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Shay,” she moaned.
    “Shall I stop?” he asked, torturing her. The man was a demon. He knew damn well she didn’t want to stop. All along he had known her better than she knew herself, as though he had secret insight into her soul. That for her, doing this was exciting beyond anything she’d ever experienced before or was likely to in the future. And she loved it.
    “No. Don’t stop,” she begged, giving in. She was so close.
    He pulled out a little, then rammed back into her. His finger pressed harder, circled her clit faster. She felt herself coming fast and gulped down a breath. Just as she was about to climax, he reached up and clamped his other hand over her mouth. “Scream for me,” he told her.
    Her orgasm crashed over her in a drowning wave of intense pleasure. It robbed her of air and sent her whole body into spasm after spasm of earth-shattering sensation.
    She screamed, the sound muffled by the flat of his hand.
    And in a sudden flash of total, blissful despair, she knew in her heart that tonight she would do anything this man asked of her. Anything and everything he wanted, without reservation.
    And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Chapter 6

    The woman was a feast for the senses, a banquet of pleasure for Shay’s hungry soul. He made love to Tessa all night, until the rosy fingers of dawn reached into the courtyard, turning the maison chamber’s white diaphanous curtains a pale shade of pink.
    She’d started the evening as a beguiling mix of bashful innocence and willing openness. By dawn she had thrown herself fully into the fantasy of being his objet de plaisir. He’d even coaxed off her mask.
    “Let me see you,” he’d murmured as she rode his lap, their arms wrapped around each other, sitting up on the four-poster bed. “I want to know the face of the woman I’m fucking.”
    She’d hesitated only a heartbeat, then flung the mask aside. Her cheeks were flushed with the glow of multiple climaxes, her skin dewy from long hours of bed play. Her face was framed by auburn hair in glorious dishevelment, mussed by his own fingers in her slow indoctrination as his personal odalisque. “I guess it’s only fair,” she returned breathily, “since I can see you.”
    He’d held her still and studied her until she blushed and pressed her face into the crook of his neck. “Why do you look at me like that?” she whispered.
    He kissed her temple. “Like what?”
    “Like ... like you’re searching for something in my face.”
    “Maybe I am,” he confessed.
    She lifted her head. “What?”
    Should he tell her? Ask her if she remembered that long-ago day they’d met?
    What the hell. The incident had been haunting him for years. He’d seduced her tonight specifically to purge himself of the absurdly disproportionate lingering effects of that chance meeting with a girl young enough to raise the hairs even on the neck of a sixteen-year-old bad boy.
    “You were at the fountain earlier tonight,” he said. “The Jaillissement de Plaisir.”
    Her lips parted, startled. “How do you know that?”
    “I was watching you.”
    A shadow of wariness flitted through her sex-smudged eyes. “From where? Why?”
    “From a balcony.” He wasn’t about to tell her that it was the private balcony of his own suite of rooms upstairs. She didn’t know his last name nor the fact that he was the owner of the maison Chez Duchesne and heir to the family fortune. He liked the fact that she was ignorant of his wealth and his reputation. It made her honest, a rare commodity in his experience with women. He winked. “I heard four beautiful women laughing in the abandoned courtyard. Who could resist a peek? By the time I looked, the others had left. Then I saw it was you ...” He let his words trail off, coaxing an acknowledgment, a sign that she shared his powerful memory.
    Her brows drew together. “What do you mean, it was me?”
    “You’ve been there before, at the Jaillissement, non?” he