“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

The bartender puts the martini in front of me. I take a sip, confused, and wonder what happens next.

The man moves to the stool next to me, then leans even closer into my personal space. I consider sliding one stool over myself, but decide to remain put, my posture rigid, my body language very, very clear.

Apparently, though, the guy is illiterate in the body language department.

“Here for the conference?” he asks, and I can smell the liquor on his breath.

“No,” I say. “I’m looking for some time alone.”

“Lucky you,” says the man who cannot take a hint. “Insurance regulations. Hours and hours of continuing education.”

“Hmm,” I say. I have my Coldly Polite face on, but he’s apparently blind as well.

He leans in closer still, and now he’s at such an angle that he has to grip the bar itself or risk sliding to the floor. I give in to temptation and lean in the opposite direction. “I can think of better ways to spend a late night,” he says, his voice low and his intent unmistakable. “And we are in a hotel. You do the math.”

“I was never particularly good at math,” I lie. I consider moving to a table, but Damien specifically told me to stay at the bar. And no matter what else, I am following his rules tonight.

“You look like you’d be good at a lot of things,” the man says, staring at my tits.

I turn back to the bar to find the bartender sliding a new martini in front of me. “From the gentleman,” he says, nodding toward Damien.

“How nice,” I say, then smile at Damien, which seems to irritate my companion.

Damien rises, says something to the men at his table, and strides to the bar. He stands right beside me, and as is always the case when Damien is near, I am suddenly hyperaware—of him, of my own body, of the rotation of the earth beneath us.

I smile at him. “Thank you for the drink. Sir.”

I see the muscle in his cheek tighten when I say the last word, and I have to smile. He wasn’t expecting that. “I hope you like dirty martinis.”

“The dirtier the better,” I say.

“Hey. You want to get lost? I was chatting with the lady.”

Damien turns to him. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so. I want her.”

The guy’s eyes go wide, but he recovers fast. “The lady wants to be alone.” Apparently, he’s now all about chivalry.

“Does she?” He looks at me, then speaks very slowly and very clearly. “Did you come here to be alone? Or to be fucked?”

“I—” I have no idea how I’m supposed to answer. Beside us, the guy is apparently shocked into silence. “I guess that depends on who’s doing the fucking,” I finally say.

“I like your answer,” Damien says. “What’s your name?”

“Louise,” I say, my middle name coming unbidden to my lips.

Damien grins. “Nice to meet you, Louise. I want you to come with me now.”

I gasp, embarrassed, but also incredibly, undeniably turned on. “I—”

“Now.” He holds out his hand and I hesitate only a moment before taking it.

Beside us, my companion stares with his mouth gaping open.

Damien helps me off the stool and aims a friendly nod at the insurance dude. “Maybe next time,” he says, as the guy looks at Damien as if he’s pulled off some kind of magic act. At least we’re leaving him impressed and not pissed.

I am giddy as I follow Damien. I want to laugh. I want to take his hand and twirl in the lobby. I want to slam him hard against the lobby wall and claim his mouth with my own. I want his hands on me. I want him inside me.

I want him to fuck me, just like he said. And I want it now.

Apparently, so does Damien. As soon as the doors close on the elevator, Damien backs me against the wall. His mouth is hard against mine, his hand under my skirt, two fingers inside me. I grind my hips against him, wanting him, craving more of him than I can get in an elevator.

“God, Louise,” he says, and we both laugh.

“I thought someone might recognize us. It’s my middle name.”

“I know,” he says. “And I think they were all too tipsy to care. And too out of town.”

“Could have been some paparazzi around.”

“Fuck the paparazzi,” Damien says, his words as harsh as sandpaper.

I ease my body against his. “I’d rather fuck you.”

He kisses me again. Hard.

“That man was very disappointed,” I say, when he breaks the kiss.

“Just claiming what’s mine. And adding in the public service of giving that man a fantasy to keep him occupied this evening.” He easily thrusts a third finger inside me, and I bite down on my lower lip to stifle a scream of pleasure. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like it.”

“I liked it,” I say as the elevator doors begin to slide open. “I liked it very much.”

He withdraws his fingers, then directs me out of the elevator, punctuating the movement with a light pat to my ass. Our room is at the end of the hall, and I am in awe when we step inside. The suite has a living area and a dining area and a separate bedroom.

The door closes with a thump behind us.

“For a woman who likes to be mine, you were certainly doing an excellent job of flirting with that man.”

I am still gawking at the room, but at these words, I turn, ready to defend myself, because I absolutely, positively did not flirt with Mr. Pushy.

My words die on my lips, however, when I see the humor in Damien’s eyes. But there’s something else, too, and I know where this is going.

I give a careless little toss of my head. “What was I supposed to do? You were ignoring me. I was just making conversation.”

“He wanted more than conversation.” He takes my hand and pulls me into the dining area so that we are standing by the large, round table. He turns me around so that he is behind me, then slides his hand up my leg under my skirt.

“You need to understand how completely you belong to me. Mine to pleasure,” he says as his featherlight touch on my clit sparks a flurry of shudders within me. “Or mine to torment.” He lands a hard spank on my rear, and I cry out, the sound wrenched from my throat on a wave of pleasure. “You like that?” he murmurs.

Dear God, yes. I lift my rear, giving him better access.

“Spread your legs.”

I comply eagerly, anticipating the feel of Damien inside me. I hear the metallic sound of his zipper, then the soft brush of material against skin as he takes off his slacks. He keeps his shirt on, and the starched cotton hem brushes against my skin when he leans over again in a way that is probably unintentional, but comes close to driving me crazy.