Bared to You - Sylvia Day

excerpt 

This excerpt contains adult material and is intended for readers 18 years of age or older.

Stepping out from under the modern glass entrance overhang that somehow meshed with the age of the building and its neighbors, I enjoyed the relative quiet of my tree-lined street before I reached the bustle and flow of traffic on Broadway. One day soon, I hoped to blend right in, but for now I still felt like a fraudulent New Yorker. I had the address and the job, but I was still wary of the subway and had trouble hailing cabs. I tried not to walk around wide-eyed and distracted, but it was hard. There was just so much to see and experience.

The sensory input was astonishing—the smell of vehicle exhaust mixed with food from vendor carts, the shouts of hawkers blended with music from street entertainers, the awe-inspiring range of faces and styles and accents, the gorgeous architectural wonders . . . And the cars. Jesus Christ. The frenetic flow of tightly packed cars was unlike anything I’d ever seen anywhere.

There was always an ambulance, patrol car, or fire engine trying to part the flood of yellow taxis with the electronic wail of earsplitting sirens. I was in awe of the lumbering garbage trucks that navigated tiny one-way streets and the package delivery drivers who braved the bumper-to-bumper traffic while facing rigid deadlines.

Real New Yorkers cruised right through it all, their love for the city as comfortable and familiar as a favorite pair of shoes. They didn’t view the steam billowing from potholes and vents in the sidewalks with romantic delight. They didn’t blink an eye when the ground vibrated beneath their feet as the subway roared by below, while I grinned like an idiot and flexed my toes. New York was a brand-new love affair for me. I was starry-eyed and it showed.

So I had to really work at playing it cool as I made my way over to the building where I would be working. As far as my job went, at least, I’d gotten my way. I wanted to make a living by my own merits and that meant an entry-level position. Starting the next morning, I would be the assistant to Mark Garrity at Waters Field & Leaman, one of the preeminent advertising agencies in the United States. My stepfather, megafinancier Richard Stanton, had been annoyed when I took the job, pointing out that if I’d been less prideful I could’ve worked for a friend of his instead and reaped the benefits of that connection.

“You’re as stubborn as your father,” he’d said. “It’ll take him forever to pay off your student loans on a cop’s salary.”

That had been a major fight, with my dad unwilling to back down. “Hell if another man’s gonna pay for my daughter’s education,” Victor Reyes had said when Stanton made the offer. I respected that. I suspected Stanton did, too, although he would never admit it. I understood both men’s sides, because I’d fought to pay off the loans myself . . . and lost. It was a point of pride for my father. My mother had refused to marry him, but he’d never wavered from his determination to be my dad in every way possible.

Knowing it was pointless to get riled up over old frustrations, I focused on getting to work as quickly as possible. I’d deliberately chosen to clock the short trip during a busy time on a Monday, so I was pleased when I reached the Crossfire Building, which housed Waters Field & Leaman, in less than thirty minutes.

I tipped my head back and followed the line of the building all the way up to the slender ribbon of sky. The Crossfire was seriously impressive, a sleek spire of gleaming sapphire that pierced the clouds. I knew from my previous interviews that the interior on the other side of the ornate copper-framed revolving doors was just as awe-inspiring, with golden-veined marble floors and walls and brushed-aluminum security desk and turnstiles.

As I entered the building, I pulled my new ID card out of the inner pocket of my pants and held it up for the two guards in black business suits at the desk. They stopped me anyway, no doubt because I was majorly underdressed, but then they cleared me through. After I completed an elevator ride up to the twentieth floor, I’d have general time frame for the whole route from door to door. Score.

I was walking toward the bank of elevators when a svelte, beautifully groomed brunette caught her purse on a turnstile and upended it, spilling a deluge of change. Coins rained onto the marble and rolled merrily away, and I watched people dodge the chaos and keep going as if they didn’t see it. I winced in sympathy and crouched to help the woman collect her money, as did one of the guards.

“Thank you,” she said, shooting me a quick, harried smile.

I smiled back. “No problem. I’ve been there.”

I’d just squatted to reach a nickel lying near the entrance when I ran into a pair of luxurious black oxfords draped in tailored black slacks. I waited a beat for the man to move out of my way and when he didn’t, I arched my neck back to allow my line of sight to rise. The custom three-piece suit hit more than a few of my hot buttons, but it was the tall, powerfully lean body inside it that made it sensational. Still, as impressive as all that magnificent maleness was, it wasn’t until I reached the man’s face that I went down for the count.

Wow. Just . . . wow.

He sank into an elegant crouch directly in front of me. Hit with all that exquisite masculinity at eye level, I could only stare. Stunned.

Then something shifted in the air between us.

As he stared back, he altered . . . as if a shield slid away from his eyes, revealing a scorching force of will that sucked the air from my lungs. The intense magnetism he exuded grew in strength, becoming a near-tangible impression of vibrant and unrelenting power.

Reacting purely on instinct, I shifted backward. And sprawled flat on my ass.

My elbows throbbed from the violent contact with the marble floor, but I scarcely registered the pain. I was too preoccupied with staring, riveted by the man in front of me. Inky black hair framed a breathtaking face. His bone structure would make a sculptor weep with joy, while a firmly etched mouth, a blade of a nose, and intensely blue eyes made him savagely gorgeous. Those eyes narrowed slightly, his features otherwise schooled into impassivity.

His dress shirt and suit were both black, but his tie perfectly matched those brilliant irises. His eyes were shrewd and assessing, and they bored into me. My heartbeat quickened; my lips parted to accommodate faster breaths. He smelled sinfully good. Not cologne. Body wash, maybe. Or shampoo. Whatever it was, it was mouthwatering, as was he.

He held out a hand to me, exposing onyx cuff links and a very expensive-looking watch.

With a shaky inhalation, I placed my hand in his. My pulse leaped when his grip tightened. His touch was electric, sending a shock up my arm that raised the hairs on my nape. He didn’t move for a moment, a frown line marring the space between arrogantly slashed brows.

“Are you all right?”

His voice was cultured and smooth, with a rasp that made my stomach flutter. It brought sex to mind. Extraordinary sex. I thought for a moment that he might be able to make me orgasm just by talking long enough.

My lips were dry, so I licked them before answering. “I’m fine.”

He stood with economical grace, pulling me up with him. We maintained eye contact because I was unable to look away. He was younger than I’d assumed at first. Younger than thirty would be my guess, but his eyes were much worldlier. Hard and sharply intelligent.

I felt drawn to him, as if a rope bound my waist and he were slowly, inexorably pulling it.

Blinking out of my semidaze, I released him. He wasn’t just beautiful; he was . . . enthralling. He was the kind of guy that made a woman want to rip his shirt open and watch the buttons scatter along with her inhibitions. I looked at him in his civilized, urbane, outrageously expensive suit and thought of raw, primal, sheet-clawing fucking.

He bent down and retrieved the ID card I hadn’t realized I’d dropped, freeing me from that provocative gaze. My brain stuttered back into gear.

I was irritated with myself for feeling so awkward while he was so completely self-possessed. And why? Because I was dazzled, damn it.

He glanced up at me and the pose—him nearly kneeling before me—skewed my equilibrium again. He held my gaze as he rose. “Are you sure you’re all right? You should sit down for a minute.”

My face heated. How lovely to appear awkward and clumsy in front of the most self-assured and graceful man I’d ever met. “I just lost my balance. I’m okay.”

Looking away, I caught sight of the woman who’d dumped the contents of her purse. She thanked the guard who’d helped her; then turned to approach me, apologizing profusely. I faced her and held out the handful of coins I’d collected, but her gaze snagged on the god in the suit and she promptly forgot me altogether. After a beat, I just reached over and dumped the change into the woman’s bag. Then I risked a glance at the man again, finding him watching me even as the brunette gushed thank-yous. To him. Not to me, of course, the one who’d actually helped.

I talked over her. “May I have my badge, please?”

He offered it back to me. Although I made an effort to retrieve it without touching him, his fingers brushed mine, sending that charge of awareness into me all over again.

“Thank you,” I muttered before skirting him and pushing out to the street through the revolving door. I paused on the sidewalk, gulping in a breath of New York air redolent with a million different things, some good and some toxic.

There was a sleek black Bentley SUV in front of the building and I saw my reflection in the limo’s spotless tinted windows. I was flushed and my gray eyes were overly bright. I’d seen that look on my face before—in the bathroom mirror just before I went to bed with a man. It was my I’m-ready-to-fuck look and it had absolutely no business being on my face now.
 

Copyright © 2012 by Sylvia Day (www.sylviaday.com)

Excerpted from Bared to You - Sylvia Day. Reprinted from author’s website www.sylviaday.com

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Changing the Game - Jaci Burton excerpt

excerpt

Gavin Riley knew Elizabeth Darnell had been avoiding him for the past several months. And he knew why.

She was afraid he was going to fire her just like his brother Mick had.

Oh, sure, Mick played in the NFL and Gavin played major league baseball, so in a lot of ways they were similar. And since Mick was Gavin's big brother, many people thought Gavin followed Mick's lead, especially in business matters. After all, Mick had hired Elizabeth first, and Gavin had followed suit.

But people assumed wrong. Gavin made his own decisions about business and didn't do everything his brother did. Even if Liz had messed with Mick's personal life, had hurt Mick's girlfriend and her son, and had done just about everything humanly possible to piss his brother off. She might have apologized and set things right with Mick, Tara, and Tara's son, Nathan, but it had been a case of too little, too late.

There were things a sports agent did that were valuable to an athlete's career. But screwing with an athlete's love life could be the kiss of death for an agent.

Liz had never once touched Gavin's love life. In fact, Liz threw women at him like a pimp. Beautiful women. Actresses, models, the kind of women that made Gavin look good. Gavin had no complaints. In fact, Liz had done the same thing for Mick until Mick had fallen in love with Tara Lincoln and put an end to Liz coupling Mick with the latest and greatest starlet on the cover of whatever magazine would get him the most exposure. But Liz had tried to get Tara and her son out of Mick's life, which had resulted in Liz getting fired.

And that's why she'd been avoiding Gavin, no doubt afraid Gavin had sided with Mick and was ready to do the same, which Gavin found pretty damned amusing. Elizabeth watched over her clients like a hawk, and for her to go to complete radio silence was like giving up and letting the vultures swoop in and take over her prime real estate.

Not that Gavin was the best player around, but she'd sat on him since she signed him, not letting any other agents get within talking—or signing—distance.

Maybe it had something to do with that night Mick had fired her.

Mick had walked out of the locker room, leaving Elizabeth alone with Gavin.

Liz had come up to him looking all teary-eyed and vulnerable, two things that were totally uncharacteristic of her.

Then she'd kissed him. And walked away.

Not that he'd thought about that kiss over the past months.

Much.

Except after that she'd disappeared, hadn't called him, emailed him, seen him or stalked him in any way—also uncharacteristic of her. So had it been the kiss that had sent her into hiding or the fear if he saw her he'd fire her?

Did she really think he couldn't hunt her down if he wanted to cut ties with her?

It was time for her to come out and face the music.

She couldn't avoid him forever, especially not at this sports banquet where she had several clients, him included, though she'd been doing her best to steer clear of him.

He'd laid low most of the night, letting her flit around and focus on a few of his baseball peers. He always enjoyed watching her work a room full of hotshot jocks. Elizabeth commanded attention. It didn't matter whether a room was filled with the hottest females around—a guy would have to be either limp-dicked or dead not to notice her. Hair the color of his favorite red sports car, incredible blue eyes, creamy soft skin, and legs a man could only hope to have wrapped around him someday. And she showed it all off with practiced precision. She was a walking sex bomb with a wicked brain. A lethal combination.

Gavin would be lying if he didn't admit to being tempted by Liz. But he never mixed business with pleasure, and he took his opportunities elsewhere. Liz had been a great agent, had locked him up tight with the Saint Louis Rivers Major League Baseball team right out of college, and she'd worked her ass off to make him rich, get him product endorsements, and keep him in his position at first base. He never wanted to do anything to change that.

Besides, he doubted Elizabeth was his type.

Gavin was pretty damned particular about the women he chose. And ballbusting women like Elizabeth? Definitely not his type.

But they needed to get a few things straight, and she could only avoid him for so long.

The banquet was winding down, and most everyone was leaving. Liz was with Radell James and his wife, walking toward the main ballroom doors. Gavin shot out a side door and hung back, unobserved, while she said her good-byes.

She looked good tonight in one of her usual business suits. Black, which seemed to be one of her favorite colors, and tailored to within an inch of its life. The skirt hung just above her knee, and those shoes she wore played up her toned calves, too. She walked through the front doors of the hotel and outside with Radell and his wife.

Gavin stepped outside unnoticed while Liz talked with Radell. Gavin stood in the background and watched until Radell and Teesha's taxi arrived.

After they left, Liz leaned against the brick wall and closed her eyes. She looked tired. Or defeated. Her guard was down.

Time for Gavin to make his move. He stepped in front of her.

“You've been avoiding me, Elizabeth.”

Her eyelids shot open, and her eyes widened with shock. She started to push off the wall, but he pinned her there by placing his hand on the wall by her shoulder. There was a planter on the other side, so she had nowhere to go.

“Gavin. What are you doing here?”

“It's the sports banquet. You knew I was here. In fact, I'd say you danced around tables doing your best to not run into me tonight.”

She blinked. Her sweetly painted mouth worked, but nothing came out for a few seconds. He didn't think he'd ever seen her at a loss for words before. Her gaze darted side to side like a cornered animal looking for escape.

Finally she relaxed and the old Elizabeth was back, her game face on. She tipped her finger down the lapel of his jacket.

“I wasn't avoiding you, sugar. I picked up a new client, so I had to babysit him a bit and introduce him to all the right media people. Then there was Radell, and we had a few things to discuss that were important. I'm so sorry we haven't had a chance to catch up. Did you need me for something?”

“Yeah. We need to talk.”

In an instant, the warmth fled. Her expression narrowed. “About what?”

“You and me.”

Excerpted from Changing the Game - Jaci Burton. Reprinted from authors website www.jaciburton.com.

The Perfect Play - Jaci Burton excerpt

excerpt

Sweat dripped down Mick Riley's face and arms. The field workout he'd just endured had kicked his ever lovin' ass. He leaned against the wall of the locker room, the cool brick and ice-cold water in his hands not helping at all to lower his temperature. He was hot, sweaty, and he'd been knocked on the ground so many times he'd probably eaten half the dirt on the field.

He was exhausted and not in the damn mood for a party tonight. What he'd really like to do is take a cold shower, go home, and order a pizza. Instead, he had to put on a tux, a smile, and hang out in a ballroom with the rest of his team, the San Francisco Sabers of the National Football League. There'd be photographers, television cameras, and probably a horde of women who wanted to hang on him.

Years ago that would have been the highlight of his night.

Not anymore.

When had he gotten so tired of it all? Hell, when had he gotten old?

He stripped off his practice jersey and tossed it to the ground, pulled off his pads and breathed a sigh of relief, then grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face. He unlaced his pants, drained the water from his jug, and went to the fountain to refill it.

That's when he heard the a voice outside the locker room. A woman's voice.

What was a woman doing down here? He popped the door open and saw a gorgeous blonde standing a few feet down the hall twirling around in circles, mumbling to herself. Man, she was a sight with her business skirt that skimmed her knees, her high heels showcasing her gorgeous legs, and her crisp white blouse and pulled-up hair. All prim and proper, and she made him think dirty thoughts about getting her crisp white shirt all mussed up.

"I should have taken a left. I know it was a left. You dummy, now you're going to be lost in this cavern forever, and you're going to get fired."

He leaned against the doorway as she stared down the long hall, tapped her high-heeled shoe, and mumbled some more.

"Where the hell is the office, anyway? It can't be in the friggin' basement of this place."

"No, it's not down here."

She whirled, seemingly embarrassed to be caught talking to herself. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then she headed in his direction. "Oh. Thank God. A living human being. Can you help me? I'm so lost."

"Sure. You need the office?"

"Yes."

She stopped in front of him, and she smelled so damn good—like spring and cookies or something—that he was embarrassed, because he sure as hell didn't smell like anything appealing.

"Take a right turn, then at the first hallway go left. You'll find the elevators. Punch the button for the top floor. When you get off, turn left again and go to the end of the hall. The main office is there."

She studied him, then gave him a wide smile. "You're my hero. I was afraid I was going to be lost down here forever and I'd never get these contracts signed. I have to run. Thank you!"

She turned and practically sprinted down the hall, though how she could run on those shoes was something he'd never understand about women.

She sure was beautiful, but not in the way he was used to. She wasn't overly made up, so her beauty was natural. She wasn't the kind of woman he usually went for. Maybe that's what he liked about her.

And he hadn't even bothered to introduce himself. Or get her name.

Too bad, because he could have sworn there'd been a spark between them.

Then again, it might have just been his imagination. He could just need a slap of cold water to lower his body temperature. Too much heat today.

He went back inside, grabbed the towel, and headed for the shower.

As kick-ass events went, Tara Lincoln thought this one might be the best she'd ever put together. And it damn well better be, because it could generate more work for her, and The Right Touch needed all the business it could get.

Event planning the team summer party for the San Francisco Sabers had been a stroke of luck. The owner's assistant had gotten her card from the usual team planner, who was booked solid on the date they wanted to have the party.

It had taken four months of nearly nonstop work, but as Tara took another turn around the ballroom, she nodded in satisfaction. They'd pulled it off. From the glittery yet understated NFL team decorations to the amazing food to the bar setup to the incredible band, it was perfect, and everyone seemed to be having a great time.

Tara mingled, earpiece tucked unobtrusively in her ear so she was only seconds away from hearing about a disaster, answering any questions, or getting help if someone needed it. So far, all the crises had been minor ones. She monitored bar stock, checked with catering to be sure the food was hot and plentiful, and meandered in and around the crowds. No one complained, and the smiling faces all around her told her everyone was focused on what they should be focused on—football and having a good time—which meant she could take a step back and simply observe.

The band was kicking, the crowd was thick on the dance floor, media was in attendance taking pictures of the star players, coaches were giving interviews, and for the first time that night, Tara exhaled as she leaned against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that showcased the beautiful city.

"Why aren't you out there dancing?"

She lifted her gaze to the six and a half foot tall hunk of gorgeous man in a tux who'd stepped up in front of her. Black hair, striking blue eyes, she knew exactly who he was—Mick Riley, San Francisco's star quarterback, and her savior from earlier today. She'd been so rattled after having gotten lost in the basement of the team's practice facility that it hadn't even registered who he was until the elevator had taken her to the top floor. Okay, not just rattled, but a little tongue-tied. Who wouldn't be when faced with a shirtless, sweaty, gorgeous hunk of muscle? God's gift to women. Good Lord, he'd looked sexy. Unfortunately, all she could do at the time was ask for directions.

Idiot.

But then her synapses had fired, and she'd realized who she'd been talking to.

Mick Riley. The Mick Riley. Everyone who lived here knew who he was. Everyone who watched football knew him, too, no matter where they lived. His endorsement contracts put him on every television in America, and probably overseas, too, hawking every product from deodorant to power tools. He was an icon, the all-American success story. And damn fine looking, too.

"We met earlier today," he said.

"Yes, we did. And thank you again for the directions to the office."

"You're welcome. So, you're a guest here tonight?"

She offered up a smile. "No. I'm not a guest."

He arched a brow. "Party crasher, huh?"

She laughed. "No, I'm the event planner."

"Is that right? You did a good job."

Oh, man, she was getting warm all over. "Thank you. I'm glad you think so."

"Not that I know a damn thing about throwing a fancy party, but I like to eat, and the food was good. There's plenty of name-brand booze behind the bar, and the band is kick-ass."

Okay, her cheeks hurt from smiling so much. "Thank you again."

Now if he would only say all those things to Irvin Stokes, the owner of the team. That would go a long way to cementing her future.

"How late do you have to work?"

She tilted her head back and frowned. Was he hitting on her? She scanned the crowd, going blind from all the stunning female beauty in the room, many of whom had their gazes trained on Mick. Surely Tara was just misjudging his politeness for something else.

"I stay until the last person goes home."

He laughed, and the dark husky tone skittered down her spine. "Honey, you could be up all night, then. These guys know how to close down a party."

That's what she expected, why she'd told the hotel they'd want the room for the entire night and guaranteed overtime for the band and extra staff for catering and the bar. "I do what needs to be done."

"And you look fine doing it. How come you're not wearing one of those butler outfits or a white apron?"

"I'm just the event planner. Everyone else does the real work."

"So you get to dress up, supervise, make sure every play goes off without a fumble."

"Something like that."

"And look good in case someone wants to talk to you about booking a party."

"Perceptive, aren't you?"

"And they say football players are dumb."

She liked this guy. He was funny and smart, but she still didn't understand why he was talking to the help when the cream of the crop was here.

"I should probably move on," she said.

"Someone beeping you in your earpiece or screaming for help?"

"Well . . . no."

He scanned the ballroom. "Something on fire somewhere or some high-strung chef in need of a Valium?"

Her lips quirked. "No."

He moved toward her and took her hand, then slipped her arm in his. "Then you don't really have to move on, do you?"

"I guess not."

"Good. I'm Mick Riley."

"Tara Lincoln."

"Nice to meet you, Tara Lincoln." He walked her away from the crowd, outside the ballroom.

"I really should . . ."

"You have communication central in your ear. If something comes up, someone will holler. And your job is to make sure your guests are happy, right?"

"Yes."

"I'm a guest, and I'd like to get the hell out of this ballroom and talk to you. Which means you're doing your job in making sure I'm happy."

True enough, though for some reason she felt like she'd just been blindsided by a lineman.

And now who was thinking in football terms?

He sat her down on one of the cushioned benches in the outer lobby area beyond the ballroom. She had to admit it was blissfully quiet away from the noise of the party. And oh, what she wouldn't give to be able to slip out of her heels for just a few minutes. Looking fashionable was required, even if it hurt. "Why aren't you inside partying it up with your teammates?"

He shrugged. "Needed a break."

"You needed a break from that awesome party I put together?"

"Your party is fine," he said, leaning back and resting his arm over the back of the bench. "I'm just not a party kind of guy. Standing around making small talk just isn't my thing."

"And yet I see you in magazines at nearly every big event in New York and Los Angeles and here in San Francisco. Right in the center of it all, usually with some gorgeous woman right next to you."

His lips quirked in a devastatingly sexy smile that made her belly quiver. "That's just PR, honey."

"Uh-huh. That's not what the tabloids say."

She felt his arm brush against her back. Very disconcerting.

"Don't tell me you buy into those rags."

"Don't tell me all those women you've been hanging out with for the past ten years have been just arm candy and nothing more."

"Okay, you got me there. But I've never been seriously involved with any of them."

"So you're saying you're a man whore?"

He choked out a laugh. "Wow. You don't hold back, do you?"

She smiled at him. "Just call them as I see them."

"Don't believe everything you see on TV and read in the magazines. That's not who I am."

"Really. And who are you?"

"Hang out with me after this is over, and you can find out."

Excerpted from The Perfect Play - Jaci Burton. Reprinted from authors website www.jaciburton.com.

Sinful - Charlotte Featherstone excerpt

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"We have done what we promised never to do," he said, his voice husky in the dark quiet. "We—both of us—wished never to expose ourselves to the prying eyes of others. And yet we have done the unthinkable, we have sold ourselves to each other."
She could not help but stiffen at his words. Indeed, they had agreed to complete honesty, to shed the mantle of secrets they both wore, and yet, the reminder of it did little to settle her nerves. She had known what she was getting. She had known that her secrets would now belong to him, yet that had not prevented her from coming to him.
"We are both damaged souls, Jane, marred by darkness and sin. We're both scarred," he whispered, brushing his thumb against the uneven skin of her top lip. "You wear your scars on the outside, while mine are hidden deep. But they're there, Jane. You just have to look hard."
"And will you let me look deep, my lord?"
"You've made it clear that this is the only way I can have you."
"Honesty will set you free."
He smiled, and a soft sound of amusement passed between his lips. "The truth enslaves. It will chain us, bind us in a way that the two of us will fight to get free from."
"I can bear the burden."
"I wonder if you can. Because beyond this door we will cease to be the people we show to the world. Agreed?"
"Yes."
"I will be only Matthew here in this room with you, Jane. Tell me, who am I to expect? Who are you really?"
"I do not know," she said, her voice trembling despite her attempts to appear as though she were firmly in control of her feelings. "I always thought I knew myself so well. But then—" The words froze in her throat and she looked away, but he caught her chin with the edge of his fingers and turned her face to his.
"Only honesty, Jane. We promised. We will not go beyond this door until I have your word that you will be completely honest with me, as I  have vowed to be with you."
"I thought I knew what I wanted—who I was—that is, until that night in the hospital. You…you awakened feelings in me that were strange, terrifying yet exhilarating. These feelings were all things I forbid myself—feelings I've never wanted to have. I was quite satisfied with never having felt pleasure or passion, and then when I met you, I questioned everything I have ever believed in. You ask me who I truly am? The truth is, I do not know."
"Do you wish to know?"
"I fear the answer I may uncover."
His expression seemed to soften. She saw the flicker of something in his eye, before he shielded it with his thick lashes as he watched his thumb glide along her mouth, parting her lips. "I, too, am afraid, Jane. I fear what I will find inside me as well. I fear the things you will ask, and the answers I shall have to give you. Shall we forget this bargain of ours, then? Shall we pretend that we never agreed to bare our souls to one another? Should we forget that we ever met, ever touched. Ever kissed?"
"Is that what you want?" she asked, fearing the answer.
"No," he replied in a hard, almost choking voice. "It is not what I want. I want to know you, Jane. I want to understand what makes you different from the women I have known. I want to understand these feelings I had, that I still have."
"Then we will go forward. And we shall never tell a soul what happens in this room. We will never speak of each other's secrets or use them to hurt one another once this week is over. For, a week is all I dare give to you."
"Agreed. Our secret."

Together they released the latch on the door and stepped into the cottage. With a quiet click the door closed behind Matthew. They were now completely alone.

When she turned and looked at him, Jane knew that Matthew would strip her utterly naked, and he would not have to remove one stitch of her clothes to do so.

Excerpted from Sinful - Charlotte Featherstone. Reprinted from authors website www.charlottefeatherstone.net