Chapter 1: Bourbon and Anticipation
The ice in my bourbon had melted into a single, ghostly crescent, but I wasn’t drinking it. I was savoring the anticipation. My finger traced the rim of the glass as my eyes, for the tenth time in as many minutes, cut across the dim, intimate space of the Del Mar bar toward the bank of elevators.
The pianist in the corner was weaving a lazy version of “The Nearness of You,” notes dripping like honey into the soft murmur of conversation. Plush velvet the color of bruised grapes swallowed sound and light, and the mahogany bar under my elbows was slick and cool.
“She’s gonna knock you flat, isn’t she?” Leo, the bartender, chuckled as he polished a glass. He’d seen me check my watch, then the elevators, then my watch again for the past twenty minutes.
“That’s the plan,” I said, a slow smile spreading. I finally took a sip. The bourbon was smooth, warm, a familiar comfort. “I’m just the set dressing. She’s the main event.”
He shook his head, grinning. “Romantic weekend. I see a lot of ‘em. Most guys look impatient. You just look… hungry.”
“I’m patient,” I said. “And I’m always hungry for her.”
It was the truth. Seventeen years, and the sight of Megan could still hollow out my stomach, could still make the air feel thin. It wasn’t just her beauty, though Christ, she had that in spades. It was the intelligence in those hazel eyes, the knowing curve of her mouth, the way her mind worked—sharp, quick, often two steps ahead of mine. Keeping up with her was the best kind of exhaustion.
Then the elevator chimed, a soft ping that somehow cut through the jazz.
The doors slid open, and the world narrowed.
She stood there, a silhouette against the golden interior light. For a heartbeat, she was still, a vision in a dress the color of deep emerald. It was simple. Sleek. It plunged in a V at the front, hinting at the swell of her breasts, and clung to every graceful curve before ending just above her knee. Long blonde hair fell over one bare shoulder. She spotted me, and her lips—painted a shade darker than her usual pink—parted in a smile that hit me like a physical touch.
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.
She moved through the room, and I saw heads turn, a subtle shifting of attention. A man at a table nearby missed his mouth with his olive, staring. I felt a primal, possessive thrill, instantly followed by a deeper pride. She was with me.
“Told you,” Leo muttered under his breath, and then he was gone, giving us space.
She slid onto the velvet stool beside me, the scent of her perfume—orange blossom and vanilla—washing over me. “Sorry I kept you waiting,” she said, her voice a low, intimate thread.
“You’re always worth the wait.” I leaned in and kissed her, not a peck but a slow, claiming press of my mouth to hers. She tasted of mint and wine. When I pulled back, my gaze traveled from her eyes down the line of her throat, over the exposed skin the dress offered. “You look… incredible is too small a word.”
A faint blush colored her cheeks. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Mr. Executive.” Her fingers brushed the gray threading through my trim beard, then smoothed the lapel of my jacket. Her touch was electricity. “Thank you for this. For planning it. It’s perfect already.”
“It hasn’t even started.” I signaled Leo. “Champagne. The Roederer.”
While Leo worked, Megan placed a small, gift-wrapped box on the bar between us. It was about the size of a deck of cards, wrapped in silver paper with a tight black bow.
“What’s this?” I asked, intrigued.
“A little pre-dinner amusement.” Her eyes glinted with mischief. “Open it.”
I picked it up. It was light. I pulled the ribbon, tore the paper. Inside was a plain black cardboard box. I lifted the lid.
Nestled on a bed of tissue paper was a small, sleek remote control. It was black, minimalist, with a single dial and a button. It looked like a high-end audio component. I frowned, puzzled, then looked at her.
Her smile had turned secret, wicked. She leaned close, her lips brushing my ear. Her whisper was pure heat. “It’s for me. I’m wearing the other half.”
The meaning slammed into me. A remote. The other half. My brain stuttered, then ignited. My gaze dropped involuntarily to her dress, to the elegant lines where it hugged her body. A slow, burning ache spread through my core.
“You’re…” My voice was rough.
“Uh-huh.” She leaned back, watching my face, enjoying my reaction. “A very discreet model. Quiet. But powerful.” She took a deliberate sip of the champagne Leo had just poured. “I’ve had it on a very low setting since I left the room. Just a… hum. A reminder.”
I stared at the remote in my hand. It felt suddenly heavy, potent. This was her game.Her gift. Not just the object, but the control she was offering, and the trust it implied. The bar, the public intimacy of it, the sheer audacity… it was so perfectly her.
“You are a genius,” I said, my thumb stroking the dial.
“I have my moments.” She crossed her legs, the movement drawing my eye. “The rules are simple. You hold the remote. But I hold the veto. If I tap the bar twice, you turn it off.Immediately. No questions.”
“Immediately,” I agreed, the commitment solemn. This was our dance. Always had been.
“Good.” She settled back, her posture relaxed, but her eyes were alive with challenge. “Now, we’re going to have a drink. We’re going to talk. And you’re going to decide just how distracted you want me to be during this conversation.”
A slow grin pulled at my mouth. I took a long drink of champagne, the bubbles sharp and bright. I set the remote down next to my glass, my fingers resting lightly on the dial. I looked at her—at the confident set of her shoulders, the playful dare in her eyes, the slight, almost imperceptible flush on her chest.
I turned the dial, just a millimeter.
Her breath hitched. A tiny, beautiful sound. Her eyelids fluttered for a fraction of a second before she steadied herself, her knuckles whitening slightly where she gripped her flute. She took another sip, her gaze locking with mine.
“So,” she said, her voice impressively steady. “How was your drive up?”
I laughed, a low, thrilled sound. The jazz piano swelled, the notes curling around us in the dark, velvet room. The world outside the glow of our corner ceased to exist. There was only her, the remote in my hand, and the exquisite tension humming between us, a live wire strung taut.
The night was wide open, and she had just handed me the key to its deepest, most secret door. The game was on. And I intended to play it perfectly.
And I intended to play it perfectly.
The remote was a cool, inert weight in my palm, but it felt like holding a lightning bolt. Megan took another sip of champagne, her throat working in a slow swallow. I watched the line of her neck, the faint pulse at its base.
“The drive was traffic until the 84 exit,” I said, my voice conversational. I turned the dial another notch. Not much. A suggestion. “Then it was just… anticipation.”
Her lips curved. She shifted on the velvet stool, a barely-there adjustment. “Anticipation is the best part.”
“Is it?”
“You tell me.” She leaned an elbow on the bar, propping her chin in her hand. She looked utterly at ease, a queen holding court. Only someone who knew her—who knew every flutter of her lash, every tiny catch in her breath—would sense the current running beneath her skin. I saw it. In the slight tension of her forearm. In the way her hazel eyes had darkened, just a shade.
“I think the best part,” I said, turning the dial a millimeter more, “is the moment right before you break. That second where you’re perfectly balanced between control and surrender.”
A soft, shaky exhale escaped her. Her knee brushed mine under the bar. “You think you can get me there? Here?”
“I know I can.” I took a drink, my eyes never leaving hers. “The question is, how quietly can you take it?”
A challenge flashed in her gaze. She loved this. The intellectual sparring woven into the physical. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, the emerald silk whispering. The movement was deliberate, a show for me. I responded by sliding the dial up, a solid quarter-turn.
Her body jolted, a quick, involuntary spasm that rattled the ice in her glass. She bit down on her lower lip, hard. Color bloomed high on her cheeks. Around us, the bar hummed with oblivious life. The pianist moved into a bluesy number. Two women laughed at the end of the bar. It was all a distant soundtrack to the universe contained between our two stools.
“Seth,” she breathed, my name a warning and a plea.
I backed it off, just a hair. Giving her space to breathe, to remember the game. “You tapped the bar twice?” I asked, all innocence.
“No,” she said, a husky note in her voice. She reached for her champagne, her hand visibly unsteady now. She drank, draining half the glass. “No veto.”
“Good.”
We sat in charged silence for a moment. I let the sensation build in her again, not with the dial, but with the sheer suspense of its possibility. Her chest rose and fell a little faster. She was focusing on her breathing, trying to wrestle the reaction back inside.
“We should discuss the dinner menu,” she said, aiming for casual and hitting something strained and beautiful.
“We should.” I agreed. I pulled the leather-bound menu toward me with my free hand. “The halibut looks promising. Or the ribeye.” As I pretended to scan the options, I turned the dial back to where it had been, that quarter-turn.
This time, she was ready. A low, stifled hum vibrated in her throat. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. She closed her eyes for a long second. When she opened them, they were glazed, pupils wide and dark. “The ribeye,” she managed. “Medium rare.”
“Confident choice.” I increased the intensity again, slowly, inexorably. I watched her arch her back slightly, pushing against the sensation. A fine sheen of sweat glistened at her temples. She was magnificent, a masterpiece of restraint coming undone in public. Every suppressed reaction was a gift to me.
“I need…” she started, then stopped, swallowing.
“What do you need, Megan?”
She looked at me, her composure fraying at the edges, revealing the raw, wanting core beneath. “I need you to stop. And I need you to never stop.”
I understood completely. The game was reaching its limit. The public arena had been the catalyst, the thrill, but now it was a barrier. What needed to happen next demanded privacy, demanded my hands and mouth and the full, unfettered weight of my body.
I turned the remote off.
The relief that washed over her was immediately followed by a flicker of loss. She sagged for a moment, then drew herself up, pulling that elegant grace back around her like a cloak. But her breath was still ragged. The flush hadn't faded.
I signaled for the check, pulling my wallet out. My own arousal was a demanding, urgent pressure. Seeing her like this, feeling the power she had willingly handed me, was the most potent aphrodisiac I’d ever known.
Leo brought the bill. His eyes flicked to Megan, who was staring fixedly at the empty champagne flute, then back to me. A knowing, respectful smile touched his lips. He said nothing.
I settled the tab, left a generous stack of cash on the bar. I stood, my movements deliberately slow, controlled. I extended a hand to Megan.
“Shall we?”
She placed her hand in mine. Her skin was fever-warm. She stood, her legs steadying after a moment. She was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from her, could smell the subtle shift in her scent, layered now with excitement.
We walked toward the elevators, her heels clicking a sharp, rhythmic tattoo on the polished floor. My hand rested on the small of her back, feeling the tension coiled there. The elevator was empty. The doors slid shut, sealing us in a mirrored, silent box.
As soon as they closed, she turned to me. All the contained energy erupted. She pushed me back against the wall, her mouth crashing into mine. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a conquest. Her hands fisted in my shirt, her body plastered against the hard line of my erection. The remote, still in my hand, dug into my palm.
The elevator climbed. The number above the door lit up: 2… 3…
She tore her mouth from mine, her breath hot on my face. “Give it to me,” she demanded, her voice rough.
I didn’t ask why. I placed the remote in her outstretched hand. She took it, her fingers curling around it possessively. She looked at it, then at me, a wild, triumphant spark in her eyes.
“My turn,” she said, just as the elevator chimed for our floor.
The doors opened onto the hushed hallway. She stepped out, not looking back, holding the remote like a scepter. The power dynamic had shifted again. The game was evolving. I followed, the anticipation coiling tighter than any spring, knowing the night was just beginning, and that she was firmly, brilliantly in the driver’s seat.
I followed, the anticipation coiling tighter than any spring, knowing the night was just beginning, and that she was firmly, brilliantly in the driver’s seat.
The hallway carpet was a deep navy, swallowing the sound of our steps. All I could hear was the rush of my own blood and the soft click-clack of her heels. She didn’t look back. The remote was a dark smudge in her hand, held at her side. Her spine was straight, but I saw the tremor in the shoulder not facing me, a fine vibration running through her. The emerald dress whispered secrets with every swing of her hips.
Room 714.
She fumbled the key card from her clutch. Her hands were shaking. The first swipe at the reader failed, a harsh red light blinking rejection. She swore under her breath, a raw, frustrated word that made my gut clench. The second try, she forced her hand to slow, to press the card deliberately. The green light flashed. The lock thumped open.
She pushed inside, disappearing into the darkness beyond.
I stepped in after her. The door hissed shut on its hydraulic arm, sealing us in. The room was cool, dim, lit only by the ambient glow of the city through the sheer curtains. I heard her breathing, ragged in the silent space.
Before my eyes could adjust, her shape emerged from the gloom. She was right there. She shoved me back against the closed door. The impact thudded through my shoulders. One of her hands flattened against my chest, pinning me. The other, holding the remote, came up between our faces.
Her eyes were wild, dark pools. "You," she breathed, "are a bastard. A brilliant, unbearable bastard."
She kissed me again, but this was different from the elevator. This was slow, deep, a deliberate claiming. I could taste the champagne and her heat and a sharp, desperate edge. My hands found her hips, pulling her into me. The feeling of her, solid and real and trembling against my body, was almost too much.
She broke the kiss, resting her forehead against mine. Her breath was hot on my lips. "I could feel everyone in that room," she whispered. "I could hear the ice in their glasses. I could see the pianist's fingers on the keys. And the whole time, there was only you. Only this." She pressed the remote against my sternum. "You were in my head. You were under my skin."
"I wanted to be." My voice was gravel. "I wanted to be all you could think about."
"You succeeded." She stepped back, just out of my reach. Her eyes never left mine as she slowly, deliberately, reached behind her neck. I heard the whisper of a zipper. The emerald dress loosened. She didn't shrug it off. She let it fall.
It pooled at her feet like spilled ink.
She stood before me, illuminated in the city's silver light. She wore nothing but the simple black lace of her underwear, her stockings, her heels, and a small, subtle device, barely noticeable against the lace between her thighs. A thin wire traced up her stomach, connecting to a receiver tucked at her waistband.
My breath caught. She was a vision of controlled vulnerability. All power and softness, strength and surrender.
"Now," she said, her voice regaining that steady, commanding tone. She held out the remote to me. "Finish what you started. But we do it my way. You don't touch me. Not until I say."
A fresh, electric shock went through me. The rules had changed again. The challenge was absolute. "Megan—"
"Those are my terms." She walked backward toward the king-sized bed, a silhouette of impossible grace. She sat on the edge, leaning back on her hands, legs slightly parted. An invitation. A command. "You have the control. I have the veto. And I am not tapping out."
I looked from her face, fierce and open, to the remote in my hand. This was the deepest trust. The most intimate game. I nodded, once.
I turned the dial.
I started low. The same faint hum from the bar. Her chest rose in a deep, controlled breath. Her head tilted back, exposing the long line of her throat. I watched the muscles there flutter.
I increased the intensity. A notch. Then another.
A sharp gasp escaped her. Her hands fisted in the duvet. Her back arched, lifting her hips off the bed. The sound was pure, unfiltered reaction. It echoed in the quiet room, louder than any shout.
"Look at me," I said, my own voice strained.
Her head lifted. Her eyes found mine, glazed but fiercely present. She held my gaze as I turned the dial another decisive fraction.
"Ah—!" Her body bowed, a taut, beautiful curve. Her legs twisted. The heel of one shoe dug into the mattress. She was fighting it, wrestling with the sensation, and losing gloriously. Sweat shone on her collarbones. A sheen of it glistened on her stomach.
I held it there, at that cruel, perfect pitch. Watching her come apart. Her breaths were sobs now, short and punched-out. Whimpers broke through her clenched teeth. Every fiber of her was focused on the feeling, on surviving it, on riding it. She was utterly magnificent in her undoing.
Her hand flew out, not to tap a surface in veto, but to claw at the empty air, grasping for something that wasn't there. For me.
I took a step forward, instinct taking over. "Megan."
"Don't!" she choked out. "Not yet. More. Seth, please, more."
The plea, raw and broken, undid me. I twisted the dial to its maximum.
The effect was instantaneous and seismic. Her whole body convulsed. A cry tore from her throat, long and ragged and real. It wasn't just a climax; it was a surrender, a release, a breaking of a dam. She shuddered violently, repeatedly, waves of sensation visibly rippling through her. For a moment, she was pure, unadulterated reaction, nothing held back.
Then she collapsed backward onto the bed, spent, breathing in great, heaving gulps of the cool air.
I was across the room in three strides, the remote falling to the carpet, forgotten. I was on the bed, over her, my hands finally—finally—on her skin. It was fever-hot and damp. I kissed her shoulder, her neck, her jaw. "Look at you," I murmured against her skin. "My god, look at you."
She turned her head, her eyes slowly focusing on me. A slow, sated, utterly triumphant smile spread across her face. Her hand came up, her fingers tangling in the hair at the back of my head. "Now," she breathed, pulling me down to her. "Now you can touch me."