“Leave your message,” he says. “I’ll stay busy while I wait.” He drags me to the center of the couch, the deliciously heavy weight of him settling on top of me.

“Hmmm,” I murmur, as the thick ridge of his erection presses into my belly, “apparently my knee didn’t hurt you all that badly.” I indicate my cell phone and hit the auto-dial. “Behave. I’m making my call.”

“Whatever you want,” he promises, and I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about my call when his hands caress from my waist to my breasts.

“Stop that,” I chide. “The line is ringing.”

Undeterred, he shoves my T-shirt up my belly, his fingers teasing the delicate skin he’s exposed.

“Stop,” I demand, shoving my fingers into his wildly sexy blond hair to hold him steady, and dragging the burn of his stare to mine.

“No,” he replies simply.

“Yes.”

“Yes is a good answer,” he agrees, and despite my grip on his hair, he manages to slide his thumb between my thighs and turn the seam of my jeans into an erotic distraction.

My lashes flutter with the heat licking at my sex, and I can’t help but think of him licking me there. Somehow I still hear the options for the answering service menu, and I release Chris to hit the button to bypass them and get to Ralph. Chris embraces the opportunity to unsnap my jeans and tug down the zipper. And when his mouth comes down on the newly bared spot, his tongue dipping into my belly button, Ralph’s voice comes on the line at the same time, and I can’t manage to form words, let alone coherent speech.

Chris reaches for my phone and I grab it. “No. I have to call back.”

“Call back when they open.” He takes my cell from me and tosses it onto the chair to my right. “We have too many hours to kill before the meeting for you to stress this much.”

“Time we need to use to get some answers.”

“And that answer will be ‘yes’ when I cue you to say it.” He pulls my jeans down my hips, taking my panties with them.

“Try to call Blake first, Chris.”

He tosses my jeans as he had my phone, and starts skimming my T-shirt up my rib cage. “When we’re done here.” He unhooks my bra, covering my breasts with his hands, his fingers teasing my nipples, bending down to lick one of the stiff, aching peaks. “Any problem with that plan?”

“Problem?” I ask breathlessly. “What problem?”

His lips curve and he rolls my T-shirt the rest of the way up and over my head. I try to lower my hands but he holds them over my head. “Keep them there. Move them and I’ll dish out that punishment I never did last night.” He drags his hand over my bare breasts, plucking roughly at my nipples, and I feel the spikes of pleasure all the way to my sex.

Adrenaline rushes through me, part fear of the unknown, part white-hot arousal. “Punish me how?” I demand, my legs clenching around his hips of their own accord.

His gaze does a hot swipe of my puckered nipples and heavy, swollen breasts before lifting to mine. “We covered the list of possibilities on the plane yesterday.”

Heat zips through me with the memory of those whispered promises, all of which had been intimidatingly out of my comfort zone, and ever so arousing. “Yes. We did.”

He widens my legs, his fingers sliding into the slick, wet heat of my body, his thumb stroking my nub. “Do you want my mouth here?”

“Yes,” escapes my lips.

“What if I tell you that if you come before I say you can, the price will be me choosing one of those punishments I’m considering?”

I laugh, a throaty, nervous rasp and remind him, “We’ve been down this path before. I’ll fail. In fact, at this very moment, if you breathe wrong—or right—I’ll come.”

That sexy, evil mouth of his curves with satisfaction. “Then maybe we should move right to the punishment.”

Nerves rush through me, mixed with enough adrenaline to make me tremble. Or maybe, that’s just him making me tremble. “I deserve the orgasm if I’m getting the punishment,” I manage to argue.

He laughs, and it sounds naughty and dominant, as if he’s already decided which of those wicked promises he made to me on the plane he’s going to fulfill. “Let’s see how ready you really are,” he murmurs, slipping a finger inside of me, then another, and stroking a line of pleasure as he does. I fight the arch of my hips, the burn of release, and he seems to understand, to know. “You can have your orgasm, baby,” he promises, “but if you move your hands, then I’ll punish you.” He curves his hand around my backside and lifts me into the pump of his fingers. “Understood?”

“Yes,” I pant. “Yes.” I barely know what I’m agreeing to, for the tiny darts of pleasure the stroke of his fingers are shooting through every part of me.

“Good.” He leans down and kisses my belly, then I feel the flicker of his tongue on the swollen buds of my nipples. “There is only punishment,” he murmurs against my skin, pausing for a moment to add, “Or no punishment.”

Punishment or no punishment. The words replay in my mind, and unbidden, so does Rebecca’s journal entry. You know I have to punish you. I never understood why she’d describe Mark saying this to her as being so addictive, but I do now. I feel the same dread and desire she’d described with him, the ache that is fear and lust in one breath.