling and confident and understanding and smart and fucking gorgeous. You look like some kind of…Viking warrior. A Norse king. Is that stupid? It is. It’s stupid.” I blushed, my cheeks hot, and squeezed my eyes shut, tilted my head down, and buried my face against his chest. “It’s not. Nothing you say is stupid.” His voice was raw and close, an intimate murmur that had such power over me. “I’m glad you find me attractive, Kyrie. I wouldn’t want this to be one-sided.” “One-sided?” I risked a peek up at him. His blue gaze was hot, open. Searing. “Yes, Kyrie. I’ve known a thousand women. All of them beautiful, intelligent, willing. Some of them were famous, some not.” Why was he telling me this? I didn’t want to know how many women he’d fucked. Of course a man of his skill with a woman’s body would have had to learn it somehow, but I didn’t want to think about it. “None of them, Kyrie, were as breathtaking as you are. You are so beautiful it makes it literally difficult for me to breathe sometimes. You make it impossible for me to keep my hands off you, to keep from kissing you. A while back you asked why you. That’s why.” “I—really?” “Yes, Kyrie. I am not a man prone to exaggeration, or flattery. When I look at you…I become weak. Yet the strength I see in you makes me want to hold you and protect you so you don’t have to be so strong. And…I have this need to possess you. To own you.” He shifted, rolling toward me, leaning over me slightly, weight on one elbow, his hand still holding the side of my face. “Do you have any idea how hard these last few days have been? How badly I’ve wanted to just…rip all your clothes from you and bury my cock inside you? Watching you come, feeling your pussy clench around my fingers…that has been such sweet torture. Watching your lovely face as you come for me and not being able to feel you around my cock…that has been an ecstasy of agony. I need you, Kyrie. You’re mine. You belong to me. Waiting…it has been all but impossible.” “Why have you waited? You said it yourself: You own me. So why not take what is yours?” I watched his eyes, his expression, as he thought about his answer. “Because you deserve better than that. I’ve had a lifetime of meaningless sex. So have you. I want more for you, and from you. I can take a thousand orgasms from you. I can kiss you and touch you and tear your clothes off you, and I don’t need and won’t ask for your permission. But for that? To bring this between us to the next level? I want you to give that to me of your own will. I want to own you completely. I want you to give that last bit of yourself to me because you want to be owned by me. And I will wait for that day to come.” “What if I never can, never do? What if that day never comes?” I stared up at him, feeling his presence like a sheltering mountain, and knew the question was little more than me playing devil’s advocate. His eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. “Do not toy with me, Kyrie.” Abruptly, he softened. His free hand slid down my arm, came to rest casually and possessively on my hip. “You’ve already given

in to me. Do you remember last night? Do you remember what you not only let me do, but asked me to do? Were those the actions of a woman holding herself back?” I gulped a deep breath. “No. I remember. But that’s…that was different.” “Oh? How so?” He roamed down my thigh with his palm, then back up to my waist. “I don’t think it is. I put my finger in your asshole, Kyrie. You don’t get more vulnerable than that. You’re telling me you’d let me do that to you, but you wouldn’t let me make love to you? You’re telling me you don’t want that?” “I’m not saying that—” “Then what are you saying, Kyrie? Say what you mean.” “I don’t—I don’t know.” “You’re afraid of what you’re feeling.” “Yes,” I admitted. He let out a soft breath and then dipped down, pressed his lips to mine, gently, so gently. “I’ll give you time.” He pushed away, slid out of the bed, stood up. “But be honest with yourself. Sort out what you’re feeling, and why you’re afraid of it. When you have that figured out, talk to me about it. In the meantime, shower and get dressed. Eliza will have breakfast ready in forty-five minutes.” I watched Roth as he gathered his clothes. My mouth was dry, and my body tensed. He was around six-four, and he was lean, toned, muscular. His body was honed, artfully sculpted. I licked my lips, unable and unwilling to look away as he slid thick, long, powerful legs into a pair of distressed jeans, watched his rippling six-pack abs shift as he turned his plain black T-shirt inside-right, lifted it over his head. The sleeves stretched around his biceps and pecs, clung to his sides. He was barefoot, and for some reason the sight of his bare feet with the jeans made me tingle and shiver. It was intimate somehow. He stuffed his hands in his hip pockets, leaned against the frame of the open door leading to the living room. His eyes were hooded, sleepy still, and his hair was sexily mussed, looking just-fucked. I wanted to climb out of the bed, tear the clothes off him, and lick him all over, run my fingers through the grooves of his abs and trace the indent of his V-cut, slide my thighs over his and ride him until he couldn’t move. I was hungry for him. Now that I’d seen him, I knew what I’d been missing. His powerful, virile body and angular, masculine beauty only increased his control over me, only made his impossibly potent effect on me that much more irresistible. “Keep looking at me like that, Kyrie, and we’ll miss breakfast, and you won’t get a shower.” He withdrew his hands from his pockets, backed out the door but then stopped, gripping the frame in his brutally strong hands. “Tempt me, my sexy little vixen, and I can’t be held responsible for what I do to you.” I realized I was posing. The sheet was pooled around my thighs, leaving my upper body bare, breasts heavy and nipples peaked, thighs pressed together to give a teasing glimpse at my core. My hands were tangled in my hair, as if frozen in the act of running my fingers through my locks. My lips were parted, my eyes heavy-lidded, and I was breathing deeply, each breath swelling my chest. It wasn’t an intentional pose, but now that I was aware of it, I held it. And then I decided to see how far my own control over him went. I ran my tongue over my lower lip, arched my spine to thrust my tits out, tilted my head back, and combed my fingers through my tangled hair. Let my hands drift down over my chest, paused to caress my nipples, then down to my stomach. I watched him through lowered lashes, my lower lip caught between my teeth. He squeezed the doorframe until I heard wood creak, and he lowered his body as if bracing himself, as if about to fling himself forward. I slid my hand down under the sheet, between my thighs. “You’re teasing me, Kyrie. Testing me.” He glared at me, head tilted down, jaw hard, looking

primal and dangerous. “It’s not smart.” I lifted one knee, and the sheet fell away; Roth growled. I ran my middle finger up the seam of my core. Roth’s growl turned feral. “Last warning, Kyrie.” I didn’t need the warning. He was a man on the edge. I was playing with fire, and I knew it. But I was aching. Unsatisfied. For all that I’d come hard last night…three times? Four?…I was unsatisfied. I’d made do with my own fingers and battery-operated toys for a long time before Roth sent for me, and it just didn’t do the trick. I could get off, but that wasn’t enough. Merely achieving orgasm wasn’t enough. Even with Roth’s hands and fingers making me come, it wasn’t enough. I needed the connection. I needed to be filled. Held. Touched. Wanted. Loved. And Roth knew it. I still ached, deep inside where his tongue and fingers couldn’t reach. An ache that no amount of skillful cunnilingus could sate. I needed the man. Especially now that I’d seen his face, seen the heated glare in his eyes, seen the slight tremble of need in his hands. I dipped my finger inside me, withdrew it. “Fuck.” Roth’s curse was an angry rumble. He straightened, let go of the doorframe, and then, faster than my eyes could track, he was lunging forward, crawling across the bed. Hovering over me. Eyes inches from mine. “Don’t fuck with me, Kyrie. If you want to do this right now, we’ll do it right now. I’m barely holding back. The fact that I have an enormous amount of self-control is all that’s protecting you from your own foolishness.” “Foolishness?” I breathed. “I thought this was what you wanted?” “What? Games? Teasing? No. I want honesty. I want your desire, and I want to know what you’re thinking. What I don’t want is power-play games.” He grabbed my wrists in one hand and pinned them above my head. “You want to know the power you have over me?” “Yes, I do.” “Then ask me a question. Anything.” “What is your first name?” His eyes went hard. “Valentine. My name is Valentine.” “Valentine Roth.” It fit him so perfectly. “Yes.” His grip on my wrists was tight, iron-hard, and almost painful. His knees were between my thighs, forcing them apart. “Now. What else?” “How old are you?” “Thirty-six.” Ten years older than me. Should I be worried about that? I knew, instinctively, that I didn’t give a shit how old he was. I just wanted to know if he’d tell me. He was breathing hard, as if revealing so much about himself was physically difficult, even painful. I saw actual pain in his eyes, perhaps even fear. As if he’d exposed himself to me and was now waiting for the repercussions. “Thank you,” I said, my voice small and quiet. “For what?” He seemed honestly confused. “Letting me see you. Telling me your name.” I think he expected me to struggle against his hold on my wrists, but I didn’t. Instead, I lifted up and kissed him, sucked his lower lip between my teeth. I devoured his leonine rumble of surprise and pleasure and kept kissing him. His tongue slid between my teeth, his weight lowered so our bodies touched, and I felt his jeans rough against my skin, felt the bulge behind his zipper scraping on my lower belly. “I want you, Valentine.” I flicked my eyes open and met his own. “Make love to me. Touch me.

Come inside me. Do anything you want.” I couldn’t resist my desire anymore. I didn’t know what this meant, where it was going, but I didn’t care. This was the last vestige of my control over my own life, over myself, and I’d just given it to him. “Anything I want?” “Yeah, anything.” “That’s a dangerous thing to offer a man like me.” “I know.” “And still you offer it?” I nodded, not taking my eyes off his. “I do. Make love to me, your way.” I was shaking all over, nervous, scared, excited. Being Roth, he did the last thing I expected. He pulled away, slid off the bed. “Then I choose to wait. I will have you, Kyrie, and I will have you soon. But not here. Not now. I want you in my bed. I’m going to make you scream, and weep, and beg me for me. And I’m going to do it where no one has ever been: my bed.” I watched him back away yet again, jeans strained from the erection behind his zipper. This time, I didn’t let him get away. I followed him, scooting off the bed and catching him by the belt loops before he got too far. “I like the sound of that.” I looked up at him. “But I want to see…this. I want to feel you first.” I tugged at the button of his jeans. His eyes met mine, and he nodded. “As you wish.” I lowered his zipper, then pulled his jeans down around his thighs. I breathed in, let it out. I tore my gaze from his and curled my fingers under the pale gray elastic waistband of his boxer-briefs. Hesitated. And then I tugged the elastic away from his body and pulled his underwear down, baring him to me. I knew he was big. Of course he’d be big. But…holy shit on a shingle. I didn’t expect him to be that big. His cock was long and standing straight up, the tip rising past his navel. So thick. He was so hard it looked painful, his balls tight against him. He’d stretch me, that was for sure. For now, though, all I wanted was to feel him in my hands, to make him come, to give him relief. I wrapped one hand around him, and he was so thick my thumb and middle finger couldn’t meet around his girth. Jesus. Sweet baby Jesus. I slid my fist down his length and back up, my hand barely brushing his flesh. He breathed out through his nose, eyes narrowing, jaw clenching. I cupped my other hand around his taut sac, sliding my fist down and twisting gently, watching his expression as I touched him. He licked his lips and blinked several times, breathing hard, eyes fixed on me. “Don’t start what you won’t finish, Kyrie.” I let my lips curve up in a grin. “I would never do that, Valentine.” His brows lowered, jaw squaring as he clenched his teeth. As gently as I could, I squeezed his balls, a caressing pressure. Slid my middle finger onto his taint and applied pressure. He rumbled in his chest, fists clenched at his sides. I kept my eyes locked on his as I stroked his considerable length ever so slowly, then leaned in, closer, closer, opened my mouth as wide as it would go. Curled my lips in over my teeth and took his broad head into my mouth. I closed my lips around him, just beneath the groove at the base of his tip. He made a sound that was suspiciously close to a moan as I lowered my mouth around him, still stroking slowly at the root of his cock. I could only take a few inches of him before I felt him at the back of my throat, and then I drew away. I let my saliva coat his flesh, returning my gaze to his as I rubbed my palm over his head, smearing my spit over him, making him slick and slippery. I fisted his length, replacing my lips around his thick, soft, springy head, tasting pre-come on my tongue. I drew off again, licked the pre-come away with a fat swipe of my tongue, twisting and plunging my fist around him, squeezing his sac in time with my sliding fist, pressing up against his taint.

Roth’s thighs trembled, and I felt his knees dip. He threaded both hands into my hair, gripping handfuls and tugging firmly. He didn’t push me onto him or try to force me to do anything, he just tugged my hair in his fists. A reminder of his strength, of his control, a reminder that he was allowing me to do this. There was no desire in me to play for control, to play games. I only wanted to feel him come. I mouthed him again, taking him deep, letting his tip nudge the back of my throat and then backing away, pumping at his root with ever-increasing speed. I loved the way the increase of my tempo around his cock made his knees bend and dip, and I loved, too, the way his fists in my hair tightened involuntarily as he neared his climax. I bobbed on him, sucking hard, feeling his sac tense and tighten, feeling his gloriously thick cock throb, and I knew he was close. I prepared myself for the gush of his release against my throat, but it never came. Instead, I felt myself pushed backward, felt him above me, heard his breath in scraping gasps, felt his entire body trembling as he held back. “No. Not like that, not the first time.” “Why not?” “Because that’s not how I want it.” “Did I…do something wrong?” “No, Kyrie. No. Not at all. I love the feel of your sweet mouth on my cock. But I don’t want to come in your mouth just yet.” I still had a firm grip on his cock, and I slid my fist down his length, staring up at him. “Okay. Like this, then.” He ducked his head, gathering himself. “You really want this?” I nodded. “Yes. I want to feel you come. You’ve made me come so many times now, and it’s my turn.” “Where?” He slid his shins beneath his body, sitting up, staring down at my naked body as I lay beneath him. “Tell me where you want me to come.” “Anywhere you want.” He straddled me, sliding forward. I leaned up, took him in my mouth, tasted him, then lay back down. “On my stomach?” I said. “On my tits? You tell me where you want to come. I want to know what you want.” I moved my fist around him, feeling him tense and jerk, and stroked him even faster. Roth’s breathing grated past his clenched teeth. “I want to come inside you, Kyrie. Not this.” “Then put your cock inside me,” I said. He shook his head. “No. Not yet. In my bed. Only there.” “Then take me there.” He growled and then wrenched himself away, backing up against the wall, his chest heaving. I followed, wrapped both hands around him, and stroked him gently. Pressed my lips to his and kissed him, demanding, needing. “Please come, Valentine. Come for me.” He sighed into my mouth and then pressed his forehead to mine. I watched my hands moving on his thick, straining cock, stroking, twisting, plunging. “Kyrie…I’m close.” “Good,” I whispered. “Give it to me.” He groaned, thrusting his hips, driving his cock into my grip. I wrapped my hand around his head and stroked his length with my other hand. “God…Kyrie…I’m coming, right now.” I felt wet warmth fill my palm, and I kept caressing his length, slowly, gently, milking him. “Kyrie….” His voice was so low it was almost inaudible. When he was softening in my hands, I let go of him, lifted up on my toes, and kissed him once more. He watched me with glazed, hooded eyes. “You do something to me, Kyrie. You make me lose control.” He put a hand to my face, gripped my

chin between finger and thumb. I held his come in my hand, feeling it drip between my fingers. “Well…maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” He sighed. “In my life, it is.” He shook his head, dismissing the topic. “You are amazing, Kyrie. Go wash up and get dressed. We have a busy day ahead of us.” He leaned in, kissed me on the lips swiftly, and then backed away, zipping and buttoning his jeans. I waited until I heard the door latch behind him, and then I washed my hands in the bathroom sink before turning on the shower. I washed, shaved myself from armpits to ankles, and let my mind wander. Valentine Roth. What a name. And what a man. So fucking gorgeous. He could be a superstar actor with his looks. An A-list actor, or a rock star. But he wasn’t. He was a reclusive businessman, überrich, successful, and intensively, reclusively private. Something else niggled at me about Roth. He looked familiar; I just couldn’t figure out where I’d seen him. As soon as I was done in the shower, I wrapped a towel around my body and another around my hair, then perched on the edge of my bed with my phone, typing his name into Google. Nothing. Not a single photograph, no Wikipedia entry, not a single scrap of publicly available information. That, to me, smacked of interference. I mean, I was a nobody, but if you typed my name into Google, you’d find, if you scrolled far enough, at least a Facebook profile, the thumbnail-sized selfie photograph of me, taken on a weekend trip to Chicago with Layla. You could find at least basic info on me, just by a few searches and clicks, and I was no one at all, public-wise. Yet there was nothing at all on Valentine Roth, who had to be in a microscopically small percentage of the population in terms of wealth. Something told me he had paid an exorbitant amount of money to keep himself out of the public eye, to hide any photographs or the like. So it wasn’t that. I’d never seen him in any gossip rags or on TMZ. But I had seen him before. I knew it. But where? I couldn’t figure it out, no matter how hard I tried to remember. Eventually, I gave up and got dressed. I put on a pink-and-black lace push-up bra and a pair of black underwear. Over it, I put on a simple but flattering black sundress and a pair of strappy sandals. I didn’t spend a lot of time on my hair or makeup, just brushing my hair until it shone and fell in golden waves around my shoulders. I snapped a ponytail elastic on my wrist, and applied some light mascara, blush, and lip stain. He said we’d have a busy day, so I wanted to be ready for anything. Especially the kind of anything that would lead to seeing Valentine Roth totally naked.

8 PRIVATE QUARTERS I found Roth sipping from a china cup, holding a dainty saucer in his hand. The cup and saucer were so small and delicate-looking that it was almost a comical image. I mean, I knew all too well the strength in his hands; he could crush the cup and saucer with ease if he wanted, yet somehow he looked totally natural, at ease. He was sitting at the breakfast nook, staring out at the Manhattan skyline as the sun rose to shed golden light on the high-rises. He had one calf crossed over his knee, flaxen hair wet and slicked back to one side. He wore a pair of dark jeans with a white T-shirt beneath a slate-gray blazer, Tommy Bahama boat shoes on his feet. The sleeves of the blazer were pulled up just beneath his elbows, his muscular forearms keeping the sleeves in place. The effect was one of casual godliness. I had to remind myself to keep breathing as I slid into the chair next to him. “Hi,” I breathed, and immediately hated myself for sounding so pathetic. I’d sounded breathy, flirty. Like I should be some air-headed bimbo with one name. Veronica. Bambi, with a heart over the “I.” “Good morning, Kyrie. Feeling refreshed?” He smiled at me, warm and friendly, yet his eyes betrayed amusement, promise, memory of what I’d done to him less than an hour earlier. “Yes, thanks.” I leaned over to peek into his cup. “Tea? Or coffee?” He swirled the khaki liquid in his cup. “Tea. Earl Grey, with a touch of milk.” He lifted the cup and saucer toward me. “Care for a cup?” The fact that he was a tea drinker served as a reminder that he was actually from England. It was easy to forget, so faint was his accent. I’d never tried tea English-style. “Can I try a sip of yours? I’ve never had tea before. Not the way you’re drinking it, at least.” He placed the cup on the saucer and held it out to me. “Old habits die hard. I’ve never been able to get into drinking coffee in the morning. I don’t really do the whole ‘afternoon tea’ bit anymore, but I’ve got to have a cup of Earl Grey to start the day.” I sipped at his tea, surprised by how much I liked it. “Mmmm. That’s pretty good, actually. I’ll try a cup, the way you have it.” I gave him his tea back, expecting him to summon Eliza to make mine. “I forget you’re from England sometimes. You don’t really sound like it, most of the time.” “That’s intentional. I worked rather hard to eradicate my accent.” He rose and went into the kitchen, opened a cupboard, and withdrew a cup and saucer like his, took a quart of half-and-half from the fridge, tipped a tiny bit into the teacup, and then poured tea from a pot sitting on the stove. “Here you are,” he said, setting it front of me. “Thanks,” I said, a bit mystified. I hadn’t expected him to get my tea himself. “I could have done that, you know. I thought—” Roth spoke over me. “Eliza is not my personal servant, Kyrie. I only have her serve meals on special occasions. Usually she just leaves food out for me, since I work long and erratic hours. I fend for myself most of the time. Just because I’m rich doesn’t mean I’m unable to do things for myself, you know.” “I didn’t mean it like that, Roth.” I sipped at my tea. It was good, but I didn’t think it would ever replace my need for coffee. “Anyway. You said we had a busy day today. What are we doing?” He grinned at me. “Well, since we’ve discarded the blindfold, I thought we’d do something fun together. Have you ever been sailing?” I shook my head, feeling excitement thrill through me. “No, I haven’t. I’ve always wanted to,

though.” Roth’s eyes lit up. “Wonderful! This should be an enjoyable time, then.” He eyed my outfit. “That should be fine for sailing, and I have a bathing suit for you on the boat. Some breakfast, then, and we’ll head out. What would you like to eat?” I shrugged. “A bagel? I don’t eat much in the mornings.” I slipped off my chair, but Roth waved me back down. “Sit, Kyrie,” he ordered. “What kind of bagel? We have a variety.” “Sesame?” “Toasted? Cream cheese?” I nodded, and watched him as he cut two thick bagels in half, then stuck the halves in a four-slot toaster. “Why are you making my breakfast for me?” He leaned back against the counter, sipping at his tea. “Because I can. And because I want to.” He looked past me, out the window. “This house has been empty but for Eliza and me. Having you here is a wonderful change.” “Eliza said something very similar.” Roth looked surprised. “She did?” “Yeah. She said she was lonely a lot, and having me around was nice. I like her. I think we could be friends.” “That’s surprising. Eliza is…very private and reserved. Much like me. That’s why we get along so well, I think.” He gestured at me with his cup and saucer. “That she seems to like you is a good sign. I trust her judgment in many things, especially people.” The bagels popped up at that moment, and he smeared cream cheese on each of the halves with a spoon and then returned to the table, setting the plate between us. We each took a half and ate in silence. It was supremely strange, to be having breakfast with this man, sharing such an intimate, domestic thing as a bagel and cream cheese. It felt natural, as if we’d always done this. Again, I felt a bolt of fear at how much I liked this feeling, this easy comfort with a man I barely knew. When we were finished, Roth cleaned up for us both and then took my hand. “Ready to go?” I nodded. “Do you need anything? A purse?” I shrugged. “Not really.” Roth seemed surprised at this. “All right, then. Let’s go.” He brought me to the door to his private quarters, held his finger to the plate, and then shoved the door open. Beyond was a wide hallway with high ceilings, thick cream carpet, and dark wood-paneled walls, which were lined with black-and-white photographs. I paused to examine the photos. They were amazing, artistic, vividly focused. The subjects ranged from portraits to landscapes, most of them taken in Asia. There was a photo of an old Chinese woman, a scarf covering her head, wisps of gray hair sticking out around her ears, her toothless mouth grinning, eyes crinkled. There was a tall, curved-roof pagoda, a rice paddy, an ox with shaggy fur and baleful eyes, and then several more portraits. It wasn’t until I realized that Roth was watching me examine the photos with a blank expression that I thought to look at the bottom right corner. There, written in white marker or pen, was the same scribbled “VR” signature from the checks. “You took these?” I asked. He nodded. “A hobby, you could say. Something I haven’t had much time for lately, much to my regret.” “They’re amazing,” I told him, sincerely impressed. “That first one, the old woman, it’s like something you’d see in National Geographic. It’s really good, Roth.” He smiled at me. “Thank you, Kyrie.” He took my hand and pulled me forward, and I followed him, although there were several more photographs I wanted to see.

Later, perhaps. If I was lucky. We passed a few open doorways, one leading to a half-bath, another to what looked like a security room, monitors showing security camera views of the foyer, the kitchens, the library, the main garage, two elevators, another garage, and the roof. No surveillance of my rooms, though, but there were blacked-out monitors, so it was hard to say. Roth followed my gaze to the security room. “There are no cameras in your quarters, I promise you. You have your privacy there.” I only shrugged. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he watched me on a camera while I slept, and I wondered at myself, at the fact that I wouldn’t have been too pissed off had there been cameras in my rooms. I mean, if he’d watched me pee, that would be a bit weird, but I didn’t expect it from him. He was security-paranoid, not creepy. Another door showed a large office, the same thick cream carpeting, a huge dark desk with a massive iMac, and a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows. There was an exercise room, a hallway deadending at a doorway and, opposite that, a pair of French doors, beyond which was Roth’s room. I caught a glimpse of it in passing, and realized it was probably the most impressive room in the house. It was a corner room, so two entire walls were glass, with a balcony at the apex of the corner. The bed, from what I saw, was huge, dark, and built into a platform. I didn’t see much more than that before Roth guided me down the dead-end hallway to the door. “I’ll give you a tour of my rooms later,” Roth told me, his voice buzzing in my ear. I turned, halfway out the door. “Promise?” His eyes narrowed, flicked down to my cleavage and back up. “Yes, Kyrie. You will become very well-acquainted with my bedroom.” I shivered, felt my nipples harden. “Sailing can wait, don’t you think?” Roth’s grin was predatory. “Eager suddenly, are you?” His hand curled around my waist, and he jerked me against him. My breath left me in a whoosh. I was assaulted by the familiar spicy scent of his cologne, the hard breadth of his chest. “Are you tempting me? Trying to get control of this situation?” “Eager….” I breathed, barely able to stutter out the word. His eyes were intense, pale hot blue, his hand splayed on my waist and the swell of my ass, crushing me to him. “Eager, hmmm?” “Yes,” I answered, looking up at him, my eyes wide, my breath shallow and short. His other hand brushed my hair away from my eyes, then slid down my back. Found the zipper of my dress. “I think you’re trying to prove something.” “I’m not.” “The power of your seductive beauty is undeniable, Kyrie.” His fingers drew the zipper down, the rough pad of his fingertip tracing up my now-bare spine. “You make me lose control when I start touching you. When you put your hands on me, I forget myself.” He brushed the sleeves off, and the dress billowed to the floor, pooled around my feet. “But don’t think you can control me that way, Kyrie. I let you have your moment this morning. It had been a long time since I’d felt a woman’s touch. I’d been saving myself for you. But don’t think you can manipulate me with your body.” “I wasn’t—” “Tell me the truth, Kyrie.” I swallowed. “Maybe I was, just…trying to see what effect I had on you. That’s all. Not control, just…assessing.” The heat in his eyes, the thinly veiled anger frightened me. He wouldn’t hurt me, but what would he do? “Assessing.” He flicked open my bra, pulled it off. Set it aside. Hooked a finger in the elastic of my panties at my hip, tugged them down around my thighs. “Off. I want you naked.” I stepped out of them, stood before him totally naked. Breathless, waiting. He shut the door,

pivoted behind me, and pushed me across the hallway and into his room. Positioned in the middle of the room, I was bathed in a square of brilliant midmorning sunlight. I stood still, back straight, forcing my breathing to be even, to seem confident, unafraid. “So now you’re just eager?” Roth moved around behind me, not touching, but close. So close. Too close, yet too far, too clothed. “Who is in control, Kyrie?” I felt rebellion surge up in my gut. I clenched my teeth together. I wasn’t going to play this game. Not this one. “Seeking punishment, are you?” His voice rumbled in my ear. “I’ll ask once more. Who is control? Who controls you, Kyrie? Answer me.” You. That was the answer. I knew it. He knew it. But I refused to say it. Rebellion, or curiosity? Both, maybe. Equal parts defiance and desire. “Not going to respond?” I heard a smile in his voice. “I was kind of hoping you’d refuse.” His foot slid between mine and knocked at my feet so I was suddenly and unwillingly standing with my feet shoulder-width apart. Another nudge, and my stance widened a bit more. Unnatural, uncomfortable, vulnerable. I bit my lip and forced myself to remain calm. I’d asked for this, after all. “At any time, answer my question, and we’ll go sailing. That really was my intention, you know. But you’ve sidetracked us.” He slid his hand over my hip, curled his palm over my belly, pulled my ass against his crotch so I felt his erection. “You’re not getting what you wanted, you know. I’m not going to alter my plans. Right now I’m going to torture you, just a bit. Nothing painful, mind you. Just a bit of…teasing.” He pulled away, took a handful of my hair, gripping at my nape, and shoved my head down so I was bent over double. “Hands on your knees.” I needed to brace myself for balance, so I had no choice but to do as he’d told me. “Now, I’ll ask you again, Kyrie. Who is in control?” I remained silent. He laughed, and trailed a finger down the knobs of my spine, between the globes of my buttocks, over the bud of muscle. He hesitated there. “No answer?” His fingertip touched me, and I flinched, tensed. “I wonder if I could make you come, just by touching you here? Let’s find out, shall we?” A pause, and I heard him spit. Wetness touched me; the pressure increased slightly. I felt the knot give just a bit, and his lubricated fingertip slid in. I bit back a gasp, forced my hips to remain still. He would get no help from me, not this time. Roth’s fingertip wiggled, and I felt a tension in my core, heat building. I squeezed my eyes shut, bit my lip, tried to hold back the thrill of pleasure at his touch. I shouldn’t like this. But I did. I couldn’t let him know, though. He withdrew his finger a bit, so there was only the very smallest edge left in me. His other hand released my hair and reached down to cup my boob, squeezing, holding, and then letting go to pinch my nipple. I felt the heat and pressure rise at his touch, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he got what he wanted from me. I’d come, but I wouldn’t admit what he wanted. Roth pushed his finger in deeper, and a gasp was torn from me. I felt full, felt his thick finger penetrating me, creating a boiling well of fiery pressure at my core. A faint tinge of desperation touched me. He flicked my nipple, pulled his finger back, and my stomach muscles contracted, my hips rolling of their own accord. Another push, deeper now. Most of his finger had to be inside me now. I gritted my teeth to hold back the gasps and moans that threatened at my lips. He withdrew almost all the way, and then slid in again, repeating the motion, and I had to exert every ounce of will to stop myself from moving with him. His finger fucked my asshole in smooth, slow strokes, and his hand caressed and kneaded and pinched at my breast and nipples, and I was growing needy, feeling frantic. I needed more than this. I needed him. I needed him to put his fingers in my pussy, I needed his cock, I needed his mouth, I needed something. What I got, though, was desperation flooding

through me, his finger in my ass bringing me to the verge of a dark and primal climax. And then…he stopped. Pulled his finger out of me, left me bent over in the middle of his bedroom. I straightened and pulled my feet back together, gasping, frantic and angry with need and frustration and shame, aching, and watched him go through a door, where I heard water running as he washed his hands. I shook all over, hair messed up, lip throbbing where I’d nearly bit through it. I tried to gather myself, to compose myself, but it was a vain effort. Roth sauntered back toward me, a slight grin curving his lips. He stopped in front of me. Waited, eyes searching me. “Anything to say?” he asked. I could only shake my head. “No?” I needed him to finish me, but he wouldn’t, and I knew it. That was his ploy. I was pissed off, too, feeling degraded. Bent over in the middle of his room, finger-fucked in the ass, all to get me to admit he was in control? Left hanging? Doucheknob. I turned away from him, knelt to gather my clothes. “Oh, I don’t think so,” I heard Roth say behind me. “You don’t get away that easily.” He wrapped an arm under my middle, lifted me bodily, scooped his other arm under my knees, and flipped me to my back, catching my head with the crook of his arm. I writhed in his grip, pissed off at his behavior and now at his brazen manhandling of me. I stilled, realized struggling was futile, settling instead for glaring at him, spitting fire from my eyes. He only grinned at me, carrying me to his bed. He tossed me like a doll, and I bounced on the soft mattress. Before I could so much as blink, he was on top of me. I caught my breath as his mouth crashed down on mine. I forgot to struggle as the surprising heat and tenderness of the kiss caught me off guard. My hands stole up to his back, grabbed at him, but he pulled away and caught both my wrists in one hand, held my hands over my head, and then resumed the kiss. “Is this where you wanted to be, Kyrie? Naked, beneath me, in my bed?” He whispered, his lips moving against mine. “Well, here you are. A few moves, and I’d be inside you.” My mouth quivered against his. “Yes….” Fucking stupid desperate ho, I chastised myself. I was exactly where I wanted to be, and exactly where he wanted me. Flushed, aroused, desperate, naked. But it had happened on his terms, and he was winning. “If I let one of your wrists go, will you do what I tell you?” I nodded, and he released one of my hands. “Good. Unzip me.” I undid his pants, reached into his underwear, and freed his heavy cock. I almost came just from the feel of his thick shaft in my hand, knowing he was inches from my core, seconds from satisfying me the way I needed. “Push my pants down.” I did so, shoving his pants and underwear down around his thighs. I held my breath as he lowered his hips, touched the broad head of his cock to my entrance. I bit my lip, watching his expression tighten, harden, eyes narrow, and then he pushed in. I wanted to weep. It was just the tip, but it spread me apart, filled me already. I gasped in relief, threading my hand between our bodies to grasp his erection by the root, my knuckles against his body, holding him, pulling him toward me. “Kyrie….” he growled. “You’re so fucking tight.” “Valentine…God…more.” He growled again, a wordless rumble in his chest. He grabbed my hand and pulled it away, caught both of my hands in one of his again. And then pulled out of me, sitting back on his haunches. I did cry out then. “NO! Valentine, please—” I bit off my words, realizing his game. “Say it, Kyrie.” I closed my eyes. I ached. I’d had him inside me, and that brief moment of fullness had been glorious, a fragmentary glimpse of what it would be like with him inside me. I wanted it. I needed it. I

felt something inside me give way, capitulating. “You, Valentine. You are in control.” He leaned over me, kissed me. “Good. Don’t forget it.” And then he was rolling off the bed, tugging his pants back in place. “Wait! I thought—” He turned to face me. “Not yet, Kyrie. Not that, not yet.” He put his hand in his pocket and adjusted himself. “I’m torturing myself just as much, you know. But do you remember what I told you when you first met me?” I closed my eyes. “That I’d beg you for it.” I opened my eyes and pinned him with an angry glare. “I did, Roth. Just now. Last night. I asked. I told you I wanted it. I’ve played your game. If you knew me at all, you’d know how hard that was for me. But you’re still playing goddamn games.” He took a step toward the bed. “You tried to make it happen on your terms, love. That’s not how this works.” His eyes roved over my naked body. “You’re frustrated, aren’t you?” I nodded, pressing my thighs together. “You know I am.” “You have two choices, in this moment. You can ask me to make you come, right now, with my hand. Or you can wait until I’m ready. Tonight, if all goes well.” He moved to sit on the bed beside me. I sat up, pressing my knees together and folding my legs to one side, using my arm as a bra. “Why tonight? What’s so special about tonight?” “Nothing in particular.” He shrugged, tracing the line of my leg from heel to hip with a finger. “I’ve dreamed of that moment, Kyrie. The moment when I take you. Would you like to hear the dream?” I nodded. “Yes. Tell me, please.” He let out a long breath. “It’s at night. This room is dark, lit by candles. You have lingerie on. Something red and silky. I’ve got you tied up. Not tight, just a scrap of lace around your wrists. You’re lying here, right where you are, and you’re looking at me with those soft blue eyes of yours. You’re so bloody beautiful, Kyrie. All wrapped up like a gift. Just begging me with your eyes to tear the clothes off you. You can’t hold still, because you want me. I make you wait, though. And when you can’t take it anymore, you open those sweet plump lips and speak, and your musical voice fills my room. You ask me to make love to you. You don’t beg, because that’s beneath you. You merely…ask. And you reach for me. Your quick, soft little hands peel my clothes off me and you pull me down to you, and you kiss me. And when I slide my cock into your tight wet cunt” —his voice lowers, rasps, and I gasp at the way he emphasizes that dirty, unexpected word “—you make such sweet little sounds. You wrap yourself around me with your arms and legs, and you don’t let go until I’m buried deep inside you.” I shook all over, eyes closed, imagining the scene he’s setting with his words. I pressed my thighs tight together, seeking pressure, seeking relief, hot and wet from his teasing, and now made all the more desperate by his sexy, expressive voice murmuring in my ear, describing exactly what I’ve envisioned myself. “You’re so tight, Kyrie. I can almost feel you, clenched around my cock. You’ll feel so good, Kyrie. So tight. Almost too tight. You can barely take me, but you do, and it drives both of us mad.” His voice is barely audible, and his accent seems a bit thicker, more noticeable. “I’ve had this dream a thousand times, Kyrie, love. I’ve imagined feeling your tight little cunt around my cock and…feeling it just then, I know it’ll be even more perfect than dreams could ever show. You tempt me, Kyrie. Sitting there, naked, so composed. I want you right now. Bare, skin to skin. I was just inside you. I had you. But…I want to make that dream come true. I want to see the moonlight on your skin. I want to tear that lingerie off your body. I want to lick every sweet curve of your body until you’re mad with desire. That’s why I’m waiting, Kyrie.”

I was tensed, on the verge of coming just from his words. I was there, right there, just from the sound of his voice, the promise, the scene he’d set in my mind. If he were to touch me, slip one finger inside me, I’d explode. I pushed away my pride and rebellious streak, reached out to grab his hand. Rolled to my back, let my legs fall apart. Brought his hand to my soaked folds. “Please….” He groaned. “Kyrie…you tempt me. You make me so crazy.” He, unconsciously it seemed, stroked my cleft with a finger. “If I touch you, I’ll not be able to stop.” He backed several steps away from me, ran his hands through his hair. “I want you desperate, Kyrie.” He eyed me, chest heaving. “Don’t think this is easy for me. It’s not.” I slid off the bed and gathered my clothes, tossed them on the bed. Getting dressed again only took a moment. When my dress was zipped and I felt somewhat composed, I turned to him. “Let’s go sailing, Valentine.” I held my hand out to him, threaded my fingers through his. But I pulled him back when he started walking, met his eyes. “You’d better follow through.” “What do you mean?” I gestured at his bed. “What you described just now? You’d better give me that.” He pulled me against him. “I promise you. That…and then some.”

9 THE DATE Roth’s private elevator took us down to an underground garage. It was a cavernous space, well lit, eight-foot ceilings, shiny blue epoxy floor, whitewashed walls lined with ’20s and ’30s-style vintage posters depicting a day at the beach, race cars, cruise liners, now-defunct cigarette brands and Italian wine companies. There were rows of red and silver Craftsman tool cabinets, several racks full of yet more tools, a work bench scattered with greasy parts and disassembled engine bones. I counted nine vehicles: a Maybach, a boxy Mercedes-Benz SUV, a Maserati, a Tesla, a Bentley convertible, two different kind of motorcycle—a crotch rocket and a chopper—a civilian-model military Hummer, and an older-model black BMW, the last the car his father had given him, I assumed. It was an impressive array of vehicles, and I didn’t even want to contemplate how much it was all worth. On the wall beside the tool chests was a small metal cabinet with a fingerprint-scan locking mechanism. Roth put his thumb to the pad and opened the cabinet when the lock beeped, revealing two sets of keys for each vehicle hanging from hooks. He glanced at me. “Which car do you want to take?” I was a fairly typical girl in that to me, for the most part, a car was a car. I knew enough to know that these were supremely expensive, top-of-the-line cars, but yet there weren’t any of the usual richguy sports cars. No Ferraris or Lamborghinis or Corvettes in this garage, which I found interesting. Those cars didn’t suit him, though, I realized when I thought about it. He was wealthy, but not showy or flashy. I shrugged and pointed at the convertible. “That one looks fun.” Roth grinned. “Good choice.” The elevator door opened behind us, revealing Eliza carrying an insulated cooler. “The lunch you requested, Mr. Roth.” “Thank you, Eliza.” “My pleasure, sir. Shall I expect you for dinner?” Roth shook his head, taking the cooler from Eliza and setting it in the back seat of the Bentley. “No, I think we’ll find something in the city. You can go, if you like.” “Thank you, sir. Tomorrow, then.” She smiled at me and let the elevator door close in front of her. A few moments later, Roth was guiding the quiet, powerful car up a ramp and out into the brilliant late morning sunlight. Roth pulled a pair of Ray-Bans from the inside pocket of his coat, pointing with them at the glove box. “I think there’s another pair in there.” I opened the glove compartment and found a spare pair of sunglasses, slipped them on, and tied my hair back with the ponytail elastic I had on my wrist. The drive through Manhattan to the marina was brief but pleasant, the wind in my face, sun bright and warm, Roth beside me, holding my hand. When Roth had said “go sailing,” I’d envisioned a little boat just big enough for the two of us. I should have known better. The boat Roth owned was long and low, a sleek and sexy thing, all gleaming silver and polished wood, masculine lines and smooth curves. I knew less about sailboats than I did about cars but, knowing Roth, it had to be the most expensive and highest-quality sailboat money could buy. Roth carried the cooler by the strap over one shoulder, never letting go of my hand. He helped me from the dock onto the boat, pointing at a seat beside the steering wheel. “Sit.” I sat, watching him untie ropes and coil them neatly on the deck. He sat down, started the engine, and backed us out of the slip and pointed the bow toward open water. When we were clear of the

marina, he cut the engine and unfurled the sail, tied the line, and then did the same to the smaller triangular sail in the front of the boat. “Can I help?” I asked. He shrugged. “I’ve got it.” “I’d like to, if I could. I didn’t come to just sit here and do nothing.” Roth nodded, ducking under the horizontal bar of the big sail and taking the wheel. The wind was stiff, blowing at us at an angle, making the sails flap. “All right. First, a quick lesson. The small sail in front is called the jib. The big one is the mainsail. The big bar is called the boom. The ropes are called ‘lines.’ The next thing is to know that modern sailboats don’t travel in a straight line, and they don’t work with the wind coming from directly behind. You sail in a zigzag pattern, which is called ‘tacking,’ keeping the wind at an angle. So when I tell you we’re ‘coming about,’ the boom, the big bar holding the bottom of the mainsail, is going to swing around. You have to pay attention and make sure the boom doesn’t knock you overboard when we’re coming about. I’ll warn you before I bring us about, but just be aware, all right, love?” He gestured at the line leading to the mainsail. “Untie that, then pull the line until the sail is taut.” We were moving slightly, the sail flapping, the bow angled toward the New Jersey shoreline. We were heading south, away from Manhattan and toward Staten Island. I loosened the line he’d indicated, wrapped both hands around it, and pulled hard. As I pulled, the mainsail tightened, and the line grew taut, becoming harder and harder to pull as the wind caught it. A gust of wind blasted the sail, nearly jerking the line from me and pulling me off-balance. I pulled again, but another gust hit, this one pulling me clear off my feet. I wrapped the line around my fists, braced one foot against the side of the boat, and pulled as hard as I could, then wrapped the line around the tie-off bracket thing. The sail was bellied out but firm, not flapping in the wind anymore, and I felt the sailboat pick up speed immediately. I glanced at Roth who gave me a bright grin and a thumbs-up. “Perfect!” He patted the seat beside his own, and I sat down. “When did you learn to sail?” I asked. “I’ve been sailing my whole life. I grew up summering in Greece, and spent nearly every day during the summers sailing with Dad or with my friends when I got older. After I left home at eighteen, I ended up working on a fishing boat in the Aegean for a while. It was fun. Hard work, but fun. That was my first business. I bought that boat, hired the same crew that had taught me the business. Eventually, I bought a second boat, and then a third. I still own several boats in the Mediterranean, actually. Some are commercial fishing boats, some are private charters. Coming about.” He loosened the mainsail line, held on to it with one hand, and spun the wheel with the other, bringing the bow around, and then he re-tied the line again. He made it look easy, but I remembered how hard the wind had pulled at the sail, and thus the line, nearly jerking me off my feet, yet he’d held it in place with one hand while operating the wheel. “No matter how busy I get, I make time to sail. It’s my one real escape.” I watched Roth as he spoke. He seemed relaxed, the lines of tension and stress on his face smoothing away, his posture at ease. The wind ruffled his hair and snapped the edges of his blazer and the white cotton T-shirt underneath it, molding the fabric to his rock-hard body. He had one hand on the wheel, the other stretched out to grip the back of my chair, his knuckles brushing my shoulder blade. We were silent for a long time, watching the sun rise higher in the sky, watching the cityscape to either side pass by and the open water in the distance grow closer. Eventually, we breasted the opening of the bay and left land behind. I could see why he loved this. The sense of freedom, the salt spray of the water on my face, the wind carrying us away from everything…I’d never felt anything like it. He seemed content to just sail without talking, and so was I. We chatted here and there, mostly me

prompting him to tell me stories about himself. I learned he’d sold his fishing business for a profit and gotten into the import-export industry, and then eventually sold that business for an even bigger profit, which had led him, at the age of twenty-one, to Asia, where he’d gotten into real estate and urban development. I got a sense for Roth the man, how he’d made his way in the world by himself. He’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t trust anyone, having survived more than one betrayal in the business world. He’d learned to be ruthless and untrusting, depending on no one but himself, keeping his businesses small, with as few employees as possible. Eventually, he’d moved to New York and tried his hand at several business ventures, building his wealth bit by bit. I couldn’t glean from him what his primary business currently was, despite several leading questions. I, in turn, told him about growing up in suburban Detroit, summers spent at a cabin on Lake Michigan, trips with Mom to Chicago. The fun and pleasant stories in my life all stopped cold when Dad was killed. We lapsed into silence when my stories reached that threshold, and Roth seemed content to let the silence stretch. After a few hours, Roth loosened the mainsail and let us slow to a stop, then furled the sails and let down an anchor. We were in sight of land, but it was a ways out, providing a hazy and beautiful backdrop for a lunch at sea. Eliza had packed us cold cuts, cheese, fresh-baked bread, a bottle of wine, some Perrier, and fresh fruit. Roth assembled a sandwich for me, poured white wine into glasses, and then held out his glass for a toast. “To a pleasant day and a long night.” I smiled at him and clinked his glass with mine. “I’ll drink to that.” Lunch finished, we lounged on the deck and soaked up the sun. It was oddly comfortable, hanging out with Roth. We didn’t need to fill every moment with idle chatter, both us seeming to be content to let silences stretch for long periods of time, enjoying the moment, enjoying each other’s company. Conversation would come and go, questions directed and answered, ebbing and flowing easily. I was lying on my back on the deck, letting the sun bathe me, when I felt Roth rise to his feet beside me. I cracked one eye, watching him. He stared down at me as he shed his blazer, then his Tshirt, then his shoes. I sat up and felt my heart race when he set his sunglasses aside and reached for the zipper of his pants. “Time to swim,” he said. I shoved my sunglasses up on my head. “I didn’t bring a bathing suit.” He grinned. “Neither did I.” He dropped his pants and underwear, standing naked in front of me. I swallowed hard, heart pounding, desire swelling. Roth naked was a sinfully glorious sight. My nipples hardened and my thighs tensed, my core going damp just looking at him. Six-pack abs leading to a sharp V-cut, a thick, proudly jutting erection, powerful thighs, broad, firm chest smattered with golden hair, bulging, toned arms. Holy shit. That man wants me. Me. His body, those hands, those abs, that cock…for me. He winked at me, then turned and dove into the water, slicing the blue waves neatly. “Get naked and get in here, Kyrie.” I stood up on shaky knees, set my sunglasses aside, unzipped my dress, and let it fall to the deck around my feet. I glanced around, but the sea was empty. We’d cut east once we hit open water, and I suspected the hazy-gray land in the distance was Long Beach. There was a ship way out at sea, a long, low tanker of some sort, but it was far enough out that even with binoculars I doubted they could see us clearly. And…I didn’t care. I watched Roth’s reaction as I unhooked my bra and stepped out of my underwear. He was treading water, watching me intently, eyes hot and hooded. “Is the water cold?” He shrugged. “A bit.” A hungry grin curled his lips. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll keep you warm.” That was all I needed to hear. With a deep breath, I dove in. I came up spluttering. “A bit?” I screeched. “It’s f-f-f-freezing, you l-lunatic!”

He only laughed. “It’s the Atlantic Ocean, Kyrie, what’d you expect? Bathwater?” He did a breaststroke, pulling easily toward me. “Come here, you.” I let him wrap his arms around me, feeling the hot, hard rod of his erection between our bodies. My arms went around his neck, my legs around his waist, and he flipped so he was floating on his back, spine arched to float, one hand caressing the length of my body, the other moving us through the water, legs kicking with powerful strokes. “I’m not gonna drown you like this, am I?” He gripped my ass in one kneading hand. “No way, love. You’re light as a feather.” I shifted my hips, his erection nudging at my thigh. “You’re sure?” He only smirked. “I’ve got you. No worries.” “You’ve got me, huh?” His gaze went serious. “Don’t I, though?” A roll of my hips, and he’d be inside me. “Yeah. You do.” I kept still, at great effort. Roth brought us around the boat, circling widely, kicking us through the frigid Atlantic water with easy grace. Eventually I rolled off him, and we swam beside each other. He was the first to make for the boat, and I followed him, shivering. He held on to the ladder at the stern of the boat and pushed rather unnecessarily at my butt to help me up. Scrambling up after me, he led me down into the cabin, wrapped a thick white towel around my shoulders, and rubbed me dry with it. I stood and let him dry me, then tucked the towel in place under my arms and used a clean towel to dry him. Roth was still hard, flinching slightly when I dried him there. Locking my eyes on his, I ran a finger up his length. “This looks painful.” “A bit.” “You should let me take care of it for you.” “No.” “Just no?” I wrapped my fingers around him, but he caught my wrist and pulled my hand away. “Just no.” He leaned in and kissed me, moving out of my reach. “I’ll let you do that as much as you wish…later. For now, I want to wait. I want to be inside you when I come next. If you touch me now, I’ll lose all control. I’ll throw you onto that bed there and be inside you before you could blink twice. And Kyrie, I made you a promise. I always keep my promises.” “Then you better put some clothes on, because if you keep flaunting that big beautiful cock in front of me, I can’t be held responsible for what I do to it.” “I’m not flaunting. I can’t help getting hard just looking at you.” He wrapped his towel around his waist, the front tented. “Just by looking, huh?” He shrugged. “There’s no such thing as just looking, Kyrie. Not with you. Not when I’ve got you naked. Even fully dressed, one look is all it takes. I see those lush tits of yours, barely hidden by the dress, and I fantasize about squeezing them together and fucking them.” His voice goes deep, growling and rasping. “I see that sweet round ass of yours moving under your dress, and I think of burying my cock into it. I watch your mouth move as you talk, and I think about your lips wrapping around me, taking me down your throat. So, no. Not just by looking. I take one look at you, and I think about all the things I’m going to do to you.” I had to shut my eyes and clench my fists to keep from jumping him right then and there. “You need to either shut the fuck up or do some of that right now.” He growled, closing the inches left between us. “Yeah? Why? Are you wet, Kyrie? Is your tight little pussy dripping for me? Aching for me?” I backed away, clutching the towel at my chest. “Yes. Now quit teasing me.” He followed, catching my waist with one hand and pulling me flush against him. “I’m not teasing,

love. Oh, no. I’ll make good on everything I say. But I want you crazy for me. I want you mad with need. I want you ready to explode from one touch.” I couldn’t help grinding against him. “I already am.” “Oh, love. You have no idea. I’m going to spend every moment from now until I have you in my bed making you crazier and crazier. You think you’re wet and aching now? Just you wait. I’ll have you soaked before I’m through.” He crushed me against the wall, head bent to fit into the low cabin, his erection pressing through his towel and mine into my core, so close yet so far. I clawed at his shoulder and writhed against him, feeling just a hint of the friction I needed, feeling the round hardness of his cock and the soft fabric of the towels and the wetness of my desire spreading through me. Roth’s hands slid under my ass, clutched my thighs, and lifted me. My towel hiked up, baring me to him, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, my head bumping on the ceiling. It was an uncomfortable, impossible position, but I didn’t care. If he’d just shift, just slightly, he’d be where I needed him. The edges of his towel parted, and I wriggled my hips and my legs, feeling his hot hard cock against my inner thigh, shifting to get it closer, desperate, at that point, to take what I wanted whether he was willing to give it or not. He bit my skin at the hollow of my shoulder, grinding his hips up, sliding the thick soft tip against my opening, crushing in to rub along my clit. I gasped, clinging to him, wrapped around him, waiting, tensed, needing, hoping. A stroke, another, the pressure and heat of climax building inside me, and then, moments from exploding, he let me down and backed away, both of our towels falling into place, leaving me gasping and aching. “You’re a bastard,” I growled at him. He grinned. “I know.” He backed away another step, toward the steps leading to the deck. “Come on, let’s get dressed and head back.” I had my bra and underwear on when Roth’s voice stopped me. “Leave the dress off. Sunbathe. Give me something sexy to look at while I sail us back in.” He tossed me a tube of sunscreen, grinning at me. I let Roth smear the sunscreen on my skin—including few places that probably didn’t technically need it—and then spread my towel on the deck by the bow and lay on my stomach, unhooking my bra. The hot sun and the relentless wind and the roll of the boat on the waves worked together to lull me to sleep, and I didn’t wake up until Roth called my name. I rolled to my back and sat up, holding my unhooked bra to my chest, blinking blearily at him. He gave me a smile. “Put your dress on, babe. I don’t feel like sharing your beauty with everyone on the Hudson River.” I fastened my bra and put on my dress, then ran my fingers through my hair. “I don’t suppose any of your ex-girlfriends left a hairbrush on board?” Roth frowned at me. “Kyrie. Do you really think I’ve ever brought another person on board my boat?” I used my stiffened fingers to get the worst of the snarls out of my hair as well as I could, and then swept it back into a tight ponytail. “You haven’t?” “No. No one. Not Eliza, not Harris, not Robert. No one. And I wouldn’t say I’ve ever had ‘girlfriends.’” It was my turn to frown. “Wow. I didn’t realize.” I sighed. “I don’t get it, Valentine. Why me? What’s so special about me?” “Everything, Kyrie. You are special. Your strength of character, your beauty, your intelligence. The courage you’ve shown in playing my game. Being here with me, finding a way to fit into my life, despite the unfair demands I’ve made on you. I doubt another woman in all the world could do what you’ve done, in earning my trust as you have.” “Oh.” I shrugged.

“So the short answer is no, I don’t have a hairbrush with me. But you don’t need one. You’re stunning, Kyrie. Whether you’re done up in Dior and jewels, or just woken up in a sundress and messy hair, you are, very honestly, the most lovely woman I’ve ever known. You don’t need fancy hair or makeup to take my breath away, Kyrie. You just have to be you.” Good grief. How is a girl not gonna melt at words like that? I expected someone like Valentine Roth to be caught up in appearances, to expect me to look my best at all times. That impression was reinforced by the outfit for the opera, and the closet full of clothes in my room. He himself never looked anything less than spectacular, but then, I don’t think he could ever be unpleasant to look at. I mean, there I was, makeup washed off by the swim, hair a swim-tangled rat’s nest, tied back in a ponytail, wearing a simple sundress, and he thought I was lovely? I looked like shit. But the appreciation in his eyes, the sincerity in his voice…it erased my worries. He made me feel beautiful. He made me feel safe. Even though he was playing a maddening game of sexual frustration and domination, he never made me feel like an object, or a piece of meat. It wasn’t about the sex. And that, more than anything, made me want him and appreciate him. All the guys I’d dated had made me feel, even unintentionally, as if the goal of our relationship was good sex. Dates were engineered to end up in bed. Even if there was a romantic element to the relationship, the romance was aimed at buttering me up so I’d fuck them. Roth? He made sex blatant, up front. He told me what he wanted, what he was going to do. And on top of turning me on something fucking fierce, he made things honest. I knew what to expect. And when we were talking, or hanging out, that was all we were doing. Just spending time together. He wasn’t constantly angling to get me in the mood for sex. When I spoke, he listened. His attention was focused on me, and only on me. His gaze never wavered, he never interrupted, and his responses told me he was listening and actually hearing, and caring, rather than just waiting for his turn to talk. He wasn’t charming, a good thing in my book. Charm always smacked of flattery to me. It felt like false advertising. I didn’t trust guys who could charm me. I’d flirt with them, sure, and I might even hook up with them once in a while. But nothing real would ever happen with a guy who was charming. Roth was a contradiction. He was reserved and untrusting. He had walls a mile high. Yet for all that, he was open and honest. He said it like it was, told me what he was thinking and told me what he expected, what he wanted. If he didn’t want to answer a question, he would say so. He wouldn’t skillfully change the topic or distract me, he would just tell me, “I’d rather not answer that.” I respected that in him. All this ran through my head as I sat beside Roth on the ride up the Hudson River and back to his slip. I’d never met a man I’d respected before. I’d never met a man who’d really impressed me before. There had been guys I really liked, who were cool and fun and hot, decent guys from good families. But they didn’t leave me breathless. They didn’t make me sit up and take notice. They didn’t demand my attention, and they certainly couldn’t have commanded my respect, not like Roth did. He’d been kicked out of his home at eighteen, given what was, in his world, a small amount of money, and left to his own devices. To a girl living paycheck to paycheck, it was a fortune. In the world of business, a hundred grand wasn’t a lot. To a guy who’d grown up in the lap of luxury, it was barely enough to get started. If I scrimped and saved and ate sparingly and lived in the cheapest apartment I could find, I might be able to make a hundred last a couple of years. So the fact that Roth had turned it into billions? Or millions, or however much he was worth? Pretty amazing feat, I think. Roth tied the boat up and held his hand out to help me to the dock. “You’re deep in thought,” he remarked. I shrugged. “I guess.” “What are you thinking about?” How was I supposed to answer that? I just shrugged again. “Lots of things.”

We arrived at the Bentley, and Roth held my door for me as I slid in, then circled to take the driver’s seat. “Lots of things, hmm?” He brought the engine to life, and it rumbled with a smooth, powerful purr. “Such as?” “You’re gonna drag this out of me, aren’t you?” He grinned. “Obviously.” “I was thinking….” I thought about deflecting or lying, but decided on the truth. Or at least a version of it. “I was thinking about you. You’re not what I expected, Valentine Roth. Not in the slightest.” “No? What did you expect?” I bobbled my head from side to side. “A lot of different things. At first, I expected some crusty, lonely old rich guy with nothing better to do than go around ‘collecting’ girls.” Roth chuckled. “Well, you got one of those words right at least,” he said, more under his breath than to me. He shot a sideways glance at me. “You really take exception to being collected, don’t you?” “Yes!” I glared at him. “I’m not a fucking paycheck, Roth. I’m a person. And when Harris showed up at my door to collect me, as he put it, I was pissed. And yes, I still get pissed off when I think about it.” “Well, I apologize for the misunderstanding. But I couldn’t risk you refusing to accompany him, so I ordered him to leave you with no choice.” His expression darkened, hardened. “You’ve always had a choice, Kyrie. You still do. You can leave at any time. You know that, correct?” I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, Roth. Not yet. You’ve got my interest at this point.” “Just your interest?” I gave him a teasing grin. “Yeah. You could say I’m interested, at the very least.” “And here I thought I’d aroused a bit more than mere interest in you. I guess I’ll have to step up my efforts.” The look he gave me was scorching, virulent, and laced with erotic promise. I shivered, sucked in a deep breath. “You should do that. You’re slacking, Roth.” Evening had fallen by the time we had the boat docked, and as we entered the towering glass and steel canyons of downtown Manhattan, darkness was spreading thickening shadows between the buildings. We still had the Bentley’s top down, so I was chilled by the cool in the night air, goose bumps covering my skin. Roth noticed this, and as we stopped at a red light, he touched a button so the top unfolded and slid into place. “You looked cold,” he said, eyeing me. “What gave it away?” His tongue slid over his lower lip. “Your nipples. They’re poking through the dress. Teasing me. Standing up hard. Begging for my mouth.” I glanced down and saw that, sure enough, my nipples were peaked, showing clearly. Roth’s hand left the gear shifter and drifted up, pinched my left nipple. I bit my lip to keep from gasping, but Roth only pinched harder and rolled it between his finger and thumb, making me squirm in my seat, his touch verging on painful. When he increased his pressure, taking the sensation past pleasant and into outright uncomfortable, I flinched away, letting out a breath. “That hurt, Valentine.” “Just making sure I still have your interest,” he said. His hand settled on my thigh, just above my knee. “Do I have it?” “Yeah,” I breathed. “I’m interested.” He glanced away, back to the road as he made a left turn, touching the brakes as traffic slowed ahead of us. We were in Little Italy, I realized belatedly. He was taking us somewhere specific, some restaurant he knew, I guessed. My capacity for clear thought faded as Roth’s hand slid up my bare

skin, fingers grazing my inner thigh, pushing up the hem of my dress. “Take off your underwear,” Roth said. I glanced at him, blinking, and then looked out the windows. We were surrounded by cars, stopped at a traffic light. There were people on the sidewalk and a cube van was idling beside us, the driver smoking a cigarette and glancing down at me. Watching Roth’s hand climb up my thigh. “That driver beside us is watching,” I protested. “So keep your dress down while you take them off. I told you, I’m not going to share you. Not so much as a glimpse, not with anyone. But I do want those panties in my hand in the next thirty seconds.” His voice was hard and low, demanding. I tugged the hem of my dress down, and then lifted my hips, hooking my fingers into the elastic of my underwear through the cotton of the dress. Wiggling my hips, I managed to slide the black bikinicut underwear down past my hips, and then was able to reach up under my dress and pull them off completely. I handed them to Roth, who glanced up at the driver of the truck to the left of us. The driver was entranced, staring down at us, not paying attention to the fact that the light had turned; he’d watched the entire performance, I realized, blushing. Roth held my underwear to his nose and sniffed, staring up at the driver with a grin. I covered my face with my hands, mortified. Horns blared, and the driver of the truck started, surprised, and jerked the truck into motion. “Goddamn you, Roth. Was that really necessary?” He stuffed the underwear into the inside pocket of his blazer, grinning at me. “Yes. It was.” “Why?” “Because it amused me. He wanted you, Kyrie. Did you see the look in his eyes when you handed me your panties? He wanted them for himself. He wanted you for himself.” He replaced his hand on my thigh, higher this time, fingers creeping up under the hem of my dress. “And I, being a possessive caveman, wanted to prove a point. You’re mine.” “I’m embarrassed, Roth. He watched me take off my underwear. You sniffed them. It was horrible.” Roth traced his fingers up the line of my closed thighs, demanding entrance. I parted my legs, just a tiny bit, and his middle finger found my core, found it wet and hot and waiting. “They smelled of your desire, Kyrie. Like you. When you part your thighs for me, I can smell you. You want me. You want me to touch you, don’t you?” He gunned the engine, darting us forward and sliding to the left between the cube van and a taxi, then back across to the lane we had just left, his finger never ceasing its slow penetration of my cleft as he wove through New York traffic. “Don’t you, Kyrie? I could make you come by the time we get to the restaurant, don’t you think?” “I’m—I’m sure you could.” I gripped the armrests and pressed my head back against the seat. “Are you going to make me come while that driver watches?” Roth rumbled in his chest. “Now, that would be fun. I think I might just do that. Good idea.” “No, don’t!” “Why not?” I swallowed hard as he brought his long, thick middle finger up against my clit. “Because…it’s embarrassing. Degrading.” “He won’t see anything except my hand under your dress. You’re completely covered, Kyrie.” “But he’ll know what you’re doing.” “Exactly.” I tried to push his hand away, but he was relentless, and he had me writhing at that point, nearing the edge with slow, precise circles, too far gone to let him stop, to want him to stop, but just aware enough to be mortified and adrenalized by that same embarrassment, which made the sense of

impending climax all the more intense. “Roth….” “Not yet, Kyrie. Don’t come yet.” He continued his strokes around my clit, bringing me closer with every circle. “I’m there, Roth.” “Not yet.” He slowed the Bentley, and I managed a glance to the left, saw the eyes-wide expression of the driver as my hips rolled with Roth’s hand buried under the edge of my dress. I arched my back as I approached the crest, biting my lip, unable to stop a moan from escaping. When I was a split second from coming, Roth removed his hand and swung the car around a corner and into an alley. I slumped down into the seat, shoving my dress in place, breathing hard and struggling for composure as Roth parked beside a dumpster and smoothly slid out of the car. My hands trembled, my thighs quivered, and my core ached. How did he always know when I was a breath away from climaxing? He did, though. He knew, and he was becoming an expert at bringing me to that edge and stopping just before I came. It was maddening. I clenched my fists to stop my hands from shaking, and then forced myself out of the car, smoothing my dress around my knees. Roth held his arm out to me, and I took it, still weak-kneed from my near-orgasm. “You’re an asshole,” I muttered. “Do I have your interest, Kyrie?” “I was kidding, Roth. You have a hell of a lot more than my interest.” I focused on breathing, on pushing away the ache between my thighs. “Oh, I know.” “Then why punish me?” He pulled open the door, holding it for me. The doorway was narrow, and low, leading to an even narrower black-and-white tiled floor, the walls lined with old photographs of New York in the ’30s and ’40s—a variety of famous personages and milk delivery trucks and Frank Sinatra with his trademark grin and cigarette. The hallway opened into a tiny Italian diner, round tables with iconic red-and-white-checked tablecloths and tall bottles of house wine. Roth leaned down to whisper in my ear as he led me between tables to sit at a booth in a shadowy corner. “It’s not punishment, love. It’s foreplay.” “Foreplay?” I tucked my dress under my thighs and slid across the cracked vinyl seat. “Keeping me on the edge of orgasm isn’t foreplay, it’s cruelty.” Instead of taking the seat across from me, Roth moved in beside me, tucking his hand between my thighs with proprietary intimacy. He grabbed my hand and brought my palm to rest on his erection. “I know all too well how painful it is to be constantly aroused, Kyrie. I’ve been hard for you since the moment I woke up. Since the moment I met you, honestly.” He put his mouth to my ear, grinding into my hand. “I’m always hard for you, Kyrie. I ache for you every moment of every day. I wake up at night, having dreamed of burying my cock inside you, and when I wake up I’m mere moments from coming all over myself like a horny teenager. I’m desperate to be inside you, Kyrie. This torture is for both of us.” “Signor Roth!” A portly Italian man with salt-and-pepper hair and a brilliantly white smile greeted Roth with an effusive two-handed handshake, spouting off an incomprehensible stream of rapid-fire Italian. Roth, of course, responded in fluent Italian, then turned to me and gestured at the proprietor. “Kyrie St. Claire, this is my very good friend, Marco. Marco, this is Kyrie.” “It is my very great pleasure to meet you! Welcome, welcome!” Marco shook my hand as he had Roth’s, one pudgy hand on top of mine, another beneath, clasping and shaking until my arm went

numb. “The house special, signore?” “Surprise us, Marco. Wine, of course.” Roth grinned at me, holding my gaze. I felt his hand slide between my thighs, turn to cup my mound beneath my dress, his actions hidden beneath the table, and then he slipped a finger between my folds and held it there, unmoving. He lifted one eyebrow in a clear challenge, or a warning. Don’t make a sound, the arched brow said. Don’t give anything away. I in turn gave him a daring smile, palming his tented jeans. Each of us had one hand on the table, the other hidden beneath. Marco vanished, shouting through into the kitchen. Roth held my gaze, curling his finger inside me, grazing my still-sensitive nub. “I hope you like Italian,” he said conversationally. “It’s my favorite.” I slid my hand up and down the iron length of his denim-clad erection. “Good, because when you eat at Marco’s, you eat until you’re bursting.” “Well, I’m ravenous,” I said, working his length slowly with my fingers. “Simply famished.” Roth’s eyes narrowed, and his finger matched my tempo, stroking me with slow, teasing touches. “Me, too.” Marco’s arrival precluded more awkward innuendo, and he set down a dark, dusty bottle of wine, a carafe, and two glasses. “A very fine ’75 cabernet, signore. I’ve been saving it for a very special time, and I think this is it.” He uncorked the bottle, then wiped the rim with a cloth napkin. There was a metallic screen filter at the mouth of the carafe, and Marco very slowly and carefully poured the ruby liquid through the screen and into the carafe, leaving an inch or so of thick sediment at the bottom of the bottle and a scrim of sediment on the filter. This done, he tilted one of the glasses almost horizontal and poured a small amount of wine, then handed the glass to Roth, who swirled it several times before taking a small sip. “That’s fantastic, Marco. Thank you.” Roth handed the glass back to Marco with an appreciative nod. You wouldn’t know, judging from the impassive expression on Roth’s face, that he was rhythmically curling his finger inside me, brushing against the very tip of my clit, sending bolt after bolt of pleasure through me. I had his erection pinched between my finger and thumb, but knew if I moved my arm the motion would be apparent, so I merely squeezed him up near the tip. It was a game, and I was losing. All he had to do was crook his finger, and spasms shot through me. It took every ounce of strength and control I possessed to not move, to not gasp, to act normal as Marco filled both glasses halfway and set them before us. He bustled away, but before I could open my mouth to ask Roth to stop, Marco was back with a plate of garlic bread and two small side salads. Roth picked up his salad fork and dug in, while I opted for a slice of bread. Both of us used Marco’s absence as an excuse to ramp up the intensity of our game. He slid a second finger into me and pressed the tips against my clit and stroked slow and soft, while I dug my hand, thumb and forefinger first, between his jeans and boxers to clutch bare skin. I squeezed him hard, once, twice, and then loosened my grip and slid my fist down, then gave him an involuntarily hard clench as he slid the slick nub of my clit between his two fingers and tugged on it, making my entire body jerk with the onset of climax. I swallowed the bite of bread and took another, chewing slowly to disguise my inner turmoil. The bread was actually the most delicious garlic bread I’d ever had, at once soft enough to melt in my mouth yet crunchy at the crust, buttery and bursting with flavor. I washed it down with a sip of the wine, which was unlike anything I’d ever tasted it. I only took the most conservative of sips, yet the flavor exploded in my mouth, washing over my tongue, a flavor so thick you could almost chew it, the liquid sliding down my throat and warming my entire body as it went down.

So, no. Distracting myself with the food didn’t work at all. I was still barely keeping control of my body, which was going haywire, the effort necessary to hold back my orgasm making the need to come all the more potent. The question was, should I tell him how close I was, knowing he’d stop? Or should I keep up the ruse as long as possible, and run the risk of coming in public, possibly loudly and embarrassingly? Roth reached in front of me, leaning close to whisper in my ear as he grabbed a piece of bread. “You’re close, aren’t you, baby? I know you are. I can feel your tight little pussy clenching around my fingers.” He slid his fingers into my channel, and I nearly aspirated my bite of salad, a wrenching tremor gripping me. “I should stop now, shouldn’t I? I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself in my friend’s restaurant, would I?” I shook my head, but whether I meant no, don’t stop or no, don’t make me come, I wasn’t sure. My only other response was to stroke his length from root to tip and then clutch my fist around his head in short, shallow, squeezing strokes. I glanced sideways at him and was rewarded by an expression of tense concentration, as if he, too, was having to focus on holding back as much as I was. At that moment, though, he withdrew his fingers and slid them back in, then smeared my clit with my juices and circled slowly, and I was unable to hold back a sharp inhalation and a slight lift of my hips. “Stop, Roth,” I whispered, “Stop. Or I’ll come.” Roth slowed but didn’t stop, and then Marco appeared in front of us with a plate of giant, cheesedripping lasagna, another bowl of thick rigatoni and meat sauce, and a third plate of chicken parmesan with a small helping of linguini on the side. And, of course, Roth chose that moment to stroke me just so, just in the right spot with the perfect pressure, and I came. I couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t move, didn’t dare even breathe, and all I could do was feel the explosion rip through me, feeling my pussy clench like a vise around his thick, sliding fingers, driving the climax higher and hotter. I squeezed Roth’s cock and squeezed my fork and stared at the table, teeth grinding together and a scream bubbling at my lips. It was, possibly, the most potent orgasm I’d ever felt, made dirty and scandalous and all the more intense for taking place at a restaurant table in full view of the owner, who was listing the dishes and waxing eloquent on the food he was going to bring out next, and I was still coming, wave after wave crashing through me, making my belly tense and my thighs grip Roth’s hand with crushing pressure…. I couldn’t stop a muffled squeak from escaping. “Signora? Are you okay?” Marco gave me an odd look. I nodded, fighting to draw breath. “Yeah—” I coughed to cover another gasp. “Yeah, I just…ahem. Got some salad…in the wrong…down the wrong tube.” I lifted the half-eaten piece of bread in my hand as evidence, then realized my gaffe. “Bread. I meant bread. It’s—good. Oh…so good.” The last phrase came out with shocking intensity, as yet another wave rocked through me, and now Marco was staring at me as if I’d sprouted a second head. Roth, of course, was perfectly composed, as if his fingers weren’t sliding in out of me in maddeningly slow penetration, driving what seemed to be a never-ending climax. “It is just garlic bread, signora, my wife’s recipe…if you like it so much, perhaps I could give you the recipe?” Marco glanced from me to Roth in back. “I—no, um—” “She’s just overwhelmed,” Roth put in. “It’s her first time in Little Italy.” “Ah, well, that I understand,” Marco said. “The food here you cannot equal anywhere in the world, perhaps even in Italia. And, of course, you have chosen the best ristorante in Little Italy.” The orgasm ebbing, I finally regained some kind of control, so I smiled at Marco. “This looks

delicious, Marco. I can’t wait to try it all.” “So, no more of the talking!” Marco gestured grandly at the plates of food. “Mangia!” I went for the lasagna first, and now that I was in control of my faculties again, I resumed stroking Roth with slow, subtle, feather-light touches, increasing my tempo as I felt him tense beside me, watched his fist grip his fork until it bent under his thumb, his other hand withdrawn from my folds and clutching my leg with iron strength. The pain of his grip on my thigh was worth the knowledge that he was barely holding back. His jaw was clenched, his torso angled forward, his thigh tensed under my arm, his breathing becoming ragged. His hips lifted once, and then he grabbed my wrist and jerked it away. “Enough,” he growled. He placed both hands flat on the table, head bent, breath coming in long, rasping growls, every muscle in his body tensed as he visibly struggled to hold back. After several long minutes, he finally relaxed and turned to glare at me. “I’m a thirty-six-year-old man, and I almost came in my pants.” I smiled at him and shrugged. “Turnabout is fair play? You made me come in front of Marco. You think that wasn’t embarrassing?” “It’s different,” he said. I frowned. “Oh, yeah?” “Well, yes. You come, you don’t have to deal with a mess.” He shifted his hips as if uncomfortable. “I’m somewhat…damp…as it is.” I stuck my fingers under the waist of his jeans to touch his boxers, and felt a large wet circle of precome. I grinned at him, withdrawing my hand and threading my fingers through his. “It’s just a little bit. No big deal.” He gave me a sigh and a shake of his head. “I hadn’t meant to actually make you come. I meant to torture you some more, but the way you come is simply too sexy to resist, and feeling you come around my fingers in the middle of my friend’s restaurant…not making a sound or giving anything away…it was impossible to stop.” I waited until he had a mouthful of wine before leaning in to whisper in his ear. “It was still torture. Anything less than your cock inside me is torture. I don’t need to come anymore, Valentine. I just need to feel you inside me.” He swallowed—with difficulty, it seemed— and set his goblet down hard. “If you have any intention of finishing your meal, you’d better keep such sentiments to yourself.” I shivered at the blazing heat in his eyes as he delivered the threat. “Oh, yeah? Are you gonna carry me off over your shoulder, caveman-style?” “I might.” He took another swallow of wine, a bite of pasta, another swallow of wine, and a bite of bread. “Eat. You’ll need your strength, love. I guarantee you that.” I ate, feeling a clench in my core at the implication in his words. I couldn’t help pushing him. “You wouldn’t really, though. You’re too dignified for that.” He only spared me a brief glance. “Wouldn’t what?” “Carry me off caveman-style.” “Oh, no?” Roth quirked an eyebrow at me, as if amused, then glanced away, toward the kitchen. “MARCO!” Marco came scurrying. “Signore?” “Box this up for us. Cork the wine as well.” He glanced at me, his eyes sparking pale blue fire. “Something has…come up.” “Certainly, of course. May I ask, is everything—” “It is wonderful, as always, Marco. Kyrie and I merely have some…personal business to attend to.” Marco shifted in place uncomfortably, perhaps realizing what Roth meant. “Of course, sir. Un momento, per favore.” He bustled away quickly, calling out in Italian.

Roth, meanwhile, merely continued to eat leisurely, chasing each bite with a small sip of wine. I tried to emulate him, acting unconcerned and casual, but I was entirely unsuccessful. I wasn’t afraid, per se, knowing he would never actually hurt me, but I was nervous, anxious, wondering if he really was about to sling me over his shoulder like some kind of ape-man. That would be embarrassing, to say the least. I ate a few more bites and finished the thick ruby wine in my glass, just as Marco was returning with carryout cartons. He swiftly and efficiently boxed up the food, stacking the containers in a paper bag, then stuffed the cork into the bottle of wine and placed that in the bag as well. He made a face of disapproval as he corked the bottle. “This wine, signore, it should not sit this way for long, it must breathe—” Roth slid smoothly out of the booth and stood up, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “Yes, Marco. I understand. Thank you.” He pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his blazer, rifled through the bills, and then, with an impatient huff, simply tossed the entire stack on the table. I saw, at one quick glance, at least five or six hundred-dollar bills, and that was merely what was on the bottom. There had to be a thousand dollars there, I surmised. Before I could process another thought, Roth had replaced his wallet and was turning to me. I moved out of the booth and stood up, straightened my dress, and moved toward the door. “Oh, no, you don’t.” Roth’s voice was quiet yet laced with potency. “Roth—” He didn’t let me finish. He stepped in front of me, ducked his shoulder, and swept me up. I shrieked in protest as my belly hit his shoulder, but then we were moving through the low, narrow hallway and out the door. I caught a glimpse of Marco, watching, stunned, by the booth, the stack of bills forgotten in his hand. Outside, the night was warm and still, the driving wind from earlier in the day having abated. I had barely a second to process the sounds of New York—horns, voices, air brakes squealing, sirens in the distance— and the smell of the alley—garlic and cooking food undercut by the sour-sickly tang of garbage—and then Roth was opening the passenger door with one hand, my entire weight on his shoulder, his arm across my thighs holding me in place. “Put me down!” I hissed. “I believe you, okay?” “Too late for that.” He gave my ass a hard smack, hard enough to make me gasp as the sting of his palm shot through me. “Far too late.” Another smack, on the other side, this one hard enough to startle me into an undignified squeak of protest. “All right! I’m sorry!” In the spirit of the moment, I pounded on his back with my fists, the only correct thing to do when slung over a man’s shoulder. “Sorry?” He sounded genuinely amused. “You don’t need to be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong. You simply challenged me out of the last of my self-control.” He smoothed his palm over my still-stinging ass, and then gave me a third hard slap, this one bordering on actual pain. And then he pulled me down, catching me in his arms and setting me with easy grace onto the passenger seat, handling me as if I were a sleepy, recalcitrant child. He even buckled me in, ignoring my indignant glare. He had the Bentley roaring out into traffic, and this time he drove recklessly, swinging out around slower moving cars, into oncoming traffic once, gunning the engine when there was an open space in the line of traffic. I clutched at the armrest with white knuckles. “Roth, you don’t have to—” “Not a word from you, Kyrie.” He didn’t look at me, his voice retaining quiet intensity. “One word out of you, and I’ll snap. I’ll pull into the nearest alley and fuck you where you sit. You’re flushed and nervous and the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and you smell like expensive wine and good food and pussy. I’m barely holding onto my restraint right now, so if you want our first time together to

have anything like romance to it, then just shut it. All right, love?” I only nodded and held on as Roth drove us through the thick late-evening traffic back to his building. He pulled into his private garage, touching a button to open the door as we approached. He had the car turned off and my door open before I could unbuckle, his hand in mine pulling me to my feet and tugging me to the elevator. As soon as the elevator doors opened, he slammed me up against the wall, hard enough to knock the breath from me momentarily. He turned a key, and the elevator lurched upward. His mouth crashed into mine, hungry and devouring, his tongue sweeping at the seam of my lips. His hands cupped my face with a gentility at odds with the fierce need of his kiss, and then his palms skated over my shoulders and down my waist to grip my hips, pulling me against him, pressing his erection hard against me. I moaned into his mouth, and his fingers clawed into the firm flesh of my hips, bunching up the cotton of my dress to grip the thick globes of my ass with both hands, his fingers hard and insistent and demanding. I gasped at the way his hands clutched at me, as if he couldn’t bear to hold back any longer, as if the last of his control had been exhausted. “Roth…”. I whispered, pulling my mouth from his just enough to move my lips on his. “I’m not afraid. I want everything.” The elevator doors slid open, and Roth spun me around, swept an arm under my thighs and lifted me, carried me across the hall and into his room, kicking the door closed with his heel. The glass walls let in city light and the burning squares of amber glow from the high-rises across the street. Still holding me in his arms, Roth somehow dug in his pocket, found his phone, swiped his thumb to unlock it and tap an app, touched another button, and the glass tinted to opacity. The room went dark, pitchblack in an instant. Suddenly, my other senses heightened. I felt his brawny arms under my legs and around my back, his abs tensed against my side, his hands firm and gentle. I smelled our dinner on his clothes, wine on his breath, the familiar spice of his cologne on his skin. His voice broke the silence, low and rough. “You want everything, Kyrie?” “Yes, Valentine. Everything.” “Do you have any clue what you’re asking for, darling?” “I think I have an idea.” I felt his lips on mine, a rough quick kiss. “I don’t think you do.” He moved across the room with me, and I heard his foot bump the bed. He stopped, leaned over, and set me down. I could feel his overwhelming presence, though I could see nothing. “You can still leave, Kyrie. This is your very last opportunity.” I reached up, found him with my hands, slid my palms over his shoulders, and pulled him down to me. “I’m where I choose to be, Valentine.” His growl of approval washed over me. “Good answer.” His mouth covered mine, and our tongues tangled. “Tell me, who do you belong to, Kyrie?” “You.” “Say it.” “I’m yours.” “Try again.” His weight settled on the bed, his hands beside my face, his knees on either side of mine. I knew instinctively then the words he wanted to hear. I felt no hesitation in saying them. “I belong to you, Valentine. You own me.” “Yes. You’re mine.” I heard his voice moving from my face down to my chest as he bent to press his lips to my skin, somehow finding, with unerring accuracy, in the darkness the hot, flushed skin of my cleavage. And then he was off the bed, moving away. I saw the glow of his cell phone, heard the clicking of a digital keyboard as he sent a message. To whom or why I couldn’t fathom and I didn’t really care,

except for wanting him back, wanting his hands on my skin, wanting to feel him take my clothes off and kiss me and drive his big hard cock into me. I couldn’t wait another moment to feel him, to taste him, to have him. I heard the sound of him setting his phone down, a moment or two of silence, and the thump of shoes being tossed aside. Another sound, one I couldn’t decipher. Roth picking something up, possibly, from a dish? I wasn’t sure. Then I heard a click-scrape, and saw a jet of flame illuminating Roth’s hand holding a lighter, a hint of his arm, and a tall white candle in a silver holder. I lay on the bed, watching as Roth moved around the room, touching the lit wick to at least a dozen unlit candles. In moments, his bedroom was lit by the soft amber glow of flickering candlelight. He crossed the room slowly, moving with a predatory grace. “Stand up, Kyrie.” I stood, trembling with eager anxiety, staring up at him, trying to act fearless, when in fact my heart was shuddering madly in my chest. “You…you’re breathtaking, Kyrie. So beautiful.” His voice was a reverent murmur. He reached out and touched my cheekbone, his finger warm, slightly rough. His fingertip scraped ever so gently across my cheek, up over my ear, brushing a loose tendril of hair away, mimicking the way he’d first touched me. That day felt so long ago, as if weeks or months had passed, rather than mere days. I remained motionless in front of him, watching the way his eyes roved over me, the way he seemed to be embracing this moment, taking me in, all of me, really seeing me, into me, knowing me. And I knew him. I’d seen parts of his heart, part of who he was. Enough to know he was real, he was different, he was something incomparable, and I was ready and waiting and deliriously unprepared for what was about to happen between us. He blinked once, his gaze moving from my face down to my breasts. I took a deep breath, and he watched my chest swell. Roth grabbed the zipper of my dress between finger and thumb, drew it down slowly. No part of him was touching me, but I felt his gaze as a caress. The zipper lowered, and my dress loosened. Roth brushed a palm over my shoulder, sliding the sleeve of my dress away. He did it again on the other side, and I shrugged my shoulders, brought my arms together in front of me, letting the dress fall down around me, billowing to pool at my feet, leaving me clad in my bra and nothing else. He reached behind me and unhooked my bra, tossing it aside. My nipples stiffened, hardening to taut peaks under his hot gaze. I expected him to touch me, but he didn’t. He leaned past me, lifting something off the bed. A small garment of red silk and a scrap of black lace. Roth took my wrists in one of his hands and lifted my arms over my head. He slid the red silk over my arms, guiding my hands through, tugging the garment down into place. He adjusted my breasts in the bustier so they were barely covered, the tops of my areolae peeking out, the silk hem coming to rest just above my navel. He ran his eyes over me from head to toe, shaking his head slightly. “How can you be so perfect, Kyrie?” I could only shrug. He held up the long scrap of black lace in both hands. “Are you ready?” In response I held out my hands, wrists together, offering myself.

10 OWNED Roth tied the lace around my wrists, loose enough that it didn’t hurt, but tight enough that I was well and truly bound. Tied up. Totally at his mercy. I tested the bonds, and knew that I was held fast. Despite knowing I was perfectly safe with Valentine Roth, I felt a shimmer of fear. I’d never been tied up before. I’d never been so completely within a man’s thrall before. In that moment, I knew I would do almost anything he asked of me. And I was okay with that, because I knew he wouldn’t ask me to do anything I wouldn’t want, wouldn’t enjoy. A growl left his lips, and he reached for me, grabbing my ass and jerking me against him, cupping the back of my neck and my ass to hold me flush against him, his jeans rough against my skin, his cock thick behind the denim, hard and straining. Roth plundered my mouth with his, a kiss so furiously desperate that I was left breathless when he pulled away. He palmed both cheeks of my ass and lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, draped my bound hands behind his head, leaning down to kiss him, demanding his passion with my own kiss. He took a step, another, and then leaned forward, letting my weight drop me to the bed, my wrists at the back of his neck pulling him to me, keeping the kiss unbroken, mouths moving, our lips tasting and teeth nipping, tongues merging and tangling, and I felt heat in my belly, an ache that had never been sated, a desire made volcanically potent by his torturous teasing with fingers and mouth, never giving me the fullness of his body. Roth ducked out of my arms, backed away, shedding his blazer. I rose to a sitting position, reaching for him, grabbing a fistful of T-shirt, keeping him within in my reach. I tugged up with both hands, knotted in the cotton, and he bent to let me pull the shirt off him. Next I reached for his pants, leaning in to kiss his breastbone, and as my lips passed over his chest, I felt the pounding of his heart, a staccato rhythm of nerves to mirror my own. He was outwardly calm and in control, despite what his pulse revealed. He stood still, staring down at me with a hint of a smile curving his mouth, as I fumbled with the button of his jeans and then, somewhat awkwardly with my tied wrists, lowered his zipper. I pulled the denim down around his knees, and he stepped out of them. With my bound wrists I could only get one hand curled inside the elastic of his boxer-briefs. I pulled them down in front, revealing the broad, purplish head of his thick cock waiting for me. I used the elastic to pull him closer, and then I bent over and licked the drop of clear liquid from his tip, then wrapped my lips around him, tasting him, salty and springy-soft. He pulled away, his cock leaving my mouth with a pop, and then he shoved the underwear off, stepping out of them and toward me. Naked, Roth was a huge, hard specimen of perfect manhood, cut and toned muscles and sun-bronzed skin. The sight of him made my mouth go dry, made my pussy clench and drip with desire, my core going wet as the fantasy of his powerful warrior’s body covering mine became a reality. I watched as he crawled onto the bed, my heart in my throat. His cock was a long, jutting shaft, bobbing and swaying from side to side as he prowled over me, forcing me to lie down as he moved over me. I could barely swallow past the pounding of my heart, barely breathe, but then his mouth was on mine and I didn’t need to breathe, because he was my breath in that moment, his hot hard cock sliding naturally into my hands, tied in front of me and trapped between us. “Kyrie…I need to feel you. Need to kiss your skin. I have to taste your beauty.” His voice murmured, rumbled, and I could only sigh in response, arch my back, and caress his length with my lace-bound hands. He lowered his face to my throat, his tongue sliding against the hollow, tickling and hot and

tracing. Another kiss, this to the slice of skin between my tits, followed by half a dozen more slow kisses over the round swell of my boob to the edge of my areola, and then he was tugging the cup down and baring my breast and laving his tongue over my nipple, which puckered and tightened to a stiff peak in his mouth. He grabbed my wrists and pulled them up over my head. Tugged the other cup down and kissed that nipple into taut attention. “God, Kyrie. You are beautiful in this red silk.” Roth’s voice hummed against my skin. “But now it’s time for it to come off.” He gripped the bustier cups, and then, with a single strong jerk of his hands, the silk parted like paper to bare my front. “You…you like ripping my clothes off me.” “Yes. I do.” He brushed the ragged edges apart, and he licked and kissed my boobs as if he couldn’t get enough of them. His eyes met mine. “Are you wet for me?” “Yes,” I whispered. “I can’t hear you.” “Yes,” I said, in a normal voice. “I’m wet. I’ve been wet all day.” “All day?” I nodded. “Since the moment I saw you sitting at that breakfast table, sipping your tea and looking properly English. You are the sexiest man I’ve ever known, Valentine. I’ve never wanted a man so bad in all my life.” “And now you’re naked for me.” His gaze skipped down my bare body, resting on my pussy and then back up. “I’m still wearing my shoes,” I said. “So I’m not totally naked.” He twisted in place to glance at my feet, which were still clad in the strappy sandals. “So you are. We’ll have to remedy that.” Roth slid off me, brought my foot in front of him, and unbuckled the sandal, then drew it off, tossed it aside. He kissed my ankle, the top of my foot, kissed my calf while he unbuckled the other sandal and tossed it to join the other. His lips slid up my leg to the soft underside of my knee, and then I placed my leg over his shoulder while he continued to plant a line of kisses up the inside of my thigh. His tongue lapped at the opening of my pussy, and I shivered. “Wait…my other leg. It feels left out.” Roth’s laugh was an amused rumble. “That won’t do at all, will it?” “No.” He knelt between my legs, one knee hooked over his shoulder, the other foot bent toward him. A kiss to the tender arch of my foot, tickling, another to the side of my foot, and then the top just above my toes, and then the ankle. Now both my knees were resting on his shoulders, and his mouth was pressed to my opening in a wet, lapping kiss, his tongue curved to slide between my slick labia, the tip of his tongue parting my lips and nudging my sensitive, swollen clit. I gasped aloud, arched my back, and his hands caught my hips, lifted my lower half off the bed, bringing my pussy to his mouth and swiping at my core with fat licks of his tongue. I gasped again, fists clenched, and then let a whimper slip from my mouth, arched my spine, and curled my legs to help him lift my body closer. His stubble was delicious, a sandpaper roughness against my soft skin as his face moved and his fingers dug into the flesh and muscle of my ass, and his tongue speared inside me again and again. The heat and pressure building in my core became an inferno, my gasps and whimpers becoming shrieks and moans, and then I was there, shuddering on the verge of orgasm, his name on my lips. But then he dropped me to the mattress and his mouth left my cleft, and his name turned into a curse. “Fuck! Roth, please! Don’t stop…don’t tease me anymore, just let me come, let me come in your

mouth….” “In my mouth?” He nipped at my tit, teeth pinching with just a hint of pain. “Oh, no. Not in my mouth. The next time you come, it will be around my cock. And you’ll be screaming.” “Then give it to me, Roth.” He bit my other nipple, eliciting a shriek of protest, which turned into a moan as he sucked the thick peak into his mouth and suckled it, soothing the sting and sending a line of aching pleasure tugging at my core. “No, my lovely. Not yet. I don’t think you’re ready yet.” “I am — I can’t take it anymore. You’ve been torturing me for days, please…I need you inside me.” I moved to put my arms around him, but his fingers pinioned my wrists and held them against the pillow over my head. “You want me to beg? Fine, I’ll fucking beg. Please, Valentine. I need you. I need your cock inside me. Please fuck me. Please.” He growled, a wordless sound of disapproval. “No, Kyrie. I told you once. I won’t fuck you. I hate that word as a term for sex. At least, where it concerns you. You are the most precious thing in my life, Kyrie. You deserve far, far more than mere fucking. So try that again.” I couldn’t get all that out again, so I wrapped my legs around his waist and lifted my hips, seeking his hardness with my softness, finding his huge hard cock and sliding my slick heat along it, grinding against him. “Please, Valentine. Just…please. No more games. Make love to me.” He let me grind on him a few moments more, and then he stilled me with a hand on my hipbone. “Yes. God, yes.” He pivoted his hips, dragging his cock through my labia, coating himself in my juices. Then, slowly, so slowly, he drew back, gripped himself in one hand and pressed the tip to my clit, slid it down my opening, and nudged into me. “Shit, Kyrie. I’m barely even inside you, and you’re already tight.” “You’ll fit. Just…go slow.” “Don’t worry, love, I’ll never hurt you.” “I know.” I held still and breathed in his scent, staring up at his eyes as they locked on mine. “More.” I moved against him, rolling my hips to take more of him. He groaned low in his chest. “More?” Roth’s eyes were hooded, his pale blue gaze never wavering from mine as he inched himself deeper, his thick shaft filling me to aching fullness. “Like that?” Once I caught my breath, I shook my head. “No. Deeper. More.” He pushed in, a slow, aching penetration. I gasped, a high-pitched inbreath of surprise as he filled me. Holy shit. I felt like I was about to split apart, a burning ache that quickly turned to ecstasy as I adjusted to his size. “Yes, like that. God, you’re fucking huge.” He grinned at me in the candlelit haze. “Can you take more?” My eyes widened. I’d felt his girth with my hands, stroked his length, but that couldn’t prepare me for the reality of the way he’d feel inside me. I could only incline my head in a slight nod, and then he leaned down to kiss me, thrusting his tongue into my mouth and palming my breast as he stroked fully into me. Holy hell. I couldn’t breathe, aching, burning, stretched, pierced. I forced my breath in, and out, and then I blinked as my head cleared, and I absorbed the steel-and-silk of his cock inside me. He cupped my breast, then dragged my nipple between two fingers, sending a small quiver through me. He still hadn’t moved, but I was shaking with delirium at the way he felt inside me, even motionless. I planted my feet on the mattress and rolled my hips, sliding him partway out and then back in, and I sighed. “Move with me, Valentine. Please.” He groaned, touched his forehead to mine, released my wrists and planted his hands just beneath my raised arms. “Don’t you dare move a muscle, Kyrie. Lie still. Perfectly still. Just take me.” He drew out almost all the way, and paused there. “Don’t speak, except to say my name.” I nodded, fists clenching in the effort to hold still, the slow slide as he drew out sending a frenzy of quivering thrills through me, putting alight my need to move, to feel him glide inside me. But I

remained motionless, at least until he brushed his lips over mine, breathing with me, tongue flicking out to trace my lips. And then I couldn’t help but kiss him back, and he took my kiss and multiplied it, giving in to need, his cock poised just inside me, only our mouths moving. We kissed with ferocious intensity, mouth clashing, tongues tangling, breath coming ragged and harsh. And then, matching a thrust of his tongue into my mouth, he stroked into me, spearing me with his massive cock, sliding slowly so his head spread my pussy apart and took him into me to the root. Our hips met, and I was frantic to move, shaking all over. “Roth….” “Was that good, Kyrie?” He withdrew, pinched my nipple between the fingers of one hand. “You want it again?” I almost nodded, but didn’t. I just gave him all the desperation I felt in one pleading gaze. His brow furrowed, and he glided into me, smoothly and slowly, and this time I shrieked, a breathless sound. “You take me so beautifully, Kyrie. You take all of me and want more. Don’t come yet, baby. Don’t come yet. Don’t you dare come until I tell you to.” I swallowed hard and forced myself to remain still, hands clenched over my head, legs extended and spread apart to accommodate his trim hips. “Valentine…ohhh….” I was close. He knew it. Surely he felt it in the throbbing quiver of my pussy, the way my walls clenched around him, the way I couldn’t slow my breathing, the way my hips were rising and falling on their own in a slight flutter, despite my mental commands to stay still. But he was breathing hard, too, despite only having thrust into me a few times. Every muscle was tensed, making him a skin-soft sculpture of rock kneeling above me. His mouth covered my breast, his tongue sliding over my nipple, sucking my boob into his mouth and making me inhale sharply, and then he did it to the other boob, and then he was squeezing my tits together and licking at both nipples at once, and I was helpless, unable to stay still, my spine curving by itself, lifting my tits to his hot, wet mouth. He moved, driving his hips against mine, and this time when his thick, hard, throbbing cock pierced me, I shrieked, and it was a loud sound, splitting the quiet room. “Yes! Valentine…oh, god.” “That was more than just my name, Kyrie.” “I know…I can’t help it.” He pistoned into me again, and I moaned even louder. “You can say whatever you want. Just keep still.” “Why?” “Why?” Another slow thrust, and another, then a pause. “Because this time I only want to feel your tight little pussy around me. Nothing else. Just the tightness of your cunt.” I hated that word usually. But from Roth, it sounded right. I wasn’t sure why, but it did. He pushed in yet again, and this time he started a rhythm, an agonizingly slow pace meant to make me insane and succeeding. I moaned with each stroke, fighting to stay motionless as Roth teased and tortured me with glacially slow thrusts, filling me inch by inch, splitting me apart with his slick, hard cock, then withdrawing just as slowly and leaving me aching with emptiness, dearly needing to move to bring him back inside me, as if his erection filling me was all that I needed to be compete. I felt the sheen of sweat that coated his body, heard his breathing coming in ragged pants, and felt his body shaking as he fought to hold the torturously slow pace he’d set for himself. “Faster, Valentine. Don’t hold back. Give me all of you.” “I’ll hurt you.” “No, you won’t.” He levered up to stare down at me, still thrusting slowly. “You’re sure?” “Yes. God, yes. Please. Harder. Faster.”

He groaned and put his weight on one hand, pulled my arms down over his head to rest on his shoulders. “Hold on to me, Kyrie.” I held on. He sucked in a breath and let it out in a slow groan of relief as he started moving faster, incrementally increasing his pace. I pulled at him, wishing I could touch him, stroke his skin, hold his hips and clutch his hair. Instead, all I could do was hold on his neck with my bound wrists and focus on feeling him, focus on holding still. Faster and faster, each stroke ripping a gasp from me, until he was pounding into me and I was shrieking, my voice raised in a nonstop series of screams. My tits bounced as he fucked into me, and I felt his cock fill me, pull out, fill me, slamming deep and withdrawing in a frenzied rhythm of primal fury. And I loved it. Oh, god, I loved it. It was a glorious loss of control, it was Valentine Roth giving in and abandoning all hold on himself. Lightning struck in a thousand scintillating sunbursts inside me, heat and pressure wed to become nova-hot explosions that weren’t orgasms but the bursting of pleasure inside me as that climax neared. “Valentine, oh, god, Valentine, I’m almost there, I’m so close.” My voice was breathless, raw from moans and whimpers and shrieks. “Not yet.” “Please?” I clenched around him with my inner muscles, clamping onto his thrusting, sliding cock with every ounce of strength I had in my vaginal muscles. I was rewarded by a protracted groan from Roth, who abruptly slowed his pace, and instead of thrusting hard and fast, he slammed into me once, hard and slow, pulled out, and then slammed in again, his body tensed and trembling. I felt his cock throb inside me at each slow, deliberate, pounding thrust, and I knew he was close. I released my vaginal muscles as he pulled out, and tensed them when he thrust in, matching him, moving in the only way I could, clutching him so he could barely pull out. “Kyrie…god, the way you do that with your pussy…it makes me crazy.” He pressed a sloppy, passionate kiss to my lips, and I felt him trembling as wildly as I was, shaking all over, holding back, determined to draw this out as long as possible, despite how long we’d already tortured ourselves. I felt my body spasming as climax stole over me, and I had to fight to push it back, hold it off, but it was impossible, like trying to push against a tectonic plate. “I can’t…I can’t stop it, Valentine. I have to come. I can’t…ohfuckohgod…I can’t—” I tried once more to hold it back, but it was in vain. I felt the orgasm seizing my body, striking my nerves like hammers, every pleasure point on my body pulsing with brilliance. He growled. “Not yet, Kyrie. Not yet.” “I can’t stop it!” I protested. “I have to come…have to…please!” Roth’s thrusts were spasmodic and slow, and as he spoke, he bent over me, nearly collapsing, and then straightened his arms, tensed his abs, and paused with just the tip of his cock inside me, his body trembling, muscles rock-hard. And then, with a shout, Valentine thrust into me, and I felt him explode. “Now, Kyrie! Come with me!” I came, and I screamed. It wasn’t a small breathless little shriek—oh no, this was a full-voiced scream, a sound louder than any I’d ever made in my life, a primal scream of raw ecstasy. White light flashed on my closed eyelids, and my entire body was shaken by pulsating waves of explosive pleasure. I felt Roth slamming into me, his hips thrusting madly as he came and came and came, his

hot seed flooding into me, stream after stream jetting against my walls. In the throes of an earthshaking climax, all control was forgotten, and I wrapped my heels around his back and ground my hips against his, my pussy clamped tight around his cock, my mouth against his shoulder, biting and sucking and kissing as I was wrenched and twisted and wrung by an orgasm that never seemed to end. When it did end, it wasn’t all at once, but gradually, a slow fading, a spiral drift down from the heights of heaven. Eventually, Roth was limp above me, his weight partially braced so as not to crush me, and we were both panting and sweating. After a moment, Roth rolled off me and flopped to his back. We lay side by side, panting, for several minutes, not speaking, reveling in the glow of bliss. My eyes closed, drowsing for a time I didn’t bother measuring, I didn’t see him move, but I felt him untie the lace binding my wrists. I turned over and rested my head on his shoulder, felt his arm curl around my waist and his hand cup my ass, holding me close. “That was fucking incredible, Valentine.” “‘Fucking incredible’ doesn’t do it justice.” He craned his neck aside to look me in the eyes. “‘Fucking incredible’ doesn’t do you justice.” I traced my fingers over his pectoral muscles, across the ridged wonderland of his abs, and found his manhood. “You have the most amazing cock. For real.” He chuckled. “I’m glad you think so.” “I wasn’t sure I could take it all,” I admitted, gently, almost idly, caressing him, toying with him, feeling him ever-so-gradually thicken and harden. “But you did.” “Will I be allowed to participate next time?” I asked. “Perhaps.” I heard the smile, but my eyes were locked on his cock, watching in rapt fascination as he grew under my touch. “You’re getting hard already.” “You make me hard. I just had you, but I need to be inside you again.” He lay still, letting me touch him, fondle him, stroke him until he was fully erect. I shifted so I could use both hands on him, cupping his heavy balls in one hand, clutching his erect length with the other. I caressed him slowly, squeezing around his broad head and loosening my grip as I stroked downward. I slid my body down his, resting my cheek on his stomach, watching him grow bigger and harder with each stroke of my fist down his glistening shaft. Wrapping my lips around him, I kept my jaw spread wide open, and I took him into my mouth, tasted us on him, bobbing him as deep as I could take him, then withdrawing, fucking with my mouth until he was groaning and lifting his hips into my rhythm. And then, of course, he pulled me away. “You seem very determined to make me come in your mouth, Kyrie.” I rested my head on his shoulder again and smiled up at him. “Not necessarily. I just like seeing how long you’ll let me suck on you before you stop me.” “Do you want me to come in your mouth?” I shrugged. “Sometime, yes. Now? No. Now I want your cock inside me.” “You marked me, Kyrie.” I lifted up on one elbow and glanced at him in surprise. “I did?” He nodded, pointing at a large dark mark on his shoulder. “You did.” I grinned. “Oh. I didn’t mean to.” “I’ve never let anyone mark me before. No one. Not ever. I’m not sure how I feel about it.” I frowned. “It’s just a hickey, Roth. And it’s not visible.” “True. But I did tell you not to move.”

I met his gaze. “Yes, you did. But we were both coming at that point, and I just…couldn’t stop myself. I had to touch you somehow. Had to kiss you.” “That doesn’t mean leave a mark on my body.” I sat up. “Are you really mad about it?” He sat up too. “Mad? No. But I think I’ll have to punish you somehow.” My body tensed. “Punish me? How?” He tilted his head, thinking. “On your hands and knees. Now.” I didn’t react right away, wondering what his plan was, and he reached over and pinched my nipple, just hard enough to startle me. “Now, Kyrie.” I pivoted around to face the head of the bed, and then rocked forward onto my hands and knees, head turned to watch him. My hair was still in a ponytail, hanging over one shoulder, and Roth shifted, lifting up and gently tugging the rubber band out of my hair. I shook it out, and then feathered my fingers through it so it fell in golden waves. Roth’s eyes betrayed his enjoyment as he gazed at me, on my hands and knees in front of him, hair loose, and eyes curious and nervous but not afraid. “So beautiful.” He moved to kneel behind me, caressed my ass with one hand on each globe. “Especially this. I love every part of your body, Kyrie, but your ass is particularly perfect.” “There’s no way in hell I can take you back there, Roth,” I told him. He shook his head. “No, I know that. But you can take other things. My finger, for instance. Or a vibrator. Or my tongue.” He smoothed his hand in circles over the round expanse of my ass. “But I’m not going to do any of that. Not yet, at least.” “What are you—” I started, but I was cut off by a sharp smack, the impact of his hand on my ass a loud, resounding clap. “SHIT! That hurt, Roth!” He caressed the spot where he’d spanked me, and then, while I watched anxiously, slid his hand to the other side of my butt and caressed the globe, circling once, twice…and then smack! I shrieked again, rocked forward by the slap of his hand on the generous muscle of my ass. Immediately he soothed it, and then put both palms to my ass, circled, circled, and then gave me dual slaps, hard enough that I knew I’d be reddened, and then his soothing hands were gentle once more. I tensed as he caressed my backside, expecting another smack, so when his index and middle fingers slid between my legs and into my drenched opening, I moaned in sudden pleasure. And that was when he smacked my ass. I shrieked as the contrast of pleasure and pain braided together and rifled through me, and the shriek turned to a gasp as he repeated the move, circling my clit with his fingers and slapping one cheek and then the other, alternating sides and then smoothing. While his right hand spanked and soothed my ass, driving me forward and drawing whimpers of protest from me, the fingers of his left hand were circling my clit in maddening circles, then diving into my channel and fucking me once, twice, three times, and then pulling out to circle once more. The pleasure and the pain were at odds, piercing me and sliding past each other, curling around each other, pleasure taking over when he pressed fingertips to my throbbing clit, replaced by the shock of sharp stings as his hand spanked and slapped. I was confused by the sensations, unable to deny the pleasure yet unable to separate it from the stinging pain of being spanked. And yet the pain wasn’t sharp enough to make me ask him to stop. At first it was merely a surprise, and then it was disconcerting, and then it was irrevocably part of the intense pleasure shooting through me, and I couldn’t deny that I didn’t mind it. Each swipe of his fingers, each slap of his hand on my now-sensitive ass made me shriek and gasp and moan, and my body began moving, rocking forward with the spankings, shoving back into his penetrating fingers. I felt a tremor deep inside me, a precursor, followed by another, stronger quake, and then his fingers were circling and I was whimpering and gasping, hips rolling uncontrollably,

away from his smacks and into his touch on my clit, and I felt it rising, happening, impending, shaking me. “Roth…oh, Jesus….” I said, feeling climax burgeoning within me. “I’m about to come so hard….” “When?” he demanded, fingers circling me madly, palm smoothing my stinging flesh. “Now! Ohfuckohfuckohfuck, Valentine!” I came with a scream and a burst of adrenaline, shattering into a million pieces, and at that moment, as the scream tore from my throat, Roth impaled me with his cock, driving deep into my pussy in one quick thrust, rocking me forward and filling me to bursting. My scream cut off abruptly, my voice stolen by breathless ecstasy. My swelling climax ruptured, and all I could do was brace my hands on the bed and push back into him. My mouth dropped open in a silent scream as he palmed my ass cheeks with both hands, drawing nearly all the way out and then gliding deep in a smooth, hard stroke. “Oh, my fucking god, Valentine….” I gasped. “Yes?” He sounded casual, unruffled, thrusting into me again and again, driving my orgasm to heights I hadn’t thought possible, even after as hard as he’d made me come already. “Just…describing you, is all,” I said, turning my head to glance at him over my shoulder. His thrusts grew harder, and my tits bounced with his pounding, my ass absorbing the impact of his gliding hips with smacking sounds as loud as when he’d spanked me. “I’m your fucking god, Kyrie?” He punctuated this with a single hard spank. “Yes!” I cried out. “You like being spanked, don’t you, Kyrie?” “Yes, I like it.” “You like it when I take you from behind, don’t you, Kyrie?” He smacked the other side. “I love it, Valentine. I love it.” “You want to come again?” I could only nod. “Tell me what you want me to do, Kyrie. Tell me how to make you scream again.” “You know what I want. Give it to me.” I dropped my head, letting it hang. I forced my eyes open and peered upside down along my torso. I caught a glimpse of his cock sliding out of my pussy, glistening and thick, and then watched it slam back in, watched his balls slap against my pussy, watched his thighs shift. “Say it, Kyrie. I want to hear you say it. I go crazy when you say dirty things to me, baby. You make me wild when you tell me what you want from me.” He gripped my hips and jerked me back into his thrusts, and I gave him all I had, pushing back with him, rocking back into his relentless rhythm, taking his cock and loving every inch of it, loving this hard and frantic fucking he was giving me. “Finger my ass, Valentine. Put your finger all the way inside me.” “That’s what you want, is it, love? You want my finger deep in your tight little asshole?” “Yes, please. Give it to me.” “Anything you want, Kyrie,” Roth said. He bent over me, kissed my spine, reached around my waist as he pulled his cock completely out of me, then dipped his fingers into my pussy. His fingers coated, he slipped his erection back into me and resumed a slow gliding rhythm, a lazy rhythm. He brought his hand around to my ass, parted my cheeks with one hand, and smeared our juices on my asshole, rubbing the tight knot of muscle with his fingertip. I forced myself to relax, leaning closer to the bed to spread myself apart for him. The pressure of his massaging finger increased, and then I felt myself pierced, and a helpless whining gasp left my throat. “Yes, Valentine. Just like that.”

“Oh, no, darling. This is just the beginning.” He wiggled his finger, and I felt the world shake with shattering tremors. “Grab a pillow and brace yourself with one hand. Use the other to touch yourself. Touch your pussy, Kyrie.” I reached forward and grabbed a pillow, shoved it under my chest and braced my forehead on my arm, slid my other hand between my legs, found my clit, and circled it. Immediately the earthquakes inside me intensified, shaking my belly and tightening my core, sending white-hot streaks of lightning through me. Roth stroked into me faster now, his cock slamming and sliding, one hand gripping my hip, the other slipping his long middle finger slowly and carefully into my asshole until I felt his knuckles brush me. My fingers swiped in fast, sloppy circles around my aching, swollen clit, my hips rocked back and forth, my breath came in short gasps and occasional moans. Roth began to groan in tandem with his thrusts, pulling me by the hip with ever-increasing force until his hips met my ass with resounding slaps. I couldn’t move with him, not anymore, not with my fingers on my clit and his finger in my ass and his cock inside me, pounding into me. I was so full, feeling him inside me, behind me, above me, everywhere, erasing all the world except for him and me, everything except this nascent detonation building inside me and Roth’s voice joining mine with vulnerable moans. Our voices merged, groans coming in perfect synchronicity as our bodies merged. I felt his cock thicken inside me, felt his rhythm stutter and grow desperate, slamming in, pulling back, hesitating at the crest of his withdrawal, and then we both moaned as he ground into me. His finger began to match the motion of our bodies, and I felt him lean over me, felt something hot and wet drip onto his finger and my ass, and then the slide of his digit in and out of me became slick and easy, and now he was fucking me in both my entrances, pounding into my ass and my pussy all at once and I was full and complete and exploding and shattering and all I knew was Roth, his name, his body, his presence. “Yes…yes…yes…ohfuckyes!” I screamed, and then bit the pillow as my body clenched with the first wave of an orgasm so powerful it was painful. “Valentine! Oh, my god, Valentine, don’t stop, please don’t stop!” “Never, Kyrie…never.” His voice was a ragged murmur, breathless, gasping, fraught with moans at each syllable. He pulled back, the thick mushroom head of his perfect cock poised at my entrance, waiting for a beat, two, three…and then he crushed home with a primal bellow, and I felt him unleash within me. “I’m coming, Kyrie!” he shouted. “Yes, Valentine, come inside me! Come hard for me, baby, let me have it all….” A hot, wet spurt of his come splashed inside me, and he was grinding into me, his hips flush hard against my ass, his finger deep in my pulsing asshole, my every muscle and fiber and shred of consciousness contracting and expanding, my climax a soul-searing fire inside me. He shot into me again, and I clenched around him, squeezing his massive, driving, sliding, throbbing cock with everything I had. I was fucked breathless, barely able to even gasp at the raw potency of my orgasm, for the rapturous bliss of his cock and the feel of him coming inside me, filling me, knowing he was as torn apart by this as I was. Another hard thrust, and he came a third time, and I couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t come any harder. But then I felt him pull out of my pussy and withdraw his finger, wipe his cock on me, smearing my asshole with our juices, and then he pressed his tip against me. He was softening but still hard, and I was somehow ready for this, wanting it, needing it. I took the tip of his cock, relaxed, and took a bit more. It burned and stretched, but he held still and let me adjust, and then began moving, just slightly. I was so tight around him that he was pinched nearly immobile, and I was unable to even scream, my fading climax surging to a sudden and gut-wrenching madness. I shuddered and rocked forward, shivering all over and trying to scream, but his cock was in my asshole and making me wild, making me ferociously and primally animalistic. Something like a snarl ripped from my throat as I

came again, harder and harder, split apart by him and, impossibly, taking more and more of him, knowing I still only had the tip of him inside me and that I was being driven to insanity by that little bit. He didn’t thrust, merely gyrated enough to provide pressure, and I felt his cock throb and heard him groan long and low in his chest. My climax began to fade. “Out, out, take it out, please….” I gasped. Roth complied immediately, and I slumped forward, wrung out and fucked utterly boneless. He moved to his back, slid an arm toward me, and gathered me up in a warm, implacably strong, cocoonsafe embrace. “Kyrie….” he whispered, “Dear god, Kyrie.” “I’m dead.” I was limp in his arms, barely able to even form words, still shaking with aftershocks. “You killed me. You fucked me dead.” “I didn’t—” I spoke over him. “Shut up, Valentine. I meant that as a good thing. I know you care. I know my worth to you. You’ve proved it.” I forced my eyes open, forced myself to move so I could meet his eyes. “So now we can fuck. You can take me in your shower. In your car. Anywhere and everywhere.” “Kyrie….” I saw some strange conflict warring in his sky-blue eyes. “You wanted me, so you took me, Valentine Roth. You told me you owned me, and then you went and proved that you’re right. You own me.” I knew I was being reckless, blurting out the contents of my heart, speaking without any kind of filter. It was crazy and dangerous, but it was all I had. “Here’s what I want: feed me, bathe me, and then fuck me again until I can’t move.” Long moments passed, Roth’s expression now shuttered. I knew him enough to realize he was thinking. Considering. Coming to some decision. He nodded. “I like that plan. I’ll add one thing to it, though.” “What’s that?” I asked. “I’m going to feed you, bathe you, fuck you until you can’t move, and then I’m going to hold you while we sleep. And then when we wake up, I’m going to fuck you again.” My heart melted and swelled simultaneously. “Promise?” He laughed. “Yes, Kyrie. I promise.” Roth rolled me onto my back, leaned over me, and kissed me. “Now, wait here.” I watched his tight, round, muscular ass ripple as he slid out of bed and walked out of the room. God, he was gorgeous. Knowing how he could make me feel made him all the more sexy. When his tanned muscles and blond hair were out of sight, I finally let go. I cried. Confused, ecstatic, crazy tears of raw overwhelmed emotion. It was just a brief, stormy spat and then done, but it was what I needed to be able to process everything I felt. I’d started this crazy affair frightened and guarded and expecting the worst. Yet what I’d discovered in Valentine Roth was something totally unexpected, something unusual and incredible. My emotions were haywire, made insane and intense and confused by what we’d just done together, how hard he’d made me come, how perfectly he’d followed through on his promises, fulfilling the expectations he’d set up with our hours of foreplay. Yet that couldn’t explain what I was feeling. It wasn’t just sexual appreciation. There was that in spades, of course. Valentine Roth was a goddamned champion in bed, not just in terms of staying power or a ridiculously short refractory period, but in the way he paid attention to me, the way everything he did seemed laser-focused on making me feel as good as possible, taking his own pleasure in giving me what I needed. What had just happened between us in this bed was every woman’s erotic fantasy. He was totally dominant, powerful and confident, skilled and passionate and attentive. All of that being true, how could I not become attached to him? And I was. I was totally getting

attached. It wasn’t smart, but there it was, truth distilled. I was getting attached to Valentine Roth. Yet it was more than that, and this was where fear began to take hold. It was who he was out of bed that scared me, because it was that man I was developing sudden and fearfully potent emotions for. He was all those things, too; every descriptor I’d used for Roth in bed was true of the man in everyday life as well. And I was falling for him.

11 TURNING THE TABLES By the time Roth returned to the bedroom, some fifteen minutes later, I was calm once more. I knew I had to hold on to how I felt. I didn’t think Roth was ready for that kind of thing yet, because although he was the one who’d sent for me, watched me, was the one in control, my instincts told me that true, deep emotions were unfathomable to him. He wanted me; he wanted to own me, to have me. He enjoyed me. Appreciated me. Yes, he used words like “baby,” “darling,” and “love,” but those were casual terms of endearment, not protestations of love or anything like that. I pushed away those thoughts and sat up as he set a tray down on the bed. He was still naked, and I couldn’t take my eyes off his body, couldn’t look away from his cock, which was still impressive, even flaccid. I wanted to make him hard again just for the pleasure of watching and feeling him grow in my hands, but my stomach rumbled when the scent of our leftover dinner hit my nose, quashing even my ravenous desire for Roth’s body. “I don’t remember you bringing this home,” I said, grabbing a fork from the tray and digging in. Roth sat cross-legged on the other side of the tray from me, taking the other fork and shoveling a huge bite of chicken Parmesan into his mouth. “I didn’t,” he said after he’d chewed a few times. “I was so focused on getting us back here and getting you naked that I forgot it. That message I sent earlier was to Marco. I asked him to have our leftovers brought here.” He took another bite, and then poured wine into a glass. There was only one glass, though, and he filled it nearly to the brim. “Marco would kill me for mistreating the wine like this, but I don’t care. Wine etiquette is for when you’re in public.” After a healthy gulp, he passed the glass to me. We were sharing a glass of wine. Something about that made me giddy. “Well, you already know I don’t give much of a shit about wine etiquette,” I said. “I mean, if I’m out with you, I’ll try to follow your lead so I don’t embarrass you, but I clearly wasn’t raised with the kind of manners you were.” He shrugged. “Just be yourself, Kyrie. I don’t care if you know how to appreciate fine wines. That can be learned. The beauty of your soul, however, cannot be taught, and that is what I appreciate most about you.” “God, Roth. That’s so sweet. Thank you.” I gazed at him, letting some of what I felt for him flow through me and melt into my expression. “I feel the same about you. I mean, yeah, you’re the most handsome, sexiest man I’ve ever seen in my fucking life, but the more I learn about who you are, the more I appreciate you.” Roth set his fork down very carefully, tilting his head to one side. His expression was inscrutable. “You…appreciate me?” He sounded stunned. “You don’t…resent me for claiming you the way I have?” I shook my head. “Nope.” I endeavored to sound casual, so I paused to take a bite of lasagna, chewing and swallowing before I continued. “Look, I’m pretty in tune with my emotions, okay? When I figure out how I feel, I don’t waffle around about it. Once I know I like something, I’m all in. And I don’t fight feeling something just because it should be impossible or whatever. I know I should be insulted by the way you brought me here and told me you owned me, and I was at first. But…once I gave in to playing your game your way, I realized I liked it. Giving in, obeying your commands, is… freeing. It’s hot. I’ll never be a quiet, submissive little thing. Obeying doesn’t come naturally to me. It never has, and it never will. I’m strong, and I’m independent. But when you take charge and I let

myself give in, I have fun.” “Well. I’m glad for that.” He picked up his fork, but I could tell he was still deep in thought. “But that doesn’t explain you appreciating me.” “No? Think about it, Roth. Think about me. Would I have gone this far with you, given in and obeyed and let you do all the things to me that you have if I didn’t trust you? If I didn’t enjoy it and enjoy you?” He shook his head. “No. Of course not.” “Then you get it.” A few more bites, a swallow of wine, and then I continued. “I like sex. I like it a lot. But I don’t do random, meaningless sex. I’ve been with a few guys, as I’m sure you know, but I’ve never felt a…connection…of some sort to any of them. I know that’s not a great thing to say, or to think about after what we just did together, but that’s exactly the point. All that? Everything that I’ve done before, all the guys I’ve been with before…none of them could even remotely compete with you. Not on any level. That” —I gestured at the bed— “was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It meant something. I don’t know what, exactly, but it did, and I know it, and I think you do, too.” But there was a lie in there. That I did know. “You’re right, of course.” Roth said. Then he took a long swallow of wine before passing the last of it to me. “I think we both have a lot to think about.” Roth and I had polished off a startling amount of food in a short time, all of the leftovers now gone, the wine finished, too. I was sated in every way: my stomach full, sexually glutted, a little buzzed, heart and mind full of powerful emotions kept secret for the moment. Roth took the tray and set it on the floor outside the bedroom, then went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. His bathroom was even more incredible than mine. The shower was a cavernous space of dark marble and clean glass. There was a bench in the middle, with a six-foot-long rainfall showerhead embedded in the ceiling above it, and jets along the wall also angled toward the bench. There was a more traditional long-necked showerhead on one wall, located above the controls for the water flow. I watched Roth from the bed, enjoying the play of his muscles beneath his firm skin, watching his ass tighten and relax with every step, his dangling cock swinging, balls heavy, thighs thick and powerful, arms long and hard and bulging with muscle. He turned one lever in the shower and the overhead shower kicked on, sending a stream of water down onto the bench. He turned another lever, and the jets sputtered and started, and then he adjusted a third lever, for the temperature, I assumed. He pushed a button on a panel outside the shower-room; the bathroom dimmed, and a set of soft multicolored lights set into the floor and walls of the shower came on, playing into the streams of water, making one jet crimson, another azure, a third hunter green. Muted amber shone down from the overhead stream, and purple was aimed across the floor. Roth came back into the bedroom and scooped me up in his arms. As he carried me into the bathroom, I said, “You really have a thing for pimped-out showers, don’t you?” He nodded. “Yes, I suppose I do. A long, hot shower can be a magical thing, don’t you agree?” He set me down on the bench and closed the door to the shower. “If you think the showers in this place are something, you should see the one in my place on Turks and Caicos.” “You have a place in Turks and Caicos?” I asked. The water was just this side of too hot, the stream from above beating down with incredible force, the jets spraying me from all sides. Roth reached down between his feet and pulled out bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel, as well as a scrubbing poof, all of which were hidden in some kind of compartment built into the bench itself. “Yes,” he said, reaching for me and pulling me to sit sideways on his lap. “Besides this place, I

have homes in Turks and Caicos, London, Paris, and another in a tiny village on the Mediterranean coast of Italy. I spend most of my time here, as my business is centered in New York, so I rent those other homes out most of the year. I always take three months out of the year to travel, however, so I keep my other homes open and ready for me from September through November.” He threaded his fingers into my hair and began massaging my scalp, bunching handfuls of my hair under the stream of water. The bench was placed so that, depending on which way you leaned, you could get the stream on your head or on your back and not on your face. I leaned against him, closed my eyes, and let the hot water beat down on my spine, listened to his heart pulsing, enjoyed the attention of his hands on me. He worked shampoo into my hair, scrubbing my scalp and lathering my hair thoroughly down to the tips, and then he leaned us forward so the water sluiced the shampoo away. He backed away again, and the water streamed onto my back, allowing Roth to work conditioner into my hair. While the conditioner set, he squeezed the poof out in the jets of water and applied some shower gel, and began scrubbing: my back, over my shoulders and down my arms, everywhere he could reach without moving me. “All right, stand up for me.” He shifted forward, and I reluctantly stood up. Roth washed me all over, getting me clean, and then began to run the poof over my body in a more leisurely fashion, paying attention to my breasts first, lifting them and sliding the poof beneath them, then over my nipples. I leaned my head back into the water, and moaned in enjoyment as the hot water ran over my face and down my back, Roth’s hands wandering down my belly and between my legs. He’d already washed there, but I widened my stance anyway and let him run the soft yet scratchy poof over my sensitive skin. While he roamed my body, I grabbed the bottle of shampoo and lathered his short, thick blond hair, tangling my fingers in it until the suds foamed up and rinsed away under the stream. I repeated the process with the conditioner, and then took the poof from him, reapplied the gel, and scrubbed him clean from head to toe, clinically at first. Then, once he was clean, I did as he had, slowly and gently exploring his body. I started at his shoulders, scrubbing with the poof in one hand, sliding my other hand over his slick, wet skin afterward. I couldn’t resist kissing his flesh where the water had rinsed the soap away, making a train of touches, scrub first, smooth away with my hand, then kiss. Down his arms, one and then the other. His chest, over his pecs, tracing their outlines, then down between them to his abs, kneeling on the marble and scrubbing and kissing my way down each side of his sharp V-cut. He tensed, but I intentionally ignored his cock and balls, choosing instead to make my way down one thigh, holding the back of his knee as I kissed his shin and the side of his calf and his foot, then the opposite ankle and back up. His knee. His thigh. His hip. I pressed my tits against him as I reached around to cup his firm, taut ass, scrubbing each cheek and then between. I gazed up at him, abandoning the pretense of washing him now as I held onto his ass. I stared up at him, breathing deeply, communicating a silent request with my eyes. “I’m at your mercy, sweet Kyrie.” He gazed down at me, frowning slightly, brows drawn, eyes rife with intensity and emotions I couldn’t read. I smiled up at him, a slow unfurling curl of my lips. “Anything?” “Anything.” My tongue flicked out to lick the groove of his abs, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his backside. He rested his hands on my shoulders, breathing deeply, watching me. I sank down so my heels dug into my ass, my eyes on his cock. He was still at rest, hanging down and curving to one side a bit. With my hands still gripping the delightful bubble of his butt, I bent and kissed his sac. A kiss at first, just a touch of my lips, but then when his fingers tightened on my shoulders, I opened my mouth

and extended my tongue to lick his taint and up his balls, then took his sac fully into my mouth and sucked gently. He hissed, and I felt his cock, lying across my cheek, harden. I tilted my head so the length of his hardening dick rested on my face while I suckled his balls. “Shit, Kyrie. What—what the hell are you doing?” I’d never heard him sound so…out of control before, and I relished the feeling. “Anything I want,” I said, then took his sac into my mouth again, sucked once, and backed away. “Does that feel good?” “Yes. So good.” “Want me to do it again?” I wanted to see how long he’d let this reversal of roles last. “Please. Yes.” So I did it again, and with every touch of my lips and tongue, his sac tightened and his cock hardened. All the while, my hands were holding tight to his ass, both for balance and because I loved the way his butt felt in my hands. And also, I had plans for his ass. Dirty plans that would probably surprise him. When I felt his cock harden to a semi-erection, I moved my mouth to his shaft. A long lick lifted his cock, and the mushroom head was in my mouth. I took him in, gave him one gentle suck, and then backed away. He moaned when I did this, so I did it once more, licking from balls to tip, pausing at the end to suck as much of his length as I could fit into my mouth. The harder and thicker he got, the less I could take, and he was nearly at full erection, his beautiful penis standing straight up now, veined and straining, skin stretched, his head gleaming with my saliva, balls tight against his body. I stared up at him. “I’m going to suck you dry, Valentine. I’m going to take your big hard cock into my mouth and suck you until you come so hard you can’t stand up straight. And then I’m going to keep sucking.” He growled in his chest, eyes narrowed, jaw set. I turned my head sideways and wrapped my lips around his girth, licking him with my tongue as I slid my mouth down to the root, then back up, taking him in my mouth until his tip hit the back of my throat. I lifted up onto my knees, twisted my body sideways to his, and bent over him, opening my throat and taking him deeper still. He rumbled and moaned, gasped as I backed away and then licked down the other side, sinking back down so my heels touched my butt, then bending further so I could take his taut sac into my mouth again. He hissed this time, and the hiss turned into a drawn-out moan when I slid my fingers into the crease of his ass. A single gentle suckle of his balls, and then I moved back up to wrap my lips around his head. At the same moment that I sucked on him hard, I slid my fingers over his asshole, all ten fingers brushing the tight knot of muscle and back up. “Kyrie?” It was harsh sound, a questioning demand. I spat him out just enough to allow speech. “You said anything. I want to touch you there.” I touched him with my middle finger, pressed in. “I like it. You might, too.” “Shit.” He sucked in a deep breath, then let it out. “Go on, then.” I felt giddy, excited. It was a big, huge, insanely enormous deal for him to let me do this, I knew. “Just relax. Hold onto my hair. Pull it if you want.” He buried his hands in my wet hair, gripping it near the roots. One of my hands was cupped on the half-moon globe of his ass, and the other was on the crease near his thigh, my middle finger pressed against his asshole. I buried his cock in my mouth, tonguing him, backed away and licked the tip, then swirled my tongue around the head. When I took him deep again, he cursed under his breath and tightened his grip on my hair. He was so thick now that he stretched my lips, and I felt every pulse of his blood in the veins of his cock, and I knew that I had him close. He was still, his body rock-hard, tensed, forcing himself to stay still. I looked up at him, watching his reaction as I worked my finger harder against his asshole. His jaw

clenched tighter, his shoulders tensed, and his eyes flicked down to lock on mine. “You can move, Valentine. Move your hips. Fuck my mouth. I can take it.” His expression darkened, his chest swelling as he took a deep breath. I returned my attention to his dick, spent a fleeting moment just staring at it, tall and proud and begging for my mouth. I licked the tip, and he twitched. Then I slid him between my lips, and this time he shifted his hips, pushing into my down-thrust. I backed away before he touched my throat, and he immediately pulled back. Again I lowered my mouth on him, and he matched my motion, pulling back when I did. I started bobbing, and he moved with me, shallow thrusts to match mine, and as I set a rhythm, I started pulsing my finger against his asshole. Groans left him, one after another, and then my fingertip slid in just a tiny bit, and he hissed, cursing. “Jesus Christ, Kyrie.” His voice was a ragged whisper. He took my hair in two handfuls and gripped hard, sucking in a rasping breath and groaning it back out. I bent his cock away from his body so I was thrusting my face toward his body, allowing me to open my throat more and take him deeper. I pushed my finger in a little more, and he couldn’t hold back then, pulling me by the hair onto his cock. I moaned, more for his benefit than mine; the vibrations made him growl and thrust again. I backed away, sensing that he was close, and kept my lips sealed around the groove beneath the head, sucking and pulsing my finger in and out, just the first knuckle of my middle finger barely moving, but it was enough for him to lose all control, thrusting at me. I let him move as hard as he wanted, but I pulled away from his thrusts until he groaned in protest. And then I downed him, pulling him away from his torso and taking him into my throat until his balls touched my lower lip. I felt a moment of triumph that I’d taken that much of him. And then he tugged on my hair twice. “I’m coming, Kyrie.” I backed away and suckled the spongespringy head of his dick, giving him shallow bobs to thrust into. “I want to come on your tits.” “Mmmm-mmm.” I kept bobbing on him, holding his ass and letting my finger go still inside him. He growled in frustration, but then I felt his sac tighten and his cock throb, and then I felt his cock jerk. He came with a burst of hot, salty, musky come on my tongue. I sucked and swallowed the first gush, and then spat him out. He reached down and squeezed my tits together, and I slid my fist down his length, stroking him to milk the second stream from his cock. I watched as a jet of white seed spurted onto the slope of my boobs and slid down between them, washed away by the water still sluicing down from above, hot but going warm now. I moved against him, crushed his cock between my tits, and he thrust up, into my waiting mouth, shooting a third jet of come onto my lips and tongue. I wiggled my finger deeper into his asshole, and he cursed, throwing his head back, arching his spine, taking my middle digit past the first knuckle. He rocked his hips, thrusting his cock into my mouth, and I felt another spurt of come jerk from him, and then again, less this time, and then he was arching his spine and fluttering his hips in small quick thrusts. I sucked at each little spasm of his cock, holding him still against me with one hand on his butt cheek. I flicked his pulsing head with my tongue and milked him with my mouth until I knew he was done, and then kept sucking, bobbing my head and creating as much suction as I could. Finally, he stumbled backward, wrenching himself from my grip. I let him go and stood up, watching him as he sagged back against the wall of the shower. I felt powerful. This was a man always perfectly composed, a man who prided himself on his self-control and restraint, and I’d just reduced him to a panting, boneless mess. Calmly, I squeezed a tiny bit of gel onto the poof and washed my hands, my face, and my tits, then approached him and ever so gently scrubbed his crotch. The water was going cool now. Roth stared at me for a long moment, then let out a long breath and moved past me to shut off the water. Thick towels were stacked in a cubby built into the wall just outside the shower, and Roth pulled one free and wrapped it around me, brows furrowed, expression

unknowable, his emotional walls back in place. He wiped me dry from head to toe, gently and thoroughly, and then himself. Both of us dry, he scooped me up in his arms, hesitated as if to bolster his strength, and then carried me into the bedroom. “I could have walked, you know.” I watched him, unsure of his emotional state, of his thoughts, of what he’d felt regarding my little display of control. I was kind of impressed with myself. I’d never done any of that before. I mean, sure, I’d given plenty of blowjobs before, a de rigueur part of sex and dating. But I’d never taken a guy that deep before, never spent so much time and effort on making sure he came as hard as possible. And I’d certainly never fingered a guy’s asshole before. I really couldn’t believe he’d let me do that. But he had. And he’d seemed to enjoy it, giving in to it. Giving oral sex had always just been part of the process, something to do as part of sex. If a guy asked, and I liked him, I’d do it. If I was really feeling good about him, I’d do it voluntarily sometimes. But I’d never truly enjoyed it. I mean, does any woman really like having a giant cock shoved down her throat? Probably not. Not most, at least. But what I’d just done to Roth…I’d really, really liked it. I loved the sense of power, the knowledge that I could make him come apart and lose control. I’d loved making him feel good, giving him that pleasure. After setting me on the bed, Roth tightened the towel around his waist. “Wait here.” He ran his hand through his hair in an agitated gesture, then left the room without a backward glance. I wondered then if I’d gone too far. I’d taken control and had been pretty open about my feelings for him—even though I hadn’t told him everything. But had I been too clear? Had I pushed him away, scared him off? Only a few moment’s passed before Roth came back, carrying a six-pack of Stella Artois, a bottle opener, a gargantuan slice of cheesecake drizzled with chocolate, and one fork. As he entered the room, I slid off the bed, combed my fingers through my hair, and tossed my towel to the floor. “I come bearing gifts,” he said with a smile. “Tasty gifts, too.” I sat cross-legged on the bed next to him, angled toward him. He popped the tops off two beers, handed me one, and took a long swig from his. I matched him, drinking deeply from the neck of the bottle. When I lowered the beer, he held the fork out to me, bearing a bite of cheesecake. “Holy shit, that’s good,” I said. I’d tried to stop swearing, but bad words just kept slipping out. Fortunately, Roth didn’t seem to mind it. If he did, he’d never said anything to me about it. “Mmmmhmm.” He bobbed his head in agreement, and then swallowed his bite. “Yeah. It’s Eliza’s. Some secret recipe.” “That woman is a miracle worker.” “That she is,” he said, feeding me another bite. Silence settled between us then, long and comfortable. Roth fed me in between long swallows of delicious beer, and when I finished mine, he popped open another before I’d even set the bottle down. We finished the cheesecake and were near the bottom of our second beers when Roth finally met my gaze. “What you did in the shower…it was…amazing. Letting you have your way, though…that was extremely challenging for me.” He glanced away. “Letting you touch me as you did, that was even harder. I’ve not ever let anyone do that before. You…challenge me, Kyrie. On every level.” “Why’d you let me, then?” “You’ve shown so much courage, so much willingness—eagerness, even—for everything I’ve demanded of you. I don’t know, and don’t really want to know about everything you’ve done before… or why you haven’t. I told you, I only watched you to protect you, to watch over you. I was never voyeuristic about it, so I’m not familiar with the details of your sexual history. And I don’t care to go into it now, neither yours nor mine. I just want you to know that I’m very much aware of what I ask of

you, and the fact that you’ve never denied me anything means a lot to me. Giving you your way in the shower…that was…I knew I had to give control back to you, because I couldn’t demand something of you I couldn’t give back.” I grinned at him. “Well, if you’ve got to give me control, I certainly chose a fun way of exercising it on you, right?” He chuckled. “Fun? That’s a hell of an understatement. That wasn’t just a blowjob, that was… something else. Something far more.” “You liked it, then?” “Liked it?” He stared at me. “Kyrie…you totally blew my mind. I didn’t know I could feel that way, or come that hard.” I shivered with pleasure. “Good. That was what I wanted to do. I can’t guarantee it’ll be like that every time I blow you, though.” “Every time?” I nodded. “Yeah. I mean…there will be a next time, right?” He didn’t answer right away. “That’s up to you. I’ll take what I want from you, when I want.” His gaze went hot, hooked on mine. “I’ll wake up in the middle of the night with my cock inside you. I’ll take you up against the wall in the garage, and on every one of my cars. I’ll take you on the island in my kitchen and on my desk in my office, and in the bathroom at a concert with your dress up around your hips and your heels around my waist. But what I won’t take from you is oral sex. I’ll leave that for you to give.” “I’m on board with that,” I said, finishing my second beer and accepting a third. He smiled. “Good.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Which part, though?” I shrugged. “All of it. The sex everywhere, especially. I’ve never made love anywhere but in a bed. Well, that’s not true. In a car once, and it was awkward and uncomfortable. So just know that you can take me anywhere, anytime, just…not in front of people. I’m not an exhibitionist.” Roth frowned at me in surprise. “And I am?” I laughed. “No, obviously not. I’m just…clarifying.” “No worries on that score, Kyrie. I might fuck you in a public place, but never in such a way that you’d be embarrassed. Just enough to make it…risky, and thus all the more exciting.” The subtext of this conversation wasn’t lost on me. We were discussing, via our plans for sexual conquest, a future relationship. I wasn’t sure what that would entail emotionally, for me or for him, but it was still an exciting prospect. I’d take what I could get from Roth, for as long as he’d give it to me. We were still on our first full night of sex together, and it was already life-alteringly fantastic, out-of-this-world incredible. “Change of subject,” Roth said. “How about a movie?” “Naked movie time?” I suggested. He laughed. “As if I’d let you put on clothes?” I stood up. “Let’s go, then!” He shook his head. “Get back here.” He set the plate and fork on a bedside table, then pulled out an electronic tablet. He tapped the screen to wake it up, and then touched a series of buttons. A screen rolled down on the wall opposite his bed, hidden in a recess in the ceiling. I glanced up and saw that the projector was also hidden, the only hint of it a small screen angling down from the ceiling. Roth touched another button, and the tablet’s screen switched to show a Netflix account, and he quickly typed in a movie title, selected it, and set it to play. By the time he’d finished this, the projector was warmed up, and within seconds the movie began. He’d picked a romantic comedy, something fun and light. I propped the pillows up against the headboard and settled in to watch. Roth left the room without explanation

while the opening credits rolled, returning a few moments later with another six-pack. I was already a little tipsy, but I took a fourth beer and drank it slowly, cuddling in with Roth as the movie started. Halfway through the movie, I felt myself drifting, dizzy, warm, and happy, and sleepy and pleasantly drunk. Roth took my empty bottle from me, set it aside, and scooted down on the bed, holding me against his chest. “I should’ve warned you I almost never finish movies,” I mumbled. “I always fall asleep.” “It’s fine,” he said. “That’s why I put it on. Just relax.” “But…naked movie time.” I wasn’t making sense, falling under the spell of sleep. He laughed, a rumbling chuckle I felt more than heard. “Expect to be woken up bright and early, then.” “Oh, goody. Cock-a-doodle-doo.” “Are you drunk?” He sounded amused. I nodded sloppily. “I’m kind of a lightweight.” “Good to know.” “Get me drunk while I’m awake next time. I get crazy horny when I’m wasted. Especially if you give me tequila. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila floor, except naked. Tequila makes her clothes fall off….” I fumbled at the towel around his waist, slipped my hand under the edge, found his warm skin. “Lookie what I found.” He pulled my hand away, placed it on his chest. “You are ridiculous.” I nodded, and felt the heady mixture of tipsiness, sleepiness, and Roth’s hard body and clean scent pulling me under. I went willingly. My last thought, before I slept, was, I could fall in love with this man. I hoped I hadn’t said it out loud, but it was true.

12 IN THE MIRROR When I woke up, Roth was curled around me, spooning me. His arm was slung over my waist, his hand splayed against my belly, low, almost touching my pussy. He’d shed his towel, so he was naked behind me. One of his thighs was wedged between mine, his “extra arm” shoved against my back. A girl could get used to this. I dozed in the warm, drowsy place of not-quite sleep, enjoying—loving—the feel of his huge, hard body behind mine, sheltering me, heating me. His breath was on the back of my neck, whooshing in and out rhythmically, his chest swelling with each breath to brush my spine. Content. Happy. I’d never thought I could feel this, not this way. Not this potently. I didn’t want this to ever end. I didn’t want this moment—Roth sleeping behind me, no problems or worries or expectations or games or problematic emotions or demands—to stop. It did, eventually. In the best way possible, though. I was awake with my eyes closed, just soaking up the perfection of the experience, when I felt his cock harden. His breathing never shifted, so I figured it was just morning wood making its presence known. But for all that, I loved the way it felt, thickening against my back. I shifted upward, letting his erection nestle between the cheeks of my ass. I didn’t move or grind, just let it rest there, filling that space, pushing through the awareness that soon this big, hot, iron-hard yet silk-soft organ would be inside me. I relished that knowledge, let the desire for it well up within me. I felt Roth’s fingers twitch, felt his breathing alter. He was waking up. Oh, god. Please. He made a low sound in his throat, a wordless waking-up murmur. He moved his head, sliding his face against the back of my head, nuzzling into me, inhaling. He stretched, unintentionally grinding against me. That got his attention. He brushed his lips against the back of my neck, shifting his hips intentionally now. His hand tightened on my belly. I arched my back and lifted my hips, dragging his cock through the crease of my ass. “Mmmm. Kyrie….” His voice was still sleep-thick and sexy. “Valentine.” I didn’t need to say another word. Roth’s hand hooked around my hip so his arm encircled me completely, and then he rolled to his back. Just that fast, I was lying on my back on top of Roth. Before I could take another breath, he thrust into me, hard, deep, and fast. I gave a gasping shriek of surprised bliss, and then he was moving. He cupped both of my tits with his huge hands, rough palms scraping my nipples. He brought his feet together, his heels near his buttocks, and I hooked my legs around his, thighs spread wide, my pussy split open wider than I’d ever thought was possible. Bracing my feet on the mattress, I pushed, sliding up his body, drawing his cock out of me, then hovered with his tip just barely piercing my cleft. “Don’t move.” His voice rasped in my ear. I let my head fall back to the pillow beside his. His mouth touched my shoulder, a kiss, and then a bite. I whimpered, legs trembling as I held my weight suspended. He fluttered his hips, giving me a series of shallow thrusts that left me gasping with the need for more. As soon as he thrust into me, I knew he’d be deep, deeper than ever. I wanted to feel every thick, hard inch of him as far inside me as I could get him.

“Valentine…come on….” “You want it deep, don’t you?” “Yeah.” “How deep?” “All the fucking way, baby. As deep as it’ll go.” “All the fucking way, huh?” “Yeah. Please?” I was breathless, pleading, and I was totally abandoned to begging him for everything he’d give me. I didn’t care how it sounded, what it made me. I wanted him—everything he had—and I’d beg if that was what it took to make him give it to me. “Can you hold that position?” I nodded, focused on keeping my weight up, braced my hands on his knees. “Good. Stay just like that for as long as you can.” Roth began to thrust into me, slowly at first, slipping just the broad head shallowly between my slick, swollen labia, just barely penetrating me. And then he began to give me more, his hands clutching and kneading my tits, his mouth on my shoulder, his cock spearing deeper, splitting my pussy apart with his girth until it burned as I stretched. I whined in my throat, my legs giving out, dropping me down fully onto him, impaling me on him. “Oh, fuck, Valentine!” He was so deep it almost hurt, stretching me, filling me, his hands gripping my boobs tightly, teeth nipping at my shoulder. “God…damn, you’re so deep, baby, I almost can’t take it.” “You’ll take it. You want it all, remember?” He ground into me, not thrusting but rolling his hips to push even deeper. “Oh, god, oh, shit, oh, god.” He slid his hands down my body, fingers flickering over my ribs. He explored farther down as I arched my back, desperate for what I knew was coming. He thrust his fingers into me, circling my hardened clit. There was nothing I could do but accept his cock into me, take it all and take it deep, my thighs unable to lift me off him any longer, and now his fingers were spreading heat through me, building up the pressure, and he still hadn’t moved to actually fuck me yet. He held still, only his fingers moving, bringing me closer and closer to that shivering edge of orgasm. When my hips began to roll of their own accord, he stopped. He fluttered his fingers over my tender inner thighs, teasing down near my taint, near my asshole, and then, in a sudden movement, he wrapped his hands around my thighs from the outside, brought my legs together in front of me, and pulled them taut against my front. “Oh.” I could only gasp that single syllable. “You want it all?” Roth demanded. “You want it deep?” “Yes…yes.” “Then take it….” He punctuated his words with a hard thrust, pulling back and ramming his cock into me. “Ohmyfuckinggod!” I gasped, but any further words or breath were driven from me as he pulled back, bit my shoulder hard enough to cause pain, and then rifled hard into me. “Like this,” he grunted, “hard and deep?” “Yes,” I panted, “fuck, yes.” “That’s my girl…I love the way you take my cock, Kyrie. You take it all, and you always want more. So fucking hot.” And then he adjusted his grip on my legs, shifting his hands at the crease of my knees, pulling my thighs apart to stretch open my pussy once more, this time keeping my quads flush against my torso. I was completely opened to him, split wide, completely at his mercy. I couldn’t move at all like this, could barely breathe, and what little oxygen I did have in my lungs was driven from me as he began to

draw back slowly before slamming in deep. “Tell me what you want, Kyrie.” “I want your cock, Valentine.” “Tell me how you want it.” “Harder. Deeper.” “My girl wants it harder?” “Yeah, baby. Give me more.” He gave me more. And I took it all, unable to even scream now, each pounding thrust making my body shudder and shake, my tits bouncing upward as his cock slammed into me. He was so deep I could feel his balls slapping against my taint, which was exposed by my wide-spread legs. “I want you to come now, Kyrie. Right now.” I didn’t think it was possible to come on command, but somehow I did. His words struck me like lightning, his cock pulling out slowly and gently, only to drive in hard and fast. I came with a choking scream. I craned my head, curling forward, forced my eyes open to watch his massive cock spearing into me as I came. When he pulled his cock out, it was glistening and gleaming with my juices, and as my orgasm wrenched through me, I saw my come squirt out to coat his throbbing length, and then he drove into me and my eyes squeezed shut. He rocked forward, tumbling me to the bed and ripping his cock out of my sheath with a wet sound. “What? Wha—what are you doing?” I asked. He didn’t answer, turning away from me to pull open the bottom drawer of his nightstand. I was quaking all over; my body wracked with tremoring aftershocks, my pussy needing him back in me. His cock was tall and painfully hard, wet with my grool, bobbing as he moved. I couldn’t help wrapping my hand around him and fondling him, my palm slipping down his coated length. “A-ha.” He came back up with a small box, still taped shut, unopened. He ripped the top open, pulled free the packaging to reveal a brand-new bullet vibrator. “I bought this a couple of days ago. I’ve been meaning to use it on you.” The bullet was a short, fat oval of soft pink rubber with a loop of thin black wire at the back end. There was also a round remote control with a triple infinity symbol containing the settings buttons. He pushed a button, and the bullet hummed to life. “Hands and knees, Kyrie.” I didn’t hesitate, assuming the position he’d demanded. He knelt behind me, slipped the bullet between my legs and inserted it into my soaked cleft, pulled it out and then pushed it back in. I gasped at the buzz of it on my walls, but my pussy was stretched to accommodate Roth’s cock, and the tiny vibrator barely registered. Then he swept the tip of it over my clit, and I definitely felt that. But he wasn’t done. A circle of my clit, twice, three times, just enough to get me arching my back and moaning, and then he slipped it into me once more, getting it slick with my juices. “Ready, love?” Roth asked. I opened my mouth to respond, to tell him I was ready for anything, but it was a rhetorical question. He pushed the bullet against the tight-clenched rosebud of my asshole, and I forced myself to relax those muscles, pushed my hips back to take the madly buzzing device. “Oh. Oh god. Oh god.” I ducked my head, arching my spine and worked my hips to open myself for him. “Yes, Kyrie. Take it for me.” He pushed it incrementally deeper, then held it there. I felt him lean over, glanced to see him flipping open the cap of a bottle of lube, squirting a generous amount onto the bullet and around my opening. He pulled the vibrator back out a little, smearing it with the lube, then gently but firmly

worked it back in. “Jesus, Valentine, I haven’t even had coffee yet.” “You don’t need coffee, babe. You just need to take this vibrator up your ass for me.” “I’m trying,” I said, then groaned as I felt him push it deeper, feeling myself stretch and burn. He pulled it back out slightly, applied more lube, and then pushed gently and slowly, feeding it into me. He began a rhythmic pulsation, working it in and out, a centimeter out and then back in, one step out, two steps in. I felt his fingers slip into my pussy, delving deep and then withdrawing to smear my juices onto my clit. A bolt of pleasure shot through me, and the sudden clitoral stimulation opened my back entrance that much more, letting him work the widest part of the bullet into me. “Fucking hell, Valentine, I’m not sure I can take any more of it,” I mumbled, head ducked, body shaking, hips rocking forward with the insistent rhythm of his circling fingers. “Yes, you can. It’s almost in now. You can take it all.” The pleasure of his fingers at my pussy made the burning stretch of the vibrator inside me all the more bearable, and then, slowly, the burn faded and was replaced by a deep, dark, dirty ache. I’d felt this before, this bone-deep quake of ecstasy, and I knew it was only a vague precursor of what was to come. I felt something slip at my rear entrance, and I knew the vibrator was all the way in, only the short loop of cord remaining outside me. “Off the bed,” Roth commanded. I slowly and gingerly moved off the bed, the fat, buzzing vibrator shoved up my asshole making me feel heavy and encumbered, clumsy and desperate. I stood on shaking legs, facing him. “Now what?” “Lean over the bed.” His gaze was hot, dark, almost angry. Not angry, I realized. Just…intense. Virulently aroused, crazed with passion. I turned toward the bed, but was stopped by Roth’s hand on my shoulder. “Wait. I have a better idea. Come on.” He nudged me away from the bed, toward his walk-in closet. Like mine, the room was too enormous to be really called a “closet.” The walls were lined with shelves and racks, shirts and suits hanging in neat, color-coordinated rows, jeans folded on shelves, shoes lined up against the wall on the floor. On one wall was a three-way, floor-to-ceiling mirror, and it was to this that Roth directed me. Each step made the bullet shift inside me, and my knees threatened to give out. “Feet apart, bend over, hands on the mirror.” Roth’s voice was low, a grating murmur. I stood in front of the center mirror, staring at the vision of us. Roth was behind me, six and a half feet of Norse-god perfection, his face all sharp, clean lines and hard angles, pale blue eyes flashing with his arousal. His carved chest swelled with each deep breath, his skin tanned golden-brown, contrasting against my own slightly paler flesh. I was on full display, standing straight. My hair was mussed, tangled, and just-fucked sexy, my dark blue eyes lidded with the aching pleasure of the bullet inside me. My cheeks were flushed pink, my boobs heavy and round, my areolae and my erect nipples thick and pink. My wide, strong thighs were visibly shaking, my shaved pussy peeking out, a slight triangular gap showing between thighs and core. “Such perfect beauty,” Roth said. His hands rested on my shoulders, then slid down my arms, gripped my hips, around to my belly, carved up my ribs to cup my breasts. “And all mine.” “All yours,” I agreed, grabbing one of his hands and pushing it down between my thighs to touch me. He pulled his hand free, threaded his fingers into my hair. Shoved me forward so I was bent double. “Spread your legs, Kyrie. Hands on the mirror.” I swallowed hard, putting my palms to the mirror and shifting my feet apart. I could see us in the mirror, turning my head to watch us from the side. I watched as he gripped his cock in his hand, nudged the thick head against my labia. My mouth fell open, and I gasped as he stroked the opening of

my pussy and then smashed his head against my clit, making me cry out as a thrill lanced through me. He still had one hand buried in my hair, gripping a thick handful near my scalp. He used my hair to pull my head back. “Watch us, Kyrie.” “I am.” “Don’t close your eyes. Watch us.” “Okay,” I said, “I am. I’m watching.” He glanced to the side, and our eyes met in the reflection. He teased my opening with his tip once more, and then slowly pushed himself into me. I let out a long groan as he entered me, wanting to hang my head as he slid deep but unable to do so because of his grip on my hair. Fully impaled, I felt the vibrator buzzing and felt his cock inside me, only a thin membrane of skin separating them. I was bursting open, filled past endurance, my pussy stretched and split once more by his enormous cock. I couldn’t breathe, but I couldn’t close my eyes and couldn’t move. I could only watch helplessly in the mirror as he drew back, I couldn’t take my eyes off his dark, wet-gleaming cock as it slid out of me. I drew a shuddering breath finally when he pounded into me, my ass cheeks jiggling with the force of his impact. As if that single thrust had broken something open inside me, I gasped again and then let out a shriek, my palms on the mirror taking my weight, his grip in my hair holding my head up. Somehow I’d missed the fact that he’d rested the round wireless remote for the bullet on my back; he picked it up, touched a button, and the tempo of the bullet’s vibration increased. Another button-press, and it ramped up again, and a third had it buzzing so hard I could feel it in my belly, and once again my breath was stolen. Roth tossed the remote onto a nearby stack of jeans, curled his now-empty hand around my hipbone. I wanted to curse and scream and plead for mercy, but I couldn’t speak. I truly didn’t want mercy from this mad, wild bliss. And now he began to fuck me in earnest. Slowly at first, using the same slow withdrawal and hard in-stroke. I found my breath again, and the only sound I was capable of was a short, sharp scream with every pounding fuck of his hips. After a dozen of these slow-hard thrusts, Roth tightened his grip on my hair and pushed me lower, spreading me wider, letting him deeper. I wiggled my feet to widen my stance, walking my hands down the mirror, and found myself glad that I was naturally fairly flexible. I was off-balance, even my hands on the mirror not quite enough to keep me in place. I felt like I was about to fall, especially when Roth started a faster, smoother rhythm, giving me a hard push at the moment his hips crashed into my ass, rocking me forward. “I’m not—I’m gonna…fall, Valentine,” I gasped, my words broken by the impact of his cock burying deep in me. He slowed his rhythm, sliding slowly, letting go of my hair so he could gather it into a ponytail in his fist. “I won’t let you fall. Give me your hands.” I pushed my hips back against his, took one hand from the mirror and extended it behind me. “Both of them.” “Roth…?” I protested, but brought my other hand around behind me as well. He pinioned my wrists together in one hand, barring them one over the other on my lower back. That was when I understood the position: I was totally and completely helpless, not tied up in any way, but just as completely dependent on him. He had my hair in one hand, my wrists in the other, his cock impaled deep inside my quivering pussy, his bullet vibrating wildly in my asshole. I was bent almost double, unbalanced. My tits hung free, swaying as he started to rock into me. He pulled me back with both hands, pounding deep and then pushing me away so his cock nearly slipped out, only to slam home again. I couldn’t scream, could only manage a whimper. I wanted to struggle, hating this total dependence on him. But I didn’t. I widened my feet farther apart, enough to feel as if I was stretching my thigh muscles, bending over even more, giving him more of me. It was an intentional decision to trust him,

to let him dominate me, own me, control me. I tilted my head to one side, and was once again mesmerized by the sight of his powerful thighs tensing as he pushed in, his ass muscles clenching with his thrusts, his cock glistening as it slid out, my butt shaking as he slammed into me, my boobs swaying pendulously with each hard stroke. He caught me at the apex of each thrust, rocking me forward with the impact of his hips, pulling me back into him with my arms and hair. He never jerked to cause pain on my scalp, never shoved at my bent arms, using just enough strength to keep me balanced. I felt it building inside me. It had been all this while, tension and energy piling up within me, the vibrator in my ass ratcheting the pending orgasm to violent intensity. Each stroke of his cock inside me pushed me higher, closer, and yet as I watched our bodies join, the most intense feeling of all was the upwelling surge of emotion, my uninhibited willingness to give myself to this man, to let him totally own me, somehow, impossibly, finding life-altering pleasure in it. I knew, in that moment, that I would never want anyone else. How could I? My emotions were so intense I had to push them down or I’d start crying, and I couldn’t do that yet, didn’t want to, didn’t dare. I blinked hard and let my weight go, gave up all pretense of governing my own motion. White-hot bliss powered through me, the ache in my body breaking open and turning to nuclear ecstasy. Yet still this wasn’t climax — this was merely the opening wave of detonations, the spark that would light the inferno. Roth’s thrusting was getting intense, pounding harder and faster, now merely holding me in place while he fucked. I needed to scream. I pulled against Roth’s hold on my hair, exchanging the tug on my scalp for the room to open my throat enough to cut loose with a shriek that deafened even me. “That’s right, Kyrie, scream. Scream while I fuck you.” He increased his pace, slamming hard and fast, an impossible pace, I would have thought. Yet he held it. “Let me hear it again. Say my name, Kyrie. Scream my name while I fuck you.” “ROTH!” His name ripped from my throat. “Not that name.” “Val—Val…entine….” I could barely get his whole name out, the words broken as he drove into me. “I…I need to—to come. Let me come.” “Not yet.” “Oh, god…please….” “Wait for me, Kyrie. Come with me.” His words were growled, low and harsh. “Can’t…so close,” I panted. I felt the climax splintering through me, and I tried to hold it back. “Don’t you dare. Not yet. Not yet, goddamn it.” Roth was pounding into me wildly now, all rhythm abandoned, just frantic, powerful, primal thrusts, his feet braced wide, every muscle tensed and delineated, jaw clenched, eyes roving the sight of our bodies in the mirror. Our eyes met in the central mirror. His expression was dark and shuttered, but I knew he was hiding emotions every bit as powerful as those boiling inside me. Could he see into my soul? Did my burgeoning love show in my gaze. It had to. Of all the ridiculous, absurd, most inappropriate moments for it to happen, it was then, with Valentine Roth braced tall and warrior-strong behind me, fucking me with feral ferocity, that I fully accepted the fact that I was falling in love with him. He chose that moment—the instant of my epiphany and my acceptance of it—to slow down, grinding deep into me, the veins in his face throbbing. Then he came. “Now, Kyrie!” he bellowed, then groaned and pulled back, hesitated a single beat, and slammed home. I screamed, wordless and ear-piercing, as I finally allowed the roiling nova of my orgasm to rip

through me. I couldn’t say his name as I came, though god knows I tried, but I could summon no coherence, could only shove my ass back into him, scream all the louder as I felt his come jet hot and wet into me, stream after stream filling me and making my walls tense and clench around him, my asshole clamping and pulsating. That orgasm was the single most powerful thing I could possibly experience. I felt it in the crashing of my heartbeat, in the throbbing of my tits and the clenching wrack of my core, the twisting exploding throb of my asshole. I felt it from my fingertips and toes to the roots of my hair. My skin was tingling and my nipples puckering so tight they ached, my clit burning as if on fire. Roth let go of my hands and hair, and bent over me. I slapped my palms against the mirror as high as I could reach, bracing my weight. He pinched my nipple and thrust his fingers against my clit, twisting and circling, his hips rolling his cock deep inside me. The shattering orgasm somehow intensified at his touch and I screamed once more, pushed back hard and pulled forward, sliding his cock in and out of me, my muscles clamped around it and not wanting to release it. The motion of his cock was accentuated by a wet sucking sound as he pushed back in, and he growled, groaned, letting loose one last gush of seed. Yet another orgasmic wave hit me, and I moaned with it, and in that exact moment Roth pulled the bullet free of my rear channel, eliciting a shocked shriek from me as the sudden absence triggered yet another wrench of agonizing ecstasy. I was done then. Just done. I couldn’t remain standing another moment. I slumped forward, my face pressing against the cold glass of the mirror. Roth slipped out of me, and he wrapped an arm around my waist, pulled me back against him. I gratefully rested against the hard wall of his chest, turned in place clumsily and murmured some noise of pleasure when his arm curled around me. He bent at the knees and lifted me. I hooked my heels around his waist and held on as he carried me back to the bed and set me down, cradling me tenderly. My ear rested directly over his heartbeat, and I heard it, felt it: thumpthump—thumpthump, crazy fast and slowing as we rested together. I felt an insane need in that moment to admit how I felt. Yet I didn’t. “Holy shit, Valentine.” That was what I said instead. Lame, but all I could summon. I was scared of my feelings. Naturally. I knew he cared for me, and I knew we had universeshattering chemistry together, making for sincerely unbelievable sex. But I’d only known him for a matter of weeks. That time had felt like a lifetime, yes, but it was still only a blip in the grand scheme of things. And yet…I knew what I felt. Nothing else but love could explain this hellishly intense mix of emotions I felt. The fear, the need, the tenderness, the eagerness to please him, the willingness to obey despite my nature demanding the opposite. I wanted him. I wanted this life. I wanted to go with him to Turks and Caicos and England and France and Italy. I wanted to be the only woman in his life. I wanted to go everywhere with him. I wanted to meet his scary-sounding father and find out what Roth did for a living, how he made his money. I wanted to know every secret about him, no matter what it was. This had all been building up and intensified to manic levels by what we’d shared last night and this morning. Maybe it would fade. Maybe I was mistaking fantastic sex for something it wasn’t. “Stay here,” Roth said, slipping out from beneath me and leaving the bed. “As if I could move,” I mumbled. I was grateful for his absence. It let me examine myself, search my heart and mind without the dizzying power of his presence to distract me. I didn’t think I was deluding myself. I wasn’t mistaking my feelings or misunderstanding my emotions. I did love him. Or rather, I was sliding inexorably toward that. Falling in love. A strange phrase, so common as to be nearly useless, a kind of semantic saturation on a cultural level. It was only when you felt yourself falling in love and thought about how that felt and what it meant that the

phrase took on meaning, letting you really comprehend the accuracy of the description. Face down in the bed, naked, sore all over, still shaking now and then with aftershocks, I knew I’d have to tell him how I felt, and soon. I didn’t want to. I wanted to hold onto the feeling and see if I could figure out what he felt first. But that was cowardly. He deserved the truth from me. I’d tell him after breakfast. At that moment, Roth returned, still naked, carrying yet another tray of food. Toasted bagels slathered with a thick layer of cream cheese, a thermal carafe of coffee and a tea service set of mugs, creamer, sugar, and spoons. He set the tray on the bed, arranged himself near me, poured me my coffee the way I liked it, light sugar, heavy cream. I wondered, idly, how he knew the way I liked my coffee. We ate in complete silence. I watched Roth carefully, hunting for some hint of his feelings, but all I got was conflict. I didn’t like conflict. Not after what we’d just shared, not after finally accepting my feelings for Roth. When the bagels were gone and we’d both poured a second cup—coffee for me, tea for him—Roth vanished into the closet and returned wearing a pair of red gym shorts with two white stripes down the side. He had a woman’s dressing gown in his hand, a tag still hanging from the sleeve. He ripped the tag off and handed me the robe. “Put that on.” “Okay,” I said, standing up and tying the robe around me, leaving it a bit loose at my chest to give him some cleavage. He looked me up and down. “God, Kyrie. So fucking sexy. So beautiful. So perfect. Mine.” He sighed. “For now.” “For now?” I felt my heart plummet. “What’s that mean?” He tapped at a panel in the wall near the doorway, and the glass walls turned transparent once more, revealing a clear blue sky and brilliant sunshine. Catching up his mug of tea, he strode across the room and opened the doors to his balcony, gesturing for me to follow. As Roth’s house took up the entire uppermost floor of the high-rise, the corner balcony meant the whole corner of the building was cut away at the very top. The sky was open above us, the building rising behind us, Manhattan spread out beneath us, cars like toys and people like dots. “God,” I said, leaning against the railing, “what a view.” “Yes,” Roth agreed, his voice a soft murmur. “What a view.” I turned, and his roiling blue gaze told me he wasn’t talking about New York. In the far corner of the balcony was a small bistro table and two wrought-iron and thickly cushioned chairs; Roth sat in one chair and I took the other. I sipped my coffee and waited for him to speak. After several long minutes, he let out a shaky breath and met my eyes. “It’s time you knew the truth.”

13 THE TRUTH Carefully, fearful of letting my shaking hands spill my coffee, I set my mug down. “The truth. About what?” Despite his outward calm, I saw a torrent of emotion hiding in his gaze. He looked away, gazing out over the city, sipping his tea, looking casually majestic in his muscular, regal beauty. “You remember what I said to you?” I swallowed hard. I’d nearly forgotten. “You have a secret that concerns me.” I sat up straight, prim and proper, a vain effort to keep myself contained. “You said—when you tell me, it would change things.” He nodded, finally setting his cup down and looking at me. He rested his calf on his knee, leaning back. “And when you knew, what did I say you would likely do?” “Walk away.” It was a whisper. Guess I won’t be telling him how I feel just yet. “Yes.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. I’d never seen him looking so nervous before. “Before I begin, know this: You are mine. You will always be mine. And I take care of what is mine. So if you do walk away…you will have no worries. Never again, no matter what. Do you understand?” His gaze demanded an answer, so I nodded. “Yes. I understand. But I don’t get what you could possibly tell me that would change—” “Just listen. Don’t interrupt.” He sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. “Do you recognize me, Kyrie? Did you, I mean, when you first saw me?” I frowned. “I—I thought I might have seen you before, but I’ve never been able to place you. Why?” “I knew your father. You and I…we met before. Briefly. Seven years ago.” Realization hit me like a ton of bricks. “My freshman year of college. I was visiting Daddy at his office.” I thought hard, remembering. “I always just walked into his office when I went to see him. Since my classes were downtown, near his office, I visited him all the time, and I’d just walk in. That time, though, his secretary tried to stop me. I heard voices in his office, angry voices. I went in anyway. Daddy was standing behind his desk, facing the window. And…you. You were there. In a suit and tie. You both looked upset. As soon as Daddy saw me, though, he…changed. Acted like nothing was wrong. And so did you. That was the only time he ever acted like he didn’t have time for me. He —he told me to come back later.” I paused, the pit of my stomach falling. “Two—two months l-later, the police found him…in a parking garage. Shot dead. They never found out who killed him.” I couldn’t breathe as Roth’s eyes, now cold as arctic ice, met mine. He blinked twice. “I did.” My world spun, my vision narrowing to a black tunnel. “Wha—what? What do you mean? You killed him? Why…why would you say something like that, Valentine?” My eyes pricked, my heart pounded, and nausea seized my stomach. He blinked again, but never looked away from me. “It’s true. I’m sorry, Kyrie. It…it was selfdefense.” I shook my head. “No. No. That doesn’t make any sense. Self-defense? You mean, like, Daddy tried to kill you? Why? I don’t—I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Valentine.”

He stood up abruptly, leaned over the railing. “It was a business deal gone wrong.” His voice was slow, his usually faint English accent now thickening to become noticeable. “I was young then. Just starting out here in New York. I’d had several successful businesses overseas, as I’ve told you. Commercial fishing, real estate, technology companies. And one business that was not…above-board. But it was the one that made me the most money, unfortunately.” “Less above-board? Like…drugs?” I had to ask, if only to distract myself from what he’d just admitted to me. He shook his head. “Arms-dealing. I got into that by accident, really, but I was good at it. It was dangerous, but I was young and arrogant and thought I was invincible. Then a deal went sour on me, and I nearly got killed. So I sold my stock piecemeal and came to New York, determined to get another more legitimate business going. So I did. Real estate again, to establish some capital, and then I bought a tech company that was floundering. Diced that company up and sold it off, and did the same thing again. Made a fortune each time. That became my business. Buy a little company, break it up, and sell it off. A common enough practice, really. Most were going belly-up anyway, so it wasn’t like I was a takeover shark. I was ruthless, but that was business. And I tried to look out for the employees, generous severance packages and the like for those who lost their jobs. Some fought me, of course, thinking they could save their companies on their own. “Your dad was one of those. He had a successful business supplying auto parts to the Big Three. He had his fingers in other pies, too, of course, things around the city, opportunities here and there. Quite a long reach he had, despite the small outward appearance of his company. All I saw was another opportunity. There were three startups I was going after, and my plan was to merge them all under my umbrella. I’d have made a bundle. Your father was the key to it all. His business was the linchpin to the whole deal. He had the best network of contacts and the strongest line into the Big Three. Without him, the other two companies would just fall apart. I needed him to keep them together. He was a damn savvy businessman, your father.” Roth paused, his grip on the railing twisting in agitation. “He saw me coming from a mile away and was scrambling to hold me off. He’d built his company from the ground up, and he wasn’t about to lose it, not to a hungry young punk like me. Those were his words, you know. That was what he was yelling at me just before you came in that day. ‘I’ve worked too damn hard for this to lose it to a hungry young punk like you, Roth.’” He pitched his voice low, and sounded eerily like my dad, down to the slight rasp from his years of smoking before I was born. Roth continued. “It was just business. Besides, I was planning on leaving him in charge of a much bigger enterprise. Increased pay, better perks, a bigger office. He didn’t want that. He wanted what was his, what he’d worked to build. I respected that, really I did, but I wasn’t about to let it stop me. And I wasn’t above using a few strong-arm tactics to get my way. I’d come from Europe, remember, where bribes and coercion were commonplace, especially in the Eastern Bloc countries where I did the bulk of my arms dealing.” He paused again, turning to grab his mug and take sip of what now had to be cold tea. I wanted to stop him, to tell him I didn’t want to hear any more. I didn’t believe him. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. The man I loved had murdered my father? No way. He set his mug down and leaned back against the railing, arms crossed over his powerful chest. “I did some digging. Found out some things about your father that he didn’t want getting out.” I didn’t want to hear any more, but I was powerless to stop the flood of words from him. “He was a good man, Kyrie. A good father. But he was a ruthless businessman. And he had his hand in some unsavory things. A prostitution ring. High-end escorts in the casinos, that sort of thing.” I shook my head, ignoring the what-ifs rebounding in my head. “What? No, Roth. You’re mistaken. My father sold auto parts. He didn’t have anything to do with…prostitution.” Roth sighed, not looking away from me, letting me see the sorrowful sincerity in his eyes. “I’m

sorry, Kyrie. I’d spare you these revelations if I could. I have proof, if you really demand it. The same proof I used to force your father into selling. He loved you, I know he did. He even loved his wife, in a strange sort of way. He was the kind of man who could compartmentalize the various aspects of his life. No one knew he ran the escort ring. No one. Not even his closest friends and board members. Certainly not his family.” I stood up, walked away, anger boiling inside me, confusion blasting me, uncertainty rocking me. “He just ran them, though, right? I mean….he loved us. Mom and Cal and I. He was…faithful, right?” Why was that even important? He was dead. Because of Roth. Because of my Valentine Roth. Roth was silent for a moment. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could tell you what you want to hear. But it’s just not true. Like I said, he was a good father. He took care of you. I saw that. His biggest concern when I approached him about the merger was that you were taken care of, that none of it affected you. But was he maritally faithful? No. He—well, that’s not material. There were other ties to the underground. Whispers of drug running, connections to South American cartels. “Nothing was ever verified, but it was enough to give me leverage over him. Some photos of him with his escorts, some ledgers I’d gotten hold of, people willing to rat him out for money. He got desperate. Did some of his own digging. Discovered some things about me, my old arms-dealing connections. Nothing substantial enough to really harm me, but enough to make the point that he was willing to play hardball. So I leaked some of the information regarding his prostitution ring to the right sources…the ring got busted, and he just barely avoided direct incrimination. It was enough, though. Authorities were nosing around him, making him nervous. The thing was, he knew I had the wherewithal to make it go away. It was a small ring, lucrative for him, but small on the national scale. A few well-placed bribes, and the pressure would go away. Just sell, I told him. Sign the merger.” I faced away from him, arms crossed over my chest, tears pricking my eyes. I pushed them down, held them back, but just barely. “You’re lying! You’re making this up. It…it sounds like some stupid thriller novel. My father sold auto parts.” Roth moved up behind me. “Why would I make this up, Kyrie? Why would I tell you this if it wasn’t true?” I shook my head, hair swinging across my back. “I don’t— I don’t know. You’re crazy. This is all some game.” His hands rested on my shoulders, and, for the first time since we’d met, I tensed, flinched, and pulled away from him. He sighed, but allowed me my space. “It’s all true, Kyrie. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t make up something like this. I couldn’t.” I spun around, full-on angry now. “So you killed him? Because he wouldn’t sell?” Roth shook his head. “No. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t. That wouldn’t have helped me, for one thing. I needed him to run things in Detroit. Killing him wouldn’t have served a purpose. And, more importantly, I’m not like that.” “You were an arms dealer!” I said. “A criminal. Why the fuck should I believe anything you say? How do I know you’re not a killer? How do I know you haven’t killed dozens of people?” Roth groaned. “No, Kyrie. That was just business. It was a business. I sold crates of guns to men who wanted them. That’s all. It was boring, most of the time. Show up, exchange a truck full of crates for a suitcase full of cash. Go home and get drunk. Simple. I wasn’t…some sort of dangerous criminal, Kyrie. I wasn’t then, and I’m not now. It was a stupid business to get into, I realize that now, but I was alone in the world then, just trying to get by, and…one lucrative opportunity led to another, and then I was in it and making money hand over fist. I didn’t go around shooting people like some sort of James Bond villain.” “Then what happened with my father?” I had to know. I didn’t want to, but I had to. He turned away. “Like I said, he was getting desperate. The pressure was mounting. I’d put him

there on purpose, just to get him to sell, and then I’d make sure it all went away. For another man, it would have been threats of pictures of him with a mistress sent to his wife and the board, or whatever it took to motivate the sale. I had no interest in ruining lives, I was just…singularly focused. But your father took it personally. Instead of selling, he cornered me in a parking garage. He was drunk, or on drugs or something. He wasn’t himself. He had a gun, and he was ranting. Shouting at me, threatening me. I tried to calm him down. I told him we’d work something out. I promised him I’d make the suspicion go away. But…he wasn’t listening.” His voice lowered to a whisper. I had to strain to hear him. “He put the gun to my head. Said he was going to kill me. I watched…his finger, on the trigger. He was shaking. He really was going to kill me. I remember realizing that. I tried to keep him talking. He lowered the gun a bit, just enough for me to jump him. We struggled. I was just trying to get the gun out of his hand. I wasn’t going to shoot him, just…disarm him. I’d been shot once, and I didn’t want to repeat the experience. But he was…crazed. Then the gun went off. I thought he was just shocked at first, like, ‘shit, the gun went off.’ But then he went still, and I felt…something wet. On my chest.” He clenched his fists, leaned over, and rested his forehead on the railing. Finally, he straightened, sucking in a steadying breath. “Fuck. I’ve never spoken of this to anyone.” His eyes met mine. Blue as a winter sky, earnest, a little fearful, even. Yet his voice emerged as strong and controlled as ever. “I pushed him off me, and he was bleeding. God. There was blood fucking everywhere. I don’t even know how it happened. We were fighting for the gun, and then it just went off. The bullet, by some freak accident, hit him right in the heart. He was dead within seconds.” Roth dragged in a breath and let it out, pacing away from me, hands fisting in his hair. “I should’ve said something to someone. I mean, it was an accident. But then there would’ve been an investigation, and while my business was totally legal and legitimate, I did have things in my past I didn’t want getting out. The nature of my coercion of your father wouldn’t have looked good, either. So…I suppose I panicked a bit. I left him there, went back upstairs. The garage was in the basement of a building in which I was renting a penthouse. So I just went upstairs, changed, and then got rid of the clothes. There was no record of my stay in that penthouse, as I knew the owner and was merely subletting it for cash. No cameras, no records, and my friend wouldn’t talk. So I packed up and vanished. I made sure the suspicion surrounding your father went away, and by the time his body was found, it looked like a mugging gone wrong.” “That’s what they said. The police. A mugging gone wrong. Things didn’t fit, though. It was a secured garage, but there wasn’t any evidence to the contrary, so they closed it after a while. No weapon, no witnesses, no motive anyone could find.” I looked at Roth. The image of him swam and blurred as tears welled up. “I don’t know what to think. What to believe. How to feel.” “I don’t imagine you do.” Roth took a hesitant step toward me. “I’m so sorry, Kyrie. It was an accident. I never meant for it to happen. After that time we met, briefly, in your father’s office…I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You were so beautiful. You took my breath away, even then. I kept trying to figure out a way to meet you, but nothing ever came up. I couldn’t just approach you out of nowhere, not with the deal I had going with your father. And…when it came to women, you were far from what I was used to. I was used to taking women I wanted for the night and being done. Women were always plentiful in my life, and I never had to worry about impressing them or getting their numbers or any of the usual games a girl in your position was used to. I took what I wanted, and that was that. But I knew, I knew you weren’t that type of girl. I couldn’t just cart you off to my bed and discard you when I was done. And then the accident with your father happened. He only had a very small life insurance policy at the time of his death, not nearly enough to make a difference to you and your mother and brother. A few hundred thousand dollars payout, if that. I don’t remember exactly how much.”

I shook my head again. “No, see, he had a huge policy. Over a million dollars.” Roth scrubbed at his cheek. “No, babe. I upped the policy after his death. From the inside. Made sure there was enough to help out, but not so much that it would raise eyebrows.” I stumbled backward, tears shocked away. “You—you increased the payout? Why?” “To see you were cared for. I took a little peek, after the funeral. Just checked on you. Your mother was…unwell. Your brother was just a kid. Bloody hell, Kyrie, you were just a kid, barely nineteen years old, but you were the only one capable of taking care of things. So I upped the payout amount. Paid down some of his debts. He hadn’t left you guys in a good place financially. Tens of thousands in credit card debt. A massive mortgage. Three car payments. The policy would’ve been mostly gone by the time all that was liquidated. So I smoothed things over.” My memory of that time was hazy, but I tried to remember. I had been a sheltered kid. I’d grown up in a nice suburb, everything given to me. Not wealthy, but comfortable. I’d never paid a bill in my life. And after Dad was killed, Mom went cuckoo, so everything fell on my shoulders. I hadn’t even known where to start. Mom was no help, hiding in her room and drinking, smashing furniture, hurting herself. Losing her fucking mind. Bills kept coming, and I didn’t know what to do, how to pay them. So I took Mom’s cards and checkbook and started paying them. Forged her signature. Once, when she was in the throes of some paranoid delusion, I got her to tell me her PIN numbers for the cards and for the bank so I could see how much money we had. There was very little, I remember realizing. At first glance, a fifteen-thousand-dollar account balance seemed like a lot, but then I started adding up the car payments and the house payment and everything else, and I realized it wouldn’t go far. And then I remembered getting something in the mail about the insurance policy. I’d hunted through Dad’s office until I found the number for his lawyer, Albert Emerson. Albert was the one who helped me sort through things. He was a kindly old man, and he taught me a lot about taking care of myself financially. He advised me to put Mom in a home. He helped me sell the house and move into an apartment with Cal, helped me get legal guardianship of Cal so I could take care of him. But now, thinking through what Roth was telling me, I realized things did add up. The house had sold in a matter of days, yet I remembered the house across the street, which was bigger and newer than ours, going unsold for months. Bills had suddenly stopped coming, and I never questioned it, too stressed to figure it out, just grateful. He’d “smoothed things out.” And I’d never realized it. The cars. Jesus. He’d paid off the cars, and I hadn’t put it together. I’d had car payments, three of them: Mom’s, Dad’s, and mine. I remembered the bills coming in and realizing how fast things added up. But then the funeral happened, and I’d had to put Mom in the home, had to get guardianship of Cal so I could sign him in and out of school, take him to the doctor—shit, I’d had to learn how to do everything. All the things that came with adulthood came crashing down on me at once. And then, once I’d gotten that stuff sort of figured out, I’d had to sell the house. And by the time that was done and Cal and I had moved into a two-bedroom apartment, the bills for the cars had just vanished. I’d gotten Albert’s help in selling all the cars except mine, a two-door Honda Civic, the same one I was still driving. I’d needed the money I’d gotten from Mom’s and Dad’s, a Lincoln MKZ and a Mercedes, respectively. I’d wanted to keep Dad’s, obviously, since it was a really nice car, but Albert had convinced me of the impracticality of that. So I’d sold the expensive cars and kept the practical one, and never questioned what had happened to the outstanding debts on them. “Did you pay off Albert?” I asked. Roth shook his head. “No. I never contacted Albert. He was on retainer for your father, just in case. Albert wasn’t involved in Nicholas’ day-to-day affairs. I know he helped you, though.” I nodded. “He was invaluable in those early days after Dad’s death. I didn’t know what I was doing. He helped me figure out a whole bunch of things.” I let out a breath. “What about the house? Did you have a hand in getting it sold?”

Roth shrugged. “Yes, of course. The seller’s market was positively horrendous at that time. You would never have sold it. So I purchased it. Through a series of fronts, of course.” I blinked at him in shock. “You bought it?” You wouldn’t have thought I could be any more surprised at that point, but the shocks just kept coming. “Yes. And then resold it for a ridiculously low price to an employee of mine.” Roth slumped back into the chair. “Are those details really important right now, Kyrie?” I shook my head and paced away, folding my arms over my stomach. I felt numb. Shocked. I wasn’t sure what to believe, what to think. Could I even believe him? My gut said he was telling the truth. But what did that mean for me? “So that’s why you were watching me?” I said, after a long silence. It was the only thing I could think to ask. Too many thoughts were competing for space in my head. “Yes. I couldn’t get you out of my head. After I smoothed out your financial situation, I came back to New York and went about my business. I’d done what I could, and more than anyone could expect, probably. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. So I checked on you a few times. You seemed to be doing okay, figuring things out. That’s all it was at first: checking up on you. That’s all I ever meant it to be. And then I hired Harris. Things were really picking up for me here, my business getting bigger and bigger, so I really didn’t have the time anymore to go personally to Detroit and check on you. So I sent Harris. Told him no contact under any circumstances, and to make sure you never suspected you were being watched. I didn’t want to creep you out, but I felt responsible for you. It was my fault, your father’s death, and all the consequences of that. I couldn’t just leave you to your own devices. But I knew if you knew…who I was, what I’d done…that you would never have spoken to me. And I just didn’t know how to fake a casual meeting. As the years passed, it became…a bit of an obsession, I suppose. Making sure you were okay. Keeping you safe. But I wouldn’t let myself interfere too much. I told Harris to keep his eye on you, to keep you safe. And he did. Once a month, he’d travel to Detroit and spend a week following you, checking on your affairs, making sure you were okay.” He swallowed, staring out at the skyline. “Then the insurance money ran out, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I’d hoped you would be okay on your own. Because…I knew if you got into too much trouble, I’d be compelled to help. You’d taken so much time off school to just take care of Cal, working during the day to supplement your insurance money, and taking care of your mother…taking care of everyone except yourself. You should have a career by now. A family, maybe. But you don’t, because of me. It was an accident, and I know that, but if I hadn’t tried to force your dad’s hand….” He shook his head. “I changed my tactics after that. Shifted to building up my technologies business, plus investments and venture capital and the like. I never took over another company after that. Not like I had done, anyway. I still buy out companies, and do mergers, but only when the deal happens…naturally.” “So then my life got desperate….” I prompted. I needed to know how I’d gotten here. What his… angle was. What he’d wanted from me. He nodded. “Then your life got desperate. I stayed out as long as I could. But it became clear that you were on the ropes, so to speak, and I’d discovered through various sources that you were about to be let go…I thought about just making them give you a job, but that would only have fixed things temporarily. So I sent you the first check. I hoped…stupidly, perhaps, that you would just…somehow be okay. But you weren’t. Things were piling too high, and you couldn’t ever seem to get ahead. And even if you ever did accomplish your career goals, it wouldn’t solve your financial problems. So I kept sending checks. And the more I watched you, the more I flipped through the photos Harris was sending me…the more I felt like I just…had to know you. I had to. I couldn’t pretend like I was just helping out anymore. So I sent Harris to—” “Collect me,” I finished for him.

He nodded, fingertips pressed together in front of his face. “And I always knew this day would come. That I’d have to tell you. And now I have.” I blinked hard. The numbness was wearing off, and the reality was hitting me: Roth was responsible for Daddy’s death. I’d suffered for years just to survive, because of him. Because of a business deal. I’d nearly starved, and he’d just sat by, hoping I’d “be okay on my own.” He’d killed my father. Roth killed my father. An accident. Self-defense. Dad was still dead, and Roth had, accidentally or intentionally, caused his death. “I need to—I need to think. I need space.” I turned toward Roth, tugging the ends of my robe together, struggling to keep from totally losing it. “I don’t know anything anymore. This…it changes everything. Just like you said it would.” Roth took a step toward me, and then another, close enough that I could smell our sex on him still, smell me on him as I looked up into his tumultuous blue eyes, his chest a hard wall in front of me, his hands on my waist. “Kyrie….” I slammed my fist on his chest, pushing myself away from him. “You killed him.” “No. It was an accident,” he insisted calmly. “You killed him!” I screamed, backing away. “He’s still dead, and it’s still your fault!” He didn’t flinch. “Yes.” “How did…how did we get here? Why did you bring me here? Why this game? Why….” I shook my head. Everything inside me was twisted and shaken up and confused. My feelings for him remained, but they were now competing with a thousand other emotions I couldn’t begin to sort out yet. “Why, Roth? Why? Why couldn’t you have just…left me alone? Let me starve? Let me fumble along in my shitty little life? I would never have known. I wouldn’t have known you…none of this” — I gestured at the bedroom— “would have happened. I’m so…so fucking confused, Roth!” He stepped toward me. “Kyrie, please. I brought you here because…I wanted you. I had to know you. I told myself that it would just be for a little while. Just to…see how things went. I had you blindfolded so you wouldn’t recognize me, so we could establish a connection before you put things together. And then…the first time I saw you, standing there in my foyer, afraid but so courageous, determined. Fiery. And I knew, right then, that you were mine. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” “Any of what?” I glanced up at him. I was seconds from bolting, but I had to know what he meant. “Any of that.” He pointed at the bed, as I had. “That was something…beautiful. Something miraculous and incredible. I never expected that.” He cupped my face. Hands rough, eyes blazing. Body close and hard and huge. “I never expected to fall for you, Kyrie St. Claire. But I have.” I ripped myself from his grip, stumbling backward, tears falling now. “Goddammit, Valentine! Now you tell me? Now that…god, Jesus. FUCK!” I spun in circles, emotions at a boil, lust for Roth competing with love for Valentine, both at war with my anger for the man who’d killed my father, however accidentally, and confusion over what to do, what to think, what to say, what to feel, where to go. “I’ve got…I’ve got to get out of here. I can’t look at you or be around you. Not and think straight.” “You’re leaving, then?” Roth asked. I choked on a sob “You killed my father, Roth! How am I supposed to feel? What am I supposed to do?” “Very well, then." He straightened, spine ramrod stiff, jaw set, eyes cold, expression closed. “I’ll have Harris take you where you need to go.” He snagged his shirt off the floor and tugged it on as he left the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway, turned as the cotton fell to cover his carved abs. “I’m letting you leave, Kyrie. But don’t think you can get away from this thing between us.” He smirked, a hard curve of his

lush lips. “Because you can’t. I own you.” And then he was gone, the door clicking closed behind him. I dressed slowly, shakily, pulling the sundress on and zipping it up my back. I fled to my quarters, packed my things into my suitcases. I refused to look at the room around me, to think of anything except my next breath, my next step. I took only what was already mine…from before. After everything was packed, I took a shower, forcing myself to keep it short and efficient. I wanted to linger. I wanted talk myself out of going, or out of staying. I wasn’t sure which was true. I needed to go, but part of me wanted to stay. Part of me knew I’d never, ever, find anything like what I had with Valentine. I’d gotten a taste of him, of his world, and I didn’t ever want to leave it. It was more than a palatial home, a suite of rooms stocked with all the best clothes; it was more than the fancy cars and private helicopter flights to the opera. It was more, even, than the sex. And the sex was motherfucking mind-blowing, out-of-this-world incredible. It was Valentine Roth. I’d never met a man like him before, and knew I never would again. So, yeah, I wanted to stay. But the fact remained that he was involved in my father’s death and the subsequent unraveling of my life. And I didn’t know how to deal with that. Not even slightly. Panicked emotional overload welled up inside me, choking me, making it hard to see, to breathe, to perform the most basic functions. All I wanted to do was collapse to the floor and sob, but I couldn’t. Not here. Not with him still around. So I packed, showered, dressed in an old pair of faded jeans and a WSU T-shirt, gathered my hair into a wet ponytail, and pulled my suitcases to the foyer. Harris was waiting, as was Eliza. I nearly cried when I saw Eliza’s unhappy expression. “Miss Kyrie,” she said. “He is a good man. Try to remember that. And I think…he will never care for anyone the way I see him care for you.” I choked. “I have to go, Eliza.” “I know. I see that. It will be lonely here without you.” She turned on her heel and strode away. Harris took my bags and led the way to the parking garage, silent the entire way. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the back of the Mercedes on the way to the airport that Harris said anything. “I’ve never seen him treat anyone the way he does you.” I shrugged. “I believe that.” I met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Did you know?” Harris shook his head. “I don’t know the details. I have my suspicions as to…the nature of his interest in you. How that occurred, I mean. Regarding…your father. But he never spoke of it, and it’s not my place to ask.” I only nodded and lapsed into silence the rest of the way to the airport. My mind was racing, a thousand distorted thoughts clamoring and jangling, emotions rifling through me one after another, and it was all I could do to remain calm and coherent. At the airport, Harris parked near a hangar. Inside was a small private jet, not the same one we’d flown in on. He loaded my things into the jet himself, had a brief exchange with a technician of some sort, and then led me up into the cabin of the jet. He took the pilot’s seat, and went through the process of verifying a flight plan and readying the airplane for flight. I sat in one of the deep, luxurious chairs, buckled and waiting, thoughts and emotions whirling. Eventually we took off, although I barely noticed. There was no flight attendant this time, no champagne. No blindfold waiting for me on the other side. What did await me when we landed? I didn’t know. The flight passed in an endless blur, minutes dragging like days, yet the hours flitting by in a heartbeat. Another Mercedes was, inexplicably, waiting for us on the tarmac when we arrived. Harris moved my luggage from the jet to the car and still, in silence, drove me away. “Where to, Miss St. Claire?”

“Layla’s.” It was all I could think of. I didn’t even bother asking if he knew where she lived. But of course he did. I’d retreated into false numbness. Everything was still there, roiling deep down, but I’d managed to shut myself down until I knew it was safe to have my breakdown. I knocked on Layla’s door at six in the evening, Harris standing behind me, holding my suitcases. She opened the door, saw me, and burst into tears. “Kyrie! You’re home!” She pulled me into a hug, then backed away, examining my face. “Oh, shit. This ain’t good.” “No….” The word was barely audible, thick with barely held-back tears. “Give me those,” she said, taking the suitcases from Harris. Harris paused. “Do you require anything else from me, Miss St. Claire?” I shook my head. “Thank you, Harris.” I managed that much in a steady voice. He nodded, went down the steps, and then turned back. “Kyrie? Give him a chance. If you can.” It was the first time he’d ever used my given name. I couldn’t answer, so I only nodded, and watched him go. Layla pulled me inside, led me to the couch, and sat beside me. “What happened, Key?” I only shook my head, heart in my throat, tears pricking my eyes. Finally, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I burst into tears, and they didn’t stop until I’d cried myself to sleep. The sobs came long and hard and relentless, subsiding momentarily, only to begin afresh, wracking me hour after hour. Layla curled up on the couch with me, holding me as only a best girlfriend can, not asking any questions, just letting me cry, letting me sleep.

14 THE STORY Waking up was not a pleasant experience, this time around. I didn’t even get that fleeting moment of blissful forgetfulness before reality asserted itself. I woke up and my very first thought was: Valentine killed my father. My second and third thoughts were, respectively: Valentine loves me, and I’m in love with Valentine. And then, of course, the inevitable, unanswerable question: What the FUCK am I supposed to do now? I rolled over, my face smushed up against the rough fabric of the couch, which stank of old pot and cigarette smoke and worn-in dust. I coughed, rolled away, and sat up, then rubbed my face with both hands, as if to push back the fresh wave of tears that were already bubbling behind my eyelids. The scent of coffee and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls finally filtered through to my awareness. I looked up to see Layla approaching, two mugs of coffee held in one hand, a plate of gooey, icing-glazed cinnamon rolls in the other. “I know what my bitch needs,” she said, setting everything down on the battered wood and scratched glass coffee table. “Caffeine and Cinnabon.” I took the coffee and sipped at it, then grabbed a roll and took a massive, extremely unladylike bite. “You’re my lifesaver,” I said, my mouth full. “I know.” She matched me chomp for chomp, and we proceeded to devour the entire batch of rolls. Stuffed, I leaned back and wiped at the corners of my mouth with my thumb. I flopped my head to the side, meeting Layla’s concerned brown eyes. “Okay,” I said. “Ask.” “OHMYGOD what happened?” Layla shrieked. She was the master of the ear-piercing, girly freakout. I sighed. “It’s a really, really long story.” “Okay, well, I’ve read War and Peace, so it can’t be any longer than that. Jesus, I’m stuffed.” Layla pivoted on the couch and extended her feet across my thighs, laying her head on the armrest and her hands across her belly. “I should not have had those last two cinnamon rolls. Why’d you let me pig out like that, Key?” I laughed and smacked her leg. “I did question your decision to eat that last one, if you’ll remember.” “True. But it was just so good.” Layla let out a massive belch, and then covered her mouth with her hand as if shocked. “Seriously, Kyrie. I want to know everything.” I tugged my hair out of its ponytail and jerked my fingers through the tangles. “Okay. But what I’m about to tell you stays between us. Like, you can’t breathe a word to anyone, not even Eric.” “What is this, some kind of national security crisis?” “Might as well be.” I let my expression tell Layla how serious I was. “He takes his privacy very seriously, and even though I left, I’m not going to compromise that.” She raised her hands in an I surrender gesture. “Okay, okay. Mum’s the word. Jeez.” I took a big breath, held it, and then let it out. “His name is Valentine Roth.” Layla’s eyes widened. “Holy shit. What a name.” “No kidding. And he’s…honestly? The most insanely drop-dead gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my life. I mean, not even Alexander Skarsgård can top him. And he kind of looks like our boy Alex.” I had to blink back emotion. “Six foot four and built like a Greek god, blond hair, blue eyes. God, his

eyes. He has this way of…looking into you. And his voice…Layla, you don’t even understand. I was blindfolded for the first three days, so every time I was around him, all I had to go on was the sound of his voice. Like, he can seduce you just with his voice. His words. Fuck me, Layla. The things he said to me….” “Wait. Waitwaitwait.” Layla sat up, swung her legs off me, and leaned forward. “You were blindfolded? For three days?” I nodded. “If I was around Valentine, I was blindfolded. And I didn’t know his name until after he finally took the blindfold off. It was…a game. Not a fun ha-ha game, though. A very serious exercise in trust. I don’t know how to describe what happened. What he did to me. The way he touched me, spoke to me. He could get me so turned on with just a few words, a kiss, a touch, and then he’d leave me hanging. He made me…crazy. Just crazy. I didn’t even know what he looked like, and I wanted him. Just the way he talked to me. You know what he said to me, the first time we met? Well, ‘met’ isn’t really the right word. When he brought me to his tower—” “His tower?” I laughed. “That’s how I think of it. He owns a building in Manhattan, and he had the whole top floor custom built into this…just ridiculously palatial home. It’s not a condo or an apartment, though. I mean, it’s a mansion, but it’s in a high-rise. I think he must have had the building custom-built for him, because there were, like, things in this place that shouldn’t have been possible in a high-rise. Like the library. It was, and I mean this very literally, the library from Beauty and the Beast. Shelves full of books going up to the ceiling, which was easily fifty feet high. He had actual suits of armor that had been used in battle in the fourteenth century. First-edition copies of, like, Pride and Prejudice and this hand-transcribed copy of Dante’s Inferno. No kidding. Super crazy-rare books.” I waved my hand. “That’s not the point. Yeah, he’s crazy rich. That’s not really relevant.” Layla gaped at me. “Not relevant? How in the fucking hell is that not relevant?” I shrugged. “It’s just not. I mean, it was amazing. I’m not gonna lie. He did some truly incredible things for me. He took me to the opera at the Met. And get this: he had a Christian Dior gown made for me, and jewelry that must have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. And his personal driverslash-bodyguard-slash-pilot, Harris, whom you met last night, flew me to a private dinner in a restaurant he’d closed down just for us. Flew me, in his helicopter. And then he took me to the Met in his Maybach. We went sailing, too. He’s this amazing sailor, and we went all the way around to Long Beach and back, and had dinner at this tiny restaurant in Little Italy….” I sighed. “I know I was there for only a short time, but it seriously felt like a lifetime, Layla. Everything is different.” “So if it was so amazing, why are you here? What happened?” She grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “And, more importantly, where is the Dior gown and jewelry?” I laughed at her. “I left it all there. I mean, he did give it to me, but…none of it matters.” “Doesn’t matter? Are you on drugs?” Layla flopped back against the couch with a groan. “Only you would say that. After all you’ve been through, you go and do something crazy like leave behind a fortune.” “You don’t get it, Layla.” “No, I don’t!” She sat forward again and took my hands. “I’m trying, though. Explain it to me. What am I missing? I mean, I know in the grand scheme of things, dresses and earrings don’t really matter. I’m not that shallow. Sure, it was a Dior gown, but…we’re speaking of matters of the heart here. Right?” “You could say that,” I said, standing up. “I don’t think I can do this without more coffee.” Layla handed me her mug. “Fill me, bitch.” Returning with full mugs, I resumed my place beside Layla. “So. He went to all this effort, right? Sent me anonymous ten-thousand-dollar checks every month for a year, then collected me and told me

he owned me. Blindfolded me and got me to trust him, which isn’t easy. Told me he’d been watching me for a long time but wouldn’t say why. He got to know me. Showed me bits of who he was, and Layla—this man is incredible. I can’t even tell you. He’s huge and gorgeous and domineering and just totally alpha-male, but he’s thoughtful and attentive and considerate—” Layla leaned close to me, interrupting. “When you say ‘huge,’ what exactly do you mean?” She grinned, biting her lip, eager for all the salacious details she knew I was holding back. I couldn’t help a blush. “HUGE, Layla. Huge.” I grabbed her hands and squeezed. “He’s a fucking god. And I mean that very literally.” Layla squealed, leaning back and giggling. “I knew it. I knew you were holding out on me. Tell me more!” I had to sigh as I tried to figure out where to even start. “He’s a master of foreplay. He spent days, actual days, teasing me and torturing me. You sidetracked me earlier. One of the first things he told me was that he wouldn’t have sex with me unless I begged for it. Who even says that? I didn’t believe him, obviously. I mean, I don’t beg. Not anyone, not for anything. But he…I’m not gonna call it seduction, because that implies a sense of underhandedness or something. He just knew exactly what to do and what to say to make me crazy.” I was glad for the opportunity to hide from the real issue for a few minutes. I wasn’t ready to talk about the way things had ended. I closed my eyes and relived the way he’d touched me. “I can’t even count how many times he made me come, Layla. And that’s all before he took off my blindfold. He never let me touch him. He was focused solely on making me insane, on making me come. And he succeeded. I’m still a bit sore.” Layla groaned in frustration. “I’m so jealous of you right now, you don’t even know. I think I actually hate you a little bit.” I nodded seriously. “You should. You absolutely should be very, very jealous.” “I still don’t get it. He sounds amazing. Sexier than Alexander Skarsgård, richer than God, hung like a horse, able to make you come with mere words…what could possibly have gone wrong?” I braced myself for the truth. Wrapped both hands around the scalding ceramic of the mug, accepting the burn on my palms for the distraction from the ache inside me. “He…was involved in Dad’s death.” Layla spat coffee, swearing and wiping at her face. “He what?” “That was his secret. That was the reason for the blindfold, for the secrecy, for the whole crazy way things happened. He thought I’d recognize him. I mean, I did, but I didn’t put things together until he explained what had happened.” “Wait a goddamn minute.” Layla set her mug down, grabbed mine from me, and put it aside as well. “He told you? You didn’t, like, find out accidentally?” I shook my head. “He told me. Yesterday morning. After the most—I don’t even know the word— after the most…earth-shaking sex I’ve ever had, he sat me down and told me he was involved in Daddy’s death.” Layla just blinked at me for several moments. “Why? Why would he tell you? If you hadn’t figured it out by then, what are the chances you ever would have?” I shrugged. “The chances of me ever putting two and two together on my own were very near absolute zero. I met him once, for, like, five seconds two months before Daddy’s death. That was it. One glimpse. And I never knew his name, never knew the role he played in Daddy’s business. There was no evidence connecting him, and there still isn’t, I don’t think. The police said it was a mugging gone wrong, and they closed the case when they never found a single shred of evidence after, like, two years of looking.” Layla frowned. “So…what are you going to do? You found your father’s killer. So are you going to

turn him in?” I shrugged miserably. “It’s not that simple.” “Not that simple? Jesus, Key! He murdered your father!” I shot to my feet and paced away. “I know it’s not simple! But he didn’t kill my dad. Not really. It was an accident. Roth was trying to force Daddy to sell his company. He had this plan for a big merger, and Daddy’s company was a key component in the deal, but Daddy wouldn’t sell. So Roth… maneuvered him so he basically had to sell. But Dad…went a little crazy, Roth says. Got desperate. Showed up in Roth’s parking garage, threatening him with a gun. Daddy pointed it at Roth, and they ended up fighting over the gun. It went off, and…the bullet hit Daddy in the heart.” I stood at the window, staring out at the sunny summer day. Layla remained sitting, thinking. “So he didn’t mean to. But that doesn’t change things. And…you said he maneuvered your dad into selling. What does that mean?” I lifted a shoulder and shook my head, sniffing. “Apparently, according to Roth at least, Daddy was…not entirely legitimate.” “Not legitimate? He sold fucking auto parts!” “I know. That’s what I said. But apparently he was also into prostitution.” “Says Roth.” I nodded. “Yeah, says Roth. But why would he make that up? Why would he tell me all this if it wasn’t true? I wouldn’t have ever known any of it. And I mean, I was just a kid. Growing up, all I knew was that Daddy was gone a lot. He’d come home late at night and leave early. He could have been doing anything. People lead double lives all the time. I don’t know what to think, Layla! I don’t want to believe it about my father, but…it’s plausible.” I hesitated, thinking of a distinct memory from my childhood. “I remember, when I was thirteen, Daddy came home late one night. Super late. I was in bed asleep, and he came in to my room, pulled the blankets up over me. I woke up, and he sat down and gave me a hug. I remember…he smelled funny. Like perfume. But Mama never wore perfume, so I remember thinking it was odd. But I was half-asleep, so I just…figured it didn’t matter. I don’t know. But now? Either he was cheating, like, having an affair, or Roth is telling the truth about Daddy running a high-end escort service and…sampling the wares.” “Crazy,” Layla said. “So are you gonna turn Roth in?” “Turn him in?” I hadn’t even considered that. “I don’t see the point. It happened seven years ago, and it was, according to Roth, an accident. I’d have to…relive everything. Go through all the evidence. Testify, assuming it went to trial, and assuming there was any way to get evidence against Roth, which I’m not sure of…I don’t know. What would it accomplish?” “Justice?” Layla suggested. “Would it, though?” I turned and met her gaze. “I don’t know if it would be justice. I mean, all Roth is really guilty of is blackmail. Would putting him—and me—through a big legal mess be worth it? And would it be justice? Where would that leave me? It doesn’t bring my father back.” “It sounds an awful lot like you’re defending this guy.” Layla stared down between her feet. “And why do you keep calling him ‘Roth’? I thought his name was Valentine?” “It is. But Roth was the name he gave me, and that’s just how I think of him. He’s Roth. Valentine…I only really use that name for him in…intimate…circumstances.” I rested my forehead against the glass. “And maybe I am defending him. I don’t know. I’m so mixed up. Why do you think I left?” “You fell in love with him, didn’t you?” Layla’s voice was quiet. I could only nod. Moments of silence passed. “Does he know this? And how does he feel?”

I didn’t want to answer. “He doesn’t know. And…he said…he never meant to fall for me.” “So let me get this straight. You’re in love with the rich, hot, powerful man who just happens to have been both directly and indirectly responsible for your father’s death? And he’s in love with you, but he doesn’t know you love him back, because you ran away.” “That’s about right,” I said, blinking back tears. “That’s fucked up, girlfriend. Sincerely and severely fucked up.” “I know. Believe me, I know.” My legs gave out and I slid to the floor, holding back sobs. Layla was beside me in an instant, holding me. “What do I do, Layla?” “I don’t know, sweetie. You’ve got me speechless.” Apropos of nothing, I realized I hadn’t seen Eric since showing up the night before. I sniffled and glanced at Layla. “Where’s Eric?” She groaned. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.” She waved her hand. “We broke up. No big deal.” I frowned at her. “You were with him for, like, two years, Layla. How is it not a big deal? Why’d you break up?” “Fine, I’ll distract you from your much more interesting problems.” Layla blew out a breath. “We’d been fighting for months about his whole pot-smoking, pot-dealing thing. I wanted him to at least quit dealing and find a real job, you know? Aspire to something. He never wanted to talk about it, never wanted to think about it. I tried not to nag him about it, I really did. I mean, I’m not a nagger. I was never super thrilled about that aspect of his life, but he was nice and sweet and had a big penis.” I shuddered. “I don’t need to know that about Eric.” She shrugged. “It’s true. It has this upward curve to it, and he had this thing he did where he could hit me just right in this one spot—” “OKAY!” I shouted over her. “I don’t need to know any more about Eric’s penis. For real. Stop. Please.” Layla laughed. “Okay, fine. But it was just that when he was high, he could go for a really long time, which is why I put up with the whole business for as long as I did. And I wouldn’t have minded him still smoking, if he’d had any kind of aspirations in life. Something. Literally anything, like, be a mailman or join the Army or wait tables, something. But he was just content to deal pot and smoke pot and play his PS4 and have sex with me. That was his life, and that was all he seemed to care about. And those things are fine, especially the sex with me part, but I wanted him to…not change, but—I don’t even know how to put it. I wanted him to want more from life.” “I always thought you could do better than Eric,” I said. “That’s no secret. I’ve told you that. He was…he was kind of a loser, honestly. Nice enough, and good-looking enough, but he didn’t do anything. I could never figure out what you saw in him.” Layla shrugged. “He was easy to be around. He was a good listener. He treated me good. My sister is with this guy who’s just like my dad, all tough and no feelings, and she’s miserable, but it’s all she knows. And I want something different from that. Eric is totally willing to say what he’s feeling, when it’s just me and him, and I like that. Plus, he was good at making sure I came during sex. That’s important. A lot of guys just don’t care.” “I get it. That makes sense.” I hugged her to me. “How are you doing with it?” She tried to shrug and didn’t quite manage it. “It sucks. I tried to explain things to him, how I still cared for him and that I wasn’t breaking up with him, I just wanted him to want things in life, for himself and for us. And he took it as me wanting him to change, to be someone else. And maybe that’s true. Maybe I did want him to be someone other than a weed dealer. But not because he was, aside from that, bad.” She sniffled. “He wouldn’t listen to me. He got mad, I got mad. He packed up and left the day before yesterday, and I haven’t heard from him since.” “I’m sorry, babe. That sucks.”

“We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” I sniffled and laughed with her. “That we are. I’m in love with the sexy, reclusive billionaire who killed my father, and you just broke up with your pot-dealer boyfriend who has a penis that’s curved like a banana.” “It’s not that curved.” She held up her hand and angled her fingers a bit to demonstrate. “More like this.” “I thought we weren’t going into any more descriptions of his junk?” “You brought it up.” She paused, and then glanced at me. “Is he really a billionaire?” “I have no idea. He’s got a lot of money, that’s all I know.” She shook herself, stood up, and pulled me to my feet. “This calls for mani-pedis and a pitcher of beer at Duggan’s.” I let her push me into her room. I borrowed a maxi-dress from her, brushed my hair, and let her take me to the salon, and then to dinner and a drunken evening spent trying to forget. Except, even when she half-carried me out of the nasty old cab that brought us back to her apartment, hammered into next Thursday, I couldn’t quite forget the burden in my heart. Nor could I forget the sadness I’d seen flash in Roth’s eyes when I’d told him I was leaving. That look haunted me in the days that followed, even more than the memory of the mask he’d slid into place just before walking away from me.

15 GOING IN CIRCLES A month passed. The ache never went away. I relived, over and over and over, every moment with Valentine. I saw him in my dreams. I woke up with panties damp from wet dreams of Valentine’s touch, dreams and memories that couldn’t compare to what the reality had felt like. I went to bed numb; I woke up crying. I warred with myself on a day-by-day basis. I’d done the wrong thing. I should’ve stayed. I found myself on the verge of buying a plane ticket to New York, only to stop myself at the last second. Daddy had died because of Roth. My life had been unutterably and irrevocably altered because of Roth’s greedy strong-arm tactics. He’d ruined my life. But then, I’d become the person I was because of it all. I’d had to grow up fast, and I’d had to learn to be strong. It was a cycle, round and round. The kind of war that has no end. If he hadn’t done what he had, I wouldn’t have lost Daddy. But, then again, without the series of events resulting from Roth’s attempted business deal, I would never have met him. And even though I was singularly fucked up in the head and heart over him, I couldn’t resent or regret my time with him. And I couldn’t stop wanting him. Couldn’t stop hoping for some justification to arise that would let me go back to him. I found myself waiting for a knock on the door, for the Hollywood ending in which Our Hero, the tumultuously sexy Valentine Roth, shows up at the door. He’d be rain-soaked, and he’d plead with me to take him back, and of course I’d sob a relieved “Yes!!” and we’d tumble to the floor in the throes of desperate lovemaking. That never happened. Roth would never beg. And I’d left him. Was I an idiot for running away? Yes. A hopeless moron. But I couldn’t get over what he’d told me. I waffled about the veracity of Roth’s claims, but I couldn’t get around my gut-deep conviction that he’d been telling the truth. Which of course begged the question as to why he’d told me in the first place. To which the only answer was that he felt compelled to be honest with me, no matter the consequences. After arriving at Layla’s place, I let myself wallow for three days, and then I unpacked my suitcases into Layla’s second bedroom, got up, got dressed, and began hunting for work. I began to get caught up on what I’d missed in class—which felt horribly, awfully mundane and pointless. I found a job as a counter-clerk at some office in the depths of an industrial park. I wasn’t even sure what the business was, but it paid $11.50 an hour to answer phones and file paperwork, and it kept my mind off Valentine. Okay, not totally, it didn’t. I thought about him week after week as I filed the same exact piece of paper a fucking butt-trillion times, answered the same exact phone call a fucking butt-trillion times. I thought about him in the shower, and I even touched myself thinking about him. My fingers couldn’t possibly live up to my physical memory of Valentine’s fingers inside me, making me shake and shiver and come apart in mere moments. I was never an avid masturbator, and Roth had even ruined that for me. Layla let me make my own way through it. She never pushed me one way or another. I didn’t ask her what she thought I should do, or what she would do if she were in my shoes, and she didn’t offer to tell me. We were once again two single girls making our way through life together, roommates, best friends, and each other’s only constant companion. We got drunk on Friday nights, and reinstituted our policy of chick flick Saturdays, which required a minimum of three bottles of cheap red wine, a

gallon of Rocky Road ice cream, and a bag of Ruffles potato chips. And I never heard a peep from Roth. After being back in Detroit for about six weeks, I found myself at the Delta ticketing counter of the Oakland County International Airport, about to ask for a one-way ticket to La Guardia. I chickened out, and went home. I didn’t know where his building was, for one thing. I didn’t have a phone number, an address, anything. I tried to forget. Tried to stop thinking about it. I couldn’t come to a decision, couldn’t figure it out. No matter how hard I tried, I was at a stalemate. Couldn’t go back to the way things were, couldn’t have him, couldn’t figure out how to live without him. On a Friday evening, two months after my return from New York, I got a speeding ticket. Two points and $175. The following Monday I went in to the courthouse to pay it. I handed the clerk my copy of the ticket and my debit card. The clerk, an overweight, middle-aged woman with dishwaterblonde hair, stared at the ticket, typed in the number, and then looked up at me with a blank expression. “You’re all set,” she said. “What?” I frowned at her. “What do you mean, all set?” “It’s been paid already.” She seemed ready to dismiss me. “By whom?” She shrugged. “I dunno, dear. All my system tells me is that it’s paid.” She peered around behind me. “NEXT!” So I left the courthouse and went home. I couldn’t claim to be mystified, because it was obvious who was behind it. There was nothing in the mail, however, and no other hints of Roth after that. At least, not until the beginning of the next month. Layla was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, sorting through bills. I walked in from a late night class, and she looked up at me. “Hey. Thanks for taking care of the rent, by the way.” I set my purse down slowly. “What?” She didn’t look up from the check she was writing for the electric company. “The rent. You paid the rent again.” “No, I didn’t.” That got her attention. “You didn’t?” “Nope. “Well, I didn’t.” “No?” She blinked at me owlishly. “Valentine?” I nodded. “Valentine. I got a speeding ticket last month, and he paid that, too.” “Has he contacted you?” I shook my head. “Not a word.” I went into the kitchen and grabbed two beers and the box of leftover pizza from the night before, and took a seat on the floor beside Layla. “Before he told me what happened, he told me, and I quote, ‘You will always be mine. And I take care of what is mine. So if you do walk away, you will have no worries. Never again, no matter what.’” I twisted the top off my beer and took a swig. “So I guess this is his way of reminding me of that.” I frowned as I realized something. “Wait. You said, ‘again.’” Layla grabbed her beer and a slice of cold Little Caesar’s. “Yeah. Last month and this month.” I sighed. “Not me either time. I was planning on helping out this month, though.” A few moments later Layla peered at me with a curious expression. “What about your mom and Cal?”

I picked a pepperoni off my slice and ate it. “He was there, too. I checked on Mom the other day, and they said there was a ‘sizable donation’ to my account, meaning she’s set for…basically forever. What that means, I think, is that he bought the nursing home and is writing off her care. Cal’s tuition has been paid, too. All of it, up front. He doesn’t know, though. I wouldn’t even know how to start telling Cal about any of this.” “So he’s basically taking care of you. And me. And your mom and brother.” “Yep.” I dabbed at my mouth. “And Grandma and Grandpa.” “But he hasn’t called you, texted you, written you, nothing. Even though, if we’re to believe him, what happened was an accident. And you walked away from him.” “Yep.” “After he flat-out told you he’d fallen for you.” “Yep.” Layla stared at me with a flat expression. “And you, clearly, are still in love with him.” “Why clearly?” She shrugged. “Because it’s obvious. You’re moping.” “I’m not moping!” She gave me an are you kidding me? glare. “Yes. You are. I’ve stood by for the last three months and let you have this your way. But now it’s affecting me.” She set her bottle down, which meant she was serious. She never put her bottle down until it was empty. “I don’t like being in debt to someone. And now he’s paying my rent.” “I didn’t know he’d do that.” “I know that.” She clutched my fingers. “You need to figure your shit out, babe.” “I’m trying.” She shook her head. “No, you’re not. You’re trying to think it through, trying to make sense of it. The thing is, though, it doesn’t make sense. It never will. You can’t equal it out. What he did and how you feel for him may never…wash, I guess. You just have to make a decision and stick to it. Right now, you’re basically just burying your head in the sand and hoping it goes away.” She emptied her bottle and then stood up. “And from what you told me about Roth, a man like him doesn’t just go away.” I scrubbed my face with one hand. “You’re right. I know you’re right. But I still don’t know what the right thing is.” “Sometimes…I think sometimes, Key, there is no right thing. There’s just…the best thing. The only thing. I’m not saying I know what that is for you, but I think you do. You’re just…avoiding it.” Goddamn Layla. That was why she was my best friend: She was willing to say the shit that I didn’t want to hear. She kissed the top of my head in a very rare display of affection, then went into her bedroom, leaving me alone in the living room, my thoughts whirling and skirling, desire and fear and anger and confusion duking it out in my skull. I was torn in three parts, you see. One part, my head, was a confused mess, a boiling cesspool of turmoil and memory. I missed my father, missed how my mother had been before her breakdown. Missed being an innocent girl with no worries except my grades. Yet I also desperately missed Roth. I hated that he was responsible for Daddy’s death, but I also understood that it was an accident rather than malicious homicide. Yet again, if Roth hadn’t been so underhanded in his tactics…and around and around it went. My heart was less complicated. I was in love with Roth, and desperately wanted to go to him, to leave a note for Harris to find, to do anything I could to get Roth back in my life. My heart didn’t care about what had happened. I’d come to a kind of peace with Daddy’s death long before I’d met Roth. I mean, I don’t think you’re ever truly over the loss of a parent, not when they’re taken so suddenly, and

especially not when, in my case, he was taken so violently and mysteriously. So I missed him, but he was gone. I had good memories of him. I knew he’d loved me. And nothing Roth did or said could change that. And then there was my body. There was no question at all in that department. I was lonely and horny and frustrated. I wanted Roth. I wanted his mouth on me. I wanted his cock inside me. I wanted his hands, and his muscles and his tongue and his eyes and his words and that spicy cologne he wore. The problem was reconciling head, heart, and body into one decision that would affect the rest of my life. Contact Roth, and tell him to leave me alone, let me live my life and pay my own bills? Contact Roth, and go back to him? Ignore him, and try to move on? I thought one thing, then the other, in rotating cycles moment by moment. The thought of picking one and just going with it terrified me into paralysis. What if I chose the wrong thing? What if I eradicated him from my life and couldn’t ever get over him, never stopped wanting and loving and missing him? What if I went back to him and had misjudged him, or misconstrued my feelings for him, or what if he’d moved on and didn’t want me anymore? Or what if I tried to ignore him and hope he went away, but he never did and I never got over him and never moved forward, and just lived my life in a confused spiral of going-nowhere misery? ARGH. Imagine my trepidation, then, when, at the end of three months, I found an Envelope. Roth’s unmistakable handwriting. My name. I slumped to my butt, sitting on the stairs just inside the foyer of our apartment building. I slid a shaky finger under the flap of the envelope, managing to give myself a paper cut in the process. No check this time. A letter. Written in his clear, firm, masculine hand.

16 THE LETTER Kyrie: I’ve given you three months. I allowed you to walk away from me, because I knew you needed time to process what I’d revealed to you. But I must remind you, my love, that you are mine. I own you. I will always own you. And you own me. That’s the deepest secret I possess. I cannot know your heart, but I am driven to show you mine: I love you. I’m not sure how that happened. It was unexpected, to say the least. I expected to spend a few days tasting the sweetness of your perfect body, but I never expected to find myself embroiled in the beauty of your soul. I told you, when I revealed my guilt, that I knew you deserved more from me than some meaningless tryst. Yet, when I sent Harris to bring you to me, that was all I intended. I’d fought my desire for you for seven years. I never allowed Harris to take revealing or immodest photographs of you, because I knew if I got but a single glimpse of your naked body, I’d be unable to resist making you mine. So I kept my distance. For seven years, I fought this battle. My feelings were based on a single vision of you. That one moment when you walked into your father’s office was the moment when you hooked me. I remember it vividly. You wore a lime-green dress. It came to just above your knees, and it hugged your hips. It was cut low between your perfect breasts, which swayed and bounced with every step you took. They mesmerized me. I felt like a randy schoolboy all over again, unable to stop myself from staring at you, going hard as a rock in my pants with one look. You glanced at me and dismissed me, focused on your father, but I wasn’t so capable of moving on. Right then, I wanted to throw you over my shoulder and drag you to my hotel room. I fantasized about ripping that dress from your body and licking your perfect tanned skin all over, and making you come, and making you mine. But that was mere lust. I possessed more self-control than that. I would not succumb to lust, not when I knew you deserved more than the lust of a man like me. Yet I couldn’t ever shake you out of my mind. I used the excuse of taking care of you to keep you on the periphery of my life. You tantalized me, Kyrie. Every day for seven years, you tantalized me. Yet every one of those 2,555 days (the day you arrived in the foyer of my Manhattan home was exactly seven years to the day from the first time I laid eyes on you, in that Detroit office) was also fraught with the reminder of my guilt. What happened to your father was an accident, but I am still at fault. I am not a man to absolve myself with excuses of “I didn’t mean it.” I do not expect you to forgive me. Yet I hope you can. If, my sweet, lovely, perfect Kyrie, you find yourself capable of such a thing, you have but to walk out your door. Valentine Roth.

17 ANYWHERE My hands shook, fluttering the letter like a leaf in the wind. Directly in front of me was a door. Faded green, battered metal. To either side of the door was a narrow window of reinforced safety glass. So dirty as to be nearly opaque. Yet I could just barely see through it, and I wasn’t sure I was capable of believing what I saw on the other side. A long, low shape. A car. I stood slowly, the letter fluttering to the threadbare carpet of the stairs. A step down, a second, a third and a fourth. The cold metal knob twisting in my fist. Hesitating, a riot of conflicting emotions giving me pause. Behind me, a door opened. “Key? You get lost out here? I saw your car pull up, but you never came in—” Layla’s voice couldn’t break through my trance, but I heard her nonetheless. I heard her steps on the stair, heard paper rustle as she picked up the letter. Moments passed, long enough for her to skim it. “Ho-ly shit. ‘Embroiled in the beauty of your soul.’ Who the hell says something like that?” I heard her come down the stairs, felt her beside me. My hand shook as I gripped the knob, yet I couldn’t open the door. “Roth,” I whispered. “That’s the kind of thing Valentine says to me.” “Goddamn. That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” She peered out the window. “Is that —? It is! That guy! Harry! He’s out there.” Layla stared at me in horror. “Girl, I love you. You’re my sister, the only family I give two shits about. But if you don’t get your fine white ass out that door, I swear to Jesus, Mary, and all the saints that I’ll never forgive you.” “You think I should go with him?” Layla put her hand to my forehead as if checking for a fever. “Kyrie. Babe. He’s embroiled in the beauty of your soul. Of course you should go with him. You’d be a fool not to.” She pushed the door open and shoved me through it. I was force-marched by my best friend over to the long, white Bentley limousine. She waved to Harris. “Hey, there, Harry. She’s just nervous.” Harris frowned. “Miss St. Claire. Miss Campari.” Layla kept marching me directly to the passenger door. Harris just barely got there in time to open the door for us. “Miss Campari, I don’t think you should—” “It’s fine, Harry. I just want to see my girl off.” “My name is Harris.” Layla eyed him up and down. “Sure it is.” She took my face in her hands, squishing my cheeks. “This is what you want. Give yourself permission to have it.” I stared into Layla’s eyes for a long moment, then, tearing up, pulled her in for a hug. “What would I do without you, Layla?” “I really don’t know, but it’s a good thing you don’t have to find out, isn’t it?” Layla squeezed me one more time, then pushed away. “Now go. Before I whack you upside the head and take your place, you lucky bitch.” I licked my lips, hesitating still, knowing that if I got into the car, everything would change again. Yet…it already had. It had just taken me a long time to catch up. But really, there was no other choice. I clutched at Layla’s hand. “Thanks.” This time, she didn’t make a snarky comment. She just smiled at me and nodded. I met Harris’s eyes briefly, seeing relief in them. “Miss St. Claire. I’m glad to see you.” He nodded at me.

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just smiled at him as steadily as I could. I didn’t know what was happening. Was Roth really in this car? Or was I about to embark on another mysterious journey to who knows where? It was near the end of September, and I remembered him saying he traveled from September to November. In the end, all I could do was duck my head and slide into the soft cream leather. I honestly didn’t expect to see Roth. Yet there he was, at the far end of the car, breathtaking in khaki chinos and a forest-green Henley, the sleeves pulled up around his elbows, the fabric stretched tight across his chest and molded to his broad arms. “Valentine….” I breathed. My chest was tight, my lungs refusing to work properly, my heart pounding like tribal drum. I saw Layla out of the corner of my eye, peeking in to get a glimpse of Valentine. “Holy shit. You were right, Key.” She pecked me on the cheek, and then winked at Valentine. “Don’t worry, gorgeous. I can keep a secret.” And then she was gone, but not before leaving my letter from Roth on my lap. Roth didn’t move for several seconds. The door closed, and then I heard the driver’s-side door swing up and close. The engine was a gentle, distant rumble, the sense of motion vague. His eyes were windows to the sky, blue and pale, but they were guarded. Neither of us spoke for nearly five minutes. Finally I couldn’t take it any longer. I lifted the letter. “What you wrote in here…you really meant it?” His brow furrowed. “Of course.” “You said…you said you love me.” I didn’t dare look away from him, didn’t dare move or breathe. “I do. Deeply.” He said it so casually, as if that wasn’t the most impossible, inexplicable thing in the world. As if hearing him say that didn’t rock me to the core. His eyes were hot and intense on mine, flicking back and forth, searching, hoping. Yet his body language was hard and closed off, arms crossed over his chest, one leg hooked over the other. “I don’t…I don’t know what to say, what to do.” I tried a deep breath, let it out shakily. “I’ve been…so mixed up, Roth. Nothing makes any sense. I can’t let go of what…what happened. What you told me. Yet I can’t let go of you, either.” I stopped, expecting him to say something. “Go on,” was all he said. I cleared my throat, folding the letter and idly sliding my finger along the creases. “There’s something I probably should tell you. Something that…that was true before you told me about my father.” I kept my gaze locked on his, refusing to even blink. “I love you.” He let out a long sigh. “You love me.” I nodded. “Yes. But I—I don’t know how to reconcile that with everything else. I lost my father because…because of you. I know it was an accident, and I believe everything you told me. But I’m still…messed up about it. A little angry, I guess. I mean, I struggled. I suffered, Roth. Alone, scared, barely making it. Trying to be an adult when I should’ve been a clueless college girl, getting drunk with my sorority and hooking up with frat boys. But none of that changes how I feel about you.” I set the letter aside. “I’ve been in circles about this over and over. And the only conclusion I can come to is that…I belong to you. I just don’t know where we go from here. I…I don’t know how to resolve this. I love you, Valentine. I do. I want to be with you, but I just don’t know if—if I can.” Roth didn’t answer for several long moments. Finally, he slid across the seat until he was beside me. “I won’t let you go again, Kyrie. I will not. I can’t change the past. I would if I could. I would give away every cent of my fortune if it meant sparing you the pain you’ve endured. But I can’t do that. All I can do is make you a promise.” He paused for effect, his gaze roiling with emotion. He took my face in his hands. “I love you. That’s not the promise, though, that’s just a statement. The promise is this: I will do everything in my power to make this right between us. To make it work. I can’t change the

past, but I can shape the future. I can shape our future. Whatever that looks like, whatever it takes, wherever it takes us, I will love you and I will be there for you.” His lips met mine, kissed me gently, deeply. When we pulled apart, I looked into Roth’s eyes and saw nothing but sincerity. Truth. Honesty. Vulnerability. I’d been blindfolded the first time I met Valentine. I’d had no idea what I was getting myself into. This time was different. This time, I had my eyes wide open.

THE END

Playlist “You Could Be Happy” by Snow Patrol “More Than Life” by Whitley “You Really Got a Hold On Me” by She & Him “I Love the Way You Lie Pt III (original demo)” by Skylar Grey “After the Storm” by Mumford & Sons “Bruised (Acoustic Version)” by Jack’s Mannequin “You’re the Reason I Come Home” by Ron Pope “I Was Broken” by Marcus Foster “Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World” by Israel 'IZ' Kamakawiwo'ole “A Fuoco” by Ludovico Einaudi “Paris” by Rodrigo y Gabriela “Diablo Rojo” by Rodrigo y Gabriela “Pavanorama” by Deviations Project “David’s Jig” by Natalie McMaster “Elysium” by Lisa Gerrard “Romance” by Apocalyptica “Carmina Burana, Scenic Cantata for Soloists, Choruses & Orchestra” composed by Carl Orff, performed by the Boston Pops Orchestra, and conducted by John Williams “Mission” by Beats Antique “Racing Against the Sunset” by Philip Wesley “Soon or Never” by Punch Brothers “Tip of the Tongue” by The Donnis Trio “You’re True” by Eddie Vedder “Dream a Little Dream” by Eddie Vedder “I Had Me a Girl” by The Civil Wars “Safe and Sound” by Taylor Swift “Out Loud” by Dispatch “Ten Cent Pistol” by The Black Keys “The Girl” by City and Colour “Ballad of Fuck All” by Malcolm Middleton “We’re Going to Be Friends” by The White Stripes “I Will Follow You Into the Dark” by Death Cab for Cutie “Skinny Love” by Birdy “Collide (Acoustic Version)” by Howie Day “You and I” by Ingrid Michaelson “Count on You” by Bruno Mars

Okay, so I know this playlist is kind of long. I’m not sorry. ALPHA may not feature music directly as part of the story or the character arcs, but if you know anything about me, then you know music is a hugely important part of my writing process. Each of these songs is a part of ALPHA, in some small way. The rhythms and the beats and the mood and the tone of each song has an effect on my prose, on the feel of each scene. Because I wasn’t including the

songs directly in the book, I let myself kind of indulge a little bit, listing songs that I just really love and listen to a hundred times over and over again. You’ve seen some of these artists or songs in the playlists of other books of mine, and chances are a few of them will find their way into books yet to be written. I hope you enjoyed ALPHA, and I hope you enjoy the music I’ve chosen to accompany it. As always, the music is the sole property of the copyright holder/artist represented, and I extend my thanks to each musician listed here for helping to inspire me with their talent.

Jasinda Wilder Visit me at my website: www.jasindawilder.com If you enjoyed reading this book, I would love it if you would help others enjoy it as well. LEND it, RECOMMEND it, or REVIEW it. You can share it with a friend via the lending feature, which has been enabled for this book. Or you can help other readers find it by recommending it to friends and family, reading and discussion groups, online forums, or the like. You can also review it on the site where you purchased it. If you do happen to write a review, please inform me via an email to [email protected] and I'll thank you with a personal email. Links to my other titles: The Preacher's Son #1 #2 #3 Biker Billionaire #1 #2 #3 & Omnibus Big Girls Do It Better (#1) Wetter (#2) Wilder (#3) On Top (#4) Married (#5) On Christmas (#5.5) & Omnibus Delilah's Diary #1 #2 #3 Wounded Rock Stars Do It Harder Rock Stars Do It Dirty Rock Stars Do It Forever Rock Stars Do It Paperback Omnibus Falling Into You Falling Into Us Falling Under Big Girls Do It Pregnant Stripped Forever & Always After Forever Saving Forever Jack Wilder Titles: The Missionary Visit Jasinda Wilder on Amazon for current titles. To be informed of new releases and special offers, sign up for Jasinda's email newsletter.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR Readers, Initially, there was a little scene at the end of the story that I decided to remove in final editing. But then I remembered how much you all like your steamy sex scenes, so I thought I’d include it here as a bonus, just because I love you so much. Thanks for reading Alpha. Enjoy!

VALENTINE As Harris pulled the Bentley into the stream of traffic, I watched Kyrie as she sat with her knees pressed together and her heels crossed at the ankles, a knee-length black skirt stretched taut across her thighs. Her hands were folded on her lap, one finger nervously scratching at her skirt. Her chest swelled as she took a deep breath, the thin linen of her button-down blouse stretching to reveal the lines of her bra and the hard dimples of her nipples. I allowed my eyes to roam over her body. My gaze traveled up her legs, pausing at her magnificent tits. Her cheeks were flushed, teeth gnawing on her lower lip, breathing evenly in deep, steady breaths. Our gazes locked, her eyes as cerulean as the Aegean. She was waiting for me. I reached up and adjusted the sound system, bringing up the background music loud enough to prevent Harris from hearing what was about to happen. “Take off your panties,” I instructed her. The corners of her mouth curved up in a brief and eager smile. My lovely, horny girl didn’t hesitate. As soon as the command had left my mouth, she was lifting her hips, reaching up under the hem of her skirt and tugging off a black thong. She worked the underwear past her wedge-heeled shoes and dangled it in front of me from her index finger. I snatched the tiny garment and shoved it into my hip pocket. She resumed her seat and looked at me for further instruction. “I want to see you. Pull your skirt up.” I uncrossed my arms, wanting to reach for her, to touch her, to take her. Her eyes darkened and narrowed as she obeyed, pulling up the hem of her skirt so she was completely bare from the waist down. She leaned back against the seat and slowly, teasingly spread her knees apart, showing me her pussy. She’d kept it trimmed close, but not shaved bare. Just the way I liked it. I curled my hands into fists to keep from touching her. Three months I’d gone without her, three months of pure hell, three months of blue, aching balls. And now that I had her, I was going to draw out and savor every moment. “Is this what you wanted to see?” Kyrie asked me, tracing her finger up the seam of her cleft. “Yes,” I said. “Touch yourself. Let me watch you.” She swallowed hard, and then brought her middle finger to her clit. Kyrie gasped softly as she touched herself, her mouth falling open, eyes going heavy-lidded, hips sliding down the seat. “Have you touched yourself since you’ve been away, Kyrie?” She shook her head. “No…I wanted to, but I…I just couldn’t. I couldn’t.” “Good,” I said. “Your pussy is mine. Don’t ever touch yourself unless I tell you to. You belong to me. Your body, your pleasure, it’s all mine. Your orgasms belong to me. Do you understand?” Kyrie nodded, her eyes squeezing shut as she pressed two fingers to her clit, circling, massaging, making herself wet. I had to re-cross my arms to remain still, driven crazy by the wet slick sounds her fingers made with each swipe against her cunt. I watched carefully, letting her bring herself to the edge. When I thought she was mere seconds from coming, I lunged forward and grabbed her wrists. “Shit…Roth, I was right there….” “I never said you could make yourself come, Kyrie. I only said to touch yourself.” I slid forward off the bench to lie on my back on the floor between the seats. “Ride my face, Kyrie. Let me taste you.” Slowly, hesitantly, Kyrie moved off the seat and straddled my waist. I grabbed her bare hips and pulled her forward. She walked her knees past my chest, and I hooked my arms over her calves,

holding onto her ass and cradling her body, bringing her soft, wet pussy over my mouth. I slid my fingers against her labia and pulled them apart, buried my mouth in her opening, my tongue spearing into her wetness, tasting her essence. I lapped up her dripping juices, sliding my tongue in as far as it would go, and then I swept it up her cleft to flick against her clit. “Oh…oh, god….” she gasped, rocking her hips forward. “Yes, Kyrie, ride me. Ride my face. Ride my tongue.” She braced her hands on the seats, knees resting on the floor on either side of my head, her hips grinding as I licked and licked and licked, tasting her tart yet smoky musk on my tongue. I felt my way up her torso, unbuttoning her shirt, and when the edges of the shirt flapped open, I tugged the cups of her bra down, her plump, heavy tits hanging free to rest in my palms. I fondled her, thumbing her nipples, pinching and twisting and strumming until her spine arched. All the while, I set her hips to writhing in a circle with my mouth, bringing her to the edge within minutes. When I felt her body tense and her breathing go ragged, her pussy grinding against my mouth, I drew her clit between my lips and suckled it hard, pinching her nipples until she shrieked, back bowing, head hanging between her shoulders, her entire perfect body thrashing as she came apart. I tasted her come as it gushed, lapping up every drop, licking her until she couldn’t support her weight any longer. “Let me up,” I said. She slid to the seat, wiping her hair away from her face, panting. I reached out to her. “My turn now.” She moved to the floor, kneeling between my legs. Her hands caressed my chest, fluttered down to my waist and back up, her eyes on mine, lust shining in her features. Working open the button of my trousers with one hand, she traced the bulge of my cock with the other, making me go even harder, if such a thing were possible. Then she drew my zipper down, palming my length over the cotton of my boxer-briefs. I rolled my hips, grinding into her touch, wanting her hands wrapped around me. Finally, as if reading my need, she hooked her fingers in the waistband of my underwear, pulled the elastic away from my body, and tugged both trousers and underwear down around my ankles. My cock jutted up, throbbing and aching. With a hungry smile, Kyrie wrapped her small, soft hands around me. I sighed in relief, feeling at last the heavenly perfection of her touch, groaning as she slid her palms down my length, twisted one hand around the head of my cock, and plunged the other hand down to my root. I jerked up into her touch, my eyes sliding shut. “Ask me,” she whispered, licking away the drop of pre-come that pearled on the tip. “Put your mouth on me,” I said. “Suck on me, Kyrie. Will you?” “Yes, Valentine.” She tilted her head to one side and lowered her mouth to me, wrapping her lips sideways around me, her eyes on mine, sliding down until her cheek rested against my thigh, then drawing back up and straightening her head to take my cock into her mouth. She hummed as my cock filled her mouth, her jaw stretching to take me, her moan sending vibrations rifling through me. I arched my back, moving my hips, unable to stop. She took my thrust willingly, bobbing her head down into my upward motion, and I felt the tightness of her throat around the head of my cock, felt her swallow the fluid leaking from my tip, felt her suck until I groaned. “Jesus, Kyrie. Your mouth feels so good. So good.” I let her work me with her mouth until I felt the rise of the orgasm within me, and then pulled her up. “So good, baby, but I’m not coming in your mouth. Not this time.” She climbed up my body, her hands resting on my shoulders as she moved astride me. “No?” I slid my palms up her ribs, cupped her tits as they swayed beautifully with her motion. “No. Now you’re going to ride me. You’re going to take my cock deep inside that sweet, tight pussy of yours, and you’re going to ride me until we both come.” She lifted up, her face tilted down to mine, her hips pressed against my chest, my cock lying flat against my body. Kyrie reached between us, grasped my cock in her fist, and guided me to her

entrance. I groaned as the head spread apart her nether lips, then wrapped my mouth around one of her nipples and flicked my tongue against the erect nub, drawing a gasp from her. Kyrie’s fingers clawed into the muscles of my shoulder as she held herself aloft, just the tip of me inside her. “Fuck, Roth. I almost forgot how goddamn huge you are.” “Take me, Kyrie. Let me feel you stretch around my cock.” “Oh, god. Oh, god.” Her tits rose as she sucked in a deep breath, her spine arched out, and then, with a whimpering shriek, she impaled herself fully on me, taking my entire length inside her in one quick thrust. “Oh, fuck, Valentine…don’t move, don’t—don’t move yet. Fuck…you’re so big.” I loved her dirty mouth. I loved the way she just couldn’t help herself, couldn’t help swearing as I filled her. She was almost painfully tight, her wet heat stretched around me and clamped down so hard I couldn’t move. We both groaned together as she finally began a gentle roll of her hips. “God, Kyrie. You’re so tight…so fucking tight.” Without warning, she lifted up so I was almost out of her. “I haven’t touched myself in three months,” Kyrie admitted, rolling her hips so the tip of my cock fluttered in and out between the lips of her pussy. I hissed at how good that felt. “I haven’t, either,” I said. “You haven’t?” Her eyes reflected her surprise. I shook my head. “I tried,” I told her, caressing her tits with both hands. “A few days after you left. But I just couldn’t bring myself to finish. I didn’t want to. The only hands I want on my cock are yours. I don’t even want to come unless it’s inside you.” Kyrie’s eyes melted, chest swelling as she sucked in an emotional breath, resting her forehead on mine. “Holy shit, Valentine. That’s actually really romantic.” “It’s just the truth,” I said. “Well, it’s a truth that happens to be the sweetest and sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.” She arched back, and I lowered my head to her tits. “Yes, Valentine…please. Suck on my tits.” I grazed her nipple with my teeth, growling with laughter. “Oh, god, baby. You don’t know how bad I’ve missed this.” I felt her body respond to mine, her juices flowing, dripping down to coat my aching, throbbing dick. “I think I do,” she said, and then she sank down, impaling herself another few inches onto me. “I’ve missed it just as much. I’ve dreamed about this. Your lips on my tits, your big beautiful cock inside me.” “You’ve dreamed of it?” I asked, moving my mouth from one breast to another. “All the time,” she mumbled. “Night after night I woke up dripping wet, dreaming of you.” “Goddamn, you’re tight, Kyrie.” I sucked her tit into my mouth, flicking her nipple with my tongue. “I dreamed of you, too. Woke up so hard it ached. Woke up needing you, but I couldn’t have you.” “You have me now,” she said, and sank down all the way. “I’m yours. You own me.” I drew back to rest my head on the seat back, grabbing her around the waist. “Jesus, Kyrie. I can hardly hold it.” She dug her fingers even harder into my shoulders and pushed, lifting up. “So don’t.” I tried to pull her down, but she resisted. “Don’t hold it back. Just come.” I shook my head. “No.” I reached between our bodies, touching two fingers to her clit. “Hold yourself up like that as long as you can.” Kyrie dropped her head to rest it against mine. “Hurry. I can’t stay like this for long.” With my free hand, I pinched her other nipple. “Then you’d better hurry up and come,” I told her, “because you don’t get to feel me inside you until you’ve come at least once.” She moaned as my fingers circled, and then gasped when I tweaked her nipple, whimpering when

my mouth latched onto her other boob. All at once then, I sucked, twisted, and circled. I felt her thighs trembling and threatening to give out. She lowered herself a little, and I stopped everything. “I can’t…can’t stay up like this.” She lifted back up, but I knew she wouldn’t be able to hold herself aloft for much longer. “Please,” she begged. I bit her nipple just hard enough that her breath caught. “Once,” he growled. She sank down, sighing in relief and then moaning as our hips bumped together. “God, oh, god… oh, god, just having you inside me like this…I could come just from the feel of you inside me.” I wrapped my hands around her hips, gripping hard as my own climax surged and threatened. “Kyrie,” I groaned, lifting her up and cupping her ass in my hands to hold her aloft. “I’ve been trying to savor this, to make it last. But I can’t wait any longer.” Growling a curse, I jerked her hips down and mine up, cramming my cock deep into her. She shrieked in surprise and then clung to my neck, face buried in the side of my throat, nosing my heartbeat. She rolled her hips as our bodies met again, and then we were both moving, Kyrie lifting up, hesitating, and then plunging down, moaning as every inch of my cock slid into her, her moan trailing off into a sigh when I was all the way in, taking a breath as we drew apart. “I’m close, Kyrie. I can’t hold it any longer.” “Good,” she whispered, pulling her head away to look down at me, eyes narrowed in focused pleasure, brows furrowed. “Give it to me. Let me feel you come. I want it right now.” “Right now?” I asked. “You want it?” “Yes, Valentine,” she groaned, “I want it. I need it. I need to feel you come.” My cock throbbed, pulsed, burned as I continued to strain every muscle in an effort to hold it back for one more second. And then, in the moment that I knew I couldn’t keep it back any longer, I crushed my mouth to hers in our first kiss in three months. She moaned at the meeting of our mouths, a tearful whimper. “Tell me you love me, Kyrie,” I growled through clenched teeth. “I need to hear that.” She lifted up, drawing me out of her, fluttered her hips to roll my cock through her thick wet lips. Her cerulean eyes met mine, wet with tears. “I love you, Valentine,” she whispered, and sank down. I came then, and the words were torn from me as I exploded. “Kyrie…oh, god, Kyrie. I love you. I love you so much.” Her palms clutched my face, keeping our gazes locked as we came together, detonating at the same moment. “I love you so fucking much.” I felt her walls squeeze me, milking every drop of come out of me. Her mouth moved against mine, both of us gasping as wave after wave of climax washed through us, fading to leaving us both limp and exhausted. “I love you, Valentine,” she whispered once more. A few moments later, after I’d cleaned her up and we’d adjusted our clothes, she settled into the seat beside me. “So now what?” I shrugged, glancing out the window to see the private airfield coming into view. “Now? Now I’m taking you somewhere far away, somewhere I can keep you tied to my bed and make you scream.”