How many days did it take to completely shatter my innocence?

Three.

Three days.

Three long ass days of the little voice in my head sounding so disappointed in my behavior that I swore my mother had packed her bags and moved right on into my skull.

Tuesday finally came, kicking and screaming through the week with all the reluctance of a cat tossed in a bathtub.

Had I made a decision about Anthony?

Hell no.

Part of me decided to say no—the side dolled up in pigtails that lugged my violin around the campus. That part of me insisted that I curtsey, thank him for coffee, then skip merrily to the bursar’s office to re-enroll in college. Once that was done, everyone who’d told me I had so much potential and talent could feel validated and sleep better at night.

But I’d lost that Morgan long ago. My opportunities, grades, financial aid, and graduating class had passed me by. I probably retained some talent, but the layer of dust growing on my violin filled me with doubt.

And guilt. A lot of guilt.

In the pigtailed girl’s place was a new Morgan. One who scalded herself serving coffee because her mind wasn’t on lattes and espresso but latex and asphyxiation.

I’d researched all sorts of kinky things to help make a logical decision, but wasn’t something I could pro, con, and empirically study to figure out. Domination, submission, and all the other nasties that made my insides flutter ran on emotion. It had to be something I felt.

Did it feel natural?

Both parts of me said yes. Whether it was submitting to sexual desire or everyone’s rigorous expectations, it did feel natural.

Could I really do this? Give myself—my first time—to a man like this? It’d be physical only. Pure lust. Nothing emotional. Nothing meaningful.

Except to me.

Maybe this was what I needed. A chance to break out of whatever nothingness my life had become. So what if my first sexual experience wouldn’t be with someone who knew the real me? I wasn’t sure I liked the real me anyway. I needed a change. A new life.

And this was certainly…new.

Then again, I had no idea what I was doing. For all I knew, I’d offer myself to this experienced, amazingly sensual man, and I’d be no better than the hazelnut flavoring that had spoiled his coffee. It’d be easier to do something wrong than get anything about the experience right.

My stomach rolled, and I considered sitting on the bathroom floor while I made the call.

“I never used to care…” I tapped my cell against my forehead. “What the hell changed?”

Everything.

I used to love attention, but that was before anyone had something negative to say. I’d been a campus rockstar. Morgan and her violin. My friends would round up the dorm while I gave an impromptu concert of top 40 hits on my violin. Improv impressed everyone, and it was an easy way to make friends and a name for myself.

But now? The only people recognizing me were the ones who remembered me as the girl who couldn’t cut it. Nothing new. Nothing original. Just the same, tired sob story of a kid who flunked out.

Life Goal Number Three: Don’t disappoint anyone else.

Fortunately, Anthony knew nothing of my past. He didn’t care about the music or college, the stress or the breakdown. Best of all, he’d be a great distraction from my shitty job, the mounting bills, and the ruins of my life.

Still, a call seemed intimidating.

I’d text instead.

I climbed into bed and burrowed into the super-soft throw I’d tucked under the sheet. My own fuzzy cocoon.

I could do this.

Hey, it’s Morgan. I’d like to go to dinner tomorrow.

My phone rang.

Apparently, Anthony wasn’t a texter.

I let the ringtone play through the tinny concerto before I answered. My voice squealed a sharp, wretched note that I couldn’t place on the scale. I hoped Anthony was tone deaf.

“Hello, Morgan.”

His voice.

My eyes fluttered closed. There was no way he was tone deaf. Not when his every word deserved top billing at the Met.

“You texted.” A quiet disapproval.

“It was...easier.”

“Were you afraid to talk to me?”

Oh, Christ. This wasn’t a gentle inquiry. More a bare to me every aspect of your soul command.

“I prefer texting,” I said.

“I’m sure you do. But you’re lying.”

“It’s not a total lie.”

“I’ll demand total honesty from you.”

His chair creaked. I imagined him sitting in some extravagant office. Giant bookshelves. A fireplace. The bar loaded with expensive alcohols. He paused long enough for me to also picture his whips, chains, and harem of naked women.

“Morgan, I’m not doing this to intimidate you,” he said. “You must tell me absolutely every thought that comes into your mind.”

“Why?”

“I want you to be comfortable. If you don’t trust me, I’m not doing my job.”

“Your job? That’s not a traditional nine to five.”

“You are my responsibility, and so I need to know your honest reaction. If you are frightened, tell me. If you are repulsed, tell me. If you are aroused...” His voice shifted with a playful edge. “Well, I’ll know if you’re aroused.”

My breathing hitched. The teasing promise of his words blended so naturally into the darkness of the room. Could he tell that I was lying down? The soft blanket wrapped over my bare legs like a delicate caress. Each movement zapped a charge right to my panties.

“I won’t accept your answer yet.” Anthony stayed cool. Composed. Completely oblivious to how naughty all this sounded. “This call is merely offering a night of my company. If you want to join me, you’ll need to dress formally. Do you have something to wear?”

My voice wavered. “I can manage it.”

“We can either meet at the restaurant, or I will pick you up. Your choice.”

Slumming to some formal dinner in my fifteen-year-old Toyota Corolla was no way to start an evening. I’d risk the ride.

“One last thing,” Anthony said. I held my breath. “At any point, you can text me with no. No questions asked.”

“And if I want to go?”

“Then it’d be wise for your next text message to end with a sir.”

Somehow, halfway across the city and over the phone, he’d caught my bed on fire. I twisted under the blankets, but the softness tangled with my legs, and, for the briefest, most mesmerizing of seconds, I was immobile.

“Do you understand?” Anthony asked.

“Yes.”

My voice was an unashamed whisper, but, as soon as I’d spoken, the silence cracked like a whip.

Something was missing after the yes. I opened my mouth, but just thinking the word sir sent my body into shivers. Saying it would launch me into orbit.

Anthony’s laugh rumbled, deep and mellow. “Dinner first, then we’ll explore a bit more.”

“Okay.” I licked my lips. “I’ll text you my answer.”

“Good girl.”

I sizzled. It was like he wanted me to explode. I struggled to think of something, anything to respond, but, in two words, he’d both complimented and patronized me.

It was insulting. It was sexy as hell.

I wished he’d say it again.

But the endearment was his goodbye. I ended the call and groaned.

Did he have this effect on all women? Maybe I just craved that sort of wild intensity?

I used to love structure and rules and formulaic discipline, especially when rehearsing for a show. Was his world so different?

Every nerve ending in my body seared raw and hot. I gave it a minute then responded.

I can’t wait to see you again, Sir.

That word looked bright against the message. Bright and terrible and visible for a man to read and understand every vulnerability that twisted deep inside me.

The blanket tangled me more. I kicked to move it, but my hand brushed my panties. I sucked in a breath then seized a handful of the throw. It pushed against the most sensitive and desperate area between my legs.

And I rubbed.

He was a complete, potentially dangerous stranger, but who was I kidding? Every part of me ached for Anthony’s touch.

I ground the blanket against my panties. A surge of tickling pleasure wove over me. I was getting better at this, better at learning what my body liked. Part of me wished I learned how to please myself years ago. It might have resolved a lot of my frustration.

I rubbed again. Harder this time. Undoubtedly, Anthony would know how to please a woman.He’d probably delight me better than I could myself.

Just imagining it was a naughty thrill. I’d be under him, of course. Every bit of his seduction was framed by his body. Never forceful, never to frighten, but his strength could easily pin his conquest to a bed.

His thick arms would press against my sides, keeping me still and in place, just for him. He’d lean down, skip kissing my lips and dive right for the neck.

He probably liked to bite.

I arched again, abandoning the blanket. It was soft, but I didn’t need soft. I needed relief.

No one would have to know. I used my fingers instead, pressing the cotton of my panties against my slit. They were wet now. Shameful, but it was exactly the reaction Anthony would want.

I closed my eyes and imagined him over me, my legs trapped under his and my arms gripping his biceps as he kissed me.

No.

He’d prefer my arms over my head.

That positioning felt so much more Anthony.

He probably loved this part—the begging need right before he conquered. Watching his woman squirm as he ducked down to kiss her breasts. I dragged my other hand over my chest, imagining his mouth against my nipple. Sucking. Pulling. Then moving further down. Tonguing my navel. Opening my legs and kissing between my thighs.

Getting eaten out sounded like the greatest and dirtiest experience in the world. I imagined the feeling of a tongue against my clit. Soft and warm and gentle enough to hit the sensitive parts again and again and again.

The panties got in my way. I pulled them to the side, and the wetness sucked me in.

This was what I wanted. Anthony over me, pleasuring me, readying me for him.

Preparing.

The thought earned a stronger wiggle between my legs. Anthony would need to prepare me for sex. Petite was one way to describe me. Two inches away from my very own parking space was another. Size hadn’t been a concern before. I’d never thought being tiny would be a challenge.

But someone like Anthony didn’t become the former owner of a sex club without…qualifications.

My insides clenched as if he had slipped within me. I groaned. He’d probably make me take all of him, every last inch. My trembling hand worked like my own vibrator, and the thought made me purr.

What would it feel like?

Overwhelming? Aching? Would it hurt?

Or would it feel perfect, a perfect bliss within his arms.

I’d do whatever it took to have it. I’d work to take him inside me. I’d stretch. I’d beg. I’d obey his every command even if I didn’t understand what he wanted.

Maybe he’d fuck me hard and brutal, ripping me apart with a raging cock.

Maybe he’d want me tied up and at his mercy, blindfolded and anxious.

Maybe he’d push me down and make me serve him with my mouth, my hands, my body. Every part of me built for his pleasure.

And I’d do it. It had been too long since I pleased someone. Anyone. In any way.

My fingers moved quick and frantic. The pressure built in me, trembling my arms, legs, words. I whispered his name, again and again, just to taste that darkness on my tongue.

And I burst into a million little pieces of indignity and delight.

I felt no better, but at least I could think now.

A minute passed before I finally tore my hand away from between my legs. My fingers were wet—wet enough to wipe against my sheet. It might have grossed me out once. Now it only encouraged me to explore more.

I rolled over onto my stomach. I still panted and absently pressed myself into the mattress.

Again?

There were ten-step-programs for people who needed to masturbate that much.

Step one: Admit Anthony was my problem. A perfectly delicious problem that rocked every nook of my body.

It wasn’t fair. Anthony already owned me, and we’d only had a coffee date.

What would happen once I completely surrendered?