The amber light in Manuel's study caught the dust motes stirred by Maya's trembling. He sat in his leather armchair, a king on a dark throne, his eyes fixed on her. "Take off your clothes." His voice was a low rumble, the command leaving no space for air. "All of them. Then you will dance."

Her fingers felt numb on the buttons of her blouse. The silk whispered as it slid from her shoulders. The air, smelling of his cigars and his skin, was cool on her breasts. Her jeans followed, then her underwear, until she stood naked in the center of the Persian rug, every instinct screaming to cover herself.

"Come here."

She moved on legs that didn't feel like her own. She positioned herself before him, the heat of his body a palpable force. She began to move, a slow roll of her hips, a dancer's motion turned into a grotesque parody. Her skin flushed with shame, a hot wave from her chest to her throat.

As she lowered herself, hovering just above his lap, she felt it. A hard, thick ridge of heat pressed against the inside of her thigh, straining against the fine wool of his trousers. It was immense. A shock of understanding jolted through her—the sheer, physical reality of him. She faltered, her rhythm breaking.

"You feel it, don't you?" Manuel’s hand came up, not to touch her, but to cradle the air beside her hip. His gaze held hers, unblinking. "My cock. It is going to ruin you tonight, Maya. It is going to torture you so well."

Panic surged. She tried to straighten, to push away from the terrifying promise of that pressure.

His hands locked around her waist, iron bands. He stood, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and carried her to the vast bed. He tossed her down onto the duvet. The world tilted, and then his weight was over her, his mouth descending on hers. It wasn't a kiss; it was a claiming. His tongue pushed past her lips, tasting of whiskey and dominance.

One large hand slid between her legs. His fingers were rough, calloused. They found her, parted her, and a single thick digit pushed inside. She was dry, tight with fear. He made a low sound against her mouth, not of concern, but of intent. He began to move his hand, the heel of his palm grinding against her as his finger worked in and out, a brutal, efficient friction. His other arm hooked under her, lifting her hips, pressing her backside against the hard ridge in his pants.

Then he rose, stripping off his clothes with swift, economical motions. The shirt, the trousers, the briefs. He stood naked at the foot of the bed, and Maya’s breath caught. He was thickly muscled, scarred, and between his legs his erection stood heavy and full, curving upward. It was as formidable as the rest of him. A primal fear, cold and sharp, lanced through her stomach.

"On your knees," he commanded, his voice gravel. "Take it in your mouth."

She shook her head, scrambling back against the headboard. "I can't."

He didn't raise his voice. "Kristen is down the hall with Eric. One word from me, and he will not be gentle. Do you understand the transaction?"

A sob hitched in her chest. She understood. She slid from the bed, her knees hitting the carpet. The scent of him, musk and salt, filled her senses. She leaned forward, her eyes watering before she even began. She took the head into her mouth, the skin hot and smooth like velvet over steel.

She heard his sharp intake of breath. Her world narrowed to the weight on her tongue, the stretch of her jaw. She moved, tentatively at first, then with a rhythm forced by his hand tangling in her hair. He didn't thrust, but he guided, his control absolute. A low groan vibrated from his chest. He let his head fall back, his eyes closing, his bearded throat working as he surrendered to the sensation.

In the silent, dim room across the palace, Kristen lay with her head on Eric's bare chest. His heartbeat was a steady drum under her ear. His hand moved slowly, methodically, stroking her hair from her temple to the ends. It was not a lover's caress. It was the petting of a man calming a skittish animal he now owned.

She hated the warmth of him. She hated the solidness. She hated, most of all, the deep, shameful curl of safety that unwound in her belly with each pass of his hand. The terror of the police, the blood in the foyer, the hard press of Eric into her body on the sofa—it had broken something. The fight was gone. In its place was a hollow acceptance, and within that hollow, a treacherous warmth grew. She didn't want to leave this bed.

Manuel’s eyes opened, dark and focused. He pulled himself from her mouth. "On the bed. On your back."

Maya obeyed, her body limp. He came over her, his weight settling between her thighs. The broad head of his cock pressed against her entrance. She was wet now, her body's pathetic betrayal to his earlier violation. He pushed forward, a slow, inexorable invasion. The stretch was breathtaking, a burning fullness that stole the air from her lungs.

A scream gathered in her throat, a raw reflex.

"Do not," he growled, his face inches from hers. His breath was hot. "One sound, Maya. One scream. And I will have Eric make Kristen scream in a way you will hear through these walls. Do you believe me?"

She believed him. The scream died, becoming a choked whimper. She went utterly still beneath him.

He began to move. A deep, withdrawing thrust, then a slow, penetrating slide that filled her completely. The burning eased, replaced by a shocking, deep friction. Her nails dug into the sheets. He set a relentless pace, each stroke hitting a place inside her that sparked a low, gathering heat. Her body, traitorous and alive, began to rise to meet his. A soft, broken moan escaped her lips.

Her eyes flew open, meeting his. He saw it. The shock of pleasure in her own dark honey gaze. A cruel, satisfied smile touched his mouth. He drove into her harder, chasing his own end, forcing hers upon her. Maya’s head fell back. The pleasure was a wave, pulling her under, and in the depths, she surrendered to the current.