“Sophie, could I see you in my office in five minutes, please?”

She caught the emphasis absolutely clearly, and  entered Lucien’s office seven minutes later, deliberately missing his deadline.

“You’re late.”

“I was busy.”

“Not just one minute late. Two.” He lounged against the edge of his desk and touched the back of the swivel chair beside him, turning it slowly to face her. “Sit down.”

Sophie closed the door behind her with a click and crossed the room. Lucien watched her closely, his eyes all over her. She’d dressed for him that morning, knowing full well that her feminine, not-quite demure, lace-trimmed sundress played to his cave-man instincts, and that the almost indecent underwear she’d chosen to team it with turned him hard on sight.

His hands moved warm and heavy to rest on her shoulders. Kind of loving, kind of clamped. Only the slow stroke of his thumbs on her neck beneath her ponytail betrayed him.

“Put your hands behind the chair, Sophie.”

A shiver ran from Sophie’s scalp to the base of her back. She swallowed, and slowly obeyed his demand. Lucien clipped the cuffs around her wrists, taking care to shackle her in place by threading the chain behind the post of the chair.

“A lot can happen in two minutes, Princess,” Lucien said, letting her hair free from its band before swinging the chair around to face him. He knelt before her, checked his watch, and spread her knees.

Sophie held her breath, never sure with Lucien what would happen next.

She gasped when he rucked her dress up her thighs, his hands firm as he yanked her hips forwards on the seat. Once she was exposed from the waist down, Lucien stopped for a second.

“These are some of my favourites,” he murmured, massaging a firm hand over the scrap of white lace between her legs.

“I wore them for you.”

He nodded briefly, his eyes hot on hers. “I know.” He gripped the edge of the delicate lace and pulled it aside, parting her thighs even wider with his shoulders as he dipped his head. He paused, his lips a whisper away from her skin. Both hands buried between her thighs, he opened her with his fingers and blew lightly over her flesh, a cool breeze to heighten the heat of his tongue.

Sophie watched him, her hands desperate to be tangled in his hair rather than behind the chair. He raised his eyes to hers and kissed her clitoris, and her body arched in response. He lifted one eyebrow, and kissed her there again. Slower, longer, with tongues, the most erotic of French kisses.

“Not just one minute late, Princess,” he said, stroking one finger along her thigh. “Two.”

He pushed two fingers inside her at once and fastened his beautiful mouth over her sex, his hot, wet tongue making her cry out. He mouthed her, delicate and then not so, teasing and then sensationally not so. He knew her body so well now. How to build her, how to hold her right on the edge, and how to plunge her all the way over whenever he wanted to. He wanted to. Her hips jerked and he followed her movements with his mouth, not letting her miss a thing.

Sliding his fingers slowly out of her, he dropped a kiss on her thigh as he straightened her clothes and checked his watch.

“One minute fifty five.”

Sophie stretched when he unlocked the cuffs, and Lucien caught hold of her wrist and massaged it.

“Next time, be more punctual.”

Sophie ran a hand over his crotch. “Maybe,” she massaged his erection and stretched up to lick her tongue over his lower lip. “Maybe not.”

She stepped away and skipped to the door, laughing when someone tapped the other side of it.

“Dylan,” she smiled in welcome, straightening the skirt of her dress, opening the door wide. “I hope you’re not late too. Lucien’s feeling quite the slave driver today.”

Chapter Eight

“Working late, Sailor?”

Dylan was behind the bar, bent forward over it with a look of concentration on his face and a pen in his hand. He looked up when Kara spoke and it took a second for his expression to clear into a smile. The switch from pensive to unguarded pleasure set off an unexpected sizzle of appreciation low in her gut. She pushed it resolutely aside and slid her backside onto the nearest bar stool, dropping her oversized leather bag on the floor at her feet.

“You got me,” he said, rolling his shoulders back as if he’d been bent for quite a while. Kara flicked her eyes up to the ceiling to avoid staring at the strip of flesh that appeared beneath the hemline of his faded grey T-shirt. Not that the T-shirt did much of a job of disguising his body. Just the opposite, if anything; it clung to his body like lichen on a rock, reminding her all too clearly about the lean, tanned beach body barely hidden beneath the cotton.

“All work and no play will make you a dull boy,” she said, wishing instantly that she had chosen a different wisecrack.

Dylan tapped his pen on the bar, looking at her for a long second. “I don’t have anyone to play with tonight.”

Kara shrugged. “I’d offer, but I’d probably have a drink and then start that whole ‘I wanna rip your shirt off,’ shizzle again, and that would be bad.”

Dylan laughed softly. “I’ve never met anyone like you, English. Are you always this honest?”

“Yup. I told you. What you see is what you get.”

“Okaaaay.” He drew the word out, as if he were thinking how best to phrase something. “Well how about I be honest with you too?”

Was that the sound of a warning bell? Kara heard it chime loud and clear, yet she just raised inquisitive eyebrows at him.

“I like bourbon," he said. "And Mustangs. And sexy girls in cowboy boots.”

The sides of Kara’s mouth twitched. “Two out of three ain’t bad.”

“Yeah, but that’s where old Meatloaf got it wrong. Two out of three is bad. It’s frustrating, and leaves you wanting. Three out of three is much, much better.”

“Or gluttony, depending on how you look at it.”

“So shoot me, I’m a sinner. Come by the boat later?” His clear, green gaze was direct. “I’ll cook for you.”

“You cook?”

“Sure I do.”

“This is the point where I should say I’m washing my hair.”

Dylan walked slowly around to Kara’s side of the bar and smoothed her hair behind her ear, casual yet deliberate at the same time.

“Your hair already looks pretty good to me.”

Kara found herself uncharacteristically out of smart comebacks, mostly because he’d touched her and she wanted him to do it again.