"That movie was a bore." Mike yawned into my shoulder, his voice caressed with the notes of haughty London. "Next year can you please pick something with more thrill and cinematic panache?"

"The Board made the selection," I answered, turning into him to keep our conversation hushed, and, so I hoped, visually flirtatious. Standing well into six feet, Michael Samuels was every bit the dazzling male specimen a girl could ask for in a date.

An impressive broad shouldered frame was encased in a crushed velvet jacket of startling azure with tailored red slacks and a crisp white silk shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He was old Hollywood glamour meets the trendy modern circuit.

"So, darling," Mike swooped a glass of champagne off a server's tray, handed it to me since both my hands were presently unoccupied with anything remotely alcoholic. "Why am I the one here with you tonight and not some gorgeous, available sod panting at your gorgeous heels?"

"Who could hold a candle to you?" I said, tossing back my length of auburn hair. "Who could hold a candle to you?"

"How true," he chuckled. "But there is someone, certainly?"

"Why should there be?" I looked up at him, and straight into thick dark lashes framing arresting blue eyes in dusky gold skin of his distant Indian lineage. A long aristocratic nose and sculpted cheekbones made women look twice and linger the second time around.

It was a shame, I thought for the hundredth time in four years, that Mike was more interested in spending his time in the company of beautiful men as opposed to beautiful women.

A devastating loss to womankind; I was compelled to sigh over the waste.

"Unless you've upgraded your concealer, darling, there must be." His knowing smirk brought a flash of the same look I'd seen on Paul's face earlier in the week. "Sorry, darling, but when a man puts a glow in a woman's cheeks, its hard to ignore the obvious."

"Jesus." I stretched my fingers to my lips to smother the laugh. "Are all gay men so perceptive?"

"All?"

"Paul, my assistant," I said, nodding towards the far end of the room where he stood engrossed in conversation with one of the ladies who worked the administrative pool. "Since I'd invited you to be my date, he assumes you're the source of my 'dewy' skin. He's dubbed you Magic Mike."

Those elegant lips of his turned up into a smile. "I rather like the sound of that." Following my line of sight, Mike scoured the crowd of faces until he caught sight of Paul, head to toe runway perfection in elegant black, and lingered.

"How old?"

"Twenty-four, I think."

Mike sipped from his vodka. "A baby. Single?"

"Mike." I swatted his arm with my metallic clutch. "Can't you wait until the evening is over before you find a young stud to take home?"

"If I did that," Mike arched a dark brow at me, "then all the good ones would be snatched up. Can he be trusted to be...discreet?"

I swirled my champagne, and gave the question a minute's thought before nodding. "I think so, yes. Though you could always have him sign a CA, if you were concerned."

"A Confidentiality Agreement?" Mike's gorgeous face lit up at the suggestion. "Now why didn't I think of that?"

Within the room, photographers circled and as one drew closer, Mike's fingers curled on my arm. We often attended prestigious events together; out of affection and friendship I stood in whenever he needed me as a decoy to ward off rumours and speculation. The price of being so gorgeous, I mused, was that people always stopped to take notice and more often then not, people wondered why a stunning catch like Michael Samuels hadn't taken a wife?

Knowing the drill, I looped my arms around his neck, fingers brushing through thick black silk, giving the illusion of lovers enjoying an intimate moment. And though I could feel the burn of everyone's eyes in the room, the only ones I couldn't detect were Tristan's.

He'd barely looked my way the entire evening, other than to say hello when Mike and I arrived. And to add insult to injury he didn't even have the decency to show even the slightest whisper of surprise. Or jealousy.

"Darling," Mike trailed a finger down the bridge of my nose, popping my thoughts like a bubble. "He's here. Isn't he?"

I didn't answer, but my look must have said it all because those dazzling blue eyes softened.

"Give us a kiss." Mike crooked that finger under my chin, a wicked smile playing on his lips. "And him something to think about."

My gaze dropped to that gorgeous, tempting mouth, my every breath wishing it was Tristan's. Knowing it would never be...

I leaned in a little closer, until I could smell the hint of citrus and vodka on his breath.

"Why not?"

***

I teetered on my heels, giggling as I found the lock with my key. An evening of fine company, fantastic food and wine danced in my head. I'd lost track of the hour, and Tristan. He'd slipped out of the party, leaving without a word. Jerk. I snorted mid-giggle as I burst into my place.

"Laura." My name snapped out in the dark, the grating and disapproving tone of Tristan's voice, unmistakable.

"Shade," I answered, my tongue thick in my mouth. Shutting the door, I leaned bodily against it until my legs regained composure. He moved in the dark, a glimmer and a shadow in the streams of naked moonlight.

My heart raced as he drew closer, a lion in the darkness, silver eyes gleaming with warning and danger. Where Mike was all spiced cologne, Tristan's scent was sharp. Clean. Intoxicating. He pressed a hand to the door, the space between us snapping with electricity and heat.

"You're drunk."

"A bit." My teeth grazed my bottom lip. I reached for him, my hands tangling in his crisp shirt. Seeking. Searching for the scorch of iron beneath his flesh.

"No," he said, prying my hands away from him. Anchoring them at my sides. "I'm not happy with you, Laura."

And he wasn't. I could hear it in his voice, but his face was passively cool. Frustratingly so. Did nothing touch him?

"I don't appreciate a woman playing games."

"I wasn't." I shot my jaw out defensively, gave my wrists a tug, testing him.

"You were," he said, yanking me forwards. "And I want to know why?" He brought me over to the back of the couch, turning me around until I was pressed against him, his arms banded around me, holding mine in place.

"Why, Laura?"

"Why what?"

In the dark, he was all heat: from his voice to his body to his temper. Heat. Scorching, controlled, vibrant heat and I wanted nothing more than to sink my teeth into it, to slip it between my thighs and ride him until I was nothing more than ash.

"Jealousy is a weak, petty emotion. I thought you were above such things."

"I'm not jealous."

"No. But tonight you wanted me to be." His hand glided up my thigh, bringing up the length of my dress with his fingers until he found warm, naked skin. "I've shown you nothing but complete devotion," he said, his teeth biting below my ear. "Now it's your turn. Bend over."

"Shade-"

"Sir." His fingers curled around the back of my neck while the other hand gathered my dress around my waist so the curve of my bottom rubbed against the hard length straining through his pants.

For all of his temper, he wanted me, and knowing that brought about an eagerness to comply. The sooner I yielded, the sooner I'd have him.

"Fine," I sighed. I bent over the back of the couch, the weight of my upper body pressing firmly into cushions as he wedged a thigh between my legs, coaxing them wider.

I heard the whispered hiss of his zipper, the slide of his pants and had to bite my lip to hold back the moan, and the urge to beg.

"Remember your safe word," he said, his hands gliding across my back, down to my hips. Fingers curled until the narrow band of my panties, but he didn't pull them down. "Say it."

"Say what?"

"Your word. Remind yourself."

I ran my tongue along the edge of my teeth. "Stargazer."

"Good girl." His hand dipped between us and I felt the first delicious stroke of him against me. At this angle, with my hips anchored in place between him and the couch, I was helpless. Exposed. "Ten, Laura. We'll start easy for your first offense." The crack of his palm was the answer to my burgeoning question, and sliced through me in sharp bursts, pausing to soothe each slap with a caress.

One, two, three, four...

"I want to hear you say it, Laura." Between each lash he stroked himself between my thighs, rigid steel against wet silk. The head of him pushing against my sweet spot, driving me wild and yet giving me nothing to latch on to for relief.

"What?" I tried to arch into him, to enhance the friction, but he held me in place, no giving an inch.

Five, six...

"Admit the truth. And apologize."

Seven, eight...

"No." I winced against the sting in my cheeks, groaned at the sweeping touch of his hands. Nine, ten...

There, I thought. Ten, we'd reached ten. He'd have to fuck me now. He couldn't leave me like this. Not when he was so hard, so painfully erect. I straightened as he rounded the couch, sat down.

"Come here," he said, not even looking up at me, his hands working the buttons on his shirt.

"What now?" I asked, coming to his side. He removed the white silk from his torso and somewhere deep in my belly, hunger growled.

"Over there." He gestured a few paces away and waited patiently as I moved into place.

"Take it off," he commanded, voice thick and deep.

Standing in a shaft of moonlight, I removed the dress, letting it slither down my body, wearing nothing but panties and strappy gold heels. His eyes roved over me, drinking in my soft, pale skin and the small triangle of blush coloured silk between my legs. My bare and heavy breasts ached for the touch of his hands, the caress of his tongue.

He lifted a finger and beckoned me closer.

"On your knees," he said before I moved an inch.

"Sha-"

"Sir," he warned, grey eyes flashing in the dark. "Knees."

I sank to the ground, slow and deliberate. The hardwood was cold against my skin, hard and unforgiving against the curve of bone. I couldn't imagine how I was going to manage the uncomfortable journey towards him in this position.

Tristan spread his arms, draped them over the back of the couch, his legs spread and the length of his engorged member bucking against the rippled muscles of his belly. I shifted my weight, testing my protesting joints in this unaccustomed to this torture. Little sharp licks of pain worked through my legs as I moved from one to the other, dragging myself closer by humiliating degrees. His fingers circled his shaft, pushing from root to stem with tantalizing strokes. I didn't have to be a mind reader to know what he wanted from me, next.

"Only your mouth," he said, whacking my hand away. "You're not allowed to touch me without permission."

I narrowed my gaze, thought about challenging him but didn't see the harm in doing as he demanded. I'd seen him naked before, but never was given much of an opportunity to behold him so on display. My eyes did what my hands, apparently, could not. They worked over every inch of chiselled muscle. From the firm and rounded pectorals, down to the divots and hollows of his torso, the muscles rising and flowing to a delicious vee leading to the exquisite length of him between his legs.

Straight as an arrow, thick enough for my fingers to circle around but not quite meet my thumb, as I recalled one evening I'd gripped him to put him inside of me. The heavy sack of his balls were smooth, and I wondered if I ran my tongue along their seam, sucked one into my mouth, would his eyes roll back? Would he moan?

I salivated at the thought of discovery, of finally learning what would make him weak.

He watched me, his expression patient, his eyes hot with focus as I brought my mouth to the wide tip, a bead of his own excitement glistening provocatively. Swirling my tongue, I lapped it up, savouring the taste of him on my sensitive buds. Opening my mouth wide, relaxing my jaw, I took him deep and held him there until my muscles eased. Slackening at the length and girth of him, before sucking up and hard, straight to the edge and holding there, twirling my tongue around him inside my mouth.

I looked up to see his eye were fixed on me, his lips a thin determined line that broke to breathe. His hands remained locked to the couch, his fingers boring into the upholstered fabric, his biceps bulging with effort.

Closing my eyes, I focused on the length of him in my mouth, bobbing and sucking, going deep was I could until saliva flowed and slid down the rest of him, leaving him slick and slippery against my lips and tongue. Though he had yet to touch me, his hips lifted in time with the wicked stroke of my mouth, soft little pulses that spoke volumes.

"Enough," his voice rushed out, his hands gathering my shoulders, removing me from him. "Get on the couch."

I wiped the sloppy mess from my mouth, sat on the edge, wondering what could possibly come next as Tristan settled between my thighs. His hand weighed my breast, squeezed and released, his finger flicking across the hard bead of my nipple. Pinching it. Tugging it. I sucked in a breath and the plea.

"Before the night is over," he said. "You're going to do one of two things. Give in, or give up." Pushing me back, lifting my hips, Tristan entered me in one, solid thrust. Withdrew completely.

This was worse. So much worse then when he had me bent over the couch. This filling and emptying.

"I can't." I tried to lever myself up, but his hand set against my chest, pinning me down. Tristan thrust into me again, his thighs slapping against mine. Withdrew again.

"Please."

"You know how to make this stop." Sweat glistened on his brow, on his chest. His face was a blank, always the indecipherable canvas, but the shimmer of wet on his skin said what his face and words never would.

Control was a bitch. And it was costing him. Who would crack first? Who would break? The quiver in my thighs said I was near my threshold.

"Fine!" I cried out. "Okay. You're right. I was playing games. I was trying ot make you jealous."

Tristan continued his maddening assault, the muscles in his arms rigid, trembling, his belly tense as armour. "Why?"

"Please, Sir," I whispered. Tears, the sting of them galled me, but I couldn't do a damn about holding them back. Not with all the alcohol and frustaration swirling through my body.

In. "Why?" Out.

"I was hurt."

In. "Why?" Out.

"You rejected me." My fingers curled into the couch, nails biting into my palm.

In. "And?" Out.

"God dammit." I tried to pry his hand away, but Tristan pressed back with his forearm now stretched between my breasts.

"Because," I sobbed out a moan, "I want you. I want you to be mine." The startling depth of truth stunned me silent. Tristan bent over me, and this time when he filled me, he didn't pull away.

"Don't you see?" His breath panted across my skin, his eyes fixed to mine. "I already am." That arm lifted from my body, his hands locked around my hips, raising me so he could slide deeper. His thrusting changed, finding that delicious point inside me that only he could find, and drove home.

With the pleasure, came the tears and I wept through every wonderful, blissful moment as he drove me onwards, towards rapture and ruin, I didn't care. I was a mess, a glorious mess.

I came with a violence I could only describe as desperate and Tristan gathered me into his arms, brought us to the floor with me on top of him.

"Take me," he said, levering up. "Take me."

My arms wrapped around his shoulders, my fingers tangled in thick layers of gold and my hips took. Took until his body tensed underneath me, until his voice chocked out my name in that single, triumphant moment of climax.

I revealed in that moment. In the power.

Mine.