"This is the kitchen?" My eyes can't take it all in. While parts are still in ruins, like the crumbling marble countertop on the far wall and the rotting wooden butcher-block island, other features are updated. A new six burner gas range has been installed along with an enormous stainless steel refrigerator.

You stand at a deep, white farmhouse-style sink that has to be original to the hotel, rinsing the fish you've unwrapped from your t-shirt. "I made some improvements." You gesture to the range and the fridge. "If you don't like them, they can be changed. They're here for our convenience, not necessarily to stay."

Our convenience. Another word joining us together-we, us, our. I'm getting used to how it sounds. Is that a good thing, or a bad thing? I need to decide before turning back isn't an option.

"Why don't you go up and change out of those wet clothes while I get dinner started?" You reach over and tug on your white t-shirt that's soaked and clinging to me revealing the chill that's seeped into my skin making the tips of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s stand erect. Your eyes fall to my chest and don't waver. Your hand contracts tighter around the t-shirt, pulling me closer.

I can almost feel your touch where your eyes linger. It makes my nipples even harder. I'm losing myself to you. Your thumb strokes against the bare flesh on my stomach, making my back arch toward you. I gasp, pull the shirt out of your hand and spin around. "Okay."

I can't even think as I dash through the pool of standing water in the entryway that flooded in through the broken window. My mind races in dizzying circles. Want and need battle with the insane circ.u.mstances of us being together on this island in the first place. How can I possibly give in to that? How do I forgive you? I want to-I run my hands over my stomach, up to my chest, over my nipples aching for your fingers, your mouth-G.o.d, I want to.

This is dangerous. You're dangerous. You can't just take whatever you want-that includes me. You seem to know that though, that I'm off limits until I give myself to you. You don't want to take me-at least not that way, not intimately.

My body and mind are so conflicted it makes me crazy. My body screams for me to give in-I'm here on this island in this amazing historic hotel where I've dreamed of being, alone with a man who I am so attracted to I could explode on contact. I can't even imagine how incredible s.e.x would be with you. Thinking about it makes me tingle and ache, makes my mouth water, eager to taste you.

But my head...my head can't wrap around the idea of giving myself to a man who had zero consideration for my own free will-a man who can't communicate what he wants, so he takes it because he's powerful and controlling and n.o.body stops him from getting what he wants.

You wanted me.

You wanted me so badly you went to desperate ends, risking everything to have me. That makes me so hot; I have to grip the railing tighter to keep myself from running back into the kitchen and pulling your clothes off-giving myself to you on the kitchen floor.

You don't seem like a monster, but are you? Do I even care anymore, or has my burning body won out already?

When I come down from my shower, wearing a pair of your boxer shorts and another of your t-shirts, the aroma wafting from the kitchen is amazing. My stomach grumbles.

I find you in the lounge building a fire like last night. An open wine bottle and our two mugs sit on the hearth. "Better?" you ask, smiling as I approach.

"Much. I'll watch dinner while you go up if you want."

"No need. It's done. I'm keeping it warm." You pour wine into a mug and hand it to me. "I'll be quick. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

"I am too. It smells fantastic. Where did you learn to cook?" I sip the wine, a fruity, dry white, light and crisp on my tongue.

"I've always cooked. After my mom died, my dad buried himself in work and spent most of his time closed up in his office. Heidi hated cooking and I hated doing laundry, so we split the ch.o.r.es."

"You were so young. I don't think I was even allowed to use the stove until I was a teen." The more I learn about you, the more I understand why you are how you are. Never having been given anything, no wonder you grew up to become a man who takes anything he can get.

"It was cook or starve." You chuckle, oblivious to the fact that your statement sends a pang of sadness through me. "I'll hurry."

I want to run after you, hold you, comfort you, take care of you. I don't think anyone ever has. How can a gorgeous, wealthy man be so alone?

With emotions taking over my body and mind, I drink deeply from my mug and pour myself another full cup of wine. To h.e.l.l with it-I'm throwing caution to the wind, letting the chips fall where they may, all of those sayings apply tonight. I can't help that I want you. All I can do is go with it and see where we end up.

I drain the second mug of wine and pour another. By the time you come back to the lounge, I'm warm from the alcohol and the fire, and only slightly nervous with antic.i.p.ation of what tonight holds for us.

"Wow." You lean over me and pick up the mostly empty wine bottle on the hearth. "You were thirsty." Your eyes are soft and warm, luring me in. My nose picks up the scent of your spicy, exotic, jasmine shampoo and the fresh, clean smell of soap. But there's also a distinctly masculine scent mingling with the others. I resist the urge to lean into your shoulder and breathe you in. "What?" Your eyes narrow. "You look..."

I look turned on. I am turned on. You've been so perceptive of my feelings, you have to know.

A faint smile crosses your lips and you close your eyes for a moment. "I'll get dinner." You stand and pour the rest of the wine in my mug. "And another bottle."

"I'll help." Before I can stand, you run your hand down the side of my head, stroking my hair.

"No. You stay. Let me serve you." The tip of your finger brushes my cheek, lighting my skin with a fiery trail of tingles.

You return a few minutes later with two plates filled with fish, rice and a mixed greens salad. "Thank you." I take my plate and keep my eyes on you as you lower yourself beside me. We're so close, our legs almost touch.

"I hope you like it." You pour yourself a mug of wine and hold it up to mine. "To..." your eyes cling to mine, "us...tonight, here, with you."

My breath comes slow and deep, the wine lingers in my head, your words flow inside me. Us. Tonight. Here. Yes, I want that.

You break a piece of flaky fish off with your fork and hold it out to me. "Try it. Let me know if I've done it how you like it."

Every word you speak has a double meaning in my mind. My insides are molten, melted, gushing. I open my mouth, and you slide your fork inside. I close my lips around the tines and let my eyes fall shut savoring the taste-b.u.t.tery, lemony, lightly seasoned. "Mmm..."

You slide the fork out between my lips, and I open my eyes, meeting your intense gaze. "You keep that up and I'll be feeding you every bite of food you ever take." Your voice is husky. You're barely holding back.

I grasp your wrist and take the fork. "You tell me how good it is." I offer you a piece of fish. You open your lips and touch it with your tongue before sliding it off with your teeth.

Every part of my body becomes hyper aware of you. Nerve endings crawl to the surface and p.r.i.c.kle in antic.i.p.ation.

"It's good, but it's not what I'm hungry for." You grab the fork from my hand and toss it on the hearth. Leaning into my ear, your voice comes out in a growl. "I'd like to show you how big my appet.i.te is."

My chest heaves. My heart pounds. Your warm breath sends tingles down my spine. I can't take it anymore and turn my head toward yours. My nose brushes down your stubbly jawline. You tilt your face so our lips are almost touching.

My inhales are your exhales; we share mingled breaths. I lick my lips. A hard sigh rasps out of you. You want this. "Let me..." you whisper.

My lips itch for yours. I lift my chin and they barely touch. Soft. Warm. We linger like that for endless seconds, until we're both panting for more. My tongue sneaks out and glides along your bottom lip. It's all it takes for you to come undone.

You clutch my chin and pull my mouth against yours. Your tongue sweeps against mine, stroking and plunging, stoking the heat in my core. Mindless from wine and desire, I push you onto your back, our lips never parting, and lie on top of you. Our kisses are urgent, our breath heaving and panting. Between my legs, I'm damp and pulsing with need.

You take my face between your hands and pull our lips apart to look in my eyes. "I'm not instigating anything, Rachael. You touch me, then I touch you. It has to be you first. You're in control. If you want me, you can take me."

Take this man, this body, these lips and hands. I want you all over me. I want to take you to the edge and then push you to explode. I dive back into your lips, let my knees fall to the sides of you and rock my hips against yours. Your erection is hard and long, rigid against your shorts. You rise up to meet me, and we fall into a frantic rhythm, grinding against each other.

"Take me, Rachael." You groan and raise your hands over your head, clutching the air. "G.o.d, I want to feel you."

I grab your wrists and pin them over your head. Rising up on my arms, I drown in the l.u.s.t in your eyes while I ride you. I've never taken control like this before, and nothing has ever felt so intense. You've awoken a side of me I didn't know existed. "What do you want to touch, Merrick?"

Saying your name sends a wave of longing through me like I've never known. I dip my head and lick your full, amazing lips. "f.u.c.k," you mutter. "I want to squeeze those hard little nipples. Tear my boxers off of you and shove my fingers into the wetness between your legs."

I rub against your faster, moaning. I'm so ready I can't stand it.

The memory of waking up tied to the bed flashes through my mind. Fear and desperation jolt through me. I dart away from you, gasping for breath. "I can't." I jump up, tearing my hands through my hair. "I can't."

I take off down the hall toward the stairs ignoring you calling my name, ignore the sound of a mug shattering against the fireplace.

In your bedroom, I run through the sitting area and crawl into bed. Tears come hot and fast down my cheeks. The need and want are still raw inside me, but my mind won't let them win, not even when numbed by wine.

I roll onto my back and grip the sheets, willing the heat to leave my body. I can't take you. I can't have you. Not now-maybe never. I hate myself for not letting go. Why do I always have to do the sensible and logical thing? For once, I just wanted to take what I need.

After an hour of crying and rolling from side to side, I still can't get rid of the ache between my legs. I need release and have to give it to myself.

I slip my hand inside your boxers and spread my legs, sighing at the wetness my fingers find. I'm dripping. If only I could let you slide inside me and give me the relief I crave. I stroke the fleshy, sensitive tip in circles, knowing I'm going over the edge fast.

My fingers slide down the middle, and I raise my knees up, pushing two fingers inside. My other hand slips under your t-shirt and tugs the nipple you wanted so badly to squeeze.

"Rachael..."

I gasp, pull my knees together and curl into a ball. You're leaning against the wall in the dark between the sitting area and the bed. Moonlight streaming in the window beside me caresses your body. You've taken your shirt off. Your chest is bare, your fingers run over your abs down to your waistband as you take me in.

"Don't stop," you say, pleading, desperate. "You're so beautiful." You unb.u.t.ton and unzip your shorts. Your hard, long erection leans toward me. "I'll stay right here. Please don't stop." You wrap your hand around your wide base and begin to stroke up and down your length. Your head falls back, but your eyes bore into mine. "I won't touch you."

So close to the edge before you came in, I'm ready to come just watching you. If I touch myself, I won't be able to hold back.

I spread my legs and squeeze my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, rub my nipples. You dig your teeth into your bottom lip and suck in a deep breath. "So f.u.c.king s.e.xy." You stroke faster and harder.

I want to make you come so bad. I push my shirt up so you can see my full, aroused b.r.e.a.s.t.s, lick my fingertips and rub them in tiny circles over my hard nipples. You groan and pound your fist against the wall. "You're killing me," you growl.

I haven't punished you nearly enough. My hand slides back down between my legs. "Let me see," you whisper. "Please. Let me see." You hold up your free hand. "No touching."

I swallow hard, pa.s.sion and desire consuming me, and slide the boxers off.

"Ah, s.h.i.t." You knock your head against the wall behind you, your hand still wrapped tight, jerking and sliding up and down your considerable length.

My fingers circle my swollen c.l.i.t and glide down my middle. My knees fall apart wider, my hips rock. I tremble and moan and plunge my fingers inside. Finding the spot I know will make me lose my mind. I rub harder, pushing in and pulling out faster.

"Come with me. I'm so close." Your words are a husky rasp.

Flames ignite up my thighs, pulling them apart even farther, make my hips quake and my back arch. "Oh, G.o.d, yes!" I cry, throwing my head back into the pillow, enjoying the throbbing around my fingers, relief flowing over me like warm water.

"Ah, s.h.i.t. Rachael, "You gasp and groan. I watch you stroke your tip lightning fast, come erupting out of you. You shudder, find my eyes and slide down the wall, spent, panting. I want to touch you so badly it hurts. "Thank you," you whisper.

"How long were you standing there?" The thought of you watching without my knowing simultaneously excites and terrifies me.

"I said your name as soon as I saw what you were doing. I wouldn't...do that. I told you I respect your privacy-always have." You stand and clean up with your discarded t-shirt before fastening your shorts and lying on the couch, your head at the far end so you can see me.

I roll to my side and let myself get lost in your gaze. Neither of us says a word; we just appraise each other for the longest time. "You're so beautiful and s.e.xy," you finally say. "I'll never forget that."

"Neither will I." The vision of him pleasuring his incredible body while watching me sends pulses of heat between my legs. If I don't stop thinking about it soon, we might have to have a repeat session.

You yawn, roll onto your side and curl your knees up. "Goodnight, sweet Rachael."

"Sweet dreams," I whisper.

You let out a low, guttural chuckle. "There won't be anything sweet about the dreams I'm about to have. Stimulating, yes. Sweet, no."

I smile into the pillow knowing I did this to you, and I'll do it again.

The next morning I wake to a single yellow calla lily laying on the nightstand on top of a note written in scrawled, manly handwriting. With the flower in one hand, I hold the paper in the other.

This reminded me of you and last night. Beautiful with soft pedals leading into dark places I can only hope to touch. -M The lily's pedals fold back revealing a deep, dark, narrow cup where the flower meets the stem. It does resemble a certain part of the female anatomy. The gesture is sensual and full of meaning. I run the flower across my cheek smiling and flushing from head to toe. Never have I had the courage to touch myself in front of a man before...before you.

Another yellow calla lily lies at the bottom of the stairs on the floor in the entryway. I pick it up, and my eyes fall on yet another under the archway leading into the hall. One after another, they lead me through the lounge, out onto the patio and through the wrought iron gate.

The hot sun beats down on the ground still damp from yesterday's storm making the day hazy and humid. Birds chortle and chirp in the tangle of trees and flowering vines. The air smells like honeysuckle and rain. Another flower lies on a chunk of broken pebble sidewalk that used to form a path to wherever you're leading me.

I weave through the trees collecting my lilies. Up ahead, there's a cloister-thick wooden beams and white stucco supporting the same red-tiled roof as the hotel. Underneath, you lounge in a rope hammock watching me. "Morning," you call out. "You found me."

I hold up the lilies. "It was hard not to." I make my way over to you. The covered walkway encloses a square courtyard with a pool in ruins in the center. Palm trees tower over the rubble from each of its corners. Tiny multi-colored tiles that once lined the pool lie scattered and broken in the gra.s.s and piled in the bottom.

"Wow," I say. "It's beautiful even in ruins."

"It is beautiful." You hook your finger around mine. You're looking at me though, not the courtyard. "I have something for you." You reach down beside you and hold up my wristlet-the one I had at the club the night you took me. "I charged your phone if you want to make a call."

My fingers wrap around the wristlet, and I clutch it to my chest. You trust me to have my phone? "Aren't you afraid of who I'll call?" What if I call the police?

You sit up, your chest still bare from last night, and train your despondent eyes on mine. "After last night..." A heavy sigh pa.s.ses between your lips. "I can't make you trust me. I know what I've done to you. You either do or you don't."

"That's a lot to ask someone you've only known a few days." I lower onto the hammock beside you, sliding down into the center, our shoulders and thighs press together tight.

"It's been..." You reach up and brush a piece of hair off my face, tucking it behind my ear. "An intense few days." You put an arm around my waist. "Here, lean back and look up."

I let you pull me down beside you so my head rests on your warm shoulder. "What am I supposed to be looking at?" My eyes follow your finger, pointed up to the top of one of the wooden beams supporting the roof.

"Do you see those initials up there, A.W. plus I.B. with a heart around it?"

I squint and tilt my head toward yours a little. "Yeah, I see it."

"Do you know who they were?" Your finger comes down from pointing above us and loops through my hair, wrapping a strand around it.

"No. Should I?"

You turn your head to face me. Your nose glides across my cheek and up through my hair over my ear. "I thought you knew everything about Turtle Tear Hotel. Does the name Archibald Weston ring any bells?"

"A.W.-he built the hotel." I fight the distraction of your warm breath on my neck.

"I.B. was Ingrid Burkhart, his wife." Your finger loops through my hair; your nose nuzzles my ear. "Well, eventually she was his wife. He built this hotel as a surprise to win her over. When it was finished, he showed up on her doorstep and whisked her away, bringing her here. She never wanted to leave."

I gaze up at the initials etched into the almost century old wood. "Is that where you got the idea?"

"It crossed my mind." Your chuckle sparks goose b.u.mps over my chest and down across my stomach. Your finger traces from my temple down to my chin. "If I offered to take you home, would you stay anyway, Rachael? Just for a little while longer?"

My conflicted mind starts pushing and pulling, emotion, pa.s.sion and desire pitted firmly against logic, reason and morals. "Don't offer. I don't want to have to think about it."

"I think maybe you have," you whisper, "and that's why you don't want me to offer. You're afraid you'll stay here with me."