“Wow. That’s a lot of gin,” Scott remarked, flipping through the four-page-long gin list.

“Isn’t it great?” I smiled. I really did love Sotano. The brick walls and dim golden lighting enhanced the underground-cool vibe, and I was ready to snag the snug seating in the darkened corner. “I always get the same thing, though,” I added.

Scott shot me a wry smile. “Of course you do. You’re a creature of habit.”

I flushed with pleasure that he’d remembered what I’d said at dinner. He was so attentive, so focused on me. As though he truly did find me fascinating.

“What do you usually order?” he prompted.

“Sikkim strawberry gin with elderflower tonic. It comes with a fresh strawberry and black peppercorn garnish.”

He shook his head slightly. “Sounds a little sweet for me. I think I’ll try this one that comes with rosemary.”

“Interesting choice.” I nodded my approval. “I hate that we don’t have gin joints like this in America. Maybe they have them in some cities, but not where I live. I’m usually a prosecco girl, but I have to take advantage of the local gin culture while I can.”

“A prosecco girl?” he asked with a crooked grin.

I waved him off, trying to ignore the way my heart fluttered at his teasing smile. “But you already knew that, I’m sure. You’ve done your research, and I post about prosecco all the time on social media.” I tried to sound acerbic, but I wasn’t all that bothered by the fact that he’d looked into me. Now that I’d gotten over the initial shock at the extent of his research into my past, I was feeling a little flattered that he’d cared enough to follow up on me after our night in Nashville.

I was more concerned with how his reaction to the BDSM content in my novels would have shaped his perception of me. He might assume I was a slut he could use for his own pleasure. He wouldn’t be the first man to react that way after learning my profession and looking up my books.

“You still haven’t told me about how you got into writing,” he reminded me, pointing out the gaps in his knowledge about me. “Let’s grab a seat, and you can tell me all about it.”

Being so close to him, feeling his palm spanning the small of my back, made all sorts of wicked thoughts flash through my mind. After months of fantasizing about our night together, I wanted so much more.

But I had to figure out what he really wanted from me, now that he’d accessed my deepest, darkest fantasies through reading my books. I couldn’t bear to take him back to my apartment if all he wanted was a quick, soulless fuck.

I moved from the bar to the corner snug booth. The padded bench seating area was big enough to accommodate eight people, but the bar wasn’t busy, so I didn’t feel guilty about taking up the space. I scooted into the darkened corner, trying to be as graceful as possible—a challenge for my awkward self. The hem of my pleated red dress slipped up my thighs as I slid along the leather-covered seat. I quickly tugged it back down, not daring to glance up to assess Scott’s reaction.

He sat beside me, settling into position without scooting or fumbling. The man knew how to maneuver his big body, even though his size should have made him appear ungainly in such a tight space.

He pressed close to me, his knee touching mine. We sat beside each other, tucked into the corner of the snug. My body hummed with awareness of his closeness, and I inhaled his unique, masculine scent. Memory was sparked by my olfactory senses, and our passionate night together raced through my mind like a montage. I resisted the urge to breathe more deeply.

I didn’t have to rely on memories anymore, no matter how sweet they were. Scott was right here, his body heat pulsing over my skin.

Suddenly, I was far too warm. I held my ice-filled gin globe glass more tightly, finding the straw with my lips and sucking down a long draw of the sweet drink. The flavor of fresh strawberry mingled with a touch of peppery spice, and I indulged in it for a few seconds. Long enough that a significant portion of the drink disappeared from my glass.

“I told you, you don’t have to be nervous around me,” Scott murmured, reading my anxiety. His hand rested on my knee, sending a wave of heat flowing up my thigh to warm my sex.

I released my straw and set the drink down on the table beside his. “Sorry. I don’t usually drink that fast.”

“It’s okay,” he reassured me. “I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

I managed a wry smile. “I’m not uncomfortable. A little overwhelmed, maybe. I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

His thumb caressed my knee, teasing beneath the hem of my dress. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, either. But then I looked you up. And when I found out you’d be in England, I decided I had to come to York. Which brings us back to your books,” he pointed out. “You were going to tell me how you got into writing.”

“Well, I used to write pieces of stories in college.” I began my familiar story, one that I’d told many times. “I went through a brief phase when I was twelve, when I wanted to be an author instead of an archaeologist. But then, I decided I wasn’t creative enough to come up with the plot for an entire novel. Procrastination on my MA dissertation allowed me the time to write my first full-length novel. Once I gave myself permission to be creative, I came up with a dozen ideas for new books.”

“Only a dozen?” he asked with a sly smile. “When last I counted, you had over thirty published works.”

I waved off the number. “Some of those are short stories and novellas. Besides, I’ve been writing for six years now.”

“That’s still impressive for only six years. And you’re a bestseller. That’s incredible.”

I ducked my head. “I haven’t hit New York Times,” I muttered, deflecting the praise. I’d never been great at accepting compliments, and I often suffered from imposter syndrome in my career.

“I’m sure you will. You’re really talented.”

I made an unladylike snort. “I write smut.”

His fingers firmed around my knee, calling my attention to him. I realized I’d been staring at a spot on the wall, but his touch drew my eyes back to his.

“Is that really what you think?” he pressed, his pale gaze staring straight through me.

“No,” I admitted, the truth tumbling out. “I actually hate when people call it that. I work really hard to create complex characters and compelling stories. I’m just used to people making jibes about it. Most people outside the romance community don’t take my job seriously.”

“You’ve accomplished so much. You should be proud.”

Proud. I tried not to flinch.

Thomas had told me he was proud of me. He’d said it often. Right before he’d tell me that I was neglecting him because I worked too hard; he’d tell me that my job kept me from satisfying him sexually. In the last days of our marriage, he’d told me the reason he’d been depressed for years was because I hadn’t fucked him frequently or enthusiastically enough.

Now, if someone said they were proud of me, I’d hear a lie in the words. I didn’t believe a declaration of pride could come without some emotional consequence.

“What’s wrong?” Scott asked, his brows drawing together.

I flipped my hair over my shoulder, a falsely nonchalant gesture. “I just have mixed feelings about what I do. I love my job, but I know not everyone understands it. Most people think it’s silly.”

I tried not to watch him too incisively as I anticipated his response.

His jaw firmed. “Who thinks it’s silly?”

I breathed a small sigh of relief. He didn’t think my career was something to be derided.

Did that mean he wouldn’t misjudge me and think I was an easy slut?

“Well, people in my hometown think it’s silly, for one,” I admitted. “I’ve tried to keep my pen name secret from them, but I know people gossip about me.”

“Is that why you moved back to England last year? You sold your house in Georgia when you first applied for your U.K. visa,” he stated, reminding me how much he already knew about me.

“That’s part of the reason I wanted to move. I changed a lot in my twenties. Traveling and living abroad changed me. I tried to move back to Savannah, but it didn’t feel like home anymore. York felt like home.”

I didn’t say that my childhood home lay in ruins, a painful symbol of my torn family. I hadn’t been able to drive through that part of town in years.

I shook off the dark thought, putting on my signature bright smile. “York is absolutely wonderful, isn’t it?” I gushed. “All the history here. It’s amazing.”

Scott nodded, but he didn’t return my smile. His eyes continued to study me, as though trying to puzzle out my true emotions.

I decided I preferred when he looked at me the way he had in Nashville: like I was confident and composed, without a care in the world. I liked being that fantasy woman. Not this broken, anxious mess of a person who could barely get out of bed by midafternoon.

I took another long gulp of my drink. When I set the glass back down, it was nearly empty.

Scott sipped at his own gin, not saying anything for a moment.

“You get to travel a lot for your work,” he finally said, a statement of fact. “I saw your signing schedule on your website. You must enjoy seeing new places.”

I enjoy running away from reality.

Like so many other unpleasant truths, I kept that one locked inside.

“I love to travel,” I confirmed. “I love having adventures and meeting new people. It’s great for my writing, because I’m learning new things about different cities and lifestyles all the time.”

He cocked his head at me. “Lifestyles. That’s what you call it, isn’t it? In your books. That’s how you refer to people who are into BDSM.”

My heartbeat ticked up a notch. Now, we were finally getting to the content of my books, the deviant secrets he’d read on the pages: I liked to be tied up, spanked, and bossed around in the bedroom.

Would he understand the true value I found in giving up control and comprehend the beauty in the trust of a power exchange? Or would he see me as an easy floozy?

“Yeah,” I replied, curling my fingers in my lap to hide their trembling. “That’s what we call it. The lifestyle.”

“We? So, you consider yourself to be part of this lifestyle?”

I squirmed. “Well, yes. I thought I’d told you that. You know. In Nashville.”

“I thought you just wanted kinky sex. But what I read in your books… That’s more than just kinky sex. You’re submissive, right?”

I lifted my chin, a little defiant. “Yes. I’m a sub. But that doesn’t mean I’m easy. That’s not what the D/s dynamic is about.”

“I know. I think I have a better understanding of it now. That night, I thought you wanted me to hurt you. I couldn’t do that. I can’t.” His voice roughened, the fine lines on his face deepening.

If anything, it would be safer if you tied me up. I remembered what he’d said; I remembered the way he’d paled when I’d asked him to pin me down, pull my hair, and spank me.

I covered his hand with mine where it still rested on my knee, drawn to comfort him. “I understand.” I imbued the two words with as much weight as I could muster, even though they were spoken softly.

He leaned toward me, closing the slight distance between us. He paused when his lips were a mere inch from mine. His intoxicating scent suffused the air around me.

“I want you,” he murmured, sounding almost pained. “I know I’m not what you want. I understand that now. But I can’t stop thinking about that night. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

My breath stuttered. He wasn’t looking at me like I was a piece of meat, a conquest. His pale eyes still shone with the reverent light they’d held on that magical night in Nashville. Despite the fact that he’d learned my darker sexual proclivities and researched my life, he was still looking at me like I was his fantasy woman.

“I think about you, too,” I admitted on a whisper. “A lot.”

“Why? I’m not right for you. I’m not good.” The last was barely audible.

My heart ached for him, and the same sense of protectiveness I’d felt for him that night in Nashville surged through me. I placed my hands on his cheeks, touching his face with tenderness as I speared him with a determined gaze.

“You are good,” I swore. “I know you are. I might not know anything about you, but you were right. I saw you in Nashville. You let me see you. And you’re a good man.”

His eyes tightened with yearning just before his mouth crashed down on mine. A soft moan left my chest at the decadent contact. My memories didn’t come close to the reality of his lips caressing mine. His hand slid into my hair, cupping the back of my head as he pulled me closer. I opened for him, inviting him to deepen the kiss as my arms wrapped around his shoulders to embrace him tightly. His tongue slid against mine with the same confidence that had intoxicated me on the passionate night we’d shared all those months ago. He might not be pulling at my hair and demanding that I surrender my mouth to him, but he knew how to seduce a woman. I remembered how his tongue had felt against my pussy, and I shivered in his hold as my core pulsed.

A low whistle made me jolt away from him. The bartender had come to collect empty glasses, and he’d not-so-subtly broken up our lewd display.

Scott’s fingers laced through mine. “Let’s get out of here,” he urged.

“Where do you want to go?”

His flame-blue eyes burned into me. “Your place.”

I licked my lips. “Okay,” I agreed breathily. “We can go back to my place. I have a bottle of prosecco in the fridge.”

“Sounds delicious.” His heated stare let me know he wasn’t talking about the bubbly. “Lead the way.”

I willed my shaking legs to support me as I stood and headed for the exit. Scott’s hand settled at my lower back as he followed me out into the night, a promise in the familiar, assured touch.

We were going to have sex tonight. I wasn’t sure if he’d be able to dominate me in the way I usually craved, but the connection I felt with him went deeper than physical desire. For one more sweet night, I’d hold this damaged man in my arms, and he would hold me.