“That’ll get me through the next five hours of meetings about our expansion into New Zealand. At eight o’clock, I will be at your apartment. Don’t open the box until I arrive. Wear something unbearably sexy that you think will drive me crazy. Because it will. And have a drink ready for me when I walk in the door. Whiskey will do.”

Shivers raced across her skin, lighting her up from his commands. No one had ever talked to her like this. He was so direct, so controlling, and so fucking sexy with his orders. She’d never expected to enjoy this kind of play, but as he walked out the door, she wanted to slam it shut and take care of herself, to slide her fingers across her wetness, and bring herself to release.

But she still had a modicum of self-control.

She would wait.

She would wait five hours. She would wait until he could take care of her intense, overwhelming need to come.

He hadn’t told her specifically what to wear, but she was savvy enough to know what qualified as unbearably sexy. She donned a tight leather skirt that hit her mid-thigh, right at the top of her black stockings. A bit of lace from the stockings peeked out. He was a legs man, so she chose strappy heels.

Up top? A cherry-red bra.

That was all. She didn’t wear a shirt. She smiled to herself as she appraised the outfit in the mirror. The lack of a shirt was her homage to her own need for control. She had chosen this ensemble because she wanted to open the door with only a red lace bra on top. It was her way of being true to herself. She hoped Khashi, her neighbor across the hall, wouldn’t happen to return from work then. A sexy plastic surgeon, he kept odd hours between his job, and the ladies he entertained.

At 8 p.m. precisely the buzzer rang. Electricity sparked in her bloodstream as she buzzed him in. She didn’t know what was in store for her tonight, but she couldn’t wait to find out what he’d planned.

As she walked to the door, she fluffed out her hair and glanced around her apartment. He’d been here many times. He knew the kitchen with its exposed red brick walls, he’d lounged on her soft teal couch, and he’d seen the reprints of artwork on her walls. It was a warm and homey loft in the West Village. One window was open and the June breeze blew inside, along with the faint sound of traffic rattling through the Village on a New York night.

But never had she opened the door to him like this. Her fingers shook as she unlocked the chain and turned the knob to the right. The heavy door creaked, the soundtrack to her own nervous system and to her wildly beating heart.

Her breath caught in her chest. He stood in the hallway wearing charcoal slacks, a crisp white shirt, and the navy tie. Her fingers itched to unknot that tie. He was rolling up the cuffs on one of the sleeves. A businessman at the end of the workday—that’s what she would’ve named this photograph of him that she took in her mind’s eye.