reading

Duff Stewart has two specialties: restoring vintage motorcycles and doing bad things to beautiful girls at New Orleans’s most notorious BDSM club. And there’s no girl he’d rather be with than the stunning Layla Chouset.

Layla has sworn off relationships with Dominant men, but there’s something about the gorgeous Scotsman, and he is determined to win her heart. She may agree to submit to his every want and desire, but can she submit to love…?

About the Author

Eden Bradley is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author. She has written a number of erotic and romantic novels, novellas, and short stories, including Dangerously Broken, Dangerously Bound, and The Dark Garden.

Also by Eden Bradley

PRAISE FOR THE DANGEROUS ROMANCES

“With kink, sensuality, emotional depth, and passion that flies off the page, Eden Bradley has a winner in Dangerously Broken. Loved it!”

“Eden Bradley has created a delicious tale of second chances and dark yearning, of people exploring love’s shadowed edges…. I enjoyed every luscious word!”

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF EDEN BRADLEY

“Intelligent, haunting, and sexy as hell…. For you people who like story and heart with your erotica, I’d definitely recommend any of Eden’s books.”

“[A] hot and steamy ride to the climactic end…. This story will steam up your glasses.”

“Bradley delivers the goods. There are intense intimacy and heart-wrenching emotions … delicious and delightful from the first page until the conclusion.”

To my very dear friend, author Felice Fox. I needed you to crack that whip, and you do it so well! But more than that, thank you for the rambling nights of worry and doubt, the dirty pictures and the laughter, the shared insanity that is being single and dating. Sometimes no one gets me like you do.

I also must thank the adorable Emily McGuire for being my beta reader on this one, and simply for being her wonderful self.

And, as always, I have to thank my readers. You are why I do this.

CHAPTER

One

“BE CAREFUL THERE, Frankie—that’s my baby you’re lubing,” Duff called out.

The short, stocky mechanic he was considering hiring for the new motorcycle branch of SGR Motors looked up, a retort on his lips, but he seemed to think better of it. “I’ll take good care of her. Hey, you from Ireland?”

Duff laid a hand over his heart, as if he were mightily offended. He was—a bit. “Irish? I’m a good Scotsman. Well, maybe not so good. But I arrived here from Edinburgh a couple o’ months ago to go into business with my cousin Jamie next door—they rebuild vintage muscle cars over there. He owns the auto shop and has half a hand in this place, too. And don’t say ‘Irish’ to him, neither—he was born in Scotland, same as I was.”

“Ah. Sorry ’bout the mistake. Couldn’t place your accent.” Frankie ran a hand over the sleek black fender of the ’48 Harley WL Bobber. “Did you bring the bike over with you? She’s a real beauty. They sure don’t make ’em like this anymore.”

“Yep. That’s why we’re opening SGR Motorcycles—we’ll be working exclusively on vintage bikes, so your skills had better be up to it if you want to work here. My cousin and I both appreciate the way they used to build machines. We’ll expect our mechanics to have the same respect. And the knowledge.” He leaned against the counter at the edge of the work bay. “How’s that chain look?”

“It is. Nothing but the best for my baby. Be sure you take her off the jacks like she’s made of china. And be sure you treat all our customers’ bikes the same way—and mind the crude remarks. This place won’t be just another bike shop.”

“Yeah, it does, at that. Go talk to my cousin Jamie next door and he’ll have you fill out your paperwork. After the bike is off the jacks, of course.”

He whirled around at the unexpected feminine voice—and was stunned into sputtering silence when he saw Layla Chouset standing in the doorway of his half-built shop.

Oh, yeah, he knew exactly who she was. The woman he’d seen on his first trip to The Bastille, New Orleans’s most exclusive and notorious BDSM club. The woman he’d seen there twice more, locking gazes with her each time. The woman who’d starred in his darkest, hottest fantasies as he’d wanked off to her image nearly every night since he’d first laid eyes on her.

She was all creamy chocolate skin and burning spitfire. Green eyes and sass. Gorgeous curves and breasts he wanted to fill his hands with. And she was a Domme. Which only made him want to bury his fists in those twining curls that spilled around her shoulders like dark silk and pull until he had her on her knees.

He cleared his throat and moved toward her, but his six-foot-seven frame did nothing to intimidate the delicate beauty—she stood her ground, her chin lifting.

He cracked a smile—he couldn’t help it—and enjoyed watching the fire in her eyes flare. She took a step toward him.

She took another step toward him, and he realized up close how tiny she was, no more than five foot three or four. He could have picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder easily enough. Or over his lap. His cock wanted to growl.

She crossed her arms over her chest, but it only made the tops of her breasts spill from the lacy edge of her black tank top. After a moment she huffed and dropped her arms. “Okay. Fine.”

He led the way into the unfinished office at the front of the shop. A wide window looked out onto the quiet street outside, and he distracted himself—and his damn hardening dick—a moment by letting his gaze rest on the coffee place across the way before settling onto the enormous metal desk he and Jamie had moved in the day before. The room still smelled faintly of paint and was piled with boxes of office supplies and the new computer he hadn’t set up yet, but there were two chairs in front of the desk.

Layla’s shoulders squared. “I don’t need to sit—this won’t be a lengthy visit. I’m just here to tell you—”

“To ‘fuck off’?” He moved closer, until he could smell her perfume—or maybe it was simply her skin that smelled of fresh flowers and the night. Like something he wanted to lap up, savor, swallow. “You can tell me again, if you like, but I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t be here if that was your only purpose.”

He took one more step closer, then another, until he was almost on top of her. He had to give the woman credit—she didn’t even flinch. “I think …” He kept his voice low. “I know I saw you watching me at The Bastille. More than once. Which is all right by me, since I was watching you.”

From the corner of his eye he saw her hands ball into fists, then release. Oh, yes, she was a little shaken up, which was exactly where he wanted her. Well, fuck if that wasn’t a lie—he wanted her naked and bent over his desk, but this would do for a start.

“Did it ever occur to you,” she fumed, “that I felt your eyes on me and felt the need to see who the hell was stalking me?”

“Sure, it did. But I saw the way you looked at me, darlin’.” He lowered his tone even more, his gaze flicking to her throat, where her pulse beat a strong, unsteady cadence. “I saw the question in your eyes. The desire. The same as I see it now.” He lifted a hand to one of the satiny spirals resting on her shoulder and took the end between his fingertips.

He answered without hesitation. “I think I’m the one Dominant man you burn for, Layla. I think I’m the one who makes you wonder what the other side is like. The bottom side.” Her nostrils flared the tiniest bit, but she hadn’t moved. And her pulse beneath his fingertips was running hot and wild. “I think you feel the same undeniable chemistry I do. All you have to do is give in.”

She bit her lip, took in a long breath. He’d have bet good money she wasn’t even aware of what she was doing.

“You’re wrong about me—you and your ego. All you male Doms think no woman can top as well as you can, that we have no place.”

“Not true. I’ve met many a good Domme in my time. I don’t doubt you’re a good Domme. But you feel it. I know you do. But there can be only one Top here, and I sure as hell am never bowing down for anyone.”

A small smile teased at the corners of her gorgeously full lips. “No, I don’t imagine you ever would. But I don’t bottom for anyone. Not since …” She trailed off, glancing away for a moment.

“Nothing. Never mind. Look, it’s not happening. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

“Would you like to know what I think, Layla? No, what I know. It’ll only be a matter of time. Meanwhile, you’re going to be mulling over this conversation—it’ll be impossible to forget. And just to make sure you don’t forget …”

He bent and crushed his mouth to hers, one hand going behind her head and diving into that silky hair. And Christ, but her lips were soft and sweet as she moaned quietly, just the tiniest sigh issuing from her throat. Her mouth began to open under his, but he let her go and stood back, trying not to gloat.

Her eyes narrowed and she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Goddamn it, Duff! What the hell was that?”

She crossed her arms over her chest once more, accentuating her cleavage. Her face had hardened into tight lines—all but her mouth, her lips looking soft and well kissed. “Fuck you, Duff,” she muttered before turning and stalking from his office.

He leaned against the edge of the desk, a grin on his face and a raging throbber in his jeans. “Let’s hope so,” he said loud enough for her to hear. Her retreating shoulders stiffened.

He watched her cross the street and get into a red convertible Mustang—a late 1960s model if he wasn’t mistaken. The black top was down and he could see the curve of her shoulders, her lovely skin shining in the sun.

He glanced over his shoulder at his cousin, who’d just walked into the office through the door connecting SGR Motors and SGR Motorcycles.

“Jesus. Sometimes you’re an oversharer—you know that, cousin?” Jamie asked.

“One of my many charms,” Duff muttered, his gaze still on Layla as she sat in the car. Why wasn’t she starting it, driving away in a huff? Made a man think. Made a man think that perhaps she really was more interested than she let on. “Lord, the way the sun hits her skin. I’d pay to have that skin under my hands.”

Jamie chuckled. “I seriously doubt you’ve ever had to pay for it in your life.”

Duff grinned. “You’re right enough there. And I don’t intend to pay for this one, either.”

“That she’s a Domme?” Duff interrupted. “Not for a single moment. But that only makes her more of a challenge. I like a good challenge. I like her fire. Her stubbornness. She sort of hinted that she’s been a bottom before, but even if she hadn’t, I feel it in her. Still, she’s damn brave, that one. And courage is fucking sexy. Now I just have to capture that fire. Contain it. Contain her.”

Duff turned to him. “Do you doubt my abilities, Jamie? And here I thought we were family.”

“We are. But that fire you’re talking about? It’s there, all right—in spades. And someone could get burned.”

“Nah. I’m not the burnable type. And look at her, man. She’s too fucking delectable to resist. Might be worth a little singeing.”

Jamie laughed, shook his head. “Just don’t come running to me for Band-Aids, cousin.”

Jamie stepped closer and gave him a good slap on the back. “True enough. Now, are you done ogling the girl so we can get back to work?”

Duff waved him off, turning back to the red convertible that still sat parked across the street. “In a minute. Don’t mind feeding my hard-on for later.”

“Jesus. I did not need to hear that. Come find me when you’ve recovered. I really don’t want to talk business with a man sporting an erection, anyway.”

“Watch it,” Jamie tossed over his retreating shoulder. “I have my toy bag in my truck and I just acquired a new set of canes.”

Duff grinned to himself as Jamie left his office. He kept his gaze on Layla in her hot red Mustang as she slammed both hands onto the steering wheel, and he didn’t mind if it was out of frustration with him or pure anger. She was responding to him like crazy one way or the other. And if he could make her feel something—didn’t really matter what it was at this point—then he knew he had her. She’d shown up at the shop, hadn’t she? If she’d simply been irritated with him, he had no doubt a strong woman like her would have marched up to him at the club to confront him. No, this was an excuse to see him, he was certain. What he wasn’t as certain about was the odd melting sensation swarming his belly as he simply watched her through the window. The raging heat that had gone through him when he’d held her delicate wrist in his hand. The way he’d been almost unable to pull away after kissing her.

It was true. But it was also true that he would have her. He’d damn well find a way.

She’d thought she could go face-to-face with Duff Stewart, but Jesus fucking Christ—he had been so much more than she’d bargained for. He hadn’t been in New Orleans more than a couple of months, but he’d already developed a reputation as a bit of a man-whore, so she’d written off what she’d heard about him being a natural Dominant who made all the submissives swoon. That fact had only fueled her fire—she wasn’t about to be looked at as anyone’s plaything, damn it!—and she’d come storming into his shop, guns blazing, only to discover the man was the real thing, wearing his dominance like a second skin. And only to have her body completely betray her in the face of his linebacker build, his ridiculously handsome face and what she was having a hard time denying was charm. And the Scottish damn accent! Why was an accent always so sexy? She’d been on the road for a full ten minutes, but even the purr of her beloved ’66 Mustang had done nothing to soothe her. If anything, the rumbling vibration of the big engine she could feel against the backs of her thighs—and elsewhere—was making things worse. Or better. Depending on how one looked at it.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself over the music blasting from her stereo, “he may be the most insanely desirable man I’ve ever seen, but I have enough self-control to ignore that. Don’t I?” She hit the brakes just in time to prevent herself from running a red light. “Damn it.”

She gripped the steering wheel, trying to calm her buzzing body, every nerve on high alert. But all she could think of was his wicked, sensual mouth. The spectacular, strong bone structure set off by his shaved head, the muscular breadth of his shoulders, his hazel eyes glinting with a dangerous metallic gleam, gold and silver simultaneously. She’d never seen eyes like that on a man, framed in dark, sooty lashes. And Jesus, dimples on a man like that were simply not fair.

The light changed and she hit the gas a little too hard. She eased off so she wouldn’t get a ticket, then cursed again and grabbed her cell phone from her purse, hitting the button that dialed her best friend.

“I’m in the middle of a highlight. Can I call you back in … No, I’m booked for another hour after that. Are you okay? You sound funny.”

Layla sighed. “I feel funny, and not in the ‘ha-ha’ kind of way. Can you meet me after work?”

“Oh crap, hon—I can’t today. You know I’d drop anything for you if I could, but I’m teaching tonight at the beauty school. One of their instructors is on maternity leave. I’m sorry.”

“Tomorrow night?” Layla asked, taking a deep breath. She’d just have to handle things by herself until she had a chance to talk to her friend.

They hung up, and Layla headed toward the Pontchartrain Expressway to catch the 10 out of town—hitting the road hard for a while would cool her off. It was either that or go home and pull out her collection of vibrators and spend the next two hours coming as hard and as many times as she could.

“This is ridiculous.” She accelerated onto the on-ramp, the big engine picking up speed with a satisfying rumble. “I am in control,” she reminded herself. “I am in control,” she repeated, hoping to convince herself of the blatant lie.

The long, fast drive along with some blasting music and a firm talking-to with herself finally helped to calm her down. She kept driving, taking the 10 through Baton Rouge, moving with the music, letting her car take her down the highway. She was most of the way to Lafayette when she realized she’d better head home. By the time she got there, she was exhausted. With driving. With thinking. With the sensual rage simmering in her body.

She didn’t dare go to bed—bed was too tempting. Instead, she flopped down on the big white sofa in her living room, tossing some of the exotic brightly colored pillows onto the floor as she reached for the TV remote. Flipping through the channels, she settled on an old romantic comedy, scooting aside a small bronze sculpture of the Hindu god Kali—one of her own pieces—to rest her feet on the edge of her coffee table, which was a slab of thick glass framed in reclaimed barn wood.

“This movie sure as hell couldn’t be further from my life,” she murmured to herself, settling back into the pile of cushions.

She’d never had a “normal” life, certainly not according to her father. She’d grown sick and tired of hearing him ask why she couldn’t get a normal job, like a secretary or a schoolteacher. Why she didn’t do what he felt was a woman’s duty in life and settle down with a good God-fearing man, get married and have babies. Those ideas had been shoved so hard down her throat, she’d gotten into the habit of rejecting them purely because they were his—that and his lack of expecting anything else from her—anything more—because she was female.

Most of her thirty-one years had been spent fighting those ideas, first by dating musicians and losers, then, in a more positive effort, by becoming a strong, self-supporting woman. She’d built that strength like a shield around her. And now Duff was trying to get in.

It was not happening. Even if every inch of her skin ached for his touch. Even if her stomach fluttered every time she let his name roll through her brain.

She massaged her forehead, flipping the channel until she found an action film, and lost herself in flying bullets and speeding cars. And to the sound of ringing gunshots, she fell asleep.

TUESDAY MORNING AND afternoon dragged as Layla tried to busy herself with packing up some new pieces of sculpture to ship to a gallery—she’d been making her living as a full-time artist since her early twenties—but finally it was time to meet Kitty at The Ruby Slipper Café on Magazine Street.

They’d been going to the café since meeting there five years earlier while waiting to get in for Sunday brunch, chatting until their friends showed up. Then a few months later she’d run into Kitty at The Bastille. Kitty had been new to the kink life at the time, and Layla had taken her under her wing, mentoring her, and they’d become fast friends.

Layla pulled open the door to the café, and the hostess greeted her, along with the homey scents of good, strong chicory coffee and grilled food—comfort food.

She moved past the high polished-steel counter that made a U-shaped curve in the middle of the café, seeing Kitty’s pale blond head bowed over the menu at a table by one of the tall windows. Kitty looked up as she approached, the sun lighting her blue eyes.

“Hey, honey.” Kitty stood and gave her a quick hug before settling back into her chair. Her friend was a gorgeous, proudly curvy girl who always wore corsets to accent her hourglass figure at the club, but today she was dressed in work attire: black slacks and a sleeveless pink silk blouse.

Layla sat down across from her. “You’re looking at the menu? Don’t we both have it memorized by now?”

“Of course I do, but I always like to think I’ll order something different than my usual barbecued shrimp and grits and some iced coffee. What about you? You having that salad you like?”

Kitty put down her menu. “Uh-oh. That can only mean you either have something to celebrate or something bad has gone down, and I take it from the tone of your phone call yesterday this isn’t celebratory French toast.”

“It’s not.” Layla looked out the window at the traffic going by, at a woman walking a dog past the café. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Layla sighed out a long breath. “Okay. You remember that night a while ago when that guy—that big Dom—first showed up at The Bastille with Jamie?”

“The Scottish Dom? How could I forget? That man fills up a room like another wall, only more solid. And that black kilt was just hot. Isn’t he Jamie’s cousin?”

Layla nodded. “Well, I’ve run into him a few more times, and, Kitty, I swear he stares at me like he can see under my clothes or something.”

Her friend shook her head. “Now, that’s just not fair. I saw him staring at you. And personally, I don’t think I’d mind that one little bit.”

The waitress stopped by their table, interrupting the conversation, and they gave her their orders.

Kitty leaned into the table. “Layla, why on earth would you mind a hot man being interested in you?”

“Because I’m a Domme, which is obvious to anyone who’s been at the club for more than five minutes. He’s watched me play. Watched me. It’s unnerving. And poor protocol.”

“Is it really poor protocol, honey? Or is there some other reason why it bothers you so much? Either way, I still think it’s flattering.”

Kitty was quiet a moment. “Layla, let me ask you this. You’re pretty much straight, right? Not into girls?”

Layla shrugged. “Pretty much, yeah. I mean, you know I only play with girls these days, but it’s not about sex for me.”

“But if a woman came on to you, you’d still be flattered, wouldn’t you? Even if she knew you didn’t swing that way?”

“It just is,” Layla insisted. The waitress returned with their iced coffees, giving her a minute to think about Kitty’s reasoning. “Maybe you’re right, Kitty, but he just … pisses me off. I can feel his eyes on me at the club. It’s so intrusive.”

“Does he stand there and watch you while you’re in scene? Is he stalker-y?”

“No, that’s not it. He goes off and does his own thing. It’s hard to explain.”

“Yeah,” Layla agreed, busying herself with her own coffee, adding milk and more sugar than she usually allowed herself—she needed it today. She stirred it with her straw, watching the milky swirls disappear into the dark coffee. She caught herself and looked up at her friend. “I’m sorry. I’m brooding.”

Kitty smiled at her. “Yes, you are. You gonna tell me what’s really going on?”

Layla sighed. “In retrospect I sort of can’t believe I did this, but I went by his motorcycle shop yesterday and told him off. Or tried to.”

Layla wrapped her fingers around her glass, keeping her gaze on the moisture clinging to the sides. “Jamie’s a regular at the club, and everyone knows he owns SGR Motors, and that his cousin is here to open a motorcycle branch. It was easy enough to find him.”

“I’m afraid so.” Layla looked up, leaning in and keeping her voice down. “And here’s the thing. I realize I’m annoyed because Duff got to me. That’s why I went to see him, and it was even worse after. I feel like such a fool, but he hit a sore spot.” She sat back in her chair, shaking her head. “You know my history, Kitty—you’re one of the few people I’ve ever told the whole story to. Adrien and Marcel. Vincent. And Jimmy … Fucking Jimmy. You know why I can’t get involved with a Dom, why I pretty much swore off men almost a year ago. It’s been eleven and a half months since I did anything more than fuck some guy for my own pleasure—and that was just the one guy right after things ended in that shitstorm with Jimmy. I sure as hell haven’t submitted to anyone. I can’t do it. I can’t. Never again.”

She hated the tears burning behind her eyes. She hated that her long string of bad boys—her long string of mistakes—still had some power over her.

Kitty reached across the table and laid a hand on her arm. “Honey, are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

“Both?” Layla blinked hard. “I don’t know. This guy has my head spinning. He’s arrogant and sarcastic and … fucking gorgeous. And I can feel the power in him. As soon as I was in the same room with him, up close, it was as if there was something drawing me in. It wasn’t simple chemistry. And as hard as I fought it, I couldn’t—not entirely. I had to get the hell out of there. I had to catch my breath. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong, hon. Maybe you’ve just finally met your match.”

“Oh!” It came out on a puff of air, forced from her throat by shock and the realization that Kitty could be right, as much as she hated to admit it.

The waitress stopped at their table to deliver their food, giving her a chance to calm down a bit.

As soon as the server left, Kitty leaned across the table toward her. “I am about to tell you something important, Layla Adele Chouset. There is not a damn thing wrong with giving in, with giving yourself over. Isn’t that what you told me when you were holding my hand through my early days in kink?”

“Yes. But it’s more about the connection than anything else, isn’t it? Who we are, the good and the bad, goes into making the connection and the energy people generate between them. That’s my understanding of what you told me power exchange is about. Did I get it wrong?”

She huffed out a breath. Kitty was simply parroting the words she’d said to her when she’d been mentoring her friend through her introduction to BDSM, but she didn’t want to think about it now, not applied to herself. Instead of addressing the issue she said stubbornly, “I haven’t known him long enough to establish a connection. I don’t know him at all.”

“Maybe you should. Connection can sometimes start as powerful chemistry. And I’d say you two have it in spades, because I have never seen you like this. Never.”

Layla shook her head, her cheeks going hot. “I do not want to deal with this … this situation, chemistry or not.”

“I think you’re gonna have to, honey. This Duff guy is setting down roots in our town, establishing himself at our club. Sooner or later you’re going to have to deal with whatever it is between you two. I think you’re going to have to face your response to him. Something this powerful? It can’t be ignored forever. Especially when you’re bound to run into him.”

She was afraid Kitty was right, afraid of what Duff brought out in her. Long-buried feelings were rising to the surface, reminding her of times that were better forgotten. People who were better forgotten.

But Duff … what was it about him that put all her issues with men in her face? Just another bad boy. Just another Dom. Except no one could ever say Duff Stewart was “just” anything.

He was exasperating. Irritating. And she didn’t owe this man a single thing, but maybe she owed herself.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I probably need to apologize to him. No, I know I do. As a Dominant myself I should have more self-control. I should be able to exercise better manners. I’ll have to swallow my pride and go see him again.” She rubbed her forehead. “Goddamn it.”

Was it pride that was making her behave like such a bitch? And had she been hiding behind the title of Domme to allow herself to be bitchy with him? Despite the fact that they’d just met—had one conversation!—Duff was making her look at herself and discover some things she didn’t like. She could cuss him out all she wanted—to his face or in her own head—but the fact was his mere presence had made her see she still had issues to deal with. And first on the list—always—was personal responsibility for her behavior.

“Of course. Especially if I can have your French toast. Right now it’s looking a lot more tasty than my shrimp.”

Layla smiled. “It’s all yours. Pour some extra syrup on for me.” She stood, dropping some cash on the table before leaning over and kissing the top of Kitty’s blond head.

Her friend looked up, blue eyes wide. “You sure you’re gonna be okay? Because I don’t care if the man is nine feet tall and the scariest Dom alive, I will kick his tight, muscular ass into next week if he messes with you.”

Layla cracked a smile. “I know. Thanks for having my back, but I’ll be okay.”

“Just sayin’. I’ll let you know how the French toast is. You let me know how the scary-hot Dom is.”

Layla shook her head as she made her way toward the door. No one could cheer her up like Kitty. But the smile her friend had put on her face was temporary, at best. She had some big stuff to deal with, and she didn’t mean Duff’s unusual size.

But oh, his unusual size, and the way that in itself made her feel overpowered by him, made her want to melt into him. Under him.

“Fucking world, anyway,” she muttered, moving down the street to where her car was parked. “Fucking world. Fucking men. Fucking me and my daddy issues that always get me into these messes.”

On the drive to Duff’s shop she blasted some hard-ass, head-banging grunge metal, trying to drown out her thoughts. It didn’t help much. By the time she found parking a few doors down from SGR Motorcycles, her heart was pounding.

She approached the door carefully, reached out to push it open, paused and pulled her hand back, giving herself a moment to cuss under her breath once more.

That thought cheered her, and she grabbed the door and swung it open, stepping through.

Duff had his feet up on the desk, leaning back in his chair, a laptop on his knees. He wore the big black boots she loved most on a man, which she did her best to ignore.

He glanced up, doing a double take. “Huh. I didn’t expect you to come back so soon.”

He nodded, and there was some hint of respect in the gesture before he shook himself, closing the laptop and setting it on the desk as he got to his feet. “I’m glad you did.”

Lord, he was tall. And gorgeous. And tattooed, which was always a bonus—she could see an amazing steampunk biomechanical piece that looked like a graceful combination of a tree and a compass covering the inside of his right forearm. A forearm that was solid muscle. And the size of his hands …

She dropped her head. “I know.” Looking back up at him—and up and up—she told him, “That’s why I’m here. I need to … take responsibility for my actions. I’m sorry I was such a roaring bitch.”

He cracked a grin, his dimples flashing as he shoved both big hands in the front pockets of his dark jeans. “Were you, now? Could have been much worse, in my estimation.”

She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Duff. We’re never going to get through a conversation if you talk to me like I’m one of your adoring subbie girls.”

He came around from behind the desk until he stood maybe a foot from her. Lowering his tone as he looked down at her, he caught her gaze with his. “Are you telling me you adore me, Layla? Because I could live with that.” He finished with a wink, one corner of his mouth quirking. She was about to argue when he stepped even closer, and God, she could see how long and thick his eyelashes were. How beautifully sculpted his chin was. And he smelled just right.

“But you know what I’d like even more?” he went on. “I’d like for us to put this rough start behind us and begin all over again. What would you say to a reboot?”

“Yeah, a reboot. I’ll start.” He held his hand out to her. “Hallo. I’m Duff. Recent transplant from Edinburgh, cousin to Jamie, who you appear to already know. Dominant, hedonist and general buffoon, or so my little brother tells me.” He grinned. “Your turn.”

He motioned with his hand, and she took it, her mind a jangling battle between the pure chemical need to touch him and the wildly ringing alarm bells going off in her head, telling her she was moving into deep water. But when his fingers closed around hers, his enormous hand dwarfing hers, there was a comforting warmth underlying the zing of electricity that went through her like a small shock. She had to take a moment to review some of the things she knew about him, having seen him at the club—that he was a responsible Dominant, an excellent player. That he was as tender with his bottoms as he was wicked, which was something she felt was crucial. And there was that edge of gentleness about him and his good humor, contrasting with his hulking frame and natural alpha dominance, that was unlike anything—or anyone—she’d ever run into before. And which frankly made her knees weak.

She swallowed, and let out a breath. “Okay. This is silly but … Okay. I’m Layla. Lifelong New Orleans resident. Hedonist, which you already know. And Domme, as you also already know.”

His grin widened. “Very glad to meet you.” He leaned in toward her, lowering his voice. “We’ll put the head-to-head Dom battle on the back burner for now, yes? Yes.”

He straightened up and let her hand go, and she found herself curling her fingers to hang on to some of the warmth, then shook her hands out when she realized what she was doing.

“So, Layla, my shop is closed and I’ve no need to stay any later tonight—will you allow me to take you to dinner?”

“Yeah, dinner. You know—that American custom where people eat in the evening. Or ‘tea,’ as it’s properly called.”

She shook her head, cracking a smile. His charming affability was hard to resist. “Is that some sort of peace offering?”

“I was thinking of it more as the first phase of a rather clever seduction, but I fear you’ve seen through my ruse. Still, it’s only dinner. What can it hurt? Say yes.”

She cocked her head. “Said the sadist to the fly. But yes, I’ll have dinner with you.”

The word danger flashed through her mind like a chant, but something about the danger itself was alluring.

He stepped nearer, until he was towering over her. Bending closer, he murmured softly, “Does it, now? Because I’m fairly certain I felt it when I kissed you yesterday. I’m about to do it again. This is your chance to say no. To use your safe word, if you will. And we’ll keep it real simple, given the circumstances. All you have to do is tell me to stop.”

God, he smelled like a clean man, like soap and a T-shirt fresh out of the laundry. And beneath it was a faint trace of something dark and earthy that made her mouth water. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t pay any attention to the voice screaming in her head to tell him no, to run away. All she could do was tilt her chin to be kissed.

He moved in slowly, pausing when his mouth was a mere inch from hers, his breath warm on her skin. She breathed him in—she couldn’t help herself—and even his breath was fresh and sweet in a way that made her dizzy, making her want to drink him in.

She raised her chin a notch. He pulled back the tiniest bit. When she swayed closer he inched back once more. He was making a dance of it. A challenge. Making her allow him to see that she wanted it. Part of her wanted to rebel, to be angry, but her body was burning with need.

He moved in once more, his mouth nearly touching hers, and she closed her eyes. Waited. Felt his soft exhale against her lips. Her skin tingled all over. When her eyes fluttered open she found his stunning hazel gaze on hers.

“Don’t what? Don’t try to dominate you? I can’t help it, you know. If you don’t want it, you know what to say. But this is who I am, down to the finest particle.”

She shook her head the slightest bit. She couldn’t get her brain to work. Her body was taking over completely. No. Duff Stewart was taking over. And something in her fucking loved it.

He was quiet a moment, watching her, his gaze traveling from hers down to her mouth and back again. She saw him swallow hard and wondered briefly if he was feeling as out of control as she was. But as he wrapped a hand up in her hair and pulled her in to kiss her, her mind emptied.

His fingers burrowed against her scalp, and he pulled hard, commanding her, but his lips were soft and gentle. Just a small kiss, a brushing of lips across hers and her nipples went hard. He did it again, and again and again, and lust shivered over her skin, into the pit of her stomach. When he took her in his arms, she felt the massive weight of his muscles holding her, the hard planes of his unbelievable body as he held her close. And still his mouth was sweet against hers as he licked her lower lip, then traced her top lip with the tip of his tongue. Gently, he opened her mouth, his tongue slipping between her lips, exploring. And she was letting him do it, was kissing him back.

How was it possible that these sweet kisses made her feel more taken over than if his kiss had been brutal? How was it possible that her body was melting into him, her breasts crushed to his massive chest, her hands going to his biceps, which were enormous and dense as granite? And she could feel through his shirt that one of his nipples was pierced, making her want to touch it, pull on it. Take it in her mouth.

When he lifted her and set her on the cool metal desk, she sighed. He parted her thighs and moved in between them. Kissed her harder, finally. But she wanted it. Needed it. He moved in, pressing his body between her spread legs and she felt the solid ridge of his cock—impressively hard, impressively big—against her mound and found she was wet for him.

She felt all control slipping away. All power over the situation, over her own body.

The alarms started to scream in her head and she felt it like a hard kick in her gut. She tore her mouth from his and pushed him away—or tried to. He lifted his head, licked his lips.

Looking down at her, he watched her face for a moment while she tried to swallow past the inexplicable lump in her throat.

Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Eden Bradley

PRAISE FOR THE DANGEROUS ROMANCES

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF EDEN BRADLEY

CHAPTER

One