“Am I a nice guy?” he asks as he releases my hand. “I don’t know, Jamie. I guess that’s up to you. If you need a nice guy, I’ll be a nice guy. But I don’t think that’s what you need right now.”

I try to speak, but can’t seem to manage. I swallow, then try again. “What do I need?”

But he says nothing. He just smiles. And, honestly, he’s turned me into such a confused and emotional mess that I’m not sure if I want to kiss him or slap him.

I don’t like being confused, and my discomfort makes me bold. I prop myself up on my elbows. “What the hell kind of a game are you playing?”

“Who says I’m playing a game?”

“I do.”

He cocks his head. “All right. Why?”

“I seem to recall you saying no to me on the beach. And yet here you are.”

“Yes,” he says. “Here I am.”

“Ryan.”

He shakes his head, then strokes a finger along the line of my jaw. It’s a familiar, almost sweet gesture, and it unnerves me. “You called me Hunter before you knew I was watching. I liked it.”

“Ryan,” I say again firmly. “What’s your fucking game?”

He looks at me for so long I start to wonder if I should just call it a wrap and go inside. “Do you know why I said no?” he finally says.

I shake my head.

“Because I’ve watched you, Jamie. Watched and wanted. I want to kiss you, to touch you. I want to fuck you, Jamie, but I want so much more than that, too.”

“What?” I ask, mesmerized by his words.

“Everything,” he says simply. “I want to tie you up and fuck you until you beg for mercy. I want to use my palm to redden that ass—because we both know how naughty you’ve been. I want to make you come so fast and so hard that you scream, and then do it all over again.”

I lick my lips, my body already tingling in anticipation.

“In other words,” he continues, “I want you at my mercy, kitten. And I intend to make you purr.”

“Kitten?” I repeat. “Are you trying to tame me?”

“On the contrary. I like you wild. But I won’t have you walk,” he says firmly. “I won’t be one of the men you toss aside.”

He looks at me, and his expression is hard. This is the man who runs security for a multi-billion dollar corporation; this is a man who gets what he wants.

“So you tell me, Jamie,” he says. “Do you want me to fuck you? Or should I walk away right now?”

Chapter Four

Every ounce of self-preservation tells me to play it coy. To insist that I don’t do ultimatums. To tell him that I know damn well he wants me as much as I want him.

In other words, to take back the power.

I don’t.

I can’t take the risk that he will call my bluff. That he’ll walk away.

Because, damn me, I want the man.

I know all the reasons that I should tell him no—but I also know that I won’t.

Because right here, right now, I want this man inside me more than I have ever wanted any man. Hell, more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

“Jamie,” he says. “What do you want?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Yes, what?”

Slowly, I stand. Then I tilt my head so that I can look at him more directly. “Yes, everything,” I say. “You want me at your mercy? I’m already there.”

Pure desire cuts across his face, and I press my hand against his chest, then slide it down over his slick, hard chest. “Fuck me, Ryan Hunter. I want you to fuck me right now.”

“Well,” he says as he reaches behind me to unhook the back of my bikini top, “I do like the sound of that.”

The top hangs loose, and as he steps closer—as he reaches behind me to slowly lift my shoulder-length hair and then tug the bow at my neck free—I try to breathe, but seem to have forgotten how.

The top falls off my body, and I tilt my gaze down to see it land at my feet. I look back up to meet Ryan’s eyes. They are blue flames and seem ready to burn.

“The bottoms,” he says in a voice so tight with want that it does not sound like him. “Take them off.”

I swallow, then slowly ease my hands down my hips, hooking my fingers under the material, then shimmying out of the tiny bottoms. I let them fall to my ankles, then step out. I’m breathing hard, hyperaware of every tiny hair on my body. Of every small bead of sweat at the back of my neck. My nipples are hard and my areolae puckered. I am wet, and because I am waxed, I know that he can see how hot and swollen and ready I am.

He lowers his eyes to my feet, then traces his gaze slowly up my body. I try to stand still, but it is as if his inspection is a caress, and when he lingers at my sex—when he releases a low groan full of pleasure and need—it is all I can do not to slide my hand between my legs and try to release some of this building pressure.

His gaze continues up, lingering over my breasts before settling on my face. “You are stunning,” he says. “I like seeing you aroused. It makes the fire in you burn hotter.”

“You do that,” I say.

“I like that, too,” he retorts.

I lick my lips, waiting for him to tell me what to do, but he says nothing. I try to withstand the silence, but it is impossible. “Please,” I say.

“Please what?”

“Please touch me.”

He cocks his head as if considering the idea, then nods once. “Lay down on the chaise,” he says, and when I go there, he shakes his head. “No. Face down. And keep your legs apart,” he orders. “I want to see how wet you are. How much you want me.”

“Very much,” I admit as I move to comply.

I have laid out naked many times before, even here at this house when it was only me and Nikki looking to work on our tans. But I never thought of it as sexual. It was just me. Just skin.

Now, even the sensation of the sun on my lower back is erotic, and when Ryan steps to my side and then traces a finger lightly from my heel, up my calf and thigh, then over the curve of my ass and all the way to my shoulder, I fear that I just may die from the pleasure. “Wait here. Don’t move.”

I do as he says, though I cheat a little by spreading my legs more. I want him to see me—I want him to want me. And more than that, I want the sensation of the sun between my legs. Heat upon heat, fire added to fire.

He comes back quickly and without explanation, but when he sits beside me, I see that he has brought suntan oil. He squirts some onto my back, making me twitch from the sudden, ticklish sensation. But that is quickly quelled when his hands begin to stroke me, long, slow movements that heat my skin and fill the air with the scent of coconut and vanilla.

He pampers every inch of me, working on my hands—stroking and pulling each finger in a manner so erotic that every caress is reflected in my sex, which throbs and wants more and more as each moment passes.

He strokes my shoulders in deep, soothing motions, then moves down to knead my waist, my hips, and even my ass. He doesn’t slip further down, though—doesn’t touch me where I am so desperate to be touched. Instead he moves lower still, making my thighs slick, then focusing on my calves, my heels, the arch of my foot.