Chapter 5

“And Dominance and submission.”

Morgan swallowed. She’d been caught up in enthusiasm for her show and almost forgotten they were going to discuss that topic. The topic that fueled her shameful late-night fantasies.

“Yes.”

He quirked a dark brow at her expectantly, somehow managing to look sharp, displeased, and nonthreatening all at once.

Puzzled, Morgan stared. What did he want?

“Yes, sir,” she ventured.

His smile dazzled, rewarded. “Very nice.”

“I thought such forms of address were reserved for one’s...”

“Submissive? Frequently, but you contacted me for a quick lesson or two. I thought it best to start with a hint of the dynamic and see how you do with it.” He leaned forward, an elbow braced on the table. His gaze poured directly into her, molten and unrelenting. “Do you understand what it means to submit to a man? Completely surrender?”

Morgan tried to suck in a breath, stunned to find it ragged beyond her control. His eyes flared hot with approval.

“T—this isn’t about me,” she argued breathlessly. “I just need to relate the concept to the—”

“How can you relate without a taste of it, cher? A little nibble ain’t gonna hurt you.” The smile he flashed her could only be termed pure sin. “You might even like it.”

That’s exactly what Morgan was afraid of.

She did her best to send him an expression that was all business. “It doesn’t matter if I like it. After all, I managed to finish taping the show about couples’ tattoo fantasies successfully without ever getting a tattoo myself. It’s all about understanding why it’s important to them.”

“Paying someone to imprint a design on your skin while your significant other watches is a lot less personal than being blindfolded, naked, and bound for your master’s pleasure.”

With a gulp, Morgan realized he was right. Worse, that nibble he offered was starting to sound like a feast to her neglected sex drive.

No. This time around, Adam was offering the apple of temptation to Eve, and she was smart enough to know better. If she seemed interested, it was because he filled her head with suggestion. He was hard to ignore. She wasn’t depraved, wasn’t the kind of woman to get off on letting a bully chain her down and tell her what to do. The idea was just novel. She had a purely intellectual curiosity in the concept. Okay, mostly intellectual. That didn’t mean she should indulge.

Even if Master J looked like the kind of man who could have invented the concept of pleasure.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked.

Myself.

She looked away from his intent gaze. “It’s just not my thing.”

That displeased brow snapped up again. His glare filled with impatient demand.

“Sir,” she added, almost against her will.

His expression softened. “In the few minutes I’ve been sitting here, your skin has flushed, the heartbeat pulsing at your neck has accelerated, and your nipples have hardened. I know the scent of arousal. I can smell yours. I’m going to ask you again; what are you afraid of?”

Shock punched her gut. Oh, my. . . She’d been as easy to read as a book. Easier, even. Morgan closed her eyes, drew in a breath. Then another. Her mind raced.

“Don’t think too hard,” he cautioned. “Lying invokes punishment.”

“Punishment? You have no right!” she returned in a heated whisper.

He stared for a long moment. “I told you yesterday online that a relationship of this sort requires a great deal of trust. I trusted that you were who you said you were. In order to earn a little of your trust, I allowed your production assistant access to some very personal information about me. That’s right. No need to look surprised. I knew the minute he started calling around about me. If I hadn’t advised my clubs in advance they could give your guy information, no one would have even said good morning to Reggie, much less confirmed the details of my sex life.”

He shifted in his seat, brushing his thigh against hers again, then lifted her chin with his finger. Morgan melted—a combination of shock and arousal, topped with the delicious thrill of Master J’s overwhelming sex appeal.

“Trust,” he murmured. “I placed some in you. If we’re going to work together, you need to have a bit in me. I’m not going to ravish you or force you or any other melodramatic scenario running through your head. If I’m going to help you understand the psychology of Dominance and submission, you have to have enough trust to be honest with me. And with yourself. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Y—yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Now, for the last time, why are you afraid of the idea of submitting?”

A loaded question, one she didn’t know how to answer. Rejection. Being ridiculed again. Shame. Fear of pain and degradation. A stronger fear that she’d love being mastered by someone like him and be unable to deal with the shame and guilt.

She couldn’t admit that—not any of it. She might as well hand him her soul on a silver platter.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please. . .”

Master J’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed. For some crazy reason, she hated letting him down. She owed him nothing, damn it. Nothing at all. He was an interview subject and he’d be compensated for his time and information. Period.

Fighting the dueling impulses of resisting until hell froze over and giving in, it took Morgan a few moments to realize that their waiter had returned to refill Master J’s coffee. Then the young guy looked at her with a confounded sort of smile.

“Some dude paid me twenty bucks to give this to you.”

He handed her a regular mailing envelope—with very familiar handwriting.

The waiter departed.

Her heart started pounding. The speed of light had nothing on her as she opened the envelope to find a handful of red rose petals with soft centers and dead edges. They spilled through her fingers, and she gasped, feeling all blood drain from her face.

“No…” She looked around the sunny square with panic. “No!”

“Morgan?” Master J questioned, voice laced with concern.

She looked at him with wild eyes. “He’s here. Here. Followed me. Oh, my. . . I have to go.” She sucked in a scared breath and clenched trembling fists. “Hide. Now!”

Master J grabbed her by the shoulders. “Who is here and where are you going?”

Shrugging free of his touch, she looked around frantically for any face that might be dangerous or familiar. Most other chairs in the square sat empty, as did a few nearby windows and balconies. Shadowed storefronts held any number of people, but they all looked like natives. The little coffeehouse’s other patrons either took little notice of her or cared even less. Like every other time her stalker had approached, he’d been as silent as smoke, as invisible as air. Panic ate at her gut.

“I can’t stay. I’m sorry…”