She swung open the screen door and took her mug outside, Madame following her. The backyard had come with the two tall magnolia trees whose creamy white blossoms gave off a gorgeous perfume, but she’d added the small fig tree, the different varieties of lilies, the pink and red Rangoon Creeper—her favorite variety of honeysuckle—the rosemary that smelled almost as good to her. The scents of her garden were always present, like a subtle perfume, the humidity of New Orleans releasing the fragrance. She moved down the narrow brick path, reaching out to stroke her fingers over the leaves of a large fern that grew in the shade of one of the magnolias, and remembered the sensual touch of Maîtresse Renee from the other night.

It had been a wonderful night—her first real foray into the BDSM scene, other than what she now knew was called “bedroom play.” She’d let a few guys tie her to their beds, had let one guy spank her. She’d asked a lot of them to pinch her, to bite her. But being with someone who actually knew what they were doing—and in that amazing environment—had been incredible. Like every dark fantasy she’d ever had come true. Well, almost. Because Jamie Stewart-Greer, who’d starred in nearly every fantasy that had ever tumbled through her head, hadn’t been a part of the real-life scenario. Other than that wide-eyed look he’d given her. Had he really been that surprised to see her there?

“Good thing I’ve sworn off him,” she murmured to Madame, or maybe to herself. “He’s always underestimated me.”

She’d chased Jamie most of her life, but finally about a year ago she’d come to her senses after yet another breakup with a guy who was nice and smart and seemed to really care about her, but . . . he wasn’t Jamie. She’d decided right then that she had to find a way to let go of her juvenile obsession with him or she’d spend the rest of her life alone. And the fact was, she’d had to start figuring out who she was besides Brandon’s little sister, the girl whose brother had died. The one who wanted what she couldn’t have.

“Enough is enough,” she told the cat, who looked surprised at the emphasis in her tone. “I mean, if he doesn’t want me it’s stupid to keep chasing after him. I’ve never had to chase any other man. Ever.” Madame turned and sauntered into the garden. “I’m not chasing you, either,” Summer muttered.

She blew on her coffee to cool it down. So what if she’d practically had to re-create the way she thought about men and sex and herself to get Jamie out of her head? She’d done it. And life was good. She had a great job, great friends. There was her darling Dennie, who she’d known since kindergarten—a girl couldn’t ask for a better best friend. Allie was back in town and they were closer than ever. And since Allie had taken her to get her tattoo a few months ago, she’d become friends with Rosie, the artist at Midnight Ink who’d done the beautiful phoenix in red and orange and gold—the color of flames—that now covered the left side of her ribs. An appropriate symbol for the changes she’d gone through.

That had been the beginning of the discussion about getting into the kink scene. Rosie had revealed her involvement easily enough, and it hadn’t taken Summer long to put two and two together. When she’d asked Allie if she was involved in kink her friend had admitted it to her and agreed to help her learn what real BDSM was about. Allie and Rosie had both helped her, giving her reading to do, answering questions, taking her to BDSM 101 classes, and eventually taking her to a munch—an event where kinky folk met and talked. And now, finally, her first play party.

Her body was still a little sore, and her bottom carried bruises from her play. She’d experienced what might have been a little subdrop on Saturday morning, but a workout at the gym followed by a hot shower and lunch with Rosie had cured that. Now she simply felt good. Amazing, really. Except for her agonizing obsession with the ridiculously sexy Jamie, brought back to life when their eyes met. While she’d been getting her first real kink play ever. She’d been enjoying herself, loving it. But then she saw Jamie watching her and every sensation she felt the rest of the night had been magnified times ten. Times a hundred. She’d been electrified by nothing more than knowing he’d seen her.

Calm. The fuck. Down.

She sipped her coffee carefully, testing the temperature, enjoying the acrid flavor on her tongue. She felt more alive since the other night. More acutely aware of the world around her, every sight and flavor, every texture and scent. More aware even of her own body.

She’d watched herself getting off in the mirror over her dresser the other night, imagining it was Jamie who saw her. And it wasn’t only Jamie. She imagined Renee watching her, too—Renee watching Jamie watching her. It wasn’t that she wanted to sleep with the beautiful Domme who Allie and Rosie had referred her to for her first play. She felt some stirrings of attraction to Maîtresse Renee, but she wasn’t as sexually attracted to women as she was to men. It was more the kink play itself. Giving in to the taboo, giving in to the fantasies she’d had in her head for years. The whole new fetish she may have discovered knowing Jamie had been watching.

She let out a small sigh, suppressed it with a sip of her coffee. Jamie was nothing more than fantasy, one she’d come to realize was best left where it had always been, where he had always been—in her imagination. Him being at the club didn’t change that.

Liar.

She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back until she felt the morning sun on her face, on the rise of her breasts that curved against the pale pink silk of her short nightie.

God, if only it could be him, just once.

Her body heated all over from more than the gentle sun—it was imagining Jamie spanking her, pulling her hair, as Maîtresse Renee had the other night. His arm coming around her throat and tightening . . .

A soft moan escaped her.

“Hey, Summer Grace.”

“Jesus!”

She jumped, her coffee splashing onto the brick walkway as she whirled, her face going hot when she found Jamie in all his six-foot-something glory behind her. Damn, but he looked good in his low-slung jeans and the white wifebeater that showed off the leanly cut muscles in his arms, the breadth of his shoulders. The small, curved bar piercing his eyebrow caught the sunlight, giving his beautiful face, which had always looked a little sweet to her, a hint of the bad boy beneath. The piercing and the scruff on his chin, his jaw. No man should look this good at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning.

“Sorry to startle you,” he said, his tone low, the lopsided grin on his generous mouth letting her know he wasn’t sorry in the least.

“You don’t just sneak up on a person like that, Jamie,” she fumed, not sure whether she was more pissed off at being taken by surprise or that her nipples were going hard at the sight of him. She tried to cross her arms over her chest, but couldn’t figure it out with the mug still in her hand and had to give up. What she wanted to do was flail. Jamie at the club. Jamie here.

Keep your cool.

“Really? he asked. “Like you did to me, oh, a few dozen times?”

She sighed and shoved her hair from her face. “Yeah, okay. But at least I had being young and stupid as an excuse. What’s yours?”

He paused, searching her face, his brows drawing together over green eyes that looked as if they were sprinkled with gold in the sunlight. Still the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen. Still the hardest-cut jawline and most perfectly molded chin. Still the most adorable dimples when he smiled—if “adorable” was a word one could use for the hottest man on the planet. The hottest Dominant man. A fact that was making her crazy even though she should know better.