 
Sweet Submission

by Roxy Sloane
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Copyright 2014 Roxy Sloane

Cover Design: Louisa Maggio at LM Creations

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

ONE: ISABELLE

TWO: CAM

THREE: ISABELLE

FOUR: CAM

FIVE: ISABELLE

SIX: CAM

SEVEN: ISABELLE

EIGHT: CAM

NINE: ISABELLE

TEN: CAM

ELEVEN: ISABELLE

TWELVE: CAM

#  PROLOGUE

Most women don't know the pleasure of total surrender.

You've fantasized about it. Maybe you've even tried. Asked for his hands to grip you a little tighter. If he could tie you up. Hold you down. Fuck you the way you need, his cock driving hard and relentless, riding your wet pussy until you can't take it anymore.

But he always stops too soon. Eases up before you're done. He's careful, cautious. You know, deep down, he's not for real.

He doesn't mean it when he makes you beg for him to fuck you, doesn't push you to your limits and demand everything you have to give—and more.

He doesn't realize that domination is an act of worship. The adoration of a woman beyond all limits; the reverence to give her the pleasure she truly deserves.

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.

"Get on your knees and open your mouth."

This girl knows that pleasure. She's already panting, eager and wet. She falls to the floor in front of me and assumes the position.

Eyes hidden beneath a blindfold. Hands behind her back. Breasts bared. Juicy lips wide open and ready for my cock.

I trail a riding crop over her shuddering flesh, pacing a slow circle around her. Her breasts rise and fall with every breath, but she knows better than to beg for me now. Each second I wait makes her nipples stiffen, her thighs clench, her damp clit throb for more.

Still, I wait.

I watch her beautiful body carefully, landing quick strokes of the crop on her reddening skin. She moans and gasps at the brief impact, and I feel her pleasure like it was my own.

Control is my virtue. I demand everything from her, and I won't be sated until it's mine.

"Are you ready, my sweet?" I trail the leather crop down over her breasts. She tenses, moaning as I flick one stiff nipple.

"Yes, Master," she gasps.

"I don't think you are."

I stroke the crop lower, over her bare stomach, down between her thighs. She parts them eagerly for me, baring her shaven pussy, glistening with slick desire.

She's close.

"Please," she moans.

I bring the crop down against her clit. She yelps in pleasure—and pain. My cock thickens to hear it. I could claim her mouth right now, shove my dick in deep and come in a single stroke with her throat clenching around me. But I hold back.

This isn't about me. It's her. Always her. Because the woman on her knees for me may change every other night, but the focus of my discipline remains the same.

To command her fantasy, overwhelm her every sense. Take her body to the heights of ecstasy—where it belongs.

I command her not to break her, but to pay tribute to her beauty. I dominate because that's the truest gift a man can offer: the freedom to let go, completely, without shame or regret.

"Please, Sir," she whimpers again.

"What did I tell you about begging?" I demand harshly.

"Not to do it, Sir," she answers quickly.

I flick against her clit again, harder. Just the right taste of pain to keep her back from the edge.

"Why not?" I growl.

"Because...because it won't make a difference," she's sobbing with need now, her body coiled so tight she can't stand it. Still, she keeps her hands behind her back, knows that breaking position would end this in a heartbeat. "You won't submit to me. What I want doesn't matter here."

"And why's that?" I flick her nipples this time in a light, stinging stroke.

"Because you're in charge!" Her voice rings out, thick with desire. "You control me. You control my body, my release."

"That's right." I step closer, gripping her jaw and tilting her face up to me. "You belong to me. In these four walls, I have total control."

Even blindfolded, I can see how much she wants me. Trembling and moaning, her cheeks flushed, her mouth open. The most beautiful sight in the world. "Tell me what to do, Master," she whispers. "Tell me what you want."

I feel the craving inside me rear up, dark and determined.

She's ready. She's mine.

I unzip my pants, and hear her breath catch with desperate anticipation.

"You've been a good girl," I murmur, stroking her cheek. Victory surges through me, hot and fast. "You can have your reward."

In one swift motion, I drag her to her feet and bend her over the bed. Pinning her down, I thrust my ravenous cock deep into her slick, aching pussy.

She moans in surrender as she comes for me, completely helpless, her cunt clenching wildly around me as her body breaks wide open.

The sound hums through my bloodstream. Her submission is my drug.

I finally let go.

# ONE: ISABELLE

"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 jewel-encrusted 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.

# FIVE: ISABELLE

The door slams shut behind him, breaking through my haze of desire.

What are you doing?

What was I thinking? I was trying to forget tonight, to bury myself in his body and leave the icky memories of Brent behind, and instead I completely embarrassed myself. I just felt so grateful to him for helping me, for being so tender. I wasn't even thinking.

Cam was gentleman enough to rescue me from that scene at the Underground and I responded just like the tramp Brent says I am.

I bite back my stinging tears and towel myself dry with the huge fluffy towel Cam left me. Pulling on a luxurious white bathrobe, I head to the adjoining bedroom.

The room is beautiful: decorated in a sophisticated style with a four-poster bed and an antique-looking dresser. I take a deep breath, trying to settle down. Everything's going to be OK, I tell myself. Nothing bad is going to happen in a place with eight-hundred thread count sheets.

I smile wryly at my old joke. Growing up, I was so sure that money would solve everything. That rich people were happy all the time. Why wouldn't they be? They had everything they could want. They didn't know about the stress and desperation the rest of us felt, what it was like to struggle every day just to get by.

But now I know differently. I may be surrounded by luxury, but I'm just as messed up as before, maybe even more so. I shiver, wondering if that's how Cam sees me now. Looking at myself through his eyes, I'm sure I must seem ridiculous. Pathetic and needy.

I know he's never liked me. Whenever we've seen each other before, he's been totally uninterested. Polite but cold. Distant. Almost like he didn't see me. Like I didn't matter.

But tonight, something changed. He saw me at my lowest point—and didn't turn away. He was kind, he didn't judge me. And then...

I fall back on the soft bed and sigh. My body is still aching with lust from his masterful touch. Every moment when he was washing my hair felt charged. Even now, my nipples tighten to remember it. I've never had a man touch me like that: tender, but bold. And absolutely sure of himself. I was so turned on, I couldn't believe it. And I felt passion when he kissed me, real desire. Nothing furtive or tawdry, just pure passion. I was so sure he felt the same way.

Until he cut the moment short and practically bolted from the room. Of course he didn't feel the same about me. He was doing a nice thing, and I totally misread the signs.

But I can't deny my feelings. The way my body responded under his hands. The purely animal heat that set me on fire. His touch felt so good, so natural.

I could hardly hold back from dragging him into the tub with me. The whole time he was washing my hair, I wanted his hands on my breasts. His strong fingers on my aching clit. His cock sliding in and out of me to some wild, unstoppable rhythm.

It was like being touched for the first time. My body waking up from a deep sleep.

I didn't know it was possible to feel this way. So alive. Every nerve tingling with desire and pleasure.

Brent has never touched me that way, so deliberate and sensual. With Brent, even when I was turned on, wanting it, the way he rushed always made me feel _used_ afterward. Empty. Like I was just means to an end. But Cam handles me like a master. Like I was made for him.

Now, I find myself wondering what it would be like with Cam, to let him make love to me, tenderly, passionately. The warm blue eyes, glinting with a ruthless sensuality. Firm muscles flexing in his arms as he tenderly held me down...

I can't help imagining his hands on my body. When I was in the tub, I swear I could feel his excitement like some invisible force between us, drawing us together like magnets. And when we kissed...a jolt of electricity shot straight down between my thighs.

My body wants him. It shocks me to realize that I do, too.

Slipping off the soft robe and now completely naked, I stretch out on the bed, my hands stroking my skin. Running over the fullness of my breasts. I reach down, finding my most sensitive spot. I stroke softly, and the pressure sends shivers through me.

Who is Cam, really? I thought I had him pegged. Mr. No-Nonsense Businessman. Effortlessly charming but still so cold and self-absorbed. But alone with him tonight, I sensed something much more passionate.

I'm already wet, thinking about him. Just down the hallway, so close, he could come and find me like this at any minute... Just push the door open and see me spread on the bed, touching myself. The thought makes me hotter. I dip my fingers into my own juices, dragging them up over my clit. Hot bursts of pleasure spread through me.

He would stand in the doorway, watching me. Not do anything at first, just let his eyes rove over me. Then, when I was moaning out loud, he would cross the room and—

Suddenly, a noise cuts through my fantasy. My phone is ringing on the dresser. I try to ignore it and lose myself, but it rings again. And again.

Annoyed by the intrusion, I finally snatch up the phone and check the screen.

Brent.

Seeing his name on the display is like a cold shower. He's left three voicemails and I see seven missed calls. He's been trying to reach me ever since I left the club with Cam.

My stomach drops. It won't be good. He gets so angry when I don't answer my phone.

Shaking with anxiety, I bring the phone to my ear and press play on the first message.

"Isabelle! What the fuck?" His voice comes angrily. "You can't just take off with any random guy who comes along. Paxton was totally pissed that you bailed, and you embarrassed me. I promised him a good time tonight. With you." I could hear music and noise in the background; he must have called from the Underground as soon as I left.

Next message. Now, he's even more furious. Slurring, drunk.

"You selfish bitch! Paxton and I were working out a deal and you totally blew it for me. He just left. This is all your fault. You better come home right now, Isabelle. You don't want to fucking see what happens when you pull this shit with me. Get back here. Now."

I delete it. Then I listen to the last message. Brent's tone has changed. He's all honey and sweetness now. Playing the nice guy. But I know it's just an act.

"Isabelle, my darling sister. I'm worried about you. Where are you? Why aren't you taking my calls? OK, I admit I went a little overboard." He laughs nervously. "Maybe I misjudged the situation. I thought you understood what we were doing in the club. Thought you would enjoy it, a fun little fantasy. I was wrong. I see that now and I'm sorry. Please come home. I'll make it up to you, I promise. I'll be waiting."

I throw the phone down in disgust. Brent thinks his half-assed apology will make up for the way he treated me?

It always did before.

A voice in my head reminds me that Brent's screwed up in the past. Over and over, and I've always forgiven him, every time. No wonder he thinks a few sweet words will make me come running back to him.

But this time is different.

Anger rises inside of me. He pushed me too far—and forced me to face everything I've been ignoring all along. How selfish he can be. How cruel. How he treats me like a plaything, and expects me to take it all without a word of complaint.

I've been blind to it, still acting like that naïve sixteen-year old who worships the ground he walks on. Feeling like I owe him for every good thing in my life. But I'm all grown up now. And I realize something: I've changed.

I want more. I _deserve_ more.

Cam's face flashes in my mind. I catch my breath. That moment with him in the bathroom may have been a humiliating mistake, but it showed me a passion I've never experienced with Brent. Even knowing that Cam wants nothing more to do with me, it makes me realize that I can't settle for less anymore.

Brent's been your whole world for years now. Without him, you're all alone. What makes you think you're strong enough to get by on your own?

The whispers of insecurity flutter around me. But as I pull on a nightgown and slide into bed, I don't feel afraid. Somehow, knowing that Cam is nearby, I finally feel safe.

# SIX: CAM

I don't sleep. I have black-out curtains, the latest in hi-tech white-noise machines, and a mattress imported from Italy and molded to my exact body shape, but all the expensive toys in the world can't block out the thought of her sleeping just down the hall.

I try to justify it with logic. She's a beautiful woman, I'm a red-blooded man. This desire is perfectly normal.

Except it's not, not for me. I'm used to being in control: executing every scene with careful thought and planning. Last night, I wanted to throw her down and fuck her like a wild animal: no rules, no contract, no control. Demand her submission with my body instead of my mind.

But she's off-limits. It's not just that she's Ashcroft's daughter, it's that she needs me to protect her. She probably didn't even know what she was doing, kissing me like that. She's still recovering from her ordeal at the club—the last thing she really wants is another man.

Besides, I saw the fear on her face when she was restrained. How she couldn't get away from Brent fast enough. She thinks the scene is repulsive and wrong. If she knew what I wanted to do to her, she would never speak to me again.

My alarm finally pulls me out of hours of restless thought. I go straight to my home gym and put in a few miles on the treadmill, running hard to chase the lustful thoughts from my mind. After my workout and a quick shower, I head downstairs. Usually I head straight to the office, but today I decide to fix some food. Isabelle felt alarmingly frail in my arms; she would probably live off coffee without my intervention.

I rarely let my conquests stick around after the fun ends, and cooking breakfast for them is positively unheard of. But once again, I bend the rules for Isabelle.

I'm scrambling eggs when she strolls into the kitchen. She's barefoot, wrapped up in a bathrobe, and stunningly beautiful. Her tousled hair and sleepy pout just make me want to strip off that bulky robe, pin her against the cold steel refrigerator and—

"Good morning," I say. Cool, courteous and professional. "How did you sleep?"

Her gaze flickers for a minute. Isabelle leans on the island, taking in the spread of fresh fruit, bacon, and toast.

"Wow," she smiles. "I didn't know you cooked."

"Sometimes," I say. "But I figured since you'll be staying here, this would be a good opportunity to give you a tour of my kitchen."

She frowns. "What do you mean, staying here? I'm grateful for the place to sleep last night," she says, "and for the rescue, but I do have a home of my own to get back to."

"Not right now." I carefully stir the eggs and toss in a handful of fresh herbs. Isabelle is still looking pissed, so I add, "Look, it's none of my business how you handle your personal life but I think your...boyfriend...could use a cooling off period."

"He's not my boyfriend," Isabelle scowls.

I feel a possessive surge of gladness, but I push it back. "Well, whomever he is, he needs to calm down."

He's not the only one. If I laid eyes on Brent Ashcroft right now, I would break every bone in his fucking body. I'm still furious at him for hurting her. I turn my anger on my cappuccino machine instead, pouring Isabelle a cup and sliding it across the counter toward her.

She blinks. "Thank you." She takes a sip and sighs with satisfaction. "It's perfect."

"See?" I try to lighten the mood. "There are some perks to staying here."

But Isabelle is being stubborn. "Cam, I really appreciate everything you've done for me, but I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. I'll handle things with Brent."

Over my dead body.

I scowl. "I won't hear of it, Isabelle. The decision's made. You can't be near him right now. Do you really think it's safe?"

Isabelle looks distraught, but doesn't answer. We both know I'm right. She could go to a hotel, but I have to protect her and I can't do that if she isn't here with me.

I soften. "I'll have everything you need delivered to my apartment. You won't want for anything."

Her lip trembles for a minute, but Isabelle keeps it together. She gives me a sharp nod. "Fine. For now. Thank you."

I fix her a plate of food and set it in front of her. She looks so lost, I feel sorry for her, but I push the emotion aside. I don't want the complication of feelings to muddle up a simple arrangement. I'm doing a favor for Ashcroft, that's all.

"I'll have my personal shopper pick out some things," I add.

I make a quick mental note in my head, running through a list of what I'll need to order for her. Clothes I'd like to see her wearing. The panties I'd like to slip my hand into...

The tools you'd like to use on that fair skin.

I take a swig of my own coffee, nearly burning my tongue. What's gotten into me?

Isabelle suddenly reaches across the kitchen island. Her fingers rest lightly on mine. We're barely touching, but it's electric.

"About last night..." she murmurs. Our eyes lock.

I pull my hand away. "Don't think twice about it," I say harshly. "You were obviously upset and confused. Let it go."

I think I see a flash of rejection in her eyes, but I know I'm right to stop this train of thought. "I'll be at the office all day," I tell her, turning for the door. "You have my number if you need anything."

"There is one thing."

I turn back to find her looking at me with a curious expression. "Last night," she starts again, hesitant. "I know what brought me to the Underground, but what were you doing there?"

My body stiffens. Images flash through my head. The girl. Riding crop. Isabelle in the bathtub. The images collide and blur into one. Her soft lips on mine, that hungry kiss lighting my body on fire.

"That's none of your business," I snap. "And if you're going to stay under my roof, you'll never mention it again. Do you understand?"

Isabelle's eyes widen.

"Do. You. Understand?" I ground out the words again.

"I...yes," she stammers.

"Good. I have a meeting. I'll see you tonight."

I grab my briefcase and walk out without another look. If I stay, I'll give in to temptation, and that can't happen again. I won't allow it.

# SEVEN: ISABELLE

He made breakfast.

It's just a small thing, I know, but still, it takes me by surprise. I sit at the marble kitchen counter after Cam has gone and stare at my plate in amazement. Eggs, toast, fruit, even a sprig of basil on the side: fresh and simple, expertly done.

It smells so delicious that I allow myself to take a couple of bites, breaking the strict diet that keeps me thin. Brent would never do anything like this, I can't help but think. It would never occur to him to lift a finger for me, do anything at all that I didn't have to beg for. It's all a big game with him: fluttering my eyelashes, playing the part just right, all to manipulate him into doing something he should be happy about all along.

Cam isn't like that. He's more straightforward. Except...I know he's hiding something from me. Like what he was doing at the Underground. When I asked him about it, he snapped so hard, I was shocked to see the flare of anger burning in his eyes.

Shocked, but not at all scared.

I sigh, pushing my plate aside. I take a sip of coffee, and try to make sense of all his mixed messages. Unless, maybe they're not mixed at all. Maybe I'm imagining his response to me. After all, his words are crystal clear: back off.

He doesn't want me.

At least he's a good cook. And he's got flawless taste. The spotless kitchen is bright and airy, decorated in marble and deep blue tile, and packed with expensive stainless-steel appliances. I look around, checking the fridge and cabinets. They're stocked with organic and imported delicacies: cheeses, truffles, and bottles of chilled champagne.

My curiosity sparks to life. Now that I'm alone in the apartment, maybe I can find out more about him. Discover what's hidden behind his smooth surface. What makes him tick.

What turns him on.

I start in the living room. Last night I didn't get a chance to see much, but looking around now, I'm impressed. Sunlight pours in the tall windows, illuminating the rich, masculine décor. Vintage leather couches, a deep teal rug. There are large, abstract canvases on the pale gray walls, and I pause, looking closer. I'm not an expert, but I've spent years teaching myself about art and antiques—rich people topics—and I'm pretty sure all the pieces are real.

The deeper I go into the apartment, the more curious I get. Cam is tidy, but there's a lived-in comfort to his home. It's a place of contradictions: neatness and disorder. The office is spotless, filled with the latest in hi-tech computing equipment, but the art on the wall is bold. Wild.

I pause by the bedroom door and feel a tremor of guilt. I shouldn't be snooping around like this, but I have a craving inside me to know more. Know Cam, inside and out.

I push open the door.

My heart falls. I hoped he'd reveal more here—his inner sanctuary—but the room is even less personal than the rest of the apartment. Just cool, slate grey walls, a sleek dresser, and a huge king-sized bed made up with crisp dark linens.

I smooth my hand over the soft cover, and wonder what it would be like to lay here...waiting for his touch...

I stop, realizing something for the first time. A hot, successful guy like Cam would definitely have his pick of the ladies, but there's no hint of a girlfriend or woman in the apartment. When I poke through the bedroom drawers, I find condoms but nothing that looks like it belongs to a woman. If he does have a girlfriend, she's definitely not allowed to leave her stuff here. There's not even a second toothbrush or extra razor in the shower.

I've almost finished my tour of the apartment when a staircase in the hall grabs my attention. I didn't realize there was another floor. I climb up to the top, but the door doesn't open when I try it. Locked. Right away, I feel a shiver of anticipation. What kind of secrets does Cameron McCullough keep under lock and key? I'm dying to find out.

My phone suddenly vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, bracing myself for more messages from Brent, but instead I find a reminder text about my hair appointment in an hour. I'd completely forgotten about it. I debate canceling, but I can't hide out here all day—I need some air. I give the door one last look, then head downstairs to get ready. The mystery will just have to wait.

* * *

At the salon, I gossip with my stylist Byron as usual, but I let him do most of the talking. The familiar busy chatter of the room washes over me, comforting after all the upheaval of the last day. Around me, the cream of New York society sits under dryers and at the manicure stations, flicking through glossy magazines and planning their next party.

This is how I spend my days now: spa treatments, hair appointments, luncheons and charity events. Growing up, it was all I ever wanted. I looked at those same magazines and imagined what it would be like if I were one of those beautiful women, so perfect and removed from the real world. I thought if I could be one of them, everything would be OK. No worries, no stress.

And then Ashcroft adopted me, and I learned, I couldn't be more wrong.

But for today, just today, I decide to pretend. Like I really am the frivolous socialite people think I am, and the most important decision I have to make is whether to pick 'ballet slipper' or 'daydream' for my manicure color.

My phone buzzes while I'm waiting for the polish to dry. I carefully tap the speaker button.

"Izzie, babe, I'm sitting alone at a table for six, where are you?"

My friend, Olivia. Shit. I'd totally forgotten our lunch date.

"I'm sorry, I'm on my way!" I lie. "The others aren't there yet?"

"You know Nicole," Olivia sighs. "She loves to make an entrance."

I smile. "I promise I'll be there soon."

I finish up at the salon and hail a cab. Lunch with my friends is exactly the distraction I need.

Bistro Minou is bustling when I arrive. It's the latest hot spot for one to see and be seen: white leather and glass banquettes, with a polished bar and the best wine list in the city.

"Miss Ashcroft." The elegant French hostess greets me on sight. "Please, this way."

I spot the girls across the room. They're seated at a prime table near the window. Of course, Nicole and her minions want to be seen dining here. One of them has probably already sent in a tip to the gossip columnists so they can run an item in their blogs talking about our outfits, our shoes, our fabulous lives.

Olivia sees me coming and waves brightly. Nicole and Lulu, staring at their cell phones, don't even notice me until I sit down and loudly say, "Hi."

"Isabelle, sweetie." Nicole air kisses me from two feet away. Lulu just stares blankly at me as if it's the first time we've met. Ugh. Suddenly, I realize I'm not really in the mood for them today. But Olivia is a sweetheart and I always enjoy hanging with her, so it's kind of a trade-off.

The waiter swings by to take our order. Nicole treats him like a servant. She orders a bottle of pricey champagne for the table, even though it's barely past noon. He must be used to dealing with snobby socialites, though. He's unfazed.

My first foster mom was a waitress, and I remember how tired she'd be when she came home from work. How she'd rub her feet and count her tips as she smoked a cigarette. Once, trying to educate me about life, I guess, she told me about each of her customers as she sorted the paper bills into ones, fives and tens.

The best tip that day had come from an elderly couple in town to visit their son and his new wife. Newly retired, they told her how much they appreciated her help getting a low-salt meal for the husband.

The worst tip, two dollars on a forty-five dollar tab, had come from a couple of business executives who drank their lunch and snickered about my foster mom's crooked, yellow teeth.

She told me that the richest people were often the least generous. If you didn't have to work for your living, she said, you didn't appreciate those who did.

I'd never forgotten her words, and at Bistro Minou, I watch her theory in action.

"And it all needs to be gluten-free," Nicole says, still listing her demands. "Organic only. Can you check the provenance of the tuna in the Nicoise salad?" she adds. "I only eat wild-caught fish from sustainable sources."

Olivia and I exchange a smile.

"Of course," the waiter nods, scribbling it all down before turning to me. "And you, miss?"

The two older men at the next table are happily digging into juicy steaks with sage cream, sautéed mushrooms and crispy pomme frites. I eye their plates with envy. But I know Nicole and Lulu will tease me if I order anything more than rabbit food, no matter how hungry I am. Every once in a while, I sneak off to Shake Shack for a bacon cheeseburger and peanut butter custard shake. It's my version of heaven on earth.

But heaven will have to wait.

"The salad for me too, thank you." I send him an apologetic smile. I'll be sure to tip him extra to make up for Nicole's bitch act.

The minute he leaves, Nicole launches into the latest scandal involving her friend, Paige. "And you know what the worst part is? Now he's divorcing her."

Lulu gasps, like it's the first time she's heard it. "She should've ignored the affairs."

"For real," Olivia sighs, refilling her glass. "I mean, what man doesn't cheat?"

"He's rich. She gets plenty of perks," Nicole sneers. "But she signed a pre-nup. She'll lose everything. The apartment. The house in the Hamptons..."

"Stupid cow," Lulu adds, giggling.

"Right?" Nicole sips at her champagne, then wrinkles her nose. "I mean, she'll be practically broke. Why would we even hang out with her anymore?"

"She won't be coming to places like this," Lulu agrees. "And we'll have nothing to talk about."

Usually I just play along with their mean spirited gossip, but after everything that happened over the last twenty-four hours, I wonder why I'm even here. What would they say if they knew about Brent and my former relationship?

Olivia turns to me. "You're quiet. Everything ok?"

I force a smile. "Thanks for checking, but I'm fine. Just a headache."

Olivia looks like she doesn't believe me. "Well, if you change your mind, you've got my digits. Sometimes I get 'headaches,' too." She smiles warmly and I'm grateful that she doesn't push.

Of all my socialite friends, she's the nicest and the most genuine. I wish I could confide in her, but we're just too different. Her family owns several prestigious art galleries and she's lived her whole life surrounded by wealth and luxury. The best schools, summers abroad, European vacations...she even had a pony at her family's Connecticut farm. And would she still be interested in me if she knew about the skeletons in my closet?

Olivia only knows me as Isabelle Ashcroft. I may be protected by my trust fund and last name now, but my position in this world is still fragile. I should know: I learned the rules from scratch, watching carefully to learn all the things that they take for granted.

A sudden swell of insecurity rises in my chest. I look around the table. Can I even call these women my friends? I can't confide in them, or in anyone, not really.

The truth is, I'm all alone. The only person who's ever seen even a bit behind this perfect façade is Cam.

I try to push the thought aside and focus on lunch. I gossip and chat with the others, but it's hard to go through the motions. By the time the check comes, I'm relieved to get away.

"See you soon!" I promise, after another round of air-kisses. I exit the bistro and try to plan my day. There are some boutiques nearby, and even though Cam promised to get everything I need, I decide to drop in and pick up some essentials.

I'm halfway down the block when I see a familiar face leaving Armani.

Brent.

I duck back into an alleyway, praying he didn't see me on the street. My heart is beating a mile a minute and I have to take deep breaths to calm myself.

I peer around the building in time to see him get into a cab. When it drives away, I feel waves of relief.

Thank god. I'm safe.

I hate feeling this way. But Brent is so unhinged now, so unstable. I could always predict how he would act, what he would say, how to behave to avoid upsetting him. But I don't want to play this game anymore. And yet I'm too afraid to tell him.

But how long can I hide?

# EIGHT: CAM

Just because my personal life is in turmoil, it doesn't mean my professional life slows down for a minute. As soon as I get to the office, I'm plunged into the usual high-octane business that keeps the multi-billion dollar company running smoothly. I try to get my head in the game, but by the time I get to my afternoon meetings, my concentration is shot.

All I can think about is Isabelle.

I stare blankly at a spreadsheet, trying to follow the fight in front of me. My CFO is facing off against my VP of marketing. It's an important discussion about a division rebrand, but I'm too distracted to follow them. Isabelle's face keeps popping into my mind, and with it, an unwelcome surge of lust. All I can think about is the mess I've gotten myself into.

Why did I have to play the hero and butt into something that isn't my business?

The answer comes, and I don't like it one bit.

It is your business. You feel responsible for her now.

I sigh. It's true, Ashcroft was my mentor, and his heir, Keely, asked me to keep an eye on Isabelle, but that doesn't explain why I feel so protective of her. Why I want her so badly that it's ruining my meeting, distracting me completely.

It's more than her astonishing beauty, or the chameleon quality of watching her switch from bratty socialite to a vulnerable and thoughtful woman. I know there's much more to her than meets the eye. Her life before Ashcroft has always been kind of murky, but I sense she's a fighter. There's a strength and determination in her that's absent in the other rich girls who flit about the social world.

I tell myself I'm just helping her out. That whole ugly scene with Brent would have traumatized anyone. It's clear she can't be around him right now, so letting her stay with me for a few days until she's back on her feet shouldn't be a problem for anyone...

Except for me and the hard-on currently driving me mad.

"Cam, when do you want the figures on the revised budget?" my assistant asks for the second time. Somehow, I manage to drag my attention back to the meeting, wrap it up and head back to the privacy of my corner office.

I close the door behind me and sink into my top-of-the-line desk chair. I've got a prime view of the city, and my office is decorated in leather and masculine, soothing shades of navy. It's the ultimate CEO's pad, but none of it can reassure me now.

Isabelle crash-landed into my life, and ever since last night it feels like everything is chaos. I hate being out of focus and out of control, second-guessing all my thoughts and actions. Ashcroft Industries relies on me to run a tight ship and Isabelle's presence is knocking it way off course.

This is exactly why I've always been so careful to keep my private life and my work life so separate. Combining them is too dangerous. It's like mixing two combustible chemicals; something's bound to explode.

Keely pops her head in the door. "You got a minute?" she asks.

"For you, of course." I wave her in.

Keely has always been a great friend. When Ashcroft died, I was the one to guide her through taking his place at the head of the company. Someone else might have sent me packing, or made it tough for me to keep running things, but Keely was grateful for my expertise and eager to learn. Her fiancé took a little longer to warm up to me, but now that Vaughn understands there is nothing between us, I consider them both true friends.

"I figured you could use an afternoon break," she says, sliding a little red bottle of Five-Hour Energy across my desk.

I groan. "It's that obvious?"

"You've been sleepwalking around the place all morning," she says with a sympathetic look. "Everything OK?"

"Sure," I reply quickly. "I didn't sleep well last night, that's all."

Keely makes a face. "That makes me feel even worse about what I need to ask you."

"Oh?"

"My secretary double-booked me. I'm supposed to go schmooze bigwigs at some fundraising dinner tonight but it's my anniversary with Vaughn. I was going to surprise him. Soo..."

I raise my eyebrows.

Keely continues, looking nervous. "Would you go instead? I know you hate this kind of thing," she rushes to add, "but you'd be doing me—all of us—a huge favor. We need company presence there."

I take a swig of the energy drink and wince at the taste. "I'd probably do more harm than good. You know I'm terrible at schmoozing. I never know what to say."

"Sure you do. Just give them a smile and say something Scottish, and they'll be swooning at your feet."

I smile.

"Pretty please?" Keely begs.

"How can I refuse? Vaughn would probably come knocking if I ruined his big surprise."

Keely grins. "You're a lifesaver, Cam! I'll send you the info for tonight." She blows me a kiss and breezes out of my office. At least I'm making one woman happy today.

And it's an excuse to stay out late tonight. Maybe Isabelle will be in bed when I get back, and I won't have to see her.

Immediately I picture her tucked between the sheets in my guest room, naked. Her bare skin, her perfect tits...

It would be rude of me not to call her, I realize. I may leave my subs strapped to the bed, waiting for my return, but Isabelle isn't a sub. She's my guest.

I've already programmed her number in my phone. I hit speed-dial, and tell myself to curb my anxiety as I wait for her to answer. Finally, she picks up.

"Is everything OK?" I demand.

"Sorry, I'm just screening all my calls," she explains. "Brent."

"Oh. Good. So listen, there's been a change of plans. I have to attend a fundraising dinner tonight, so I won't be back until late."

There's a pause. "OK, that's fine. Thanks for letting me know. I hope it's a good time."

"Actually—" This is a bad idea, but I don't stop myself. "Why don't you come with me?"

"Oh. I would, but...I don't have anything to wear," Isabelle replies. She actually sounds disappointed.

"You're not at home? I sent some things over. There must be something suitable. I'll have a car pick you up at eight."

I hang up, wondering if I've made a huge mistake. Letting her stay with me is one thing, but inviting her to be my date to an event is more than just a favor, it's asking for trouble.

# NINE: ISABELLE

Cam's call fills me with excitement. And it's not just the distraction from real life problems. It's him. When I get back to the apartment, the doorman is packing the foyer with a huge assortment of shopping bags and boxes.

"Is this all for me?" I blink.

"Yes, miss. Mr. McCullough said to let him know if you need anything else."

He exits, leaving me alone with what looks like a department store's worth of shopping. Eagerly, I dive in. Boxes, bags, and more. One by one, I unpack the goodies. Cashmere sweaters, silk dresses, leather purses and the latest shoes and fashions from Stella McCartney, Prada and Dior. Tucked in layers of tissue paper, I find a mini fur satchel from Fendi and a super-soft crocodile slouch bag from Gucci.

There are bags full of make-up from the best designer labels. Everything a girl could need: velvety eye shadows, lip glosses, foundation and powders. Skincare products, haircare and even perfumes. Cam's thought of everything, and more than that, it's just my taste, too. It's like he can tell what I want just by looking at me.

Looking around, I wonder for the first time how he can afford all of this. Not just the shopping, but the apartment, the car, the designer suits in his closet. It doesn't seem like he grew up wealthy. I don't know much about his background in Scotland, but I know how to tell when someone's born filthy rich. He isn't one of them.

No, Cam is a self-made man. My father must have paid him generously, and running the company now must command a hefty price tag. It's obvious he earned this lifestyle with hard work.

" _Unlike you,_ " sneers a cruel voice in my head. " _You didn't earn a single thing_."

I push the voice aside and start carrying things through to the guest room walk-in closet. I wonder if Cam chose everything himself or just gave my sizes to a personal shopper. Either way, their taste is impeccable.

Turning my attention to tonight, I try to decide what to wear. There are several gowns I could choose from; the problem is, I can't decide which. There's a pink gown with a high neckline, a flirty cocktail dress in bright colors, and an eye-catching black number with a tight bustier and thigh-high slit.

I lay them out, wondering which Cam would like. What kind of woman does he want? If I knew, I could mold myself into her, play pretend the way I've done for years. Make him want me—the me I was faking at being.

There's one more garment bag, so light it feels empty. Unzipping it, I find a simple, classic, white gown. No fussy details, just a column of clean silk.

I slide it over my head. It fits perfectly, the fabric caressing my body like a lover's touch.

Like I wish Cam would touch me, if only he'd stop pushing me away.

I sigh. Maybe it's pathetic to wish he'd want me, but I can't forget the way he makes me feel, so alive. It's tormenting to feel that way and know he doesn't feel the same.

My phone buzzes. Brent again. The voicemails are piling up in my inbox, but I delete them without even listening. I'm not going to think about him.

It's nearly time for the car to pick me up, so I quickly settle at the makeup table and set to work painting my face. Red lipstick, smoky eyes and long, sweeping lashes: makeup has always been my armor, a way to hide how I really feel.

The buzzer rings. I'm going to be late. Dashing to the door, I grab a jeweled evening bag and check myself in the mirror one last time.

My heart sinks. I love the simple elegance of the dress, but I don't recognize the woman staring back at me.

Normally, I wouldn't mind. It's how I spend every day of my life: dressing up like the woman I'm supposed to be.

But not tonight.

A strange part of me wants Cam to see who I really am. To be honest with him, the way I never have before. I wonder if he'd even like it, but there's only one way to find out.

I grab a tissue from the bathroom and quickly wipe off my face. No eyeshadow, no blusher. The waterproof mascara stays, and I add a soft red lip stain to keep from looking totally washed out.

There.

I stare at myself again, but this time, it's not a lie reflected back at me.

It's just me.

The door buzzes again, and there's no time left to decide. I grab my purse and go.

ELEVEN: CAM

I head to the fundraiser straight from work. I keep a collection of suits and tuxedos in my office for just this kind of event. It's part of the job. The invitation says 'a benefit for women in the arts,' but nobody is there for the charity: they're all networking and making connections with politicians, executives, and other powerful people.

I was out of my depth when I first started attending these things. But as I rose through the ranks of the company, Ashcroft made a point of inviting me to more and more of them. "You never know when you'll need a favor or a friendly face," he told me, and he was right. I've closed several multi-million dollar deals over hors d'oeuvres at charity galas, or negotiated an important clause in a trade negotiation on the racquetball court.

Still, as I cut through the crowd towards the bar, I can't help wishing I was at home tonight. Having dinner with Isabelle—alone.

"Cameron, good to see you." A business acquaintance greets me, and suddenly I'm pulled into a conversation about the company's latest deal. I'm glad. I need the distraction to keep my mind off Isabelle. I've already wasted too much time thinking about her. I need to remember, she doesn't belong in my dark, twisted world.

"Now, now, enough business talk." The man's wife joins him. She slips a hand through his arm and smiles at me. "Going stag again, Cameron? We need to fix that."

I shrug it off with a chuckle. "You know this is work for me."

"All work and no play," she scolds me, and I remember what Dax said at the club about needing a companion for these things. I have to admit, he's got a point. Every man here has a date: wives and girlfriends all clustered together gossiping. I stick out like a sore thumb, but it's not enough to change my mind.

I keep my life totally separated. At least I did, until Isabelle. She's the first person to trespass between my worlds at the club and out here. The only woman to come close to uncovering my secret.

I'm playing with fire, insisting that she stay with me, but I have no choice. As long as she follows my rules and keeps what happened at the club off-limits, I should be fine. Just a few more days for her to get back on her feet, and our paths never have to cross again.

The thought should be a comfort, but instead, it makes me angry.

Suddenly, the men I'm talking to fall silent. A couple of jaws drop open. "What's the big event?" I ask, turning.

My words die in my throat.

It's Isabelle.

She's decked out in a simple white gown, cut low in front and back. Her sparkling Louboutin stiletto heels flash with each step, and showcase her long toned legs and swaying hips. Her hair falls in soft blond waves, framing her beautiful face. She looks stunning: natural and elegant, like she's not wearing a lick of makeup. Every man and woman in the room follows her with lust or envy in their gaze as she crosses the floor towards me.

I want her. She reaches my side and slips her hand through my arm. "Hi," she breathes, with a shy smile. "I'm sorry I'm late."

"That's fine," I murmur. "This is Isabelle Ashcroft," I introduce her to the group. She greets them with a smile and familiar words, but I can't take my eyes off her. The fabric of her dress clings to her firm breasts and slides around her narrow waist.

Damn, she's perfect.

Suddenly, I crave her so much it hurts. The feel of her bare ass cupped in my hands as I kiss her pale throat. Her moans of agonized pleasure as I tease her to the edge of orgasm, her delicious cunt dripping its sweet juices down her thighs.

It's a good thing we're in public right now. If we were alone, I'd rip apart the thin straps holding up her gown. Bend her over, push her thighs apart with my knees. Nudge my cock against her swollen cunt until she begged for me to—

"Cam?" Isabelle squeezes my arm, pulling me back to reality. I blink.

"Excuse us," I say quickly, flashing a grin. "I think my friend here needs a drink."

I steer her away from them, trying to smother my rampaging lust. "Did my assistant order everything you need?" I ask crisply.

"Yes," Isabelle replies. "But the clothes, the shoes, it's too much. You shouldn't have," she adds.

"I wanted to." I told my shoppers that no expense should be spared. A woman like Isabelle is used to luxury.

"Thank you," she replies quietly.

"What about Brent?" I demand. "Has he tried to contact you?"

"I don't want to talk about that right now." Isabelle avoids the question. That must mean yes. I feel a surge of anger, but there's a shadow on her face, and I don't want to press the issue when we're in a crowd, so I just turn to the bartender and order us champagne.

Another power couple approaches us, all glitter and fake smiles. "Isabelle, darling!" the woman screeches. She's dripping with diamonds, her chest so tight and perky that it has to be fake. "Where have you _been_? You missed Bitsy's luncheon last week and Mimi's handbag trunk show on the weekend."

I tense, ready to step in and cover for her, but Isabelle places a hand on my arm. "Sweetie," she laughs, adopting a syrupy tone I've never heard. "I just needed some me-time. You know it gets so _hectic_ , keeping up the schedule."

The woman laughs, and just like that, Isabelle is transformed. Suddenly, she's the ultimate socialite, air kissing them both and making small talk as if she actually cares about Preston's golf handicap or Bunny's interior design re-do. And that's just the beginning. People flock around her like moths to a flame. I don't have to do anything except smile and nod, but with Isabelle at my side, I'm suddenly the most envied man in the room.

This is a side to her I've never seen: vivacious and funny, full of bubbly energy. If I hadn't seen her, pale and shocked last night, I would think she didn't have a care in the world.

I wonder, just how long has she been pretending?

"See you in the Hamptons!" Isabelle coos, waving off another filthy-rich couple. I sigh in relief. They may have been boring as hell, but they're paying twenty thousand dollars to charity for the chance to mingle here tonight.

She turns back to me and gives a rueful smile. "I need another drink."

I'm beginning to see, it's all just an act to her. The effortless socializing. The glossy socialite routine. She's not the person everyone thinks she is. She's so much more.

"Who are you, really?" I ask, handing her a glass of Dom Perignon.

"Whoever you want me to be," she shoots back, smiling.

I want to keep that smile on her beautiful face.

"Hmm..." I can't resist teasing. "A stewardess? A naughty nurse?"

Isabelle shrugs. "Anything or anyone. I'm a chameleon. I have many talents." She sips her drink.

Her gaze has clouded over now, and that's when it hits me: she's tired of this. Tired of pretending to be what everyone else wants her to be, pretending to be someone she's not. Instinctively, my hand drops to the small of her back, bare above the draped fabric of her dress. I lean in and speak softly to her.

"And what if I just want you? The real Isabelle?" I see a flush rising in her cheeks, but I can't stop myself from continuing. "What about her talents?"

Isabelle smiles again but it's different this time—there's a new sparkle in her eye. "You haven't even begun to discover them."

I like this side of her. Flirty, daring. Real.

"In that case, what would I need to do to see these talents in action?" I press.

"Hmm," she says, batting her long eyelashes. "I can think of a few things..."

Jesus, so can I.

A waiter bustles past, and Isabelle steps closer to let him by. Her body presses against my side. Hot. Irresistible. Her skin soft and supple under my grip.

I slide my hand lower down her back, until my fingertips slip just beneath her dress. They rest there, inches above the swell of her pert ass. I dream about grabbing it tight, clutching those hips as I piston into her from behind.

Spanking her. Teasing her. Showing her the exquisite line between pleasure and pain.

Isabelle doesn't move away. She turns her face to me, those wide blue eyes gazing up at me, questioning. Awaiting my next move.

What will it be?

I clench my jaw. Dammit. I'm hard as a rock now, from just one touch of her body. Surrounded by people, desperate to bury myself between those velvet thighs. I've never responded to a woman this way.

I love and loathe it in equal measure. But I know it's all wrong. I won't do this.

"I'll be right back," I snap, pulling my hand away. I register hurt in her eyes before I stride across the room. I find the bathroom and duck inside, running ice-cold water over my hands until the bulge in my pants subsides.

Pull yourself together.

I stare grimly at my reflection. This isn't who I am. My life is neat, organized. Regimented. There's the man I am when I'm at work, in the public eye. Cool, calm and collected. And there's the man I am when I'm at the club or in the privacy of my own home.

Home. I think of the secret room at the top of the stairs. I made sure to double-check that the door was locked before I went to bed last night. The last thing I want is for Isabelle to discover what I'm hiding in there.

She looked so terrified at the Underground when Brent and that other jerk were working her over. There's no way she would ever want to try that again. I can just imagine the look on her face if she knew the truth. Exactly which activities I enjoyed behind closed doors. But I know a classy, normal girl like Isabelle...she would be disgusted.

The thought of her disgust keeps my desire in check. I head back out to the party. I find Isabelle laughing gaily at some stuffed-shirt's stupid joke. She puts her hand on his arm and he puffs up with pride.

I arrive at them and take her arm. "It's time to go."

The man with her takes one look at me and quickly excuses himself. Smart guy.

Isabelle gives me a stubborn look. "Maybe I'm not ready to leave."

Does she really want to go flirt with that guy some more? I'm jealous as hell, but I know I have no right to be. Still, I'm not going to stick around and watch it.

"I'm leaving," I say sharply. "You can do whatever you want."

Isabelle blinks, startled at my response, and right away, I feel shitty for snapping at her.

"I'll come with you," she says quickly. Then she pauses. "Is everything OK?"

"I'm fine!" I insist, turning away. What is it about her that gets me so worked up?

I walk briskly to the exit. I wonder if I should have left her here to her own devices, but no, just the thought of her turning that million-dollar smile on another man makes me tense with rage.

The ride home is strained and silent. Isabelle sits on the opposite side of the backseat, pressed against the door. Even with the space between us, her presence is overwhelming. Her spicy, floral perfume, the glow of the streetlights on her soft skin. It's torture being inches away from her sexy body, naked under that clinging dress, and knowing I can never do anything about it.

She's off-limits. Completely.

I'm angry at myself for the way I behaved toward her earlier, but the anger does nothing to curb my desire—and my internal struggle only succeeds in making me even more tense.

By the time we reach the house, I'm at the limits of my self-control. I tell Isabelle I've got work to do, and head for my office to get some escape, but she steps in front of me, blocking my path.

"You still haven't told me what you were doing at the Underground."

I flinch at the question. "I told you, it's none of your business."

But she seems determined to wring an answer out of me.

"It's members only," she presses. "So that means you were someone's guest, like me, or that you're a member. Which is it?" Isabelle demands.

She's breathing fast now, her chest heaving against the draped silk fabric with every breath. Dammit. Can't she see she's playing with fire? I clench my fists at my sides to keep from reaching for her. "What I do in my private life is not your business," I scowl. "We are not going to discuss it. End of conversation."

"It's not the end of a conversation until I agree," she says stubbornly.

"Dammit, Isabelle!" I explode. "If you don't stop pushing me..." I stop, dangerously close to losing control.

"Then what?" she asks. "What are you going to do? Bend me over your knee and spank me?" A sexy little smile plays across her lips. Or am I imagining it? Either way, it's too late.

The image she's painted slams through my mind. Her round ass, mottled red with my handprint. Her whimpers of pleasure as I take her over the edge.

It's too much.

The animal in me takes over. Growling, I push her up against the wall and claim her mouth with mine. I expect her to push me away or hold back, but instead, she meets me hungrily, her lips searching and bold. She melts against me, moaning. Ready to be taken.

Dominated.

The kiss in the bathtub was steamy and sensuous, but this is wild and hot. I devour her, crazed by a hunger I can't hold back any longer. I yank her dress down to her waist, squeezing and palming her ripe breasts.

"Cam," she moans, her head falling back, her back arching, thrusting her body closer.

I tear my lips from hers and lower my head, sucking one tight nipple into my mouth and grazing my teeth against the tender nub. Her body flinches, but another moan slips from her lips and I'm certain now: she wants this, wants _me_. I feel a sharp rush of lust. I need her.

Isabelle writhes against me. She reaches for my cock, but I grab her hand before she can touch me. I'll explode, and I refuse to show such a pathetic lack of self-control.

"Put your hands over your head," I snarl. She obeys immediately. Her body trembles, eager and ready for my touch. Craving release.

I keep my gaze fixed on hers as I slide a hand between her thighs and cup her pussy. She gasps, her eyes flooding with desire as I press my finger against her clit. I stroke it teasingly, lightly then harder, faster before pulling away.

She keens beneath me, panting and moaning with pleasure. Every whimper from those juicy lips makes me harder. God, she's so responsive. So willing to surrender to me. It's like she wants me to take control of her, command her to do my bidding.

With a jolt, I realize: Isabelle would make the perfect sub.

_No_.

I tear away from her with a growl. It's impossible. Every moment I spend with her will only make it worse when she turns away. I can never give her what she needs, and she'll only hate me when she discovers the truth.

"This was a mistake." I force myself not to look at her. "I'm sorry. Forget it ever happened."

I walk away before she can say anything to change my mind.

NINE: ISABELLE

What just happened?

I sink back against the wall. Every part of me throbs with a deep longing I've never known before. I stumble down the hallway to my guest bedroom, feeling dazed. I don't understand it. One minute we're in each other's arms, locked in a hot, passionate kiss and the next...he's heading up the stairs and slamming the door shut behind him.

I'm sure he wants me. I can see it in his eyes and feel it in his touch. We're so hot for each other, we're practically combustible. So why does he keep pushing me away?

I can't figure it out. Reading men was a skill I figured out early, to keep me out of trouble. Usually, they're an open book. But Cam is hiding something—something that makes him pull away. And the more his secret eats at him, the more determined I am to uncover it.

When Cam touches me, it's electric. I've never felt so turned on in my life. I was more aroused in that single moment in the hallway than I've ever been before with anyone else. Especially Brent. Cam's mastery of my body just makes Brent look like a clumsy fool.

I want more.

God, I can feel myself ache for him. I'm wet, desperate to feel Cam's mouth on my clit, his warm tongue flicking against the sensitive bud.

My heart is racing. I can't take this anymore. I need to know what he's hiding.

I head back down the hallway and up the stairs. The door is shut, but when I turn the door handle, it opens. Unlocked.

I catch my breath. What is he keeping up here?

I step through the door.

What I find makes me stop in my tracks. It's a huge glass atrium, set like a glittering jewel in the middle of the city lights. Neon shines through the windows like stars but that's not what makes my pulse kick.

I don't know what I'm looking at.

The carpet is plush, black beneath my feet. There are shelves and racks set up around the edge of the room, and in the center stands a tall, black-framed bed made up with crimson silk sheets and plump cushions.

It looks luxurious. Decadent. Sinful.

I move deeper into the room and take a closer look. I realize that I've seen racks like this before, at the Underground club: rows of paddles like the kind Brent spanked me with. Some are leather, some studded with shiny silver prongs. Multi-colored leather whips and floggers hang from another rack.

On the far side of the room, there's an open shelving unit filled with elegant wooden and embroidered Japanese boxes. I slide a couple out and peek inside. They're filled with a variety of cuffs, restraints, ropes, blindfolds, gags, and even sex toys and lube.

My pulse races faster. What is this place? I should be shocked, I know, but I'm weirdly, wildly excited by it all. Picking up a shiny metal dildo, I flick the small switch. It buzzes to life in my hand, sending a dirty thrill racing through me. I have a sudden image of myself on the bed, my legs spread wide, bringing myself to a delicious orgasm while Cam watches everything—

"What the hell are you doing in here?"

Cam's voice comes, furious. I spin around. Shit. He's standing in the doorway to another room, his face as cold as steel.

"I was just... looking for you." I quickly put the dildo back. "What is this place?"

"Get out." He glares, stalking toward me. In the dim light, he looks like he matches the surroundings: a dark figure in this mysterious, sexy place. Suddenly, I realize that this isn't just for fantasy and show. This hidden room matters to him: enough to keep it a closely guarded secret, and stock it with all these toys.

He belongs here.

I feel a flicker of nerves, but I force myself to stand firm. I need to know the truth. "Is this what you've been hiding from me?" I demand. "The reason you've been pushing me away?"

Cam scowls at me, eyes blazing. His whole body is rigid with tension, like he's struggling to restrain himself. From what, I wonder? Another passionate kiss?

"Tell me," I demand again, sick of being in the dark. "I want to know."

For a moment, I think I've pushed him too far. Then he exhales with a groan. "I tried to keep it from you. I knew you wouldn't understand." Cam turns away, his face dark. "You can go now. I'll book a hotel suite for you," he continues, his voice sounding ragged. "You can stay there as long as you need to."

I fold my arms. "I'm not going anywhere."

Challenging Cam with a stare, I move toward the shelf and open another box.

I recognize a few of the items from the Underground, but Cam has a much more extensive collection. At the club, tucked in those dark rooms with music blaring and dangerous strangers all around me, I'd been afraid. But here, in this beautiful room where I can tell each item has been chosen with precision and care, my anxiety melts away and becomes something else entirely.

Excitement. Desire. I stroke a slender, black leather collar with a silver ring fixed to the front. I hold it up to my neck, wondering what it would be used for.

Cam makes a choking sound. A muscle throbs in his jaw. Tense and raw. I catch the look of pure lust in his eyes, and suddenly, it all makes sense.

He wants me. This. The strange tools and exotic accessories—and everything they represent.

My heart pounds as I look at him. "You're into this, aren't you? That's why you were at the club that night." I look around, trying to understand. Cam seems a million miles away from the cruel actions of Brent and the way he treated me, but they're the same thing, aren't they?

"Is it...? Is it like what Brent did to me?" I ask, my heart sinking.

Cam shakes his head angrily. "We're nothing alike."

"So explain," I ask softly. "Show me what you mean."

Cam steps up to me and gently takes the collar from my hand. I expect him to put it away and tell me to leave again, but instead he unbuckles the metal clasp. He weighs it a moment in his hand, like he's deciding something. Then, slowly, he brings it up to my neck.

He slips the leather around my throat, softly caressing my skin. I shiver.

"What Brent did to you...it has no place here." His voice is low, and full of emotion. "He's a brute, an animal. I promise you, I'm nothing like that."

"I know," I whisper. Something flares in his eyes. But then he pulls the collar away, steps back.

"This room, though." He gestures around anguished. "I know you must think—"

"You don't know." I grab his arm, frustrated now. "You don't know anything about me. Why are you so determined to push me away without giving me a chance to understand?"

Cam stares back at me. I let go of his arm, wondering if I've gone too far.

But then, slowly, he brings the collar back up. I stand, ready and waiting, as he fastens it around my neck. He tests the tightness with a final tug and it sends a shock of lust straight through me. When he turns my body around I see a mirror hanging on a post—with our reflection in it.

"I've dreamed about you wearing my collar since the day we met," he murmurs, his voice growling low in my ear.

Another bolt of liquid heat shoots through my body and pools between my thighs. He's so close to me, I can smell the faint scent of his cologne. Feel the powerful, masculine heat of his skin.

I gaze at our reflection now: at his strong hands resting so gently on my skin. Power restrained. I realize, he could do anything right now. I would be entirely at his mercy.

The thought thrills me. A strange new desire pounding deep in my veins.

"My relationships are completely consensual," Cam says, watching me in the mirror. "Always. There may be force, there may be pain, but only if they agree. I only dominate my women with their total consent."

I hang onto every word as he explains, amazed at how turned on I'm getting. He strokes my hair back from my face, teasing his fingertips down my jaw, and lower, to my throat. He hooks one finger through the ring on the collar. Toying with me. Teasing me.

I tremble at his touch.

Cam continues, "The relationship between a sub and her dom is about trust. I will find your limits and push past them to a place of total surrender. A master teaches his sub to relinquish all control, to forget the rules she's learned and the expectations to fake and please someone else."

His voice deepens, grows raw with lust. Still, his eyes are fixed on my reflection in the mirror. I can't look away.

"The women who are invited to visit this room are ready to abandon any pretense of power and give themselves up to total physical pleasure," Cam murmurs, pressing his body against my back. I can feel him, the hard muscle of his body, and the thick ridge of his cock pressing against my ass. "In giving up control, they find something far sweeter. Total freedom. Complete surrender."

I sink back against him, dizzy with desire. Cam is right. This is nothing like my experiences with Brent. He was always way more concerned with his own orgasm than mine. And instead of feeling safe, I felt exposed. Intimidated.

But Cam...I can already tell, he means every word he says. My pleasure would be the only thing that matters. My surrender, his goal.

I would be safe with him.

"If I was your sub, what would you do to me?" I glance around the room, overwhelmed by the possibilities. "Tie me up? Blindfold me? Whip me with one of those floggers?"

My nipples harden at the strange thought. I've never done anything like this before, never felt the burn of curiosity and craving like this. But I love it.

Cam leans close, and his lips brush my ear. "So much more, my sweetheart. You can't imagine the heights of desire I'd take you to."

His hands skim lightly over my front, grazing my pebbled nipples, sweeping over my sensitive skin.

"Together we'd strip away all of your defenses, one by one, until you trust me completely. I'd teach you what it means to want someone so much it hurts. To need them so much you can't think straight and all you can do is surrender," he murmurs, tracing lower, lower.

My head sinks back against his shoulder, but he reaches up with one hand and tugs the collar, forcing my head back up—so I have no choice but to watch us in the mirror, see every touch and move he's making.

God, it's so hot, I can't stand it. My body throbs with need. He rests his fingertips lightly against the apex of my thighs, and I gasp, thrusting against his hand. "By the time I'm through with you, you won't be able to hear my voice without wanting to come," Cam vows, stroking harder. I whimper in his arms.

"You'll love every minute of it," he promises. "The exquisite suffering of knowing that you can't give in to the pleasure until I say you can."

"Yes," I gasp, thrusting against his hand. I'm getting close, God, just from the gentle sweep of his fingers on my clit and the unfamiliar pressure at my neck. "Show me," I beg him. "I want to experience it all. I want this...Master."

Suddenly, with that one word, a change comes over Cam. The dark fog of sensuality and power clears from his face. He releases me, stepping away.

"That will never happen," he says, his voice brusque now. "You wanted to know what I do in my private life, and in this room. Well, now I've told you. But you aren't ready for this, Isabelle."

I love the way my name sounds coming out of his mouth. Like it has great meaning to him. But I hate what he's saying. Why won't he give me a chance?

He deftly unbuckles the collar from my neck, tosses it in the box.

He looks at me and I know I see regret in his eyes, but it doesn't change a thing: he still leaves me standing there alone, stunned and shaking with desire and wanting him.

# TEN: CAM

I storm out of the apartment, knowing I can't spend another minute under the same roof as her. Not when she's standing in the middle of my playroom with that intrigued look on her face.

Fuck.

I take the elevator to the parking garage and pick one of my cars, a custom Aston Martin. I drive out to the street so fast the tires screech, wrenching the wheel with pent-up anger and frustration.

Isabelle doesn't know what she's saying. She can't. She thinks this is all just fun and games, but she's an innocent in my dark world and she has no idea what she's dealing with.

Who I am when the lights are off, and the doors are shut, and there's nothing holding me back from the desires I have...if she saw that, if she knew that man...

She wouldn't call me Master so lightly.

I'm wound too tight to focus, so I drive to the only place that can offer me some relief tonight. The Underground. The valet takes my car and I storm inside, brushing off the concierge's offer to help me find my partner for the night. I already know exactly what I want. A beautiful blonde woman, with long legs, a sultry face and juicy red lips. Maybe if I can get this hunger for Isabelle out of my system, I can stop it destroying me from the inside out.

I find Dax in the VIP lounge, a drink in his hand and a curvaceous redhead on his arm. "This is Suzie," he smiles. "She's new to the club, and she brought a friend." He nods to the woman beside them on the couch.

"Hi," the woman smiles, eyeing me up and down with obvious approval. "We've just been saying, I need someone to show me around. I'm ready to learn the ropes."

She's blonde, gorgeous, and a first-timer: everything I was looking for tonight. But staring at her, I can't help but think of Isabelle. The way my collar looked around her delicate throat. The way her body responded to my every touch. That irresistible combination of innocence and desire.

"Perhaps another time," I say smoothly. "Enjoy your night."

Dax sends me a questioning look, but I ignore it and head out to the club's main floor. There's a restless hunger in my blood, a pent-up lust from the past day with Isabelle. I need release. Soon.

I make a slow tour of the club, not even sure what I'm looking for. There are plenty of drop-dead sexy women here, but no one appeals to me. Maybe I just need some inspiration. I get another drink and select one of the private viewing rooms to watch the couple inside.

I draw the curtains back on the two-way mirror and survey the scene. A pretty brunette woman is laying on her belly on the bed as her dom wraps red, silken ropes around her ankles and hands, pulling them tight. They're practicing Shibari, an exquisite form of rope bondage that originated in Japan. She's silent as her master ties intricate knots in the ropes and tightens her bonds.

It's beautiful and very sexy. But even though they're putting on a good show, I can't help but envision Isabelle there on that bed. Ropes striping her delicate flesh. A gag in her mouth, obedient and totally compliant. Eager to heed my every command.

My cocks stirs but the heat dies quickly. It will never happen.

Despite what Isabelle said, despite what she thinks she wants, her lust will turn to revulsion once she realizes what she was really asking for. She isn't like the women I meet here at the club—she's pure. And I know I'll see the disgust in her eyes the next time she looks at me.

God, I never should have shown her that room. But a part of me wondered what would happen, if she could see it all and understand. The darkness and need that have always existed in me, the cravings that are my only release. What was I thinking?

I wish things were different. That she hadn't been damaged by her experience here with Brent. If I had been the one to introduce her to the club, it would all be so different. I could show her a new side of herself. Strip away all of her fake charm and bullshit, the defenses she's clearly had to learn just to get by in life.

I would show her how beautiful she really is. How she doesn't need the games and makeup and fancy clothes, that she's perfect just the way she is.

The scene continues in front of me, but I know it's no use. I leave the room and keep walking, but moving through the Underground's dim corridors, I realize that Isabelle's the only woman I want kneeling and supplicant beneath my hand, my whip.

Nobody else will do now. Not even close.

I don't expect her to be waiting for me when I get home tonight.

A part of me knows it's for the best. I need her to be as far away from me as possible, to remove every last wicked temptation from my life. Still, knowing she won't be there to greet me leaves me hollow inside from the loss of something I never even had.

And now I never will.

# ELEVEN: ISABELLE

Cam told me to leave. I should pack my things and go check into a hotel, but I refuse to just walk away. I don't understand why he's still shutting me out. I was right there with him upstairs in his secret playroom; I didn't flinch or run from his confessions, so why is he acting like I can't handle the truth?

I decide to stay, and see what he says in the morning. I change into my nightclothes, and try to get some rest in the guest room. The luxurious bed is super soft and comfortable, but I toss and turn, unable to sink into sleep. I can't stop thinking about Cam and everything he's been hiding upstairs. Those shiny, elaborate toys and all the accessories of pain and punishment.

But it's not punishment, is it? I ask myself. It's something more: sensual, liberating, respectful. I've never known much about sub/dom relationships, but what he described doesn't sound scary at all. The trust, the surrender...it sounds exciting.

Beautiful.

I imagine myself up there with him. Kneeling on those crimson silk sheets, awaiting his command. I imagine the sound of Cam's voice as he instructs me to give myself to him in total submission, all the things he would ask me to do.

I saw that look in his eyes when he put the dog collar on me, that electric flash of raw desire. I want him to look at me like that again. To give him every part of me, and see the real man he's been hiding in exchange.

I twist in the sheets, breathless at the thought of it. I've never felt this way before. My whole life, I knew I could never trust anyone to take care of me but myself. Even with Brent, it wasn't about me: I was infatuated with him for sure, but even then, I was the one tending to _his_ needs, running myself ragged to keep him happy, keep his temper in check.

But Cam...he's different. Just days with him, and he's already shown me more compassion and attention than any man before. Rescuing me from the club, offering me a place to stay, tending to my bruised wrists and washing my hair like I was the most important person in the world. He even cooked me breakfast. Cam is thoughtful and kind—with a dark edge that drives me crazy with desire. At his side at the fundraiser, I felt special. Cared for.

Cherished.

Maybe other women would feel weaker, having someone take care of them like this, but I feel stronger for it. It's like he can see past all my pretense, all my elaborate charades, to the real person underneath. The Isabelle I keep hidden from everyone: the broken, imperfect girl who's been running from her past so long she's sick of trying. With Cam, all that fades away. He strips me bare, until I'm nothing but pure, raw desire.

I know that if I gave myself to him, he would be true to his word. He would never push me further than I was ready to go.

But the world he could show me...

It's dizzyingly erotic.

My phone rings, loud in the dark, silent room. I snatch it up eagerly, hoping it's Cam, but instead, I hear Brent's voice blaring, drunk and angry on the line.

"I've had enough of your fucking games!" he yells, slurring his words. "Get your ass back home right now. What the fuck do you think you're playing at? Are you trying to make me mad?"

My body clenches with fear. Why won't he just leave me alone? There was a time I would've done anything to please him. I needed him. His approval and attention meant everything to me.

But that was before he broke my trust forever. And then I met Cam, and discovered what it felt like to really want someone. To not feel used for my money or affection, but to be cared for and protected.

I know what it's like to be valued now. And I'm not going to let Brent push me around anymore.

I brace myself. "Stop it!" I bark. Brent falls silent in shock. "I'm not coming back. At least not as long as you're there, in _my_ apartment," I add. "I'm the one paying rent, remember? So you might not want to sit there yelling and screaming at me, since I'm the one who's keeping you afloat."

"Bullshit," he slurs. "You owe me."

"For what?"

His laugh turns cruel. "For keeping your dirty little secret."

I freeze.

"How would you like me to call up Dad's right hand douchebag, Cam, and tell him everything? Yeah, I know where you've been hiding," he adds. "You little slut, spreading your legs for the first guy to look your way. Does he like what I've taught you?" he demands.

Bile rises in my throat. I fight back the tears. "You can tell him anything you want," I vow. "He already knows about our relationship."

.

"You think this is about us?" Brent's voice is low and menacing. "That's not what I'm talking about, _little sister_. Remember, I know all of your secrets. Every last, dirty lie."

Oh, God!

I sit up in bed, my heart pounding. "You don't mean..." I whisper, fear suddenly like ice in my veins.

"What? That dear, sweet little Isabelle Ashcroft isn't as innocent as she looks?" I can hear the satisfaction in Brent's voice. It chills me to the core, but I fight to stay strong. He thinks he's got me cornered, and the thought gives me the strength to call his bluff.

"So what happens next?" I demand, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fact that I'm shaking with fear. "I'm the only thing keeping you from being totally broke, remember? Your trust fund was stripped away—you have nothing, but I still do."

There's a long pause. I'm betting everything on Brent's greed right now, and I can only pray it's enough to keep him from doing something stupid.

"What do I get for keeping quiet?" his voice finally comes.

I exhale in relief. "I won't kick you out of the apartment—for now," I tell him. "But you have to leave me alone. It's over, Brent, I'm not putting up with your bullshit anymore."

"You'll stick around until I say otherwise." Brent gives me a final threat, and then hangs up.

I catch my breath, hugging my covers tight around myself.

Stupid, stupid girl. I can't believe I ever trusted him—but I'm paying for it now. All my awful secrets come flooding back. The shame and guilt that's haunted me for years. I thought I'd left that life behind forever, but it's shadowed me every day since then.

Will I ever be free from the past?

My phone beeps with a text.

_I want 10k in my account—or I'll tell him everything_.

I throw my phone down in anger.

Brent thinks he can control me with threats, as if I were still the same naïve, trusting girl he manipulated all those years ago. But that's not who I am anymore, and I won't bend to him again.

I'm my own woman now, and this time, I'm finally going after what I want.

# TWELVE: CAM

It's almost 2 am by the time I pick a woman at the bar to try and block out thoughts of Isabelle for good. She's a lithe, short-haired brunette wearing a cropped, latex body suit: a club regular I've seen around the floor before, but never invited to scene with me.

She's completely different from Isabelle, but maybe something different is just what I need to wash this taste of desperate longing from my mouth.

I lead her to a private room. We don't exchange names or niceties. Who I am outside these doors, and who she is in the world beyond the club walls is meaningless tonight. As long as she is ready to play, that's all that matters.

"Hard limits?" I ask, surveying the tools on display. Tonight isn't about sensuality or slow pleasure. I'll bring her to ecstasy, of course, but it will be sharp and hard—enough to sate the craving in my blood.

"I have none," the woman says with a flirty smirk. "I'm yours completely, Master."

I nod brusquely. "Are you ready?"

"In a moment, Sir." She nods deferentially, then exits the room, probably to freshen up.

I pace the room restlessly. This is all wrong. The club has always been a place to feel like myself again, but for the first time, it feels like I'm playing a role, acting the part of dom instead of inhabiting the moment.

I need to snap out of it. It's not fair for the woman here tonight; she deserves my undivided attention.

The door opens behind me. I hear her step into the room, but I don't turn around yet. I want my first glimpse of tonight's conquest to be the sight of her round mouth, open and waiting for my cock.

"Take off all your clothes and get into position," I order her softly. "On your knees, hands behind your back."

There's silence, just the sound of clothing falling to the floor. I give her a moment, then turn.

I stop dead, my cock springing to life with a surge of sheer lust.

Isabelle kneels before me, her hands clasped behind her back. She's completely naked: her round breasts thrust toward me, her rose-colored nipples peaked and stiff. The dim candlelight flickers, illuminating her pale skin and the strip of blonde hair nestled at the juncture of her thighs.

She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"What are you doing here?" I demand. Dear God, I need her. This is every fantasy brought to life, every tortured daydream made flesh and blood.

She tilts her chin up, a defiant look in her eyes. "What does it look like, Master?" she replies. "I'm waiting for your command."

The room spins around me for a split second. I've heard these words countless times, but it's never felt like this before. This moment with her is everything I've ever wanted.

It takes every ounce of self-restraint to keep from reaching for her. I ache to unzip my fly, free my insistent cock and plunge it deep into her sweet mouth.

This is too much. I can't give in to her. I won't allow myself to be so weak.

Mustering every ounce of self-control, I slap the paddle against the edge of a chair. A loud crack fills the air and Isabelle jolts in surprise. But she doesn't break the pose, not for a second. On her knees, she waits for me. The perfect woman. The perfect sub. But she isn't part of a scene, she can't be.

This is real life. Here within the walls of the Underground, my two worlds collide.

"Isabelle," I say, deliberately making my voice cold and cruel. "You don't belong here. You need to leave. Now."

She doesn't move. Instead of getting up and running out the door, she shakes her head. Defying me. Or daring me to challenge her.

Isabelle's stare locks onto me. Her blue eyes glitter in the dark.

"No. You've been telling me what to do, what to feel, since the moment we met here," she says firmly, but I can hear the tremble in her voice. "Now it's your turn to listen to me. Please."

I pause. A war rages inside of me, but I can't help replying. "I'll listen."

She takes a deep breath, sounding more confident.

"My whole life, I've tried to please everyone else. To keep them happy, make it so they wouldn't...wouldn't be angry, or upset, or leave me." Her voice twists with emotion. "I played pretend with them all. My family, Ashcroft, Brent. They never really knew me, or wanted to. So I practiced being perfect for them."

Isabelle trembles, her eyes glistening with tears.

"Cam, I know it sounds crazy but you're the only person who's ever seen through my disguise. Seen who I am inside. And I think I see you, too. The real you, not the guy you think you should be."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. I stare at her in disbelief.

Isabelle's expression becomes determined. "Now I need to make my own decisions. Put myself first, go after what I want. And what I want is you."

I shake my head. "You don't understand—"

"I understand everything." Isabelle gazes back at me, her expression so certain that it takes my breath away. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. I want you to show me everything. What you do here. What you _are_. Teach me, Cam. How to please you, how to feel pleasure for myself. I'm ready."

The world fades away. Nothing else exists but the two of us, alone in this room, as Isabelle Ashcroft waits on her knees, offering me my wildest fantasies.

"This is what I want, Cam," Isabelle demands. "I want to be yours. I want to be your sub."

THE END.

What happens next? Cam and Isabelle's  
story continues in WILD SUBMISSION — out 12/29.
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NOW OUT, THE COMPLETE SERIES:  
THE INVITATION

"A woman's orgasm is an art. It takes finesse. And I'm the world-class master of making women come."

Hot, English businessman Ashton made a pact not to screw up his friendship with Justine 'JJ' Jenkins over a cheap one-night stand. Now, two years later, he's going out of his mind with wanting her -- but she's still off-limits. Now school is over, and his control is wearing thin. They've got one last night together, and he's determined to make it an experience she'll never forget.

The one girl he swore off is going to have the night of her life. And with a sexy game of dare on the table, it won't take long...

THE INVITATION

THE INVITATION 2

THE INVITATION 3
ALSO BY ROXY SLOANE:

THE SEDUCTION

All women look the same on their knees with their lips wrapped around my cock.

You like to think you're different, special somehow. But trust me, I'll have you wet and begging for it before you can think of all those bullshit, good girl reasons why not.

I'm your darkest secret. Your dirtiest fantasy.

Who am I?

The Seducer.

And I've never lost a case.

Until her. Keely Fawes. My mysterious new target.

Someone wants to destroy her -- and I'm their weapon of choice.

Her secrets could be my undoing. Her innocence will ruin me.

But I don't care.

I'm going to show her how fucking good it feels to be bad. She'll come screaming my name if it's the last thing I do.

THE SEDUCTION

THE SEDUCTION 2

THE SEDUCTION 3

THE SEDUCTION 4
