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excitement. Her lace-covered nipples hardened into throbbing peaks and pushed against her bra; the warm rush of air against her naked thighs caused goose flesh to break out all over her skin.
    She’d worn her freshly dried hair up, a futile exercise, since it’d be freed from its knot the minute she walked in the door. But it was all just part of the sequence of events. Things had to happen a certain way, always.
    Her skirt had to be short, her top easily removable; her lips had to be tinged with the slightest of gloss, but her fingers and toes painted a fiery red. The “no underwear” clause she’d firmly vetoed, not because of propriety, but because she loved the sensual feel of the material as it slid off her skin. Or when it was tugged firmly between her butt cheeks, creating a sweet friction on her clit. More often than not though, it was more of a ripping and less of a sliding.
    Her lips parted on a soft exhalation as the elevator pinged its arrival.
    The door opposite, bland and unprepossessing, cleverly masked what lay within. She approached, used her key, and let herself in.
    The large sunken living room, decorated in minimalist black and white, was empty. Soft lights played on chrome and glass tables and lent a deceptive calm to the room. On one side, facing two large sofas, floor to ceiling windows reflected the soft lighting as well as the spectacular vista of LA at night. On the other side of the room, set against the back wall, a long bar, complete with elegant ladder-back stools, held pride of place.
    Turning away from the view, she walked to the bar, poured herself a large mineral water, and took a long drink. It would be hours before she came up for air, water or sustenance of any kind, she mused.
    The empty glass discarded on the counter-top, she made sure her cell phone was switched off, left her small evening bag next to it, and slowly turned toward the short hallway.
    She barely noticed the expensive abstract paintings on the walls. Her eyes remained riveted on the gleaming black door at the end of the corridor.
    Dark excitement ratcheted up another thousand notches. The tips of her fingers tingled in anticipation of turning the knob; her blood roared through her veins. An addict seeking her next fix. That’s what she felt like. And it would be sweet, so, so sweet.
    She reached for the door handle, tongue sneaking out to coat her dry lips, and turned it.
    And there, on the bed, in blue jeans, white T-shirt, and black leather jacket, sat her guilt, her pleasure, her pain.
    “Hello, Enzo.”

 
     
    CHAPTER THREE
     
    Lorenzo Saldana watched Lexi walk toward him, struck dumb all over again by her stunning beauty. For some reason, the sight of her, looking even more beautiful than she had just a week ago, made his simmering anger rise.
    Her peach-perfect skin glowed in the soft lamplight. Her silky hair was up, secured with a clip of some sort, but already a few strands fought the restraint. The loose wisps caressed her smooth cheeks and delicate jaw. His fingers itched to release the rest of the glorious chocolate brown mass and feel it slide over his hand, his arms. The need to wind it round his fist, use it to tilt her face up to his, and taste her sinful, delicious mouth burned like an inferno through him. But he stayed put, hands fisted on his thighs.
    Over the thunder-strong beat of his heart, he heard her soft, short breathing and knew she was just as excited as he. The hard-on he’d sported for longer than he cared to think about grew thicker and strained against his jeans. She’d taken her time walking through the apartment; dragged out the moment before she entered the bedroom. Each second he'd waited had made his blood surge higher, his pulse race faster. But he didn’t mind the anticipation, however fucking excruciating.
    It was all part of the game. An elaborate foreplay - the song and dance - as she called it.
    He resisted the urge to grab her, tear off her clothes, ram deep inside