The Secret in Room 823. Dani Collins

her spine bowed between her shoulder blades bothered him, though. She was a complete bitch most of the time, so high on her horse he felt absolutely no compunction in bringing her down a few notches with these little games she enjoyed so much. Really enjoyed. She screamed into a pillow or the palm of his hand every single time.

      That’s all she was here for, he reminded himself. Mind-blowing orgasms.

      Not that he’d started out wanting anything more than a bit of experimentation himself. Hell, at twenty-five he was a man with acres of wild oats. He’d been intrigued enough to go along with her outrageous suggestion for the thrill alone. How many other men could say they’d had such an offer, from a Lady no less?

      Not that he could tell a soul. The sorts of play they engaged in were the kind you only revealed in a memoir to be published a hundred years after both parties’ deaths.

      A frustrating extra thing had crept into their scenes, though. Curiosity had become concern. Amusement was now affection, even though, he reminded himself again and again, she was a total bitch.

      He really shouldn’t have any craving to see more of her, but once a month was not enough. Not anymore.

      That was the real source of his irritation today. That’s what had had him pacing in front of the hotel room door, tempted to watch down the hallway to ensure she was coming. He hated this four week waiting period, hated that he was her dirty little secret, hated that she had summed him up as not good enough for her without knowing everything about who he was.

      Most of all, he hated that she was seeing other men. Did she imagine he didn’t read the papers? He wrote for them, for Christ’s sake.

      But that was his burden to carry and apparently she had her own, one so heavy on her slender shoulders they looked ready to buckle under the weight.

      Poor little rich girl, he thought, wishing he could dismiss her so easily, but from the first call in her posh accent, when he’d half-expected he was about to be blackmailed, he’d been unable to be anything but intrigued and enthralled.

      And insanely aroused.

      He forced himself to finish clipping the hooks properly, thinking a wry, safety first. Then he said in a voice that came from entirely too deep a place in his chest, ‘Come here, Gwen.’

      She pushed herself off the wall and turned, looked at him through the nylon lines of a spider web that he’d strung across the room. Her gaze followed the supports to the bolts in the walls and didn’t miss the shavings on the floor below each end. Yes, he’d vandalised the hotel room, drilling into the studs with weight bearing screws and bolts. He’d actually made a special trip into this room mid-month to plan and measure everything out. It had been tricky, given the layout of the room and the proximity of the bed, but once he’d seen the contraption at the BDSM shop, he’d been determined to try it.

      She eyed it with apprehension and excitement quivering her lashes. Her thighs twitched together, like she was capturing a release of her honeyed wetness, reacting in that deliciously uncontrolled way that threatened to kill him every time they came together.

      He fought a grin of pleasure that she was as titillated as he was.