A deep voice with a ridiculously sexy Cajun accent that went straight from her ear down to her traitorous pussy. She heard lots of the Doms at Sanctum joke about how dumb their dicks were, but she was fairly certain her pussy could beat them all.

And that man was going to turn around and not be Master Remy. Nope. They were in Dallas and that was close enough to Louisiana that there could be another bayou boy here. It was some other gorgeous Cajun god of a man standing in her hallway, one she hadn’t hit on and gotten rejected by, one she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself over. It was another beautiful man. She would make a joke about the collision with him and then never, ever speak with again.

She’d learned her lesson and didn’t want to take Being Humiliated by Remy Guidry 101 again. Her A had been well earned.

“I’m fine. Didn’t even fall. Welcome to the building.” It was best to retreat now. Whoever it was—not Master Remy, not Master Remy—he was obviously busy, and she had things to do, too. It was way too late to change her shoes. They were good shoes. Bridget swore by them. She had to go get her strip-club job before some other sad-sack, couldn’t-get-another-job woman took it from her.

She started to turn and then heard a heavy thud.

“Lisa? Lisa Daley?”

Run, Lisa, run. That was the smart part of her screaming in her head. Dump the shoes right here and now because they will hold you back. Dump them and run like a gazelle evading a hungry lion. The polite part of her stopped.

She slowly turned, forcing a smile on her face. “Mr. Guidry? What a surprise to see you here.”

Yep, that was Remy Guidry. He was six-foot-five-inches of pure muscle. His hair was dark and she remembered when it used to flow around his face, brushing his shoulders when he would take it down before a hot scene. She’d been like a groupie, following all of his scenes, waiting for that moment when his hair would come down and she would pretend like she was the submissive he was about to put in bondage and suspend. A few months before he’d cut it, like seriously cut it. He’d been out of town for a few weeks and when he’d come back he’d had that military look. The new buzz cut had grown out a bit, but she’d been surprised to see how cutting his hair had made him even more masculine, the stark, gorgeous lines of his face no longer softened by the hair. Now he wore a muscle shirt, jeans, and boots, and there was zero chance of missing the way those shoulders moved, how strong his arms were.