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  “I won’t hurt you, though. I’m not into that. And of course, I’ll use protection.” He held up a pack of condoms.

  Well da-ham. He’d come prepared. A smile curled on her lips.

  “Billy said your fee’s been paid.” His brow quirked.

  The smile froze on Tina’s face. A combination of horror and rage and something else altogether snarled through her as she realized how right she’d been. Not only did he not recognize her—after knowing her her entire life, for pity sake—he thought she was a hooker.

  Granted, she did kind of look like a hooker, with makeup plastered on as if with a trowel. But still…

  She glanced at him from beneath the impossibly long lashes The Master had glued to her lids. Not her style, but she liked the way they looked. The way they made her feel…like someone else. Someone sultry and daring. Someone Dane would want.

  To tie up and spank.

  Aside from that, the temptation to have him, taste him, fuck him, ran rampant in her. For years she’d fantasized about her older brother’s best friend. All through puberty and long after that. Every man she’d met, dated or been with had been gauged against Dane Coulter. None of them had measured up.

  Ah yes, the temptation to have him was overwhelming.

  Not to mention how much fun it would be watching him shit a brick tomorrow, when he realized who she really was.

  Too delicious to pass up, really. The whole package.

  He stood there in the middle of the room, holding the strap in one hand and the condoms in the other, waiting for her reply. Though he was all Dom, she couldn’t help but notice a hint of tension in him, as though he was, on some level, afraid she’d say no and waltz away.

  He wanted her. And he wanted her bad. It was the heat in his eyes that gave him away, the way they flicked over her and burned with hunger. Yeah. Irresistible.

  Sure. She could be a hooker for the evening.

  “Anything else?” she purred, ignoring his unasked question.

  The tightness in his expression released. “No. That’s it. Anything from your end?”

  “Just enjoy, baby,” she said, tossing back the rest of her drink and setting the glass on the table. She sashayed over to his side and tugged his tight black tee shirt from the band of his jeans. She wanted him out of it. She wanted to see his chest. She wanted him naked.

  He grabbed her wrist in a gentle cuff. “No,” he said.

  She peeped up at him. His chin was firm and bristled with enticing scruff. A muscle worked in his cheek. “No?” She went for a playful tone.

  He glared her down. “I don’t think you understand. I direct the action. Do you understand my meaning?”

  Oh God. Did she.

  She’d played games like this with boys before, but never had she experienced such dominant energy. She let her hand fall to her side. Lowered her chin in what she hoped was a submissive mien—she really didn’t do submissive well, and never had. “Yes.”

  “Yes…what?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  He broke character for a moment, rolling his eyes. “How long have you been doing this?” he asked, but it was, apparently a rhetorical question, because he barreled right on. “The correct response is ‘Yes Sir.’”

  “Oh. Right.” She shot him an impish grin. “Yes Sir.”

  “And— What’s your name again?”

  “I didn’t mention it.”

  He frowned. “What should I call you?”

  She studied him for a moment as a litany of stripper names skipped merrily through her mind. And then a memory, a memory from long ago, suffused her. Her lips curled. “I’m Bambi.”

  “Bambi.” His snort said it all. Yeah. Right. “And spit out that gum, Bambi.” The rumble in his voice told her the gum really annoyed him for some reason. She filed this fact way—for later. When annoying him might come in handy. But she did as he asked, spitting the gum into the wastebasket with a “Patooey.”

  Then she linked her hands behind her and wiggled from one side to the other. She could tell her blasé attitude annoyed him as well. His fingers curled into fists as though he wanted to spank her now. “Anything else, Sir?” She invested her tone with a rebellious thread.

  Sure enough, his nostrils flared. “Are you wearing panties under that skirt?” God she loved when he barked.

  “Yes…Sir.” His eyes narrowed at her deliberate hesitation.

  “Take them off.”

  “Off?”

  He sucked in a breath and, astonishingly, seemed to grow even larger. “Off. And don’t question me again.” He put his hands on his hips and stared at her coldly, but heat blazed beneath. “Well?”

  Tina thrust away the sudden flurry of nerves and slid her hands to her thighs, palms down, then slowly skated them up, under her hem. His breath snagged when he caught sight of her panties, some lacy confection shaped like a butterfly from a famous store with seriously overpriced lacy confections. She let a little moan escape her throat as she eased them down.

  He appreciated the effort. His gaze was riveted. His body hummed with tension.

  “Like this?” she asked in a little girl voice, as she pushed her panties to her ankles. She turned slightly, so her bare ass was within his line of sight. And she waggled it.

  “No talking,” he snapped, as though he couldn’t take it. Couldn’t bear to be teased. And wouldn’t allow it.

  She stepped out of her panties, leaving them on the floor. Rather than feeling exposed, she felt energized. He still stood by the bed, watching her, staring at her with brooding hunger. The outline of his cock in his jeans was unmistakable.

  Sudden need swamped her. Well, not too sudden—she’d wanted him forever, after all—but it was sudden in its intensity, in the brash, bold realization that he was here, hard for her…

  And she wasn’t wearing any panties.

  “Sit on the couch.”

  It was a leather couch, buttery soft. And cold. She hissed as the slick material touched her heated flesh. He said nothing more and, setting the condoms and the leather strap at the foot of the bed, prowled across the room. He sat opposite her in the straight-backed chair and studied her in silence for a long while, sipping his drink. So long, it made Tina a little nervous. She resisted the urge to fidget.

  “Spread your legs,” he said.

  She did, watching him as he watched her.

  And then, again with the silence.

  She nearly jumped when he spoke, his voice, low and silky, filling the room like a caress. “I like your jacket.”

  “Thanks.” It was a cute leather bolero with metal studs. She’d bought it on sale at a great little thrift shop on the Eastside. It screamed Vegas. Perfect for a wild girls-only bachelorette—

  “Take it off.”

  She quickly complied, removing the jacket and revealing the tight black Lycra shirt beneath. She loved this shirt, the way it hugged her curves and highlighted the swell of her breasts. He liked it too. His tongue peeped out as he stared at her. His lashes flickered as she drew in a deep breath and traced her cleavage—just in case he hadn’t noticed it.

  “Hands to your sides, please.” His tone was light, but carried scorching weight. She dropped her arms and waited for his next command.

  But he didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Perhaps he wasn’t a boiling cauldron of lust. She was. She longed to touch him. To drag her palms over those bulging pecs, to explore the flex of his biceps. To taste his chin.

  He made her wait. Sitting there, bare-assed, stewing in her juices. Punishing her, perhaps, for her earlier insouciance. It was a long, long while before he said, “Now, your shirt. Take it off slowly.” It was small compensation, that tremor in his voice.

  Her fingers shook as she took hold of the hem and eased the material up, pausing, now and again, to assess his attention. Oh, it was fixed. On her. His eyes burned as she revealed her breasts, cupped as they were in black lace. She couldn’t resist thrusting them forward as she draped the shirt on the sofa ba
ck behind her.

  She licked her lips and folded her hands in her lap. And waited.

  It was nerve wracking, being bare before him but for a flimsy bra and a skimpy skirt, having him sit there and stare at her. As though he knew the effect he was having on her, his lips, those luscious lips, kicked up into a smile. He took another sip of his drink.

  “Pull up your skirt.”

  “What?”

  He frowned at her question. “Pull up your skirt. Bunch it up around your waist. I want to see all of you.”

  She swallowed an eep and did as he asked.

  “Legs farther apart. I want you exposed.”

  Holy God. Her body, of its own accord, clenched, but she complied. She couldn’t not.

  “Now, sit still.” He stood and ambled toward her, his drink in one hand. Like a lion approaching an antelope. Tina had the sense he wanted to pounce, wanted to gobble her up, but was keeping himself tightly reined.

  She ached. Ached for his touch.

  He stepped behind her and stroked her hair, just a skim. Then his fingers danced over her bare shoulders, leaving a burning tingle in their wake. His heat, his scent surrounded her as he bent. His mouth scraped her earlobe. The hiss of a hot breath. A nibble.

  Sensation rained through her. Her nipples pebbled. Her clit thrummed. Her body was on fire. She gasped when he cupped her breasts, nearly arched into it, but remembered his command, and didn’t.

  But when he thumbed a nipple, she could no longer hold still. Her whole body went on alert as exquisite pleasure shot through her, and she edged into his caress.

  “Mmm,” he murmured. “Your nipple is hard.”

  It was. Hard and swollen and sensitive.

  He brought his fingers together in a gentle pinch. She winced.

  “Ah. Yes.” With a hand to her forehead, he tipped her head back against the sofa, until she was splayed out before him. He meticulously arranged her hair in a fall over the back, running his fingers through it as though he was making love to her curls. Then he set his palm on her chest and stroked her slowly, teasingly gliding over her skin, leaving prickles of awareness around her breasts—but avoiding them—over her arms, her neck, her cheek.

  He was teasing her, she knew it.

  But it cost him.

  Her gaze flicked to his face. His muscles were tight, his nostrils flared, his features stark as he focused on his work.

  It seemed as though he explored her for hours, forever, just stroking her skin, awakening her, arousing her passion. She wanted to scream. She wanted to beg. She wanted to arch and undulate and demand more. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t be the one to break.

  Finally—finally—as though he couldn’t resist, he cupped her breasts again and squeezed.

  “God,” he mumbled under his breath and then, as though he’d caught himself giving in, he added, in a much more commanding tone, “Over to the bed.”

  Chapter Three

  Tina leaped to her feet and sprinted for the bed. Not that she was anxious for more—but she was. She didn’t leap onto it, though she wanted to, because he hadn’t told her to. Instead, she stopped just short of it and held herself stock-still. She peeped up at him.

  “Take off your bra.”

  Quickly she wriggled out of it, dropping it to the floor.

  The sight of her breasts poleaxed him. Or at least he seemed stunned. He gaped at her, his eyes wide, lips working. Then his sharp white teeth came down on his lower lip. He thrust his hands into his pockets and strode behind her. “Now the skirt.”

  She loved the tremble in his voice.

  Slowly, she undid the snap, drew the zipper down, and shimmied out of the short garment, letting it pool around her ankles. In what she knew damn well was a provoking pose, she crossed her arms over her chest and tossed a pouty look at him over her shoulder.

  He growled low in his throat and stepped closer. “Never,” he said, unhooking her hands and gently drawing them to her sides. “Never cover yourself without permission.”

  Something in his tone, something deep and wounded and yearning, touched her. Her playful mood evaporated, burned away by the heat rising between them and, perhaps, his touch.

  She dipped her head. “Yes Sir.” A whisper.

  “That’s better,” he murmured. He took her long hair in his fist and arranged it over her shoulder, off her back, and then he set his palm on her nape. His hand was large and hot. And, as he had over her front, he explored her. It was enchanting, enervating, annoying. As though he had all night to revel in each and every pore, as though he had forever.

  She shook as her awareness of him rose. Over her shoulders, down her sides to the small of her back, the curve of her ass. Her thighs, her calves, her arch of her foot. He touched her everywhere as she stood, naked and still, before him.

  It was excruciating, divine. The pleasure snaking through her was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. To her mortification, a tear beaded in the corner of her eye. She wanted to swipe it away, but did not.

  Because he’d asked her not to move.

  “Bambi.” His voice broke when he finally spoke. “Lie on the bed, on your stomach, and stretch out your arms.”

  Without a glance at him—she was far too raw to attempt it—she did as he asked.

  “I’m going to slip this around your wrist.” He showed her the strap. “Are you okay with that?”

  She loved how he was careful and gentle. Even though she’d agreed to all this. She nodded, turning her face away. He eased the strap on and tightened the slip knot, then threaded the long strap under the bed. He came around to her other side and waited until she met his eyes. Tenderly he dabbed the tear from her cheek. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m going to tie your other hand now. When I do, you’ll be helpless. Completely within my power. Do you understand?”

  “Yes Sir.” A whisper.

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes Sir.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, as though he couldn’t drag his gaze away, and then slipped the strap around her wrists. Slowly, he tightened it. “Test it. I want you to know how helpless you are.”

  She did. The bonds were tight, but there was some wiggle room, though not much. A shiver of arousal, of erotic fear, walked through her. She was helpless. She was. Bound to the bed on her belly. Exposed. But she knew him. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  His hand came down on her ass with no warning and with it came a slash of fierce heat. One, two, three smacks and more, until her bottom was on fire, her body ablaze. She wriggled and writhed and moaned and cried out, but he continued to besiege her. Every once in a while he would stop and begin that tantalizing journey again, his palm flat on her skin, over her scorching ass, her thighs, her back, gently, druggingly. And then he spanked her some more.

  At some point—she’d lost track of time completely—his other hand slipped beneath her, found her aching clit and stroked as he continued to rain heat down on her. The counterpoint of pleasure and pain was agonizing, blissful. He teased her, bringing her to the brink again and again, until she gasped and pled and begged for more.

  When he flipped her over, it was a surprise. She hadn’t even noticed he’d released her hands. By the time she realized what had happened, he’d tied her up again, this time on her back. Her breasts thrust up, nipples high, swollen, aching.

  He made a little noise in the back of his throat and dipped his head, taking one, then the other in his mouth. Velvet suction.

  “God,” she wailed.

  “Hush.” He found her again, dancing his fingers over her slit and dabbing in. “You’re so wet,” he said. “So ready.”

  “Yes.”

  He stroked her clit, then skated around it, not touching it, until she wanted to snarl and curse and demand he satisfy her. She was so close. So fricking close. He set his thumb over the top of her thrumming button, anchoring
it while he stroked the underside with his finger, squeezing her with a torturous rhythm.

  Her body seized.

  The orgasm he’d been staving off for far too long would not be denied.

  She cried out as she came, something feral and wild and desperate. And, even as she succumbed, he sank two thick fingers in deep, stroking her there while toying with her clit.

  She’d thought she’d come before. That was nothing compared to this. Her crisis rose again and peaked. Bliss and insanity raged through her as she lost all purchase, all connection, all awareness but for the driving force of his thrusts, the manic response of her body.

  The bed dipped as he rose, and she forced her eyes open. She wanted, needed to watch him. Never wanted to let him out of her sight again. Her breath caught as he whipped the shirt from his body, revealing a thickly muscled chest and a back covered with scars. She longed to stroke them, explore them, as he had done with her. His pants came next. He unzipped them and kicked them off in a flurry, forgetting to remove his shoes, which slowed him down. He kicked those off too and then reached for the box of condoms. His hands shook as he opened it, pulled one out.

  When he stood, her lungs seized. His cock, outlined in his black briefs, stole her breath.

  She wriggled against her bonds, anxious, desperate to touch him, taste him. “Oh my God,” she gasped.

  He glanced at her, but didn’t pause. He pulled his briefs off—and man, was he magnificent. His cock rose high, full, heavy, insistent. The thick vein, running its length, throbbed. With quick moves, he rolled the condom on. While she hated to see such beauty covered, she knew it was coming for her and she couldn’t wait.

  As he knelt on the bed, she shifted her legs apart.

  She wanted him. She wanted him in. Now.

  But he brushed back her hair and kissed her on the forehead. “Are you okay?” he asked in a gentle voice.

  “No,” she snapped. His eyes flared in surprise. “Do it,” she said. “Fuck me.”

  His cheek bunched. His lips parted. His throat worked. Ah. Yes.

  Yes.

  Without a word, he settled between her legs, cupped her ass in his hands and lifted her.