“Recite it to me,” he demands.

I frown. He’s looking right at it. He can read it.

“I want to hear it from your lips,” he clarifies.

“You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.”

“Why these words?” he asks.

I bite my lip. Jesus, he’s stripping me bare, body and soul here, and I love it and am afraid of it all at the same time.

Suddenly, he slaps my ass, and whispers in my ear, “What did I say about answering my questions?”

“Opening Sweets took everything I had. Failure isn’t an option for me.”

“Ah, baby,” he murmurs.

I hear the crinkling of a wrapper and the dip of the bed as he sheds his briefs before his hands glide down my back to my ass, over my hips and thighs. “You are an amazing woman, Nicole.”

“Ni—”I begin to correct him, but he interrupts me.

“We’re going to have to work on your stubbornness in the bedroom, baby.” He chuckles and bites my shoulder, then returns me to my back, covering my body with his. His eyes are on fire as he gazes down at me, his elbows planted on either side of my head, under my arms, holding me even more immobile. “Your body is fucking gorgeous. Every inch.”

His nose sweeps against my own as his pelvis rests on mine, his cock lying nestled in my slick pussy lips.

“I want you,” I whisper against his lips.

He sucks in a breath and lets it out in a shaky sigh, pulls his hips back and then slides slowly inside me until he’s completely buried.

“So fucking tight,” he growls and begins to move.

I raise my legs around his hips, opening myself up wider, allowing him to push inside even farther, and it’s pure fucking heaven.

I’ve never felt anything like this, never had this kind of physical and emotional connection to a man in my life. I bite my lip as he begins to move faster, harder, an unseen force driving him on, as though he just can’t help it. He crushes my mouth under his own and devours me, fucking me and kissing me voraciously.

Suddenly, he rears up, holding my knees out to the side, watching his cock move in and out of my wetness. He slides one hand down my inner thigh and plants his thumb against my clit, sending me into another plane of being.

I cry out just as he sends me over the edge into another orgasm, even stronger than the one before.

The head of his cock is dragging against my sweet spot, and his thumb continues to press against my clit, and it’s amazing.

Crazy.

Fucking unbelievable.

“Look at me,” he demands.

My eyes find his above me. He pumps into me twice, three times and then stills, groaning with his release.

He’s panting and sweating, still inside me as he pushes his hands up my arms to my wrists and pulls them down. He methodically unties the ribbon—I won’t be wearing that one in the shop again—and gently massages my wrists, hands and shoulders, then pulls out of me and climbs off the bed to take care of the condom.

When he returns, he doesn’t join me in bed. He simply holds his hand out to me with a smile, and when I take it, he pulls me out of the bed and into his arms for a long, soft kiss.

“How was that?” he asks quietly.

“It was…” I tilt my head to the side, thinking about the amazing experience we just shared. “Yeah, it was good.”

He grins, relieved. “Good. For me, too.” He grabs my robe from the end of the bed and wraps it around me, bundling me up, then pulls on his boxer-briefs and grabs my hand in his, lacing our fingers.

“Come on, I’ll make you breakfast.”

“You cook?” I ask with a raised brow.

“Quite well, actually.”

“I like all of these hidden talents,” I reply with a smirk.

“Oh, honey, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

***

“Tell me about your ink,” I request as Matt bustles about my kitchen.

I’m seated at the breakfast bar, wrapped in the robe that Matt draped around me, holding a cup of steaming coffee, an empty glass of orange juice at my elbow, also thanks to my bossy cop. He refused my offer of help, instead insisting that I sit and keep him company.

If this is what’s involved in being submissive, I should have signed on long ago.

Although, maybe it’s just this guy who works this way.

“This”—he points to the tattoo on his side, over his ribs—“is the Chinese symbol for truth.”

I nod, admiring the black symbol, having an excuse to allow my eyes to roam over his perfect body. His arms are thick, the muscles clearly defined. When he lifts the pan to flip the pancakes, the muscles flex and bunch, and I can’t help but squirm in my chair.

God, I want to touch him.

I wonder if he’ll ever let me touch him when we have sex.

He turns his back to me, and my jaw drops. Jesus Christ on a motor bike, his back is blessed with more muscle, and it tapers down to his hips, where of course he’s sporting two of the hottest damn dimples sitting right over his tight ass, currently covered in his low-riding shorts.

I could most likely bounce quarters off that ass.

It’s something to write home about, that’s for sure. Of course, my mom might not want to hear about my guy’s ass.

Then again, maybe she would.

He’s talking as he moves about, cracking eggs and checking on the bacon in the oven, but I have no idea what he’s saying.

“Nic?”