EROTICA...EARLY MORNING HOTNESS

**Warning: this book is 100% panty-soaking alpha! Get ready to beg--and love every minute of it** ADULTS ONLY

Most women don't know the pleasure of total surrender,You've fantasized about it,he doesn't mean it when he makes you beg for him, doesn't push you to the limits of your pleasure and demand everything you have to give--and more.
You wonder, what would it be like with a man who truly commanded you? How sweet would the release be, giving yourself up completely?
No limits.
No boundaries.
His control.
 let the hotness begin #wink




ONE: ISABELLA
“Where are we going? Why won’t you tell me?”
Brent doesn’t answer my questions, he just drives the Maserati like he’s in the Indy 500. He
screeches down the dark Manhattan streets with a scowl on his face.
I grip the inside door and try to remember how many drinks he’s had.
“Maybe you should slow down?” I suggest softly. “You don’t want to get pulled over. Not
after all the trouble you’ve had this year.”
Trouble is an understatement. His father died a few months ago, and left the Ashcroft fortune
to a daughter nobody even knew he had. Brent did everything he could to win the money back—
and nearly went to jail.
But it’s the wrong thing to say right now, when he’s wound up like this. His scowl deepens. I
close my eyes and say a prayer as he hurtles through another amber light, until finally he pulls up
to the curb with a screech.
I open my eyes. We’re in the middle of nowhere: a sketchy street in a deserted part of town.
“What is this place?”
Brent gives me a cruel grin. “You’ll like it, baby, I promise.”
I slowly get out of the car. I thought we were heading to one of his favorite nightclubs, so I
dressed up: a short metallic mini-dress, high stiletto heels. He likes to show me off and see every
head turn when we walk in the door. I sometimes feel like I’m performing, putting on an act and
pretending to be someone I’m not, but it always makes him happy.
It’s easier when he’s happy.
Brent takes my arm and leads me to a discreet door in the front of an old warehouse building.
We step through it, and my confusion grows.
Inside, there’s a luxurious lobby area. Dark velvets, polished wood, antique chandeliers. A
beautiful woman in a lace dress waits behind the desk.
Brent strides over. “Brent Ashcroft,” he announces. There was a time when that name would
open doors all over the city, but she just gives him a polite smile.
“Are you a member here?”
Brent glares back. “I’m invited.”
“Yes, of course,” she soothes him, seeing the expression on his face. “Has your host checked
in already? I can have them fetched.”
“No need.” There’s a voice from the staircase, and a balding guy in a pinstripe suit arrives.
It’s one of Brent’s old college friends. Paxton, I think.
I’ve never liked him. He’s from old money, the kind Brent is always trying to impress.
Whenever we’ve hung out together, Paxton always drinks too much and gropes the waitresses—
and the way he looks at me makes my skin crawl.
He comes over to greet us, shaking Brent’s hand and then kissing me on both cheeks. His
hands linger on my waist too long. I try not to shrink away.
“Are you ready?” he asks, a gleam in his eyes.
“She will be,” Brent answers for me, before I can get a word out. “I can’t wait to look
around. See if this place lives up to the hype.”
The receptionist passes us some legal forms to sign. Brent scribbles without a glance, but I
try to read the small print.
The Underground will not be held liable for damage or injury.... you hereby waive all rights
to legal action....
“What is this place again?” I ask, my heart beating faster.
Brent fixes me with a look. “Don’t worry about it.”
Still, I hesitate. He sighs. “Are you going to be a fucking pussy again?” he whispers, an edge
to his voice now. He glances to where Paxton is trying to flirt with the receptionist. “Don’t fuck
this up for me, OK? I need him to invest in my new big idea.”
Brent gets a new big idea every week. And each time, he swears, this is the one: the company
that will launch him back to his former glory.
I sign the waiver with a shaking hand. I wish I hadn’t come out tonight, but Brent insisted.
Ever since he lost his money, he’s been living at my apartment: driving my car, using my credit
cards. He loses his temper all the time now, ranting about his ‘bad luck’ and all the people
who’ve conspired to bring him down. I miss the way he used to be, but I know he’s still a good
man under all that frustration.
Sometimes, though, part of me wonders if he’ll ever be happy again. Or if his happiness was
just about the money and the power.
“Follow me.” Paxton gives me a sleazy grin. I follow them past the bouncer and upstairs.
It’s a club of some kind, I realize with relief as we step out of the hallway. A long bar across
one wall. Booths and tables. Classy and discreet, and obviously very exclusive. The people here
are dressed up, too: suits for the men, plunging dresses and short skirts on the women.
“What do you think?” Brent murmurs to me. He slides one arm around my waist, finally
looking relaxed.
“It looks great!” I say brightly, hoping the fight is over.
He smirks. “Kinky bitch.”
I don’t understand what he means. Then a man strolls past, leading a woman on a jewelencrusted
leash.
Suddenly, with a jolt, I realize.
He brought me to a sex club.
“Wait,” I panic, pulling back. My mind races. What is he planning? “Brent, I can’t—”
“Don’t be a prude.” Brent drops a possessive kiss on my lips. “C’mon, sis.”
I feel a familiar shudder of shame and self-loathing. “Don’t call me that,” I whisper.
He laughs. “But you are.”
“No,” I insist. “I’m not.”
Brent and I aren’t related. Ashcroft adopted him when he was a little kid, and then me, years
later, when I was twelve. But I still feel the shame, knowing what people would think if they
knew the truth about us.
In a way, they’re right. The Ashcroft’s are the only family I’ve ever known, and Brent is the
one relationship that’s dominated my entire adult life.
“Just relax, baby,” he soothes me. Brent gives me another kiss, slow and tender. I feel myself
start to relax again. “I planned this for you. You’ll like it, I promise.”
He strokes my cheek and I waver, torn. Leaving would mean another big fight, and I’m so
tired of fighting with him.
“Just come check the place out,” Brent urges. “Trust me. I’ll take care of you.”
I take a shaky breath. I have to admit, part of me is curious about the place. Brent doesn’t
wait for my reply, just leads me after Paxton, into the next room. This one is smaller than the
main bar, with a raised platform set up like a stage. There’s some kind of bench in the middle,
and people are clustering around to watch.
Brent sees my expression and laughs. “Don’t worry, that’s not for us. I’ve got something
even better planned.”
My stomach ties in knots as he leads me down a long, dark hallway. Paxton is waiting by a
door at the end. “See?” Brent encourages, guiding me inside. “Private. Just for us.”
The room is small and luxuriously furnished. There’s a four-poster bed in the middle of the
room, covered with crisp linens, and a rack full of objects I can’t make out in the dark.
I let out a breath of relief. This, I can deal with. Maybe Brent just wants to fool around here a
little, while Paxton goes and enjoys the rest of the club.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and turn to Brent with a smile. “You want to take a nap?” I
joke, patting the bed beside me.
He watches me with a weird look on his face. Possessive, but thrilled too.
“You’re not going to sleep tonight. I’ve got plans for you.”
“Like what?” I smile, leaning back. I kick my shoes off, getting comfortable.
Brent goes to the rack, and lifts down something. It looks like a paddle, with a smooth
wooden handle and a flat square body. “We’re going to play a game,” he says.
I pause, staring at the paddle. “What kind of game?”
“It’s called, ‘Would You Rather.’” Brent walks over to me. He reaches down and takes hold
of my jaw. His thumb traces over my lips. I shiver, feeling a strange pulse of excitement. We’ve
never done anything like this before. Brent usually isn’t this imaginative.
“How does it work?” I ask, teasing.
He grins. “Simple. I offer you two options. You have to pick one.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Brent eases his thumb into my mouth. I lick at it, and he shudders with
excitement. “Damn, baby. I knew you’d be hot.”
Hot. That’s what he wants from me tonight. For me to be kinky and wild for him, not the
innocent ice-princess he usually loves.
I can do that. I can play pretend.
I fake a moan, sucking his thumb deeper into my mouth. Brent’s breathing turns heavy.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You better come get started before I take her myself.”
I wonder who he’s talking to. Then Paxton steps out from the shadows.
I pull back. “What’s he doing here?” I demand in panic. I expect Brent to throw him out, but
he just grins.
“Relax,” he urges me again. “This is all part of the game.”
I look at Paxton. He’s watching me with a lewd expression on his face. This isn’t right, but
Brent is still waiting, still stroking my cheek.
“It’s time for you first decision.” Brent tells me. “Don’t let me down,” he adds, and the note
of warning in his voice is clear. He needs to impress this guy, and I’m part of the show.
“Would you rather have me paddle you?” he asks, his eyes dark with power. “Or suck my
friend’s cock?”
 

TWO: CAM

“You need a girlfriend.”
I look over at my friend Dax and raise an eyebrow. “Anyone in mind?”
I nod at the two-way mirror that lines the wall of his office, looking out on the main floor of
the Underground club. Outside, at least a dozen women are drinking in the bar. Young, hot, and
looking for a partner to fulfill their wildest, kinkiest fantasies tonight.
Dax shakes his head. “Not a girl to scene with. Someone to date, too. You know, dinners,
wine, romance.” He gives me a look. “Or has it been so long that you’ve forgotten what a real
relationship looks like?”
I take a sip of whiskey. The good stuff—Dax keeps a case of Macallan in the back at all times
for me. I shake my head. “I don’t have time for a girlfriend.”
“You come here every Friday night.”
“That’s different.”
Dax chuckles. “It doesn’t have to be. Pick someone, then take her out for dinner before you
tie her up. Aren’t you always complaining about going to those business functions alone?”
I tense. “Out of the question.” I say sharply. “What happens here, stays here. That’s your
number one rule,” I remind him.
He sighs, world-weary. “I’m just saying, Cam, this doesn’t have to be a dirty little secret.
Plenty of guys form relationships with their subs. Some even say it’s better that way. A deeper
connection.”
I clench my jaw. Dax knows, I keep my life at the club strictly private, totally separated from
my normal world. By day, I’m a high-powered executive, second-in-command at a global
corporation, Ashcroft Industries. Since my boss and mentor, Charles Ashcroft, died last year, it’s
been down to me to oversee the everyday operations of the company—and guide his daughter,
Keely, as she takes his place.
Here, they know me only as ‘Master,’ one of the most feared and desired doms on the scene.
No name. No identity. No messy loose ends following me when I walk out the door.
It’s not a choice, it’s a necessity. The only way to maintain control.
And control, to me, is everything.
“My life is fine the way it is,” I tell him, a warning note in my voice.
Dax knows me well enough to drop it. He changes the subject. “What have you got planned
tonight? I saw you already gave that blonde a workout.”
I relax, remembering her cries of pleasure, and how her beautiful skin mottled with the
precise strokes of my crop. “I’m not sure yet. I might try the Sapphire room.”
Dax looks surprised. “I didn’t think that was your thing.”
The Underground consists of a main bar and a room for public displays, as well as a series of
private suites named after precious jewels—catering to more individual tastes. The Sapphire
room is for exhibitionists, set up to allow other, anonymous people to watch from the other
rooms.
I shrug, swirling my whiskey in the glass. “I can try new things.”
He gives me a look, like he’s not buying it. The truth is, he’s right. My desires are simple in
their nature.
Domination. Surrender. Control.
But lately, the pleasures of the club haven’t satisfied my cravings the way they used to. Even
the most practiced, artful subs here don’t quench my desires. The blonde earlier this evening
once would have thrilled me beyond measure. Now, I’m already looking for my next conquest,
the next woman to soar under my words and part her thighs, free and hungry for my cock.
“Well, take your pick.” Dax turns back to the two-way mirror. “You know there’s not a single
woman here tonight who wouldn’t love to scene with you. It’s that damn Scottish accent,” he
adds, smirking. “They all want their Outlander fantasies brought to life.”
I laugh. It’s true; since moving to the States five years ago, I haven’t been short on female
attention—in the club, or out of it.
Then I see her, and choke on my drink.
“Whoa, you OK, buddy?” Dax asks.
I shake my head, watching her walk across the room. Long blonde hair swishing around her
shoulders. A lithe, elegant body poured into a skin-tight mini-dress and sexy stiletto heels. She
looks like a fucking supermodel, right down to that bored, ice-queen stare.
The most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, and the most unattainable. The one who’s
haunted my most private fantasies ever since we met.
Isabelle Ashcroft.
Dax follows my gaze. He whistles. “She’s new. I’d remember that face. And that ass.”
“I know her,” I growl, suddenly tense even though I’m invisible to anyone on the other side
of the glass. And even if she saw me, I doubt she’d remember my name. The few times we met in
passing at the office, she made it clear: I’m insignificant.
Only in my dreams does she moan my name and gasp for my total control. Her thighs open,
her luscious wet mouth wrapped eagerly around my cock.
Following my every command. Surrendering to who she really is in the bliss of my
domination.
My gaze goes to the men with her, and now my bad mood only gets worse. She’s still
hanging around that asshole Brent, trailing behind a paunchy, sneering guy.
Of all the places for her to show up. The irony is, I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on her.
My new boss, Keely, wanted me to check up and make sure Isabelle was doing OK after her
father’s death. As far as I could tell, she’s fine. Still swanning around New York in her designer
outfits, still treating everyone like they’re beneath her.
But the look on her face as she follows Brent to the hallway doesn’t look fine.
“Come on, I see a couple of VIPs I need to show around.” Dax rises, blocking my view. He
gets important people in here all the time. Celebrities, politicians, executives like me—all drawn
to the exclusive anonymity of the club.
I finish my drink and stand.
“I mean it, though,” Dax adds, as we’re heading for the door. “A new scene every night... it’s
not enough for you, Cam. You need something real.”
I smile and nod, but he couldn’t be more wrong. The desires I indulge here are real.
Sometimes they feel more real than any other part of me, a dark craving that threatens to take
over everything.
I keep it locked away here. Safe. Controlled.
It’s the only way.
* * *
I linger in the bar for another drink, checking out the scene. A few women approach me, eyes
obediently trained on the floor, but I politely send them away.
I’m still rattled from seeing Isabelle here. My two worlds colliding. And I don’t like it at all.
She’s nowhere to be seen now, and she never even saw me, thank God.
But I’m supposed to be watching out for her. And I know something wasn’t right.
Reluctantly, I slam down my glass and head off down the hallway, towards the private suites.
Some doors are ajar, inviting, but she’s not in any of the scenes.
Then I hear a cry, coming from the end of the hall.
Noises are common here. Moans of pain, screams of pleasure. But there’s nothing
pleasurable about this sound.
“Stop, please, Brent.” I hear her voice clearer. “You’re hurting me!”
Without thinking, I charge down the dark hall and throw open the door.
 

THREE: ISABELLE
Before I was Isabelle Ashcroft, I went by a different name. A thousand miles away from the
penthouse apartment and designer boutiques, a place I swore I’d never think about again.
But crouched here on my knees, my wrists cuffed to the bedposts, it comes back to me again.
Not the memories, but the feeling. Desperation and hurt. That I let myself be treated like this.
That I had trusted someone who didn’t care about me at all.
Brent brings the flogger down against my naked back with a grunt. I flinch, even though I
don’t feel the physical pain. For all the hours he spends preening in the gym, he doesn’t have the
strength to really hurt me.
No, my pain is deeper than that.
“Stop,” I beg again, my tears running hotly down my cheeks. “Please!” I can’t stand the
humiliation, the eyes I feel on my back while I lay here, helpless.
“She likes it,” Paxton’s voice comes from the corner, where he’s watching, pants down,
rubbing eagerly at his pale, flaccid cock. “Give it to her again. Harder.”
My whole body tenses as Brent hits me again. I tug at my restraints, but it’s no use. He
buckled them too tight, and now every movement makes the leather bite painfully into my wrists.
“Brent!”
Suddenly, there’s a crash behind us. I twist my head around as a strange man charges into the
room.
“Don’t you fucking touch her.” His voice is low with rage, a Scottish accent, but I can’t see
him, I’m tied too tight.
“Who the hell are you?” Brent demands. A moment later, I hear the shocking crack of a fist
making impact with bone. Brent’s body goes flying to the ground.
“Now wait a minute—” Paxton blusters from the corner.
The stranger ignores him. He comes straight to me. “It’s OK,” he says. I try to turn, to see
him, but I can’t move. All I can hear is his voice, low and soothing. The kind of voice you can
trust. “I’ve got you now.”
He swiftly unbuckles my wrists, freeing me. I lunge back, moving my hands to cover myself.
I’m in my lingerie, my dress crumpled on the floor where Brent stripped it off me.
“Who are you?” I demand, my head spinning with panic and shock.
In the dim light, I can’t make out his features. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, towering
above me. But his touch is gentle as he shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around me.
“A friend,” he says. “You can trust me.”
There’s a groan from the floor. Brent is crawling to his knees, nursing a bloody nose. “I’ll
fucking sue you for this!” he rages. “Animal! Do you have any idea who I am?”
The stranger doesn’t even look over. All his focus is directed on me. His eyes are dark, and
filled with compassion. “We’re leaving now,” he tells me softly. “You’re safe.”
I give a shaky nod, scrambling to grab my purse from the table by the bed.
Then the stranger lifts me effortlessly in his arms, and strides out of the room without a
backwards glance. I hide my face against his chest, remembering all the people in the bar, but he
turns a different way instead, toward the back of the building. He opens an unmarked door,
descends a staircase, and then we’re in the alleyway.
“My car is just down the block.”
I try to get down. “I can walk,” I insist, even though I feel shaky as hell. But the stranger
doesn’t release me, and I have no choice but to be carried: pressed against his solid chest,
crushed safely in his arms.
He stops beside a classic black Bentley, opens the door, and gently places me in the
passenger seat. After buckling my seatbelt he crosses around and gets in the driver’s side.
In the dashboard light, I can see his face properly for the first time. I startle.
“I know you!”
“Cam,” he says, and I see his jaw is clenched in tension. “Cameron McCullough. I worked
for your father.”
“At the company.” I’m reeling now. I would see him around the office, his intense blue eyes
always looking at me with disapproval, like I was just a vapid waste of space. But if I’d visit and
didn’t see him, I’d always leave disappointed.
I can’t believe he’s the one who just rescued me.
“I...” I take a deep breath of air, trying to figure out what to say. “Thank you. For coming in
back there.” Those blue eyes are looking at me now, with compassion.
“Of course. He was hurting you.”
Cam starts the engine. It purrs, low and almost silent. “Where can I take you?”
I start to give him my address but then stop. I can’t go back to my apartment, Brent is living
there. He’ll be furious about what happened tonight, and worse, he’ll think it’s all my fault.
“I don’t know,” I lean back against the seat, suddenly exhausted. “A hotel, I guess.”
Cam drives away. I stare out the window at the dark city blurring past. My humiliation and
upset are fading, and anger is forming instead, a tight knot in my stomach.
I can’t believe Brent would do that to me. I thought he cared about me, that I meant
everything to him. That’s what he would tell me, sneaking into my room every night after the
summer I turned sixteen. I’d always looked up to him, so I couldn’t believe it when he said he
was in love with me. It made me feel so special, like I was the center of his world.
Looking back now, I wonder if he ever meant it. Or did he just love being adored? There was
nobody else in my life. Our adoptive father, Ashcroft, was always working, and his wife had
passed away from cancer. It was just me and Brent, us against the world. And our younger
brother got out of the house as soon as he could.
I realize with a shock that it’s been four years now. I’ve been his plaything all this time. His
dirty little secret, he would call me, no matter how much I told myself it wasn’t true. We aren’t
related, but I could just imagine the whispers and gossip if people knew the truth.
I sneak a look over at Cam, feeling sick to my stomach that he saw me like that. I know
people go to that club for kinky, erotic thrills, but there was nothing sexy about the way Brent
treated me, nothing exciting about being used like a cheap toy.
He betrayed me. He doesn’t love me. Tonight was the sharp blade that cut me away from
him. How could he denigrate me like that?
I’m never going to trust him again.
The car comes to a stop. I look around. “Where are we?”
“My apartment,” Cam answers. “You can stay here with me until we figure something out.
You’ll be safe, don’t worry,” he adds.
“I know,” I reply without thinking. But it’s true. There’s something about this man that
inspires trust. And it’s not just his broad shoulders, the confident way he moves, or his take
charge attitude, although those certainly help. I also remember how my father was always
singing his praises, saying how smart, how driven, how reliable he is.
Cam comes around and opens the door for me. “Are you sure it’s OK?” I ask, following him
up the front steps. It’s a brownstone building on a tree-lined street on the Upper East Side. “I
don’t want to be any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. I don’t want Brent getting anywhere near you,” he says, and I can see the
anger that’s still in his eyes.
The elevator takes us up to the penthouse floor. Cam lets us inside, flipping on the lights.
“There’s a couple of guest rooms. You can take your pick,” he says. “My sister was here visiting
last month, so there are nightclothes she left behind that you can wear.”
I hug my arms around myself and take it all in. Clean, modern, crisp. The huge apartment is
open-plan, with a formal dining area, sitting room, and den all visible from the main hall. Cam
strides down a hallway, and emerges a moment later with an armful of fresh towels and some
clothing.
“Thanks,” I say again, reaching for them. His jacket sleeves slip down to my elbows,
revealing my wrists.
His face darkens. “You’re hurt.”
I look down. My wrists are bruised and tender—I didn’t even realize I was struggling against
the restraints so hard. “It’s fine,” I say, self-conscious.
Cam just gives me a look. “Go sit down in the kitchen.”
I want to protest. I’m tired, and I just want a hot bath and then bed, but there’s something in
his tone that won’t be denied.
I do as he says.
The kitchen is all dark marble countertops and gleaming appliances. Cam joins me at the
table with a first-aid kit.
“Fucking amateur,” he curses, examining my wounds. I blink. “Not you,” he adds quickly.
“That bastard brother of yours. He doesn’t know the first thing about bondage.”
And you do?
I bite back my reply, looking at Cam with new curiosity. I didn’t even stop to think what he
was doing at the club himself. I wonder, is he into that kind of stuff, too?
Cam carefully applies a cool ointment to my wrists, then bandages them. His touch is firm,
but gentle.
“He’s not my brother,” I blurt suddenly. My cheeks burn up. “Brent. He’s not... We were
adopted.”
Cam looks up. His eyes are dark, intense. They seem to see right through me.
My heart beats faster.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
“I know, I just...” I can’t look away. Something about him is so magnetic: the confidence that
exudes from every pore. The quiet control in every movement.
Who is this man?
“All done.” Cam suddenly sets my hands down, breaking the moment. “Do you need
anything else?”
I shake my head quickly. “No. Thank you. You’ve already done so much. I’m just going to
take a bath, and then sleep. I’m worn out.”
“It’s been a long night.”
The guest room I pick is huge, decorated in soothing pale blues and grays. There’s an equally
big bathroom attached, with a deep tub. Cam turns on the faucets for me, running the water into
the huge tub.
“You should have everything right here,” he says, nodding to the stack of towels and counter
of expensive bath products. “But if you need me, just yell.”
“Thanks,” I mumble again. “Goodnight.”
He closes the door behind him, and suddenly it hits me, how alone I am. But I won’t let
myself dwell on that right now.
I grab a bottle from the rack and pour it in. Frothy bubbles billow up around me, and the
scent of lavender fills the room. Soon, the tub is full.
I quickly strip off his jacket and my lingerie and slip into the steaming hot water. Ah.
I sink back, relaxing for the first time all night. My back stings a little from the flogging, but
I remember what Cam said—Brent clearly didn’t know what he was doing with that thing.
I wonder briefly what the right way would have been. What it would have felt like with
someone experienced standing over me. There was a moment when I first arrived at the club that
I was excited, intrigued to experiment a little. Then it all went horribly wrong.
I duck my head under the faucet to wet my hair, but too late I remember my wrists are
bandaged. As the hot water stings the tender flesh, I quickly pull my arms up and back—and to
my utter embarrassment, knock over a beautiful crystal jar of bath salts. Before I can catch it, it
practically leaps off the side of the tub.
It crashes to the floor, shattering.


FOUR: CAM
I’m downing a shot of whiskey, trying to distract myself from the woman in my apartment,
when I hear a crash from the guest bathroom.
“Isabelle? I’m coming,” I yell. I shouldn’t have left her alone.
I rush to the door and open it without a thought. Thank god, she’s okay. But the sight of her
sets my blood on fire. Isabelle is a vision of loveliness, laying in the bath under a blanket of
bubbles, water running down her wet hair. Then I see the broken crystal all over the floor.
“I’m sorry. It was an accident,” she says.
Walking through the fragrant, steamy room toward the tub, I have to pull my eyes from the
curves of her glistening wet body, artfully concealed beneath mounds of white foam.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I soothe her. “It’s fine. Really.”
As I clean up the glass and scattered bath salt, I can feel her eyes on me, and I have to clench
my jaw to ignore my arousal. She’s been through hell tonight, I remind myself. The last thing she
wants is another asshole trying to take advantage.
Once I’m sure the floor is clear, I rinse my hands at the sink, trying not to look at Isabelle’s
reflection in the vanity mirror. Even though every part of me wants to stay here with her, I finally
dry my hands and turn to go.
“Wait,” she says.
I stop, and my pulse races again.
“I was trying to wash my hair, before. But my wrists—”
She holds them out, and seeing the wet bandages wrapped around them, I realize: she needs
help.
“I just wanted to wash that place off me...” Her voice almost breaks.
“And you need a hand,” I finish. She nods.
She’s a friend in need, I tell myself. Nothing more. In fact, she’s not even a friend. She’s just
the daughter of my deceased boss, and Charles Ashcroft certainly wouldn’t approve of the
thoughts running through my head.
But although I hadn’t expected to see Isabelle tonight, I know I can’t turn my back on her. It
would be ungentlemanly.
I can maintain control. It’s what I do best.
“Anything the lady needs,” I reply lightly, unbuttoning my cuffs and rolling up my shirt
sleeves.
I settle on the edge of the tub, catching sight of flushed, pink skin draped in bubbles. Isabelle
looks nervous. Awaiting my approval. I’ve seen that look before. Raw, yearning and eager to
please. That same expression has decorated the faces of the many women who have writhed and
moaned beneath the teasing touch of my leather riding crop.
I hadn’t expected to see it on Isabelle’s face and I’m caught off guard by the intense surge of
lust that rises in response.
What would she be like under my control?
No. I can’t think that way—not about her. I busy myself with her request instead: turning on
the water, and checking to be sure the temperature is perfect. I lift the shower attachment and
carefully hold it up to her head, letting the water soak her long, golden hair.
Isabelle tips her head back as the hot water pours over her scalp. Squeezing a dollop of
creamy shampoo into my palms, I slide my fingers into her hair. I try to work quickly, detached,
but Isabelle sighs with pleasure.
“That feels like heaven,” she says softly. I can’t resist touching her more, massaging her
scalp in slow strokes. From my position behind her, I can see her lips part sensuously. I fight the
urge to bend down and kiss them, take her plump rosy bottom lip between my teeth.
I’ve never done this for a woman before, and I’m surprised to find how pleasurable the
experience is. I work my fingers through her hair and down her neck, stroking softly as I go.
She surrenders to my touch, lost in the magic of the moment as I knead her shoulders. I’m
painfully aware of the closeness of her full breasts to the tips of my fingers. Wet hair tumbles
over her head and neck, clinging to her slick skin.
It’s torture. All I want to do is slide my soapy hands down into the warm water, caress her
breasts and pinch her pink nipples between my thumbs. Hear those moans deepen. Watch her
arch her back as she thrusts her breasts into my hands. I can see it now, how she’d part her legs
and slide her fingers down to rub her swollen clit. I’d watch it all, commanding her to stroke fast
or slow, depending on my whims. I’d lead her to the edge of release and take it away from her,
again and again. She’d beg and plead for me to let her finish, to end that aching torture.
But I can’t let that happen. She just needs me to take care of her tonight. To help her feel
safe.
I stop my massage and rinse the shampoo from her hair, my movements brisk and clinical.
“All done, now.” I keep my tone light, forcing a smile. I don’t want her to know how turned
on I am. My cock is throbbing.
Isabelle twists to look at me. Her blue eyes are wide, and water spikes her dark lashes.
“Really? No conditioner?” she teases, handing me a second bottle.
Fuck. Here we go again. I force myself to stay cool. Lather, rinse, repeat.
But this time, I can’t help my fantasies. I find myself wrapping her long hair around my fist,
thinking how much I’d like to tug her head back. Push my stiff cock into her hot, wet, willing
mouth. How I’d fuck her throat, how good her soft lips would feel teasing the head of my cock.
Her tongue flicking against the sensitive ridge, her lush mouth working my cock into ecstasy.
“Don’t stop,” Isabelle sighs. “It feels so good.”
It’s all I can do to resist pulling her to me.
Her slick wet body offers itself to my touch. My fingers tighten in her hair. I pull.
She gasps. Her mouth opens, her eyes close. It’s perfect. She’s perfect.
She reaches for me, rising from the water. Soap suds pour from her skin and reveal perfect
breasts, nipples taut with excitement. Steaming water drips from her firm buttocks and toned
body, running down toward her delicious pussy.
My cock shudders.
Isabelle’s eyes flutter open. “Cam?” she murmurs, and the breathless note in her voice hits
me.
It’s like nothing else in this world matters. Nothing else exists but this moment. This exquisite
desire. A tension so electric that the air between us vibrates with passion.
I can think of nothing but fucking her into endless orgasms, sliding my stiff cock into her
tight, dripping pussy. Isabelle thrashing beneath me, scratching her nails down my back as I
thrust against her aching clit. Harder. Deeper. Over and over, until—
“Can you rinse it out now?” Isabelle asks. I realize I’ve left her waiting.
Working my fingers through her silky hair one last time, I try to banish my illicit thoughts. I
can’t believe I’m thinking these things after the night she’s just had, and I realize I need to step
away from the tempting closeness of her naked skin. What the hell has gotten into me? This isn’t
who I am. I’m not some spotty schoolboy creaming in his pants at the sight of a hot blonde. I’ve
commanded dozens of women, dominated them with unyielding control.
But this woman… she is rocking my carefully crafted discipline.
I twist the water off and turn toward the door. “I’ve got some calls to make,” I say brusquely.
“You’re all set now.”
“Cam.” Isabelle grasps my wrist, and the heat of her touch is almost too much to resist. She
tugs me back toward the tub, gazing up at me with a question in her eyes.
“Will you help me out?”
I swear I almost see desire flaring in that gaze, but I must be wrong.
As difficult as it is, I keep my eyes averted while I help her out of the tub, trying to ignore the
way my hands feel against her bare, wet skin. But as I reach for the towel, she’s suddenly
pressing into me, her body molding against my torso, those perfect lips crashing into mine in a
desperate kiss.
It’s incredible. Hot but sweet, and eager as hell. Wrapping my arms around her, my aching
cock pressed against her, I can’t resist returning the kiss, plunging my tongue deep into her
mouth to demand her surrender. I lift her up so I’m holding her in my arms.
Isabelle makes a whimpering noise. God, she has no idea what she’s doing to me. I could
make her come like she never has before. It would be so easy.
But I can’t.
Everything about this is wrong. I feel like I’m taking advantage of her vulnerability and I’m
not that kind of man.
I gently put her down and move away, furious with myself for losing control. But one thing is
certain: it can’t happen again. I won’t allow it. I grab the towel, opening it and handing it to her
as I walk toward the door.
“Get a hold of yourself,” I mutter. I’m not sure whether I’m talking to her or myself.
I stalk from the room, slamming the door shut behind me. I can’t believe I’m leaving Isabelle
standing in there, ready and wanting, but I know she doesn’t need a man like me.

TO BE CONTINUED...TOMORROW.