She’d had sex with a big, hot, sexy hunk of a man she’d never met before last night.

She’d had the best orgasm of her life, as he’d accurately pointed out.

And she’d agreed to . . . yikes!

Jenna bolted upright in bed and looked around the room. Was she remembering all this correctly?

She found herself hoping desperately that it had all somehow been a dream. A really big, long, drawn-out, amazingly detailed dream. Maybe she’d just returned to her room after an awkward dinner with her decidedly very male guide and fallen asleep in a rum-punch-and-wine stupor, inventing the whole thing in her subconscious mind.

Of course, the dress tossed unceremoniously on the floor in a heap near the bed wasn’t a good sign—she was normally neater than that. And . . . ugh, she was a little sore. There. Which meant she hadn’t just fabricated wild sex with Brent Powers. Uh-oh.

And this also meant she’d agreed to something absolutely . . . insane and unthinkable in the afterglow of what had clearly been mind-altering sex.

Well, too bad. She’d just have to call Mr. Powers and tell him she’d come to her senses, that she’d been drunk last night, and that the deal was off, so if he was busy mapping out sexual adventures for her, he could stop, or use them for some other guest. One who’d actually come here for sex.

Just then, a soft knock echoed through the door, and before Jenna could even react, a male voice said, “I’m leaving your breakfast outside, Ms. Banks.”

Breakfast? Was room service every morning part of the deal? She didn’t recall reading that anywhere. Still, giving the server time to walk back down the hall, she pushed back the covers, tried to move slowly to keep her head from hurting any worse, and eased out of bed. Quietly opening the door in just a cami and panties, she peeked outside to make sure she was alone, then pulled a bamboo breakfast cart inside.

Atop it, a covered plate sat next to a vase of fresh-cut tropical flowers with a crisp white envelope tucked amid the blooms. First, she lifted the lid to find pancakes—which, again, she didn’t remember placing an order for, but they were exactly what she was in the mood to eat. Recovering the plate to keep it warm, she turned her attention to the envelope, plucking it up from the flowers. Her first name was written on the outside—and ripping into it, she discovered a handwritten letter on Hotel Erotique stationery.

Huh. Jenna just stared at the piece of paper, the breakfast practically forgotten.

He was proud of her. He’d said that last night, too, and she’d liked it. She still did—even without quite understanding why. Maybe she liked the idea of being a bolder sort of woman, more like Shannon. Although she didn’t think even Shannon would ever have done anything like what Brent Powers was suggesting.

Or was that demanding?

She knew he couldn’t make her, of course. Yet he’d very firmly taken the lead she’d given him in that weak moment when she’d admitted she wanted the decision removed from her hands. Meaning—I want to have sex with you, but I can’t bear to want it or to admit I want it, so I want you to take over and make it happen—which he’d definitely read loud and clear. What a hell of a thing to confess.

And so he thought that confession stretched into today, too, and the rest of the trip, did he? The truth was, something about the way he took charge—both last night and now—turned her on a little. She’d never liked bossy or controlling men, but . . . somehow this appealed.

Because it does exactly what you need it to? Because it takes the accountability away from you? At least in a technical sense. And last night that seemed to have been good enough.

But today . . . well, to begin with, she wasn’t intoxicated.

And her body wasn’t humming with lust.

Well, not much anyway. Now that she was forced to think back on last night, and on Brent Powers and everything so hot and seductive about him, it was making her a little warm in the panties again. “Sheesh,” she scolded herself, “knock it off already.”

And in all his years, he’d never broken that rule. Until now.

Of course, it helped that until now, he’d never been guide to a female guest. One he was attracted to at that. And one whose need he’d felt in an almost tangible way. Somehow, over the course of dinner, he’d begun to feel responsible for fixing everything that was less than perfect inside her when it came to her sexual self.

And he was pretty sure her sexual issues ran deeper than even her questionnaires implied. He strongly suspected she’d absorbed every bit of negative sexual reinforcement more profoundly than some people might, just because that’s the kind of person she was; she felt things intensely.

Not that seducing her had been part of his grand plan. Turned out it worked well enough in convincing her to go through with the fantasies, but nothing had pulled him up out of his chair and over to that railing other than pure desire. The entire time he’d sat across from her, he’d been admiring the way her dress hugged her breasts, the lush inner curves on display, her nipples jutting provocatively against the fabric. He’d found her blue eyes bright, pretty, expressive—and her lips had looked downright kissable. Not that he’d actually gotten around to that, kissing her—he’d been too busy touching her, persuading her, fucking her. He got a little hard again now, just remembering.

And now he’d agreed to take part in her fantasies. Shit.

Unfortunately, he really cared about giving the girl what she needed. And since she’d come here under false pretenses, not even knowing she needed anything . . . well, that still complicated things immensely. That was why, despite all these rules he was breaking and should probably quit breaking, he’d sent her that little breakfast greeting. Checking his watch, he suspected she’d gotten it a few minutes ago.

How was she reacting? Was he winning her over, convincing her not to go back on the agreement? Or was she packing her bags and heading toward the airstrip at this very moment?

And why the hell did he care so damn much?

God knew he’d fucked a lot of women here, taken part in a lot of fantasies. It was almost all he knew. His whole adult life had been spent helping people find sexual fulfillment, and through that, finding his own—along with professional fulfillment as well.

He’d never set out to be a sex expert, as Jenna had called him last night. No, he’d set out to be a garden-variety psychologist. But somewhere during his last year of undergrad, he’d realized his goals weren’t focused enough. He’d been unsure whom he even wanted to help—mainly just fascinated by learning about the human mind, behavior, and how it all worked together.

And then, as graduation approached, he’d lost what little focus he’d had to begin with. That’s when another psych major, his buddy Chris, had told him he knew where they could both get what he’d called “a dream job.” Brent had soon become a facilitator at the Hotel Erotique, which was what they called the employees who weren’t qualified to be guides but took part in the fantasies. Some facilitators actually had acting aspirations and enjoyed that facet of it, but all were required to have some sort of background or education in psychology and were carefully screened to ensure they possessed healthy, mature attitudes about sex. At the time, it had been a good distraction from some recent pain—and he’d discovered that finding people who shared viewpoints on sex similar to his had felt kind of like . . . coming home in a weird way.

As it turned out, Chris had worked here for only six months before meeting a girl on a weekend trip to Miami whom he’d soon married, and now he was a respected psychiatrist and happy father of three. Brent, on the other hand, had never left.

Sure, he’d gone home to his family in Pittsburgh on holidays, but that had lasted just a few years. Now he only sent gifts and actually spent Thanksgiving and Christmas here with friends who, again, had come to feel more like family to him over time.

A weird lifestyle? Sure, he supposed it probably seemed that way. But he knew his work here truly helped people lead more fulfilling lives, and he took pride in it—enough that after three years as a facilitator he’d taken an extended leave of absence to get his PhD, allowing him to return as a guide. And he’d become so enmeshed in the resort that when the older couple who’d originally opened the place—Charlie and Madge—were ready to retire, they’d kept twenty-five percent of the business for themselves, selling other equal shares to Brent and two of the other longtime guides, Mariel and Dave.

So what did Jenna Banks think of him—a guy who chose this as a way of life?

And . . . hell, why did he give a crap? He’d met literally thousands of women here and seldom thought about their views of him. He could only attribute this to the oddity of having to perform the more personal guide duties to a female guest.

The peculiar part was—designing a plan for her should have been harder than usual, but it was easier. Guys were more difficult to analyze, because they often had a hard time being open, even on a questionnaire. With his usual guests—who could be cocky jock types, forty-year-old virgins, newly divorced men, guys having midlife crises, you name it—it was always a challenge digging into their psyches and figuring out what was missing in their sex lives, why it was missing, how it affected them beyond sex, and many other questions. With Jenna, she’d kindly put it all out there on the forms she’d completed, making it startlingly clear-cut—and then she’d simplified matters further by showing him last night that she was in denial about it all.

And while it had been tricky to get her to agree to the fantasies while being in denial, now that she had, the rest seemed . . . incredibly simple. So simple that as he walked along the water’s edge, hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, he devised her fantasies, one after the other, all in about twenty minutes. There’d be more details to work out as they went along, and as he saw how she responded to each—but his job here was plain: Take her from being a woman who desired sex but inside feared it was dirty and wrong . . . to being a woman fully in touch with her sexual self, fully at ease expressing her sexuality; a woman no one would ever call Little Mary Sunshine between the sheets.

“Get ready, Jenna,” he whispered to himself as the surf rushed up over his feet, “because the first thing we need to teach you is how to follow my instructions.” She’d already let him know last night that putting him in a position of control worked for her—so that was a central tool he’d use to get her through this process. Once she grew accustomed to obeying his commands, half the battle would be over—she’d soon be rising above her past and accepting her true sexual nature.

So she stretched out on the beach chair and struggled to stop replaying the unbelievable memories of last night over and over in her mind. She enjoyed the sun and sea air and peaceful views and tried to quit stressing over the unexpected turn her trip had so quickly taken. She attempted to focus on the pleasant sensation that her skin was beginning to tan beneath her coconut-scented sunscreen. But all she really kept thinking was, I still can’t believe I had sex with that guy last night. Really hot sex.

When a waiter who introduced himself as Ryan arrived out of nowhere, descending the dunes behind her to ask if she wanted a drink, she nearly fainted. Since this expanse of beach lay nowhere near the pools, restaurants, or main public buildings, she’d thought she’d found an isolated area to be alone—and that had been the idea, to get away from the Hotel Erotique for a while.

“How did you even know I was here?” she asked, dumbfounded.

The waiter, a good-looking, muscular guy in his early twenties who had surely been a jock in high school, just smiled. “Any place you find an umbrella on the beach is an area where we provide service. As a guest here, your pleasure is our business.”

She drew in her breath, slightly flustered. “Oh. Well then, how about one of your, um, erotic rum punches?”

“Coming up,” he said with a wink, then walked away.

And for the first time, Jenna wondered—did people who worked here in other capacities, such as waiters, ever take part in the fantasies? Like this guy? Or Josh, her waiter from yesterday? What about Gabe? She shivered a little, despite the heat of the Caribbean sun, just curious, just beginning to cautiously imagine what a Hotel Erotique fantasy might be like.

Of course, maybe a waiter here was only a waiter, and a . . . sexual partner was a sexual partner. But now, suddenly, she remembered the couple she’d seen on the beach last night—while Brent was inside her, touching her, making her come. Had the couple been living out a fantasy—of one, or the other, or both of them? Or were they just . . . fucking, as Brent would have called it, on their own, no fantasy attached?

And . . . what sorts of ways would Brent concoct to fix whatever problems he thought she had? What kinds of fantasies was he perhaps creating for her this very moment? To her distress, she got a little wet just thinking about him planning sex for her.

Of course, it still irked her that he thought there was something wrong with her. Just because she wasn’t wild or kinky, he thought she’d been damaged by her parents’ prudish attitudes and those other negative incidents in her youth. But what was wrong with not being wild and kinky? She supposed in his world wild and kinky were normal, but in hers, normal was . . . in the eye of the beholder. And she thought she was normal.

Even if she tended to close her eyes through most of sex.

Even if she sometimes had a hard time admitting she wanted sex, even to a guy she wanted it with.

She was just . . . well, maybe a little more shy about sex than she’d been willing to confess to Shannon and Kevin—or even to herself, up to now.

She bit her lip, remembering an instance last night when Brent had been behind her, touching her, and she’d had the urge to reach back and touch him, too—his thigh, or his butt. But as soon as she’d thought about it, she couldn’t do it. Even though she’d been responding to his advances, she’d been unable to . . . advance things any further herself. She’d been unable to be bold—even when that simply meant reciprocating a little.

God, what if there was something wrong with her?

Well, even if there was, Brent Powers couldn’t fix it with a bunch of kinky sex in two short weeks.

So no matter how she looked at it, the smart thing was to write that note as planned. And she was going to do it early—she would return to the room by one, write and send the letter, then exit again quickly so that she’d be gone when his “further instructions” arrived. Even if she still remained curious about what exactly those instructions would be.

And then she gasped. Oh dear—what if they were instructions she might actually like? Maybe he’d plan some sort of softer, gentler sex—something romantic or beachy perhaps. Or even a little wilder and beachy, like the naked couple last night. Either way, what if it turned out to be a fantasy she might honestly concoct on her own, as he’d said was often the case?

She couldn’t deny having enjoyed last night—although enjoyed was a mild way to put it. She’d never had sex like that before, sex so utterly steamy and mind-numbing. And what she’d admitted afterward was true—the stark intimacy had made her comfortable with him. And he was undeniably a sex god in the flesh—the most gorgeous man to ever look her way. So . . . maybe the whole reason she’d begun entertaining the notion of going through with the fantasies was simply . . . because she wanted to be with him again. And that had seemed like the only way.

Well, if that was the case, all the more reason to write that note and put an end to this once and for all. She couldn’t have sex with God knew how many people just because she might have gotten a little attached to Brent Powers last night. The very idea sounded insanely . . . destructive. And this just proved her point anyway—she wasn’t cut out for casual sex; she couldn’t take it casually.

So even if she might risk losing out on some perfect beach fantasy with her perfect, hunky fantasy guy—too bad. No more sex for her at the Hotel Erotique.

She’d just reopened her book, finally ready to resume being normal Jenna, when her waiter returned, colorful umbrella drink in hand.

“Here you go,” he said with a grin.

Before she could take it from him, a large drop of moisture dripped from the glass to plop wetly on the exposed ridge of her breast, making her flinch from the cold.

“Oops, sorry.”

“No biggie,” she assured Ryan, taking the drink from him. “I was kind of hot anyway.”

“You can say that again,” he replied with another sexy wink. “Anything else you need? Just say the word and I’m your guy.”

She swallowed. At the compliment and that word again—need. It was everywhere lately, it seemed. Was there anything else she needed?

A strange, reckless part of her was almost tempted to ask him if he ever took part in guests’ fantasies—but then she came back to her senses, despite the wetness now also surging between her thighs. “I’m good for now, thanks,” she finally replied.

And as he walked away, she promised herself she’d stay good. She really didn’t need anything here, no matter what Brent Powers said.

She dug her room key from her straw beach bag, thinking: All right, get in the room, find some paper, write the letter, then head back to the beach—dropping the note at the front desk on the way, with strict instructions that it must be delivered to Brent Powers immediately.

Then she pushed through the door and—oh, hell. Damn it. He’d already been here. Or someone had anyway—and not just the maid. A pink envelope sat atop the freshly made bed, and next to it rested a small pink shopping bag with pink tissue paper billowing up from inside.

Of course, she could just ignore that and write her letter as planned.

But curiosity quickly got the best of her. If the letter and bag contained information about the first fantasy he’d designed for her, how could she not at least look? Because how often did she end up at a sex resort, of all places? Even if she wasn’t into it, it still drew her attention in that morbid fashion, like a wreck on the highway: She expected to be horrified by what she saw, but still she had to peek. And unlike a wreck on the highway, this would actually serve a purpose, surely shoring up her decision not to ride the Hotel Erotique merry-go-round.

Sliding her finger under the pink envelope flap, she drew out a card of white vellum printed in formal black script, like a wedding invitation. Only this was a different sort of invitation altogether.

Jenna would have smiled about him choosing the topic of one of her books as her safeword if she hadn’t been so eager to reach into the bag and see exactly what kind of lingerie Brent had selected for her. And—oh my!—she couldn’t have been more pleasantly surprised to find a sexy yet utterly classy white lace bra and thong set. It was exactly the sort of thing she would buy if planning a romantic evening that might lead to the bedroom.

So . . . wow. Did this change things? Her decision? Because if Brent had indeed designed some sort of simple, sexy, white-lace fantasy for her, then . . . hmm, that might be nice. She wouldn’t have thought so yesterday, but given that she’d already had sex with him and that it had been freaking amazing . . . would it be so awful to indulge once more?

Sure, it meant risking a deeper attachment to a guy with whom she had nothing in common and certainly no hope for a future, but . . . maybe this would be good for her. Maybe the whole experience would help her get better at casual sex. Not the kind he surely had planned for later in her stay, but . . . maybe the kind Kevin and Shannon had been pushing her toward. In one sense, it still sounded unappealing, but in another . . . well, last night had proven, if nothing else, that casual sex wouldn’t kill her. And in reality, it hadn’t even left her suffering any real regrets.

Still holding the lacy bra in her hand, she checked the tag: 34C. Yep, right size. Just like the right wine and the right chicken.

And, of course, if she went through with the sex tonight, Brent would surely be pissed when she announced it was the last time after all, and he’d try to cajole her into more—but the decision would remain hers. She could do what she wanted here—take none of her prize, or part of it. And if she desired one more—and only one more—night of hot, knee-weakening passion with the sex doctor himself, then that’s what she would have.

“Wow,” she murmured, her cheeks flushing with heat. Because apparently she was doing this—entering into one of the fantasies. She’d never imagined she could be so bold, and despite lingering fears, she found herself peering down at the lace in her hands with a mischievous smile.

Now, to get ready for her white-lace evening. Dropping the bra on the bed, she stripped off her bikini on the way to the spacious bathroom. Stepping inside, she reached to turn on the water in the marble shower—then spotted some items on the wide countertop. Again, not things the maid had left—she’d been so enraptured by the lingerie and her decision that she’d completely forgotten more instructions waited here.

She was unsettled enough to see a feminine-looking can of shaving cream and two pink disposable razors, but she nearly fainted when she picked up the card propped next to them and read the words printed in more fancy black script:

Oh boy. Feeling light-headed, she pressed a palm to the sink top for balance and tried to catch her breath. She knew guys liked that. She knew Shannon did it for Kevin—although she got the area waxed instead, making Jenna cringe every time she thought about such pain. But she’d certainly never done it herself. No guy she’d ever dated had asked her to. And why else would a woman do that?

She saw several choices before her. She could just ignore this part. Or she could change her mind altogether and refuse the fantasy.

Or she could shave.

She bit her lip, staring down at the words on the card again.

Then she drew in a deep breath. What would be the harm? It was hair removal, not amputation. It would grow back. And if Brent was into the bare look, well . . . what did she care? She wanted to excite him again, didn’t she?

And thus began the process, which, to her vast shock, succeeded in arousing her as she worked.

Then again, didn’t everything arouse her here? From the waiters to the rum punch, from the co-pilot to her bikini—so what did it matter if revealing a little more of her own skin turned her on?

Although, as she removed more and more hair, she began to think maybe she understood why it aroused guys, too. Usually, it was almost as if the vagina were hiding behind the pubic hair. This put it completely on display—she could truly see it, everything about it. Although, she didn’t shave all the hair off. She decided to leave an oval patch above the slit. She wasn’t sure why—but while she could understand the merits of baring herself, leaving a little hair somehow just felt . . . safer, or maybe more normal.

A mere glance in the mirror after she wiped the remnants of shaving cream away made her more aware of the way she was built, of the split in the center and what it opened to. And when she ran her fingertips over the skin to either side—wow, she’d never felt anything softer. Yeah, no wonder guys liked it this way. Would Brent like hers this way? She shivered in anticipation, then oozed with moisture.

As she stepped into the shower, she felt . . . new. Or maybe just different. She was a woman who shaved her intimate area, a woman who was preparing to meet a lover for an evening of hot sex. The very act of running the soap over her freshly tanned skin—over her shoulders, breasts, stomach, and lower—made her feel sexy, ready. She could be like other women. She could be like Shannon. She could surprise Brent even more—and maybe show him she didn’t need as much help with her sexuality as he thought.

Twenty minutes later, she stood before the mirror in her sexy new lingerie—part lace, part sheer white fabric. Her nipples, clearly visible, shone darkly through, and the panties left her denuded mound noticeable as well. The bra was cut low and built to shove her breasts upward, making them look high and round.

Usually, she thought she looked pretty in an average way. Right now, dressed for sex in a sophisticated bra and thong, with her long brown hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders, with her face tanned and her eyes and lips freshly made up—she thought she looked like a knockout, like a woman any man would be lucky to be with.

Last night, she’d thought she was lucky to be with a man as gorgeous as Brent. But tonight, she felt much more his equal.

Smiling to herself, she slipped into a pair of shorts and a baby blue tank, then stepped into her beaded flip-flops. And by the time she walked out the door, the map to room 222 clutched in her hand, she wasn’t even nervous anymore. She couldn’t wait to see what Brent had in store for her.