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. . . if only for one bright, shattering moment.

Her eyes sprang wide, her thick, lust-induced spell shattered at the sensation of his cock swelling impossibly large in her mouth. He erupted while lodged deep, Francesca feeling both utterly at his mercy and completely in control, because she trusted him not to harm her. Sure enough, he withdrew with a guttural groan and continued to come on her tongue, his fingers fisted in her hair as he controlled the motions, moving her mouth back and forth over his length, stroking her shallowly. She sucked until the last sweet, musky drops of his semen spilled onto her tongue, his ragged pants echoing in her ears, his fingers loosening from a grip in her hair to a caress.

“Come here,” she heard him say harshly a moment later.

She reluctantly slid his cock out of her mouth, preferring to stay there and milk the softening but still-formidable flesh, play with him . . . learn him. He helped her to her feet and immediately swept down to seize her lips in one of his patentable forceful yet tender kisses.

“You’re so sweet,” he said a moment later, his breathing still choppy against her puffy, sore lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, smiling full-out. Something about his honest need and her ability to answer it had pleased her greatly. His head bent over her, he touched his thumb to her smile.

“You make me lose control, Francesca.”

Her smile faded slightly when she saw the shadow fall in his eyes. She had the distinct impression that he wasn’t entirely pleased about his greediness for her.

“There’s nothing wrong with that. Is there?”

He blinked, and the shadows dissipated.

“I suppose not. But we have a schedule,” he murmured, leaning down to rain kisses on her cheek and then her ear. She shivered, her sex heating again. “God you smell good,” he muttered, his warm lips now examining her neck.

“Ian? What schedule?” she managed with difficulty.

He lifted his head, and she wished she hadn’t asked.

“We have reservations for dinner at eight thirty.”

“We could be a little late, couldn’t we?” she coaxed, furrowing her fingers through his short, thick hair, relishing in the sensation. He so rarely let her touch him. She hated the idea of stopping because of a schedule.

“Unfortunately, we can’t be,” he said regretfully, stepping away from her and refastening his pants. She did the same with her own. He grabbed her hand and started to lead her out of the studio. “We’re dining with the owner of a company that I’ve been maneuvering to buy. I have good reason to believe that tonight Xander LaGrange is going to stop playing his infuriating games of cat and mouse and sign on the dotted line. I think I’ve finally sweetened the deal sufficiently to something even that greedy prick can’t refuse,” he muttered under his breath as he led her down the silent plush hallways of his penthouse.

“Oh,” Francesca said, practically running to keep up with his long-legged stride. She was surprised he’d asked her to such an important business meeting. Was it entirely wise on his part? she wondered, as the nerve butterflies started to flicker around in her belly. Her parents would certainly have said it was a terrible decision on Ian’s part. “Where do we have reservations?”

“At Sixteen,” he said, pulling her into his bedroom suite and shutting the door after them.

She blinked. “Ian, that’s one of the nicest restaurants in the city,” she said, panic starting to encroach. “I haven’t got anything to wear to a dinner like that . . . in one hour!” she added, horrified by the realization. “Did you reserve another private room?”

“No.” He waved at her in a follow-me gesture. He opened the door and flipped on a light. She entered, staring around in wonder at the rows of perfectly hung suits. She’d thought it was a closet, but it was a dressing room. It was bigger than her bedroom, long and narrow. The scent of Ian’s aftershave clung in the air along with the smell of something pleasant and spicy. She noticed perfectly aligned cedar hangers and rows and rows of highly buffed shoes, and realized the hangers and cedar shoe trees were the origin of the scent.

Ian waved his hand in front of a rack, and she stared for a moment, not comprehending what she was seeing.

Why were there dresses in his closet? And women’s shoes and accessories?

Her throat suddenly seemed to swell closed. She stared at him, aghast.

“I’m not wearing other women’s clothes!” she said, stung to the core that he’d even suggest her putting on clothing that had once belonged to his former lovers.

He looked a little nonplussed by her reaction. “They aren’t other women’s clothes. They’re yours.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Margarite had them delivered yesterday. They’re off-the-rack,” he said almost apologetically, “but she had them tailored for you.”

“Margarite,” Francesca said slowly, as if pronouncing a foreign word for the first time. “Why would Margarite have done that?”

“Because I told her to, of course.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other in his still dressing room.

“Ian, I told you specifically I didn’t want clothing from you,” she said, anger rising.

“And I told you that there would be occasions I wanted you to attend with me where you couldn’t wear jeans, Francesca. Tonight is one of them. I also asked you to wear your new hairpins this evening,” he said so briskly it drove her off course. “Where are they?”