It was just after one that night when Samira heard the knock on the front door of the two-bedroom bungalow she rented. She stilled, listening hard, her heart thumping in her throat.

Only one person would show up out of the blue tonight.

She wasn’t prepared for another round with Baptiste just yet. Her emotions rode far too close to the surface after all the turmoil with Daphne earlier.

And the record already reflected the fact that Samira sucked at keeping Baptiste at arm’s length, even on a good day.

Still, she’d tried her best. Kept her defenses up and her self-protective rules firmly in place as they said their good-byes when she left his hotel, and for that she should be proud. Would be proud, if only her overwhelming sense of loneliness allowed room for another feeling in her body.

She’d come home. Showered the scent of wood smoke off her skin and out of her hair, replacing it with her favorite sandalwood scented lotion. Thrown on her Syracuse T-shirt. Stared at her bed and thought about the impossibility of sleep when her yearning for him pulsed in time to her heartbeat. Stared at her phone and resisted the powerful urge to call him.

Indecision held her in a stranglehold the whole time.

She hated indecision.

The Daphne thing didn’t bother her the way it should, and that bothered her. A smart woman with Samira’s troubled history with men shouldn’t be so willing to give one—especially a confirmed player like Baptiste—the benefit of the doubt. Shouldn’t be so eager to override her hard-earned lessons in favor of a pair of soulful eyes that looked at her like she was the queen of the universe.

But that was the funny thing about Baptiste. He had the power to make her believe in him, and the growing power to make her wonder if things between them might actually work.

As for him and Daphne?

If Baptiste said their relationship was over, maybe it really was over.

Maybe he really did want Samira.

God knew she really wanted him.

It wasn’t right to feel this growing obsession with him. She knew that.

But not being with him sure didn’t feel right either.

Her thought ran in an endless and maddening loop:

Trust him. Don’t trust him.

She’d been on her way back to the bedroom and a sleepless night of binge-watching her favorite home makeover show when she heard the first knock.

There it was again.

No point to wondering how he’d gotten her address (her credit card bill). No time to lament her makeup-free face or the haywire corkscrew curls that were only partially dry. And the idea of, say, turning off her porch light, double-checking the bolt and going to bed never crossed her mind.

She went to the front door guided only by a lamp in the living room and a tiny voice inside telling her it would be okay. Checked the peephole. Let him in and shut the door again, all without eye contact or a word. Waited while he slowly turned toward her in the shadowy confines of her small foyer.

He’d also showered and changed, she saw right away. His wet hair curled across his forehead and around his ears. He’d thrown on a leather jacket and had his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans.

He kept his head ducked, as though he wasn’t any more prepared to make eye contact than she was. Not when the air crackled with this kind of electricity.

Samira couldn’t breathe.

It was impossible to ignore how he filled the space. How he loomed over her, so much taller than she was without her heels. How his body’s unmistakable warmth threw off his fresh and sophisticated scent, filling her nostrils with it.

Don’t lose your head, Samira, she warned herself. Grow a spine.

She crossed her arms and studied her bare feet, trying to look formidable even though her acting skills were shaky at best. There were rules in place here. Boundaries. She normally didn’t do one-night stands, and she never did booty calls. They’d agreed to explore their relationship, yeah, but they needed to explore the nonsexual aspects a bit more for a while. A girl had to play it smart and command respect if she wanted to be treated right. Otherwise? She ended up like the Daphnes of the world.

“I thought we agreed we’d cool off for a day or two,” she reminded him. “Maybe get dinner Monday after work.”

“We did. And that seemed like a good idea at the time. But now…”

His voice turned all gravelly at the end. He cleared his throat.

She opened her mouth to stop him before he got started with the please baby, baby pleases. Looked up.

So did he.

The turbulence in his shifting expression made her gasp.

So many emotions, all right there for her to see.

Vulnerability. Frustration. Determination.

Adoration. Possibly even…worship.

“It’s not that…” He broke off. Shook his head. Looked to the ceiling. Pulled a hand out of his pocket and ran it across the top of his head, making a bird’s nest of his hair. Opened his mouth. Hesitated. “It’s not that I don’t respect your wishes. I can sleep on your sofa. I’m not proud.”

Oh, God.

“Baptiste—”

“I just…” He cleared his throat again and shoved that hand back into his pocket, a vivid flush sweeping over his face. “I just want to be under the same roof with you. And Monday is too long to wait to see you again.”

Samira couldn’t move, much less speak.

What was she supposed to do or say to that?

Accuse him of meaningless flattery? Throw him out?

Pretty words were one thing, but the look on his face was something else altogether.

“I told you you’re not getting inside my head,” she said, a sudden surge of emotion making her voice hoarse as her mantra ran through her head. Trust him; don’t trust him. If only he meant it. If only a man like this (sexy; sophisticated; endlessly fascinating) could truly want a woman like her (uncomplicated; ultimately unlovable, as evidenced by the defection of both her birth mother and her fiancé). “You should stop trying so hard.”

“And you should go easy on me.” He quickly wiped an eye (were those tears?) and put his hand away again. “Because you’re in charge of my entire life now, and you don’t even know it.”

She meant to stand her ground and remain unmoved. Meant to catch a tic in his jaw or some other sign, no matter how tiny, that his get-laid agenda was in charge tonight.

But there were no signs.

Just the unwavering intensity of his gaze on her face and the way it perfectly matched the yearning in the pit of her belly.

She wanted to be smart about this. To do the right thing.

But what if the right thing was letting this man occupy the role he so clearly wanted in her life? What if the right thing was surrendering to her desires without fear or regrets?

Relief swept through her, giving the answer she needed.

“Come here,” she said, reaching for him.

He murmured a few excited words, something in French she couldn’t understand, and gave her zero time to brace herself. Suddenly he was on her, sweeping her close to his shuddering body, his expression contorting with relief and the quick flash of a smile before he pressed his face to her neck. They clung to each other and swayed together, struggling to get close enough while still standing and their hands could only reach so far.

“Take this off.” His soft leather jacket blocked her eager hands, frustrating her. She couldn’t slide it off fast enough. “Take it off.”

He did, then pulled her back into his arms so they could settle together and live in the tenderness for a moment or two. One of his hands sifted through her hair. The other wrapped around her waist, making sure there was no daylight between them. She curled her fingers into the silky waves at his nape. Marveled at his flexing muscles, so hard and unyielding against the front of her body.

He felt so right. So exquisitely perfect.

But amid all the sweet relief at touching him again, one despairing thought broke through:

“What am I going to do when you go back to your life in France?”

He leaned back enough to drown her in those bright eyes of his, incredulous now.

“I haven’t made it through a night without you since we met. A few blocks away at my hotel is too far, and now you think I’m going back to France?”

Ambivalence flared. She didn’t quite believe him. Not really, not deep down in her gut where it counted. Maybe he thought he meant it at this overheated moment, so she gave him credit for that. But at the end of the day, most of the important people in her life did the same thing:

They experienced second thoughts about the depths of their feelings for her and wound up walking out at the earliest opportunity.

He hadn’t sworn a blood oath, but he’d given her a glimmer of hope. Just enough to beat back her doubts. For now.

Maybe, this one time, someone meant it when they said they’d stick around.

Maybe, this one time, she should have a little faith that things could work out for her.

She smiled, just enough to give him permission.

His breath caught. His searching gaze, which had been riveted to her eyes, dropped to her mouth as his hands went to either side of her face. Then he ran his thumbs over her lips, angled her head way back and kissed her until her lips were swollen and all the air left her lungs.

He was relentless in his greed, almost punishing, and it was all she could do to keep up with him. He nipped and sucked. Tipped her head the other way and did it again. Licked deep into her mouth…deeper…filling her up until she was drunk with the taste and feel of him.

There was no respite from the sensual onslaught.

Not one second’s worth, which was just the way she needed it.

Frantic for the feel of his bare skin against hers again, she reached for the bottom edge of his long-sleeved T-shirt. Actually got it halfway up his back before he ran out of patience. He broke the kiss and reached behind his neck, staring her in the face as he yanked the shirt over his head and off. Then he was on her again, kissing, rubbing and nuzzling every inch of her face while he held it unmoving between his strong hands.

He laughed as he focused on her mouth again, a dark sound of triumph.

And then, without warning, his kisses turned teasing. Languid. Maddening.

She didn’t have the patience for this.

The feathery brushes of his lips and tongue when she was so hot and frenzied—when he’d reduced her to this—drove her out of the three ounces she had left of her mind.

“Baptiste…”

She clung to his forearms and strained on her tiptoes to chase his mouth, but he was taller than she was, frustratingly out of reach, and there was no way in hell she could force him to do anything he didn’t want to do.

Didn’t he realize that she couldn’t breathe? That her too-hot skin threatened to roast her alive? Didn’t he know how much her nipples and sex ached for him?

“Baptiste.”

He backed up a step and laughed again, this French god who’d exploded into her life and turned her world upside down. He didn’t belong in her little foyer, dwarfing the chair and the console, any more than she belonged in his world. But he was here for now, and she was going to spread her legs for him every chance she got. Oh, yes she was.

His smile faded.

“Take your panties off,” he said in his silkiest voice.

Undone as she was, she still took the time to do it up right, maintaining eye contact as she reached up under her oversized shirt and wiggled the panties down her legs and off, making sure not to give him even a glimpse of anything farther than the tops of her thighs. Then she straightened and made a show of holding her hand high and dangling the panties—red lace this time—from her index finger.

He loomed closer. Watched her, his expression hard and uncompromising. Held out a hand.

She gave him the panties.

He shoved them in the back pocket of his jeans, one brow raised, silently daring her to protest their loss.

There was something unspeakably erotic about the gesture’s symbolism. That he could tell her what to do, and she would do it. That he now owned the panties and the pussy that went with them. That she didn’t dispute his ownership.

“That’s quite a collection you’re working on,” she said. “You already have the pair from our first night together.”

His jaw tightened.

“The only reason for you to wear panties at night now is so you can give them to me when I ask for them.”

She shrugged, unwilling to let him win every single point.

“As long as you keep pleasing me.”

A quick grin flashed across his face, but she could tell by the glint in his eye that the challenge did not go unnoticed and would also not go unpunished.

“Haven’t I already told you that your sexual pleasure is my highest priority?”

“I wasn’t sure you remembered you’d said that.”

He made a disbelieving noise.

Just like that he was all over her, kissing her senseless as he backed her into a corner. She submitted again, losing herself in his skilled mouth, and it was a breathless moment or two before she realized he’d raised one of her hands above her head and pinned it against the wall.

He stooped just enough to get in her face, pausing to make sure he had her attention.

She stared at him, riveted by the blazing color in his cheeks, feverish light in his eyes and swollen lips, dewy from her kisses.

“You like challenging me. Luckily, I always rise to a challenge.”

And he pressed her free hand to his dick.

He was fully aroused, straining and huge behind his zipper. She squeezed and stroked him, determined to make him unravel the way he unraveled her. Unfortunately, he wasn’t ceding control. After only a few seconds, he shuddered, yanked her hand away and pinned it overhead with the other one.

His grip? Gentle but immoveable.

His expression? Determined.

His free hand glided up under her T-shirt, skimming the tops of her thighs, the vee between her legs and her quivering belly.

She gasped.

Whimpered with anticipation.

Continuing on its leisurely circuit, that hand cupped one breast and circled the sensitive nipple with his thumb.

Over and over again.

“Yes,” she whispered as her inner muscles began their rhythmic clenching for him. She shifted restlessly, her body now far outside her control. “Yes.”

He watched her, silent and unblinking as he trailed that thumb back down her torso, dipping it into her belly button and making her hips pump.

She murmured something encouraging—God alone knew what—gasping now.

His lids slipped to half-mast.

Increasing the pressure of his touch, he ran his thumb between her thighs, making her cry out as sparks of sensation fanned through her body.

Then the circles resumed.

Rippling spasms gathered inside her, gaining strength.

Honestly, that was enough. With Baptiste touching her and the warmth of his skin so close and yet so far away? And the clean scent of his shampoo filling her nostrils as she stared into his eyes?

Any one of those things was more than enough to blow her apart, but then he added his velvety voice to the mix as he tipped his head and spoke in her ear.

“Don’t you want me here with you, ma reine? Making you come every night like this?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I want you to tell me.” His fingers stroked. Swirled. “There’s no shame between us.”

“You’re every thought in my head. It’s too much.” She involuntarily arched against him. “Way too soon.”

He abandoned her ear and came back to nuzzle her mouth. Kissing without kissing. Licking her but not letting her take his tongue inside her mouth. And she wouldn’t have thought she could go any wilder with lust, but she was wrong.

Her strangled breath and pounding heart told her how wrong she was.

“It may be too much and too soon, but it is what it is. Isn’t it?” he asked.

It sure the hell was.

Not that she was ready to admit just how far gone she was. That she might already be past the point of no return with him, or that the idea of him here with her every night sounded like a huge chunk of heaven.

Her hesitation seemed to catapult him from gentle to relentless.

Several things happened at once.

His expression tightened.

He firmed up his touch, pressing his thumb hard against her swollen sex.

And he kissed her again, sweeping his tongue deep into her mouth.

Samira came with a repressed cry meant to be his name. His thumb stayed where it was, the perfect counterpoint to her jackknifing hips, and the bright pleasure went on and on. And then, when the spasms should have dwindled and her body should have dropped bonelessly to the floor, he quickly broke the kiss. Bent and latched onto one of her nipples so he could suck it into his slick mouth.

Samira stiffened. Gasped as the rapture intensified again, taking off for a second endless lap around her body. Keened with surprise because she’d never known her body could do this, and certainly not without the man inside her.

He finally let her hands go. She let her eyes roll closed and leaned back against the wall, too wrung out to do much else, given this exquisite assault on her body. She was still trying to catch her breath when he ripped her T-shirt off over her head and went to work on every part of her he could reach.

He kissed her neck, experimentally scraping it with his teeth while she clung to his shoulders.

“You’re wasting your time. I’m done,” she said weakly, baring her neck anyway.

“I don’t think you are.”

He was right.

Because her body heated up again, and her involuntary coo of pleasure spurred him on, generating an endless cycle between them. He nipped, then bit. She mewled. Much as she wanted to push him away and make him stop before she wound up looking like the victim of a vampire with dull fangs, the pain was far too sweet. Besides that, his muscles were locked in place, as though nothing would stop him from finding out what she liked and how much she liked it.

“Baptiste.”

Tears of ecstasy collected in the corners of her eyes and trailed down her temples before he took mercy on her and drifted lower, to her breasts. They got the same deliciously rough treatment, each of them squeezed, kneaded, sucked and nipped until she knew she’d be marked all over. Maybe one day, much later, she’d be outraged at this manhandling, but for now there was something irresistible about being owned by a man who knew his way around a woman’s complicated body.

Oh, she knew what he was doing. Knew he’d unleashed all of his hard-earned womanizing skills to answer her challenge and demonstrate that he could take her in whatever way he saw fit, whenever he wanted, and she’d wallow in it. But what could she do at this late stage of the game? The man could probably make her multi-orgasmic using nothing more than a paper plate, a square of toilet paper and the power of his mind.

She knew she should resist rather than revel. Was it smart to surrender everything this second time out of the gate? Hell no. But by the time he dropped to his knees in front of her, settled one of her thighs on his shoulder so he could open her wide and kissed and nipped his way down her belly, all of her stern warnings to herself packed their bags and evacuated her head.

His name poured out of her mouth, and she couldn’t stop it. Didn’t want to stop it.

“Baptiste…Baptiste…Ah, God…”

His firm lips and surging tongue drove her insane. There was no other word for it. She couldn’t come again, not after the orgasm of a lifetime a minute ago, but the unbearable pleasure kept building anyway until she absolutely couldn’t take it anymore.

“Baptiste!”

She’d had her hands on his head to keep him right where he was, but now she pulled his hair hard enough to get his attention. He made a rough sound of irritation and glanced up at her, his face hard and set. His eyes were glazed, his face flushed.

They stared at each other, their breath harsh in the relative silence.

He waited, a question in his eyes.

Activating her voice took an embarrassingly long time with him looking at her like that.

“You have to stop,” she said helplessly.

A beat or two passed.

Then he laughed at her with genuine amusement.

Laughed. At. Her.

“You don’t want me to stop, Samira,” he murmured, his accented voice a seduction in itself. He surged to his feet and put his hands on her waist. “We both know that.”

He bent down, hovering that delicious mouth inches from hers as she leaned against the wall.

Her heart pounded out several beats, skittered across others.

So…Was he going to kiss her? Not kiss her?

Did he think this torture was funny?

She somehow managed a deep breath. Tried to rip some of the control back from his oh-so-capable hands.

“I’ve had enough,” she said shakily. “You’re not going to make me come again tonight. I can’t…I can’t take it.”

Another laugh, swiftly subdued.

“You can’t take it?” He skimmed his fingers down her torso, just missing her breasts on both sides. Predictably, her overheated skin leapt for him. But then he dropped his hands. “You’re sure about that?”

Every drop of blood inside her surged again, returning her to full readiness.

Despair also surged, because she wasn’t fooling him and she damn sure wasn’t fooling herself.

“Baptiste…”

She tipped her head up, willing him to kiss her again. To put his hands on her.

His mouth skated over hers. “I’m positive you can come for me again. Don’t you think?”

He curled his fingers over her sex and across her belly.

She cried out, providing all the answer he needed.

He kissed her again. Harder. Deeper. Faster.

And she—screw it! —went to work on his belt, her hands frantic for the feel of him.

He tugged her away from the wall and backed her across the foyer again, heading for something she couldn’t concern herself with as she fumbled with his zipper.

Breaking the kiss, he reached past her and swept everything off the console. Her key basket, purse and lamp all hit the floor with a satisfying crash.

She laughed, delighted by his frenzy. “Hurry.”

He lifted her by the waist and plunked her down on the console, then reached into a back pocket and produced a string of condoms.

She laughed again as he ripped one open with his teeth and hastily rolled it on as soon as she shoved his jeans and boxers down his rounded ass and out of their way.

“I thought you were sleeping on the sofa?”

He flashed a pirate’s grin.

“What can I say? The wind is blowing in my favor.”

They laughed together, at least until she took him in her hands and guided him to her slick core. She was soaking wet for him. Beside herself with renewed need.

Her only consolation?

He was damp with sweat across his chest and forehead. Rock-hard and huge.

He thrust his hips with a hoarse shout, generating friction so perfect it actually made her vision dim. The next thing she knew, he was all the way inside her.

She gripped his shoulders, where his muscles clenched and trembled, but they were both incapable of movement for several long seconds. They waited, mouths agape, until they’d adjusted to the inescapable intimacy of their face-to face position.

Some of the overwhelming tension eased.

Looking straight into his glittering eyes, she wrapped her thighs around his waist and pulled him in close, bracing her hands on the console for support.

With the flash of another wicked grin, he rested his hands on either side of hers and began to move.