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“I have a small office. There’s a desk in there. Everything I have about you is in the top drawer. There’s not much.”
“Does he know you were coming here today?”
She took a breath, then nodded.
“Anyone else?”
“No, just Max.”
“I don’t see any texts telling him you arrived safely,” Marco remarked, looking back down at her phone.
“There was no signal where I parked.”
“I’m leaving for a minute,” he declared, rising to his feet. “Are you going to do anything stupid?”
“No.”
“What happened to your manners?”
“No, Mr. Moretti.”
“Don’t forget again.”
As he left the room, with shaking fingers she unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and took a long drink. She’d wondered what would happen if he caught her when she was hiking through the forest. She’d never imagined being pulled over his lap and spanked. Her bottom burned with a hot, prickling heat, but closing her eyes, and recalling the visit to his BDSM club, she felt the wetness between her legs.
Being tied up, punished, and ravaged by a dominant man was fodder for bestselling books and hit movies. When she’d entered the club, in spite of her nervous thumping heart, she’d loved everything about it. Though men had eyed her as she’d walked through the dimly lit playroom, no one had approached her, and she’d almost wished one had. Finding a dark corner, she risked taking a few pictures with her tiny camera as she watched the scenes playing out, and the entire time she’d been wishing she was with a hunky dominant who was making her toes curl.
For days afterward she’d relived the sights and sounds, imagining herself as one of the naughty submissives being taken in hand by their master. Now she knew what it felt like to be yanked over a man’s knee. And not just any man. Marco Moretti.
Horrifying.
Electrifying.
Thrilling.
And her knees were weak.
* * *
Marco Moretti had been aware of Steph Grady for weeks. She’d entered his favorite coffee shop just moments after he’d walked in and ordered a double shot espresso. He had a love of beautiful things, and she was gorgeous. Long auburn hair falling in layers to her shoulders, striking blue eyes framed with a light touch of mascara, and her black leather jacket was teasingly unzipped just enough to show an impressive cleavage.
Normally he would have taken the time to charm her, but his car had been waiting to whisk him off to an important meeting. Downing the shot and tossing the paper cup, he’d hurried outside and climbed into the back seat, but as he’d glanced out the heavily tinted window, he’d seen her hurry away from the counter empty-handed, and rush up to a motorcycle parked at the curb.
Looking through the back window as his car pulled away, he’d broken into a grin as she’d quickly donned her motorcycle helmet and followed. She’d tailed him all the way to his destination, then parked around the corner. An hour later when he’d left, he’d chuckled as he’d seen her emerge at the end of the block, then stay behind him all the way to his compound.
He’d found the episode intriguing.
Either the dazzling female hoped to meet him, or she was a cop or reporter.
He’d made a quick phone call.
His stalker became the stalked.
In five quick minutes, Marco had her name and address, and he knew she was what she claimed to be. A freelance photographer. She was also single, and lived in an apartment in an average neighborhood.
But that was it.
Her background was surprisingly thin.
