Finally, she emerged from a foliage-lined path to find herself face-to-face with a non-descript brick building that didn’t seem to fit the surroundings. Consulting the map, she saw it labeled simply as SCHOOL—and her fantasy was to take place inside it.

Pulling open the heavy front door, she followed a dark hallway lined in old-fashioned green tile, passing numbered doorways, then made her way up a set of stairs to the second floor, finally reaching room 222.

Biting her lip, her stomach churning a bit, she twisted the doorknob and stepped inside—only to find herself in a tiny room, not larger than a walk-in closet. It contained a padded bench, a row of hooks on the wall above, and a large oak wardrobe. As well as another door.

A white card rested on the bench, so she snatched it up.

Jenna sucked in her breath. So there were more props here. She began to get nervous again.

At the same time, though, the juncture of her thighs still tingled and she suffered the sense of having come too far to turn back, the sense that whatever pleasure he’d laid out for her, she owed it to herself to experience.

Still, when she opened the wardrobe, she gasped—at the sight of a small white blouse and short plaid skirt, à la naughty Catholic schoolgirl.

Okay. So she’d been wrong, as in ridiculously naïve. This wasn’t a soft, romantic fantasy. This was . . . kinky. And she clearly should have paid more attention to the emerging school theme. What was that about?

Yet he’d told her there would be costumes involved and roles to play, so maybe she shouldn’t be so surprised.

And it could be worse. He only wants you to be a sexy schoolgirl. And at least she’d been a schoolgirl before, even if not a sexy or Catholic one.

As she reached for the skirt, she started to wonder why she wasn’t stopping this now, why she wasn’t backing out and changing her mind, screaming, “Marie Antoinette!” through the door and running like mad in the other direction.

But she didn’t allow herself to go there. Since something was telling her to put on the outfit.

Lust, she decided. It was lust. It was wanting to be with Brent Powers again. It was the way her feminine mound pulsed from all the anticipation, the way desire stretched all through her now, the same as last night at dinner. And maybe, just maybe, it was . . . realizing that she’d never again in her life have this unique opportunity, at a place where no one knew her or would judge her, and maybe she actually wanted to have the experience.

Of course, she knew what happened at the Hotel Erotique wouldn’t really stay at the Hotel Erotique—it would come with her and be a part of her for the rest of her existence. So if she ended up with regrets . . . well, she’d had very few in life so far. So if that happened, she would simply push it aside and consider it an honest mistake.

Thus it was lust and curiosity and the invisible sense of arousal permeating everything here that had her zipping up the scandalously short skirt, which began well below her navel yet barely covered her butt, and tying the tight white, short-sleeved blouse—no buttons—under her breasts.

Then she spied the shoes on the floor of the chifforobe—white strappy platform heels like strippers wore. Oh my. She’d never even thought about putting on such a pair of shoes before, and she questioned whether she could walk in them, but . . . she’d decided to do this, right? So she sat down on the bench and slid her feet into the ultra-sexy heels, then stood to look in the long mirror inside the wardrobe’s open door.

Whoa.

She blinked, studying herself from head to toe, trying to adjust to this new image of herself.

She looked downright sinful. Naughty indeed.

And . . . oh God, she liked it.

She’d just become . . . every man’s dirty fantasy. Fresh moisture pooled in the area she’d so recently shaved, and she was stunned to discover she could get so hot looking at . . . herself.

And she knew instantly, she wanted Brent to see her this way. She wanted him to know she could look like this.

Not that she didn’t remain nervous as hell. She was nearly as nervous as she was turned on. But in this moment, she wanted to find out what waited on the other side of that closed door more than she could have imagined a few hours ago. Brent had seduced her again, it seemed—this time with risqué clothing and written commands. But that was who he was—a wildly seductive man. She’d accepted that about him quickly and surrendered to it. And she felt like Alice in Wonderland as she reached for the doorknob, gently turned it, and stepped through the metaphorical rabbit hole.

She found herself in a large schoolroom. She could even smell old books, aging wooden desks, and the scent of chalk. Moving farther into the space, she glanced down at the teacher’s desk to find props that made it feel all the more real: a teacher’s gradebook, a pencil holder, a couple of history textbooks, and a wooden bin filled with tests, marked with red ink. When she noticed the one on top bore the name Jenna and had received an F, written in angry red strokes, she fought to conceal a smile. She was beginning to understand her role here.

Except that it still surprised her to walk around the front of the desk in her sexy heels, clicking loudly on the tile floor with each step, and see a nameplate that read: FATHER POWERS. “Oh,” she murmured, discovering his role as well.

“Do you know why I made you stay after school today, Jenna?”

At the sound of the deep, sexy voice, she looked up with a start to see Brent had entered the room through another door in the back, wearing the black suit and collar of a priest. And—oh God—if it was possible, he looked even hotter than he had last night, a mere glimpse of him making the mound beneath her short skirt flutter. But maybe it was just because she hadn’t seen him since then—maybe she’d forgotten exactly how good-looking he was.

“Answer me!” he snapped. “Do you?”

“Um . . . no.” Lord, she was flustered. She’d never been much of an actress and hadn’t had a chance to think about this aspect of things.

He proceeded up an aisle between rows of desks until he stood only a few feet away, after which he gave her a once-over that told her he liked what he saw. When their eyes met again, her breasts seemed to swell within the tight cups of her bra. “You’re consistently late for class,” he said without breaking the gaze, “you fail all your tests, and you try to tease and distract me with your body. You’re a very naughty girl, Jenna.”

Again, she felt the response between her thighs, even if she didn’t quite understand why.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asked, eyebrows raised. And wow, he was good in his role, since she actually felt a little intimidated by his brusque manner—nothing like the man she’d met last night.

“Um . . . I’ll try to do better?” she managed.

“Not good enough, Jenna. I’m going to have to teach you a lesson—you’re going to learn who’s in charge here once and for all. You need to be punished.”

Punished. She swallowed, not sure what he meant. “How?” she whispered.

He never took his eyes off hers. “Bend over my desk,” he said. Then he stepped past her and used one arm to sweep half the desktop’s contents to the floor in a loud clatter that made her flinch—which she felt in her panties as much as everywhere else.

God. Despite her arousal, well . . . this changed things. It was a far cry from the romantic sex she’d hoped for. And maybe the schoolgirl outfit had made her anticipate something . . . well, at least playful—but they’d just left playful behind. “Seriously?” she asked.

He looked positively outraged by the question, his expression actually making her take a step back as her heart pounded against her ribs. “When I give you an instruction, you do it. Do you understand? Now, bend over!”

Jenna sucked in her breath and slowly moved to where he stood. Biting her lip, she leaned over the big desk until the upper half of her body rested on it. She turned her head sideways, toward him, to try to see what was coming, not at all sure she was ready for it.

“Lift your skirt up over your ass,” he demanded.

In response, even in her subdued position, lust continued to flow through her veins. After all, she’d wanted to show him—all through her preparations, she’d wanted him to see her. And despite the weirdness of being bossed around this way, as she reached behind her to flip up the tiny skirt, revealing the strip of lace there, her arms felt heavy, warm.

Upon seeing her bottom, he let out a low sound of approval that ran all through her.

But when he brought the flat of his hand down on her rear for a stinging slap, she cried out, stunned. Maybe she should have understood that was coming, but somehow she’d gotten too caught up in the moment to really expect it.

“Tell me you’re a bad girl, Jenna,” he instructed her from above.

She let out a breath and said the words. “I’m . . . a bad girl.” But it sounded so odd coming from her throat, in a voice too meek, disbelieving.

He brought his palm down to deliver another slap. “Again,” he commanded.

“I’m a bad girl.” Better this time. Stronger. Not that she was sure why that mattered to her. But at the moment, she found herself compelled to appease him.

Another hard, spanking blow—and again, she yelped slightly. He wasn’t being gentle and it hurt. “Tell me you like showing me your ass.”

“I like showing you my ass.” As she said it, though, her eyes fell shut. She just didn’t usually think of her rear as her ass. And to tell him such a truth, because it was true . . . felt strangely difficult.

He spanked her again, and this time, his voice deepened slightly—she could hear the stark lust in it. “Tell me you want to show me your tits.”

Another word she never used. And another truth she felt at her core but found it painful to admit. Yet as a writer, she knew words were only words—she wasn’t offended by them, just not accustomed to using certain ones. She knew guys liked that particular word, so if he wanted to hear it, if it would keep him from being angry, fine. “I want to show you my tits.”

An additional slap of his hand made her wonder if her . . . ass was turning red, and if that turned him on. “Tell me you want me to play with your wet pussy,” he instructed—and for some reason, she felt that one in her gut.

“I—I never talk that way, so . . .”

“You do now. What I command, you do. Now say it!”

She let out a breath. She’d realized he was a know-it-all, but she hadn’t foreseen him being so . . . mean. Words so foreign-feeling had never left her mouth, but she focused on getting them out in a calm, obedient manner. “I . . . want you to play with my pussy.”

Behind her, he went quiet and she wondered if her acquiescence excited him. She wondered what the hell all this was supposed to accomplish in terms of her sexual education. And she didn’t want to be aroused anymore—she wanted to be angry. But despite her wishes, her crotch still throbbed against the desk as she waited . . . for something, and sort of wished this were over. Her heart beat too hard.

This wasn’t what she’d hoped for when she’d put on the bra and panties—at all. She even considered using the safeword—just to end it.

Yet she didn’t. Maybe because her crotch throbbed. And her breasts felt full, needy, pressed against the desk. Part of her was appalled by this, by what he thought qualified as a fantasy for her . . . and yet, wasn’t she aching for more? Wasn’t she excited?

So she lay there, nervous, pulsing, anxious, torn.

That’s when he eased one finger inside the narrow band of lace stretching downward over the center of her bottom. She bit her lip at the touch—and sharply pulled in her breath as his fingertips moved slowly over her anus. They felt damp, as if maybe he’d moistened them first. She tensed, waiting for the pleasure of his fingers stroking lower, through her wetness—so it shocked the hell out of her when his touch didn’t stray from the small fissure and he instead slid one finger smoothly, firmly inside it.

A startled cry lurched from her throat at the strange, uncomfortable sensation. “Wh-what are you . . . ?”

“Punishing you, naughty girl.”

“B-but . . .”

“Quiet,” he told her, and began to move his finger in and out.

Jenna had never felt anything like it. She wanted to think it hurt—the initial entry had been distressing—but . . . it didn’t. In fact, she began to squirm, almost involuntarily, and she heard her own breath growing ragged. With pleasure? She couldn’t figure that part out, but something was definitely making her hotter inside. She suffered the sense of being invaded, never having expected anything to enter her there, yet she never said the safeword or anything else that equated to asking him to stop.

Then he used his free hand to spank her again—harder now, in a faster rhythm. Jesus God. She yelped at each strike of his palm, overcome by the combination of odd feelings vibrating through her. Did it hurt? Or did it feel good? She couldn’t even tell. But each unyielding slap echoed through her body, seeming to heighten every other sensation: the finger moving in and out of her anus, the hardness of the desk beneath her hips and breasts, the pulsation between her legs.

“Have you had enough?” he finally asked.

“Yes,” she burst out. Because her bottom was sore, and inexplicable feelings wracked her from head to toe.

Yet even as he withdrew his finger, making her yelp yet again, he said darkly, “I don’t think you have. I think you need to be punished much, much more, Jenna.” And with that, he grabbed her hip and rolled her to her back on the desk.

It shook her to see him again, face-to-face, after what he’d just done to her, yet his expression held nothing but intense desire mingled with power. Stepping between her legs, he leaned over, brusquely curled the fingertips of both hands into the cups of her bra, and yanked them down, causing her breasts to tumble free.

“Damn,” he murmured then, for a brief second sounding more like the Brent of last night than Father Powers, and his reaction reminded her it was the first time he’d actually seen them. His response warmed her cheeks and made her glance down to where the two mounds emerged from a frame of white knotted blouse and askew lace, large and round, nipples pointed.

His eyes remained locked there, too, as he closed his hands over them, massaging roughly. A moan escaped her throat when, below, his hardened length connected with her crotch through his pants and her thin undies. Her body felt supercharged now, as if everything up to this moment, from the shaving to the spanking to the anal play, had all been priming her . . . for whatever happened next.

Brent aggressively twirled her nipples between his fingertips, then pulled on them, gentle but firm, the move seeming to elongate them further. Soft cries and mewls left her and she suddenly felt out of her head with pleasure—and the need for more.

Next, he bent over her, taking one turgid peak in his mouth, sucking it in hard. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh God!” It hurt—and yet it didn’t. Because it made her throb still more wildly below. He rubbed against her there now, and her head dropped back in abandon. She felt her back arching, urging him to take as much of her breast into his mouth as possible. She’d had no idea she liked things a little rough.

She wanted to protest when he released her breast and stepped back, disconnecting their bodies completely, but she held her tongue when he reached under her tiny scrap of a skirt to pull the lace thong down and off, over her sexy shoes.

Once it was gone, he moved back between her legs and flipped the skirt up again to look at her—there. She tingled madly, pulsated almost violently. But then—oh no—he looked furious. What on earth was wrong?

She didn’t have to wonder long. “You disobeyed me again, Jenna! I instructed you to shave your pussy completely, yet you didn’t.”

She simply blinked, surprised—and still crazily aroused, as well as a little freaked out because he seemed so upset again. “Yes, I did. Mostly,” she insisted, realizing he was referring to the small thatch of hair she’d left, despite its being located well above the area that mattered. “I mean, I just thought . . .”

“You just thought you’d do what you wanted to do,” he boomed at her. “How many times do I need to make this clear? When I tell you to do something, you do it—or you suffer the consequences. Do you understand that?”

Quietly, she nodded. She didn’t know how else to reply.

“I don’t think you do,” he groused. “And I think I need to teach you a lesson the hard way!”

Lying half dressed yet fully revealed before him, she shuddered. “How?”

“I’m going to fuck you until you scream.”

Oh. My. That didn’t sound much like punishment.

But then she got it . . . sort of. He was pretending sex was punishment. He was doing what she’d asked him to do last night—take the choices away from her, and at the same time give her what they both knew she wanted.

Why did that make it so much easier?

And yet, for her, it did. It felt so much more instinctive to act dismayed at the words than show her delight. She even managed a gasp and drew her knees up, closing her legs tight.

Their eyes met and she realized he understood—all of it. That it was her natural, normal reaction, even when she desired sex. That all her life, it had felt easier to make a guy part her legs than to do it willingly. And that’s what felt better now, too—as he placed his hands firmly on her knees to briskly pry them open.

She let out a breath of excitement, surging with still more moisture when his gaze dropped again to where she’d shaved for him.

His palms skimmed swiftly up her inner thighs, coming to rest where they met, framing the part of her that glistened wet and open there. It was another way in which she’d never quite seen herself, but like him, she was looking. His expression made her feel obscenely beautiful. And she almost wanted to beg. Please, please touch me. But she didn’t. Because she couldn’t. Because it was just like everything else—so much easier if the guy just did it, if she never had to worry about letting him know her desires.

That’s when Brent stroked two fingers down through her moist folds—thank God—making her whimper and quake. He smoothly pushed the same fingers into her drenched opening and a low sob left her.

Rather than move his fingers in and out then, he instead began to turn them in a slow and more circular motion, as if reaching around inside her, exploring her inner walls. The odd sensation gave her chills, despite the room being comfortable, and she breathed unevenly, audibly. With his free hand, he reached to undo his pants, his zipper, and she bit her lip when his erection burst free.

Oh—oh God. She’d not seen it last night, only felt it. Long and straight and undeniably hard, the straining veins along its length made it look like a powerful, dangerous tool. Even having taken it into her already, the sight made her nervous now—because he looked bigger than any other guy she’d been with.

“Get ready to take your punishment, Jenna,” he said, his voice low and threatening.

In response, she lay back more completely on the desk and shut her eyes.

Yet as Brent’s hands closed tight over her bare hips, he leaned over and rasped, “No. Open your eyes and watch me fuck you.”

She forced them wide in response, but focused on the ceiling.

And then felt him waiting—waiting for her to do what he’d said.

So she lightly clenched her teeth and drew her gaze slowly, uncomfortably downward, until she met his—and he said, “Lower. My cock.”

She sucked in a breath, felt her chest heave. Dragged her gaze downward, over the priest’s collar and the black fabric of his suit. Until she again saw the large male appendage jutting from it like a steel girder.

She watched him close his fist around the base. She watched him guide the engorged head, a dot of shimmering moisture at its tip, to where her pink folds lay parted, ready. She watched him push the head inward—her body braced for the impact, which came, hard.

As his length drove slowly, deeply, into her, they both let out long, low groans, and Jenna continued witnessing the amazing way her body swallowed that part of his. Until her eyes fell shut again, out of pure pleasure, fullness—and this time he didn’t insist she open them just yet.

With his big hands back at her hips, he began thrusting in earnest. He didn’t go slow like last night—instead he found a brisk, hard rhythm, and she felt every stroke at her very core. Each made her cry out as it jolted her body—her breasts jiggled within the tight lace still outlining them, and she found herself gripping the bottom edge of the desk with both hands to hold herself steady.

“Open your eyes, Jenna,” he said, his voice warm, dark.

She obeyed, meeting his as their bodies collided, again, again.

Then he released one of her hips and reached down for her hand, removing it from the desk’s edge. He drew it up over where he entered her—hard, so hard—and pressed her fingertips to her clitoris, holding them there. “Touch yourself while I fuck you,” he said, his gaze still steady and commanding on her.

Impulsively, she tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t allow it. He pushed her fingers back down, even moving them over the sensitive nub to send an unbidden pleasure expanding outward.

“I don’t want it to happen that way,” she protested as he continued to pound into her flesh below. “I want you to do it.”

He simply gave his head a short, definite shake. “Rub your clit,” he insisted. “Do it!”

But the second he began to remove his hand, she did, too—so he shoved her fingers back down, rougher this time, forcing her to feel her own wetness.

She bit her lip, their eyes still locked. “This . . . doesn’t . . . make me . . . feel good,” she managed between the hard strokes of his erection.

“It will if you let it,” he assured her. “You can even close your eyes if you want.” He suddenly sounded a little more like Brent than Father Powers, and she immediately accepted the offer to shut her eyes, shut out all the shocking, erotic images assaulting her. But she still didn’t want to touch herself. It wasn’t that she never did—she did sometimes; it was that she couldn’t bear to do it in front of someone. Even during sex. It felt so . . . private, personal.

Yet Brent still held her fingers down into her folds, and even just the friction created by his thrusts succeeded in moving her clit against her hand. And soon she heard her breath begin to change, deepen, felt her chest begin to expand and contract as she bit her lip and lifted her hips to better meet his hard drives—and her own fingers.

Oh God. Oh God, it would happen soon. Still, Brent flattened his fingertips over hers, moving them in a hot little circle that made her begin to moan.

And as his touch grew gradually lighter, she wanted to lift her hand away, too—but she didn’t. Couldn’t really. Because—dear God—she was so close, everything inside her pounding, pulsating, reaching. And then she exploded in orgasm, crying out, lifting to meet his big erection and her own wet fingertips, again, again, again.

Oh God.

When the hot waves passed, she felt spent.

Above her, Brent was saying, “That was good, baby. So hot. You did so well.” And she opened her eyes to find his gaze on her—and it somehow made her thrust harder against him, wanting more and more of him, deep inside her, wanting him to make her feel everything, everything there was to feel in the world, in sex, in passion.

Until he was moving in her so violently, fucking her so hard, that she couldn’t think straight, screaming at every powerful plunge, and he began to growl, to groan, and then his eyes fell shut and he began murmuring, “Fuck, aw fuck, I can’t stop. Here I come, baby, here I come.”

And the thrusts he delivered then, accompanied by still more fierce growls, nearly nailed her to the desk—and she liked it.

Soon he fell forward onto her, collapsing in exhaustion, and she noticed for the first time that her legs were wrapped tight around him, the tall heels of her shoes digging into his ass. And as she lay there beneath him, she realized in pure horror that somewhere along the way she’d begun to think in the terms he used: ass, fucking, clit. How the hell had that happened? It made her feel like . . . someone else, someone she wasn’t. Or at least she didn’t think she was that person.

She could smell him, the musky male scent of him, and suffered the urge to wrap her arms around him, too, or maybe run one hand through his thick hair, his head resting gently on her shoulder now—but she didn’t. Because she wasn’t sure how this part worked. And she wasn’t at all sure she should let him know, that despite the fantasy situation here, she was feeling a little connected to him just from being so close, so weirdly personal.

Finally, he rolled off her, onto his side on the desk, withdrawing his erection—a move that left her feeling oddly abandoned.

“You okay?” he asked, suddenly back to being Brent now.

She hesitated, weighing her answer. “I think.” Then she gave her head a soft shake. “It . . . wasn’t what I expected.”

When she found the will to meet his gaze again, he’d propped up on one elbow. “What were you expecting?”

The question made her shift her eyes back away, embarrassed by the more innocent visions in her head. “It was silly, really.”

“Tell me.”

She took a deep breath and tried to be honest. “Something . . . softer. Satin sheets and violin music, maybe? Some kind of romantic beach tryst. Something I might . . . really fantasize, like you said.” Then she sighed. “Something that, now, I don’t think you’d ever arrange for me—since your goal here is fixing whatever you think is wrong with me, not just making me feel good.”

“My goal is to do both,” he clarified.

Jenna found herself blinking uncomfortably. “I’m just not sure this was . . . me.” She motioned around the room, then peered down at the clothing she only half wore.

“You came. Hard,” he pointed out, sounding just a bit arrogant.

She pulled in her breath, unable to deny it. “I just don’t know . . . what all that was about.”

Brent couldn’t explain it to her—too much information, too much detail, would only screw up the effects of the sex. Still, he found himself wishing he could, because she’d been brave coming here today and he felt a little bad for her now. He probably should have anticipated an uncertain reaction—but again, he just wasn’t used to fucking anyone who wasn’t thrilled to be here. Usually, people were happy after fantasies—sometimes exhausted but replete, other times delighted and giddy, and everything in between. “Remember I said you have to trust me,” he reminded her.

“I did—and I’m not sure I liked what happened.”

He thought about going soft on her, but the truth would be better for her in the long run. “You just don’t want to like it. Because it’s a lot dirtier and more complex than satin sheets and violins.”

She tilted her head. “Are you implying there’s something wrong with satin sheets and violins?”

“Not at all. But you wouldn’t have felt half as much. And you wouldn’t have come nearly as hard.”

“It would help if I knew what I was supposed to take away from it.”

Maybe, maybe not. She might not appreciate knowing that a big part of this was about making her obey him—so that he could get her through her fantasies without her balking at his every instruction.

He’d also wanted her to start playing with the concept of being a bad girl. Girls like Jenna, who’d absorbed a lot of negative sexual content growing up, usually went one of two ways—all the way bad or all the way good. Jenna had been a hard-core good girl, the kind who would be mortified if anyone ever thought she was bad—but he’d just shown her that she could be a bad girl and the world wouldn’t stop spinning, the sky wouldn’t fall. Right now, she saw things too much in black and white, not appreciating shades of gray—and there were lots of shades of gray in sex.

“I can’t go into it with you,” he explained. “But you need to loosen up and feel what it made you feel. Not the I-wanted-satin-sheets part. Forget what you wanted and feel what you got. Not just the orgasm. All of it.”

Next to him, she took a deep breath and he could sense how hard she was thinking. Finally, she said, “I . . . wanted you to make me do it. I didn’t . . . want to want it.”

“I know that,” he said simply.

“Well, isn’t that a bad thing? I mean, I’m smart enough to know that probably isn’t the healthiest sexual desire in the world.”

“It’s one of the things we’re going to be working on,” he told her, then heard himself confiding a little more than he probably should. “But for now, it’s something that satisfies you, so I used it to help get you . . . into the game.” Part of this had indeed also been about making her take what she subconsciously needed him to give her. She’d made it clear last night that she wasn’t comfortable admitting what she craved, that she wanted the guy to take the lead, so if that made her do what he wanted for a while, he would play to that. Then later, he’d make her advance beyond that attitude.

In the meantime, though, if it pleasured her and allowed him to take her in new directions, he’d be the dominant lover she required. And he’d enjoy it, since being dominant in bed came naturally to him. “The main thing, sunshine, is what I keep telling you—you need to trust me. And you need to do what I tell you. You need to understand that anything I demand of you is ultimately going to pleasure you.”

“Maybe you make me do things that actually pleasure you,” she suggested, switching on her argumentative side, “but they really won’t pleasure me. Maybe people don’t take pleasure in the same things.”

He only sighed. Did she really think he was that dumb? “Of course they don’t—we all have certain things that get us off more than others. But again, everything I’m doing is for your own good.”

“Making me talk dirty? That’s something that turns guys on—but not girls.”

At this, he couldn’t contain a small laugh. Poor Jenna—she was so naïve in some ways. “Sunshine, I can assure you plenty of women are excited by dirty talk.”

She pursed her lips and looked him in the eye, appearing to weigh his words, deciding if she believed them. “Maybe it does a little more for me when you’re doing it—but I don’t enjoy doing it.”

He considered it progress that she’d even admitted that much. But she was missing the point. “For your information, making you talk dirty doesn’t have much to do with whether or not you enjoy it—maybe you will and maybe you won’t. Right now, it’s about getting over stigmas.”

She looked skeptical. “Stigmas? What do you mean?”

“You know you avoid certain words, sunshine.”

“Maybe I just don’t find them appealing,” she argued.

“Or maybe you’re afraid there’s something wrong with saying them.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s stupid.”

“Then say them.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. Because if you can’t even say certain words, how are you ever going to attain real sexual freedom?”

“I can say them. You told me to say them and I said them.”

She had. But it had been a strain for her. And purely mechanical. “Well, from now on, I expect you to say them a lot more. I want you to start thinking of having sex as fucking, of my penis as my cock, and of your vagina as your pussy—or your cunt.”

She flinched, visibly.

And he said, “See? You’re afraid of the word.”

“I’m a writer, Brent, and for your information, words don’t scare me. But I happen to think of that particular word as a very derogatory term for women.”

“Then that’s a problem,” he said matter-of-factly, “because you should be thinking of it as what’s between your legs.” He reached down and flicked a fingertip through her slit for good measure, enjoying it perhaps a bit too much when she gasped in unbidden delight. “This is another example of how you’ve let one negative perception color your whole view. It’s a body part—a fucking beautiful body part. That’s all. You’ve given the word more power than it deserves, Jenna. Turn it into nothing but a body part and you’ve taken the power back.”

She said nothing, looking both stunned and as if—maybe, just maybe—she was realizing the truth in what he’d said.

“Tell me what’s between your legs,” he instructed.

“My . . . cunt,” she whispered.

“Very good,” he said softly in reply.

Just then, she drew in her breath, knit her brow. “Were you really mad at me for not, you know, shaving the very top, too?”

He grinned, conceding. “No. It looks incredible, by the way.”

She smiled as if she’d just caught him at something. “Aha! So that part was for you.”

He laughed at her sureness, then shook his head. “No. That, too, is for you. To make sure you’re very familiar with your body, comfortable with that part of yourself, fully in touch with the parts that bring you the most pleasure. And by the way, keep it shaved while you’re here.”

“Fine. But if you like it this way, how can you be sure it’s not at least partially for your benefit?”

He tilted his head, thinking it was cute as hell the way she argued these points, seemingly forgetting she wasn’t all that comfortable talking about such things. “Okay, to be fair,” he confessed, “let’s say it was for both of us.”

He thought she’d look happier about that—instead, it appeared she already had something else on her mind.

“What?” he asked. “What’s going through that head of yours now?”

“I guess I was just wondering . . . do I . . . excite you?”

She had to ask? “Of course, honey. Did you not feel that hard dick?”

She flushed slightly, prettily. “I mean, you’ve been with a gazillion women and this is your job, so . . .”

He couldn’t help reaching up, brushing a long wisp of hair back from her face. He hated that he’d somehow made her doubt his true attraction to her. “If you think this is work for me, sunshine, think again. When I walked in and saw you, I nearly came in my pants, right then and there.”

“Really?”

He simply tilted his head and gave her a look. Could she honestly not know how appealing she was, how hot? Then again, maybe she’d never let herself be in many positions to find out. “You make a bangin’ naughty schoolgirl, honey. And it’s important to me that you know just how fucking sexy you really are.”

“Important professionally or personally?”

“Both,” he said, without elaborating. Because it was true, and he knew she needed to know that—but there was a damn fine line here and he couldn’t cross it or they’d both end up regretting it. Even beyond this fantasy, he was the teacher here and she was the student. That was all there could really be. So he changed the subject. “I’m going to give you some homework.”

She lowered her chin. “What makes you think I’m going to continue with this?”

She could argue if she wanted, but he’d seen enough to know without doubt—she’d come too far not to want to keep going. “Because you’re starting to trust me. You’re starting to figure out that maybe you do have a few issues to work out and you’re willing to let me help you do it. Now, homework.”

She simply rolled her eyes again, so he went on.

“I want you to spend some time thinking back over everything that happened today, all of it, and examine how you felt at each point. Figure out the things that excited you and those, if any, that didn’t. If they truly didn’t physically excite you, ask yourself why? Think about what made you feel sexy and hot. Think about what made you nervous or afraid. Then make a list of the positives—one list of things that made you feel sexy, and another of things that turned you on. Even if they don’t seem PC—it doesn’t matter. Be honest with yourself. Lesson number one—sex isn’t supposed to be politically correct, sunshine. Pleasure is far more complex than good taste allows for, so you have to let go of all that when you’re in bed.”

“Is that it, on the homework?”

“Before you go to sleep tonight, call the front desk and tell them you have something to deliver to me. Put your lists in an envelope— there should be some in the desk in your room—and someone will pick it up.”

“Ah, so you’re going to see the list. I thought maybe it was just for my own self-awareness.”

“Afraid not, sunshine. It’ll help me know where we stand in your, uh, tutorial. So, again, be honest. There’s nothing you could say that would shock me or change my opinion of you. Believe me, I’ve heard it all.”

She grinned. “I’ll just bet you have.”

He returned the smile, then began to push to his feet and finally zipped up his pants. After which he took her hands and pulled her to an upright position on the desk. “I’m gonna go. You can stay here as long as you want, take your time. No one will be in to tidy things up for a few hours.” Then he leaned a little closer and lifted his hand to her face. “I’m proud of you, sunshine. For letting yourself do this.”

She looked so pretty just then, so strangely innocent. At some point while they’d talked, she’d pulled her bra back into place, but she was still the naughty Catholic girl sitting there with her pussy nearly on display—looking as pure as the driven snow. “Can I ask you something?”

His voice came out too soft. “Sure—anything.”

“Are . . . we allowed to kiss? Because I’ve noticed we haven’t.”

He drew a deep breath. How could he explain this? “It’s not against the rules, but . . . given how many rules I’m breaking here already, I don’t know if it’s the best idea.”

“Okay,” she said, clearly trying her damnedest to sound as if it didn’t matter at all—but he felt in his gut how much she yearned to be kissed right now, how much she needed what had just happened on this desk to matter, even just a little.

And he shouldn’t validate it, because he couldn’t ever let her believe the sex between them was more than what it was—a phenomenally pleasant time between two people while one of them educated the other. Yet something about the expression on her face made his chest feel like it was caving in.

He started to go, but after two steps, heard himself mutter, “Hell—fuck it.” Then he turned back, stepped possessively between her thighs, and slid his hands around her slender waist. He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her hotly, passionately.

Though after a minute, after that initial kiss or two, the connection of their mouths slowed, their lips lingering together for a long, still moment—which drove him into a drawn-out, deliberate, deeper kind of kissing.

When his spine began to tingle, he knew it was time to stop, so he pulled up, gently backing a step away.

Their eyes met and he once again felt like he was seeing all of her: the sweet girl inside; the girl who was frightened sexually but standing openly before him, exposed, both physically and emotionally; the hot, dirty girl he knew hid within, wanting to come out.

“Sweet dreams, sunshine,” he said, then turned and exited the room.