“More, huh?” He nodded thoughtfully, and she could see he was trying to absorb everything she’d just revealed to him. “I do know of those places in San Francisco. Good clubs. Solid reputations.”

“I joined The Bastille a few months ago when I knew I was coming back here. I’ve seen your online profile. And Mick’s. You’ve admitted to some of this stuff over the years so it was no surprise. And Mick . . . well, I’ve known about him for a long time. And I understand that’s why he never thought he could be with me.”

“You know that’s only part of it, Allie. You know Mick. All that lone-wolf bullshit.”

She caught his gaze. “Exactly. It’s bullshit.”

Jamie let out a long breath. “I imagine you’ll be coming to The Bastille, then, now that you’re living here. That could be . . . awkward, where Mick is concerned.”

“Are you saying you don’t think I should come?”

He held up his hands. “Of course not. You know me well enough to know I’d never say that.”

“I do know. And I get it. I’d really rather it weren’t awkward.” She leaned across the table, grabbed one of his hands. “Jamie, will you help me?”

“Help you? With what?”

“With Mick. With this whole . . . situation. It’s more than awkward. It could be untenable. I’ve been thinking about this, and I only see one solution. I want you to help me see him. Not just see him. I want you to negotiate a scene at the club—one between Mick and me.”

“Allie, you’re crazy if you think he’ll agree to that. You know how he feels. He still sees you as you were at sixteen.”

“What if I told him—if you helped me tell him—about where I’ve been, the things I’ve done? That I’m an experienced bottom.”

“He’d always doubt it. He’d doubt himself.”

She sighed. “Why? I don’t get it. I’m almost thirty years old. This is ridiculous. Are you saying you think he doesn’t want me?”

“We all know damn well he does. Always has. Always will. That’s the problem. You’re the one he wants. The one he can’t allow himself to have.”

“Jamie, please. I need you to do this for me.” She knew he was her only chance. “Mick will refuse to see me if I just ask him myself, won’t he?”

“Jesus, Allie,” he groaned, pulling his hand back.

“Don’t let me leave here today not knowing how things are going to be when I walk into that club and see him there. This is the only way. You have to get him to sit down with me and talk this out. All you have to do is set it up.”

He blew out another long breath. “If I set it up—and I am not promising anything—then I sit through the detailed negotiations between you two. Not just the initial conversation in which I get him—maybe—to agree to do this. It’ll be my responsibility as the Dominant introducing the negotiations, despite your history together. It’s proper protocol. No arguing about it.”

She nodded. “Of course. I understand that.” She paused, bit her lip. “Not sure if Mick will understand,” she muttered.

He scrubbed a hand over his head. “Two minutes back in town and already causing trouble. What am I going to do with you, girl?”

She smiled at him. “You’re going to help me give Mick Reid what we’ve both always wanted. Each other.”

*   *   *

ALLIE PUSHED OPEN the screen door and stepped onto her porch. The old wood boards creaked under her bare feet—she’d have Allister look at that.

It was an unseasonably warm and humid night for May, and she hadn’t had time yet to replace the old cottage’s air-conditioning. It was cooler out there, with a small breeze picking up the damp tendrils of hair that had escaped from her ponytail. She pressed her glass of iced tea against her hot neck—not the traditional New Orleans sweet tea—she’d broken herself of that habit in her years living in Europe.

She moved to the edge of the screened-in porch, searching the sky for the moon. It was a small crescent in the inky sky, the stars glimmering from between the clouds. Hard to believe Mick shared this same sky with her somewhere in the city. That he was that close.

It always came back to him. Especially now. Especially here, with the warm, sultry air soft on her skin, making her remember.

He wasn’t the first boy she’d kissed, but kissing him had changed everything. It was a mad rush of heat and need. Startling at first. Then something she looked forward to, craved.

They’d made out like crazy in high school. Mick would pull her aside every chance he got in the hall at school, into a dark doorway when they were walking down the street. His kisses were demanding, even in those days.

A small, soft breath escaped her lips as she remembered, as she closed her eyes and imagined the warm press of his mouth against hers. Desire was a low, steady hum in her system, heat blossoming between her thighs.

Oh, yes, Mick Reid could kiss like the devil himself.

He was every bit as wicked. She’d known it then. Loved it. Wanted more than he’d ever been willing to give her. But things were different now. She was all grown up. She knew how to get what she wanted. And she would find a way.

But back to the kissing . . .

She sat down in one of the wicker chairs on the porch, set her tea on the floor next to her, leaned back, and closed her eyes once more.

There had been those moments when he looked at her—watched her—and she knew he was about to kiss her. He’d pause, making her wait. Make her breathe in her desire, and his. Pure torture, but she’d loved it. Then he’d pull her in hard and crush her body to his, his lips to hers, and oh . . .

She pressed down on her aching sex through the thin cotton of her dress.

His tongue would push into her mouth, sweet and silky and full of need. She’d loved the way he needed her, as if he’d die if he couldn’t touch her, kiss her.

She was dying right now.

She opened her eyes for a moment. The porch was dark—she hadn’t turned on the lights. The street was quiet, empty. She closed her eyes and pictured his face once more, those lovely moments of anticipation before he took her mouth.

She slid her hand beneath the hem of her dress, slipped her fingers under the lacy edge of her panties and found her sex slick with need. She took in a breath, let her fingers slide through her damp heat, over the already-swollen folds.

God, the first time he’d gone down on her she thought she would die of pleasure. It was the one thing he’d given in on—he refused to take her virginity. But that plush, clever mouth kissing her there, licking, sucking . . .

“Oh . . .”

She pressed a finger into her body, moaned quietly. Added another.

He’d push his tongue inside her, then draw it out, pause endlessly, making her wait before he dove in once more, all wet tongue and soft lips, then he’d push his fingers into her.

She pumped her fingers a few times, need swarming her, her hips arching. Then she slid her fingers out to rub at her hard clitoris.

Mick . . .

God, she needed him. Needed to feel him again. Needed him to spank her, like he had that one night. His big hand coming down on her flesh, making her sore. Making her wet. Making her pant with need. Until, his fingers buried inside her, she’d come. Come apart. Screamed his name.

“Yes . . .”

She pressed into her needy sex once more, the heel of her hand pressing onto her mound. She shivered, remembered the sting of his palm on her flesh, his fingers working her mercilessly, milking her climax from her as she shivered in his arms.

“Oh!”

She came, hard, her body jerking, her sex tightening over and over around her plunging fingers.

“Mick . . .”

She gasped his name over and over until, finally, her body calmed, and she moved her hand from beneath her dress.

All around her was the sound of cicadas, a car driving by. She felt enveloped by the dark sky. By the pleasure still simmering in her system.