My skin was on fire. Fuck that. My whole body was on fire. Not just my ass where my exceptionally hot mystery man had been teaching me about something else he apparently knew I wanted. Who knew that being spanked was as erotic in real life as it was in fiction?

But that wasn't the only thing he'd been doing with those strong hands of his. After he finished spanking me, he slid his hands over my hips, thumbs brushing against the edges of my overly sensitive skin. I could feel the urgency in his touch, but he didn't give in, not yet. He traced my ribs, cupped my breasts. As one hand started to play with my nipples, rolling and tugging them in turn, he moved his free hand down between my legs.

When he first told me that he'd make me scream, I thought he'd just been bragging the same way men always bragged about their sexual prowess.

But then his fingers slipped between my folds, and he cursed. That was when I knew he'd make good on his promise.

He stroked his thumb over my clit, pleasure building with an intensity and speed I hadn't known before. Then his fingers were inside me. Strong, calloused fingers that twisted and rubbed all the good places.

I gave a cry of pleasure when I came, and then he was pulling me up onto the bed, the bedspread rubbing against my throbbing nipples. He moved between my legs, the thick head of his cock nudging against my entrance. His fingers dug into my hips as he held me firm, then drove into me in one smooth stroke.

I felt his control shatter as he pounded into me, and I pressed my face against the thick bedspread, screaming just like he promised...

I came awake with a start, heart racing, breath coming in pants, my body hanging on the edge of a climax. The same thing happened last night as well, and even though my ass wasn't as sore today as it had been yesterday, it was still tender enough to remind me that I hadn't imagined any of it. It had been more memory than dream, but it still hadn't done that night justice.

All the same, I closed my eyes again and slid my hand under my sheets. I learned last night that I wouldn't get any rest if I didn't take care of things myself. Fortunately, between how tightly wound my dream had made me, and how skilled I'd become at finding my own release, it took only a few well-placed touches for me to come.

It would take more than a couple climaxes, however, before Tuesday night got out of my head. And even longer until I forgot the masked man who'd made me realize that his world might be one I'd like to spend a little more time in.

Or maybe a lot.

* * *

I stared up at the house for a moment, still in awe as much as I had been the first time. At least that was what I told myself. Because it couldn't be that I was interested in seeing Jace again. Not after the way the masked man had made my body sing. I found Jace...interesting. From a professional standpoint. That was all.

Even so, it was the late morning heat more than anything that had me walking over to the side door and knocking.

"Is Mr. Randall expecting you?"

I turned to see a middle-aged woman standing at the corner of the house. She possessed the stern sort of look that told me she'd know if I lied.

"Not exactly," I admitted. "I was here earlier this week and mentioned that I'd be coming back. I tried calling ahead, but he didn't answer."

"And you are...?"

"Savannah Birch." I smiled, but made sure it wasn't too wide. I didn't want her to think I was trying to charm her. "I'm an art critic who's doing a piece on Mr. Randall's new show."

She came toward me, a skeptical expression on her face. "You don't look old enough to be an art critic."

"Thank you."

That finally got a partial smile out of her. "You're not going to do anything to hurt Mr. Randall, are you?"

What a strange question. I shook my head. "Not at all."

No matter how confusing the connection between the two of us, there was nothing negative about it. Besides, I couldn't imagine anyone hurting someone as amazing as Jace.

"All right then," she said, giving me a hard look. "I believe you."

She reached past me, tapped in a few numbers to the keypad by the door, and then opened it. "He's been in the studio almost non-stop since yesterday morning. See if you can get him to stop for some food. He forgets to eat when he gets like this."

I thanked her and headed inside. I'd worn soft-soled flats today, so I didn't make any noise as I moved into the studio. His back was to me, giving me the opportunity to watch him work how he did when no one else was around.

Which apparently meant wearing only a pair of worn jeans. No shoes. No shirt.

Damn.

I knew he had a nice build, but even my imagination hadn't pictured just how broad his shoulders were, how defined the muscles of his back.

I could see his arms moving, but not what he was doing. It didn't quite look like he was painting; the movements were too close for that. Curiosity overcame my desire to continue being able to watch from the shadows.

"Jace?" I took a few steps toward him.

As he turned, I saw that he wasn't painting. His hands were smeared with what I realized was reddish-brown clay. I couldn't see what he was making, but it wasn't a picture.

But that faded into the background of my thoughts as I took in his six – no, that was an eight-pack. His muscled forearms. Toned chest covered with intricate tattoos that my fingers itched to trace...

Wait.

I knew those tattoos.

Knew them intimately.

My knees almost buckled as it hit me. Jace Randall was my masked lover.

Oh shit.