I wait. He makes me wait, the bastard. The torture, the pure agony of crouching behind the box, knees aching, lower legs shaking while I attempt—unsuccessfully—to regulate my breathing, it’s killing me. I can’t take one more second of it.

Springing from my hiding place, I fly out of the storage room and away from the huge shadow that is Rhys—although right now he’s something else. He’s every nightmare and fantasy all rolled up in one gigantic, menacing, sexy demon. My throat is raw from prolonged panting, my palms are damp from fear. I squeal as I dodge a box, knowing he’s right behind me, knowing my running is pointless, knowing the end of the chase is near.

Around the kitchen we go, me running while Rhys seems to float, like a specter, closing in on me without any effort at all.

“Do you have any idea how hard I am for you?”

I yelp in response.

He makes a move for my arm, but I pull it away before his big hand can close about my wrist.

“How long I’ve dreamed of this?”

“Stop talking,” I say because his words are making it impossible to move, to think, to do. I try to change directions, to throw him off, but the soft soles of my shoes slide on the tile and I slip—you’ve got to be kidding me!—I’m out of time, out of luck. Rhys is there, catching me before I fall, holding me tight against his big, fucking body.

“You’re more beautiful than I remember,” he whispers directly in my ear.

He grinds his pelvis into me from behind and I feel his arousal through the cotton of my skirt. Rhys’s hands are not the only thing that is disproportionately large.

I struggle within his grasp, not because I want to get away—not at all—and not because I think it’ll accomplish anything—he’s got me pinned too tight, the man is a wall of muscle—but because it is the thing to do.

“You’re strong, Tessa. I like that.”

“Let me go,” I say, struggling for all I’m worth because I can, and it won’t change things.

“I don’t think so.”

He presses me up against a wall and then wrenches my hands behind me. Something soft and silky is wound between my wrists, binding me.

I’ll immobilize you.

Oh my God.

He tugs me away from the wall and directs me around the boxes toward the door to the adjoining room.

“What are you going to do to me?” I ask, moving forward whether I want to or not. Although of course I want to. All that running? All that hiding? It was all for this. My skin, though still warm from exercise, is heating up all over again in anticipation of what Rhys has in store. The shuddering breath that ricochets up my windpipe is the result of prolonged anticipation.

I’m more aroused right now than I can ever remember being.

We pass through swinging doors, the ones with the squeaking hinges, and into the next room. It’s the tasting room. This space is not dusty, it’s been cleaned recently, empty shelves line the wall ready for products, the ceiling is high, constructed of thick, dark beams. There are wide windows that would fill the room with natural light, but shades are drawn leaving the space in relative darkness except for where sunlight peeks around the sides of the heavy blinds.

Rhys marches me up to the tasting counter, a long, smoothly polished wooden bar, and bends me over, one big hand holding me down while the other one lifts my skirts. He caresses my backside…roughly. Grunting in satisfaction.

“Soaked right through,” he says, pressing his fingers into the crotch of my panties.

I squirm. Not to get away, oh no, to get closer. I need this, his hand, his body, the delicious friction, the attention. It’s heaven. Pure heaven.

“Fuck you feel good.”

“Harder,” I whisper.

He grips me, squeezing pussy and panties in his big hand, twisting, cupping, stroking, slapping.

Pinpricks of light explode behind my closed eyes as my hips gyrate up, then down…up, then down. A primal motion. A fucking motion.

“Jesus, Tess.”

He yanks my panties down and impales me with two, maybe three fingers. Good God, those big fingers fill me in a wonderful way. I cry out in pleasure as he twists inside of me, pulsing fiercely against my inner walls, withdrawing only to plunge deeper the next time.

I’m ready. I’m so fucking ready. “Please,” I beg. “C’mon, Rhys. Fuck me.”

He grunts as he fingers me some more. Harder. Faster. Like a marauder, taking what he wants, hammering my swollen flesh with wild abandon.

I scream, my orgasm taking me by surprise. No warning. No slow build. Just a sudden explosion, hitting me, ripping me apart, stealing my breath and my ability to speak or stand.

Rhys’s hand between my leg keeps me from sinking to the floor. His heavy breathing in my ear, reminds me to draw breath.

“Fuck me,” He whispers into my hair. His hand continues to move between my legs, making slow circles, spreading the moisture across my labia and down my inner thighs. “When you come, you come hard.”

“Mmm.”

Slowly he withdraws his hand, using his body to hold me up instead. I vaguely feel his hands on my wrists, untying the bonds. Freeing me.

Good. I want to see him. I want to touch him and taste him. This whole thing has been better than I ever could have imagined and there is no one I would rather have shared this fantasy with. But now that’s it’s done. I just want to be with Rhys. I want to get to know him better because I have a feeling he is the kind of man I’ll want to revisit again and again and again.

But when I try to turn, Rhys increases the pressure of his body on top of mine. “I’m not done with you.” His voice is warm velvet in my ear as he leans over me, pinning me. The silk that was around my wrists is placed in front of my eyes and he ties it at the back of my head. Only once I’m blindfolded does he turn me around.

“This is my tasting room,” he says. “I’m going to taste you.”

I reach for him, for his chest, automatically undoing the buttons on his shirt. It’s when I slide my hands up his undershirt, itching to find the bare flesh of his neck that he catches my hands again. “That’s enough.” It’s a low growl, like touching him has turned him into a big, fucking predator.

I shiver in response, never feeling more like prey. God, I can’t wait for him to gobble me up.

He lifts me into a sitting position on the wooden bar. “No touching.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Yes sir.” I salute.

His quiet chuckle is short lived. “Jesus, Tess,” he finally says, running a finger down the bodice of my dress. “You look like a fucking virgin from a fairy tale.”

“Does that make you the big bad wolf?”

“Something like that.”

“Rhys?” I realize I’m sitting there without any sort of fight. All pretense of fleeing, gone. “Should I be struggling?”

He slides his hands up my legs, pushing the skirt up as he goes. “It’s your fantasy, sweetheart.”

I scooch my hips forward, welcoming his touch. “Are you saying you haven’t enjoyed yourself?”

His hands still.“Oh, I’ve just begun to enjoy myself.” He wraps the material of my skirt around his fists. There is pressure around my hips as—with one resounding RI-IPPP!—Rhys rends the material in two The sound coupled with the cool air on my bare thighs causes delightful little contractions in my tummy. His hands are everywhere. Stroking my thighs, kneading my hips. He nudges my knees wide and strokes my sensitive flesh.

“I like this,” he says, tugging gently on my clit ring.

I sigh in response.

“I bet it feels good when you’re fucked.”

“I can’t remember,” I moan. “Let’s test it.”

He makes another growl-like sound and the next thing I know, the bodice of my dress is torn in two. Pearl buttons scatter, plinking and dancing across the bar top and onto the tile floor, everything sounds extra-loud because of my inability to see.

My breath comes in short, sharp gasps as I wait for Rhys’s next move. Will he kiss me? Taste me? Tease me? What?

“You are so fucking beautiful.” There is pain in his voice, as though the fact he finds me attractive torments him.

“Touch me,” I say, arching and moving blindly toward him. Reaching for him.

He captures my questing hands and places them on the bar top by my rump, holding them in place. “Don’t. Move.” His whisper is fierce. Harsh.

Rhys releases me for a moment and there is a rustling sound and then another soft scarf is woven around one wrist, then the other, securing my hands—once again—behind my back. “I told you, no touching,” he says once he’s done.

“Okay,” I whisper back.

I can hear him breathing…deeply. Like the act of securing me was hard work. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t touch. What’s he doing? Is he staring at me? Does he like what he sees? Is this his way of continuing to torture me?

It must be, because suddenly the distinct sound of retreating boots on tile tells me he is leaving.

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t move.”

“Rhys?”

Squealing hinges and the swish of a door, he’s gone back into the kitchen. I call his name again but there’s no answer. Instinctively, I test the strength of the bond tying my wrists. It’s not very tight and all it would take is a little twisting and tugging and I could slip free. When I hear the sound of the door again followed by slow, measured footfall, I stop pulling at the ties behind me and focus on the man approaching slowly in front of me.

If only I could see him.

“Damn.” His voice is deep. Dark. There is desire in that one word but there’s something else too. “Do you have any idea how good you look right now?”

I yank one last time, partly for show—for Rhys—and partly to see if the silky knot will slip any more. It does, a couple more tugs and my hands will be free, but I don’t do anything about it. Yet.

He nears and it is not only my sense of hearing that tells me he is standing directly in front of me, I can feel the heat radiating from him. I can smell him too. His cologne is more musk than spice. Woodsy. Pine and earth. All man.

“Rhys?” His name floats out of my mouth on a sigh.

He caresses my lips and I touch his finger with my tongue, hoping to convey my desire for a kiss.

“Do you remember the pinot noir we tasted in Paris?”

“Yes. It was my favorite.”

“Here.”

Thin glass is held to my mouth. Liquid butts up against my lips and I sip. It’s the pinot from Paris. He takes the glass away and a drop of wine remains on my lower lip. Before I have a chance to lick it, Rhys touches it and trails his damp finger down my jaw to the hollow of my neck, letting his finger linger there before traveling lower to the dent between my breasts. I twist, ever-so-slightly, so that his finger is on my nipple. With a growl, he squeezes. Hard. “Jesus, you tempt me.”

“Good. Give in.”

He moans and the next thing I know there is fierce suction on one nipple then the next. Teeth scrape sensitive skin as he devours me like the predatory beast he’s been playing at from the moment this began. My predatory beast. I yield, panting and whining at the savagery of his kisses.

“The perfect pairing. You and the pinot,” he mutters as his kisses travel down my belly to my hips. “Spread your legs for me.”

Of course I do as he asks. I also wriggle closer to the edge of the bar, leaning back onto my elbows, tugging involuntarily on the ties, loosening them even more. I don’t care about the ties, I’m too focused on Rhys’s hands, prying my legs apart, his mouth on me, sucking and nipping the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, on the feel of his hair, obviously longer than the military cut he’d had in Paris, brushing my belly and legs.

God! It’s so good. And, all made better because I can’t see. I don’t know what’s coming. All I can do is feel. His breath. His scorching mouth. Warm and wet. The perfect pairing for my pussy.

When he impales me with both thumbs while simultaneously sucking on my clit, I cry out in ecstasy, my legs twitching involuntarily and my hands scrambling for purchase. The result is my right hand slips free of the scarf. I lay back, opening myself to Rhys as much as possible.

He is being ruthless with me, taking me just the way he likes, hard, and I’m overcome with the need to see. There’s nothing more erotic than the sight of someone between my legs, feasting on me. I tear the blindfold from my eyes and then reach for him, wanting to thread my fingers through his hair. I know he said no touching but…

He looks up.

I gasp.

He growls.

His lips are curled into a snarl, his teeth bared. The man who stares back at me with a terrible mixture of anger, desire and shame, is not Rhys. Oh no.

It is a beast.