“Fucking Goddamn it,” he muttered, not really caring except that it meant another second of delay before he could get his cock in his hand.

He twisted the handles in the shower and stepped in while the water was still cold. Not that it helped. Not that he cared. He leaned back into the cool, green slate tiles and closed his eyes as he fisted his cock with a sigh.

“Oh, yeah, that’s better.” Only it wasn’t. It wasn’t her. But it would have to fucking do tonight.

The water warmed against his skin, and his mind swirled with pictures and memories of the girl whose image he’d come to maybe hundreds of times.

Summer Grace in those too-short shorts and tiny halter tops she wore all summer long, her bare feet and pink-painted toes making her seem even more naked somehow. Her pink mouth that was always a little soft and pouty, even when she laughed—and never more than when she’d kissed him out of a deep sleep that night in his tent on one of the Rae family camping trips in Colorado.

Jamie groaned at the memory of those plush lips pressed against his, sliding and seeking. Soft and warm and knowing. Jesus, the girl could kiss like crazy, even when she was barely fifteen, hardly more than a kid. And if he was perfectly honest with himself, he’d let it go on a few moments even after he realized he wasn’t dreaming.

“Summer Grace, stop it.”

“Why? I can feel it, you know, Jamie,” she whispered in the dark. “I can feel it against me. You want me.”

“I was . . . I was sleeping and . . .”

“And you got hard as soon as I climbed on top of you,” she finished smugly.

It was then he realized he had his hands on her waist. So slender. Without meaning to, he gave her a squeeze before yanking his hands away. “That doesn’t mean anything. Come on, now. Get off me.”

The little minx leaned in then and brushed her lips over his again and his cock nearly burst.

“You don’t really want me to. Tell me the truth, Jamie. You want to kiss me. I know you do.”

“No.”

Yes.

He had wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her now. Now. He wanted to feel those lips under his as he pressed her back against the shower wall. As he stripped her naked, pulled her legs up around his waist and plowed into her, his fingers digging into the flesh of her fine, tight ass, bringing a little pain along with the pleasure. He wanted to fuck her right through the wall, to make her scream his name, to make her beg for more.

“Ah!”

He pumped his hips into his tightly fisted hand, sensation coursing through him, a hard pulse-beat of endless need. He pulled in a breath, thought he caught her familiar scent, like violets and rain.

“God. Fucking. Damn it,” he ground out as he started to come.

Pleasure tore through him—into his gut, his balls, his mind, leaving him breathless. And still aching for her.

He pushed off the tiles and into the stream of water, letting it pound against his head.

“Fuck it.”

Summer Grace may be the one woman he was not supposed to have, but enough was enough. Because no matter how many others he’d been with—and he’d had more than his share, even if he kept it a bit more under the radar than Mick had before he got back together with Allie—it had always been Summer Grace. It always would be. Even as he’d stood in front of a judge and married Traci, it was Summer Grace who’d been on his mind, and not only because he’d felt bad about not telling her he was getting hitched. No. There was always more to it with Brandon’s little sister. He’d denied himself for twelve long years. How much was one man supposed to take? He’d been Saint Jamie for long enough. And maybe he was going to hell for it—for breaking his promise—but he had to have her. He couldn’t go on like this. She’d sealed that bit of fate when she’d shown up at The Bastille tonight. And in the end, there was no other way he could protect her.

The whole thing was making him feel a little crazy, and a lot more out of control than he cared for. The battle between doing what was best for her and the driving urge he felt to have her in his arms was pure torture. But he knew now what he needed to do. He had to find a way to keep her safe. From the world. From the inevitable predators she would come upon at the BDSM clubs. And from himself. But he had to try.

He shut off the water and stepped onto the bath mat, looked at himself in the mirror as he grabbed a towel from the rack and roughly dried himself.

“That’s right,” he told his reflection. “We are gonna do something about this insane situation. It’s past time. I’ll face the music on the other side when the time comes. But the time to be with her is now.”

He’d give her a day or two to come down off the post-play high, give her time to recover in case she had any subdrop, the sometimes negative side effect of kink play that happened when all the lovely chemicals released in the brain suddenly went away. Oh yes, he’d respect that. Of course he would, as would any Dom worth their salt.

He reached out and slowly but purposefully traced her initials in the steam that fogged the edges of the mirror.

“But then . . . watch out, Summer Grace. Because this time I’m coming after you. And there’s no one left to say no.”

*   *   *

SUMMER STRETCHED AND inhaled the rich scent of coffee brewing in her kitchen. Her small blue and white cottage in New Orleans’s Gentilly district was a little on the funky side and in need of repair—the old floors creaked, the white tile on the counters was cracked in places—but she loved it. It was July and one of the warmest months of the year in the sub-tropical city, but since it was not quite nine o’clock yet, she had the windows open to catch the cool morning air. The cat that had come with the house—an enormous female with short white fur and blue eyes—was sitting on the counter, washing her paw in a pale ray of sunshine.

“Good morning, Madame. Catch any mice last night? No? Still too slow? Good thing I decided to adopt you and keep that big belly full.” She stroked Madame’s fur and the cat narrowed one eye at her. She sighed. “Ungrateful wretch, as ever.”

She was trying to pretend this was just another day. Not that it really was. She’d been processing her first real play at the club the other night. It had been amazing. But she’d been up half that night getting herself off over and over—with her hands, the showerhead, her toys—with Jamie’s face in her mind’s eye, making her come so damn hard she had to stifle her screams. She didn’t know how many times she’d come since. She swore she’d nearly come when she looked up to see him watching her at The Bastille. She’d dreamed of him as she slept a fitful four or five hours the last two nights, bringing herself to orgasm in the middle of the night and again each morning. Everything had been a sensual blur since her night at the club. Sensual. Sexual. When she squeezed her thighs she could still feel that jagged stab of desire along with the soreness from using herself again and again.

The coffeepot beeped at her, and Summer poured the dark liquid into a large ceramic mug, adding a few drops of cream. Not that she needed the caffeine today, with her heart a small hammer in her chest. Desire. Confusion. Anxiety. What she needed was to calm the hell down. Moving to the window next to the kitchen table, she looked out at the small garden that was all hers. Well, almost. She was leasing with an option to buy, and she was hopeful things would work out. Her salary managing Luxe, one of the most expensive lingerie shops downtown, helped, but it was a struggle. Still, she’d spent a small portion of her “play money” on plants for her garden. Nothing made her feel as peaceful as working her hands into the earth, seeing her little garden flourish—and God knew she needed some peace this morning.