Claimed By The Billionaire Husband

The moment I met his steel-blue eyes, I knew I wanted him. He inquired, "How much?" I grinned, conscious of coming across as sly, knowledgeable, and not-too-eager, but it was a sensual, deep voice that hinted at everything.

I wanted to make a move.

My friend Sarah interrupted me before I could respond. "A minute costs two dollars. One minute of reading for two dollars, with half going to charity and the other half to the author. However, you can bargain with the author, if you get what I mean.

The man looked me up and down, grinning and stroking his big lower lip with his thumb.

Sarah's black brows twitched as she laughed. "I named it Story Brothel because of this. "She clapped him on the shoulder." The reader and the writer are at odds. I adore this, God. I'm feeling quite ladylike. Similar to Florida fiction's Heidi Fleiss.

She leaned in to give me a light squeeze on my arm before lowering her voice. "Keep in mind: half goes to charity. Don't skim.

I gave an eye roll. "Like I'd do that." Sarah gave me a cheek kiss while standing on her tiptoes. He appears wealthy. She said, "Perhaps he'll give you more money so you can keep the bookstore open."

I frowned, unwilling to be reminded of my labor. This was a rare night out for me, when I wasn't preoccupied with writing, paperwork, or orders. That's when I changed from being a serious store owner to writing romance novels like a pulp fiction superheroine. Blood-red lipstick smearing every napkin and cocktail rim in my way; glasses off; wild, frizzy hair down.

And after a few minutes, this man's mouth, perhaps. I needed a man's attention long ago. As I observed his black suit, his immaculate white shirt, and the platinum gleam of a timepiece dial, I persuaded myself that, at least. It had been a while since I had been kissed, at least not well. And not from a man with such a striking appearance.

A strange tune with a hefty, powerful drumbeat and an Arabic lounge groove began playing. It was the sensation of my heart against my ribs. Sarah stepped into the throng. I continued to smile. He did as well. He said, "Story Brothel," in a voice so low I could hardly hear it. He was so tall that he had to stare down at me with his gunmetal-blue eyes and tilt his face.

I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth and gave a dramatic shake of my head. "You don't seem like the type of man who'd come to an event like this."

"I don't. His eyes tempted and gleamed. They contrasted so beautifully with his long, black lashes. He exuded confidence and sensuality, but he wasn't the most attractive man I'd ever seen. His features-strong jaw, slightly large nose, and high cheekbones-wouldn't have been particularly noticeable on their own, but when combined, they were overwhelmingly masculine. Interesting. Fuckable.No, and I haven't seen you here previously."This isn't something that happens just once?"The Orlando Literacy Council hosts it once a month. You're an accomplished storyteller, then. A sultry smile appeared on his face as he made a half-circle motion with his hand."Whore?" With feigned innocence, I offered. You stated it. I didn't.

That caused me to chuckle."What's that saying about prostitution and writing?" he inquired.

A smile the size of the Everglades extended across my face as I cocked my head. His question startled me, and I couldn't help but react. Despite owning a bookshop, I rarely encountered intelligent, attractive guys in my city in central Florida-better known for being the home of a gigantic cartoon mouse. Writing and sex are similar. You do it for love first.

He added his voice. "...then you do it for your friends, and then for money."

After we both chuckled, he opened his mouth and held up one finger. "Who made that statement? Are you aware? I am aware.

I responded immediately, enjoying the banter. "Everybody thinks it's Molière, but it was Hungarian playwright Ferenc Molnár."

"I'm amazed. Let's see, when was the last time I discussed Molière with a woman? or Molnár?"I'm not sure. You inform me.

He drank from his tumbler of amber liquor, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled. "So, what does a Story Brothel attendee look like?"

He had a sly smile. How I wish I could kiss it away. They typically drink two-dollar drafts rather than Maker's Mark, to start. Weeks have passed since they last shaved. Additionally, they don't dress in custom suits with ties. I used my nose to indicate the assortment of hipsters at the bar, most of whom were covered in carpets of facial hair and wearing Star Wars T-shirts or cheap Hawaiian button-downs from thrift stores.

I raised an eyebrow at that. "You noticed my drink."

"I took note of everything. I was with you when you gave the command."I am aware. I observed. The only woman here not wearing flannel and cargo pants is you. Your clothing is appealing to me.

I was dressed in a full-skirted, crimson antique dress with a sweetheart neckline. He glanced at my mouth, then at my chest, and last, slowly, at my eyes. He must have been at least forty years old, which would make him seven years my senior. The sides of his short, dark hair were becoming a shade of silver. I adored older males. They are quite sexy. Old enough to care about what matters in life, but not old enough to be an early-bird-buffet-older. Like clean bedding, good automobiles, and good alcohol.

This man had clearly mastered at least one of those abilities already. I might learn more about the others by night's end. Thank you. You are, I suppose. An entrepreneur?"

I watched in fascination as he reached for his dark-gray tie. His eyes and the tie were nearly the same hue. My own style was retro-rockabilly, or what I called vintage glam, although I do have a thing for men in suits who seem conservative. The problem was that the majority of men with that style were either married or balancing child custody. Some people didn't care about ladies like me. What category would you put this fascinating stranger in? Because he undoubtedly belonged in one, if I'm lucky. Yes, you are correct. I run a business. I didn't even bother to remove this, damn it. At this hour, I'm usually still at work.

On a Wednesday, it was eight o'clock, and I was, as usual. It was entertaining to watch him tinker with his tie knot and undo the first button of his shirt. He looked sexier for some reason since he loosened it but left it in place.

His gaze landed on my lips. "My sister and I share a job. I brought her out to supper because it's her birthday. I promised to take her anywhere she desired after that. After taking a sip, he tilted his glass toward the corner of the room where Sarah was being animatedly spoken to by a tall blonde with sharp cheekbones. "She's got a crush on your friend."

"Excellent. Sarah needs a girlfriend. I questioned whether he lived in the city and remarked, "She's been alone for too long." Perhaps he was a rare resident of Florida, like myself, rather than a disgruntled northerner or a visitor who abruptly moved after an amazing theme park vacation. What about you? Is your significant other aware that you tell odd men stories in bars?

His method of asking me if I was single was so obvious and astute. I smiled broadly. "No husband, no boyfriend. Furthermore, they wouldn't tell me where, when, or to whom I may read, even if I had one or both.

He cocked his eyebrow, tilted his head, and smiled. "Oh, really?"

"Indeed, it is. I stopped to observe him. The edges of his mouth curled up, and his bottom lip was a little bigger than his top lip. As though he had smiled a lot in his life, tiny half-circle lines embraced the corners. That pleased me. But when he smirked, I couldn't tell if he looked cute or cocky. However, the combination caused my heart to gallop more than it had in a long time."My name is Dominic," he added, holding out his hand. "How rude of me."

"Isabella. Not impolite at all.

He did that thing where he shook my hand firmly and looked directly into my eyes for a second longer than was required. His hand engulfed me and was pleasantly big. My face began to heat up, and I wanted the fan above to beat as quickly as my heart. We were still trembling. Isabella, what are you going to read to me tonight?

I became acutely aware of how my nipples touched the lace material of my bra as he dragged out the syllables of my name. Was there a hint of a Southern accent in his speech that I heard? Perhaps he was a native of Florida. I was pleased with this. Perhaps we would share a shared interest.

I had been anticipating his question, so I laughed. "I usually read my steampunk romance stories at Story Brothel. However, I believe I'm going to attempt something new tonight. I wrote something recently. My voice became dramatic as I lowered it. "It's erotica."

My nipples shriveled to tense, tight points as our hands clutched each other in midair, sparks flying back and forth. Slowly, his smile turned into a more solemn, savage one as he nodded. A harsh, hungry expression. I made a wise decision, then."I dropped his hand and whispered, "You have good taste." "Oh-and will your wife or girlfriend mind if you pay a woman to read sex fiction to you?"

A deep, oblique laugh burst from his chest. "No wife, no girlfriend. And I wouldn't be here paying you to read erotic fiction if I had one."

He sounded earnest. He sounded unmarried. However, given that the previous interesting businessman I had fell in love with, Eric, more than a year prior, had a wife and children in Fort Lauderdale and had kept those facts a secret during our whole relationship, I wasn't the best arbiter of that. Well, the word "neglect" was a little weak. Better terms to use were "concealed," "hidden," and "lied.""Oh, really?" I made a move.

Dominic hesitated a moment. "No, if I had a girlfriend or wife, I'd make her read to me."

I put my fingertips on the back of an adjacent bar chair to soothe my swollen legs as a surge of liquid heat entered my core. You would make her, wouldn't you? Of course."

I gave Dominic a foolish smile while imagining how amazing his large hands would feel on my nude body. The feel of his lips. How I would be tortured by his tongue. Just thinking about it made my skin tingle. As if he could read my thoughts, he licked the corner of his mouth carefully. Greetings from Story Brothel. Sarah stood on a little stage at the front of the room, fumbling with a microphone, shouting and clapping three times. I turned to face her as her booming voice startled me out of my reverie. Dominic and I stood shoulder to shoulder. He was far taller than I, even in my three-inch heels, but we were still near enough to feel his warmth without touching. Then writers and listeners will head to their individual cabanas after our initial reading," Sarah said, gesturing to the double doors that led to the bar's courtyard, where 10 cabanas were covered in gauzy curtains of various hues. It was furnished to resemble a lounge with a Moroccan theme, and when I read little excerpts of my work during Story Brothel, I usually opted for the cabanas with chairs. Usually, I preferred to keep my distance from the person who was paying to listen to me read. A good night used to include selling a couple of my steampunk paperbacks, distributing business cards for the bookstore, and avoiding getting beer poured on me by a frightened bearded guy.

I hoped tonight would be different. I desired less business and less distance.

Sarah went on to introduce the speaker. It was a local college professor. I ignored him and moved closer to Dominic by half an inch.

He put his nose in my hair and lowered his head until his lips were near my ear. I froze, inhaling his aroma. With notes of vanilla, wood, and mint, it was powerful and delicious. I took a few long breaths since I had never smelled a man so good. He said, "May I buy you a drink?"

After nodding, I looked back and saw that he had extended one ear to me. "Please. "How do you take it?" Gin martini. I smiled as his voice echoed through me."Dirty," I muttered into his ear, giggling uncontrollably.

He laughed. "Good choice." Without him, I could still feel the heat of his breath on my ear. I made an effort to concentrate on the man onstage. He discussed word etymology while teaching English at a nearby college. I was preoccupied with my own experience and deciding which passage to read to Dominic when I finally focused on the professor's remarks.

I put my palm over my lips and giggled quietly. When Dominic came back, he gave me my drink. Why is it so funny? My ear was once again in his mouth. You weren't paying attention?"No, I was attempting to ensure that the bartender didn't use some trash instead of Bombay Sapphire.

I sipped the chilly, piney beverage and smiled like the Mona Lisa. "Thank you for the cocktail."

"You're welcome. What's the person talking about, please? Why is it so funny? You are aware of how wonderful your grin is?

I took a breath before I spoke, leaning closer to Dominic. He put his arm on the bar and wrapped it around my back. The action was exactly as intimate as though he had touched me, yet he didn't. He appeared as though he would swallow me if he folded me in his arms because of how large and sturdy his physique was. He is discussing a word's etymology." "Which word?" he whispered. The lecturer started reciting a lesson he had taught in free-form, but I didn't look at him. It must have been humorous because other people in the room were laughing. I wasn't feeling humorous. Dominic's strong-looking drink-holding hand caught my attention. I wondered absently as I twirled one of my curls in my finger whether it was something biological, something primordial, that drew me to males with thick, savage-looking hands. My lips touched his skin as I turned to face his ear. Fuck. The origin of the term "fuck"

The small half-circle lines around them deepened, and the corners of his mouth lifted. He averted his gaze and fixed his gaze on the man performing. After the reading was finished, Sarah leaped back on stage. For a time, we stood close, listening-or appearing to listen, in my case, since all I could hear was my heart racing quickly."It's Story Brothel time!" she exclaimed with delight. I swore she occasionally mistakenly believed she was a carnival barker or circus emcee rather than an aspiring librarian.

I put my glass down on the bar and purred, "Let's find our cabana." He had also completed his.

He made a palm gesture. "You first."

I guided him into the lounge and the patio with a deliberate swing in my back and a small hip shake. After the oppressive air conditioning inside, the warm, humid Florida winter air felt like a welcoming blanket on my skin. I found the precise cabana I was looking for. It had gauzy crimson curtains hanging over a white, square mattress with white pillows, and it was adjacent to a large potted palm tree. The tempo had shifted to a rapid rap-Bhangra-Indian blend, reflecting my hypersexual mood, even if the music was calmer outside. Are you cool with this? I asked, as though inviting a stranger to lie on a bed and listen to erotica were perfectly usual. I was speaking at a half-octave above normal. The act of reading my smut out loud was new to me.

He grinned and nodded before moving ahead of me to open the curtain. I sat on the edge and delicately placed my purse next to a pillow, trying to be a lady and not throw myself inside. He shocked me by kneeling at my feet and carefully removing my shoes by placing one strong hand on my heel and another on my leg as I moved to take them off. He smiled without looking me in the eyes, and I felt a chill go up my spine.

Okay. A drop of sweat slithered between my breasts. It seemed like I had sat too close to a campfire because my legs were burning. As he stood, I muttered, "Thank you." I knew I was in a submissive position as I gazed up at him. I could blow him away without having to go very far if he unzipped his pants. Just in time to prevent me from laughing out of pure anxiety, he took a step back. In a matter of minutes, this had escalated from light flirtation to intense tension. How could I possibly read to him on the couch bed without throwing myself on top of him?

As I curled my feet between my legs and turned to give him space, I told myself to maintain some degree of control. I tucked my naked legs beneath myself instead of lying back on the pillows, like a 1950s girl at a picnic.

Keep your cool. Remain composed. Take a breath.

After a moment, he let the curtain drop. I briefly believed that he had turned and left. I observed him remove his suit jacket and carefully put it over a neighboring chair through the almost transparent curtain. I took a short intake when he undid the rest of his tie, removing it from his collar and putting it equally across the chair. I hoped he would continue.

Rather, he followed my instructions exactly, sitting on the edge, taking off his shoes, and entering the cabana. He eased himself onto his back, placed his fingers under the back of his head, stretched his arms above into a diamond, and rested one ankle over the other. I was a little taken aback by how familiar and intimate his movements felt. It was almost as though we had already done this. As though it were typical, even though it wasn't.

I pictured myself straddling him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, undoing his belt, and leaning in to kiss him while he slid his hands up my skirt and squeezed my ass. His physique appeared even larger, firmer, and more appetizing sprawled out in front of me."I'm prepared," he declared. I agree. I smiled while searching for my e-reader in my luggage. I paused to appreciate his aroma once more after catching a whiff. When I pressed a button to cause the screen to flicker, he inquired, "Do you write on your tablet?"No, I record everything on my PC and then store a backup on the cloud." I thought of stretching out beside him while I positioned my skirt so that my knees showed through the cotton of my dress. Jesus! What was I thinking? I recently met this man. Even though I was usually flirtatious, this was daring for me. I took a big breath and smelled his enticing aroma once more. Thus, the title of this tale is "Consume Me."He rolled up and rested on the elbow nearest me, saying, "Wait." I wanted to reach out and brush my hands over his short, silver-accented hair, but his chest was inches from my knees.

Pulling a phone from his pocket, he placed it between us. Then he extracted his wallet from his back pocket. He took out a twenty while he was once more lying on his back. Ten minutes. He divided the money between the two of us, saying, "Half for charity and half for you." I took it up. Thank you. It's like a literary lap dance, I suppose. He raised an eyebrow and grinned as I tucked the money into my bag. He cast his gaze at his phone. The stopwatch is being set by me. Ten minutes."You're quite accurate," I remarked.

He looked up. It's a strength of mine, as well as one of my shortcomings.

I began reading while he reclined."Talk a bit louder," Dominic cut in. I obeyed.

My story wasn't particularly spicy in the first few pages. It served as the preamble to the story, which was about a woman who enjoyed rough sex but couldn't find a man who was interested in fulfilling her desires. My character, Arianna, liked to be roughed up a little, pushed around, and manhandled; she wasn't particularly interested in rape or BDSM scenes. It was difficult, and to be honest, I was still working on a first draft and wasn't sure if I had accurately described her or if I had rushed the introduction of her to Trent, the story's protagonist.

Trent had a straightforward philosophy: he touched women without hesitation or shyness. Women constantly desired more because he treated them as though he owned them.

Dominic's ability to laugh appropriately and smile passionately in other situations was encouraging. Perhaps my narrative wasn't as horrible as I thought. I looked up every couple of paragraphs. He would frequently be staring directly at the cabana's ceiling, seemingly able to watch my story play out on an invisible screen. On other occasions, he turned his head to face me and gazed at me with that ravenous expression.

I adored the hungry expression. He slowly rolled up his sleeves to show off his incredibly strong forearms after taking his time untying his cufflinks and placing the sterling silver knot links in his pocket. I had to restart the paragraph because I got lost.

Why was every man in Arianna's life required to be so courteous? Why did they all handle her as if she were a delicate porcelain object? Mostly in bed, she wanted a man to be a man. She desired for him to dominate, snarl, and restrain her. He didn't need to inquire what she needed because he already knew, so he could take her as he pleased. She also desired a partner who was assertive outside of bed. Not so much that he would control her daily life or career-that was the last thing she wanted. However, she yearned for a partner who would make dinner reservations, be daring and make unexpected plans, hold doors open for her, and avoid the same old dull talks.

Where would you want to dine?

I'm not sure. Where would you want to dine? I don't mind being wherever.

She had had enough of that, fuck. Where were the actual decision-making men?

Dominic guffawed hard at that. His phone chirped at that very moment, and he tapped it to silence."Your time is up, sir," I smiled and said. I really enjoyed that. Your writing style is excellent. incredibly talkative. Actually, I'm quite amazed."Did you anticipate Dreck?

He shrugged. "I had no idea what to anticipate. Perhaps something akin to Penthouse Forum? But you're okay. Without the sex, that was sensual. You have the ideal voice for reading aloud as well. Your voice is lovely.

I leaned in his direction, trying to smell him again, my face flushed from the compliment. "I'm grateful. However, I missed the truly erotic part. "Normally, what do you read?"Some history, non-fiction. I also enjoy reading literature. Whoa. Typically, the men I encounter at these gatherings have a preference for either science fiction or military fiction. At the University of Florida, I majored in creative writing.

I raised my eyebrows. "You were? I was as well. We were probably separated by a few years. He brought up the year he graduated.

I mentally calculated the answer. He was probably seven or eight years older than me, as I had assumed. "Do you write?"

He gave a headshake. "No longer. It's been years since. Following college, I started working for my family's business. I attempted writing at night, but I was unable to manage both after exhausting workdays.""What do you do?" That inquiry usually made me cringe since it seemed so phony. However, he had mentioned it, and I was curious about him. And I wanted to savor his voice. He had a fast cadence and a crisp pronunciation of each syllable, creating an enticing baritone buzz. I am now responsible for the Florida state bird. Construction cranes, you know?"You're a builder, then? "Of what?"

With a shrug, he unfastened his shirt's second button, which was located just below the neck. I watched without blinking at him as he moved slowly and sensuously, perhaps only to feel more at ease. Government buildings, business jobs, and condominiums. We have numerous projects, both large and small. I just got back from Brazil because we're building a high-end skyscraper in São Paulo. These days, that is my primary project.

He was therefore as loaded as he appeared. Despite my fondness for well-dressed males in suits, I didn't typically pursue wealthy men. I just liked the way it looked. So far this evening, the only thing that turned me off was the specifics of Dominic's wealth. Money didn't impress me, perhaps because I grew up in a trailer park in central Florida. But I was intimidated by it. A great deal. Not knowing what else to say, I said, "Nice."

His hand was on his phone, and I watched in wonder as his index finger moved slowly in a circular manner across the glass screen. I'd want to hear more about your tale, Isabella.

A small wave of pleasure ran through me as he said my name. I didn't want to discuss my past, though. His laughter cut him off, "Um, I'm from a county just west of here-" "No, I was referring to your fiction. However, I also want to hear about you. In fact, I'm not sure which I'd prefer to hear more of-your true narrative or your fictional one."

I grinned because I was at a loss for words. This was exactly what it meant to back myself into a corner. Since I disliked disclosing personal information about myself, I wasn't very interested in talking about myself. I had stopped reading in front of an extremely sultry scene. I felt self-conscious as I struggled to find the right words to say after he revealed to me what he did for a job. The faux black leather on the corner of my tablet cover had torn at the edge, so I fidgeted with it. I felt something melt inside of me when he said, "Please?" I resisted the urge to touch his face, to trace his lips, to open them and feel his tongue on my finger.

My courage came back. You'll pay for it," I smiled. It was more comfortable to flirt. He reached into his wallet once more and produced a $100 bill. I pondered whether I could sit in this cabana for fifty minutes without coming into contact with him after he put it on the bed. or kissing him. Go through it.

As I read in a steady voice, Dominic alternated from looking toward the sky to looking at me. At one point, when I was reading a particular explicit passage, Dominic bit his lip and stared at me.

Was he horrified? Turned on? I sneaked a little glance to see if he had an erection beneath his charcoal-gray suit pants. Dear God, he did have an erection. A huge one.

This made me grin a little, but I didn't stop reading. He must have willpower of steel to be able to lie there for long minutes with a hard-on and not make a move to touch me. He didn't even extend a lone fingertip to my legs, which were inches from his body. It was actually kind of frustrating, and I squirmed a millimeter closer to him.

I paused from reading to catch my breath. I was fully perspiring now, between the warm Florida air and my excitement. Already, my inner thighs were slippery with sweat and my own juices. I didn't know I'd get so excited by reading out loud. Or maybe I was turned on by reading to Dominic.

"What do you think so far?" I asked, setting my tablet on my lap and trying to look serious. It was difficult keeping a straight face after reading all that.

"Well, it's interesting, at least for me, because it's from a woman's point of view. I wouldn't expect a woman to have these...uh, desires. And yet, a guy wouldn't write about sex this tenderly. It's intimate. Well, this part is. You write good sex. Sexy sex."

"Thank you." My mouth was parched, and I wondered if I should pause our reading and run to the bar for some ice water. I didn't really want to leave his side; that was the thing. I was enjoying this too much.

"But one point, Isabella. Maybe you should have a little bit more showing and less telling in chapter two, when she's about to blow him in the car."

I smirked and shot him a skeptical glance. Then I tapped on my screen, flicking back several pages. "Are you serious? I tried to show her emotions there."

Dominic sat up, folding himself into a cross-legged position. He extended his hand toward my tablet. "May I?"

I handed him the device, and he swiped, then looked up. He held out the tablet so I could see the screen and pointed to a line. "Here. I think you need to describe the tactile-the feeling of his cock in her hand-not only what's in her mind. I get the whole concept of deep POV and everything, but we need to feel what she's feeling. Does the reader really care about how she feels like she's different and wild because she's sucking cock in an SUV? No. They want to live vicariously, and that's written through the five senses."

"Hmm." I bit my lip as I pondered this. He might have a point. I looked up to see the cabana curtains rippling in the warm breeze and fought the urge to respond with a snarky comment. "I'll take it under advisement."

He chuckled, and that's when it hit me that I was talking to an intriguing man that I'd just met about sucking cock. I laughed, hard, throwing back my head.

"What? I'm sorry," he said. "It's really excellent, please don't think I'm criticizing you. You're a wonderful writer. I slipped into critique-group mode there for a minute. I guess I miss being around creative people. I enjoy the banter and discussion."

His grin was so adorable that I contemplated leaning forward on all fours and kissing him. I paused, shifting so that I was sitting on my heels, and he rested my tablet on the lounge bed. I looked around to see if anyone was walking by our cabana, and they weren't. The only sounds I could hear were the muffled voices of people reading their stories.

I glanced at Dominic, and he was wearing that foxy, knowing smile.

"What?" I asked. "Why are you-"

"Staring at you?"

I nodded.

"You're striking. That long, curly black hair. Your skin. It looks like you've never been in the sun; you're so fair. And those eyes. Dark. Almost black."

I nodded. He noticed.

"Can I ask you a personal question about your writing?"

I looked at him and tilted my head.

"Is your story autobiographical or a fantasy?" The look on his face was curious, not seductive. Which both impressed and disappointed me.

"Not autobiographical." I shrugged. "A fantasy? Maybe. Don't writers all fantasize about the things they put on the page?"

"You know what I think?" That's when he reached out to sweep away a curl that had fallen in my face. My heart pounded against my ribs.

"I think a fantasy is..." His voice trailed off.

"A fantasy is what?"

He smiled. "Well, maybe I'm feeling poetic tonight, but...I think a fantasy is what the heart whispers to silence a busy mind."

"That's...beautiful. Wow."

"No, you're beautiful. That's really why I can't stop staring." His voice was low and growly, and parts of me liquefied.

He then huffed out a little laugh. Thankfully, he didn't take his finger out of my curl. "Damn. I can't believe I just said all that. I think I just had a flashback to my emo-creative-writing days. Please excuse me."

"You're excused," I whispered. His words made my toes curl deliciously. He was also a little self-deprecating, which I appreciated because it balanced the undercurrent of his arrogance.

"But there's something about you, Isabella. And it goes beyond you reading to me about sex. I think."

"You think, but you're not sure?" I laughed, and he did, too, breaking the tension that had built up. "Well, I'm really not a woman who reads erotica to strange men. I usually read tamer stuff."

"So you're saying I'm special?" He released my hair. Dammit.

I paused, thinking of his question. "You seem smart and curious and interesting. Trust me, those qualities aren't easy to find in men."

"They're not easy to find in women, either." He let out an easy laugh. Okay, he was starting to be too good to be true. But whatever. I hadn't been with anyone in almost a year, and Dominic was too enticing. And too close to my body in this semi-private, gauze-draped, red-hued cabana. I briefly tried to remind myself that he wasn't truly my type, that he probably usually dated women who organized charity balls and shopped at Saks. If he was even really single in the first place.

But my doubts flew from my mind when I caught his scent again. I leaned toward him, feeling my legs slip against one another and my lips tingle with the anticipation of a kiss. The little smile faded, and he again reached out and tangled all of his fingers in my hair, tugging me ever so slightly toward him.

"I've never kissed a woman in a cabana before." His eyes were half-lidded and obviously sensual.

"I've never kissed a man at Story Brothel before."

"Can I be your first?" he murmured.

"With pleasure."

He licked his bottom lip and pulled me closer. His sweet and musky scent, combined with the whiskey, was intoxicating. Our lips were inches apart, and I could feel the whisper of his hot breath on my skin.

Then a shriek came from the direction of the bar.

"Dominic! Dominic!"

He shut his eyes. "Shit. That's Laura."

"Laura?" I plopped back on my heels, shock surging through me. What the hell?

"My sister."

"Oh," I exhaled. "What's wrong with her?"

He ran a hand over his short hair. "Well, from her tone, I can tell she's panicking."

"She's what? Why?"

"She has a severe anxiety disorder, and sometimes when she drinks, she has an attack. This has been going on for years."

My jaw dropped as the woman's breathy, panicked voice grew closer.

Biting his lip, his expression faded from sad to sorry. "I've got to take her home. I apologize."

He scrambled out of the cabana, and I followed on all fours, parting the curtain and peering out.

As he slid his feet into his shoes, the tall blonde woman ran up, sobbing. Several people poked their heads out of their cabanas to watch.

"Sis. Hey. It's okay. Let's get you home." He squeezed her shoulders, then rubbed her upper arms. "Give me thirty seconds, okay? Okay?"

She nodded and stammered something about how she was having a heart attack and that she needed to get to a hospital. In a gentle voice, he reminded her to breathe. When he'd first said his sister was having a panic attack, I'd been skeptical. But seeing this woman's obvious terror up close was disturbing. What had happened between her and Sarah? I climbed out of the cabana and stood next to her.

"Hey," I said in my softest voice. "You'll be okay."

Just then, Sarah rushed over. "Want me to call an ambulance?"

Dominic shook his head. I turned to him as he shrugged on his jacket. "Why don't I go with you to help?"

He paused and looked down. He seemed even taller now because I wasn't wearing shoes. His anguished eyes bored deep into mine. "Thank you, Isabella, but no."

He ran the backs of his fingers down my cheek, which sent heat coursing through my veins. Before I could say anything else, he turned and put his arm around his crying sister, and they quickly walked away, followed by Sarah.

I tunneled back into the cabana, not wanting to face the stares of the others. Flinging myself on the bed, I lay on my back, shaking, feeling more turned on than I had in years and wondering what the hell had just happened. I inhaled deeply, taking in Dominic's vanilla-oak scent that lingered on the pillows and in the humid air.