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stay behind.”
    My blood hiccups through my veins, but he’s only shrugging out of his suit jacket. The near-fright skitters shivers over every inch of my body. I’m not chained to this chair and there’s only so much I’ll do to keep my job.
    So why are you still here?
    He drapes his jacket over the back of the chair and stands there, his hands braced on the top, watching me like a predator.
    “Is this another lesson?” I enquire sweetly.
    A shadow crosses his face. “Did you enjoy the last one?”
    “Not really, no.”
    “Good,” he says. “Lessons aren’t meant for pleasure.”
    Okay, so that is why I’m still here. There are times when I run at the drop of a pin and there are times when I get stuck. When I have to see things through to the bitter end and beyond.
    “It wasn’t valuable either,” I assure him.
    “This isn’t a schoolroom, Ms. Lynch.”
    “Then stop treating me like your personal playground, Roman .”
    He doesn’t flinch at my use of his name.
    He does leave his position behind the chair, stalking toward me. “Trust me, Ms. Lynch, you could never begin to imagine what goes on in my playground.”
    His baritone rumbles down my spine with dark intent and my stomach drops a little with each step that brings him closer. My gaze falters, falls to where my hands are folded in my lap. I’ve pushed him too far and I’m not done.
    So many emotions conflict inside me, I’m a broiling mess.
    Anger at his blasé attitude, at what he did to me, at how he left me, coils in the pit of my stomach.
    There’s frustration too, sexual and mental.
    Incredulity at his sheer arrogance and absolute disregard.
    A decent shot of fear, because it would be idiotic to underestimate this man.
    And washing over all of that is the forbidden temptation that licks my pulse and staggers through me like a wave of nervous desire.
    I feel him next to me. The vibes he gives off are a tangible presence, a touch. I know when he’s pressed his backside to the edge of the table right beside me. My gaze flicks that way, along his lean, muscular legs that are stretched out alongside me. An inch closer, and his leg would brush my hip.
    I slide my gaze up his thigh, over the bulge in his crotch, up along that immaculate white shirt and silk blue tie.
    “I’d offer to show you,” he continues, “but that would be breaking ground rule number three.”
    “And what would that be?” My voice is thick, my throat constricted with desire. I have to wet my lips before they’ll form the innocent smile I turn up to him. “No fucking women?”
    “Tell me, Ms. Lynch…” His hooded eyes flick to the junction of my thighs, then up again to settle on me. “How long has it been since that itch was scratched?”
    Condescending bastard.
    I’m on my feet before I can think better of it, my hand raised. He sees the slap coming, I swear he does. His jaw glides with the delivery, dispersing the impact.
    He grabs my hand before I can withdraw, shifting one leg to put me between his thighs as he tugs me close by my bended elbow. I could extend that elbow, push away, but Oh, God, I don’t want to.
    “Ground rule number four, Ms. Lynch.” Grey flecks in his eyes glitter. Not cruel. Not cold. No storm. I don’t know what this new emotion is. “Never give what you’re not prepared to take.”
    His palm lands on my backside with a crack and a burning sting spreads over my buttocks. A gasp bursts from me, my eyes instantly watering. He’s not playing. That wasn’t a love tap.
    And then he’s rubbing that palm firmly over my backside, massaging the burn while crushing my soft, sensitive lower abdomen flush against his hard, throbbing dick. I’m sandwiched between sensations and everything mixes up. I no longer know what is pain and what is pleasure and I don’t care.
    “Next time,” he says, his warm breath teasing my ear, “I’ll put you over my knee and do it properly.”
    The promise sends a rush of thick, hot desire to melt my