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  He escaped with his dick still safely, smartly, in his trousers. He'd call it a win.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jocelyn spent most of her morning trying to talk herself out of adding a new item to her list of things to do before thirty—sex with Ian. The idea plagued her most of the night when they'd worked together, in the break room and in her bed as she tried to sleep. And now, early afternoon, she'd given up the useless litany of reasons why she shouldn't, how she wasn't the kind of woman who'd ask for sex. Women who had sex with Ian probably didn't ever ask politely for a roll in the sheets.

  What could she do? She'd never seduced a man. And what about his rules? He hadn't needed to say sleeping with people at work was one of them. If they'd met in any other way there was no doubt in Jocelyn's mind he'd have ripped off her clothes, pinned her to the floor and screwed her every which way but loose.

  And she would have let him.

  Completely out of the norm for her, but she had to figure out a way to talk him into breaking his personal commandment, because she wanted him to pin her to the floor, wall, mattress, wherever and whenever. No use in lying about it or telling herself she shouldn't. That was the whole point behind the plan to do all the daring things she'd never done before. Good God, sitting here quietly helping him, paralyzed with what to do next, just solidified the fear that even at twenty-nine she'd lost all possible gumption and was slowly calcifying into a sexless, lonely, cardigan-wearing nun.

  No. Hell no.

  “You,” Ian said, breaking her out of her reverie, “have been thinking furiously all morning. It's distracting.”

  He'd shed his coat and tie again today. Also, he'd rolled up his sleeves and smelled like something she wanted to swallow whole. That was distracting. She opened her mouth to let those words tumble out, but he looked up, gaze narrowing on her face.

  “Scared of your plans after work?”

  “You're teasing me,” she said.

  “I am.”

  She smiled despite the irritation of him, of all people, was poking fun at her staid life. He was the abnormal one. “Not everyone has arm-wrestled a shaman and won.”

  And then a thought struck her sideways. A man who'd done all the things Ian had probably didn't need much goading to do what he clearly already wanted to do. All those moments where he'd been one muscle twitch from jumping her hadn't been in her imagination. They both kept that boundary in place. What would happen if she tore it away? Ian couldn't cross a line that didn't exist. He'd built his career by being smart, courageous and certain. Not much changed his mind unless he wanted to be persuaded. And Ian wanted her. She was sure of it.

  The thought sunk its teeth in. Her skin flushed and she did her best not to glance up with a grin that would look as mischievous as she felt. No, what she'd do next wasn't world domination. She just needed to make Ian lose control and break his goddamn rule. One, it seemed, he wanted to break anyway.

  “I don't know what to do,” she said, trying for sex kitten and not sure if it was working. “What makes you pick up a woman in a bar?”

  His white-gloved hands froze over the ritual ax, and something passed behind his gaze she couldn't describe much less distill into a single word. “She's attractive and breathing.”

  She snorted and lost the hold on her sex kitten. “No really.”

  He considered her again, sighing. “Do you plan to walk up to him?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, start with your walk. More leg and hip action. Not like those models who trot like horses. Sensual. Seductive. Understated. The kind of sway a man can imagine you being on top of him moving the same way.”

  With a sly smile she stood. His gaze narrowed on her. She scrounged up every thought of being on top of a man, his cock sliding in and out, how it would feel rising up and down, his fingers gliding over her waist, up to her breasts and fixed those thoughts in her mind and walked toward him. She stopped a few feet from him and raised a brow. “Like that?”

  His hands gripped the ax. “Passable, but now put that movement into thought and there in your gaze.”

  She thought of Ian's fingers digging into her waist and holding her still so he could thrust into her. “Passable?”

  He made a noncommittal noise. “Just like that, Lass.”

  But he wasn't joking when he said it this time. Not with the way he spoke so softly, but a bit of a growl could be heard in the back of his throat. Her nipples hardened as though his voice was something tangible and could scrape against the sensitive tips. She had to swallow. “And then what?”

  “He'll do the rest of what needs to be doing to get you in his bed. No question.” He flexed his fingers over the ax, his breathing uneven.

  But he didn't move toward her, not even a twitch. She'd crossed the line they'd put up. Made it clear she wanted more to happen, and he wasn't doing what needed to be done to get her into his bed. Damn. Her gamble didn't work. She started to turn away so he wouldn't see the defeat creeping over her expression, but Ian spoke.

  “But it's me you want, isn't it?”

  Her steps froze at his words, but a corner of her mouth crooked up. “Depends.” She faced him fully and saw he'd put down the ax.

  “On what?”

  “Whether or not you'll break your rule.”

  “And what rule would that be?” He stalked forward, to her.

  Her heart jumped in her chest. “I assume it's something along the lines of you don't sleep with coworkers.”

  “A rule for a good reason, too.”

  “Complications,” she said. “Sour grapes. Anything awkward if the sex isn't good or too good and one side buys into an emotional entanglement you don't want.”

  “Took the words out of my mouth. So, I'll say this once and I want you to believe it, down to your toes.” He made another predatory step toward her. “I want to fuck you. Not make love or anything else with flower-y intent. No. Fuck. The kind that's sweat and come soaked and breaks some furniture in the process.”

  His words gave her pause, mainly because she had a visceral reaction to them, to him—wet. She was soaking wet and from the sudden jump in her heart rate, her hands trembled too. She’d had the hearts, the flowers and sweetly whispered words before. Great, wonderful even. Making love was like meat and potatoes—fulfilling and warm and right with the right person.

  What Ian offered was sinful, decadent like something sweet, and then covered in chocolate just to make it that much better. Nothing that could sustain you, but by God, it was delicious and mouthwatering. The kind of sex that left you raw on the inside and out. Something she'd never had and it was about time she did.

  “Am I supposed to be scared right now?”

  He chuckled and it sounded like trouble—some she'd borrowed for no reason other than temporary insanity.

  “Aye. But you teased me so I'm going to let you stew for a while until we finish up, and then we'll head to my place. You have until then to back out.”

  Maybe she should have been worried there was an escape-for-your life-while-you-can clause. She wanted something that would eclipse the first twenty-nine years of her life and make it seem like she hadn't even started yet. An experience that said tame and tasteful sex wasn't all there was to life.

  So, she said. “Ditto, Ian.”

  He chuckled again and walked back to the ax. They went through everything, prepping as though nothing had changed. Really, that's what made her eventually start to quake in her heels. A man that didn't have to prove himself was a dangerous kind of man.

  She couldn't wait.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jocelyn assumed Ian lived in a home she could never afford on her current salary. Not that the museum paid her so little. She had a decent cushion of savings thanks to them.

  Decent and opulent were worlds apart. He lived in a high-rise—the penthouse. He didn't make an over-the-top gesture when he opened the door to prepare her, but he should have.

  “You live here?” She tried not to gape.
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  “Don't own it, but it's serviceable.”

  She worked with antiques and things that required countries to sign over and create contracts to lend to other places. But, this...wow.

  “You're looking scared again, Joce.”

  She shook her head. “I know you're...important, but I didn't know how much. This place makes that pretty clear.”

  He frowned at the apartment, maybe seeing it through her eyes. The living room and kitchen had things you needed for functionality, but both had plenty of pretty things, breakable and costly. She kicked off her shoes only to have her feet sink into plush carpet.

  “People pay to have things they don't need. To have a status that means nothing. Here, I can make what I need to eat or order it. I have a soft place to lay my head. The museum felt this is what I wanted.”

  He shrugged out of his coat and kept moving deeper into the high-rise. She followed because this was his domain and, to be honest, she'd handed over the reins to him. He knew what fucking was.

  They passed by an original Van Gogh in the hallway and she almost stopped to admire it, but he kept going. “You don't care for all this?”

  He halted, pushed open a door—his bedroom. “Not really. It's not home. It is what it is.”

  She'd noticed he preferred sparse in most things, but his clothes, for one, were tailored. He drove a high-end sports car and even lunch was ordered from nice places. She scoffed. “You're trying to tell me you'd stay in a flea bag motel?”

  “Fuck no, but if that's all I have to stay in, I'd rather that than outside.” He pushed the door open.

  The bed was as plush as the carpet. Pillows galore, dark tones decorated his domain. She wondered if he made the bed himself, or had maids who came in. Probably maids. She couldn't see Ian arranging pillows on the bed. Neither could she see him straightening the wrinkles in the sheets and comforters and tucking in the corners.

  His words made her wonder but that's not why they were here. She unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. The faster she got out of her clothes, the faster she'd get over any insecurity and awkwardness about being naked in front of him.

  Ian stopped at the bed and tutted. “Stop.” His gaze roved up and then back down. “Come here to me.”

  Jocelyn's fingers fumbled over the suit jacket's buttons at the command but she shuffled to him. He'd settled on the edge of the bed and that made him eye-level to her breasts. Ian cocked his legs open for her to slide right in. She did. His thick thighs bracketed her knees.

  She wasn't close enough to feel the thick length of his erection. A shame because his cock sat up, proud and needy, pressing against the slate gray slacks in a way that made her mouth water. This close, the scent of his aftershave filled her next breath—decadent and musky.

  Slowly he unbuttoned the suit jacket and shirt, pushing them open, exposing her lace-covered breasts. “Tell me, Joce, what haven't you done?”

  He started at her collarbone and trailed his fingers over the rise of her breasts, over the edge of the black bra as he held her gaze.

  Aroused already, she found it hard to breathe normally. “Think it's safe to say everything you probably have.”

  “So you need to catch up before things really get interesting between us?” He traced her nipples through the thin material with his fingertips.

  She trembled and nodded. His fingertips drew smaller circles, softly flicking at the sensitive buds. Heat scorched her skin.

  “Not good enough.” He'd started the caress back up to her collarbone. Once at the top again, he let each finger have its turn teasing her nipples on his way down. He tugged lightly at the tips with his forefinger and thumb and then started over. Enraptured with the sensations, all she could do was shiver and let his fingers work their magic.

  “I want you to tell me. All the things you've fantasized about. That'll be the first task to do all the things you've never done. You have to ask for them. Maybe even beg for them. Otherwise, how else will I know?”

  Her breath shuddered out. He grunted. “Take off the rest of your clothes. I want you bare.” He dropped his hands back down to the bed.

  Nerves filled her stomach. This felt like seduction. No. More like a stripping down of all that she was. One layer at a time. Ian sucked in a breath when she'd stood in front of him without a stitch of clothes.

  He held her gaze. “You're a bonnie lass, aren't you?”

  He had the nerve to joke right now? She bit her lip but ended up smiling anyway. “No idea what that means, but I like the sound of it.”

  “You would.” His voice was gruff. “Now tell me what you fantasize about. When it's just you and your hand, what makes you come?”

  At his words her nipples grew taut. Jocelyn licked her lips. She knew these were the rules for what she wanted. She had to tell him or he'd show her to the door. He'd given her the chance to walk away, but half mad and horny, she followed him from the museum to his home to have this, to have him without a whit of guilt. How many times in her life would she get the opportunity or, hell, have the guts to do this? Never if she didn't do it now when nothing was on the line.

  Her heartbeat shot into overdrive. “I—He's—In my fantasies he's sucking my breasts and massaging my clit. That's the first thing he does.”

  His gaze lit. “Not so hard to say, was it?”

  “Easy for you to say.” She chuckled. “You're just sitting there looking pleased.”

  “I am.”

  He splayed his hand over the hair covering her mound, groaned low and let his thumb dip into the crease, right to the entrance of her sex. She sighed, spreading her legs wider to give him better access. He smeared her heated, liquid arousal over her clit, back and forth, making the nub swell. Using his other hand, Ian grasped her left breast, light at first until she rocked her hips into his thumb. His groan was a thing of beauty and stoked a more potent response than his hand. She didn't know what to do. Her mind had shut down any thought.

  He rubbed his thumb over her in circles, catching more of her cream to ease the way around, and caressing the outer lips of her pussy with each rotation. Tilting his chin, he tucked her nipple between his lips and sucked the dark brown peak into his mouth. Her fantasies had never been this vivid. Of course, they couldn't stand up to a man's mouth and hand. He made her the center of the universe and asked for nothing in return as he sucked her nipple and rolled her clit. All because she'd told him that's what she desired, he'd do it until she came.

  She couldn't have imagined the deep, abiding pleasure of telling this man suck me, fuck me and him obeying because the words had been spoken.

  The heat built in small degrees, flashing over her skin, but the intensity sprang from both his mouth and hands. His tongue wet and laving over her nipple. His thumb slick and sliding over and around her clit and the inner lips of her pussy. Teasing, enticing caresses.

  Her pelvis thrust forward, stilled. She lost her breath. Clenched but nothing was there to tighten around and milk. The orgasm ripped through her. She gripped his shoulders. He grunted, turning his face into her other breast but not letting go of the grip he had on the left one. And he kept up the tortuous rhythm of his thumb. She shuddered, hard, and her nails bit into his shirt. It wouldn't surprise her to find crescent-like tears in the silk later.

  Jocelyn didn't care. Her head fell back and she crooned as she came. His teeth sank deep into the skin around her nipple. It should have hurt. Instead, the sting shot straight to her core, extending the already exquisite orgasm.

  She tried to catch her breath but it was way ahead of her and her racing heart. She looked down into Ian's gaze. The corner of his mouth was quirked up and he kept a slow, back and forth caress over the hooded nub that kept her shuddering, kept her pussy tingling and weeping at his touch.

  Ian loosened his grasp on her breast but only to lovingly pinch the brown peak. “Are you ready to tell me the rest?”

  He looked so much like a sex god, so smug at making her come without even unbutt
oning his shirt. That wouldn't do at all. Not if they went at this for the next twenty-nine days as she envisioned. He couldn't have the upper hand all the time.

  Jocelyn wasn't as experienced in the bedroom, but she knew enough. Men could turn into primitive beasts with the right provocation, especially in the bedroom. He hadn't stopped touching her, leaving her bare and open, so it took no courage to say, “That wasn't fucking me. I'm already disappointed.”

  The gray in his irises darkened, and he eased her back, stood, turned her around and pushed her onto the bed. There was nothing but a soft sea of mattress and satin that felt cool against her skin.

  “Arse up,” he growled.

  Even with the command, Ian's touch was gentle as he glided his hands down her spine, repositioned her the way he needed—spreading her legs wider, back arched higher, and face pressed into that cool satin. A wanton thrill pumped through her blood. At the command, at him, the smell of his sheets—decadent, enough so she almost bit into them just for a taste—her senses felt alive. She felt alive.

  Jocelyn stayed that way for seconds, though it felt like eons, until his index finger caressed the seam of her sex before dipping into her. He was getting her ready for him. She wanted to turn around to watch, but his teasing ministrations had her on the brink again. Now, she had something to tighten around, but still nothing to milk.

  He dragged his finger from her clit to the entrance of her sex and stopped. His breath panted out. “Your arse is tight. Something else you've never done?”

  She felt exposed and the words refused to spill out so she shook her head.

  “Relax.” His voice softened. “I won't touch you there unless you tell me it's your fantasy.”

  Her fingers loosened on the comforter and she nodded again. Her knees dug into the bed while her feet hung off the edge. He shifted behind her, his bare thighs brushing the backs of hers. His hand rested on her tailbone and then she felt him, his cock at her core.

  The rubber of the condom didn't dim the effect of his dick swirling around her channel and hooded nub, round and round, lubricating him, preparing him for her. Her legs trembled and her hands fisted into the cover.