This was different, and the thrill came not from being naughty, but from being intimate. From being his.

“Again,” I whispered. “Please, Tyler. Again.”

Gently, he pressed a kiss to the curve of my ass. And then, just when I was beginning to think he wouldn’t, that sweet sting came one more time.

He used his mouth to soothe it this time, and I moaned as soft kisses started at the point of pain, then spread out, as if he was lining the threads of pleasure with kisses.

“You like that.” It wasn’t a question, and I didn’t bother to answer. “I like watching you. The way your body quivers. The way your pale skin flushes. I like seeing you go to the edge, Sloane, and I like knowing that I’m the one who brought you there.”

He trailed the feathered end of the toy between my legs, and I writhed shamelessly against it. My body was primed, ready.

He chuckled, as if recognizing my distress. “What do you want?”

“More,” I said. “Everything. You.”

“Good answer. Spread your legs more. That’s it,” he said when I complied. “Just a little bit wider.”

He was still behind me, and I was on the bed, my knees near that edge, my feet just over it. I could imagine the way I looked, legs spread, back bowed, my head tilted up. I was desperately wet, a fact he confirmed when he used his thumb to tease me, sliding it over my labia and slipping it ever so shallowly into me. “Is that what you want?”

“More,” I said.

“How about this,” he asked as he danced the feathered end of the toy over my navel, then drew it back, so that the feathers tickled over me, over my clit, my vagina, my ass, sending sparks of indescribable sensation shooting through me and making me gasp in delight—and push me so close to the edge of need that I thought I might cry if he didn’t take me right then.

“Please,” I murmured. “Now, please.”

I was close to desperate, but he didn’t torment me long.

I arched up as I felt him thrust just inside of me, then I cried out when he pistoned his hips to bury himself all the way. He held me steady as he moved in and out, slow, and then faster as the crescendo built.

He spoke to me, his smooth voice like a soundtrack, telling me how good I felt, how tight I was, how much he wanted to watch me come. And there, behind my blindfold, I clung tight to the colors and lights and spinning electrons that were the only things anchoring me to this reality, knowing damn certain that when the climax came, I’d spin off into a pleasure so intense it would surely destroy me.

He kept up his rhythm, but released his grip on my hips and drew one hand down, sliding between my ass cheeks to tease the rim of my anus. Like the sting of the toy, this new sensation shocked me, taking me even higher. Incredible, yes, and so intimate that it pushed me over, deeper and harder and higher until everything was too much to bear and I cried out in the sweet, unrelenting agony of pure, glorious pleasure.

He held me as my body trembled, then tucked me gently against him and pulled me close. “Wow,” I said, as he gently pulled off the blindfold. “Thank you.”

“Sweetheart, I’ll wow you anytime.”

I lay still in his embrace until I finally—sort of—felt recovered. Then slowly rolled over in his arms. “What time is it?”

He glanced toward the dresser and the clock that sat there. “Almost ten.”

I sat straight up. “Shit. I’m going to be late. And I don’t think sleeping with the boss qualifies as a good excuse.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I changed your schedule. I have some places I want to take you first.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “If that’s a metaphor for more sex, you’re going to have to put a pin in that.”

“No,” he said. “This is about Amy.”

I frowned. “What about her?”

“You’re still looking for her address or employer, right? I know some people who might be able to help. And then, my lovely cop, we have some shopping to do.”

“Shopping?” I repeated, but he just stood up and held out his hand for me.

“Let’s get dressed.”

In fact, showering came before getting dressed, and despite the very real risk of shower sex throwing us off schedule, I agreed to share the stall.

“Don’t make me regret it,” I said when he reached down to tug at my pubic hair. “And don’t do that.”

“I think we may have one more task this morning,” he said, picking up a razor. “Not that I don’t love this deliciously neat triangle, but all the other dancers are bare.”

“Oh.” I swallowed. “I’m not sure I can manage to shave there.”

His grin was full of mischief. “Baby, I’m more than happy to help.”

He positioned us so that we were out of the spray, but close enough that he could grab the handheld nozzle. And then, as I spread my legs and gripped the walls of the shower in both fear and an effort to steady myself, he went to work.

First, he lathered me. And then—slowly and very gently—he drew the razor over my flesh again and again. I was, I realized, getting more than a little turned on. Not from the sensation—though there was something about the pressure of the blade that felt amazing—but from the thought of him taking such intimate care of me.

“There,” he said, after he’d finished and rinsed the soap from me. He pressed a kiss to my newly shaved skin, and it was all I could do not to beg him to take me back to bed.

Amy, he’d said. And he was right. If I wanted to make sure she was back home for Candy’s baby, I needed to follow-up.

But I couldn’t deny myself one slow, deep kiss. And as my tongue sought his, I couldn’t help but think of the days that were ticking away, inexorably pulling me away from this man who, with every passing moment, seemed to draw me closer.

Afterward, I bundled myself in one of The Drake’s plush robes, then headed back into his room to hunt up my clothes. “This room is different from the rest of the place.” I’d noticed the contemporary decorations and furniture the first time I’d entered, but had never said as much to him. “You did it, right? Not the hotel staff.”

“It’s all me,” he said, stepping into the room with a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, and making me regret very seriously that whole getting-to-work thing.

“Why this one? Why’d you take the time, I mean?”

“I’m particular about my bedroom.” He’d been looking past me into the room, but now he shifted his gaze to me. “Nothing goes in that I didn’t select.”

I swallowed, suddenly unsure if we were still talking about the furniture.

“So what do you think?”

I blinked. “About what?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners and, damn the man, I was certain he knew the direction of my thoughts.

“About the room.”

“I like it. It’s attractive and interesting, what with all the hard edges and angles. But it’s inviting, too. And somehow warm and comfortable.” I hesitated, then took the plunge. “It reminds me of you,” I admitted, because I simply couldn’t deny the truth in the words.

“Comfortable?” he repeated, his brows rising in mock horror. “I’m not sure I like that. Inviting works for me, though. So does chivalrous and desperately sexy.”