This book is for my editor,

       Susan Swinwood.

      Thanks for your faith in my

      stories and all your support!

      prologue

      The tip of the feather inched its way along my bottom lip. Such a light, wispy touch, but it sent a jolt of heat through my body, causing me to part my lips and emit a shuddery moan.

      Another stroke. This time across my upper lip. My naked body quivered.

      Quivered with anticipation of the pleasure that was to come.

      The feather traveled lower, over my chin, then crossed the expanse of my neck from left to right. Right to left. All with agonizing slowness.

      Then it stopped. Abruptly. Five seconds went by. I held my breath, waiting for what would come next. The blindfold over my eyes prevented me from seeing, but also heightened my sense of excitement. I could hear every sound in the room, smell everything. Mostly, I heard only my own raspy breaths and the whirring of the ceiling fan above the bed. But I could smell the desire in the room, clinging to drops of warm moisture in the air. I could smell the sweat dampening his skin. The scent was musky and heady.

      And arousing.

      When the feather caressed my left nipple, my body jerked, making my wrists and ankles pull against the ties that bound me to the bed.

      “Do you like that?” he asked.

      “Yes,” I responded, surprised to find my voice faint. “Yes,” I repeated, louder this time.

      Once again, nothing. My hips writhed. I groaned softly. I was eager for his touch now. Desperate for it.

      “Patience, bella,” he murmured.

      “Easy for you to say,” I told him. “You have total control over my body right now.” Total control over my pleasure.

      “Have I disappointed you before?” he asked.

      “No,” I answered honestly. “Never.”

      “And I will not disappoint now.”

      The feather touched down between my rib cage, then traveled south, where it dipped into my belly button. It continued its lazy journey into my strip of pubic hair, then stopped—just when I wanted it most.

      I whimpered. “Please, don’t make me beg.”

      He didn’t say a word. Several seconds passed and nothing. I strained to hear past the woo-woo sounds the ceiling fan was making.

      Soft footfalls on the carpet, then the creaking of the bedroom door.

      What? Was he leaving me here?

      I counted ten more seconds, and when he didn’t return, I began to struggle against the ties that bound me. The headboard rattled as I pulled and yanked. Futilely. The knots were too tight, preventing my escape.

      And then I heard the sound of footsteps again. He was coming back into the room. I exhaled audibly.

      “Look at you,” he said. “Your body writhing. Did you think I was going to leave you here while I went and watched a baseball game?”

      I didn’t answer. I suddenly felt foolish. I had been afraid that he’d left me here, totally exposed and helpless to escape until he freed me. I’d been under his complete control before, yet this was the first time I’d felt such a moment of panic.

       Why?

      Because he seemed different today. From the moment I’d arrived, I could sense a certain intensity level in his looks and his touch.

      Something darker.

      “I wouldn’t leave you,” he said. “I would never leave you. You and I, we’re connected in a way we can’t control.”

      I swallowed. Did I sense something ominous in his tone? Or was I a little unnerved because I was bound and blindfolded?

      How could a person be unnerved and extremely aroused at the same time?

      “Do you trust me?” he asked. He was very close to me now. Maybe a foot away. I could tell by the sound of his voice.

      I gyrated my hips, a motion that would please him, given the view he had of my pussy with my legs spread the way they were. “Touch me,” I said. My chest heaved with each breath. “Touch me before I die.”

      “Do you trust me?” he repeated, and I felt the weight of his body on the bed, but I couldn’t tell where he was.

      “Yes. Yes, I trust you.”

      “Completely?” he asked, his warm breath suddenly tickling my clitoris, and my God, I almost came.

      “Yes, yes. Completely, I trust you. Please touch me. Baby…”

      I cried out when something cold and wet stroked my clit. What? The sensation had me confused. I’d expected the warmth of his tongue.

      The cold and wet brushed against my inner thigh now, and I finally placed what it was. A cube of ice.

      He stroked my pussy again with the ice cube. My nub clenched. My hips jerked.

      “I wonder if I could make you come like this,” he said softly, and stroked me with the ice again.

      “I don’t know. It feels good, but it’s so cold…”

      The bed squeaked as he got up. Where was he going now? “Baby, please,” I protested.

      His lips brushed against mine. They were cold and wet. From the ice. My body writhed, my not so subtle cue that I wanted him. On top of me. Inside me. Fucking me until I collapsed from sheer exhaustion.

      He kissed my jaw, then trailed his tongue to my earlobe and suckled. He whispered, “Do you love me?”

      “You know I love everything that you do to me,” I quickly replied, and that was the absolute truth. I craved this man’s touch in a way I wasn’t sure was healthy. “Even if you make me