“Oh.” My heart stutters in my chest, and I’m certain he can see the beat of my pulse in my neck.

“Now, Nikki,” he says. “You know the rules.”

“Is that a command, Mr. Stark?” My sex feels swollen and I am desperately wet. He must know it, but soon he will also see it.

“It most definitely is.”

“So if I don’t, I’ll be punished?”

His lips twitch. “I don’t think you’ll like the punishment I’d render tonight.”

“No? Why? What would you do?” I can imagine the sting of his hand upon my ass. The thrill of a cat-o’-nine-tails upon my sex. I try to imagine what naughty treat he could have in mind, but my mind isn’t working particularly well at the moment. I am needy and hot, and not just because of the Scotch or because I’m half naked. It’s because of Damien. Because he does this to me. Because I want him right now. “What would you do?” I repeat.

“It’s what I wouldn’t do,” he says, and that’s when I get it. Disobey, and he won’t touch me at all.

“That punishes us both,” I say.

“Rules are rules,” he says. “And I can be very strong when I want to. But if you think I’m bluffing . . . ” he adds, glancing at the cards as if in illustration.

I get the message. I’ve been losing at poker all night. Do I really want to lose at this, too?

I don’t. I shift my position so that my legs are in front of me. Slowly, I draw in my feet and spread my legs until I’m sitting cross-legged in front of him, my sex wide open. I can hide nothing now, and the truth is that I don’t want to.

I follow the line of Damien’s gaze to the damp spot on my thong. The telltale sign of just how wet—just how incredibly soaked with desire—that I am for him. Slowly, I lift my eyes to his. I see the heat, and feel a corresponding power. He may be the one making the rules, but I’m the one making him a little crazy.

I arch back a bit, my hands behind me for support.

“I like the view,” Damien says. “I like seeing how much you want me. How wet you are for me.”

“Am I?” I say innocently. I shift my weight to one arm, then lift my other hand. I trail my fingers up my own thigh, then trace it lightly over the silk of the thong.

“Jesus, Nikki,” Damien says, his voice ragged. But I show no pity. I run my fingertip along the side of the thong. I tilt my head up and meet Damien’s eyes. And then, slowly and deliberately, I slide my finger under the scrap of material and into my very wet, very swollen cunt. I gasp from the rush of pleasure as a shudder runs through my body, as if it’s a preview of an explosion to come.

And then, with Damien’s eyes still on me, I draw my finger up to my mouth and taste my own arousal. “Yes,” I murmur. “You’re right. I’m very, very wet for you.”

“Fuck poker,” Damien growls, sweeping his arm over the bedclothes and knocking the cards to the ground even as he grabs my thighs and tugs me toward him. The motion counterbalances me, and I fall backward so that I end up flat on my back, my legs spread, and Damien between them.

“Are you conceding the game, Mr. Stark?” I ask, my voice full of laughter.

“I am,” he says.

I raise myself upon my elbows. “I guess that means you lose.”

“No,” he says as he eases himself up over my body, then uses two fingers to flip open the clasp of my bra. “I assure you it means that I win.”

His mouth closes over my breast even as his hand slides down to stroke my clit through the soaking wet silk. The sensations coursing through me are incredible, a flurry of sparks originating from his hand and from his mouth, and I arch up, lost in the violent storm that Damien is creating inside me.

“You’re wrong, Mr. Stark,” I say, struggling to form words while I still have the power. “Tonight, we both win.”

I wake to a perfect morning. The man beside me. The sunshine streaming through the open door that leads to the master bedroom’s private patio. The light breeze blowing in from over the lake. The smell of pine and—

I frown and draw in another deep breath. The smell of what?

“Damien, wake up.” I shake his shoulder. “Either we really set the sheets on fire, or something out there is burning.”

He is up immediately, grabbing a pair of jeans off the floor and heading toward the door. I pull on a robe and follow him so closely that I almost slam into him when he stops in the now-open doorway. “It’s not a fire,” he says. Now that I can smell it better, I agree. It’s an almost sickly sweet smell, like Christmas fudge that has burned to the bottom of the pan.

“I think I know what it is,” I say, then lead the way to the kitchen, where Jamie is frantically flipping pancakes on a griddle. She looks up at us, her expression a little bit wild, a little bit contrite.

“Sorry! I thought I’d make breakfast, but—” She indicates the stove and nearby counter as if that’s all she needs to say.

I force myself not to laugh. “I don’t think that pancakes are supposed to be served blackened,” I say, deadpan.

She tosses a dish towel at me. “I had a little trouble incorporating the chocolate chips.”

Damien pours himself a cup of coffee and leans against the counter. “As they say, it’s the thought that counts. So I hope you don’t mind if I just think about eating those.”

Jamie smirks and looks between the two of us. “Great. I’m trapped in the mountains with a couple of comedians.”

“Your choice,” Damien says in his corporate-problem-solving voice. “We either clean up and start over, or I’ll take you ladies out to breakfast.”

“You’re out of chocolate chips,” Jamie says. She grabs up the plate of burnt discs that bear no resemblance to pancakes and tosses them in the trash. “Give me fifteen minutes to shower and change.”

It actually takes us thirty to get out the door, because Damien makes the mistake of telling us that the restaurant not only makes fabulous waffles, but is also located in Arrowhead Village, an outdoor shopping center with both regular stores and high end outlets. And, obviously, neither Jamie nor I can properly shop if we’re not properly dressed.

Damien, of course, is ready in five minutes, decked out in faded jeans and a short-sleeved linen shirt over a plain cotton tee. His hair is vaguely mussed, as if he’s been standing in the wind. He looks sexy as hell—like a guy who just stepped off the pages of an ad for men’s cologne.

“He cleans up well,” Jamie says, with a deliberately lascivious gleam in her eye.

“He does,” I say, moving between them and hooking my arms through theirs. “And he’s mine.”

As the crow flies, it isn’t far to the village. Since we are not crows, however, we have to deal with the twisty, turny, tiny streets, and it takes about half an hour. I don’t mind. The area is charming, filled with A-frame houses tucked into the mountainside and spectacular views that take your breath away. The village is located on the lake, so technically we could have taken one of the boats moored at Damien’s dock. The restaurant itself—The Belgian Waffle Works—sits right on the water, with a huge patio of outdoor seating. I catch a whiff of batter cooked to a crispy golden brown as we approach, and breathe in deep.