Chapter One

“More plane! More plane!”

I stare at the blond-haired demon standing at my feet, his little arms raised, those big brown eyes imploring.

“Come on, kiddo. How can you want more? In the last hour, we’ve pretty much flown to New York and back. And boy are my arms tired.” I whip out the punch line with a wacky grin, only in this case, it’s true.

Little David blinks those eyes at me, but it’s the trembling lower lip that reels me in. And in that moment, I know he’s going to grow up to get anything he wants. Starting, apparently, now.

Without warning, I swoop down to snag him around the waist. He squeals and giggles as I go round and round in a wild circle, probably making both of us dizzy, while he blows raspberries in a two-year-old’s attempt to sound like a plane.

At least this is making up for skipping my morning workout. The one at the gym, anyway. I toss a sultry smile over David’s head as Ryan steps into our living room, then leans casually against the archway that divides the living area from the dining room. The light from behind him gives his chestnut hair even more of a reddish hue, and his cornflower-blue eyes sweep over me as I continue to spin the little imp. And with each rotation, Ryan’s eyes find mine, his mouth curving more and more into a teasing half-smile.

I know every line and angle of his chiseled face. Which means I know that he’s thinking exactly the same thing that I am—if it weren’t for the kid in my arms, we could be repeating this morning’s workout right then.

And that’s reason number five-hundred and seventy-six on my list of why it’s too soon to be a parent.

“You’re a natural,” Ryan says as I lower David to the ground, then point him toward the television, where a DVD of Backyardigans—courtesy of Nikki’s extensive kid-vid collection— is already playing.

As David succumbs to the lure of the television, I cross my arms and face my husband. “Why are you insulting me after we had such a nice wake-up call this morning?”

“Wake-up booty call?”

“Ryan!” I jerk my head toward David.

“Pretty sure I haven’t scarred him for life.” He starts across the living room toward me. “And it wasn’t an insult.”

“I’m many things, but a natural at childcare, I’m not.”

“Quick study, then,” he amends, and I can’t counter that. I may not be a mother, but there are enough kids in my life that I’ve learned the basics. Like making sure to tire them out before nap and bedtime. And to never underestimate the power of that most ultimate of all babysitters—the television.

“It’s easy to earn an A when you’re not living the final exam,” I say as I move into his outstretched arms. He draws me closer, and I tilt my head to look up at him, studying his face.

“Would it be so bad?”

“I don’t know. But what does it matter? We’re aunt and uncle to a whole gaggle of kids, which means we have the luxury of giving them back when they get on our nerves.”

“Definitely a perk,” he says. “But what if we couldn’t give them back? Would that be so terrible?”

I’m not crazy about the turn the conversation has taken, but I only realize that I’ve taken a step back when he tightens his arms to pull me back into place.

“Jamie.” His voice is low. Tender. “Would it?”

This time when I step back, he releases me, and for a moment, I see a flicker of frustration play across his chiseled face. I shrug. “I’m not saying kids aren’t fun to have around, but we aren’t even close to ready. Not for having one twenty-four seven.”

“Aren’t we?”

We’ve had this conversation a number of times, the topic floating into our marriage here and there like shiny soap bubbles dancing in the air. Fun to look at, but nothing serious. And so very easy to pop.

Today, his voice doesn’t float.

I turn away, my attention on David, as if I’m thinking hard about Ryan’s words. I’m not. Instead, I’m regretting telling Emery that I could babysit.

Emery Newton is a single mom who works as the assistant to Eli Jones, an Oscar-winning actor turned hotel magnate who lives two houses down the beach from me and Ryan. Eli’s been out of the country for a few months, so Emery and her son moved in so that she could house-sit.

When she called last night to ask if I could watch David while she went on a breakfast-to-dinner date, I said I’d be happy to oblige. I hope she’s already hot and heavy with the guy, because I’ve only been at this for two hours, and I’m already exhausted. If I’m going to suffer through babysitting, I want it to be for something with more pizazz than a lazy brunch and a stroll through the surf.

“Kids sleep, too, you know,” Ryan says, interrupting my thoughts.

“That’s a myth.”

“No, it’s true. I saw a sleeping toddler once. I’m pretty sure it was the top story on the news.”

I hit him with my best deadpan stare. “You’re not as adorable as you think you are.”

“Oh, but I am,” he says, his expression pure sin.

The den is right off the kitchen, and I grab my mug off the side table and head that direction, direly in need of more caffeine. Ryan follows, and once we both have our refills, we sit at the island where we have a view of David’s back and the cartoon characters dancing on the screen.

“As for adorable…you have to admit the kid’s got it going on.”

I sip my coffee, then swivel on the stool to face my husband directly. “We’re not ready.”

I watch his face—a face I know so damn well. He wants to argue. That’s obvious enough. But what’s also painfully, screamingly obvious is that this conversation is different from all the others.

We’re no longer tossing around those shiny soap bubbles we can pop and forget. The mantra I’d taken so much comfort in—we’re not ready—has become a total fallacy, and now I’m left with my uterus hanging out there.

Because Ryan is ready.

He has been, I think, for a very long time.

Well, shit.

I take a long slug of coffee, hoping that will make my brain cells process all of this faster. Then I wave my hand as if clearing the air of our entire conversation. “I have a toddler to entertain. And you, mister, need to get to work.”

I start to slide off the stool, but he puts his hand on my thigh. There’s barely any pressure at all, but it’s enough to keep me firmly in place. “Ryan—”

“We have to talk about this sometime.”

“Clearly. But it doesn’t have to be now.”

“Kitten.”

That’s all he says. Just that one word. But it’s enough to make me snap. “No. We do not have to talk about this now. I’m not even sure I can think about it now.” I’ve dropped my voice, as if this conversation might somehow scar our very pre-pubescent house guest.

“My career’s just now taking off,” I continue. “And once filming begins on Dead Certain things are going to get even more crazy.”

“Jamie—”

I slide off the stool and put up my hand as if that will block whatever he’s going to say. Somehow, magically, it does.

“Please, just hear me. I can’t do my job and be pregnant. And not just because a baby bump isn’t part of the character descriptions. I mean, I saw how exhausted Nikki was with every one of her kids. Are you really ready for our sex life to come to a screeching halt?”

I can’t even remember a weekend when we haven’t made love. Hell, I’m not sure I can remember a Thursday.

Sex may not be the defining quality of our marriage, but like every relationship counselor says, it’s good for a couple to share a hobby. And stamp collecting just doesn’t do it for me.

There’s both amusement and heat in his eyes when he says, “Do you really think our sex life will ever come to a screeching halt?”

Dear God, I hope not.

I cross my arms and try to stare him down. “Babies are exhausting. Toddlers, too. Maybe when the kid starts school we’ll have time to squeeze in a fast fuck, but—”

“When you’re right, you’re right,” he says, shaking his head in what is clearly only mock agreement. “It’s a damn shame that Nikki and Damien have three kids. I’m pretty sure they haven’t had sex in years and years.”

He has me there. “Nikki’s always been more organized than me.”

His mouth twitches. “If it comes down to it, we’ll get a Day Planner just for sex.”

“I hate you. You know that, right?”

He twines his fingers with mine. “You love me.”

“Fine. You’re right. I hate myself. For loving you.”

He lifts our joined hands and kisses mine. Then he brushes a strand of hair off my forehead, his touch so sweet and tender it’s almost erotic. “Kitten, what are you scared of?”

“I’m not scared.” More like terrified. “And I don’t want to give up my career now that it’s finally taken off. You know how long I’ve worked for this.”

“I do. And I also know this isn’t the eighteen hundreds. It’s not even the nineteen-fifties.”

I yank my hands free. “Don’t you dare patronize me. Not unless you’ve figured out how to be the one who carries another human inside you for nine months.”

That gorgeous face goes perfectly flat, every emotion hidden under the surface. Except not from me. I know him well enough to see the sliver of hurt dimming those usually vibrant blue eyes.

I exhale, annoyed. But with myself, not him. “I’m sorry. Really. You’re not that guy, and we both know it. I’m just—”

“Scared,” he says. “I get it. But, Kitten, I don’t think there’s a parent out there who hasn’t been at least a little scared.” He holds out both hands again, and I take them, then move closer so that he’s sitting on the stool and I’m standing between his legs, his thighs holding me in place. We’re at an angle, so I only have to turn my head a little to see that David’s now plopped on the floor, his entire upper body wriggling in time with the silly song.

I turn back to Ryan. “I’m not saying no, I promise. I’m just saying no to right now. Can you live with that?” I hope he can, because I can’t live without Ryan. If he says no, I’ll surely cave, and a year from now we’ll have a baby.

And even though I love him, I’ll resent him for the rest of my life. I’ll hate myself for it—and maybe he won’t even know. But that’s what will happen. And little by little, it will poison everything.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

I smile up at him. “Bad habit.”

He slides off the stool, then cups his hands on my ass to pull me close. “Kiss me.”

I tilt my head. “Kiss and make up? I don’t think that was actually a fight.”

“Oh, Kitten, believe me. If you don’t kiss me, there will definitely be a fight.”

I hold back a laugh, but my whole body is tingling from the scent of him. From the pressure of his body against mine. I slide my arms around his neck and rise up to claim his mouth. It’s both soft and hard, and the moment his fingers twine in my hair and his tongue finds mine, that tingle turns into a torrent. A wild wave of need so intense that I really, really wish that it was bedtime or nap time or any sort of away time for the kiddo.

But no. His mom won’t be back for hours, and that means I have to wait to get what I want. Ryan knows it, too, and when he gently pushes back, a wave of desperation crashes over me, and I have to fight the urge to draw him close, strip him bare, and scar the kid for life.

As if he knows what I’m thinking—and considering this is Ryan, he probably does—he chuckles softly. I feel the low rumble in his chest more than I hear it. Our eyes meet for a moment, then he eases behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders, the brush of his thumbs on the back of my neck sending shivers up my spine.

His breath tickles my ear as he leans close, and I freeze when he whispers, “I want one, Kitten. Not today. Not next week. But one of these days you need to stop being scared.”

I stay frozen, expecting him to walk on. To say something else. To do anything but what he’s doing, which is standing behind me, his palm now resting lightly on my shoulder.

It’s like a reverse staring contest, but it’s one I’m determined to win.

And as David stands up, then plops down on his bottom, then laughs his little head off before doing it all over again, Ryan bends over and kisses my head. Then he walks away from me, crossing the room to grab David and swing him up into the air, sending the little demon into peals of joyous laughter.

Chapter Two

“He was an angel,” I tell a disbelieving Emery as we sip white wine on the deck and watch the sun set over the Pacific.

Said “angel” is curled up on the outdoor sofa, his thumb in his mouth and his duck-covered blanket spread over him.

“A really rambunctious, adorable angel,” I amend, making her laugh.

“They don’t call them the terrible twos for nothing. I owe you big-time.”

I wave the words away, then top off our glasses. “Seriously, it wasn’t any trouble.” The weird part is that I’m actually telling the truth. And, yes, I may be a bit wiped out—and definitely not ready for one of my own—but little David and I’d both had a good time. Especially when Ryan joined us in the shallow end of the pool, and we indulged in a rambunctious game of Splash Ryan.

“I’m really glad to hear it. I’d hate to feel guilty about one of the best days I’ve had in a long, long time.”

“Oh, really?” I settle back against my seat cushion. “Do tell.”

Even in the dimming light, I can see color rise on her cheeks. Emery’s a natural redhead, and she wears her hair cut short in the same pixie style Natalie Portman sported for a while. She’s got the face to pull it off, too. A rather pale face now dotted with freckles backlit by the glow of her blush.

“Well, now you really have to tell me,” I say.

“You’re so evil.”

I lift my glass. “It’s only been a couple of months, but it’s like you’ve known me forever. Come on. Don’t leave me hanging.”

“Let’s just say that you did me a serious solid. It’s hard to—um—scratch certain itches when you have a toddler.”

“So you no longer need Benadryl?”

She tilts her head and gives me one of those looks.

“Fine,” I say. “That was lame. But it’s not my fault.” I extend my hand in greeting. “Jamie Archer Hunter. I’m the girl who doesn’t do euphemisms for sex.” Despite that speech, I lower my voice on the last word. Just in case the kid is playing possum.

Emery leans forward, propping her elbows on the glass top of the table. “In that case, let me rephrase. “I haven’t been fucked that thoroughly since long before David was born. So, yes, I owe you one.”

“Interesting,” I say, swirling my wine. “So is this going to be a thing?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure. FWB, maybe, but I don’t think he’s permanent. Honestly, I’m not even looking for permanent.” She nods toward David. “He’s my priority now. That and the secondary priority of giving my vibrator a break every month or so.”

“Cheers to that,” I say, raising my glass.

She glances toward the house where Ryan is working inside. “Really?”

“Oh, not like that,” I say. “I mean giving Ryan a break by dusting off the vibrator.”

She almost spits out the wine she’d just sipped as she tries to choke back a laugh. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. My only excuse is that I drank too much today.”

“As good an excuse as any.” I lean forward. “Listen, I think it’s great that you’re not just out there auditioning daddies for David. You’re a good mom with a solid job and friends who can help you out. And being a mom is a full-time job, too, so grab the fun when you can. And if you find a permanent guy along the way, then great. But you don’t have to go looking for him.”

“Thanks.”

“And we’ll babysit most anytime.”

“Really? Don’t get me wrong, I’ll definitely take you up on that. But I see you with the Stark kids and their cousins often enough that I didn’t think you’d want to add another regular into the mix. Didn’t you tell me you aren’t on the mommy track?”

“The babysitting thing is like spending other people’s money. All the fun without the responsibility and angst and hormones. And one more’s not that much trouble. But let’s be clear.” I point my finger for emphasis. “It’s only an offer for when Ryan’s home, too.”

“Got it. Basically, you’re planning to pawn the duty off on your husband.”

“Well, duh. I’m not stupid.”

She grins. “You really aren’t. But be careful.” There’s a tease in her voice when she says, “That man’s already got the fever.”

I shake my head, not understanding.

“Oh, come on, Jamie. He’s got babies on the brain.”

“No,” I say automatically. Then, “Okay, yes, he wants one. So do I. Eventually. But not now. We even talked about it this morning. And we’ve agreed that the whole baby thing is for later.” Much later.

“Gotcha,” she says. “I guess I had the impression he wanted—never mind.”

“What?”

“It’s just that I see him on the beach sometimes when I’m out playing with David. And, well, I’m no Jamie Archer, but I can pull off a bikini.”

“Not really understanding where you’re going with this.”

“Just that Ryan’s never once looked my way other than a polite wave or greeting. But—” she continues before I can ask her what that has to do with anything, “—my little guy? Ryan’s got puppy-dog eyes for him. I’m talking serious daddy lust.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, like I said—eventually we want kids. But not right now.”

She nods slowly. “And you two are on the same page about that?”

“Of course.” I say the words easily, but I know they’re a lie. No matter how much I want to pretend otherwise, Ryan wants a baby right now. And from what Emery says, he wants it even more than I realized.

But he’s waiting because he knows I’m not ready.

The trouble is, I’m not sure I ever will be.

* * * *

Emery and David haven’t even been gone fifteen minutes when I pour myself another glass of wine, pick up my phone, and dial Nikki for no reason other than to avoid going inside and talking to my husband.

This is really not a good sign.

I mean, I love Ryan more than I could ever hope to describe. He’s more than my person; he’s my whole life. And I’ve always been able to talk to him about anything and everything under the sun.

Okay, most anything and everything. When I’m not being, well, me.

But that was the old Jamie. The new Jamie’s happy in love and in marriage. She’s just a little uncertain about that baby carriage.

Jamie, girl, you are really starting to lose it.

The phone rings for a third time but nobody picks up. I’m not surprised. Nikki and Damien took the kids to their cottage at The Resort At Cortez for the weekend. Which means I have to wait through one more day before I can sit her down and spew my angst all over her.

I draw a breath. I can make it. Hell, knowing me, by Monday I’ll be off and running on another angst entirely. Like, say, Dead Certain.

We haven’t even started filming, and already the movie has massive buzz. Not just because it’s the first movie Carson Donnelly has made since his debut studio release—Rat Trap—pretty much set the world on fire. I’ve been a fan for years, ever since he hit the big time with his edgy and stylistic indie films that not only killed it across all the streaming services, but also blew up at the actual box office.

I’d been fortunate enough to meet him at a party, and we’d spent most of the party boring the teeth off of Ryan and Carson’s then-girlfriend.

At the time, he had just started producing a series of documentaries about stars and directors. He’d seen me on air as an entertainment reporter and asked if I wanted to conduct the interviews.

Naturally, I leaped at the chance.

Not long after that, he saw me in my first—and so far only—starring role in Intercontinental, which was a massive hit. I’d been his top choice for the female lead in Dead Certain, and he’d become my new best friend.

Sorry, Nicholas.

“What did you do to Nikki?”

I had no idea I’d said that out loud, and I whirl to find Ryan standing behind me. “Eavesdropping much?”

“Damien’s my best friend. If you’re looking to off his wife, we’re going to have words.”

I smirk. “Just thinking about Carson, actually.”

He settles onto the chaise closest to the hot tub. “Now you’re making me jealous.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t leave you.” I move to the chaise and straddle him, so that my knees and calves are on the padding and my thighs are tight against his waist. “I’d hate for you to have to go kill such a talented director in a fit of wild jealousy.”

He cups my neck and pulls me toward him until I have to put my hands out on either side of his head to keep me steady. “You’re not wrong,” he says. “Anyone messes with my woman…”

I brush my lips over his, then sit up and slowly unbutton my shirt. Technically, it’s his. I’d taken one of his old button-downs and whacked the sleeves off to make it summer-friendly. Then I tied it at my waist for a cheap version of a halter.

Now, I untie it, then slip it off my shoulders and let it fall to the decking. I wriggle out of my shorts next, and let them fall to the ground, too.

“This is getting very interesting,” he says as his eyes skim over my very ratty panties—the comfy ones with loose elastic around the thighs—and my utterly un-sexy sports bra.

“Is it? How about we make it more interesting?”

His narrowed eyes are full of heat. “I could be convinced.”

Slowly, I undo the hook and eyes holding my bra together at my cleavage. I drop it on Ryan’s head, making him choke back a laugh. Then I rise up a bit and start to shimmy out of the panties.

He presses his hand over mine. “Leave them.”

I lean back a bit. “Oh?”

He cups my chin, then tugs me forward until I’m just slightly off balance. “Tell me, wife of mine. To what do I owe this very delightful pleasure?”

“Are you filing a complaint?”

“Hardly.” He slowly looks me up and down, his gaze as potent as a caress and somehow even more intimate. I feel the warmth spread through my body, the intensity of his gaze making me feel more than a little exposed, something I never feel around Ryan.

“What?” I whisper, but he doesn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Instead, he traces his fingertip along the loose thigh-band of my panties, then slips it just barely inside so that I feel the heat of his skin in that sensitive area between my thigh and my core.

A shudder runs through my body, a sensual rush, and I close my eyes, arching back just a little as his fingers stroke and tease, dancing close to my clit, but never quite close enough, and never inside me.

“I love the way you feel,” he whispers, as I rock my hips, silently begging for more. “But that’s not the way this game is played.”

“Then teach me the rules.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You,” I whisper.

“Kitten.” His voice is hard now, the soft edges buried under the weight of his own need. “Tell me all of it.”

“You. Please, god, Hunter, I want more.” Even the name excites me. It’s what I call him when he’s claiming me. Not just a nickname or a surname; it’s who and what he is. “Please,” I beg. “I want you touching me. Fucking me.” I grind against him in a futile attempt to make his fingers dance more. Play more.

Play.

I close my eyes, thinking about the feel of his palm on my ass. Silk ties at my wrists and ankles. The pleasure of submitting completely. Of revealing myself completely. And knowing that in the moment when he takes me, he’s fully revealed to me, too.

Is that what I want now? Heat? Submission?

More accurately, is that what I need?

I gasp as he thrusts his fingers inside me. The move is hard, unexpected, and I cry out as every cell in my body surrenders to him.

“That’s it, Kitten,” he says as I rock against him, every thrust driving his fingers deeper inside and teasing my clit just a little more against the pad of his thumb.

I open my eyes, my hips still moving, that wonderful pressure still building as my breath stutters and my body burns. Our eyes meet, and in that moment I know just how much he wants me. The knowledge humbles me, because how the hell did a wreck of a girl like me land a husband like Ryan Hunter?

“Hunter.” His name is a plea, and he shakes his head, then slowly pulls his hand away. I whimper, but he only grins. “Show me,” he says, sliding back so that he’s sitting more upright on the chaise. “Show me exactly what you want.”

“You know what I want.” I glance down to where his very hard cock is not even remotely hidden under the fleece of his gray sweatpants. I untie them, then tug the loose material down, revealing what I am confident is among the top five perfect cocks of all time.

I tease him with the tip of my tongue, from the base to the tip, and am rewarded with his long, deep sigh of pleasure. Then I take him in further, but not too far. This is a dance. A tease. A courtship. And as my mouth makes promises, my hands tug the sweats further down.

I leave my ministrations for just a moment to tug them all the way off, and his low groan of protest is like the highest praise of all.

I straddle one leg, then kiss my way back up, riding his muscled calf, the brush of the silky panties like an erotic tease against my hungry core.

He’s hard as stone when I take him into my mouth again, and I’m half-delirious with lust as I grind against his knee, my body getting tighter and tighter, every sensation circling down to one intense point of pleasure.

He’s close, too. I know his body as well as I know my own, and I draw in a breath, anticipating an explosion that will rival the creation of the universe.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, he pushes me away.

“What—”

He lifts a finger to his lips, shushing me. Then he tugs his sweatpants back up, adjusts the back of the chaise so he’s sitting more upright, and casually spreads his legs before looking at me and saying, “Stand up.”

I lift a brow. “Rewinding?”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “I think someone took charge without asking permission. Didn’t you, Kitten?”

Oh.

I force myself not to smile. Instead, I try to stand still and stoic, but inside I’m a jittery mess of anticipation.

“Didn’t you?” he repeats.

“Yes, Sir.”

He doesn’t smile, but I think I see a spark of approval in those gorgeous eyes.

“Stay still,” he orders, and I try not to move as he gets up, goes to the outdoor bar, and pours himself a glass of wine. When he comes back, he sits in the big chair instead of the chaise, his wine on the table beside him. “Show me what you want,” he orders, relaxing back in the chair, his legs slightly spread and his hands on the armrests.

I take a step toward him.

“No. Stop.”

I do.

“I told you to show me.”

The demand I hear in those words whips through me, lashing my insides in a way that fires all of my senses and sends heat coursing through my blood. I draw a stuttering breath, then lift my hands to cup my bare breasts, watching his face as I do.

I’m rewarded by a familiar tightness in his jaw—so very subtle, but I know it well. It’s a sign that he’s holding tight to control, and the knowledge sends a burst of power through me. And that one little taste makes me crave more.

I’m beyond turned on, desperate to be fucked. I’m a woman reduced to nothing but pure desire and a wild craving for the sensation of his touch.

Want. Need.

That’s all I am, and though I try to remember when I’ve been this hungry for him, I can’t. It’s as if I’ll die if he’s not inside me soon, and yet I don’t want to sacrifice this sensual dance.

With my eyes locked on his, I slide one hand down my belly until my fingers reach the band of my panties. Deliberately, I hold his eyes, then slowly draw my gaze down, down, down in time with the motion of my hands, so that as I slide my fingers into my slick cunt, I’m looking straight at his cock. Watching it grow harder as I grow wetter. Knowing he’s watching me, watching him.

But he doesn’t move, and there’s something about the battle we’re in now that’s wildly erotic. My nipples ache, my skin is on fire, and I think I might just die if he’s not inside me soon.

When he lowers his hand and starts to stroke his cock through the fleece, I have to fight back a whimper as I rock my hips against my hand, finger-fucking myself as he watches. Wanting to take him to the edge.

I know I’m supposed to wait, but I can’t. I give the band a tug, then wiggle my hips, using my free hand to help slide them down until they fall to the ground, and I’m standing naked in front of him, one hand on my breast, the other teasing my G-spot as I struggle to stand up when all I want to do is straddle and ride this man.

I expect him to call me over. To order me onto him. Or for him to stand, then throw me down onto the chaise and pound himself inside of me.

But he doesn’t. He stays perfectly still.

So that’s the game.

I stop, then slowly ease my hand out from between my legs.

“Don’t.”

I lift my chin, but I don’t put my hand back, even though I’m so damn close that all I want is to go over.

“Kitten…”

I shake my head. “I want you. Your hand. Your cock.”

He raises a single brow. “Did I say you could talk?”

I force myself not to smile and instead lower my eyes. I want to push back. To say that he should probably punish me. But I won’t. I can’t. Because I’m quite certain I know what that punishment would be. And I’m far too turned-on tonight to go the self-sacrifice route simply to score a win.

I’d rather lose and score an orgasm. Or ten.

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