I’m frozen stock still. My rational brain is screaming at me to run for the door, yank it open, and flee while I still can. But the other side of me, the side that searched for a place exactly like this, says I can be anyone he wants me to be tonight, including Ms. Smith.

The only person I don’t have to be is the utterly boring version of Temperance Ransom I’ve spent years creating.

“Nine.”

His countdown continues as he unfastens a cuff link and folds back the cuff of his white shirt, revealing a muscular forearm covered in colorful ink.

Sweet Lord. Tattoos under a suit? How is that even fair?

“Eight.”

My thighs clench involuntarily as he repeats his calculated movement, revealing more tanned and tattooed skin.

This beautiful man is preparing to discipline his naughty secretary. In a scene. In a sex club.

I should explain his mistake. Really, I should . . . but my pounding pulse argues that I should at least see what else he’s hiding under those fancy clothes.

“Seven.” He reaches for his tie, loosening the knot before tugging it free. “Six. You’re running out of time, Ms. Smith.”

The extra emphasis on the name seems like a challenge or a test. Maybe a dare?

Does he know I’m not her? I’m not wearing a mask, so he can see my face. It has to be obvious . . . unless he’s never seen Ms. Smith before and this is a prearranged sexual encounter between strangers. In which case . . .

“Five.”

My mouth is no longer the Sahara Desert. No, it’s currently experiencing a hundred-year flood as he unfastens the top buttons of his shirt, revealing a perfectly sculpted chest and another piece of delicious artwork. It’s the perfect contradiction. With each button, the straight-laced businessman facade falls away to reveal a man I want to devour me.

A man who, from the heat blazing in his eyes, will do a damn good job of it.

“Four.”

I need this. His big hands dwarf the buttons but could easily manhandle me until I’m screaming out my release.

“Three.”

Then he parts the sides of his snowy white shirt and reveals washboard abs flanked on either side by tattoos that extend down his ribs to his hips. It’s like a frame for a body I didn’t know could exist in real life.

This isn’t even fair. My gaze skids to a halt when it reaches the sharply cut V and the tattoo that disappears into his suit pants. I bite down on my lip, mostly in an effort to stop the drool. There’s no decision to be made here. It’s a foregone conclusion. I’m not walking out that door.

“Two.”

Is it shallow, basing my choice on his body and how it ripples deliciously as he takes a step toward me? No. It’s primal. I want him. I don’t care that I don’t know his name and he doesn’t know mine, and we’ll never see each other again after tonight.

I need this.

“One.” The corner of his lush mouth tugs up on one side, and my nipples and clit pulse in response. “God help you, because now you’re fucking mine.”

He moves like a panther, quick and efficient, as he reaches out to wrap a hand around both my wrists, capturing them in front of me.

A squeak pops out from between my lips as he tugs me off the desk and spins me around to face it. He releases me only to press me forward with a hand at my lower back, until my nipples press hard against the wood.

“Do you know what strike three is, Ms. Smith?”

“No,” I whisper. Please tell me it leads to me getting all of him.

“You didn’t wear your mask. How many times am I going to have to spank this peach of an ass to remind you of the rules?”

My mouth drops open to answer, but I have no response.

“For every second you don’t answer me, you’re adding to your punishment.”

My mind races. How many? Do I lie? Tell the truth?

“Three,” I say, my voice breathy.

“Three. Plus your hesitation. Plus the fact your ass demands more . . . I say ten.”

“But—”

“Go ahead. Argue with me. You might like the outcome.” His threats sound like a promise when delivered in that darkly sensual voice.

A cry from the other room steals our attention, and I turn my head to the side to see what’s happening. I can’t help myself.

“He’s fucking her ass, and she loves it.”

Shivers dart up my spine, but suddenly the glass of the window frosts, blocking out what’s happening in the other room.

“What—” I look over my shoulder, seeking some kind of explanation.

My stranger holds up a small remote that must control the opacity of the glass. “I think you’ve seen enough. Now it’s your turn.”

“But—”

Whatever I planned to say next is cut off by the sharp sting of his palm landing on the curve of my ass. Heat radiates when his hand retreats and cold air whooshes before he makes contact with the other side.

Holy crap. It burns with a delicious ribbon of pleasure twining through the tingling. He’s not waiting for me to count, so maybe that’s not the protocol for this sort of thing. Not that I would know about protocol beyond the books I’ve read.

I brace for another, but instead he cups my cheeks in his hands and kneads them, intensifying the sensation.

“Fuck. Your ass was made for this.”

It takes everything I have not to arch my back and lift up toward him, seeking more contact.

I shouldn’t like this so much. Shouldn’t want more. Should run away screaming.

But fuck the shoulds and shouldn’ts. Now is the time to live. Something I haven’t been doing for far too long.

“Done already?” I don’t recognize the throaty voice that comes from my lips. I sound bolder and more certain than I have in years.

Instead of raining down blows again, he stills his touch for a moment. “Misguided secretary. If you even knew what I was capable of . . .”

His words trail off as he strokes the curve of my hip with his thumb. He lands four more strikes in quick succession, each landing on untouched areas, extending the delicious burn across my entire ass.

I squirm against the desk, reveling in how good it hurts.

Again, he massages the spots before I count out the remaining strikes in my head. Four. Three. Two. One.

Shockingly, I’m not ready for them to end, and my thighs clench together tighter than when I was watching the other couple.

Oh my God. What if someone is watching us?

I attempt to push up off the desk, but his strong hold on my hip keeps me pinned in place.

“If you can’t take it—”

“Who’s watching us?” The question comes out with a sharp edge, slicing off the remainder of his statement.

His grip tightens on my hip. “No one’s watching us.”

I should have no reason to believe him. And yet, I do.

The heat of his hard body soaks into my clothes as he leans forward, his heavy chest against my back.

“But I think you would like it if they were.” His voice deepens to a rumble, and my entire body tenses.

“No.” My reply comes out tentative.

The heat of his breath ghosts over my ear. “You sure about that?” His free hand skates over my skin, this time skimming dangerously close to the juncture of my thighs and the blazing heat of my arousal. “You wouldn’t love to have some stranger watching me touch you right now? Knowing that they’re wishing they were me? Wishing they had the fucking privilege, but knowing they’re out of luck because the only hands touching you tonight are mine?”

His words caress the shell of my ear, but goose bumps rise on every inch of my exposed skin at the images he paints.

“You’re a stranger.”

He glides a fingertip over the soaked seam of my pussy lips. “Don’t think your body cares a whole hell of a lot who I am. Why’d you stay? You could’ve run. As soon as you realized you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and this scene wasn’t set for you—you could’ve run. But you stayed because you wanted to. Try to deny it.”

My stomach drops, and once again, I attempt to rise but he doesn’t let me. “I—I . . .” I trail off because I have no excuse for it.

His hand stills. “You can’t deny it. Somewhere, hidden in this prim and proper suit is a bad, dirty little thing dying to break free.”

He has no idea how right he is. I’ve kept the chains tight, locking down the wildness from my younger years, all in an effort to break from the mold of my past.

“I should go.”

His breath ghosts over my ear again, sending chills down my spine. “Maybe you should, but you won’t.”

One finger plunges inside my body and my moan fills the silent room.

“That’s right, princess. You’re mine tonight, and I’m going to take damn good care of you.”

Any thoughts of leaving are wiped away as he finger-fucks me with confident strokes until I beg.

“Please. More. I need more.”

He grunts, pushing a second finger inside. His two fingers barely fit together, and I press back to feel the stretch.

It has been way, way too long since anyone but me has touched me.

I whimper and moan, losing my iron grip on propriety. Not tonight. Tonight is about getting what I’ve denied myself for years.

“I need your cock. Now. Please—”

He pulls his fingers free and lands a slap between my thighs, setting off a scream-inducing orgasm.

He spanked my pussy.

I writhe, attempting to move, but he buries a hand in my hair, keeping me pinned. Maybe it’s better that way, because my next instinct is to spin around and fall to my knees in front of him, and find what I hope is a thick cock to go with the rest of him.

“You want my dick? You think you can handle it?”

“Yes!” I scream the answer, and he releases his grip. A few seconds later, I hear the crinkle of foil.

“Might not fit in this tight little pussy. You think you can handle being stuffed full?”

Moisture floods between my legs.

“Big promises—” I start to taunt, but something thick and solid nudges against my soaked entrance.

“Princess, I got big everything.” His cocky attitude should be a turnoff, but as he pushes inside, I realize it’s not fueled by arrogance, but confidence.

He feels huge.

His fingers close around my hair, fisting it at the base of my neck as he continues pushing through my slick channel until he’s balls deep.

“Big enough for you?”

“Oh God.”

“Hold on to those prayers. Gonna get a little rough.”

If I were rational and sane, the word rough would have me freaking the hell out, but it doesn’t. I reach out and grip the edge of the desk.

“I can take it.” My tone is pure challenge, more suited to the rebellious teen of my misspent youth than the professional woman I am today.

It must be the right answer, though, because it unleashes the beast behind me. My stranger draws back before fucking into me with a measured rhythm of deep and then shallow strokes. He relentlessly hits the spots that light my body up. The man has skills.

It’s the last coherent thought I have as my fingers tighten around the edge of the desk. My head begs to thrash from side to side but is pinned in place by his hand.

He’s taking me. Owning me. Dominating me. Leaving me no choice but to take the fucking he’s delivering.

And I love it.

Another orgasm builds and threatens to shatter my grip, and when he changes his pattern, my body is thrown into a new level of chaos.

Thrust after thrust, I can’t even understand the babbling words spilling from my lips.

I can’t stop coming. These aren’t multiples . . . they’re continuous, and I’m a writhing, moaning body without any coherent thought beyond—don’t stop.

He doesn’t. My control shatters along with my grip.

The blood pounding through my head deafens me, but not enough to miss his roar of ecstasy just before he thrusts slow and shallow.

“Fuck!” He releases my hair to grip both my hips, pulling them back against him hard as he finally stills.

For long moments, I wait for my heart to burst because it can’t handle the beating, but finally, it slows.

This is a moment I’m not prepared for. I don’t know what to say. What to do. What to think. How to justify this aberration in my carefully plotted life.

What the hell did I do?

The intensity of the moment fractures as he steps away, the thick length of his cock pulling out of my body. I wait for two long seconds before I flip my skirt down and push off the desk. I have to get out of here.

A quick look over my shoulder shows me that his back is turned as he walks toward a door I didn’t notice. My logical thoughts are momentarily derailed as my gaze locks on the flex of his perfectly formed ass. Jesus Christ, how is that fair?

It doesn’t matter. I have to go. This never should have happened.

I tear my eyes off his ass, grab my bag, snag my pumps, and bolt for the door barefoot. He doesn’t notice my escape until I yank it open.

“What the—” His deep voice cuts off when I slam the door shut behind me and race for the stairs.

Run. Hurry. Hurry.

I trip down the steps, nearly causing myself to tumble down them headfirst, but I grip the railing and keep going. The man at the next level looks up at my panicked exit, but the blood is pounding too loudly in my ears for me to hear what he says.

I don’t know if I’m expecting some kind of emergency siren to sound, like I’m an intruder who must be stopped, but nothing does. I reach the front door without breaking an ankle.

“Keys. I need my keys. And my car. Now. Hurry. It’s an emergency.”

The man straightens with a jerk and nods before opening the door and giving an instruction into what must be a microphone attached to his collar.

I shove my feet into my heels, then stumble down the last set of steps to the curved driveway, chancing a glance over my shoulder.

Is he going to chase me?

Do I want him to?

I can’t afford to let myself answer that last question as I hustle down to the valet stand.

I keep checking over my shoulder, expecting the door to burst open any moment, but it doesn’t. My Bronco rumbles around the corner and the valet hops out.

I practically clobber him in my rush to get inside. Trembling, I slam the door in his face and floor it.

What the hell did I do?