“It’s the one thing I’ve been trying to figure out since you agreed.”

“Why didn’t you just ask then?” I turned and caught his eyes glistening back at me in the dark night.

“I like the mystery of you.” His head tilted and his mouth curled up in a devilish way before he tipped his wine glass to his lips and drank. His lips pursed and his throat contracted with each swallow as my clit buzzed and my nipples ached for the feel of his thumbs brushing across them.

“I think the more interesting question is why did you ask me?” I pivoted with a smug grin of my own.

His eyes lit up before he took the last long swallow of his wine. “Touché.” He smiled before rubbing at his bicep with a distant frown.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Old war wound.” He took a long drink of his wine.

“You were in the military?” I shifted closer.

“Army. A tour in Iraq and three in Afghanistan,” he said with characteristic brevity.

My eyes fell from the well-defined bicep beneath the fine jersey of his t-shirt back to his eyes. That explained how they had the haunted look of a man who’d seen too much. “You were wounded?” I finally asked.

“In more ways than I can count.” He took another swallow and then glanced back at me. “Shot in the arm…there are still some shards buried in there somewhere.” He continued to rub his bicep as he spoke. “Throbs like a bitch some nights, but small price to pay for getting out alive. I think the weather has something to do with it.” He glanced up at the dark sky, as if indicating the dry air of Lisbon was to blame this time.

“I’m sorry,” I said in earnest.

“It was better than what I came from.” He shrugged as if it flowed off him like water. My eyes darted up at his admission. “Well, early day tomorrow. Sleep well, Erin.” He stood and brushed the pad of his thumb across my bottom lip, and I shuddered in both pleasure and shock. The wind whipped my hair, swirling it around my shoulders and licking at his wrist. His eyes averted and his fingertips trailed through the soft ends of my hair. “If only,” he murmured softly before walking through the doors and away from my raging heart.

I could follow him in, offer him my bed, offer him my anything. But the professional career woman in me was desperate to be taken seriously and warned of all the dangers of sleeping with the boss. Only the wanton slut was desperate to feel his warm skin scraping against the sensitive nerves between my thighs, across my navel, along my nipples. Tonight, the career woman was going to win.

I slumped further in my chair, taking another long sip of wine.

Hunter Ellis may very well be the death of me.

seven

My alarm blared a resounding wake-up call before I tossed a hand across it and curled deeper into the oversized comforter. A soft groan rumbled next to me and I shrieked, pulling the blanket around my body. Lying there, in my bed, was a fully-clothed and sleep-rumpled Hunter.

“Jesus, you scared me.” I placed a hand over my hammering heart before settling on the edge of the bed. A faint memory of Hunter stumbling into my room in the middle of the night, mumbling something about a bar in the couch and collapsing on the bed beside me fluttered to the edges of my mind.

“Morning, gorgeous.” I could hear Hunter’s grin from across the queen bed.

“You may have trouble getting rid of me if that’s how you greet all your PAs in the morning,” I quipped pushing a hand through my ruffled bed hair.

“Not a problem; I’ll have my secretary send a revised contract.”

I turned, and his green eyes dancing in the early morning sunlight peeking through the gauzy shades made me smile. “I’m your secretary.” I tossed a pillow at his head. His laughter followed me all the way to the bathroom, his broad, easy grin imprinted behind my eyelids.

I padded down the cool wooden floors of the hallway a minute later and paused at the doorway to the guest room. Hunter had fallen back asleep, his honeyed skin in beautiful golden contrast to the bright cotton sheet. My eyes trailed the slow slope of one bicep arched above his head, his sleep-tousled hair shooting every which way, the soft part of his full lips as he took slow breaths. My mind flooded with his words about war and shrapnel. Such a beautiful man to be so brutalized by life. I sucked in my own measured breath before pulling my eyes away from him, setting my sights on the coffee pot.

By the time the rich aroma of coffee was pressing against my nostrils, I turned to find Hunter sauntering into the kitchen wearing nothing but the cargo shorts he’d worn yesterday¸ a ratted belt holding them around his narrow hips. My eyes scanned the long, lean line of his well-muscled shoulders and biceps, used to contorting into a variety of angles for that perfect shot. I was surprised to find a spray of solid stars tattooed across one arm, and two doves above each of his pectorals in perfect opposition. Also hanging around his neck was a silver chain carrying dog tags. My fingers begged to stroke the tags against his warm skin and press my lips against the cool metal.

“Something on your mind, Erin?” His voice pulled me from my daydreams.

“Coffee.” I cleared my throat and gestured to the pot as heat flamed my cheeks.

“Getting caught red-handed looks good on you.” He caught my chin between his fingers with a crooked grin before pulling a mug down from the shelf and pouring a cup of the scorching brew.

My mouth fell open by the time I’d registered his words. “Caught what? I wasn’t—”

“Don’t worry about it, Erin. I don’t mind being objectified by a pretty girl.” He winked then, and I’m sure he saw my heart thud a thousand times faster than it was ever meant to behind my ribcage.

“Hunter, whatever you think you saw, I’m a prof—”

“You’re a professional.” He leaned in. “I remember.” His words vibrated across the fine hairs at my neck and heightened every fucking cell in my body. My toes curled, my thighs shifted, my nipples hardened, and my cheeks felt like I’d dusted them with blush made of molten lava this morning.

Words, say words, Erin. “I toasted you a bagel,” was the only thing I managed to come up with. “Shit!” I spun as the smell of burnt bread filled the kitchen.

His deep chuckle warmed my insides more than the coffee ever could. “I don’t do simple carbs, but this is great.” He pulled an apple off the counter and headed down the hallway. “Taking a shower,” he called behind him before I heard the loud crunch of teeth tearing delicate red flesh.

Sweet Lord in Heaven. My brain blitzed and the knife I held to cream cheese the bagel clattered to the floor. The thought of Hunter Ellis in the shower all hot, wet, and naked was too much for my fragile ovaries to bear. Working with Hunter was going to be so much harder than I ever could have dreamed.

The model arrived promptly at six fifteen, and within twenty minutes she was nude and we were shooting. To take advantage of the light Hunter draped her over the balcony, and with morning sun silhouetting her slim curves, it looked as if her dark skin glowed.

Hunter then escorted her to the master bedroom. He snapped a few shots of the exotic model, her breasts full and nipples hard, as she laid against the tree. Hunter passed his camera to my waiting hands and took out a long strap of dark leather. Twisting and pulling around the large trunk of the tree, Hunter bound her, placing each lash strategically across her form—just under her breasts to lift them a little fuller, between her legs in a criss-crossing pattern, and then further wrapped around the trunk until her wrists and ankles were restrained.