Grace stood on the threshold of the kitchen. Her face was like a granite slab, flat and unreadable. She wore pink velour pajamas and matching slippers; she must have owned coordinated nightwear in every color scheme imaginable.

The uppermost buttons of her pajama top were unsecured, giving him a generous view of her cleavage. The flesh at the nape of his neck tightened.

What’s her game going to be this time?

“Hello, doctor.” Her tone was oddly cheerful, out of sync with her emotionless face.

“Okay, listen.” He straightened, shoved the drawer shut. “What’s with the locking of the door to my bedroom? This is my house, you know. Don’t ever do that again, and I’m telling Monica the same thing.”

Grace stared at him, lips pursed.

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked.

She advanced into the kitchen, strolling with a flirty sway to her hips. Her skin appeared to glisten, and her lips actually looked fuller, too, plump and pouty, as if she’d recently gotten a Botox injection.

She came close enough to invade his personal space. Her fragrance enveloped him, that earthy rosemary scent that seemed to perpetually surround her.

He took a step back. “Hey. What’s the matter with you?”

She put her hand on his crotch. He recoiled, backpedaled another step. The edge of the counter pressed against his lower back.

“Back off, woman.” His heart slammed. “You know this shit isn’t appropriate.”

“I want you to fuck me, doctor.” She stepped forward and grabbed his crotch again. She squeezed firmly, and he cringed.

“What?”

“You heard me right. I want to ride this big dick of yours and feel you explode inside me. I want to suck every ounce of your sperm out of you.”

“Are you nuts?”

“You are going to fuck me, doctor, and soon. I promise you, you’ll relish every moment.”

“Keep dreaming, you old hag.” He raised his hand to push her away.

She seized his wrist.

Her grip was like ice, and it was strong. Far stronger than seemed plausible for a woman of her age and slim stature. He strained to pull his wrist out of her grasp, his fingers tingling as the blood circulation faltered, but he could not get free.

“Old hag, eh?” Her lips parted in a predatory grin. “I could snap you like a twig, boy.”

She increased the pressure of her grip; he felt the bones and joints in his wrist creak painfully, and a groan escaped him. Trembling, he lifted his other hand to try to break her hold, and she easily snared that one by the wrist, too.

A gasp slipped out of him. He couldn’t believe it. He worked out regularly, could bench press three hundred pounds, and enjoyed an advantage of several inches and probably sixty pounds on the woman, but he was powerless to get away. It was like being trapped in restraints.