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  I don't have a peephole, something I've been bugging my landlord about since I moved in. And while there used to be windows on either side of the door, the glass was replaced with frosted glass bricks several owners ago, allowing light in but no prying eyes. Unfortunately, the privacy means no looking out, either.

  "It's me. Riley."

  I flip the deadbolt, unfasten the chain, and tug open the door.

  Then I freeze. I absolutely, freaking freeze.

  He's standing in front of me in tight leather pants that hug every curve, enticingly revealing just how well-endowed the man truly is. I drag my gaze up, and the last bit of moisture in my mouth dries up like the Sahara. He's wearing a matching black vest, but is shirtless underneath.

  Honestly, I'm not sure how he's finding the time to help me, because he is so incredibly ripped that he must live at a gym. Not only does he have the most perfect six-pack I've ever had the pleasure of seeing, but there are two enticing cuts of muscle at his hips angling down like twin arrows beneath his pants, as if pointing the way to heaven.

  Beads of sweat form at the back of my neck, and I'm thinking that my decision to wear only a tiny thong under my own leather was a mistake. Because, Oh. My. God.

  I force my gaze the rest of the way up until my eyes reach his, and I see amusement dancing in the specks of gold.

  "Hey, beautiful," he says, the deep tones of his voice doing a number on my insides. "Are you ready?"

  Chapter Five

  Riley considered it a miracle that he didn't blow his wad right then.

  Over the years, he'd seen Natasha Black in everything from a bikini at a community picnic to a sequined gown at a charity ball. But this...

  Christ almighty, his cock was as hard as steel and his balls were so tight that he had to call on all his strength not to pull her to him, kiss her senseless, then fuck her hard over the back of the living room couch, which had the advantage of being the nearest piece of furniture he could see.

  Had he really asked her if she was ready?

  Ready?

  He'd lost all perspective as to what that word meant because he'd never been more ready in his life.

  He saw her swallow, then look up into his eyes. The heat he saw reflected there shot straight to his already painfully hard cock, but it was the fear and uncertainty that made him step cautiously over the threshold.

  "Natasha?" he pressed, realizing she hadn't answered his question. "Are you okay?"

  She nodded, then licked her lips, the sight of that pretty pink tongue sending his mind spinning off into fantasies of her kneeling in front of him in nothing but a thong and that seriously hot bustier as he fisted her hair and fucked her mouth hard and fast, those perfect lips stroking his shaft as he thrust deeper and deeper until he finally exploded, and she sucked and swallowed every last drop.

  He reached out for the doorjamb, steadying himself against the fast and furious intensity of that unexpected image.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he forced himself to focus. He wouldn't go so far as to call himself a Dom, though where sex was concerned, he couldn't deny that he was all about control. Still, he'd been in more than his share of clubs and had been undercover as a Dom on more than one occasion. He knew how to give pleasure, and he knew how to use pain, and he got off on manipulating both. Most of all, he knew how to subjugate his own needs to that of his sub, and how to push her just to the edge of her comfort zone, but never over.

  Right now, Natasha was very clearly at the edge of her comfort zone. And Riley needed to tell his own damn libido to chill the fuck out. This wasn't about the two of them; this had nothing to do with the way he craved her. Hell, he didn't even know if she would find pleasure in submitting. Damn, though, he wanted to find out. Just the thought made him weak with desire.

  But he had to shut that down. This wasn't about his need for control or her submission. On the contrary, this trip to The Firehouse was an act--hell, it was an elaborate scene--and he needed to make sure that she understood the rules and that they both understood the boundaries.

  He stepped over the threshold, and she immediately moved back, giving him room to enter.

  "You're nervous."

  It wasn't a question, and she didn't respond.

  He hooked a finger under her chin and tilted her head up so she was forced to look at him. "It's okay," he said. "I've got you."

  A tiny smile danced on her lips. "You're what makes me the most nervous."

  Her words were barely a whisper, and he had to concentrate to hear them. But hear them he did, and though he wished those words gave him hope, all they did was fill him with regret.

  He drew a breath, then released it slowly. "What I'm about to say should be part of a longer conversation. There should be back and forth and discussion. There should be conversation and revelation. But we don't have time for that. The Firehouse works on reservations, and if we miss ours, we don't go tonight. So I'm just going to say this, and you think about it, and we'll talk later, okay?"

  Because he knew Tasha, he expected an argument. So he was pretty damn surprised when all she did was nod.

  "I get that I make you nervous," he said, "especially since we're about to walk into a sex club. More than that, I know why. And it's not because I want you--although you know damn well that I do. Hell, I remember the first time I saw you as a woman, and not just as Eddie's daughter. And it wasn't when you wore those short skirts or flirted with the other guys--and don't think I didn't know you were interested in me--it was when you had your guard down. When you'd come to the hospital after a mission to wait with us for news when someone had been hurt. Or when you'd bring bagels during an all-night briefing, then fall asleep in the reception area with an open paperback beside you because you wanted to see your dad one more time before he went into the field."

  He saw the tears well in her eyes, but he didn't even pause.

  "I asked you out the morning of that raid--and, yeah, I know you remember it. And we were both a wreck after your father died. You turned me down three days later. You came to my apartment, told me not to say a word, and then said that you didn't think we should ever try to see each other. That it hurt too much."

  A tear snaked down her cheek. "Riley--"

  "No." The word was hard. A command. "Let me finish."

  "Do you know why I call you Tasha?" he asked, then continued before she could answer. "It's not because he did. Or not exactly. It's because you remind me of him. Loyal and strong and caring. It's because I admire you, and I always have. I always will." He drew in a breath. "But I also understand you, and I respect you. I've stayed away. I haven't pushed--not too much, anyway. And when I ended up consulting for Lyle, I never breathed a word to him about our history."

  He exhaled, then dragged his fingers through his hair. "The point is that even though we're going to a sex club, I know that whatever show we end up putting on isn't real. I want you, Natasha, make no mistake. But I won't ever push you. Do you understand?"

  She nodded, her lips pressed so tight together her mouth was little more than a thin slash of red lipstick.

  "Did you know that in the BDSM world, it's always the sub that holds the power?"

  Her brow furrowed, and she shook her head.

  "It's true. Just like us. Just like now. We're going in because we have to. Because I want you safe, and we're going to figure out who's harassing you. But ultimately all of this is your call, sweetheart. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

  "And anything that does happen," she began, her voice still soft. "It's all for show? To draw out my stalker?"

  "Yes," he said, the word holding the weight of regret, making him truly realize how much he craved reality over fantasy, and driving home just how much this assignment was going to hurt.

  And in that moment he knew only one thing for certain. The second this was all wrapped up, he was getting on a plane and getting the hell away from Natasha, his memories, and this goddamn city.

  Riley use
d Lyle's car service to take them to The Firehouse. Not only did he not want to deal with parking in downtown Los Angeles, but he also didn't want the road stealing his attention from Natasha. She'd admitted to being nervous because of him, but he was certain it ran much deeper. They were trying to flush out a stalker, after all. She'd be foolish not to be at least a little scared. He got that. And, dammit, he was making it his first priority to make sure she was as comfortable as possible.

  "I thought it was interesting that the club's built inside an actual old fire station," she said as the car pulled to a halt in front of the old two-story building tucked in between what now served as low-rent office space on the edge of downtown.

  "It makes for a nice big space," Riley said, though he knew she didn't need a reply. She was simply making conversation as she tried to get a handle on her nerves.

  "You've never been here before?" she asked, a question to which, once again, she already knew the answer.

  "No, you've got the advantage on me," he said with a gentle smile. He took her hand, ridiculously happy when she not only didn't pull away but instead twined her fingers with his. "But I did read up a bit on the place." He'd found some descriptions of the layout and the various levels of membership. And when he'd dug deeper, he'd recognized a few of the owners' names. A few discreet calls later, and he'd learned that Jared Johns was a member. Considering Jared's connections to both the BDSM community and McKay-Taggart, if Riley needed to get any information about the membership at The Firehouse, he knew who to call.

  He tilted his head to look at her. "Ready?"

  She nodded.

  "Lift up your hair."

  "Why?"

  He only lifted a brow, signaling that even though they might not be inside the club yet, the time to remember their roles had arrived. To his relief, she understood and lifted her long, thick ponytail. Once her neck was exposed, he reached into a satchel he'd left on the floorboards and pulled out a velvet bag. From that, he removed a stunning pounded-silver submissive collar, a single copper ring providing the only hint of color.

  Her eyes went wide, and he tensed, mentally readying himself to deflect her protest. Instead, he only heard her slow exhalation of breath.

  "That's stunning. Is it..." She trailed off, then licked her lips. "It's a collar, right?"

  "It will mark you as mine," he said. "I'm going to put it on you now."

  He didn't ask permission, but neither did she protest. On the contrary, she held the ponytail higher and leaned forward as he latched the clasp in the back.

  When he leaned back and saw her, a dark goddess with a ring of starfire at her neck, he seriously considered raising the privacy screen to block the driver's view, peeling her out of those pants, and fucking her hard and fast. Just a little appetizer before the main event.

  But that, of course, wasn't happening.

  Instead, he drew in a breath and reached for the door. "Ready?"

  When she didn't answer, he looked back, expecting her to be focused on the facade just beyond their window. But she wasn't. Her attention wasn't on the club, but on him. And when he thought about it, he knew why. She'd seen the inside of the club already. It wasn't a mystery.

  But she'd never seen him in that environment. Hell, collaring her had probably only added to her confusion.

  "Trust me," he said, the words both gentle and commanding.

  He expected her acquiescence--that was the game, after all. What he hadn't expected was the simple truth that colored her voice when she finally spoke.

  "I do," she said, the obedience and submission in those two simple words positively slaying him.

  That was when he knew the truth. This woman had him by the balls.

  More than that, she always had.

  Chapter Six

  The entrance area to the club is nothing special, but unlike the last time I was here, that reassuring simplicity doesn't calm my nerves. Before, I was nervous about what was behind those doors. Now, I'm nervous about who I'm going through them with.

  As Riley instructed, I walk two steps behind him, and though that distance makes me feel alone, when he holds the door open for me and brushes his fingertips over my shoulders as I enter, the shock of connection rushes through me, centering me and reminding me that we're here for a reason, and that there's a point to this game we're playing.

  It's a good reminder, actually. Because the more time I spend with Riley the more frustrated with myself I'm becoming. I had my reasons for putting so much distance between us in the past. But now that he's here--even under such odd circumstances--I can't deny that I like it. And more than just the warm and reassuring feeling of knowing he has my back.

  The truth is, Aly was right; I've always felt the spark where Riley Blade is concerned. But in the past, I've always been able to extinguish it. To throw water on it and then hurry away before the spark could flicker back into existence.

  Yet here I am now, and instead of water, I'm throwing gasoline. And I'm terrified that walking through these doors and into this aptly named club with him will cause the spark to bloom into a full-on blaze.

  And what scares me even more is the tiny, secret part of myself that craves the inferno. That longs to burn, as long as it is Riley who reduces me to ashes.

  It's an uncomfortable realization, particularly since I've worked so hard to keep my distance from the man. And though I tell myself that this heated craving stems solely from the nature of this situation, I know that isn't true. Riley Blade has always had the power to get under my skin, but I've always had the strength to hold up my walls.

  Now, I fear the walls are starting to crumble. And if they do, where will that leave me?

  "It'll be okay," Riley says, obviously mistaking my hesitation for trepidation rather than excitement.

  "I know," I say, then consider taking the words back when he holds up a leash.

  "I want to show you off," he says in response to my raised brows. "More than that, I want to see who takes particular notice of you."

  I swallow, but the truth is that the idea of a leash is reassuring. No matter what, I know that Riley will be right there to keep me safe. So I draw a deep breath, then lift my chin as he clamps the leash to the copper loop. He holds one end, and we enter the first area of The Firehouse. Matthew had explained that while there are some even more exclusive clubs that allow drinks, the no alcohol policy at The Firehouse helps ensure that everything that goes on inside these walls is consensual.

  That's fine and dandy, but right now I'm really wishing I'd finished off that bottle of Chardonnay.

  "There's no guarantee he'll be here tonight," I whisper as we pause at the next set of doors before entering the main play area.

  He strokes my cheek, then trails his fingertip over my lips, making me tremble. "Then we'll have to come back," he says, the words firing my senses and my imagination more than I'd like to admit. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's show you off."

  He pushes the thick oak door, once again holding it open for me. For a moment, I'm in front of him, and trepidation cuts through me. Then I feel the pressure at my neck and remember the leash. Riley.

  He's with me even though I can't see him, and the awareness of that constant connection strengthens my resolve.

  I take another step and walk all the way into the playroom. I suppose the regulars at the club would call it a dungeon, since there are chains and manacles on the wall and other implements for binding and torture, but it's so clear to me that what is going on here is pleasure and not pain--or, at least not unwanted pain--that I can't think of it as a place meant to subdue and punish.

  "You're intrigued," Riley says, and I jump. I hadn't realized he'd come up beside me. "Which scene catches your attention the most?"

  I tell myself that I should avoid the question and just let him lead me. Answering would reveal too much. And yet I can't deny that my senses--and my imagination--are on fire.

  "There," I say, nodding toward a woman whose arms and legs are strapped to a
padded, wooden X. She's naked, and the man standing in front of her is teasing her skin with something that looks almost like an old-fashioned mop, only in leather.

  "A flogger," Riley explains when I ask. "And a vibrator," he adds, when I tremble as the man uses what appears to be a Magic Wand on her sex, obviously taking her close to orgasm, but not letting her go all the way.

  "Come here," Riley says, taking a seat on a leather bench and forcing me to kneel in front of him, my back to him. He leans forward so that his hands rest on my shoulders and his lips brush my ear, making me shiver. "Tell me what you like about that scene."

  "I--I'm not sure."

  "No?" His fingers tease my collarbone, and I'm hyperaware of his touch, my skin tingling beneath his fingers. "Is it that she's naked? Does seeing her exposed like that make you hot?"

  I swallow. "A little," I admit.

  "Can you imagine that's you? Bound and helpless for everyone to see, completely at your master's mercy?" As he speaks, his hand dips lower, caressing the curve of my breast and making my nipples spring to attention. "Is that what turns you on? Is that what you want?"

  "No," I whisper. There's something erotic about watching her, about knowing and seeing how aroused she is. But I wouldn't want to be exposed to the world like that. "Not in front of everyone," I say, and only after I've spoken do I realize the full meaning of my words. Because I wouldn't like that in public. But in private...dear God, just the thought makes me wet.

  I can tell my admission is just as unexpected to Riley, because his hand stills, and he makes a small noise in the back of his throat. I expect the next question will be who--who do I imagine is touching and teasing me like that?

  That question doesn't come, and I'm grateful. Because I'm not ready to admit it's him.

  But Riley says nothing. Instead, the fingers of one hand dip under the leather bustier, then roughly pinch my nipple. I cry out, my pussy clenching as sparks shoot through me, making me gasp with surprise. It wasn't a massive orgasm, but damned if I didn't just come.

  "Oh, Christ, baby," he whispers. "I'm sorry."

  I turn to face him, the sensation still lingering on me. "Sorry?"

  He cups my face. "I promised you'd be safe with me. That everything in here would be consensual. I had no idea you'd come from nipple play. That you were so incredibly responsive."