Serena James was intriguing. Stunningly beautiful. Sleek and long-legged with wide, exotic eyes and black hair that fell like silk around her shoulders. His fingers positively itched to touch it, to stroke it and wrap it around his knuckles.

What were her secrets? Her eyes shielded many, with a mysterious aura that enticed a man, beckoned him to come closer, to discover what lay beneath the cool exterior.

Fantasy Incorporated. Interesting business. He wasn’t a big fan of role-playing and pretending, but it was a major part of the goings-on at The House. People liked to escape their reality. Slip away and step outside themselves for a little while. He understood it and encouraged it, but after a while, the façade wore on him.

There were quite a few men he could think of who would be more than happy to guide a woman through an elaborate sexual fantasy and be willing to walk away when it was all said and done. Temporary. An important word and one that held a wealth of meaning in the world of sexual fantasies.

Damon didn’t want temporary, though. He’d long stood back and watched and waited, thinking that if he were patient, the right woman would come along, that the things he wanted would come together. He’d learned patience at a young age, but now he found himself fast running out.

Finding a woman wasn’t the problem. There had been many women—beautiful, intelligent women—who had walked through his life. He’d enjoyed their company, given pleasure and taken it in return, but in the end, they weren’t willing to give him the one thing he wanted most: themselves. Wholly and completely. Into his keeping and care.

He could have settled long before now, but that was the one thing he’d promised himself—that he’d never settle for anything less than what he truly wanted.

The security gate eased open when he inserted his card, and he drove up the winding drive to The House. He parked and got out, blinking as the bright sun flashed over his face. Squinting, he headed for the door. He stepped into the cool, darker interior, enjoying the chill of the air-conditioning as it touched his skin.

The house was empty. None of the staff came in until later in the day. He enjoyed the silence and the solitude that coming in early gave him. His office was comfortable and welcoming, and he was surrounded by things that gave him pleasure.

It was decorated in an old-world style with various models of clipper ships dotting the surfaces of antique end tables. An antique globe rested on his desk, and decorating his walls were paintings of ancient ships, fishing boats and yellowed treasure maps.

He smiled, as he did every time he entered his office, because this was where he felt at home. On his desk were several pieces of mail, but on top was a pale yellow envelope that looked as delicate and feminine as the sender.

He sat down and picked up the envelope, his smile becoming broader. His mom. Who refused to stride into the twenty-first century and use more modern methods of communication such as e-mail or a text message, God forbid. No, she clung stubbornly to her snail mail and said there was no substitute for receiving a handwritten letter in the mail.

And maybe she was right, because he looked forward to her letters. They were always filled with warmth and love, and her voice rippled off the pages as though she were sitting across from him, giving him a motherly lecture.

He’d have to call her later. They could sit and talk on the phone while they enjoyed a glass of wine. The image of her sitting on the wooden deck that overlooked the cypress-knobbed bayou in the Louisiana home he’d grown up in filled him with homesickness.

He hadn’t returned home but once since his father’s death two years ago, and it had been brief. It had been too hard to face his childhood home without his father’s larger-than-life presence.

It was time to go back.

Usually, he embraced the silence of the afternoon and early evening hours, but today, he found it smothering and unsettling. He reached for the remote lying on his desk and punched one of the buttons.

The gentle strains of classical music filled his office, swelling and reverberating off the walls with a soft echo. He relaxed into his chair and leaned back, sliding his hands behind his neck to cup the base of his head.

He closed his eyes and allowed the music to soothe him. Why he suddenly felt restless and agitated, he couldn’t say. But it didn’t alter the fact that he felt as cagey as a lion in captivity.

After a moment, he leaned forward to glance over the letter one more time before folding it carefully. He opened his desk and placed it atop the other pastel-colored envelopes from his mother.

Straightening in his seat, he toggled the mouse to make the screen saver on his desktop monitor go away and then clicked to open his e-mail.

He spent several minutes working down the messages in his in-box. Most were minor issues easily dealt with. The few that required further attention, he forwarded to his personal assistant.

A new message popped to the bottom, and he saw Serena’s name in the sender field. Intrigued, he clicked to open it.

Damon,

Below is a detailed letter outlining the requirements of the fantasy. Feel free to forward this on to your prospective choice.

Serena James

Damon scrolled lower to see the letter embedded within the e-mail itself.

To be honest, I feel embarrassed to be revealing my deepest secrets to a stranger, even more embarrassed that I am relying on you to fulfill a fantasy I am barely able to admit to myself, much less anyone else.

How can I explain the urge that overcomes me when I imagine being owned by a man? Possessed. Cherished and cared for. I have nothing missing in my life to suggest such a radical desire for sexual slavery. No deep psychological reasons that feed the appetite for submission. Some things just are, and for me, this is one of them.

I think often of my fantasies. Usually late at night in the quiet of the dark, they come to me, seductive and alluring. I imagine the scene well, how it all starts.

I’m in a room filled with hungry men. The appetite for carnal pleasures lies heavy, like a fog. I am naked save for the ropes binding my hands behind my back. And I wait. For you.

I am to be purchased this night, but by whom? Many men are eager to pay a high price for the pleasure of owning me. It thrills me and frightens me all at once. I wait with trembling legs, my eyes cast downward, for I hear the excited murmurs around me.

And then you enter. I don’t see you, but rather I feel you the moment you come into the room. There is a subtle shift in power, and the others sense it as well. I can feel them holding their breath as they look to you. And then I lift my gaze.

You are staring at me from across the room. The first glance is a shock to my system, for I see the promise in your eyes. You want me and you will have me.

There is arrogance in your manner as you stride with purpose toward me. You stop a few feet away and speak with my keeper. I strain to listen. I am eager to hear what you are saying, but you keep your voice too low.

And then you move toward me once more, and I shiver as each step brings you closer until you stop mere inches from my naked body. You reach out and tangle your hand in my hair, tilting my head upward until my neck is exposed and vulnerable to you. There is satisfaction in your eyes, as if you find me pleasing, a fact that brings me great satisfaction. I find myself wanting to please you more than anything I’ve desired before.

You lean closer still until your lips hover precariously over mine, and then you whisper, “You will be mine.”