His smile was slow, deliberate...sinful.

Has she just made a deal with the devil?

During a blackout at a black-tie gala, Shay Neal says yes to one night with billionaire Gideon Knight...not knowing he’s her brother’s enemy with plans for payback! Now, to save her brother, Shay must pretend to be in love with Gideon. But playing his game means resisting the very real desire that could destroy them both...

USA TODAY bestselling author NAIMA SIMONE’s love of romance was first stirred by Mills & Boon books pilfered from her grandmother. Now she spends her days writing sizzling romances with a touch of humour and snark.

She is wife to her own real-life superhero and mother to two awesome kids. They live in perfect, domestically challenged bliss in the Southern United States.

Also by Naima Simone

The Billionaire’s Bargain

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Black Tie Billionaire

Naima Simone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09263-0

BLACK TIE BILLIONAIRE

© 2019 Naima Simone

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To Gary. 143.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Epilogue

About the Publisher

One

She was beautiful.

Gideon Knight tuned out the man speaking to him as he studied the petite woman weaving a path through the crowded ballroom. Even wearing the white shirt, black bow tie and dark pants of the waitstaff, she stood out like the brightest jewel among the hundreds of guests at the Du Sable City Gala, the annual event of the Chicago social season, rendering those around her to mere cubic zirconia.

How was it that only he noticed the elegant length of her neck, the straight line of her back that tapered at the waist and flowed out in a gentle, sensual swell of hips? How did the other people in the room not ogle the particular way the light from the crystal chandeliers hit her bronze skin, causing it to gleam? How did they not stop and study the graceful stride that wouldn’t have been out of place on the most exclusive catwalk?

Had he said beautiful? He meant exquisite.

And he hadn’t even seen her face.

Yet.

“Excuse me.” Gideon abruptly interrupted the prattling of the older gentleman, not bothering with a polite explanation for walking away.

The other man’s surprised sputtering should’ve dredged up a semblance of regret, especially since Gideon’s mother had hammered better manners into him. But just ten years ago this gentleman wouldn’t have deigned to acknowledge Gideon’s existence. Then he’d been just another penniless, dream-filled, University of Chicago business student. He hadn’t been the Gideon Knight, cofounder and CEO of KayCee Corp, one of the hottest and most successful start-up companies to hit the market in the last five years. Now that he was a multibillionaire, this businessman, and people of his tax bracket and social sphere, damn near scraped their chins on the floor with all the bowing and kowtowing they directed Gideon’s way.

Money and power had that peculiar effect.

Usually, he could dredge up more patience, but he despised events like this high society benefit gala. One thing he’d learned in his grueling battle to breach the inner sanctum zealously guarded by the obscenely wealthy one percent was that a good portion of business deals were landed at dinner tables, country club golf courses and social events like the Du Sable City Gala. So even though attending ranked only slightly higher than shopping with his sister or vacationing in one of Dante’s nine levels of hell, he attended.

But for the first time that he could remember, he was distracted from networking. And again, for the first time, he welcomed the disruption.

He wound his way through the tuxedoed and gowned throng, pretending not to hear when his name was called, and uttering a “Pardon me” when more persistent individuals tried to halt him with a touch to his arm. Many articles written about him had mentioned his laser-sharp focus, and at this moment, it was trained on a certain server with black hair swept into a low knot at the back of her head, a body created for the sweetest sin and skin that had his fingertips itching with the need to touch...to caress.

That need—the unprecedented urgency of it—should’ve been a warning to proceed with caution. And if he’d paused, he might’ve analyzed why the impulse to approach her, to look into her face, raked at him like a tiger’s sharp claws. He might’ve retreated, or placed distance between him and her. Discipline, control, focus—they were the daily refrains of his life, the blocks upon which he’d built his business, his success. That this unknown woman already threatened all three by just being in the room... Not even his ex-fiancée had stirred this kind of attraction in him. Which only underscored why he should walk away. It boded nothing good.

Yet he followed her with the determination of a predator stalking its unsuspecting prey.

How cliché, but damn, how true. Because every instinct in him growled to capture, cover, take...bite.

She would be his tonight.

As the strength and certainty of the thought echoed inside him, he neared her. Close enough to glimpse the delicate line of her jaw and the vulnerable nape of her neck. To inhale the heady, sensual musk that contained notes of roses, and warmer hints of cedarwood and amber...or maybe almond.

Tonight’s mission would be to discover which one.

For yet another time this evening, he murmured, “Excuse me.” But in this instance, he wasn’t trying to escape someone. No, he wanted to snare her. Keep her.

At least for the next few hours.

Look at me. Turn around and look at me.

The plea rebounded off his skull, and the seconds seemed to slow as she shifted, lifting her head and meeting his gaze.

His gut clenched, desire slamming into him so hard he braced himself against the impact. But it still left him reeling. Left his body tense, hard.

A long fringe of black hair swept over her forehead and dark-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, but neither could hide the strong, regal lines of her face, the sharp cheekbones, the chocolate eyes or the lush siren’s call of her mouth.

Damn, that mouth.

He dragged his fascinated gaze away from it with a strength that deserved a gold medal. But nothing, not even God Himself, could cleanse his mind of the acts those curves elicited. Acts that left him throbbing and greedy.

“Did you need a glass of champagne?” she asked, lowering her eyes to the tray she held.

No, keep your eyes on me.

The order rolled up his throat and hovered on his tongue, but he locked it down. Damn, with just a few words uttered in a silk-and-midnight voice, he’d devolved into a caveman.

Once more, a warning to walk away clanged inside him, but—like moments earlier—he ignored it. Nothing else mattered at the moment. Nothing but having that sex-and-sin voice stroke his ears. Having those hands slip under his clothes to caress his skin. And those oval-shaped eyes fixed on him.

“What’s your name?” He delivered a question of his own, answering hers by picking up a glass flute full of pale wine.

If he hadn’t been studying her so closely, he might’ve missed the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the minute hesitation before, head still bowed, she said, “I need to continue...”

She shifted away from him, preparing to escape into the crowd.

“Wait.” He lifted his arm, instinct guiding him to grasp her elbow to prevent her departure. But at the last moment, he lowered his arm back to his side.

As much as he wanted to discover how she felt under his hand, he refused to touch her without her permission. Rich assholes accosting the waitstaff was as old a story as a boss chasing his secretary around the desk. Even though his palm itched with the lack of contact, he slid his free hand into his front pocket.

The aborted motion seemed to grab her attention. She raised her head, a frown drawing her eyebrows together.

“Gideon Knight,” he said, offering her his name. “You have my name. Can I have yours?”

Again, that beat of hesitation. Then, with a small shake of her head, she murmured, “Camille.”

“Camille,” he repeated, savoring it as if it were one of the rich chocolate desserts that would follow the dinner course. “It’s a lovely name. And it fits you.”

Her eyes widened, an emotion he would’ve labeled panic flaring in their depths before she lowered her lashes, hiding her gaze from him. Again. “Thank you, Mr. Knight. If—”

“Gideon,” he corrected. “For you, it’s Gideon.”

Her full lips firmed into a line seconds before she met his stare with one glinting in anger. How insane did it make him that he found the signs of her temper captivating...and sexy as hell?

“No offense, Mr. Knight—”

“In my experience, when someone starts a sentence with ‘no offense,’ they intend to offend,” he drawled.

Once more he saw that flicker of anger, and an exhilaration that was usually reserved for fierce business negotiations surged in his chest. The exhilaration meant he was engaging with a worthy opponent.

“I’m going out on a limb and assuming your ego can take the hit,” she shot back. Then, as if she realized what she’d snapped—and who she’d snapped at—she winced, briefly squeezing her eyes shut. “I apologize—”

“Oh, don’t disappoint me now by turning meek, Camille,” he purred, arching an eyebrow.

In a distant corner of his mind, he marveled at who he’d become in this moment. Flirting, teasing, goddamn purring—they weren’t him. His mouth either didn’t know this information or didn’t care. “I assure you, I can take it,” he added.

Take whatever she wanted to give him, whether it was her gaze, her conversation or more. And God, he hungered for the more. Greedy bastard that he was, he’d claim whatever she chose to dole out.

“Mr. Knight,” she began, defiance clipping his name, “I don’t know if approaching the staff and toying with them is one of your usual forms of entertainment. But since you’ve invited me not to be meek, let me tell you this might be a game to you, but the waitstaff aren’t toys to alleviate your boredom. This is a livelihood for workers who depend on a paycheck and not getting fired for fraternizing with the guests.”

Shock vibrated through him like a plucked chord on his favorite Martin D-45 acoustic guitar.

Shock and...delight.

Other than his mother and family, no one had the balls to speak to him like she had, much less reprimand him. Excitement—something he hadn’t experienced in so long he couldn’t remember the last occurrence—tripped and stumbled down his spine.

“I don’t play games,” he said. “They’re a waste of time. Why be coy when being honest achieves the goal faster?”

“And what’s your goal here, Mr. Knight?” she challenged, not hiding her sneer.

If she understood how his pulse jumped and his body throbbed every time she stated “Mr. Knight” with a haughtiness worthy of royalty, she would probably swear a vow of silence.

“Cop a feel in a dark hallway? A little slap and tickle in a broom closet?” she asked.

“I’m too old to cop a feel. And I don’t ‘slap and tickle’ either, whatever that is. I fuck.”

Her head jerked back at his blunt statement, her eyes widening behind the dark frames. Even with the din of chatter and laughter flowing around them, he caught her sharp gasp.

A voice sounding suspiciously like that of Gray Chandler, his business partner and best friend—his only friend—hissed a curse at him. How many times had Gray warned him to temper his brusque, straightforward manner? Well, to be more accurate, his friend described Gideon as tactless. Pretty words weren’t his forte; honesty was. Normally, he didn’t regret his abruptness. Like he’d told her, he didn’t indulge in games. But in this moment, he almost regretted it.

Especially if she walked away from him.

“Is that why you stopped me? To proposition me?” She dropped her gaze to the champagne glass in his hand, and with just that glance let him know she didn’t buy his pretense of wanting the wine. He shrugged, setting it behind him on one of the high tables scattered around the ballroom.

“Why single me out?” she continued. “Because I’m so beautiful you couldn’t help yourself?” she mocked. “Or because I’m a server, and you’re a guest in a position of power? What happens if I say no? Will I suddenly find myself relieved of my job?”

Disgust and the first flicker of anger wormed its way through his veins. “Do I want to spend a night with you? Inside you? Yes,” he stated, and again her eyes flared wide at his frankness before narrowing. “I told you, I don’t lie. I don’t play games. But if you decline, then no, you would still have a check and employment at the end of the evening. I don’t need to blackmail women into my bed, Camille. Besides, a willing woman, a woman who wants my hands on her body, who pleads for what she knows I can give her, is far more arousing, more pleasurable. And any man worth his dick would value that over a woman who’s coerced or forced into handing over something that should be offered or surrendered of her own free will.”

She silently studied him, the fire fading from her stare, but something else flicked in those dark eyes. And that “something” had him easing a step closer, yet stopping short of invading her personal space.

“To answer your other question,” he murmured. “Why did I single you out? Your first guess was correct. Because you are so beautiful I couldn’t help following you around this over-the-top ballroom filled with people who possess more money than sense. The women here can’t outshine you. They’re like peacocks, spreading their plumage, desperate to be noticed, and here you are among them, like the moon. Bright, alone, above it all and eclipsing every one of them. What I don’t understand is how no one else noticed before me. Why every man in this place isn’t standing behind me in a line just for the chance to be near you.”

Silence swelled around them like a bubble, muting the din of the gala. His words seemed to echo in the cocoon, and he marveled at them. Hadn’t he sworn he didn’t do pretty words? Yet it had been him talking about peacocks and moons.

What was she doing to him?

Even as the question echoed in his mind, her head tilted back and she stared at him, her lovely eyes darker...hotter. In that moment, he’d stand under a damn balcony and serenade her if she continued looking at him like that. He curled his fingers into his palm, reminding himself with the pain that he couldn’t touch her. Still, the only sound that reached his ears was the quick, soft pants breaking on her pretty lips.

As ridiculous as it seemed, he swore each breath slid under his clothes, swept over his skin. He ached to have each moist puff dampen his shoulders, his chest as her fingernails twisted in his hair, dug into his muscles, clinging to him as he drove them both to the point of carnal madness.

The growl prowled up his throat and out of him before he could contain it.

“I—I need to go,” she whispered, already shifting back and away from him. “I—” She didn’t finish the thought, but turned and waded into the crowd, distancing herself from him.

He didn’t follow; she hadn’t said no, but she hadn’t said yes, either. And though he’d caught the desire in her gaze—his stomach still ached from the gut punch of it—she had to come to him.

Or ask him to come for her.

Rooted where she’d left him, he tracked her movements.

Saw the moment she cleared the mass of people and strode in the direction of the double doors where more tray-bearing staff emerged and exited.

Saw when she paused, palm pressed to one of the panels.

Saw when she glanced over her shoulder in his direction.

Even across the distance of the ballroom, the electric shock of that look whipped through him, sizzled in his veins. Moments later, she disappeared from view. Didn’t matter; his feet were already moving in her direction.

That glance, that look. It’d sealed her fate.

Sealed it for both of them.

Two

Shay Camille Neal pushed through the doors leading into the huge, industrial kitchen that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Michelin-star restaurant. With a world-famous chef renowned for his temper as well as his magic with food, a sous chef and army of station and line cooks bustling around the stainless steel countertops and range stoves, the area hummed with activity.

Under ordinary circumstances, she would’ve been enthralled, attempting to soak up whatever knowledge she could from the professionals attending. But the current circumstances were as far from ordinary as chicken nuggets were from coq au vin.

First, as a member of one of the oldest, wealthiest and most influential families in Chicago, she usually attended the Du Sable City Gala as a guest, not a server. But when her best friend, Bridgette, called her earlier in the afternoon sounding like a foghorn had replaced her voice box, Shay had agreed to take Bridgette’s place as a member of the catering staff. Though her friend owned and ran a fledgling food truck business, she still helped mitigate expenses and pay her personal bills with jobs on the side. The position with this particular catering company was one of her regulars, and Bridgette couldn’t afford to lose the gig.

Shay had planned on skipping the gala, anyway. Facing a night at home with another binge of House of Cards on Netflix versus actually working in the periphery of a famous chef, the choice had been a no-brainer. Besides, Bridgette had assured Shay that most of her duties as an assistant to the line cooks would keep her in the kitchen.

Still, she’d donned a wig, dark brown contacts and glasses, as well as Bridgette’s uniform. Because while she’d decided to skip out on the social event of the season, her older brother, Trevor, and his fiancée, Madison Reus—Senator Julian Reus’s only daughter—were attending. Trevor already didn’t approve of Shay’s friendship with Bridgette. If he caught Shay doing anything less-than-becoming of the Neal name, especially because of her best friend, he would lose it. And Shay was pretty certain he would consider prepping vegetables and serving champagne cardinal sins.

In her defense, though, when the catering supervisor shoved a tray of sparkly wine at her and ordered her to make the rounds of the ballroom, she couldn’t exactly say no.

Still, everything should’ve been fine—would’ve been fine—if not for one Gideon Knight.

Smoky desire coiled in her belly. She set the almost empty tray on one of the stations and pressed a fist to her navel. Not that the futile gesture extinguished the glowing embers.

Swallowing a groan, she strode toward the back of the kitchen and the employee break room. Shutting the door behind her, she entered the bathroom and twisted the faucets, thrusting her palms under the gushing water. Her quick version of a cold shower. Shaking her head at her foolishness, she finished washing her hands, but afterward, instead of returning to the kitchen, she stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection. But it wasn’t her image she saw.

It was Gideon Knight.

They’re like peacocks, spreading their plumage, desperate to be noticed, and here you are among them, like the moon. Bright, alone, above it all and eclipsing every one of them.

She exhaled slowly, the words spoken in that all-things-secret-and-sinful voice echoing in her head. In her chest. And lower. With any other man, she would’ve waved off the compliment as insincere flattery that tended to roll off men’s tongues when they came across the heiress to one of the largest financial management conglomerates in the country. The compliments meant nothing, like dandelion fluff on a breeze. No substance and changing with the wind.

But not with Gideon Knight.

There had been a ring of truth in the blunt observation. As if his description of her wasn’t an opinion but fact. She’d just met him, but she couldn’t shake the sense that he didn’t dole out flowery compliments often. As he’d stated so flatly, he didn’t play games.

She believed him. But it only deepened her confusion over why he’d approached her of all people. To most of the attendees in the ballroom, she’d been invisible, inconsequential. Just another staff member there to serve them.

But not to him.

Even in a room full of Chicago’s wealthiest and most glamorous people, he stood out. In the way a sleek, silent shark would stand out in a pool of clown fish.

God, she was officially losing it. And she laid the blame squarely at the feet of Gideon Knight.

Because, really, how could any woman stare into those midnight eyes and not forget everything but how she could willingly drown in them, even as he submerged her in a pleasure as dark and stunning as his gaze?

As soon as the illicit thought entered her head an image of him crouched over her, all that midnight-black hair loose from its knot and flowing over his shoulders, tumbling around them, flashed through her mind. Her heart thumped against her chest, and she exhaled an unsteady breath, that flame of unwanted desire dancing low in her belly again. With a mental shove, she thrust the hot image out of her mind, but the vision of how he’d looked just moments ago, when she turned for one last glance, refused to be evicted as easily.

His tailor, whoever he or she was, must’ve been in love with Gideon because his tuxedo traced his powerful but lean frame. From the wide shoulders and chest that tapered to a slim waist and down to long, muscular legs, he was the picture of urbane elegance and wealth. Strength. Beauty.

Imperial.

The word leaped into her head, and though she wanted to scoff at the description, she couldn’t. It fit. With the beautiful eyes, the sharp slant of cheekbones, the arrogant nose, the wide, sensual, almost cruel curve of his mouth and the rock-hard jut of his jaw, he reminded her of a long-ago king from a mysterious Asian country, standing on a wall, an unseen wind teasing his long black hair as he surveyed the land he ruled. Hard, shrewd, somehow removed from the masses.

He would’ve been completely intimidating if not for the incongruity of all that hair pulled into a knot at the back of his head. Someone so polished, so sophisticated, so rigid in his appearance wearing a...man bun.

It was the rebellious flouting of the unspoken, constricting rules that governed their social realm that had stirred a curiosity she couldn’t erase. Even now.

You’re being ridiculous.

Shaking her head, she emitted a sound of self-directed disgust and yanked a brown paper towel from the dispensary. She quickly dried her hands, tossed the now damp towel in the trash and strode from the bathroom. With at least another three hours of work ahead of her, she couldn’t afford to remain hiding back here any longer. More prep work awaited her, as dinner hadn’t even been served yet—

The door to the break room swung open, and she barely managed to stifle her startled gasp.

The tall, imposing figure of Gideon Knight filled the doorway.

Her heart lodged in her throat. What the hell was he doing back here? But only seconds passed before the answer whispered through her skull.

You.

Denial, swift and firm, rose within her. But it couldn’t extinguish the kindling of desire and traitorous, foolish hope.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, swiping her already-dry palms down the sides of her pants. And when his gaze took in the nervous gesture, she cursed herself for betraying her agitation to this man.

“Looking for you.”

Excitement fluttered in her before she could smother the reaction. Crossing her arms over her chest, she frowned. Fought the instinctive urge to retreat from the intense, sexual magnetism that seemed to pour off him and vibrate in the room.

“Well, I need to return to work.” She pretended to glance down at the slim, gold-faced watch on her wrist. “So, if you’ll excuse me...”

An emotion crossed his face, but was there and gone before she could decipher it. Probably irritation at being told no. “I wanted to apol—”

But the rest of his explanation snapped off as the room plummeted into darkness.

Three

A cry slipped out of Shay, panic clawing at her throat.

The deep, thick dark pressed down on her chest like a weight, cutting off her breath.

What was going on? What happened? Why...?

“Camille.” The sound of that calm voice carrying an undercurrent of steel snapped her out of the dizzying fall into hysteria. Hands wrapped around both her upper arms, the grip firm, steadying. His voice and his touch grounded her, although her pulse continued to thud and echo in her head like a hammer. “Easy.” One of his hands slid up her arm, over her shoulder and slipped around the back of her neck. Squeezed. “Stay with me. Breathe.”

She closed her eyes, as if that could block out the utter lack of light. Still, she latched on to him—his voice, his fresh yet earthy scent of wind and sandalwood, the solid density of the forearms she’d at some point clutched. Seconds, minutes—hell, it felt like hours—passed while she focused on calming her racing heart, on breathing. And soon, the sense of being buried alive started to lift.

His hold on her arm and neck never eased.

As the initial bite of panic slowly unhinged its jaws, the weight of his touch—the security and comforting effect of it—penetrated her fear.

“—I’m sorry.” Embarrassed, she heard a wobbly chuckle escape her. Belatedly, she loosened her grip on him and dropped her arms. “God, I don’t... I’m not even afraid of the dark,” she whispered.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he reassured her.

His hands abandoned her neck and arm, but one located and clasped her fingers. In the next instant, a pale blue glow appeared. A cell phone. The illumination barely pushed back the inky thickness surrounding them, but it highlighted his face, and relief weakened her knees. Only moments ago, she’d wanted to get as far away from him as possible. And now her eyes stung with gratefulness for his serene presence. For not being alone.

“I need to go see if I can find out what’s going on. Here.” Holding the cell out in front of him, he carefully guided her to the couch against the far wall. Still holding her hand, he lowered her to the cushion. “Will you be all right? I have to take my cell with me to try and either get a call or text out. I promise to return in a few minutes.”

“Of course.” She nodded, injecting a vein of steel into her voice. God, she was stronger than this. “I’ll be fine here.”

In the cell’s minimal light, she caught his steady, measuring stare. “Good,” he said after a few moments, returning her nod. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared, returning her to the dark. She focused on maintaining even breathing, reminding herself she hadn’t been catapulted into a deep pit where terrifying, malformed things lurked, eager for the chance to take a bite out of her. She really shouldn’t have watched Stephen King’s It last night...

“Camille.”

She jerked her head up, and once more that rush of relief washed over her as Gideon and his beautiful light appeared in front of her again.

“Hey,” she said, unable to prevent the emotion from flooding her voice. “Were you able to find out anything?” Please let it be something fixable and short-lived, like the owner of this mansion had forgotten to pay his power bill.

“Blackout,” he explained, tone grim, and her heart plummeted toward her stomach. “I wasn’t able to get a call out, but I was able to send and receive a couple of texts to a contact on the police force. It’s citywide. They’re advising people to remain where they are, which,” he continued, his full lips flattening for a brief second, “won’t be an issue with us. I overheard security speaking to the chef and his staff. The tech guru who owns this overcompensating monstrosity of a home installed a so-called cutting-edge security system. And with the blackout, it’s malfunctioned. We’re all locked in for the foreseeable future.”

She expelled a pent-up breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. Where was Trevor? Were he and Madison okay? What about Bridgette? Sick and in the dark? More than ever, Shay cursed leaving her phone in her car. Bridgette had warned her that her supervisor frowned on the staff having cells on them, so she’d stashed hers in her glove compartment, but now...

“We’re going to be fine, Camille,” Gideon said, his rough silk voice dragging her away from her worried thoughts. “Most likely, the blackout will only last several hours, and hopefully the boy genius will have his system worked out by them,” he finished drily.

In spite of the anxiety over her brother and friend that still inundated her, she snorted. “Boy genius?”

Gideon arched a black eyebrow. “Have you seen him? He can’t be more than twenty-three. I swear, I can still smell the milk on his breath.”

This time she snickered, belatedly palming her mouth to contain her amusement. “So you’re what? The ripe old age of thirty? Thirty-three? And if you’re here as a guest, then that means you must be at least wealthy or connected enough to have been invited. Which makes you what, Mr. Knight?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “An idle man living off his family name and money? Or a successful businessman in his own right?”

She didn’t know him, but he struck her as the latter. There was nothing about him that screamed idle. No, the sharklike intelligence that gleamed from his dark eyes belonged to a man who forged his own path, not one satisfied with walking the one others had paved for him.

He didn’t immediately reply, but treated her to another of his intense gazes. He seemed to peer beneath skin and bone to the soul. To her secrets. With effort, she didn’t shirk away from his scrutiny, instead notching her chin up and meeting his eyes without flinching.

Something glinted in his gaze, and the faint light from his phone tricked her into believing it might be admiration.

“I own and run a start-up that provides privately held companies with their equity needs. I suppose you can say we’ve been successful.”

The vague and carefully constructed answer didn’t stop recognition from rocking her. Start-up? As in KayCee Corp start-up? He couldn’t possibly be the Gideon Knight, founder of the corporation that had taken the financial world by storm five years ago? If so, he was either exceedingly modest or being cagey with information.

Because KayCee Corp had been more than “successful.” The electronic platform serviced major businesses, helping them track their shares with its top-of-the-line, unrivaled software. They’d recently announced their intentions to branch out and work with companies that were rolling out their initial public offerings. Though Trevor tried to keep Shay securely ensconced in the Social Development branch of RemingtonNeal Inc., their family business, she knew of KayCee Corp. Knew that Trevor desperately longed to acquire it.

Her wig, contacts and glasses concealed her true identity, but she still lifted her fingers to her cheek as if Gideon could see beneath the camouflage. Her throat tightened. Now would be a good time to come clean about who he sat with in the dark. But something held her back. Something, hell... She could identify it even without him searching her soul.

In that ballroom, Gideon Knight had gazed upon her with fascination, admiration...hunger. And he’d had no idea she was Shay Neal, heiress to a global financial empire. Not that she was an ugly duckling in a lake full of swans, but she bore no illusions. Her money, social status and connections were often just as much, if not more, of an allure than her appearance.

But not for him.

Even now, his dark stare roamed her face, lingering on her eyes before drifting over her cheekbones, her jaw, her mouth. Though it belied reason, she swore she could feel his gaze stroke over her skin. An illicit, mysterious, desire-stoking caress.

And here, in the isolated depths of this mansion, she wanted more.

Even if just for a little while.

The cloak of anonymity bestowed her with a gift of boldness—of freedom—she didn’t ordinarily possess.

“I wonder what’s going through your head right now?” he murmured, drawing her from her thoughts. “And would you honestly tell me?”

That would be a no. “Careful, Mr. Knight,” she drawled, tone dry. “You’re beginning to sound a little too Edward Cullen-ish for my comfort.”

“Last time I checked, I didn’t sparkle in the sunlight or age out at eighteen years old. Although I do admit to a little biting. And liking it.”

A blast of heat barreled through her, warring with surprise over his recognition of her Twilight reference. Curling her fingers into her palms, she willed the searing desire to abate, but it continued to burn a path along her veins.

“Still blunt, I see,” she said, and no way could he miss the hoarseness rasping her voice. “You weren’t lying when you claimed not to play games.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable, Camille?” he asked, his head cocking to the side. His eyes narrowed on her, as if searching out the answer for himself.

She should say yes. Should order him to keep his straight-no-chaser compliments and need-stirring comments to himself.

Instead, she matched his head tilt. “And if I said you were?”

“Then I’d go out there in that kitchen and drag one of those chefs in here so you wouldn’t be. Is that what you want?”

She shook her head, the denial almost immediate. “No,” she said, although wisdom argued she should have him invite the whole crew into this small room. Protect her from herself. The self that couldn’t help wondering if those stark angles softened with pleasure. Wondering if that hard-looking mouth became more pliable.

Wondering if that icy shield of control shattered under desire’s flame?

A shiver danced over her skin. Waltzed along her nerve endings.

She was the moth dancing too close to those flames.

“What do you want?” he pressed, the deep timbre of his voice dipping lower.

He didn’t move, didn’t inch closer to her on the couch. But God, all that intensity crowded her, rubbed over her, slipped inside her. He wasn’t a coy or playful man; he grasped the wealth of possibilities that question carried. And he offered her the choice of not addressing them...or taking all of them.

A lifetime of playing by the rules slowly unraveled beneath his heated stare. His question vibrated between them, a gauntlet thrown down. A red flag waved.

“Too many things to possibly number in the space of a blackout,” she finally replied. Truth. And evasion. “But I’m fine with you here with me.” She paused, and with her heart tapping an unsteady rhythm against her chest, added, “Only you.”

A fierce approval and satisfaction flashed like diamonds in his eyes. “Good,” he said, those same emotions reflected in the one word. “Because now we don’t have to share this with anyone else.” Reaching down, he picked up a plate and set it on the cushion between them. A grin curved her lips at the sight of the braised lamb, roasted vegetable medley and risotto piled on the fine china.

“Now, that’s lovely,” he murmured, his gaze not on the dinner but on her face.

She ducked her head, wishing the strands of the wig weren’t tied back in a bun so they could hide the red stain creeping up her neck and flooding her face.

“You’re certainly resourceful,” she said, reaching for an asparagus tip. “Or sneaky.”

His soft snort echoed between them. “I’ve been accused of both before. And both are just words. Whatever works to achieve my goal.”

“Yes, I clearly remember your goal for this evening. You didn’t mince words out there earlier. I guess you’ve achieved your aim. Spending the night with me.”

Why had she brought up that conversation? What had possessed her to remind him of his claim to be with her—inside her? To see that glint of hunger again? To tempt him? God, she was flirting with danger. And doing so with a rashness that bordered on recklessness.

“Do you really want to dive into that discussion right now, Camille?” The question—a tease, a taunt—set her pulse off on a rapid tattoo.

Yes.

No.

“Not on an empty stomach,” she whispered, retreating. From the faint quirk of his lips—the first hint of a smile she’d glimpsed on his austere face—he caught her withdrawal. “And you wouldn’t happen to be hiding a bottle of wine over there, would you?”

The quirk deepened, and her heart stuttered. Actually skipped a couple beats at the beauty of that half smile. Jesus, he would be absolutely devastating if he ever truly let go. Her fingertips itched with the urge to trace those sensual lips. To curb the need, she brought her hands to her pants, intent on rubbing them down her thighs. But stopped herself, recalling they were damp from the food she’d just eaten.

“Take this.” He reached inside his jacket and offered her a small white handkerchief.

Startled, she accepted it, again struck with how perceptive he seemed to be.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

For the next half hour, they dined on the pilfered food, and as stellar and flavorful as the cuisine was, it didn’t steal her attention like the man across from her. He...fascinated her. And after they finished, when he asked her if she would be fine with him turning off the phone’s light to conserve the battery, she okayed it without hesitation.

Though he was basically a stranger to her, he emanated safety. Comfort. As if he would release all that barely leashed mercilessness on her behalf instead of against her. Maybe that made her fanciful, too. But in the dark, she could afford it.

Perhaps the blackness affected him in a similar fashion, because he opened up to her—well, as much as someone as controlled as Gideon Knight probably did. They spoke of mundane things. Hobbies. Worst dates. The best way to spend a perfect, lazy afternoon. All so simple, but she hung on every word. Enjoyed it. Enjoyed him.

Enjoyed the lack of sight that peeled away barriers.

Reveled in the desire that thrummed just below the surface like a drum keeping time, marching them forward to...what? She didn’t know. And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn’t weigh the effect of every word, the consequence of every action on the Neal family name.

Here, with him, she was just...Camille.

“We’ll never see each other again once the lights come back on,” she said. And it was true. They’d never see each other as Camille and Gideon, even if they happened to cross paths in the future. Because then, she would once more be Shay Neal of the Chicago Neals. “That almost makes me...sad,” she confessed, then scoffed, shaking her head, though he couldn’t see the gesture. “Ridiculous, right?”

“Why?” he asked. “Honesty is never silly. It’s too rare to be ridiculous.”

A twinge of guilt pinged inside her chest. She was being dishonest about the most basic thing—her identity. “Because fantasies are for teenage girls, not for grown women who know better.”

“And what do you believe you know, Camille?”

She turned toward him, toward the temptation of his voice. “That if not for a citywide blackout, a man like you wouldn’t be with me...” She paused. “Talking.”

“I don’t know if I should be more offended that you’re belittling me or yourself with that statement.” A whisper of sound and then fingers—questing, gentle, but so damn sure—stroked across her jaw, her temple, the strangely callused tips abrading her skin. What did a man like him do to earn that hardened skin that spoke of hard labor, not crunching numbers? “Yes, I do. It annoys me more that you would demean yourself. A woman like you,” he murmured. “Beautiful. Intelligent. Bold. Confident. What man wouldn’t want to spend time with you? Only one too blind or stupid to see who stands right before his eyes. Read any financial blog or journal, Camille. I’m not a stupid man.”

She snorted, trying to mask the flame licking at her from the inside out. Cover the yearning his words caused deep within her. “How did you manage to compliment yourself and reprimand me at the same time?”

But he ignored her attempt to inject levity into the thick, pulsing atmosphere. No, instead, he swept another caress over her skin. This time, brushing a barely there touch to the curve of her bottom lip. She trembled. And God, he had to sense it, to feel it. Because he repeated it.

“I don’t date,” he informed her, and the frankness of the statement caught her off guard. Almost made her forget the long fingers still cradling her jaw.

Almost.

“Excuse me?” she breathed.

“I don’t date,” he repeated. “I know something, too, Camille. Relationships, commitments—they’re lies we tell ourselves so we can justify using each other. Sex. Need. Passion—they’re honest. The body can’t lie. Lust is the great equalizer regardless of social status, race or tax bracket. So no, I rescind my earlier statement. If not for this blackout, it’s very possible we wouldn’t have passed these last couple of hours talking. But I don’t care if we were in a ballroom or a boardroom, I would’ve noticed you. I would’ve wanted you. I would’ve done everything in my power to convince you to trust me with your body, your pleasure.”

Oh damn.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Suspended by the hunger swamping her.

“Your turn, moonbeam,” he said, his hand falling away from her face. And she immediately missed his touch, that firm grasp. Because he couldn’t see her, she lifted her fingers to the skin that continued to tingle. “Tell me again what you know.”

Moonbeam. The endearment reminded her of their conversation in the ballroom. Her brain argued that the word had nothing to do with love or sweetness and everything to do with hunger and darkness, and yet she jolted at the coiling in her lower belly.

“I know you’re telling me you haven’t changed your mind about wanting to spend the night with me. Inside me,” she added, on a soft, almost hushed rush of breath.

“And have you changed yours?”

From the moment you called me your moon.

The truth reverberated against her skull, but she clenched her jaw, preventing it from escaping. Her defenses had started crumbling long before he’d come looking for her.

Did this make her a cliché? He wasn’t the first man to profess he wanted her, but he was the first she longed to touch with a need that unnerved her. She’d never yearned for a man’s hands on her body as much as she longed for Gideon Knight’s big, elegant, long-fingered ones stroking over her breasts. Or gripping her hips, holding her steady for a deep, hot possession that had her sex spasming in anticipation...in preparation.

She exhaled a breath. Right, he still waited for her answer, and she suspected he wouldn’t make a move, wouldn’t feather another of those caresses over her until she gave it to him.

“Yes,” she confessed, her heart thudding heavily against her rib cage.

“About what, Camille?” he pressed, relentless. “What have you decided? What do you want?”

He wasn’t granting her a reprieve; he was making her say it. Making her lay herself bare.

Her sense of self-preservation launched a last-ditch effort to save her from who she’d become in the dark. Who she’d become in that ballroom. But desire crushed it, and she willingly surrendered to the irresistible lure of freedom...of him.

“You,” she whispered. “I’ve decided on you.”

She slid across the small space separating them and located his face. A soft groan rolled up her throat, and she didn’t even try and trap it. Not when she curved her hand around the strong jut of his jaw, the faintest bristles of what would become a five o’clock shadow abrading her palm. Unable to stop, she stroked the pad of her thumb over the mouth she had been craving since she first noticed him.

Strong teeth sank into the flesh of her thumb, not hurting her but exerting enough pressure that she gasped. Then whimpered.

How had she gone twenty-five years without being aware that spot connected to her sex? That it would make her thighs clench on an ache so sweet, it maddened her?

Another gasp broke free of her, this one of surprise, as his fingers closed around her arms and abruptly dragged her to her feet. She swayed, but he didn’t release her until she steadied. Then the sudden flare of light from his cell phone startled her again. After the dark, the pale glow seemed almost too bright. She blinked, glancing from the screen to the shadows it cast over Gideon’s face.

“Why...” She waved toward the phone. “What about saving the battery?”

He shook his head, his features sharper, appearing to be hewn from flint. Except for those glittering, almost fevered eyes. Oh wow... Such intensity and...and greed there. It stirred her own hunger, stoking the fire inside her until she burned with it.

“I don’t give a damn. I need to see you,” he growled, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it to the floor. Still controlled, but the movement carried an edge. And it thrilled her. “Take off your shirt, Camille. Show me what you’ve decided I can have.”

With trembling fingers, she reached for the buttons of her white shirt. It required several attempts, but she managed to open it, and with his black gaze fixed on her, slipped it off. Warm air kissed her bared shoulders, the tops of her breasts and stomach.

A part of her argued that she should feel at least a modicum of modesty, and maybe Shay would. But not Camille.

As crazy as it seemed, here, with Gideon, she had become a different person. The flip side of the same coin. Normally reserved, bound by expectations and family. But now... uninhibited, free to indulge in her own selfish desires.

“Gorgeous,” he rasped. “So fucking gorgeous. Come here.” He beckoned.

His almost growled compliment stole more of her breath.

“Your turn,” she ordered, remaining in place, although her fingers already prickled to stroke the skin and muscle hidden beneath the thin veneer of civility presented by his tuxedo. “Show me what you promised me I can take.”

His fingers tightened around the edges of his shirt, and for a moment, she feared—hoped—he would just rip it off. But once more, that control reemerged, and he removed his cuff links, tossing them carelessly on top of his jacket. Then, button by button, he revealed himself to her.

She stared at the male animal before her. Miles and miles of smooth flesh stretched taut over tight muscle and tendon. Wide shoulders, a deep chest. Narrowed waist. A corrugated ladder of abs. A thin, silky line of hair started just above a shadowed navel and traveled below, disappearing into the waistband of his suit pants. And darker swirls and shapes she couldn’t make out spread over the left side of his ribs, emphasizing the hint of wildness, of fierceness he couldn’t quite conceal.

Perfection.

He was utter perfection.

This time, he didn’t need to demand she come to him. Shay covered the distance on her own, arms already extended. With a hum of pleasure, she settled her palms on him, smoothed them up to his shoulders, pushing the shirt down his arms. Then she returned to her exploration. Scraping her nails over small, flat nipples, mapping the thin network of veins under his skin, following the path of hair that started midchest. Dragging her fingertips down the delineated ridge of muscles covering his stomach. Tracing the black lines of his tattoo, wishing she could aim more light on it so she could decipher its shape.

He stood still, letting her tour him without interference, though he fairly hummed with intensity, with barely leashed power.

“Are you finished yet?” he growled, and she tilted her head back to meet his hooded gaze, her fingers settling on the band of his pants.

“Not even close,” she breathed. “Kiss me.”

Someone with his extraordinary sense of restraint most likely didn’t take or obey orders from anyone. But with a flash in those eyes, he gripped the bun at the back of her head and tugged. She gave only a brief thought to the security of the wig before her neck arched. The next breath she took was his.

Her groan was ragged and so needy it should’ve embarrassed her. Maybe it would tomorrow in the harsh light of day. But tonight, with his tongue twisting and tangling with hers, she couldn’t care. Not when he tasted like everything delicious but forbidden—chocolate-flavored wine, New York cheesecake, impropriety and wickedness. Not when he nipped at her bottom lip, then sucked it, soothing and enhancing the sting before returning to devour her mouth. As if she, too, was something he knew he shouldn’t have but couldn’t resist.

He lifted his head, taking that lovely mouth with him, and she cried out in disappointment. But he shushed her with hard, stinging kisses to the corner of her lips, along the line of her jaw, down her chin and neck...over the tops of her breasts. In seconds, he stripped her of her bra, baring her to him. His big hands lifted, cupping her, molding her to him. To his pleasure. And hers.

She grasped his shoulders, clung to him, her ability to think, to move, to breathe a thing of the past as he lowered his head to her flesh. All she could do was stand there with increasingly wobbly knees and receive each lick, suckle and draw of those sensual lips and tongue. And enjoy them.

Unable not to touch the lure of his hair, she swept her fingers over his head, tunneling them under the knot containing the midnight strands. Eager to see him undone, she briefly wrestled with the thick locks, freeing the tie restraining them. The rough silk fell over her wrists, cool and dense, sliding through her fingers.

“Oh,” she whispered, at a loss for words as the strands tumbled around his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw. They should’ve softened his features—should have. Instead, they only emphasized the stark planes of his face and his visceral sexuality.

“God, you’re beautiful.” The praise exited her mouth without her permission, but she couldn’t regret the words. Not when they were the truth.

Pulling his mouth away from her breasts, he dragged a hot, wet path up her chest, her throat, until he recaptured her mouth. This kiss was hotter, wilder, as if the tether on his control had frayed, and suddenly, her one purpose was to see it snap completely.

With a small whimper, she trailed her hand over his shoulder, chest and torso, not stopping until she cupped his rigid length through his pants.

Damn. She shivered, both need and feminine anxiety tumbling in her belly and lower. He more than filled her palm. Reflexively, she squeezed his erection. God, he was so thick, hard...big.

A rumble emanated from his chest, and his larger hand covered hers, pressing her closer, clasping him tighter. His hips bucked against her palm in demand, and she gladly obeyed. Even as his mouth ravaged hers, she stroked him, loving the growl that rolled out of him. Wanting more.

Impatient, Shay attacked the clasp of his pants, jerking them open and tugging down the zipper in a haste that would later strike her as unseemly. But right now, she didn’t give a damn. Nothing mattered but his bare, pulsing flesh in her hand. Touching him.

But just as she reached for him, an implacable grip circled her wrist, stilling her frantic movements.

“Not yet, moonbeam.” He lifted one of her arms and placed an openmouthed kiss to the center of her palm, the resulting feeling radiating straight to her damp, quivering sex. With a quick crush of his lips to hers, he swiftly divested her of her remaining clothes and shoes, leaving her trembling and naked before him, except for the decidedly unsexy plain, black panties.

A burst of self-consciousness flared inside her chest, and she fought not to edge backward, away from the weak glow of the cell phone’s light. But as if he’d read her intentions, Gideon cupped her hip, preempting any movement she might’ve made to hide.

“When a man stands before beauty like yours, there’s only one position he’s supposed to be in,” he murmured. Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees, tipping his head back to continue to meet her gaze. “You deserve to be worshipped.” He swept his lips across her stomach. “And pleasured.” Another sweep, but over the top of her sex. Heat coiled tight, and her core clenched at the tantalizing caress. “Give me permission to give you that.”

It might’ve emerged as an order, but he wouldn’t continue without her go-ahead. She somehow knew that.

“Yes,” she breathed, tunneling her fingers through his hair. Holding on tight.

With a deliberate pace that had her internally screaming, he drew her underwear down her legs and helped her step free of them. Big, elegant hands brushed up her calves and thighs, and once more she wondered at the calluses adding a hint of roughness to the caress. But then she ceased thinking at all.

“Gideon,” she cried out, fisting his hair, trying to pull him away or tug him closer—she didn’t know. Couldn’t decide. Not when pleasure unlike anything she’d ever experienced struck her with great bolts of lightning. Jesus, his lips, his tongue... They were voracious. Feasting on her, leaving no part of her unexplored, untouched. Long, luxurious swirls, decadent and wicked laps and sucks... He drove her insane with pleasure.

Just as he’d promised. Just as he’d assured her she deserved.

He spread her wider, hooking her leg over one of his wide shoulders, granting himself easier access. Like a ravenous beast, he growled against her sensitive, wet sex, and the vibration shoved her closer to the edge of release.

“You’re so fucking sweet,” he rasped, nuzzling her. “So fucking sweet and pure. A man could get addicted to you. But you have more to give me, don’t you, baby? I’m a greedy bastard, and I want it all.” He uttered the last words almost as if to himself, and with one palm molded to her behind, he dragged the other up the inside of her spread thighs.

Then he was filling her. Two fingers plunged inside her, and like a match struck to dry kindling, she sparked, flared, exploded into flames. Dimly, she caught his rough encouragement of “That’s it, baby. That’s it.” She loosened a hand from his hair and clapped it over her lips, muffling her cries as she came against his mouth, her hips rolling and jerking.

Raw, dirty ecstasy, stripped to its barest essentials. That’s who she’d become in this moment as he lapped up every evidence of her desire from her flesh, from the insides of her thighs.

“Please,” she begged, weakly pushing his head away as he circled her with tender but relentless strokes. “I can’t.”

“That’s nothing but a challenge to me, moonbeam,” he rumbled, standing, his mouth damp. But when he lowered his head and took her lips in a torrid kiss that replicated how he’d just consumed her, she didn’t back away from the flavor of herself on his lips and tongue. No, she opened wider to him, turned on so bright it ached.

Palming the back of her thighs, he hiked her in the air. On reflex she wound her legs around his waist. He crossed to the couch, and with each bump of her swollen, sensitive core against his stomach, that recently satiated heat flickered back to life, and she moaned with each caress.

Her back met the cushions, and Gideon towered over her, half his face cast in shadow. That obsidian gaze never left hers as he removed a thin wallet from his pants pocket and withdrew a condom. He tossed it down, next to her feet, and then she watched, enraptured, as he stripped off his clothes. Her breath snagged in her throat. Jesus. He’d been stunning in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. But naked, the trappings torn away, all that thick, midnight hair falling around his face and broad shoulders... He was magnificent. Long legs, powerful thighs... Good God, she’d felt him, but seeing him... Like the rest of him, his erection was proud, beautiful. Perfect.

As if of their own volition, her arms lifted, beckoning him to her. He tore open the foil square and sheathed himself then came to her, moving the cell phone to the floor next to them. His hard body covered hers, and a sigh escaped her at the contact. For a second, she couldn’t smother the sense of never having felt so cherished, so protected.

“Ready, moonbeam?” he murmured, raising off her slightly. Grasping her hand in his, he brought it between their bodies. As he’d done earlier, he wrapped her fingers around his thick length. “Show me,” he ordered, planting his palms on either side of her head, granting her control.

Even if she harbored the smallest seed of doubt about this illicit encounter in the dark—which she didn’t—his gesture would’ve eradicated it. Her chest tightened, her heart thudding against her rib cage. But her hand was steady as she guided him to her entrance. Shifting her palm to his taut behind, she pushed as she lifted her hips, taking him inside. Fully. Widening her thighs, she didn’t stop until he was buried within her.

She gasped, a ripple rocking her body. God, he was everywhere. Over her, around her, inside her. So deep inside her. The weight and length of him stretched her, burned her, and she flexed against him, her flesh struggling to accommodate the sweet invasion.

His eyes closed, and he bowed his head, pressing his forehead to hers, his breath pulsing over her lips. Tension vibrated through him, strained the muscles in his arms, stilled his large frame. Long moments later, he lifted his head, and the effort to hold back was etched onto his features.

“Gideon,” she whispered, waiting until he lifted his ridiculously dense lashes to meet her eyes. “Let go.”

As if those two words sliced through the last threads of his restraint, he groaned and lost it.

On the tail of another of those sexy snarls, he dragged his erection free, lighting up nerve endings like an airport runway, before snapping his hips and thrusting back inside her. Driving her breath from her lungs and a wail of pleasure from her throat.

Oh God. She wasn’t going to survive this.

Pleasure inundated her as he plunged into her body. Over and over, relentlessly. He hooked an arm under her leg, tugging it higher and impossibly wider. With a choked cry, she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on, a willing sacrifice to his possession. He rode her, wild and untethered, giving her no quarter. Not that she asked for any. She loved it. Every roll of his hips, every slap of flesh against flesh, every rake of his teeth over her shoulder.

In his arms, under his body, she transformed into a sexual creature who lived, breathed for him, for the ecstasy only he could give.

Electric pulses crackled down her back, sizzling at the base of her spine. Every thrust intensified the sensation. When he slid a hand between them and rubbed her, an avalanche of pleasure rushed toward her, burying her, stealing her consciousness. But not before Gideon stiffened above her, his deep, tortured groan echoing in her ear, rumbling against her chest.

“Camille,” he whispered, and it sounded like a benediction, a prayer.

And as she tightened her arms around him before sinking under, she foolishly wished to be his answer.

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