Across the table, pretty Jenna Banks arched one brow and looked completely suspicious as she cut into her food. “You mean you don’t know? After all, you know what kind of wine I enjoy and how I like my chicken—I figured I had no secrets left.”

He couldn’t resist a grin. “I know a lot about you—but not everything. Not yet anyway.” He concluded with a wink, just before forking a thick chunk of filet mignon into his mouth.

Despite himself, he found her attractive—not only her brain, but also her body. A little obstinate, a little underconfident—but he could go a long way toward helping with those issues once she started seeing things his way. And though it might make him a pig, he found her annoyance at him rather cute.

“I have a passion for history,” she explained of her work then, suddenly sounding much less annoyed, “and a gift for storytelling. But I’m not especially good at making things up—I’m better at retelling the facts in an engaging way. Or that’s what the reviews say anyway.” She shrugged as she took a bite of chicken—yet he could see, that quickly, that when it came to her work, she was confident. And he instantly liked seeing the truly self-assured version of Jenna. It made him all the more determined to improve her life through what the Hotel Erotique could give her in the coming two weeks.

She didn’t get it, of course. She honestly didn’t see how negative sexual attitudes and events had shaped her into who she was, both socially and emotionally. And that was the challenging part for him.

Of course, whenever someone arrived with bigger problems than a guide felt could be solved here, the guest was counseled and sent home. But Jenna didn’t fit that profile. She wasn’t unhappy; she wasn’t ruled in any way by sex or lack of it. Yet—whereas most people arrived here either knowing they had sex issues to resolve or simply wanting some out-of-the-ordinary fun—Jenna was in denial about what she wanted, needed, deep down inside. He’d never been faced with a guest who refused the very sex they’d come here for.

But then again, she’d won a prize—not paid for it—so that changed the circumstances. Still, why had someone so in denial about her sexual hang-ups even entered the contest?

“I Googled you,” he admitted, watching as she cut into her baked potato. “Not as part of the job, but because I was curious about your career. Your books look interesting, and very successful.”

She smiled—still showing that confidence he liked in her so much. “New York Times bestseller,” she said with an appealing pride. “And I’m fortunate to be in that small sector of the population that truly loves its work.”

So was he, but this didn’t seem like the time to mention that. “Who have you written about?”

“A wide variety of people—Marie Antoinette, Thomas Jefferson, Anne Boleyn, Cleopatra, and I’m currently working on an anthology about some of the more famous pirates of the Golden Age. Basically, I write about people who are already pretty well-known, but I try to dig deeper than most biographies and find the really human, emotional sides of their stories.”

“It doesn’t surprise me at all,” he said, “to hear you find emotions compelling.”

“Something you got from my profile, I presume,” she replied dryly.

Her attitude made him chuckle. “True enough,” he admitted. “And it fits with everything else I know about you.”

She gave her head an irritated tilt, back to being annoyed. “So you can tease me about that, but you can’t tell me about it?”

He shrugged, biting into a dinner roll. If he told her everything he knew about her—about the way sex had shaped her psyche, her reactions to people, to men, the world—she wouldn’t believe him right now. She had to be shown. Changed. But he could tell her . . . a little. “Let’s just say people who place a high value on emotions are people who tend to feel things deeply themselves. Meaning that every good thing—or bad thing—that happens to you affects you perhaps a little more than it would most people.”

She simply blinked at him, still clearly just as aggravated. “You just told me I’m emotional—which I could have told you myself. That doesn’t get to the heart of the matter.”

“As I said, you need to be shown the heart of the matter, Jenna. And I promise if you let your guard down enough to experience what the Hotel Erotique has to offer, you won’t regret it.”

Across from him, she simply rolled her eyes. “Look, I know you think you’re very suave and persuasive, but I’m afraid it would take a hell of a lot more than that to make me . . . do what you want me to do here. Speaking of which,” she said, “dare I ask how someone gets into your line of work?”

He smiled. “It’s simple, really. I like sex.”

She was obviously waiting for him to expound upon that, and when he didn’t, she said, “That’s it? You like sex? Lots of people like sex.”

“But most of them don’t like it enough to get a PhD in the study of it and make it their life’s work. I like sex enough that, when I was young, I realized I wanted to be in an environment where I was surrounded by it, but where it was . . . treated like an important part of life. Then, later, I decided I wanted to help people experience sex to the fullest, so they could learn to love and revere sex as much as I do.”

“Revere,” she repeated. “That’s an interesting word to describe sex.” She took another sip of wine and he realized she might be getting slightly drunk. He took it as a cue to refill her glass. Her profile indicated that alcohol often relaxed her and helped release her inhibitions—and that was exactly what he needed to happen tonight.

Only . . . hell. It was a long leap between getting her to talk about sex and convincing her to indulge in the resort’s sensual offerings over the next two weeks. He’d simply had no idea she’d show up for dinner as anything but a compliant guest, ready to begin her fantasies. So he wasn’t entirely sure how to accomplish this. But one thing he knew was—her denial complicated everything, and when she did agree, he’d have to toss most of Mariel’s plans for her out the window and devise his own.

In the meantime, he needed to focus on the conversation here—it was all important. “You wouldn’t say sex is something you hold in reverence?” he asked.

She drew in a deep breath, obviously thinking it over, and suddenly not seeming as argumentative as a moment ago. Good—maybe the wine was doing the trick—urging her to drop her guard. The problem with emotional people was that sometimes they stumbled upon emotions so deep they couldn’t face them, so they turned them off. That was clearly what Jenna had done—with many of her feelings surrounding sex—and his job was to take those bad emotions and memories and replace them with good ones.

“When I’m with a guy I really care about,” Jenna finally replied, “sure, I revere sex. Only it’s . . . the intimacy I’m really holding in reverence then. Because . . . if it were just the sex, it wouldn’t need to be with a guy I care about, right?”

“Right,” he said. “So you revere intimacy, but not just sex itself.”

She nodded. “And you . . . you value sex alone that way, without intimacy?” she asked as if sincerely trying to understand.

“Yes,” he replied easily. “Humans were built for sex—our bodies were designed for it. It’s one of our most basic instincts and among life’s greatest pleasures. Everything about sex—every nuance, every physical response, every little kink or fetish—fascinates me. I’ve never seen the point in trying to hide that or be dishonest about it.”

“You know,” she said, pausing to take another sip of wine, her meal now appearing long forgotten, “maybe I wish I were like you. But I’m not. And the trouble with people like you—and with my friends Shannon and Kevin—is that just because you’re satisfied by the act of sex without emotion, you think everyone else should be, too.”

At this, however, he shook his head in firm disagreement. “I never said that. And I’m in no way suggesting you shouldn’t feel emotion with sex. That’s how you happen to be put together and it’s fine.”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

He considered his answer—how could he make her understand? “Sometimes,” he began, “there are bigger issues at work than intimacy and emotion. And if you let me design two weeks of fantasies for you, I guarantee that every time you have sex after leaving here, it will be better , even more emotional, with more intimacy.”

Her eyes went wide with doubt. “That’s a bold claim, Mr. Powers.”

“Damn right.” And he wasn’t backing down from it a bit. “What I’m suggesting, Jenna, is that if you can temporarily push aside the idea of romantic intimacy, you’ll leave here with a much clearer, healthier, happier view of sex, which will make you a happier person more likely to find healthier, longer-lasting relationships.”

She peered across the table at him as if maybe she was actually thinking it over. Her blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight now that dusk had fallen over the gazebo. The sunset painted the sky to the west in shades of vibrant pink and orange, but he didn’t bother looking because he found himself liking the view of Jenna more. He knew her. In a primal way. He understood her so much better than she thought. And beyond the obligations of his job, he was struck with the surprising urge to rescue her . . . from herself, whether she liked it or not.

Jenna could scarcely believe the promises Brent Powers was willing to make. They were ridiculous. And he must think she was ridiculous if he expected her to believe them. Given how weirdly personal the conversation now felt, she decided to come completely clean. “You want to know the whole truth, the reason I’m here?”

“Very much so. Because like I said, most people don’t come to the Hotel Erotique to turn down the sex.”

“I didn’t even enter the contest,” she confessed. “My friend Kevin entered my name—because he thinks I’m not having enough sex. I wanted to kill him when I found out, but then I decided I could use a free beach vacation. I filled out the forms online on a lark, just for fun, and also figuring if I admitted up front that I didn’t want the fantasies, maybe I’d lose the trip. So there you have it. I didn’t enter. I don’t want more sex than I already have. I’m a perfectly happy, content woman. So what do you think of that?”

Brent’s eyes nearly burned a hole through her, but he didn’t look angry. So far he had never looked angry; in fact—he simply looked like . . . a sexy, presumptuous know-it-all. And ever since the “presumptuous know-it-all” part had been added to “sexy,” she’d felt much less intimidated by him. Even if the way he looked at her right now still had her breasts aching and the crux of her thighs throbbing. But that was just . . . the whole sexual aura of this place, of this discussion. It meant nothing.

“What I think,” he finally said, soft, low, his voice almost intoxicating, “is that this means it’s fate.”

“Huh?” she mumbled in disbelief.

“Maybe fate brought you here, Jenna, to help you face your sexual issues.”

At this she rolled her eyes. “For the last time, I do not have sexual issues. The way I see it is—just because someone like me chooses to be selective about my sexual activity, someone like you thinks that makes me some kind of prim and proper Little Mary Sunshine. Basically, you think your way is right and my way is wrong and that I need to be . . . liberated or something.”

“Not true,” he said, still calm and smooth, despite the fact that she’d just ranted a little. “Someone like me knows there are reasons—valid reasons, by the way—that someone like you is overly careful about sex. All I want is to change that, change the negative perceptions that were ground into you over time.”

She didn’t answer for a long moment. Why had she been so freaking honest on those forms? About her loving yet superconservative parents always acting as if sex were a dirty word, acting as if everything about it were wrong. About her older cousin, Donny, who had, on more than one occasion, made obscene remarks to her when she was an adolescent, and had once rudely grabbed her between her legs at a family picnic when no one else was around—and, of course, she’d been too mortified to tell her mother, afraid it would seem like her fault somehow. And—oh Lord, this meant he’d also read about that time she’d been in a crush of people at an amusement park when she was fourteen and a man’s hand had snaked out of the crowd to squeeze her breast, leaving her to feel helpless and violated. She’d never even seen his face.

Sitting there across from Brent Powers, she hated that this man had gotten such a close look into a private window of her life. She was long over all those things now—she’d written them down in response to pointed questions, thinking only a woman would ever see her answers. And never expecting anyone to think they’d . . . scarred her, for heaven’s sake.

“Just so you know,” she finally said, wondering if she appeared weak after thinking back on unpleasant things, “I’m a well-adjusted adult who is perfectly capable of overcoming a few less-than-ideal situations in my youth.”

“Less than ideal? That’s a mild way to put it.”

“I disagree. Much worse things happen to people all the time. I’m a grown-up—and I got over all those things a long time ago.”

“I don’t believe you, Jenna,” he said, his voice as dark and smooth as melted chocolate.

God, the man was insufferable. “Then what do you believe? And don’t give me this ‘You have to show me’ crap. Tell me what it is you believe about me.”

“All right,” he finally said.

Their gazes met and locked across the table, and her heart beat harder than she thought it should. She felt tense, a little tipsy, and still struggled against the fluttering sensation in her panties every time she looked into Brent Powers’ eyes.

“I believe you want, value, crave, and even revere sex a lot more than you think. But I also believe that, deep down, you fear that all but the tamest forms of sex are, on some moral level, wrong. I believe there’s a very sensual, sexual woman inside you, hiding behind a bunch of negative messages you received as a kid. I believe you’re in serious denial and that you need to be shown how amazing, how really phenomenal, sex can be. And further, I believe you need to trust me here—just take it on faith—that I know what I’m talking about, because your denial is thick enough that you won’t be able to see the truth without my help.”

She took it all in. Absorbed it. Felt a little abused. Embarrassed. Angry. Because none of that was true. Yeah, those bad things had happened—but most people, girls especially, had to deal with stuff like that at some point in their lives, didn’t they? It was awful at the time, sure, but it didn’t mean she was screwed up because of it. “You want to know what I believe?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“That you’re the most arrogant man I’ve ever met. And that you have a serious God complex.”

“No,” he said, “I don’t think I’m God, Little Mary Sunshine. But I do think I can save you.”

His words settled deep down inside her. They were too much. Too overwhelming of a promise for her to take. And why on earth did it make the juncture of her thighs throb even harder?

She couldn’t look at him anymore, just couldn’t. In fact, she wanted to run away—just like when she’d arrived here.

Instead, though, she simply stood up and walked a few steps to the gazebo’s railing to peer out on the beach. The sun had sunk below the horizon now, but the sky remained awash in color, and it was much easier to face the sunset than the man who was making her feel such conflicting emotions.

Lust. Fear.

Curiosity. Regret.

And the strange sensation of wanting to . . . somehow be possessed by him.

Oh Lord. That last part made her shake her head. Where had it even come from?

The wine, surely.

But she couldn’t keep attributing everything to alcohol. Something strange was taking place inside her—some of the most intense sexual feelings she’d ever experienced swirled and swam there, clashing with everything else she was. Jenna the historical biographer. Jenna the conservative dresser. Jenna the dependable friend, the academic, the library volunteer, the college wallflower, the student council president, the eighth-grade girl with braces . . . It went on and on, all the way back to her youth. None of those Jennas knew how this Jenna—this Jenna whose breasts ached with longing and who thought she might die soon if she didn’t have an orgasm—had suddenly come into being.

God, it had been a long day. A long day of thinking about sex. Of feeling it in the air here—even if it hadn’t been “in her face,” as she’d worried about. No, it was more subtle than that. It lingered in corridors and wafted among the palm fronds, being blown to and fro by the sea breeze. It had . . . soaked into her skin, she feared. How else could she explain the raw lust coursing through her veins now?

Wine and rum punch? Sure, maybe. But there was more. The aura of what this place was about. And then had come this man—this hot-as-hell, smooth-as-silk man who unnerved her, irritated her, and excited her all at once. This man who had somehow made her talk about sex and who thought she needed it. And worst of all, now she did. Now—because of all this—she needed it.

But she couldn’t have it. To agree to what he was suggesting would be insane.

She sensed his presence behind her just before his hand closed warmly over the curve of her waist. His breath warmed her neck as he leaned close, speaking low. “What’ll it take, sunshine, to prove I’m right? To prove to you how much you want all the sex you’re not having?”

She tried to breathe evenly, think clearly. “I can’t imagine anything would convince me of that.” Go now. Walk away.

“Really?” he whispered. “Nothing?” His hand moved slowly around, sliding onto her stomach, and the warmth of his body cocooned her from behind.

And still she heard herself say, “Nothing.”

Yet—oh God. Oh God. What was happening? He was . . . touching her. At first, she’d tried to believe it was . . . not sexual, just supportive. But this was sexual. His thumb, gliding along the underside of her breast, was sexual. His breath on her ear was sexual. His body, pressing gently, seductively into hers from behind was sexual. And God knew the way her body yearned, the way the mound between her thighs practically hummed now—that was sexual, too. More sexual than she’d even known she could feel.

And she wasn’t walking away. She wasn’t moving at all. Except for the pounding of her heart. And that outrageous pulse in her panties.

And then—oh God, oh God, oh God—she felt . . . his arousal and gasped. She wasn’t sure if it shocked her more to know she was capable of that—arousing this man—or to feel the stunning hardness stretching upward against her rear. She’d begun to tremble.

His hold on her tightened gently, anchoring her as he whispered low again into her ear. “It’s all right, sunshine. Relax now. I’ve got you. And I just want you to feel good.”

In front of him, she bit her lip. How could this be happening? But . . . maybe that didn’t matter because—oh, it felt amazing. Especially after aching and tingling all damn day. It felt like . . . lush, intoxicating relief.

Finally, she gave in to it, sank into it, into his large, sturdy male body.

The next thing she knew, he was kissing her neck, making her feel it where she throbbed, each kiss like a tiny explosion between her legs—and she instinctively bent her neck to give him easier access.

And she knew she had to stop this before it got out of hand. Well, any more out of hand. Because she’d just told him she wasn’t comfortable having sex with strangers. And she wasn’t.

But when his hand eased up higher under her breast, when his thumb stroked upward, over her nipple—she couldn’t get the words out. Just another gasp. She wasn’t wearing a bra under the halter dress, leaving one less barrier between her chest and his touch, and the sensation had shot through her like a rocket soaring toward the heavens. A glance down revealed both her nipples, erect and poking through the cottony fabric of her dress, and she wondered if they’d been like that all through dinner. And then his thumb stroked the same hard, beaded peak again—and seeing it this time in addition to feeling it made her let out a tiny sob of pleasure.

Say something. Because you can’t just let this happen. You can’t. “I . . . I thought I read . . . that guides . . . are never involved in sex with their guests.”

“They’re not.” Now his voice came like a low growl in her ear.

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m breaking a serious rule, sunshine.”

“Wh-why?”

“Because I need to show you,” he murmured, stroking his thumb across her breast yet again, making her shudder within his grasp. “I need to make you see how bad you need it.”

At the moment, she didn’t think she’d ever needed anything more in her life. But she wasn’t about to admit that. Instead, she insisted, “This means nothing. This is . . . seduction. You’re a sex expert—you know how to seduce girls.”

“This means everything,” he replied. “Because you’re not telling me no. And I’m not even sure you like me. But you can’t stop because it feels so good. Because you need it so bad. You need me to touch you.” With that, he moved his hand full onto her breast, massaging the soft fullness, leaving her helpless, unable to summon more words. Her breath grew thready and her only response was to melt a little deeper into his arms.

Yes, not just one arm now, but both—he wrapped around her from behind and she stayed agonizingly aware of his erection at her rear, pressing deeper now, even as his other hand slid, slow and seductive, downward over her stomach.

“You need me to stroke your hot little pussy, Jenna,” he breathed fervently.

And again, she shuddered at the promise as her legs grew weak and her cheeks flushed with heat, shock.

She held completely still as his fingers sank lower, lower, finally easing between her legs over the cotton skirt of her dress. She sucked in her breath as that part of her seemed to swell—she suffered the odd sensation of growing larger and larger in his hand.

Oh God, he was touching her there. Her eyes fell shut, her head dropped back. He caressed her fully—her breast, her crotch. She heard her own breath—she was panting for him now and hadn’t the power to stop it.

Without ever taking his hand from between her thighs, he began to gather the fabric of her dress in his fist. He was going to touch her. Really touch her. Thank God. Thank God.

Finally, he’d bunched the full length of the skirt in his fist, allowing him to slip his hand underneath—and straight into the lacy edge of her panties. His fingers moved surely, smoothly, over her pubic hair and down into her very core, making her let out a ragged cry of pleasure.

And then she began to move—her moisture against the solid pressure of his fingers. Yes, yes.

“Ah, God, you’re so wet. That’s how bad you need it, honey.” Another deep, sexy rasp came warm on her ear as a tropical breeze lifted her hair from her shoulders and somehow made her feel even wetter.

And part of her wanted to deny what he’d said, about needing it, but she couldn’t think of an argument that made any sense. All she could think of was sensation. And moving against his big fingers as they stroked, stroked, ever so capably through her feminine folds.

His smooth voice was like another form of touching her. “That’s right, honey, move against my fingers. Fuck them,” he whispered more gently than she’d ever heard that word uttered before.

Jenna had never felt this way in her life: blinded by lust. She held on to the railing in front of her with both hands, bracing herself, moving more vigorously against him. Against his fingers in her wetness, against the incredibly hard column that slid up and down through the center of her rear.

She would come soon—she knew it. She bit her lip and thrust herself at his touch with sheer abandon. She kept her eyes clenched tight—she wasn’t sure why but didn’t examine it; maybe she’d always done that when approaching orgasm. And she was pretty sure she’d have climaxed already if she hadn’t been fighting this so hard, but she was unable to fight any longer. Oh God, she was wet for him, dripping wet, and for a brief, startling moment she allowed herself to revel in that, in how wet he’d made her and the knowledge that she was getting his hand just as wet.

“That’s so good, baby,” he purred in her ear now, “so damn good. But you need more, sunshine, and you know it. You need my hard cock in your tight little pussy.”

And—dear Lord—she did. The dirty promise vibrated through that very part of her, making it ache—for more than just his skilled touch, for . . . fullness, something thick and sturdy inside. And she knew she should end this—because sex was a big step beyond touching—but she felt almost paralyzed, stuck between two extremes, both nagging at her. Her instinct was to say stop, but if she did, he would, and that wasn’t what she really wanted.

Now both his hands were up under her dress, pulling her panties down to midthigh. And then his touch was gone and she knew he was undoing his pants. Her paralysis grew worse—stark, raging lust warred with something that ran nearly as deep: her common sense, her lifelong morals, the sense that having sex with a stranger was insanely wrong.

His hands closed warmly on her exposed bottom now, and—dear God—his erection pressed into the valley there, his hard, hard flesh nestling where she was soft. She bit her lip and gripped the rail tighter, nearly torn in half with conflicting emotions.

“Tell me you need it, baby,” he purred, low and demanding. “Tell me you need my big cock.”

Unthinkable. She didn’t know how to talk that way. And she couldn’t admit to needing it—she just couldn’t. “I can’t,” she whimpered, hating how weak she sounded.

Now his fingers dug slightly into her hips, and his rigid length began to . . . move up and down again, sliding, as if sawing into her defenses. “Then tell me you want it,” he whispered more softly, seductively. “Tell me you want this, sunshine.”

She let out a breath. Faced the cold, hard truth. “I can’t do that, either.”

Behind her, he tensed slightly—she heard him breathe in deeply. God, she was frustrating him. But she couldn’t help it. This was entirely new territory and she wasn’t even sure how she’d gotten here.

He leaned back in, slow, warm, and at the same time slid one hand back around to the crux of her thighs, letting the tip of his middle finger come to rest on the spot where she felt most swollen and needy. “What do you want, Jenna?” Despite what she’d feared, his voice remained entirely gentle, understanding. He was really asking her, asking her what she wanted.

It forced from her . . . a shocking, unshrouded truth. “I want . . . not to decide. Because no matter what I say, yes or no, I won’t be happy. I want . . . the decision taken away from me.” Her eyes bolted open then to peer out on the dark, empty beach in the distance, across the dunes, to the stars now dotting the night sky, and the world felt surreal. She wasn’t sure what she’d just admitted, but it felt . . . like a confession of epic proportions. It left her more drained than anything else that had happened here—her limbs felt weak; her soul felt weak.

But Brent still held her up. His hands eased around her in a warm embrace from behind, settling at her waist. He leaned over and gently bit her shoulder—barely letting his teeth press into her flesh—and the unexpected affection jolted through her, straight to where he’d been touching her, forcing a sigh from her throat. “All right then, Little Miss Sunshine,” Brent murmured against her neck, “I’m going to give you what you want.” Then he leaned closer and spoke even lower. “What you really want.”

Her lips trembled as she found the quiet strength to turn her head toward his, bringing them face-to-face, their eyes, mouths, only a few inches apart. “Which is?”

“Just like you said. You don’t get to decide. I do. And I’m going to fuck you so deep,” he promised, his teeth clenching lightly, “so good, that it’s gonna be the best you’ve ever had. Because that’s what you want—and what you need, baby. To be fucked.”

Their eyes still locked, Jenna parted her lips to speak, having no idea what she intended to say. But Brent stopped her anyway, with a short shake of his head. “No words, Jenna. No more decisions or choices. You just do what I say now. You just be a good girl and turn around and hold on tight to that rail.”

Jenna drew in her breath and slowly did what he instructed—looked straight ahead and gripped the railing. And felt guilt and worry slip away, like a silk gown falling from her body. It was a game of words, but that didn’t matter—somehow, never telling him she wanted it made it less heinous. Forcing him to make the decision washed away the conflict inside her.

His hands locked on to her hips less gently now and her body tensed with strange pleasure as she waited. He pulled her closer then, making her re-situate slightly on her heels, her back arching. And then—God—his fingers were there, behind her, moving between her legs, parting her, and at least two of them pushed up inside her, making her cry out. Yes, yes! At last—something there, inside her. She bit her lip, her breathing ragged. More, please. She wanted to beg—but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to want it. She just wanted him to take it.

His fingers thrust inside her and she heard her own wetness and wondered briefly what she looked like bent over a handrail, her dress lifted to her waist—but she pushed that thought aside. In fact, she shut her eyes again since that made it all easier. To just feel. To just pretend she was dreaming or something.

And then Brent’s fingers were gone and Jenna knew what would come next, so she bit her lip, bracing herself, and then there he was—so, so hard—positioning himself, and she instinctively arched deeper, lifting her bottom higher, and then—oh!—he was inside her, entering slow and, as promised, so very deep.

Thank God she held on to the rail or she’d be on her knees now. The sob that left her rose from her gut. God, he felt big—it had been so long since she’d done this. But he also felt good, delivering that incredible fullness she’d yearned for.

When he began to move in her, it was slow, thorough, his strokes stretching all through her—from head to toe. Big, so big. He filled her. And she gradually began to push back against him, meeting his long, sensual thrusts, taking him deeper still.

“Open your eyes, Jenna,” he purred over her. She’d turned her head to the side at some point, so he knew they were closed. “Feel this. Experience this. All of it.”

Biting her lip, she did as he said. She took in the beach again—a glimpse of white foam as waves broke over the shore in the moonlight. He was right. She felt it more this way. And it made it . . . dirtier. To be forced to remember she stood in a gazebo, fully dressed, being . . . fucked by him, a total stranger. She never used that word, but he used it a lot, and as he drove up into her wetness, again, again, she knew that’s what this was—fucking.

She pushed against him, harder, harder. She heard her own labored breathing.

And then Brent’s hand snaked around from her hip to the front, and when he sank his fingers there, she moaned. Yes, yes, God, please. More words she couldn’t bring herself to utter. With some other lover in some other place and time, maybe—but not with this stranger, this man who insisted he knew what she needed. It was impossible.

So instead she simply moved with his touches and heard her heady moans waft up into the warm night air. Like before, each hot grind gave her pleasure from the front and the back, only much more intense now. His other hand rose to cup one breast through her dress, finger and thumb toying hotly with her nipple and making her undulate more wildly against him.

His heated breath behind her fueled her, exciting her more. Soon he released her breast—only to thrust his hand inside her dress and warmly recapture it, flesh to flesh. She cried out at the new connection, and when he caught her sensitive nipple between two fingers, squeezing it as he began to massage—oh God. She bit her lip and thrust her wetness more insistently against his hand. And he whispered, “That’s right, baby, that’s so good.” And he began to drive his erection into her harder, harder, and she looked out on the beach and—oh my—spotted a couple, naked, doing exactly what they were: fucking.

She took in everything Brent delivered as she focused, stunned and incredibly aroused, on the couple in the sand. The man lay on his back and the woman rode him wildly, her arms over her head like some sort of erotic cowgirl. They were far away, small from where she stood, but she could still make out the movements clearly, could still see the woman’s large breasts swaying in the moonlight. And she could sense the woman’s pleasure, stark and guiltless pleasure—and that was when the orgasm exploded through her body like an earthquake, the crux of her thighs the epicenter.

She heard her cries—couldn’t begin to suppress them; she clutched the rail as tight as she could, feeling the rolling waves of pleasure echo through her from head to toe, a release so powerful she could barely withstand it. The world shifted; everything inside her spun and tilted crazily.

When it was over, every part of her body tingled, all the way out to the tips of her fingers and toes—and somehow she and Brent were on their knees now, both of them. She’d sunk there, unable to keep standing, and he’d descended with her—still inside her.

His arms circled her waist as she collapsed against him, trying to come back to herself, and he was whispering in her ear, “Aw, baby, that was so good. You did so fucking good, honey.”

And somehow, it helped. A moment when she might have suffered in anguish over what she’d just done, was still doing, instead became one where she felt . . . comforted, cared for, praised. So she rested against him, trying to regain her strength—but she stayed aware, too, that he remained inside her. And when that grew to be the sensation she felt more than her recovery from orgasm, she found herself biting her lip in raw pleasure.

“We’re gonna shift now,” Brent said, his breath warming her neck, “and you’re gonna move to your hands and knees.”

Oh. My. She’d never . . . But then, she’d never done it standing up before, either. And . . . and . . . she’d given him the power, told him she didn’t want to make any decisions. So . . . she moved with him, slowly, leaning forward until her palms pressed into the wooden plank floor of the gazebo, and she arched her bottom just like before and felt a little obscene, but when he began to thrust into her again with those slow, deep, thorough strokes, it took everything else away.

The position was hard to maintain in her exhaustion, but each drive traveled all the way through her, out through her limbs. And when he began to move harder, faster, grunting his pleasure with each plunge, even her face began to tingle hotly and she once again couldn’t hold in her cries of pure lusty joy. Oh God, he felt so good, so big, thrusting, thrusting, so deep, so hard. She sobbed. She moaned. She felt utterly taken, possessed, just like she’d wanted—although she still didn’t understand why on earth that was a good thing.

And just when she feared her arms would give out and she’d collapse to the wood beneath her, he muttered, “Fuck yeah, baby, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come so fucking hard in your sweet pussy. Here I go.” And then his low, masculine groans filled the night—and seemed to fill her soul, too. To know she’d made this insanely sexy, powerful man climax so fiercely. The sex expert. The sexologist. It was a unique delight that had her smiling secretly in the darkness, for just a brief moment, before their bodies slowly crumpled to the gazebo’s floor.

They lay silent for a few minutes, during which Jenna tried not to feel anything inside. Just the physical part. Because—for whatever reason—she had needed sex tonight. So she tried to enjoy the afterglow. And she tried really hard to forget the weirdness of where she was and whom she’d just had really amazing sex with.

Until Brent—lying on his back next to her, peering up toward the gazebo’s rafters—said, “Sorry, sunshine, but looks like I win.”

She sucked in her breath and turned her head toward him. “Win what?”

Next to her, he sat up, then reached for her hands to draw her upright, too. “I proved my point,” he said, back to being the smooth, matter-of-fact “sex doctor.” “You agreed that if I did, you’d let me take you the rest of the way, through the fantasies you need.”

Ugh, there was that icky word “need” again. “This proved nothing except that apparently I can have sex with a stranger.”

He grinned, lowering his chin indulgently. “However you want to look at it. But we both know you want this now. We both know you’d take enormous pleasure from it.”

Her cheeks filled with heat. We do? We know that? She had no idea how he’d made that leap—since one occurrence of sex with him, however hot and scintillating, did not equate to going through the whole series of fantasies, with more strangers.

“What—what would it entail?” She heard the words leave her mouth, but she couldn’t believe she’d actually asked. As if she were considering this. Because that was insane.

“I’m sure you’ve read the literature,” Brent replied. “As your guide, I prepare a series of scenarios designed especially for you and your individual needs and desires. By the time you’ve completed them, your sexual inhibitions will be a thing of the past and you’ll be a happier, healthier person.”

Sexual inhibitions. Did she really have them? Could he know what he was talking about? And yet . . . she needed to rephrase her question. Because she wasn’t asking about what he thought she needed as much as she was asking about . . . the man she’d just had sex with. Although she tried to sound casual about it. “No, I meant the sex itself. The fantasies. How do they work? Would . . . you be there?”

Their eyes met in the dim candlelight from the table above. His filled with reservation. “I’m not supposed to be.”

Jenna pulled in her breath, nodding lightly, not quite able to meet his gaze anymore. It had been crazy to even ask. What difference did it make if he was there? She supposed some small part of her had begun to think: Maybe if I can do this with him, I could do that with him. But since when did she want this—sex with a stranger—anyway?

Placing one bent finger beneath her chin, he forced her gaze to his. “Would it make you more comfortable if I were involved?”

Jenna blinked. Tried to wade through her tangled feelings. “The total truth?”

“Absolutely. I’m all about the truth, sunshine.”

She drew in her breath—and fought to be honest with him. “The truth is that I can’t believe I did this with you and I can’t believe I’m sitting here with my panties still around my knees—because this is not the kind of thing I do, which I’m sure you understand by now.”

“And that’s exactly why you needed to do it.”

Need again. Shut up about that already. “The very notion of . . . of doing what you’re suggesting, going through these fantasies you want to create for me, is . . . mind-boggling. I can’t believe I’m considering it for even a second. But I suppose I was thinking that since I’ve now been . . . like this, with you, that maybe, just maybe, it would make future such . . . experiences easier for me . . . if you were there.”

Brent sighed. “It’s a pretty big fucking rule, Jenna. It’s there for a reason.”

She didn’t ask the reason, just stated the obvious. “You just broke a big rule, which I presume was there for a reason.”

“True,” he said.

And Jenna knew she should accept that, because it was her Get Out of Jail Free card—a damn good reason to say, Okay then, sorry, but I can’t do this. That was what she’d planned on in the first place. And one round of sex with him didn’t change that. Or it shouldn’t anyway. So it was simply beyond her understanding when she instead said, “Look, I’ve been honest with you, far more honest than I intended to be, so here’s more honesty. I truly didn’t come here for the sex, so I’m not mentally prepared for this—in fact, I’m absolutely scared to death of it. So I think the only way I could possibly do it would be if . . . if you were there.”

He looked at her in the shadows, his expression quiet, even kind. “If you’re scared to death, why are you considering it?”

“More truth? I don’t know,” she whispered. “I really don’t.”

He pursed his lips, looked troubled, and then . . . conceded. “All right, sunshine. If you’ll agree to this if I’m involved, then I will be.”

Oh God. She wasn’t sure she’d expected that. It had been like the sex itself—she hadn’t been able to bring herself to say no, but she hadn’t been sure she wanted the answer to be yes, either.

Yet Brent looked almost . . . proud of her. And for some reason, she liked that. It was much better than having him insist she was a needy woman in denial.

“How does it, um . . . start?” she asked.

“You’ll receive instructions prior to each fantasy about time, place, and what to wear. You’ll be given a safeword, something you say only if and when you want out, if you want the fantasy to end—if it’s truly not bringing you pleasure. But I’ll be working very hard to make sure it all brings you pleasure,” he said with his usual seductive smile. “Still, sunshine, I should warn you—sometimes you might have to be patient for a little while and trust me on that. Don’t say the word out of fear—only say it if something has begun to happen that’s bringing you true displeasure. And I promise, the pleasure will always come. Always.”

Oh Lord. What had she put into motion here? She tried to catch her breath and be brave. “All right.”

“There are a few other things we need to go over, too,” he said. “First, about the other people you’ll meet here. Sometimes we build fantasies for our guests that can . . . overlap. That means you might meet someone during a fantasy who is actually in his or her own fantasy at the same time, even though the goal of that fantasy might be entirely different than the goal of yours. And, conversely, you’ll interact with other participants who are employees of the Hotel Erotique. We request that you not ask anyone whether they’re a guest or an employee—simply because it decreases the sense of fantasy.”

“Um, may I ask . . . what if you put someone in my fantasy who I’m, uh, not attracted to?”

He grinned. “No need to worry, sunshine. Do you remember when you went through a long online page of photos clicking next to those you found attractive?”

She nodded. She’d known it was telling them something about her preferences, but she hadn’t thought any further ahead.

“Many of the people you saw are our actual employees. We use your response to others to fill in the gap—for instance, we would never put another guest in your fantasy if they didn’t fit the parameters we gathered for whom you’re physically drawn to.”

Dear God—this was strange. She knew it made sense to populate her fantasies with people she found attractive, but she’d never thought about the actual logistics of how it would work, since she hadn’t been taking this part seriously.

“And we also ask that you remember—most of our fantasies are designed to be just that. You’ll be traveling to other places in your fantasies, maybe other times. You and I and everyone else involved will all be playing roles, and even if that feels odd at first, just do your best and I promise it’ll be okay. We won’t be just Brent and Jenna anymore—but if you need me, or if you need to invoke the safeword, just find me with your eyes and I’ll be there. Otherwise, the idea is to immerse yourself in the setting and situation as much as possible.

“And finally,” he continued, “I need to address sexual safety.”

Oh, shit. He hadn’t worn a condom! Combining the intensity of the moment with the fact that she was out of practice, it had totally slipped her mind. Then again, how was a girl supposed to remember a condom in a situation as freaky as this?

But Brent seemed cool as a cucumber. “Every employee who takes part in our fantasies is tested monthly and the documentation is in our offices, should you wish to see it. We have yours on file, too.”

As luck had it, she’d recently been tested as part of a screening process at a community college where she’d applied to teach a history course to earn extra money between book advances—and she’d even gone so far as forwarding the results via e-mail when Mariel had requested them, all to keep up the appearance that she was planning to take the whole prize. And now she was. Unbelievable.

Jenna had also reported to Mariel that she was on birth control—even if most of the time the only purpose it served was keeping her periods regular. So he surely had that information, as well.

Yet still, despite all that, she swallowed uncomfortably. “How do I know, um, you’re safe?”

To her surprise, he looked amused. “Mine’s on file, too, if you want to see it.”

She blinked. “Why do you need one? If you don’t normally participate in guests’ fantasies.”

“I don’t participate in the fantasies of the guests to whom I’m a guide. That doesn’t mean I don’t take part in those of other guests.”

“Oh.” Hmm. He had sex here, with strangers, on a regular basis.

It didn’t change anything—she’d known it all along really, but somehow maybe she’d hoped he’d outgrown that part of the job upon becoming a guide. Now pictures filled her head: him, in the center of orgies, naked, thrusting, the way he’d just thrust into her. And it reminded her that she’d just agreed to do whatever he chose for her. With him. With other people. And for all she knew, she might end up in the center of an orgy! Oh God, had she lost her mind?

Just then, as sanity was about to return, Brent reached out to touch her, his fingertips curving over her cheek. “Thank you for trusting me enough to do this, sunshine.”

And that brief glimpse of sanity forced her to ask, “Why . . . do I trust you? I just met you. And as you said, I’m not even sure I like you.” Even if her sarcastic tone hinted otherwise.

In reply, he leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Maybe it’s because I just gave you the best orgasm of your life.” Then he pushed smoothly to his feet, said, “Goodnight, sunshine,” and walked away, leaving Jenna to wonder just what the hell she’d gotten herself into and why.