One Night of Trouble

“Yes, sir,” she said with a mock salute, but he didn’t miss the impatience in her gait as they climbed the stairs to her apartment.

This was his second visit to Brett’s domain, and he found it as soothing as the first. With its funky mismatched furniture and dozens of colorful paintings on the walls, her place was so much more welcoming than his. Her style was an odd mix of modern and antique, and so frickin’ cozy it brought a pang of longing to his gut.

His own apartment was neat, sterile, and bland. He hadn’t had the heart to say no to his mother when she’d insisted on decorating it, but he couldn’t deny that her efforts had succeeded in making him feel like an intruder in his own home.

“Bedroom.” Brett’s voice sliced through his thoughts.

He narrowed his eyes when he noticed the look on her face. Stern and steely, a sure sign that she was up to something.

Deciding to humor her, he headed down the hall, and when they entered her bedroom, she pointed to the bed. “Lie down.”

AJ raised one eyebrow. “You’re bossing me around now?”

“Damn straight.” She lifted an eyebrow in return. “Did you think I was going to let you get away with what you did last night? And what you did today? You really don’t know me at all, Adam James.”

No, he really didn’t, but he sure as hell was enjoying getting to know her. He loved the fire simmering beneath her surface, the way she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. He’d already caught several glimpses of her temper, already learned firsthand that it didn’t take much for it to spill over, but he liked that about her. Brett Conlon was full of life, and damned if he didn’t admire that.

It was almost a shame she’d decided to rein in that fire in order to please her family. AJ much preferred this scorching, passionate side of her.

She fluttered a hand at the mattress again. “Lie. Down.”

He sauntered over to the bed and stretched out on top of the quilted bedspread, propping his hands behind his head as he watched Brett march toward the closet. She leaned inside and disappeared in the row of hanging clothes, making mysterious rustling sounds as she rummaged around.

When she turned to face him, she held a silk necktie in each hand.

“Are we playing dress up?” AJ said casually.

“Nope.” Her expression turned downright wicked as she approached the foot of the bed. “Take off your shirt.”

He sat up and yanked on the collar of his T-shirt, peeling the material over his head. Brett’s eyes darkened with approval when his bare chest was exposed, and man, knowing his body turned her on was a goddamn ego boost.

Her hips swayed seductively as she joined him on the bed. She gave him a forceful shove so he was on his back again, then climbed on top of him and straddled his crotch.

Fuuuuck.

The intimate contact turned his dick to stone, and his hips involuntarily rose so he could rub up against her. The friction was so insanely mind-blowing he almost blacked out, but a sharp tug on his left wrist snapped him back to reality.

He eyed her warily. “What are you doing?”

Rather than answer, she looped one tie around his wrist, then wrenched his arm up and aligned his hand with one of the bedposts. He didn’t protest as she secured his wrist to the post. He was far too fascinated.

“This”—she fashioned an impressive-looking knot and pulled hard—“is what I like to call payback.”

A second later, he was tied to her bed.

Chapter Eight

Brett was proud of her handiwork as she tested AJ’s bindings—and slightly surprised that he’d allowed her to do it without a single objection.

“Payback, huh?” he echoed. “Whatcha gonna do, Brett? Spank me? ’Cause I’d have to roll over for that, and I’m afraid I’m a bit tied up at the moment.”

She snorted. “Ha-ha, hilarious. And please, don’t tempt me—you totally deserve a spanking for the way you tormented me.”

Her hand lowered to his waist to toy with the button of his khakis. She deliberately grazed her knuckles over the ridge of his very obvious erection, enjoying the way his abdomen tightened as he sucked in a breath. His chest was truly wonderful. An endless expanse of smooth golden skin, lightly dusted with dark blond hair and rippling with power.

“You should get some ink,” she mused, skimming her fingers over his defined pectoral muscles.

His hot male flesh quivered beneath her touch. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” She traced one flat nipple, then bent forward to flick her tongue against it.

AJ groaned.

“Most MMA fighters I’ve seen on TV have tats,” she remarked. “How come you never got any?”

His features had grown taut, a sheen of moisture appearing on his forehead as she teased both his nipples with her fingers. When he spoke, his voice came out strained, distracted. “There was never anything I considered important enough to permanently put on my body.”

“Pity.” She kissed the patch of hair between his pecs, then followed the wispy line down to his groin.