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  "I want to see the rest of you," he said. "Take off the panties. But leave the shoes on."

  I swallowed, strangely shy. I was practically naked already, but there was something about stripping completely except for a pair of high heels that seemed so bold. So decadent.

  I looked down, concentrating on the floor as I hooked my fingers in the waistband.

  "No," Tyler said. "Eyes on me."

  "Tyler."

  "Shhh. No arguing. Just do."

  I did. And though I expected to feel even more shy, more exposed, in fact I felt just the opposite. I felt bold. Wild. I saw his desire plainly, and I knew that right then I was the one who held the power.

  I was no stranger to power--I wielded it every day in my work. But this was the first time I'd felt truly powerful as a woman.

  I liked it.

  I let the panties fall with a little hip shimmy, then carefully stepped out of them as well.

  "Now that is a pretty picture," Tyler said, slowly taking me in. His smile twitched when he got to my neatly shaved and trimmed sex. "And you're a natural redhead."

  "Did you have doubts?"

  "Nice to have confirmation. Do you have the temper that goes with it?"

  "Cross me and find out."

  "A fiery temper often translates to fire in bed." He stood, then slowly moved to stand in front of me. "I'm looking forward to finding out if that's true."

  He reached out then to cup my breasts in his palms. His skin felt hot against mine, and I closed my eyes with a small moan of satisfaction that turned into a gasp as his thumbs flicked over my nipples. Then he released me, and I opened my eyes to see him circling me, his focus so intent that I had the feeling he was memorizing every inch of me.

  I twisted, wanted to keep him in sight, but kept my feet planted. When he had circled me completely, I met his eyes as he smiled in approval. "You're perfect," he said. "And you're already aroused. I like that--I like knowing that you want me touching you, stroking you. That you already crave me deep inside you again."

  I started to shake my head--to protest simply for form. But it would be a lie. And I knew that he could see the truth in the color of my skin. In the way my pulse was pounding, the beat obvious in my neck and in the rise and fall of my chest. My eyes were surely dilated. And those natural redhead curls between my thighs were damp with the evidence of just how turned on I was.

  So instead of protesting, I simply looked at him, my own gaze dipping down to his crotch--and the pants that were doing very little to hide just how aroused he was. "I like knowing it, too."

  He chuckled. "I'm tempted to throw you back on that couch and take you right now."

  "Yes, oh, please, yes."

  He stepped closer, and though he still didn't touch me, every atom in my body buzzed and hummed in anticipation and want. Please. The word seemed to scream through my mind. Please touch me.

  "Soon," he said. "What's that saying? All good things to those who wait?"

  "Fuck waiting."

  At that he laughed outright. "For the record, I feel the same way. But I'm having too much fun tormenting you to stop."

  "At least you're honest."

  "I can be," he said. "I'm often not."

  I grinned. "And again, with the honesty."

  "Apparently you bring it out in me. Interesting." He took a step closer, then slowly touched his finger to the red and angry scar that marred my left hip. "Bullet," he said, his eyes flicking up to mine in an unspoken question.

  "A mugging," I said, managing the lie smoothly. "Not one of my better days."

  He eased around me, his finger tracing over my skin as he moved from the entrance to the exit wound. "Clean, or at least it looks it."

  "It got some of the bone," I said. "It hurt like a bastard, but it's healing. Just twinges now. I don't like to talk about it."

  He nodded, then kissed his fingertips before pressing them to the wound. "Then we won't. Instead, we can talk about how beautiful you are. How hard I get just watching you." He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "And I do like to watch."

  He dipped his gaze to my breasts, and my nipples tightened in response. A small smile touched his lips as he lifted his eyes back to mine. "I like to see the subtle changes in your body as you become aroused. I want to memorize the expression on your face when you come," he added, taking my hand and slipping my fingers between my legs. I was hot and slick, and a tremor ran through my body as my finger barely grazed my clit.

  "Oh, god, Tyler, please." I wasn't sure if I was begging for him to let me stop or to demand that I continue. Confusion swirled around me. I wanted to turn away. To pull my hand free. To hide. But at the same time, I didn't want this feeling to end.

  "It's not about fetishes, it's about pleasure," he said, then gently drew my hand away, making me whimper. "And it's about pushing limits to find the ultimate. I intend to push those limits with you. Soon," he said, reaching down to lightly stroke between my legs, as I silently screamed in frustration at the gentleness of his touch when I desperately wanted to be ravaged. "Right now, I want to keep you on edge."

  "You're doing a damn good job of it."

  "I know," he said. "I also know you like it. Just as I know you liked our encounter earlier at Destiny. The thrill of getting caught. The excitement of what came after. Tell me," he said. "I want to hear."

  "I--I did," I admitted. "I do." I straightened my shoulders as I let the truth settle over me. "I've never--It's not the world I live in," I finished lamely.

  "No? That's a shame. Everyone should feel alive. Should smash up against passion and danger, against temptation and anticipation. You have to push the envelope sometimes, because otherwise how do you know what your limits really are?"

  I opened my mouth to respond--to tell him that I got that thrill in my job, chasing and catching men like him. But I couldn't go there, and I swiftly bit back the words.

  "What?"

  "I know I have an answer to that, but it's gone." I managed a wisp of a smile. "You steal my thoughts, Tyler Sharp."

  His grin revealed a dimple. "I steal a lot of things."

  There were many responses to that, but before I could organize my thoughts, the bell sounded at the door. I jumped, my arms going immediately across my body as if that would somehow hide my nakedness.

  "No," Tyler said, with a firm shake of his head. Whatever playfulness had been between us evaporated. This was the man in control again. The man who had told me to come here tonight only if I understood that I had to play by his rules. This was the man who had meant it.

  "Sit," he said, nodding at the couch.

  I froze, my skin suddenly clammy. "What?"

  "Sit," he repeated, then led me to the couch. He put my knees on the cushions, my hands on either side of my hips. The bell rang again. "Just a minute," he called.

  "No," I said "No way."

  "Oh, yes," he said, then gently cupped my breast. His thumb flicked over my nipple, and I sucked in air. "You're smart, Sloane. You understand the game."

  "I'm not sure I understand anything anymore."

  "I said I would win. You're my prize, Sloane. To tease, to touch, to pleasure. But mine, nonetheless. Tonight, I own you. And that means that there are rules."

  Something that might have been fear riffled through me. Might have been--but I think it was really excitement. "I have to obey you."

  "If you're here, you do. But you have the choice. You can put your dress back on. You can walk out that door. But I don't think you're going to do that."

  "Why not?" My mouth was so dry I could barely speak.

  "Because I saw your face when I touched you in the corridor, the two of us surrounded by the waitstaff, pretending like they didn't see. That they didn't care. There's a thrill in being exposed. In being just a little naughty." He held my eyes, and I thought in that moment that I had no secrets from this man. "You may not break the rules, Sloane, but I'd bet good money that you'll stretch them as far as you can."

&
nbsp; I felt my pulse kick up, and knew it was from the truth of his words.

  "It excites you, doesn't it? Knowing that you're mine. Knowing that by surrendering to me, you're capturing me as well."

  "Yes." The word was a whisper.

  "And you have captured me," he said. "Because this isn't about what I want, but about what you do to me. And dear god, Sloane, you have driven me to the edge."

  He drew his fingers through his hair and I could see the truth on his face. The heat, the lust. The intensity of his self-control. He was like a spring wound tight, I couldn't wait for him to come undone.

  "Tyler." His name felt ripped out of me, and so help me, I wanted him to keep pushing, to spread my legs wide and to finally touch me and release this sweet, relentless pressure.

  "So I think you're going to stay," he continued, almost conversationally. "I could be wrong. It happens on occasion. You might storm out of here and never look back. You might slap my face and tell me to go to hell. It is within the realm of possibility."

  "I might," I said. I sure as hell should.

  But I knew that I wouldn't.

  Chapter Nine

  He turned, and without another word stepped out of my line of sight and into the foyer. I sat there, my heart pounding. My skin tingling. I was aware of every tiny hair on my body, as if I'd gotten lost in an electrical storm. Tiny beads of perspiration rose on the back of my neck. I wanted to bolt--and yet I wanted to stay.

  I told myself it was because of the op--because I had to get close to the man, and how the hell could I do that if I walked out on him? But that wasn't true.

  I wanted to stay because he wanted me to. Because I'd seen the promise in his eyes of what was still to come.

  And because, god help me, he was right--I wanted to bend the rules.

  He came back into the room, just steps ahead of a waiter in a trim, black uniform who stumbled a bit before making a surprised little noise, then continuing on. I'm sure I made quite the picture, naked on the couch, my face turned toward the entrance, my hands on the cushions and my breasts exposed.

  I didn't slouch, though I wanted to. I had too much pride. But neither did I look at the waiter. For the first time since I'd graduated from the academy, I purposefully didn't look at a face. Instead, my attention was entirely on Tyler--and his was entirely on me. I saw heat in his face. Heat and passion and possessiveness.

  Raw desire burned in his eyes, and in that singular moment, I knew that I held the power. That I'd turned him on, wound him up. Not because I was naked and on display, but because I was naked and on display because he wanted me to be.

  And that desire--that primal, sensual hunger--cut through me as well. I felt warm, alive with a feminine power. I wanted to be touched. To be claimed by the one man who had brought me to this point, to this sharp apex of desire.

  Tyler.

  As if he could hear my thoughts, the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, like a subtle promise of things to come.

  Blood pounded in my ears and I barely breathed as the waiter hurriedly parked the cart and converted it to a small table. I heard the rattle of dishes, and then the distinct pop of a champagne cork.

  Then Tyler was signing the check, and the waiter was gone, moving like a streak toward the door. The moment I heard the click, I gulped in air, then watched as Tyler's coolly composed expression softened a bit. "You see? There's a thrill in being naughty--no, don't say anything. I can see the truth on your face. And you gave him a bit of a thrill, too, I think. If nothing else, he has a story he'll be telling his buddies into his old age."

  "I hope you tipped him well," I said, surprised I could form words, much less conjure sarcasm.

  "I think you were the best tip. But yes. I upped the standard gratuity considerably."

  I started to stand, but he gestured for me to stay seated, and I was glad that he did. As juiced as I was, I couldn't be certain that my legs would support me.

  "You did well." He'd moved to the cart and now he took a bottle of champagne from its bucket. He poured a glass, then brought it and a small plate toward me. There was a coffee table directly in front of me, and he used his foot to push it to one side, then placed the drink and the plate on it. The plate, I saw, held a selection of chocolate truffles.

  I glanced up at him, and he met my questioning look with a smile. "Time for your reward. Tell me, Sloane, what do you want?"

  You. Oh, god, only you. The words seemed to press against my lips, begging for release. But I bit them back, perhaps foolishly wanting to keep some piece of me hidden despite sitting naked before him.

  Slowly, purposefully, I glanced at the coffee table. "I'm very fond of chocolate."

  "Is that so?" He plucked up a round truffle, gleaming with a shell of dark chocolate and topped with a tiny star of white icing. "Whatever the lady wants."

  He knelt in front of me, one hand resting on my knee as he leaned forward and trailed the truffle gently over my lower lip.

  "Open for me," he said, and as I slowly opened my mouth, he gently spread my legs. Cool air swept between my thighs, teasing my overheated skin and making me even more aware of how wet I already was.

  I whimpered, but the sound was muffled by the candy. "That's a girl," he said, as he eased the truffle into my mouth. "Now bite down." I did, then moaned in surprise and pleasure as sweet cherry juice eased over my tongue, a stray bit catching at the corner of my mouth.

  As I swallowed my half of the truffle, he took the rest and slid it over his own lips, his gaze never leaving mine as he swallowed. I saw it there--that storm in his eyes. A tempest of fire and need that would surely capsize me, send me reeling. I wanted it to. I so desperately wanted his touch, his kiss. His everything.

  "Delicious," he said, and the sensuality in that single word had my body clenching. It took everything inside me not to yank him close and beg him to please, please just fuck me because nothing else could douse this building heat and bank the fire that was threatening to turn me to ash.

  "But this," he said, as he used the tip of his finger to dab at the stray juice on my mouth, "this is even more delicious."

  I swallowed, anticipating the pleasure of watching him slide his own finger into his mouth and then sucking the juice off. Or, perhaps he would surprise me and slide that finger into my mouth, and I could curve my lips around his finger and lose myself in the cherry-coated taste of him.

  That, however, wasn't what he had in mind.

  Instead of pressing his finger to my mouth, he brought it to my clit, sliding his hand down between my parted thighs. I gasped as thought abandoned me.

  And then, as he slowly--so devilishly slowly--teased and played, all rationality and reason escaped me as well. I was nothing but sensation. A human-sized collection of atoms that existed solely to shimmy and buzz in pleasure.

  Then he pulled away. I whimpered, desperate for him to finish what he'd begun.

  "Shhh," he murmured, as he placed his hands on my hips to keep me from writhing in silent demand.

  "Tyler--" My voice was raw, ripped from me. "Don't. Let me--"

  "Hush," he said again, keeping me motionless. Worse, keeping me unsatisfied. "I think there's a bit of cherry juice in a very sweet spot." His eyes flicked up to mine, hot and hungry, and my sex clenched in anticipation of what was coming. "And I want just a little taste."

  Yes, yes, oh sweet Jesus, yes.

  As if he purposefully set out to torment me, he trailed kisses up the inside of my thigh, driving me just a little wild. I wanted to writhe, to twist my body in time with the sensations that were pounding through me, but he held me fast. I couldn't move. And somehow my immobility made the pleasure that much keener.

  With the tip of his tongue, he teased the soft skin at the juncture of my thighs. I drew in a shuddered breath and arched back, trying to breathe as sparks of pleasure shot over my body, so delicious and yet at the same time not enough. I wanted the explosion.

  "Please," I begged, then cried out in triumph w
hen he shifted his attention to my clit, his tongue finding that most sensitive part of me. His tongue laved me, teased me, and my body trembled with the pressure of a building explosion that never quite seemed to come.

  I arched my back, my eyes squeezed tight, as if by sheer force of will I could make myself go over. I was close, so damn close ...

  "Tyler," I murmured. "Tyler, please ..."

  Gently, he pulled back, then tilted his head to look up at me as I fought back a cry of protest. "As I said, delicious." He leaned over and picked up the glass of champagne. "Drink," he said, and I gratefully took the glass, gulping down a swallow of the cool liquid that was painfully insufficient to quell the heat that raged inside me.

  "Save a bit for me," he said, then gently took the glass from me. He sipped too, then used his hands to ease my thighs wider than before--thank god--and then lowering his mouth to my sex once again.

  I'd expected the pleasure. I hadn't expected the mind-blowing delight that came from the combination of his hot mouth, clever tongue, and the cool, sparkling champagne. The bubbles fizzed against my already sensitive clit, the sensation almost too much to bear. A million little pops and trills, all promising something bigger, something wilder and hotter.

  And yet none of them were quite enough to take me there. I needed his touch, his tongue. Needed it right there, but though I shamelessly shifted my hips, he never quite stayed on the sweet spot long enough to take me that final distance.

  "Please," I begged.

  But he wasn't interested in my demands. Instead, he shifted his attention, trailing kisses along my trimmed line of pubic hair, then up to tease my navel with his tongue.

  Every touch was erotic, sending heat swirling through me. But it wasn't the heat I wanted but the explosion, and as I moaned in both pleasure and protest his mouth closed hard over my breast and his teeth teased my erect nipple.

  "You're tormenting me," I whispered, when his hand slipped between my thighs. I gasped as he slid a finger inside me, then stroked me in long, slow movements designed to let the pleasure build and build--but never quite reach the pinnacle. "You bastard," I moaned. "You're doing this on purpose."

  "Clever girl." He cupped his hands over my breasts, then brought his mouth to my neck. His kisses along my neck were a different kind of torture, and I instinctively tilted my head to one side. "But is it really torment?" he murmured, his lips brushing my skin with each soft word, and sending shockwaves rippling through me. "Or is it heightened pleasure borne from anticipating what's yet to come?"