A billionaire story unlike any other—

She watches him every day.

For two months she has spent each lunch hour studying the enigmatic man in a restaurant always filled to overflowing; yet, for two months he is there each day in a booth all to himself.

Sara thinks she is safe as she drinks in every gorgeous detail reflected in the bar's back mirror.  She asks herself who he could possibly be, convinced he would never notice her…convinced that no one ever does.

She could not have been more wrong.

Chance brings them together and animal lust in unleashed.  But what she never could have imagined is far from being the strangest part of this tale.  For there are shadowy figures holding the strings offstage and the manipulation of Sara Renardine has only just begun.

***

Her Billionaire, Her Wolf: His Every Desire

(A Paranormal BDSM Romance)

By Aimélie Aames

Copyright 2012. All rights reserved.

She saw him there.

He was in his usual place, an entire booth all to himself while the rest of the restaurant and bar was full to capacity.

Sara wiggled her way between a couple of suits standing at the bar and nodded at the barman.

He winked at her and she knew that what she thought of as her lunch would be placed before her in short order.

Her stomach grumbled but with all the hustle and bustle, the clatter of silverware and conversations fighting amongst themselves to be heard, Sara was not embarrassed over the tiny sounds her famished stomach made.

She was starving and the virgin Bloody Mary...with an extra celery stick, please...would do little to calm her hunger.

That did not matter, though.

All that mattered to her was seated not far away and had his back turned to her.

He reached for a bit of paperwork spread across his table and Sara took in how his white cotton shirt drew tightly across his back and shoulders.  The shirt's cotton was pristine in its purity and absolute lack of any other color than white, appearing to be of an extremely tight weave.  Probably egyptian, she thought, and probably unboxed from its packaging that very morning.

And, probably tailored to fit, too.

But the way it hugged his body as he moved made that shirt precious in Sara's eyes.  It was almost better than being able to see him unclothed, in all his handsome glory.  She loved the way it held to his shoulders, hinting at the thick muscles that led down to broad arms that would surely feel like heaven wrapped around her body.

There was a clinking sound just beside her and Sara was forced to turn back to the bar.  The ice cubes still swirling in her tomato juice, she saw that the barman was already gliding away as if he were on roller skates, his work never done during the rush of lunch hour.  Besides the present press and throng, he had learned long ago that despite his best efforts, no amount of chatting would garner a tip from Sara.

As much as she would have wished otherwise, she simply could not afford a penny more than the price of her drink.  What it took for her to have the right to be at that particular bar each weekday and drink in the sight of that particular man seated alone in his booth.

With a true professional's attention to detail, the barman had left a bottle of hot sauce next to Sara's cocktail and with relish, she unscrewed its bright red cap and shook in a few drops.   And while she did it, Sara lifted her eyes to the mirror that shined bright and polished behind the endless bottles of liquor and spirits lining the wall across from her.

Her place at the bar was not chosen by hazard and from her position, Sara studied the white shirted man in the mirror's reflection.  Her curiosity would not let her do otherwise and it felt safer somehow, watching him in a reflection, as if looking directly at him too long would burn her eyes and leave her in tears.

The mirror was safer, and better still, with the angle of view as it was, she saw only him with no risk of seeing herself.

Her own image held no mystery for her.  She knew men's eyes were drawn to her, but as the years passed it was less and less the case.  She knew, too, that she was tired and that it showed in a gaze that might not have been exactly haggard, but was certainly one dulled and lacking the spark of effervescent youth.

Worrying from one day to the next about where her next meal would come from or whether she would have a roof over her head had worn her down over the past year.  And while that had changed for the better only a couple months ago, a sense of precarity was never far away.

Early on, when she had first started coming in to the bar for her lunchtime Bloody Mary, Sara had quietly asked the barman if he knew who the white shirted man was.

The barman had replied that he had no idea and only knew that the booth was held open for him every day without fail and woe betide he who thought to do otherwise.

When she had asked what he meant, the barman replied that during his own training he had seen a freshly recruited waiter seat a young couple one day in that booth.  It had been especially crowded and the waiter was near to his wits end trying to seat people.  It was late, the white shirted man had not yet showed up to claim his daily place and the waiter did the unthinkable and put the couple in the reserved seating of the booth.

Not five minutes later, the white shirted man arrived and when he saw that his usual place had been taken, he had stared a long moment at the young couple.  The barman said he was suddenly sure the man was going to throw the two out the door on his own just then, the anger burning in his face and coming off  him in palpable waves.

Instead, he stood right where he was, in the middle of everything and forced the waitstaff to nearly trip over themselves as they navigated by.  He calmly placed his briefcase of paperwork on the floor and pulled out a cellphone into which he held a very quiet and very short conversation.

No less than thirty seconds later, the restaurant's manager came running in and with his round face blazing red, he apologetically led the couple to another table hastily being set at the back of the restaurant.

And no more than thirty minutes later, the waiter who had dared to seat the reserved booth was shown to the door, his work uniform in hand.

The following day, a new manager arrived to take the place of the last, a man who none of them had ever seen set foot in the restaurant again.

The lesson was not lost among the rest of the staff and no one had ever had the least thought of seating anyone other than the white shirted man in that booth, even if it remained empty all day and the restaurant had to turn people away at the door because all seats were taken.

Sara could not say why, but the barman's story made her shiver, as if a goose had walked across her grave.

What kind of man does that?  And who could he possibly be to have people fired on the spot just for seating someone at his booth?

She could not say except that it felt like power...raw, unflinching power framed in implacable exigence.  Sara felt it again, that fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach she had felt when the barman had finished his story and she knew as she lifted her drink to her mouth that her nipples were pressing tight against her own white shirt.

A large man shouldered by her and then turned suddenly, his thick arm sweeping in a wide arc as he gestured to a companion.  Except that he had not seen Sara, nor the virgin cocktail in her hand as it made contact with his broad forearm.

In slow motion, Sara saw tomato juice arc up into the air before tracing a red curl that slumped down to streak her blouse in bright color.

And, with all the grace of a rumbling bull, the man turned on her and said, "Hey!  Watch what you're doin', you stupid bitch."

Sara's mouth dropped open as she held her arms raised, stunned at what just happened.

The man's friend laughed and clapped him on the back, acting as though he had just heard the best joke ever invented.

Then, Sara felt cracks fissure across her vision, heat rushing up as her tears fell.

"Oh, looky there, Lou...you gone and made the lady cry," said the smaller of the two.

Lou's face twisted as he searched for his wittiest reply, then said, "Shut yer face, or I'll give you a real reason to cry...bitch."

Sara did not want to break down like this, but in an instant everything fell apart.  She could not imagine walking back into her office this way, covered in tomato juice.  She could try washing it out in the ladies' room sink, but the shirt was silk.  While it would dry fast, the tomato juice would never come out...probably not even with dry cleaning.

The tears rolled thick and heavy as she saw in a rush how the rest of the day would unfurl in one long cascade of events that would lead to losing her job, not to mention being thrown out in the street.  Her room had to be paid by the week.  She didn't even have a real apartment to call home.  Just a room.  That she even had a job seemed like a minor miracle after the strangest interview she had ever had.  But now that she had it, even if it was a temp position, she could not imagine going back to desperately scanning the want ads for the next thing, for anything.

The cacophony of sounds in the restaurant drifted to silence in the seconds that followed.  Sara was frozen as time crystallized around her.  The barman's face turned to her, blank and without compassion.  In the crowd surrounding her, smiles lifted upon the lips of some, others turned their heads, unwilling to feel any need to help.

The large man his friend had named Lou was already turning away from her when Sara saw him suddenly do an about-face.

He took a single, shaking step forward, then Sara saw that his eyes were bulging in their sockets, his visage turning more and more red.  It was if he was having trouble taking a breath and she could see a thick vein standing out upon his forehead.

Over his shoulder, Sara noticed his friend shrinking back, his own eyes wide with what looked like terror and that was when she heard a low voice say, "Tell the lady you're sorry."

The voice that said it had an edge to it.  Almost as if the words had been growled out.

Then, Sara looked past the shoulder of the now very red in the face ogre to see a blindingly white shirt and amber eyes looking steadily back at her.

There were strong fingers wrapped around the brute's thick neck from behind and she could see the tips of those fingers had gone pale with the terrific pressure they exerted upon the man's flesh.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...."gulped Lou, his eyes bulging even more in their sockets.

The low voice from behind Lou spoke once again, and asked, "Is his apology acceptable, Miss?"

Sara searched for what to say, but before she could formulate any sort of coherent reply, her hand flew of its own volition to land a slap upon the big man's face.  The sound it made cracked like a whip through the room and silenced the last of the voices murmuring in the crowd.

"Okay...I think that's the best you can expect given the circumstances," said the white shirted man behind Lou.

"Now, turn around and leave," he finished as he released his hold upon the man's neck.

Lou sagged slightly and Sara thought he might faint where he stood.  Instead, he took a ragged breath and staggered toward the exit as the crowd parted before him, all eyes turned to the spectacle.  His companion quickly followed suit as he hurried after the large man disappearing through the door.

Amber eyes held her own in an intense gaze, then the man that now stood before her said, "You surprised me."  His tone was quizzical, as if he had not expected to be surprised, as if other people rarely surprised him.

"I'm sorry," Sara replied, her own voice shaking.

"Don't be," he answered, then took her arm and said, "Come on."

Almost stumbling to keep up with his brisk gait, Sara felt a thrill flutter through her.  The object of every lunch hour's thoughts was trying to help her.

He nodded to the barman as they went and said, "Send my affairs upstairs."

Without waiting for a reply, or even a second glance behind him at all the paperwork he had strewn across the booth's tabletop, Sara's rescuer led her down a corridor.  She recognized it as the one leading to the restaurant's men's and ladies' rooms and her heart sank just a little.

Suddenly she was sure he only wanted to show her the way to the bathroom while he went somewhere more quiet to finish whatever it was he worked on each midday.

Except that they marched right past the bathroom doors to the corridor's end where a single door was marked plainly, No Admittance--Staff Only.

Without missing a beat, the man in white opened the door and gestured that Sara should step within.  The doorway gave onto a stairwell leading upward and, together, they went up to the next floor where a second door stood closed, this one marked Manager's Office.

Again, the man did not hesitate as he opened the door and waited for Sara to step inside.

A corpulent man was seated at a desk, his own paperwork before him, and he jumped with surprise that made his jowls wiggle as Sara came to a standstill, unsure what to do after having barged into his office without even knocking first.

"Yes?" he said, then looking past her, just as quickly followed by, "Oh!"

Sara's rescuer walked past her, his stride as confident as ever and said, "Out.  Now."

The manager jumped to his feet and said, "Oh yes...of course, sir."

Sara noticed that where before his cheeks merely wiggled, now they positively quivered as he hastily went out the door through which they had just come.

Her jaw dropped down as the white shirted man walked past her and began tugging open cabinet doors, apparently looking for something, and appearing as if he owned the place.

Then it hit her.

"Are you the owner?" she asked.

He stopped what he was doing, then straightened, turning to her.

"Hmmm...that depends on how you look at it," he replied.

Sara hesitated, then said, "I mean, it's not that I'm not grateful.  I am.  I just can't help wondering who can do that.  I mean, just tell people what to do and they do it, no questions."

Amber eyes turned to regard her.  In them she thought she saw hints of orange, or maybe very light green.  It was hard to say, except that the color was far lighter than brown eyes had any right to be.  It was unearthly.

"Does it matter?" he asked, frowning.

His frame was massive.  Sara had always been able to make out that he was a muscular, very fit man.  But, as she had always seen him seated with his back turned to her, she had not been able to appreciate to what point his chest was broad with a carry to his heavy shoulders that looked worthy of wearing a knight's cloak.  No, a king's cloak.

What kind of crazy thinking is this? she asked herself.

"No," she said, "It doesn't matter.  I appreciate what you did back there and what you're doing now.  I was about to die from embarrassment in front of all those people."

He came closer to her, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, relaxed.  But, she was sure she could see living fire smoldering in his gaze as he looked at her.

"Embarrassed or not, that didn't stop you from slapping him," he said, coming even closer to her.

Sara tried looking away, searching for something else to focus on, something less dangerous, but his eyes held her like lodestones.  He was close enough that she could see his lashes,  so very long and thick framing those exquisitely beautiful eyes.

"I'm sorry.  I don't know what came over me," she stammered under his unwavering scrutiny.

"Don't be sorry," he said as his body neared to the point where Sara could feel the heat of him.

It's like standing next to a bonfire, she thought, her senses tightening like clock springs in his proximity.  Crazily, all she could think of was that given the chance, she would gladly throw herself onto the blaze.

His voice dropped to nearly a whisper as he said, "I thought it showed your mettle."

The rhythm of her breathing quickened as she considered his words.  Something about the way he spoke...somehow slightly old fashioned, archaic even.

His hands lifted and Sara felt strong fingers at her shirt buttons.  Her breath stopped as she realized he was undoing them, one by one, while his eyes never left hers.

"Don't move," he said and Sara felt as if his words held the power to hold her fast no matter what his fingers did.

"This simply will not do, will it?" he said as she felt her shirt fall open.  Cool air slipped by the inferno of his gaze and slid across her belly.  It felt like a lover's caress as it touched where the cocktail had gone through to her skin, moistening her flesh.

And at her apex, despite her, because of him, moisture gathered hot and thick under her skirt and between her thighs.

A finger traced across her flesh and she watched in amazement as he lifted it to his mouth.

With a sigh he closed his eyes and licked his fingertip, tasting the remnants of the virgin cocktail and whatever alchemy it had worked in tandem with Sara's skin.

Then, the lights of his eyes blazed as he opened them, pinning her once more in his intensity.

"Now, turn around," he said.

Without even considering it, Sara turned and just as quickly felt the heat of his body radiating upon her back.  She trembled as she thought of his eyes taking in every contour of her silhouette.

"Don't think it has gone unnoticed.  For almost two months, you have come to perch like a little bird at the bar and peer at me through the mirror.  As if I would not notice...as if you thought you were safe.

"You were wrong."

With hands that gripped like iron manacles, he seized her wrists from behind and pressed himself against her.

Sara gasped and said, "Please don't hurt me."

And very close, the touch of his lips against her ear, he said, "Then, don't disappoint me."

With no warning, the scents of a pine forest rose in Sara's nostrils.  It was a rich odor, full of life, full of desire.  Yet, somehow, it spoke of darkness and violence lying in wait as if nature itself had suddenly invaded the manager's office.

What in the hell is this?

He spoke again and his voice had taken on a rougher sound, deeper, heavy with arousal.

"The taste of your desire has been distracting me every day for weeks, the scent of you filling my thoughts.  What is about to happen will hurt...yes, it will.  But you have asked me for it each and every day.

"Acquiesce and your pleasure will know no bounds.  Or, with a single word, deny me and go back to whatever life it is you lead."

His words carried such weight in them.  Even spoken in that rough, low tone, Sara felt them caress her body like iron hands shrouded in velvet.

Without understanding how she had come to a decision, Sara replied, "I...accept."

There was no response.  Only silence from the man holding her wrists, his body tight against her back.  Then, low on her body, just above her bottom, she felt his length pressing against her.  It was like a branding iron and her breath quickened as she felt him growing thicker, harder.

"The scent of you...I must taste it.  I must know it...."

His voice was a low growl.  Suddenly, his hands released her wrists and Sara felt the blood rushing in, her fingertips tingling.

Then, without warning, a white handkerchief obscured her vision.  Cool and soft, it was certainly of silk and she did not move as he drew it tight and tied it behind her head.

She could see nothing.

"Now, don't move...not a single step, or this is over."  His whisper curled around her and Sara held her breath as she felt his hands drop to the zipper of her skirt.

Then, it was falling away and strong hands drifted across her bottom.  She heard an intake of breath, then he murmured, "So delectable...."

A finger slipped under the edge of her panties.  They were nothing more than simple white cotton, relatively sheer.  She had never intended for anyone to actually see them, let alone the man breathing deeply just behind her.

His finger traced its way along one cheek, moving slowly, lusciously.  Then, he continued to follow the line of white fabric, slipping along until he arrived at Sara's inner thigh.

She gasped.  Sara knew her underwear was soaked through, her core aching with desire from the very instant that her rescue had turned to something else.  Something that she never dared dream of when thinking of the gorgeous man from her lunch hour.

But, admit it...you've wanted him from the very first moment you saw him.  Like a schoolgirl, he has become your obsession.

Then he stroked across her apex and his touch was an arc of electricity, igniting her senses like a wildfire.

She felt him as much as heard him drop down behind her and came close to crying out when she felt his tongue slipping along the inside of her thigh.  He started low, almost at her knee, then lifted up in a single, long lapping motion.

Without hesitation, he continued ever higher to her center, there where she had become heavy and dripping wet.  Her panty was still in place as he brought himself into her folds, nuzzling at her through the thin fabric.

His every touch threatened to tip her over, to turn her into an unthinking mass of flesh, all reason near to disappearing.  Yet, as he moved under her, she could not help but think that he was holding himself back, that savagery was close at hand.

He settled his mouth in to her crotch, pulling at her panties with his teeth, then she felt them being tugged to one side.

The next thing that happened truly took her by surprise.  Instead of his strong fingers coming to explore her folds, Sara felt something almost indescribable.  Something cold and wet that pushed at her, shifting her nether lips.  Something that snuffled and made her startle with surprise.

What..!

Then she remembered his words.  This moment, so exquisite, so close to carrying her to the edge would cease if she took even a single step.

Don't move....

She forced herself to hold still, even while her legs trembled with muscles tightening in hard.

Sara heard him draw a breath, then his tongue found her once more as he buried himself deep into her cleft.

His hands went to her bottom, cupping them, kneading them.

She was panting as his mouth worked at her, as his hands rolled her flesh in their palms.

Unable to help herself, Sara's hips flexed in counterpoint to the tongue that plied its way through her cleft.  Then, his hands began to tighten their hold while he continued lapping at her.

His grip continued to contract until Sara was sure that his fingers were sinking deep in to the flesh of her buttocks.  Despite the heat blazing between her legs, she hissed as his fingers squeezed even more.

There will be pain....

She willed herself still, stopping herself from twisting away from the dual vises that gripped her cheeks.  And, his long tongue continued sliding through her, exploring her.

The agony burning her bottom came to mingle with the agony of pleasure that rolled through her.  Sara arched back as that marvelous tongue teased and stroked her folds.

"Oh my God!" she panted and then, unable to contain herself any longer, Sara jerked hard at the hips as the first lash of an orgasm careened through her core.  She knew she could not move, that she was not permitted, but still her body had its way with her as that long tongue slipped forward and across her apex.  The hard kernel that had risen there felt like it was burning as much as her bottom while his tongue stroked across it again and again, daring her to lose control, tempting her to step away from the delicious onslaught that would not let her go.

She did not move, but shuddered in place as her climax rolled through her body in heavy waves.  Gooseflesh broke across her skin and she took a deep, shuddering breath that caught in her throat as his hands released her cheeks at last.  The absence of them was almost worse than before, a prickling sensation of deeply bruised flesh coming alive.

Sara felt him rise to his feet.  Then, his hands undid the knotted handkerchief before he leaned in, close enough to touch, and said into her ear, "Be careful of the powers you invoke...lest your words fall upon ears not quite as deaf as we might imagine them."

Once again, his words made no sense to her.  It was as if he spoke in riddles, expecting those around him to understand while they rushed to obey the incomprehensible.

What if he's crazy? she thought.

Except that she knew if he was, she was just as unbalanced.  There was nothing sane about going, unquestioning, behind closed doors with a complete stranger and then letting him do...things to her.  With his mouth.

Oh, that talented tongue.

Sara still had not dared to move and listened as she heard him moving behind her.  Then, he said, "Ok...I didn't find anything you can wear to cover up that stained shirt.  Get dressed."

She bent down, turning as she did it to pick up her skirt, and she saw him buttoning the topmost button of his shirt.  In that brief glimpse of the bare skin just below his throat, she saw something dark, something tribal .  Something hinting at intricate patterns that embellished his magnificent form.

Sara decided then that she would do whatever it took to see the rest of that tattoo and discover just how low it went upon his body.  She would map its every contour and learn the taste of the man before her.

If only there would be a next time....

A quiet knock came at the door and the white shirted man strode over, opening it to find a cardboard box containing his paperwork with his briefcase just beside it.

Moving quickly, not wanting to make him wait, Sara drew her skirt up, then shrugged on her stained shirt.

Bright amber eyes locked once more on to her own.  As intense as ever, his gaze was unwavering, as if he was considering her worth...weighing advantage against disadvantage.

She looked away from him, suddenly feeling foolish over her idea that he was her rescuer.  No knight would ever come to her aid.  Not now, not ever.

"You will be late getting back to work, I think," he said, "Is your office far from here?"

Surprised, she replied, "No, it's just around the block."

"Fine.  We'll go to mine first."  It was not a question.  It was a statement.

Together, they went back down the stairwell, but instead of turning back to make their way through the dining room and bar, he led her through the kitchen doors.

There were men shouting orders at young, harried people.  The sounds of stainless steel utensils and knives rang in all directions and steam billowed as pots bubbled and reductions simmered.

No one seemed to notice them as they passed through the tumult and it came to Sara that she had never actually seen him come through the front door of the restaurant.  Almost always, he was already seated in his booth when she arrived, or was coming back from the men's washroom.  Or, at least, what she had always assumed was the men's room.

No, these people know him.  He comes and goes through here every day, in fact.

At the back of the kitchen, they came to yet another door and this one opened to the exterior world, leaving the noise and odors of cooking behind them.  It was a back alley and he turned quickly, marching along without looking to see if Sara was keeping up.

What am I doing?  Trailing after him like a stray puppy?

As they drew to the alley's end, she saw a homeless man slumped against the brick wall of a building.  His clothing was cleaner than most homeless people's, but the haggard eyes that met her own danced with the light of the unbalanced. He cocked his head, nodding to her, and she realized that the man was far younger than she had first taken him for.  Her own age, maybe, and that beneath the grime of his hard life, a handsome, if overly thin, face framed steel grey eyes that were as cold as the white shirted man's were fiery.

She twisted her head as she struggled to keep up the pace the white shirted man had set, her curiosity forcing her to look back over her shoulder at the homeless man.

Except that he was no longer there.  All she had was the afterimage in her mind's eye of his face and the strange look he gave her.  A look that belied certain insanity, an air of crazed zeal.

As she hurried along, she smiled a small, secret smile.  If she had thought him a dirty, homeless man, at least he did not have tomato juice splashed across what passed for his shirt.

That was when she saw it.  The alley emptied out into the crowded streets that she had come to know so well these past two months.  And, there before them both, loomed the building that towered over everything else, in more ways than one.

Abraxis Industries.  A modern bastion of world finance and industry.  Its glass plated walls reached to the sky and within countless men and women bent all their will to the task of keeping the enterprise among the lofty heights of the world's foremost companies.

It was where she worked each day crunching endless numbers in data entry, mind numbing work broken only by her midday break to descend to the restaurant's bar and tell herself foolish stories about the white shirted man she had found there.

Sara ran two steps forward to overtake the man, saying, "Wait.  This is where I work."

He only shrugged without looking at her and said, "Me, too."

Seizing her once more by the arm, it felt almost as though he lifted her off her feet as he walked so resolutely to the building that would mean shame and embarrassment for Sara once she returned to her cubicle and the department manager saw the state of her attire.  Impeccable dress was required and the draconian rules of Sara’s manager with her lined, humorless face would brook no insult.

Sara's temp position was more precarious than any other in the department.  For the least infraction, she could be fired summarily for whatever reason the woman deemed contrary to office protocol.

She tried to pull back, about to explain that she would lose her job for going back in there in such a state.

Who are you kidding?  You're probably already fired, coming in this late from lunch.

Suddenly, instead of mounting the stairs that constituted a grand terrace leading to revolving doors that would mean her doom, the white shirted man pulled her along to skirt the sides of the building, far from the front entranceway.

A simple, nondescript door at the end of a short sidewalk appeared to be his objective.  Built into the wall was a digital ID card reader and from a back pocket, he retrieved a blank, white card that he slipped into the receptacle.

A faint click as he withdrew the card signaled that the door had been unlocked electronically and plunging headlong, the two of them entered the dark entrails of the building.  For one of them it all appeared routine, for the other, it meant the terror of uncertainty as she was led from all that she had known until then.

~~~

They crossed a mostly empty parking garage level.  Sara saw only a few vehicles, most of them foreign looking to her eyes, all of them luxurious without the least sign of dust on them.

In very short order, they came to an elevator with no obvious buttons to push.  Instead the white plastic card did its trick once again, and the doors slid smoothly open to reveal a stark interior of glass and stainless steel.

As they stepped inside, Sara could not help but feel that she had walked into an isolation booth.

She watched as he pressed a series of numbers on a keypad next to the usual elevator buttons.  Then appeared an almost seamlessly incorporated drawer that slid out and upon which he carefully placed his fingers.  She heard a small beep accompanied by a green light as he withdrew his hand and the device disappeared from view.

What the hell is with all this security?  I mean, what's next, retinal scans followed by rectal exams?

Sara was already having trouble not believing that she had somehow fallen into a movie.  A film about a handsome stranger and his mysterious life, only the casting for his love interest was all wrong.

Except that she was living each moment, not watching it on the big screen.

Her stomach fluttered with that thought and then did it again as the elevator smoothly went into motion.  She felt the familiar sensation of any elevator, but this one continued to accelerate for far longer than the elevator she usually took each day.

In time, the elevator slowed to a halt and the doors slid open, not into a corridor but directly into an office.

Or, at least, a receptionist's office.

A beautiful blond was seated at a desk and looked up mildly.  Her eyes turned hard as she took in Sara with a quick glance that flicked down to the red stain and back up again.

The white shirted man nodded at her and said, "Giselle, une chemise pour la mademoiselle.  Du préférence, en soie et perles."

The blond seated at her desk cast an appraising look at Sara and nodded, saying, "Oui, monsieur.  Tout de suite."

He took Sara by the arm once more and steered her to a comfortable looking chair across from the receptionist.

Sara sat, wincing slightly as she did, then looked up at him.

The stranger was looking into the distance, beyond her, beyond the boundaries of the office, his face pensive.

Then, in a low voice he said, "Look...about earlier.  I'm not sure what to say about that, except that I'd like to make amends.  Giselle will bring you a clean shirt in a few minutes and you can go back to work, if that is what you want.

"I should be able to make the arrangements...you won't be fired."

Then his gorgeous amber eyes held her for the first time since the events in the restaurant manager's office.  His stunning eyes held her in all their intensity as he said, "But, I would prefer that you stay.  I need to see about a few things.  It shouldn't take long, so I'm asking you to wait here for me.

"Will you do that?  Will you wait for me?"

I have been waiting all my life for you, she thought then bit back such ridiculous sentiments.

"If you're sure," she said, "I can wait...if you really want me to."

He watched her, almost not blinking, before nodding slowly.

"Good.  That's good," he replied and began to turn away.

He came back to face her, his visage as focused as ever upon her and continued, "You know...I can't promise that you won't have regrets about me.  On the contrary, I can promise you that you will.  But, you must know that you will have my full attention very soon, whether you like it or not."

That he spoke to her this way in the presence of the other woman, the one he had named Giselle, felt like a victory to Sara.  He saw her and only her in that moment as all else fell away.

Then a smile broke upon his lips, lifting up the corners of his mouth and drawing into lovely lines that reached to what must have been childhood dimples in his cheeks.  It was as though he was illuminated from within as he smiled for her and Sara felt her heart break just a little.

Of course, she would wait.

~~~

Within half an hour of his leaving of his leaving her, she heard the woman named Giselle take a call.

Sara had settled in to a plush chair that faced the receptionist's desk and had nearly forgotten that she wore a stained shirt in an office she had never seen before and that her very employment was likely hanging by a thread.  Except that she believed what he had said--he would make arrangements.

And Giselle had dutifully left almost immediately after the white shirted man had gone.  She had not said a word to Sara, or even looked at her for that matter.  Gone for less than a minute, the blond came back and acted as though Sara did not even exist.

Sara did not mind, though.  She was used to it.  The women in data entry acted as though she were no more substantial than a mildly disagreeable perfume, wrinkling their noses ever so slightly at her passage, then forgetting her entirely as she gained her cubicle.

The telephone chimed quietly and the blond woman picked up, listened without saying anything, then got up smoothly from her desk and stepped out of the room as she had done thirty minutes earlier.  And, as before, she returned just as quickly, only this time she carried a white, cardboard box.

And as with the women in Sara's office, Giselle's face was downturned as if she was obliged to a disagreeable task.

She held the package out to Sara at arm's length and said, "A clean shirt.  It is of silk and fitted with black pearl buttons from fresh water mussels."

Without changing pitch, as if she were reciting a mathematical formula, she continued, "You can change in there."

The cold, blond woman nodded to an adjacent, darkened room, its door ajar.

Sara only nodded in response as she took the proffered box and went to the room.  What she had taken for a broom closet revealed itself as she flicked the light switch.  Instead of housing an assortment of mops and cleaning supplies, she saw a meeting room with a long table lined in chairs running its length.

She shut the door behind her.  The room was windowless and Sara gratefully took off her stained shirt.

She opened the nondescript white package and what she saw inside took her breath away.

The shirt was a thing of beauty.  The feel of its shimmering texture was like cool water, its black buttons ringed in shining silver.  Sara looked closer and saw a grey, nacreous rainbow glimmer in the buttons' color as she held the shirt up.  The woman had not lied.  They were beautiful pearls and while Sara could not be sure, something told her they were natural and not cultured.

Which meant that the thin slip of fabric in her hands was worth more than her entire month's pay...probably, far more than that.

She slipped it on and it felt like she was wearing nothing at all.  The waist was gently gathered and the bodice held to her breasts in a very flattering way.

Giselle has excellent taste, Sara thought as she went back out the door, thinking to thank her.

But, the look on the blond woman's face was of undisguised distaste as she looked up.  Sara's words of thanks died in her throat as Giselle said, "No.  I prefer that you wait in there."

Her tone was dismissive as she returned to her computer screen and Sara understood that it had been exactly that--a dismissal.  In a single glance, the blond had sized her up and had decided that she merited not a single thought more.

Sara returned to the empty meeting room, closing the door quietly behind her.

She did not mind.  She was used to it.

~~~

Her anger had become a slow boil.

Sara no longer wore a wristwatch.  The battery in her last one had died two months earlier and she simply had not taken the time to have it replaced.  Never mind the fact that the few dollars it would have cost would hurt more than she would have liked to admit.

Only now,  she wished she had spent the time and the money on a new battery, just so she could be sure she had every right to be furious with the man who had stuck her there.

The hours had passed and she had done her best to wait patiently.

Except that the meeting room chairs were far less comfortable than those in the receptionist's office.  Ever so quietly, Sara had tried each one, but her bottom still pained her where his fingers had dug in so deeply to her tender flesh and not one of them eased her discomfort when seated.

At first, the tiniest sound had taken on overblown proportions.  The least noise was exaggerated into the stranger's triumphant arrival, back and smiling, ready to sweep Sara off her feet.

Except that he had not come.

Except that Sara was tired of waiting for hours while the thread from which her job hung had grown overstretched and thin to the breaking point.

Except that she knew she no longer had any job to go back to and when she finally gathered the courage to leave this office, in very short order she would find herself outside the Abraxis Industries building and far from the security of steady employment.

Except that she no longer had any choice but to wait and this, too, was his fault.

She did not dare look for the strength it would take to hold her chin high and tell the frigid blond on the other side of the door that she would be leaving now and just walk out.

And her anger heated further as the small sounds of an office building slowly fell still.  Those sounds that are felt more than heard, the signs of life that gradually drain away as the worker bees leave in the evening hours, content at last that the day's thousandth battle had been won and the business would live to see the morrow.

Except that Sara was still there, waiting, and the stubborn patience that had kept her calm the entire afternoon was worn away.

What started as fine wisps of steam rising upon her temperament had turned to a veritable simmer as the hours passed.

She strained her ears, listening for anything that might signal an end to her waiting, until, finally, Sara went as quietly as a mouse to the closed door of the meeting room and gently turned the knob.

What she saw was the receptionist's desk swallowed in shadow and no sign of any smug, self satisfied blonds.

She was alone.

The steady simmer of her anger leapt to a roiling boil as she realized what a fool she had been.

Forgotten.  Unneeded. Cast aside as more important things took my place in his gorgeous eyes.

The feeling of being special, of filling his regard with such intensity as he looked at her, only her, slipped like a hand into an all too familiar glove of bitterness.

Of course.  I should have known better.

There was a sound and then the elevator doors slid open revealing the silhouette of a man, his gaze downturned as he flipped stapled pages in his hands.

Without looking up, he stepped into the dimmed room and Sara marched directly into his path.

What was I thinking?

All thoughts of gratitude were gone.  That he had come to her rescue in the restaurant, that he would make arrangements for her job...a new, exquisite silk shirt....

None of it mattered any more as she stood in his way, burning with red rage.

"Who in the hell do you think you are?" she said, wishing she could have shouted the words loudly enough to shatter the windows.

Then, instead of raising her voice, her hand arced up in the shadows.  It was slow, yet not, passing through the air as quick as an adder's strike, yet time had stilled in the near darkness and it was as though the air was as thick as syrup.

Rather than slapping him hard across the face, Sara felt her wrist entrapped in an iron fist.

And absurdly, she wondered what was written on the pages that drifted down to alight upon her feet while the shock of his viselike grip still vibrated down her arm.

The beautiful lanterns of his eyes locked on to her own as he said, "Do you not know?  Do you really not know?"

His voice was calm, but his tone was glacial.

Careful...you're on thin ice.

"I have no idea who you are," she said, then bit back the rest of what she wanted to say as his eyes softened.

"Then look at me," he said, his voice as calm as ever, "Right now, look at me and tell me who you think I am.  The truth.  All of it."

Sara took a breath, then said, "You tell people what to do.  You are so used to doing it, that you don't notice anymore."

He stepped closer to her and the hand holding her wrist did not let go.

"You're arrogant.  You think you're entitled."

Another half step closer as he pulled her hand to his chest, forcing her palm against him.  Forcing her to feel him.

There are cracks under your feet.

"You think you own people."

His other hand went to her shoulder and Sara could feel the strong beat of his heart under her palm.

"And, you are brave.  You step in when you see someone in trouble."

Then he touched the side of her neck and Sara's breath came more deeply.

"You are a knight.  You saved me...."

Pinned in the amber lights of his eyes, Sara knew that it was already too late, the uncertain footing she walked upon had turned to water as she felt herself drowning in his beautiful gaze.

He bent down to her, his lips soft against her own, searching for truths other than her words.

She pulled back from him, just enough to speak, her own lips brushing his as she said, "But, that doesn't give you the right."

His mouth captured hers once more.  Warm and velvety.  She felt the light rough of a day old beard rasp gently against her skin as she kissed him back.

"You don't own me," she said, breaking away only to sigh as his hands slid down her sides, then back up again as he cupped both breasts.   Strong thumbs drifted across the nipples studding her blouse, swelling even more under his touch.

"I told you I would give you cause for regret.  Now, I shall give you reason for pleasure.”

His voice was delicious in her ears, like warm honey as he continued, “And I can promise you that it will not be the last time, not for one nor the other.”

Hands that could have crushed the bones of her wrist to powder only seconds before roamed freely upon her body.  Strong fingers undid delicate pearl buttons.

"Turn around...now."

Sara pivoted to turn her back to him and then felt him once more as he pressed himself against her.

Oh, he is so hot.

Hard muscles made themselves felt as he reached around her, his arms encircling her while his member felt huge against her bottom.

“Through meetings and conference calls without end, I thought of you,” he murmured in her ear, then bent down to the side of her neck, nipping lightly at her skin as he did it.

“Your scent...your taste.”

His mouth was upon her shoulder and Sara hissed as he bit down upon her skin.  Enough to hurt, yet not enough to draw blood.

Then, he drew back from her and with his hands upon her shoulders, he guided her to Giselle’s desk.

“Place your hands upon the desktop.”

Sara bent down and put her palms flat upon the smooth surface.  She knew her bottom was filling his gaze in that moment and the thought of it made her even hotter.

What is he doing to me?  I’m not like this.

Except that maybe she was.  Her lunchtime obsession was standing behind her, no doubt admiring her body and all Sara could think of was that she was caught in a daydream.  That at any moment she would startle and find herself gazing dreamily past liquor bottles into the mirror where the man of her dreams was to be found.

But, no, he’s right behind you, getting ready to do...things...to you.

And she wanted it.  So very much.

“Wider.  Spread your hands farther apart.”

His voice had taken on a gruff tone, as if the moment had caught him up as much as Sara.  She set her hands wide apart, the effect being that she was bent over deeply upon the desktop.

Then it hit her.  Once again the scents of a pine forest, rich and wild, filled her nose.  It was like walking among thick trees, deep under a canopy that held all in shadow even on the brightest day.  Like the odors of soft soil giving way underfoot, black and humid after a spring rain.

Sara could have heard birds singing, or frogs croaking, and it would not have surprised her.  The wilderness had surrounded them and, as before, she felt a handkerchief cover her eyes to be knotted behind her head.

The man whose name she did not know growled behind her and in that sound she heard undisguised lust.  She heard animal desire.

And she wanted him.

Her panties were soaking through with the need that blazed like fire between her legs.  Then she felt her skirt being slid upward before fingers found the boundaries of her underwear, hooking in hard and stripping them down.

Sara moaned.  She could not help it.  Without meaning to, her hips shifted back, her legs spreading wide.  Her very body cried out to be taken as she felt him lean against her once more.

My God, his body must be incredible.

Anywhere his skin made contact with her, she felt thick, corded muscles rippling with each of his movements.

Whoever he was, he was a man who went far beyond just taking care of himself.  The intensity she saw in his eyes apparently carried over to every aspect of his life.  And in an epiphany, Sara understood it was his fundamental truth.

This was a man of extremes, of intensity that defined his every thought, and in this exact moment, she was the center of his focus.  All that mattered.

She was, for just a short time, all he wanted.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said, and once more Sara heard how deep his voice had become.

Then, she felt him come up against her bottom and at the same time dip down low before lifting up again.

She cried out.

His cock was as enormous as she had thought earlier, only now it was between her legs.  Not inside, but rather against her folds, sliding from behind against the wet of her desire.

Hard fingers seized her hips as he slid through her folds before pulling slowly back to do it again and again.

Sara panted with ecstasy.  His member was riding through her lips and up against her apex in a way that burned like fire, but stoked her passion higher with each pass.

“Please...please,” she panted, “Take me.

“I’m ready.”

Suddenly her head was jerked back hard as he took a fistful of her hair and pulled.

“I decide when,” he said.  The voice that had been only gruff a moment before was now guttural with heavy desire.

He rocked in hard against her and pulled back once more in a delicious stroke that threatened to send her over the edge.

Then, he hesitated.  She could feel him, his length ready to slide forward again, then abruptly he shifted and in a full, powerful stroke he entered her, filling her as deeply as she had ever been.

Oh...my...God....

He pistoned back and then slammed forward hard enough to cause Sara’s hands to slide upon the desktop.  His hand was still in her hair and she could see him in her mind’s eye, chiseled like a classical sculpture, mastering her with his extraordinary strength.  Bewitching her with the beauty of his eyes.

One more thrust and Sara felt herself clench in hard around him.  There was none of the usual slow build up of tension as she felt an orgasm coming on.  There was no warning...there were only muscles that convulsed deep in her abdomen while pleasure exploded behind her blindfolded eyes.

He rode her, pounding into her, and as the sweat streamed down to drip from her nose, Sara was glad for every minuscule event in her life that had somehow led to this very moment.

Again, her core rippled hard with pleasure, then she felt him become huge, swelling inside her.

Without warning, he was outside of her, his cock slipping forward through the folds of her cleft.  Desperate for him, Sara reached back to seize him in her hand.

Together, they bucked wildly and then all thought drained away as he arched in hard against her.  The muscles in his abdomen flexed as he convulsed in an orgasm that Sara felt to her toes.

And, for the third time, her core pulsed with pleasure near to pain before turning to a shuddering of flesh that took her out of time and out of mind.

She only knew that she held the most magnificent man ever created in her hand as she rocked against him again and again until her apex slipped over the threshold of  pain.

After a long moment, Sara released him, bracing herself against the desk.  The only sound was that of their breathing as both took in deep gulps of air.

He drew back from her.  She felt cool air come to replace the heat of his body against her back.  Her legs trembled in aftershocks that fluttered like ghosts reaching up and behind her navel.

Sara did not move, suddenly aware that she had gone against his command to leave her hands upon the desk.

That breach may have been her last.

She stayed where she was as she heard him moving behind her.  Then heard him walk quietly away.

What do I do now?  Is it over?  Did I ruin everything?

Then soft footsteps announced his return.

Slowly, he undid the knot holding the handkerchief in place.

“Don’t move,” he said and she thought she heard something more in his tone.

Then, she felt a soft, dampened cloth slip gently down her spine.  He wiped at her skin slowly, every so slowly, then worked his way down her body, to the backs of her legs, the insides of her thighs.

His hands went to her shoulders and he gently lifted her up, turning her to face him.

“Sara, I am fevered for you,” he said.

His eyes searched her face, looking for some reaction, but she held her tongue while she turned his words over in her mind.

I never told him my name....

“Who are you?” she said, at last.  “You think you have me all figured out, don’t you, yet I still don’t know who you are.”

His lips turned up in the half smile that she was learning to recognize.  The half smile that was beginning to find its way into her heart.

“You know all there is to know about me.  All that matters, anyway.”

She bit her lip, suddenly feeling self conscious standing in front of him with her shirt undone and her skirt still up over her hips.

Sara scanned the floor, but there was no sign of her panties.  She turned away from him slightly as she pulled her skirt back down into place before reaching up to button her shirt.

He took the half step separating them, then clasped her trembling hands within his own, stilling them.

Sara looked into his eyes and the amusement was gone.  Serious, deadly serious, he released her then carefully buttoned her shirt for her.

“It’s late...let me see you home,” he said when he had finished.

Sara imagined directing him to the lowly hotel where she rented her room by the week.  Down mean streets that she did not dare walk after dark, not when the bus took her nearly to her door.

The embarrassment of it was too much for her to imagine.

“No.  You can’t apologize like that.  A ride home doesn’t cover it.”

She could not help sounding petulant.  She did not want to, but the fact of what had just happened, despite her being furious over waiting for him all day had removed any other choice.

“No,” he said, “I insist.”

She had been looking for her purse when she spoke.

Sara wheeled back to him, her latent anger blazing anew.

“You insist?” she asked bitterly.  “I’ve had just about enough of you and your commands.”

Seizing her purse, Sara marched into the elevator, its doors still gaping wide.

Without thinking, she punched the button for the ground floor, then looked up to see him standing there, half in shadow.

His head was cocked slightly to the side, as if bemused.  And, as before, he was dressed in the white shirt that covered his dark tattoos.

Let him keep his secrets, then, she thought.  She held her chin high, wondering what he saw as he looked at her, then the elevator doors slipped closed between them.

~~~

When the brushed steel doors opened again, Sara found herself in the strangely deserted parking garage from earlier that day.  She barely noticed the few luxury cars parked there as she walked up a ramp in search of an exit.

A few steps later, she came upon an attendant’s booth with the vehicle barrier down.  The man within was speaking into a telephone and Sara did not break her stride as she bent down and quickly sidestepped under the barrier.

She kept walking and did not see the man hang up the phone as she went by.  Or that he had stepped outside the booth, a hand resting upon the handgun at his hip while he watched the young woman walk out into the night.

Her bus stop was not far away and Sara quickly made her way to the plastic roofed bench at the street corner.

She strained her eyes trying to make out the bus line’s evening hours.  But someone had used a coin to scratch graffiti across the plexiglass covering the bus schedule, leaving it a blurred, indecipherable mess.

Sara knew that the buses ran at night, although at a much reduced frequency.

With no other choice, and because she had no means of paying a taxi, she began walking toward the next stop along her usual bus’s circuit.  Sooner or later, one would go by and she would just have to do her best to flag it down.

She had only gone half a block when she heard the low rumbling of a large vehicle draw up beside her before slipping smoothly by.

A long, black sedan of foreign make came to a stop several yards beyond Sara and the driver quickly got out.

He was a young man, blond and smiling wide as she stopped in her tracks.

He’s just a kid, surely not old enough to drive.

“Hi,” he said it like a teenager would.  Only his all black attire, down to the dark sunglasses and black leather gloves, somehow lent him a professional air.

“My name is Carson Flair, but you can just call me Flair,”  he said, “Everybody else does.”

Sara smiled despite herself.  His grin was infectious.

“And you can call me Sara,” she replied.

He nodded, saying, “Yes...Sara Renardine...I know.  I’m supposed to take you home, Miss Renardine, or anywhere else you might like to go.”

Damn that man and his beautiful eyes.  He doesn’t know when to give up.

Only Sara knew that she was relieved she would not have to walk who-knows-how-many blocks until she might chance upon a bus.  She wanted to stand by her principles, but the fact was, it was very late and she was very tired.

She must have nodded then, but was not aware of it.  In any case, Flair immediately opened a rear passenger door and with a flourish of his hand, indicated that she take a seat.

Oh, the hell with it.  I’m too tired to argue any more.

She got in and the young man nodded, his smile still in place as he closed the passenger door.

The interior of the car was of deep cushioned, butter soft leather that smelled deliciously of Earl Grey tea.  A dark tinted glass panel was up, separating her from the driver’s compartment and just as Sara was about to knock on the glass so she could give him directions, Flair’s voice spoke from a speaker integrated into the car’s interior.

He asked for the address and Sara gave it to him, but the street number she mentioned was one that would leave her at some distance from the hotel.

Her vanity was petty and she knew it, but the idea of where she lived getting back to the amber eyed man was too much to swallow.

As it was, everything about that man was too much to swallow and Sara sleepily watched the city streets float by, as if she rode a cloud within a dream.

Soon enough, the streets took on a meaner aspect.  The lighting was dimmer.  The few people who loitered on the sidewalks were dimmer, too.  Trash gathered in the corners of the street gutters, as if placed there to say that order had no say here, as if wild creatures waited around every corner.

In a smooth glide to a stop, the car halted before a desolate brick building.

Sara had guessed at a street number that would get her close, but not too close, to her hotel.

She did not wait for Flair to come open her door but as she put her hand on the latch, the tinted glass panel abruptly slid down.

“Miss Renardine, this is for you,” Flair said.  He reached through the opening to hold a cellphone out to her.

Without thinking, Sara took it and he continued, “Mr. Abraxis wants you to have it.  Also, he wants you to know that you can expect a call very soon.”

She said, “What did you say?  His name is what?

Carson Flair reached up to remove his sunglasses and said, "Mr. Abraxis?  Brazier Abraxis, the man at the top, CEO and owner of Abraxis Industries...the man who owns us all."

Oh my god, oh my god....

Stunned, it took Sara a moment to reply.

"He doesn't own me."

...be careful of the powers you invoke....

Flair smiled even wider as he said, "If you say so, Miss Renardine.  But, my nose tells me that he's got plans for you."

What have I got myself into..?

He nodded to the cellphone in her hand.

"If I were you, I’d keep that handy.  Mr. Abraxis expects all of us to respond instantly to his calls."

Her mind reeling Sara nearly leapt from the car while Flair rushed outside to join her.  His hands opened and closed, as if being deprived of opening the door for her wounded him somehow.

She did not care.

This is not happening.

Sara stumbled back a step from the car, the cellphone held loosely in one hand.

"His every desire...."she said under her breath.

Flair cocked his head and said, "I'm sorry?  I didn't catch that."

She shook her head, "Nothing...it's nothing."

"Ok...goodnight, then, Miss Renardine,” he said as he eased the passenger door closed.

Just then a car turned at an intersection nearby and as its headlights swept over them, Sara saw something that should not have been.

In the years before she finally escaped the burg where she had grown up, where most residents were only one credit card payment ahead of being white trash, Sara had seen any number of times what lights at night did to animals' eyes.  Hunters would scout the deer herds in harvested cornfields with spotlights, looking for that season's big buck...others were predator hunters out searching for those animals that stalked the shadows, revealing themselves only when their eyes betrayed them under unnatural light.

The car's headlights slipped over them and for a split second,  Flair's eyes flashed in unnatural argent.  But, just as quickly as the headlights had disappeared, so did that silver gleam.

His smile wavered as he saw her not just looking at him, but looking at his eyes.  Flair slipped his sunglasses on and tipped her a salute which would have been ridiculous in any other situation.

But this day, and now this evening, had taught Sara that she should expect nearly anything, no matter how outlandish.

Her mind was racing as she walked down the sidewalk, past shoddy buildings, some with windowpanes broken out, others with hedges overgrown and paint peeling in dun colored strips from their walls. The impossible day was impossible for her to believe, and that was when she saw him.

Leaning against a derelict building's wall as he had been earlier that day, in a way that might have seemed nonchalant for anyone else, Sara recognized the homeless man from outside the restaurant.

Remembering his wild eyes and the bizarre way that he had looked at her in the alley outside the restaurant, Sara plunged her hand into her purse.

Whether it was to search for pepper spray or for a dollar she could not spare, Sara could not have said.

But the man did not try to advance upon her, only following her with his eyes as she walked by, the pace of her steps then as rapid as she could manage without actually running.

Sara only realized she had been holding her breath until after she had got well beyond the homeless man, releasing it in one long sigh.  Then, believing herself foolish for thinking that the poor man meant her any harm, she heard a voice in the darkness.

"Danger...she walks the paths of monsters...she must heed the warning and turn aside...danger...."

He said it quietly, as if he meant it only for Sara's ears, but the sound carried to her in the still night air.  Despite herself, she had come to a stop as his words reached her, then jolted by what he said, Sara burst forward again, hurrying as quickly as she could to the relative safety of her shoddy hotel.

She remembered the strange look he had given her earlier that day.  A look of manic zeal in an otherwise handsome face.  And now, here he was again, miles across town.

This is not a coincidence.

She hurried down the shadowy street and entered the relative safety of the her seedy hotel.

With a sigh of relief, Sara skirted past the front desk.  A cigarette burned in an ashtray, but no one was seated on the worn leather chair.  As far as she was concerned, that was just fine.  The proprietor was a greasy haired, leering fiend, who took more than his fair share of time staring after Sara as she walked away.  Further, rent was due and money was more than tight for her just then.

Creaking steps did their best to betray her as she went upstairs, but in a lucky turn of events, the front desk remained unattended until Sara passed out of sight of it and on up to the next floor.

The door to her room did its best to not be outdone by the creaking steps, but once shut, silence reigned.

She fumbled for the light switch and as she did, Sara’s foot brushed against something lying on the stained linoleum floor.

The light stuttered into being, threatening to pass into the next life before taking hold one last time.  And on the floor lay a brown paper wrapped packet.

She stooped to pick it up and as her hand touched the wrapping...

Who ties things with string these days?

...she felt a chill and gooseflesh prickled along her arms.  The door had been locked.  There was no sign of anyone forcing their way in.

The packet did not weigh much and as she undid what appeared to be butcher’s twine, Sara saw that it contained two envelopes, one blank on its exterior, the other with a handwritten “Sara Renardine” scrawled in a looping, old fashioned sort of script.

She opened the one with her name.

Dearest Sara,

It is with great pleasure this evening that I have learned contact has been made.

Bravo...well done.

As agreed upon, please find enclosed your first advance payment.

This sum shall be followed by other, similar payments as you continue in your assignment.

For the moment, however, there is nothing more for you to do.

I am certain the subject will initiate the next phase on his own and you have but to follow along.

And, dear girl, do remember...you are to acquiesce to his every desire.  His every desire.  Without exception, or I shall know of it and whereupon our contract will be immediately and irrevocably severed.

In such a case, and in accordance with the aforementioned contract, I wish to remind you that all previous payments will revert as debt owed to me and in one manner or another, you will pay...and dearly.  I promise you.

With My Most Distinguished Salutations,

The Journeyman

The other envelope was densely packed with fifty dollar bills.  One hundred portraits of Ulysses S. Grant stared back at her as she fanned them out.

But, the color seemed strangely faded.  Sara bent closer before jumping back in surprise.

Each and every one was stamped with the year 1929.  Gooseflesh tingled down her arms once more as she slipped the bills back into the envelope.

Suddenly, she felt dirty and went to wash her hands in the small sink in the corner of the room, but first she placed the envelope of cash in the mini fridge on the floor; not just on a shelf, but in the tiny freezer.  If she could have, she would have preferred burying it somewhere outside instead.  Somehow she felt that would have been more appropriate.

Hands freshly washed in scalding hot water, Sara came back to the letter and that was when she finally noticed.

The writing was in the same looping script as on the exterior of its envelope.  Not by ballpoint pen, but rather something like a calligrapher’s pen.

She had no difficulty, in fact, imagining a fluffy white plume penning the scrawling words upon the paper.

But, the worst, the very worst of all was the color of the ink.  Not black, nor deep indigo blue.

It was of a rusty brown color and in places where it had dripped down and been only perfunctorily blotted, it remained slightly wet.

And blood red....

~~~

A lone man crossed the threshold from one kind of darkness to another.

There was no sound other than the quiet chirping of crickets and the rustling of other tiny beasts that roam the night.

He slipped through thick leaves, humid with the night’s air.  Deep greenery surrounded him on all sides.  Trees of various essences, some even tropical, stood all around him and gave silent witness as he lifted his face skyward.

The moon hid herself behind the clouds, refusing the man and his desire to see her, to feel her gentle light upon him while his own private forest sheltered him from the harsh reality of his existence.

The rich odors of plant growth so dense that it could have dated to antediluvian times wafted in the calm night air and allowed nothing of the city below to penetrate.

For the man stood upon a great glass encrusted tower that rose like a spike toward the heavens and the overgrown garden surrounding him had been birthed by the hands of man.  The last three floors of the skyscraper were devoted to a space open to the sky and the riot of leaves and wild growth had begun as blueprints upon paper.

But the wilderness cares not for men, nor their orderly plans.  In time the natural world had imposed itself in the most unlikely of places and that the tower top held the apparent chaos of nature itself while so many floors below, the world of modern finance and industry believed itself an indomitable and orderly master; well, the irony of it was to the man’s greatest pleasure.

With a groan, he shrugged off his simple white shirt and his massive form glistened in the darkness.

As thickly muscled as the most devout bodybuilder, he shrugged his shoulders, rolling them, loosening them while his skin rippled with their movement.

And across the skin of his torso, black patterns criss crossed in every direction.  Spirals of strange symbols interlaced along his ribs to an intaglio of darkness emblazoned over his entire body.

To the untrained eye, he would have appeared to be tattooed in an intricate tribal style.  To a very rare few, a handful of learned occultists hidden away in obscure corners of the world, he would have appeared to be a living book.

For the symbols comprised ancient runes meant for one thing--a forgotten language destined to bridge the gap between the realms of the living and of the dead.

His skin rippled again, although this time it was not of his doing.  Rather, it was the symbols themselves that shifted and seethed across his body.

And, with a sound that echoed in cavernous tones, a deep voice rose in the darkness.

“You seek to drown me out, Braze.  There where each day the clamor of puny men hides you from me, silencing my council.”

The man did not answer and the twisting runes continued their serpentine dance across his skin.

“So hear me now and listen well.  Ware the female.  No good will come of her.

“But, more than this, listen to your instincts and prepare yourself for battle.  Powers have begun to stir and when subtlety turns to action, I believe our very existence shall hang in the balance.”

Brazier Abraxis shrugged in response then said, “Have you not prepared me?  Have you ever ceased to teach me despite all that comes between us?”

Has even death itself posed a barrier to you and your cursed lessons?

The voice sighed with the sound that wind makes when whistling through the teeth of a bleached skull.

“Aye...so I have, Braze.  So why do you continue to defy me in these petty ways?  Why would you deny me?”

The man did not reply for a moment, weighing his words before saying, “I would never deny you...father.”

Then he turned away as the moon slipped from the clouds at last and the reflection of it in his eyes went from rich amber to golden yellow.

He tilted his head back and howled to the sky, wishing that his brethren would take up the call.  Desiring more than anything that he did not stand alone when he was meant to lead, meant to be lord to his fellows.

The howl grew to a roar as he withheld himself no more, allowing at last the savagery held fiercely at bay, loosing the leash of his self-imposed mastery.

The howl rose far above the city and its sound was not that of a man, but that of a beast.

It’s sound was that of a wolf.

***

To be continued in

Her Billionaire, Her Wolf: Part 2, Lust and Lies

Also by Aimélie Aames:

The Divine Fornication Series (An Erotic Story of Angels, Vampires and Werewolves)

Seduced by an Angel

Episode 1 of the Divine Fornication Series

An erotic, paranormal story:

Claire Sawyer's life is about to change in a way that she never could have imagined.

Blind since a terrible childhood accident, she dies for the second time in her relatively short life only to find herself in the arms of an angelic being.

Is he her guardian angel, or the monster responsible for the death of her parents so many years ago?

Claire will search for her answers as she is swept up into events involving the divine and their relation to the vampires and werewolves that she encounters in her incredible journey to discover the truth.

Taken by the Vampire

Episode 2 of the Divine Fornication series

Claire awakens in a hospital room to find a man sitting quietly, waiting for her.

Except that he is no ordinary man, adorned as he is with dark wings and burning in black flames.

Is it the angel of death, come to take her away at last? Or is he the lord of all vampires, come to steal the prize from his adversary, the Messenger, the being who has healed Claire's blindness?

Flying high above the city lights in his cold arms, Claire shall find herself brought to a lonely fortress where blood drinkers await her and werewolves roam the darkness, all of them waiting for the ravishment to come.

Claimed by the Wolf

Episode 3 of the Divine Fornication series

From certain doom at the hands of vampires, Claire Sawyer finds herself surrounded by hundreds of wolves.

Are they her saviors, or the culmination of the doom that follows her at every turn?

Cursed or no, Claire must fight for her survival, even if that means becoming one of them, wolves in heat with just one thing in mind.

Redeemed by the Conqueror

Episode 4 of the Divine Fornication Series

In the stunning conclusion to the four part series, Divine Fornication, Claire Sawyer finds herself caught between vampires, werewolves and angels. Three races of beings willing to battle for the one thing they value most--Claire's eternal soul.

Will Claire's guardian angel return at last, in her final moments? Or, will she be lost forever to eternal damnation?

The Marechal Chronicles: Volumes I, II and III (An Erotic Fantasy Tale)An erotic, fantasy adventure, this is a romantic tale of magic, emotion, and human motivation that does not turn a blind eye to the frank sexuality of its characters. Within these pages live witches, shapechangers, demons, and immortal beings. Turn the page and let them unveil their dark story in the ambiance of medieval France.

A collection of the first three volumes—

Volume 1, The Path

Melisse dreams of another life, one in which she is no longer the servant to a noble family, one where she can find her own destiny and make her life her own.

On the eve of the arrival of the Marechal de Barristide, an eldritch light in the forest calls out to her, giving her the hope of change to come.

The Marechal, a man marked with a vicious scar, is a man of the law of the realm, charged with investigating a series of horrible crimes to the south. However, he has his own reasons for visiting House Perene. Reasons that drive him to search mercilessly for the truth, no matter the cost.

His search and the fate of Melisse intertwine to form a tapestry of lust, violence, and supernatural implications. All of which resound within a potent and robust story that draws the reader in and does not let go.

Volume 2, The Hunter

The sun rises upon the blood soaked House Perene.

Evil has struck within and without and only the Marechal de Barristide can untangle the threads of fate that wind about him in a web of intrigue and passion.

His way is branded into the very ground before him, but the Marechal must turn his course in order to seek aid from a dreaded soul. Beings from a realm other than earth shall seek his alliance while his quarry, the servant woman, Melisse, has disappeared, leaving only ash and dust behind her. But before taking up her trail once more, the Marechal must submit to another's infernal desires and pay far more than he bargained for.

Volume 3, The Prey

The paths of the Marechal de Barristide and Melisse, runaway servant accused of a grisly murder, narrow to convergence in a seamy quarter of Licharre, a city bordering the Ardoise mountains to the south.

Lust and desire burn all that lies between them as demons rear their ugly heads, twisting their destinies together while powers beyond those of mankind exact their vile desires.

Blood will run before it is over and doom shall fall where it will in this continuing story of supernatural passion and erotic romance.

The Goblin Between Her Thighs (A Marechal Chronicles Prequel)

An army captain with a mysterious scar is torn from the battle front and from his lover in this story of espionage, body thieves and devious eroticism.

The legendary Goblin War rages while Alexandre's own identity slips away from him in his struggle between his forgotten past and the woman who loves him. Action, intrigue, and intense sexuality...all this and more awaits between these pages.

This is an erotic stand-alone story of 11,000 words, but also a prequel to the events recounted in the ongoing series, The Marechal Chronicles by Aimélie Aames.

For your reading pleasure, an excerpt from The Marechal Chronicles:

The Marechal had no words with which to respond.  His tongue was frozen in place as were his limbs.  He found that he could not move even his smallest finger as the old woman hobbled from the room.

The light grew dimmer until he could no longer see the shelves across from him.  He saw only that he was alone in the faint glow of a circle and that it now appeared as if the walls had receded with dark nothingness taking their place.  Even the faint sounds of the swamp outside the witch's house were gone.  The constant drip of water, or the raucous cry of some distant bird, all of it had dwindled to a muffled silence.

The Marechal had begun to wonder if the drink had somehow stoppered his ears when he heard a female voice, low and silky, speak from the surrounding shadows.

"Oh, you lovely man," he heard her say, then saw her emerge from the darkness and into the pool of light surrounding him.  First came one long bare leg, the flesh of a marble purity that would have taken his breath away if he had not already been spelled still.

The rest of her followed.

She was dressed in gauzy, transparent black, a sort of robe such as noblewomen wear, except that the hemline was ragged, running in deep zigs and zags that showed the Marechal tantalizing glimpses of firm white skin before being hidden away again as she moved with a delicious languor around him.

Her hair was long, black, and shone like the finest silk, as if she had magicked the glint of fine silver into her color.  Her lips were luscious and full, of a red deep and profound.  The color reminded the Marechal of heart's blood running down the length of his sword, the final beats of his opponent's life felt down to the pommel.

She was carnal, she was feline, dark and light, she was contrast in motion.

Despite his compromised circumstances, the Marechal felt himself respond, his member growing heavy and warm, lengthening as he felt his pulse descend into his crotch.

"What an interesting scar, Marechal," she said.  Her finger lingered at his jaw, tracing down to come round to his shirt front where she lightly flicked the buttons.

She leaned in close, letting her lips brush against his ear, and asked breathily, "Do you want me...Marechal?"

He felt his throat unlock with a hitch.  He swallowed, then said, "What I do or do not want seems to be irrelevant at the moment.  I believe that is the game we are playing, no?"

"Oh, this is no game, Marechal," she replied.  "I am deadly serious.  My intentions for you have nothing of goodness in them."

"My love for visitors is in their suffering which can be so poignant, so exquisite...so charming."

She stepped away from him and he saw that she carried a cavalier's quirt in her hand.  In a long, drawn out motion, she drew her hand back and then swung at him, lashing his chest with what he believed was her fullest strength.

There was a crack and he felt the venomous sting of the lash leap through him.  He clenched his jaws around the sound threatening to escape, sweat springing to his brow.

He fought against it, but he could feel that his erection had become enormous, straining against his trousers.

"Do you want me?" she asked again, her voice low as she reached out to toy with the tear in his shirt that the quirt had left behind.  Her finger came away red and she licked his blood from it, smiling.

"That taste.  It is amazing, Marechal.  You really are of a special vintage, aren't you?

"You must make women weak in the knees and loose in the hips with the slightest glance.  They take in your muscled shoulders, that broad chest hiding inside your immaculate white shirt.  You come to them with thighs of oak and iron and lower yourself down upon them, letting them feel the weight of a real man, a man in his prime, rich, cultured, as you mesmerize them with your gray gaze and long lashes.

"Why I should imagine they are ready to come with just a smile from you, Marechal.  Your beautiful smile as yet unstained by time or by wine."

The Marechal said nothing, the lash on his chest pulsing with each beat of his heart.  He could feel small runnels of blood leaking down across his abdomen.  And, still, he felt that he had become enormously, preposterously aroused.

She walked behind him and with no warning, she struck him again, two vicious cracks echoing in the air.  His back felt as though he had just been gored by a bull, the pain so intense that he gasped with the suddenness of it.

He knew she was goading him, but that knowledge did not stop his anger from blossoming into red rage.

With his most mighty effort, he summoned his strength, willing his arms to move.  In that moment, as the blood coursed down his back, he wanted this woman's neck in his hands, wanted to see fear in her eyes as he held her life between forefinger and thumb.

He roared like a wild beast, but his arms only twitched loosely, the geas of the spell holding him.  He smiled inside, though.  A twitch meant that he could weaken the spell's hold, he could work against it, and in time, break free.

"And, you are a fighter, as well, my dear," she said, amused.  Something in her tone troubled him.

"But you shall not have the time you require, Marechal."

With a jerk, he felt his trousers undone and then she was pushing at his back.  His body obeyed her touch as he was forced to bend over.  She slapped the quirt against the inside of his thighs and to his horror, he spread his legs wide.

"Oh, so much better.  If only you could see the look on your face," she said as she circled around him, trailing her fingertips upon his back.

Coming to a stop behind him, the Marechal felt the quirt touch lightly at his anus.  He tried desperately to tighten, to find some means of stopping what she was about to do, but he was powerless.

There was pressure and then there was pain at the unfamiliar sensation.  He felt suddenly very full, deep cramps racking him while he heard her laughing.

"Don't you like that, dear?" she asked as she walked around to his front.  He could still feel the quirt where she left it, pushing at his insides.

She pushed lightly at his shoulders, forcing him back up to a standing position and then she took his penis into her hand, pulling and pushing, as the quirt behind him dangled and swung with her movements.

The Marechal groaned.  The melange of pain and pleasure.  It was not new for him, not after all this time, but to be held powerless in the face of it, a plaything for the whims of another was altogether different and worse than unsettling.

"Calm yourself, Marechal.  I can see my toy twitching back there," she chuckled.  Then she dropped to her knees before him and enveloped his cock with her lips.  The heat of her mouth was intense and she pressed her tongue tightly against him as she worked up and down his shaft.

He wanted to refuse her, to break her hold upon him.  Instead, the sensations that he felt overwhelmed him.  He could feel the quirt rocking inside, pushing against him with a steady rhythm in time with the motions of the woman as she took him deep into her mouth with full, zealous strokes.

The most profound muscles of his abdomen began to tighten and he could feel himself lifting up, his cock stiffening in its extremity and then in great shuddering breaths, he came into her mouth, his muscles spasming, the sensations arising as much from the flesh holding the quirt in place as from the base of his member, pulsing with the force of his orgasm.

The Marechal strained, heaving and heaving, his muscles rippling in the throes of the moment even as his vision dimmed to near darkness.

Then, she was upon him and he, suddenly flat on his back, could only watch as she sunk down over his cock, her pendulous breasts now bared and her nipples standing out in reddened fury.

"I have never known the pleasure of riding a horse, Marechal," she said while she slid up and down his cock.  "But, I imagine it is like this, and that at times, you must show the beast who is master....

Available now at All Romance Ebooks

Copyright 2012 Aimélie Aames

Cover Artwork Copyright 2012 Aimélie Aames

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people.  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it and purchase your own copy.  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously.  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Table of Contents

Section 1