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  “And your father?”

  This part of her life wasn’t in her bio. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but it wasn’t public information either.

  “He was English. I remember a little bit of him, because we’d go visit when he was in São Paulo. He worked for a manufacturing company that had plants in Brazil. My mother cleaned houses for a lot of the expat community, which is how they met. They had an affair. Well, I don’t know if it was an affair, maybe it was more that she was his mistress because whenever he was in the country they were together. But he was married and had a wife in England.

  “Looking back, I know he was a bastard, but he was kind and charming whenever Mama took us to see him. He paid for us to attend the international school, which is where I learned English and learned to act. He’d told her he’d pay for our college.”

  Sasha looked at the cucumber slice she held, heart heavy. “He died when I was ten. Mama didn’t find out until four months later, when my father’s replacement arrived in the country and she got a request to clean his house. My father wasn’t a good man, but my mother loved him and that devastated her—that he’d been dead so long and no one had told her.”

  “What happened?”

  “Skin cancer. It must have been all the lovely sun in Brazil. He died very quickly after he was diagnosed.”

  “And you weren’t mentioned in the will?”

  “If we were, we never heard of it. I doubt his wife in England knew about us.”

  “If he’s listed on your birth certificate you have legal claim to—”

  “I would rather that we were poor—and we were—than we go looking for his money like beggars. We were given scholarships to stay at the international school because we were good students, and that was enough. My brother’s an engineer for a European company and I’m doing well. I did think about finding his wife when I became famous, but what would come of it? Ruin her memory of her dead husband? Create a scandal for the entertainment shows to dissect?”

  “And you don’t have any half brothers or sisters?”

  “No. Some cousins. Maybe someday we’ll meet.”

  The oven timer beeped. Emory turned to grab the nachos. Sasha threw down the cucumber slice and rubbed her arms. She never talked about her father, and only rarely about her mama. She’d done it because threads of intimacy still bound them together, making it seem as if the world outside the kitchen didn’t exist. It was a dangerous and addicting feeling.

  “My lady, your nachos.”

  Emory set them in front of her, then circled the large island to join her at one of the barstools.

  “These look amazing.” She carefully plucked up a single olive slice and ate it.

  “You need to eat.”

  “I start training for a movie next week.”

  “Tonight, you’re eating.”

  Giving in, she picked an extra cheesy chip and popped it in her mouth. “Oh my god, that’s good,” she mumbled.

  “I find feeding you strangely satisfying,” Emory admitted, selecting his own chip.

  “You’re not one of those freaky people who likes to fatten up women, are you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re an adult baby?” she asked in mock seriousness.

  “I would think it would be perfectly obvious what my kink is at this point.”

  “Oh right, I forgot. You’re into foot fetish.”

  “I will turn you over my knee.”

  A little thrill ran through Sasha, but she was too satiated for it to really get her going. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have canning welts on your ass.”

  “Neither do you. I’m very careful.”

  “I do too.”

  Before she could stop him, Emory had lifted her off her stool and bent her over the island. Gasping with laughter, Sasha tried—though not very hard—to get away. Emory yanked down her leggings and inspected her bare ass.

  “No welts. These marks will be gone by morning.”

  “You really have a thing about my ass, don’t you?”

  He smacked her butt. “It’s a very enjoyable ass.” Emory pulled her leggings up and released her. Sasha primly returned to her chair.

  “I’ll have my lawyer file assault charges against you in the morning,” she said.

  “Hold on, I’ll make a note of it.” He ate a chip.

  They ate in silence for a moment. The surreal quality of the night was growing. They were teasing and joking as if they were old friends or longtime lovers. When he’d bared her ass, she’d had no fear that it would turn into another session. He seemed content with what they were doing, which meant she didn’t have to worry about what he wanted.

  “I’ve never done this before,” she blurted out.

  “Eat nachos? I can tell. I can feel your ribs.”

  “No, not that.” She swirled a hand through the air. “This.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve never spent time with a Dom, after. I know about aftercare, and if a session got really physical guys were usually good about getting ice or whatever, but I’ve never had this.”

  “Emotional aftercare.”

  “Is that what this is?”

  “Yes.”

  “But we’re not… I mean, I’m just talking to you. Not to my—” She almost said Master and caught herself. “I mean a Dom.”

  “But this is giving you emotional space to transition out of the scene. Not all subs want or need it. I’d assumed, given what I know of how you play, that you’d prefer to finish things as quickly as possible.”

  “That’s normally what I do, out of necessity. I can’t hang around talking to them in person.”

  “They might recognize you if they had time to look at you without the haze of lust.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “While that’s smart as far as protecting yourself, it probably wasn’t good for you.” He considered her for a moment. “I believe this is the first time I’m speaking to you.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, but she already knew.

  “When you came to my office you were a movie star, in the session you were a submissive. Right now you’re…just you.”

  He was right. Terribly, terribly right. Tears sprang to Sasha’s eyes. She turned her face away, not even sure why his words made her cry.

  “Hey, hey, come here.”

  Emory pulled her off her stool onto his lap. He kissed her hair and rocked her back and forth as she cried.

  * * * * *

  “You’re ruining it.”

  “What’s there to ruin? It’s a romantic comedy.”

  “Stop talking,” Emory demanded.

  “Boy meets girl, girl meets boy. Boy and girl are both morons and don’t realize that they’re perfect for each other. Friend of boy and girl don’t help the situation.”

  “I will gag you.”

  “Nope.” Sasha stuffed a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “Ahm ettn oopcorn.”

  “Lovely. No really, that’s just lovely to watch you do that.”

  It was nearly four a.m. and they were on their third movie. Sasha had a theater in the basement next to the exercise room. There was even a sound booth in the room adjacent if she wanted to do ADR—Additional Dialogue Recording—at home. The theater had a mini refreshment stand, which included an air popper. Midway through movie two, they’d broken open diet sodas and made the first batch of popcorn. Now they were into their second and third round of sodas and popcorn while watching Sasha’s screener copies of movies that weren’t released in theaters yet.

  “They have legitimate reasons for not being together,” Emory insisted. On-screen, the hero turned and walked away when he saw the heroine exiting her front door with her ex—who only came looking for her help because the ex’s brother was in trouble. “Okay, so they’re both idiots. Why doesn’t he go after her if he loves her?”

  “Maybe he thinks she’s better off without him.”

  “Idiot.”

  “Exactly.”
>
  Emory wondered if he’d wake up and find out this had all been a dream. The evening had taken on a surreal quality. He should have left long ago, but there was too much pleasure to be found in her company.

  If he were brutally honest, he’d admit that he liked hanging out with her as much, if not more, than he liked fucking her.

  “Why don’t we just turn this off? Let’s watch one of your movies.”

  “Ugh, no. I hate watching my own movies. And besides, we need to see how it ends.”

  “They’ll end up together.”

  “You never know, maybe it’s like Before Sunrise, and they don’t end up together.”

  “That wasn’t a romantic comedy.”

  “True.”

  They ended up together, no great surprise. As the credits rolled, Sasha yawned.

  “It’s nearly five in the morning. You need to sleep,” Emory said. She looked soft and kissable. He wanted to protect her, take care of her.

  Damn.

  “It is? Oh well.”

  They rose and Emory led her out of the theater, arm around her waist. She dropped her head onto his shoulder.

  “Which way is your bedroom?”

  Following her directions, he led her through the house to her room and stopped at the door.

  “It’s really late for you to drive,” she said.

  “Jayne offered me a room earlier, and I’m going to stay there for a few hours and get some sleep.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  His house was, at this time of night, no more than a fifteen-minute drive away. There was no reason he couldn’t go home. No reason except that he didn’t want to. He could back her into the room, kiss her and caress her until she was melting in his arms. Then he could fuck her on her bed—no rope, no role-play, just them.

  But that wouldn’t be fair to her. Their time was done, both the physical and now the emotional.

  It was time to say goodbye.

  Emory cupped her cheek and tipped her face up. Her lips were dusky pink and soft. He kissed her, tasting a sweet sadness on her lips. She sighed a little, leaning into the kiss. He pulled back.

  “Good night, Sasha.”

  She looked away. “Good night, Emory.”

  Sasha disappeared into her bedroom, leaving Emory standing in the hall, staring at the door.

  Chapter Five

  “Kick, kick, kick.”

  Sasha whipped to the side, arching her leg up and back in a rear roundhouse kick. The fight coordinator grabbed her ankle, holding her leg in place. Sasha wavered for a moment until she found her balance.

  “Tense your thigh muscles. Your leg needs to be perfectly stiff.” The fight coordinator was a former MMA fighter with a master’s in kinesiology and ten years of stuntman experience. He was a foot taller than her and easily 150 pounds of muscle heavier.

  Though she could never admit it, it was always a little scary to fight guys like this—even when she knew they wouldn’t really hurt her, that the script demanded she triumph. That information didn’t calm her fight-or-flight response.

  Sasha nodded, concentrating on his instructions and forcing down the need to either bolt or break his nose.

  “Ready?”

  He put one hand on her knee and then shoved her leg up. Sasha pushed off with the foot on the floor. Momentum sent her legs up over her head so she spun in the air before landing hard on her side. The practice mat on the floor behind her took the worst of the impact, but her teeth still clattered together.

  “It’s getting better.”

  Sasha pushed to her feet and looked at the stunt coordinator. He, along with various other members of the stunt and production crew, were sitting in chairs along one wall of her home gym and watching her and the fight coordinator work. It was her second week of training for an as-yet-untitled project that would premiere two summers from now. The script and most of the cast were undecided, but there was no question it would be an action movie, with her as the star.

  The fight coordinator was new to her. He’d done some great direct-to-DVD horror movies with awesome action scenes. The studio wanted to see what he could do with the crew, budget and cast of a larger movie. They were looking for the next great action style.

  That meant that Sasha would be getting her ass kicked by him five days a week for months before they even officially started preproduction.

  “It still looks a little kung fu, but I see where you’re going with it,” the stunt coordinator told the fight coordinator.

  They were ignoring her, which she’d gotten used to. To the studio and the crew, she was just a tool that they needed to mold and train until it performed the way they wanted.

  “If she took ballet that might make the whole thing more fluid.”

  “Interesting. Lettie, what do you think?”

  Sasha went to get a bottle of water as one of the executive producers joined the conversation. They’d tell her what they wanted of her soon enough, and her agent would make sure they paid her for it.

  Sean hustled up to her side. “How are you feeling?”

  “Good,” she assured him. No good would come of telling him that her shoulder and right leg ached and that this new fight coordinator was Satan.

  Sasha could be a diva about a lot of things, but when she was working she worked. No producer or fellow actor had ever called her a diva or unprofessional on set and she took pride in that. Off set was another story.

  She went to the ballet barre and stretched out her legs. With her forehead against her knee she let her mind wander. It immediately wandered to Emory.

  It had been two weeks since their session and the amazing night that followed.

  She missed him.

  It was stupid. She’d spent less than twenty-four hours total with the man, but she missed him. She missed talking to him, missed his hands on her. It was very rare for people to touch her unless they needed to touch her. Wardrobe, makeup, hair—all those people got free rein over her body. No one held her hand or put their arm around her waist.

  Grimacing at herself, Sasha switched legs.

  Of course they didn’t touch her like that. Those were things a boyfriend or lover did. And she had neither.

  Normally about a week after she’d been with a Dom she’d start craving BDSM play again. She’d hold off the need by shopping, driving too fast or doing some extreme sports. It had been two weeks since she’d been with Emory and she was only now getting that itchy, needy feeling.

  “Sasha?”

  She dropped her leg from the barre and turned back to the crew. “I’m ready.”

  * * * * *

  Emory heard her before he saw her.

  “I’m not wearing Posh’s rejects from three years ago. Tell the designer that if they insult me like this again, I’ll make sure everyone knows how unhappy I am with their designs.”

  He was following Jayne through the house, and her footsteps slowed as they approached the front living room.

  “She’s, uh, had a stressful day. She’s in there with her stylist, but you can go in and talk to her too.” Jayne seemed reluctant to move forward.

  “Why would you bring me this?” he heard Sasha say.

  Jayne pushed open the partially open door. The living room was full of portable racks of clothes. A stressed-out-looking young man was holding up a dress while an even more frazzled-looking young woman picked up clothes off the floor.

  The clothes almost obscured the dark wood floor and furniture, which stood out starkly against the cream walls. It reminded Emory of an old cathedral, with its two-story height and exposed beam roof, but the room was full of light that poured in through the wall of windows.

  Sasha stood amid the chaos, all power, beauty and anger.

  “I think this would be really cute on you.”

  “Cute?” Sasha’s eyes narrowed. “I’m cute?”

  “I-I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Jayne hustled him into the room and pushed him sideways, almost as if he were supposed to
hug the wall. Ignoring her, Emory walked through the racks of clothes.

  Sasha was beautiful, almost otherworldly as she stood there, bathed in late-afternoon light. She was wearing a one-shoulder dress with fringe on the bottom and a few large black feathers coming off a broach on the shoulder. As he approached, the man unzipped the dress.

  Emory’s mouth went dry as the dress dropped to the floor. She wasn’t fully naked, as she wore a flesh-colored thong and strapless bra, but she might have been. Her long, golden legs seemed to go for miles, her flat belly begging to be kissed and touched, and her breasts rose temptingly above the top of the bra.

  She turned her back to him for a moment and he caught sight of bruises on her hip, shoulder and upper arm. They were so dark they nearly obliterated the tattoos on her back. The pinup girl on her shoulder appeared half in shadow.

  “What the hell happened to you?” he said. Someone had hurt her. How could he have let this happen?

  “Emory!” A smile spread across her face when she saw him. In the next breath, the smile disappeared as she looked around the room.

  The man, who Emory assumed was her stylist, yelped and held a dress up to cover her nearly naked body.

  “Stop it, Sebastian, he’s my,” she paused, “lawyer.”

  Emory wondered if “lawyer” was what she’d planned to say.

  Sebastian eyed him for a moment, then turned back to Sasha. “This dress screams ‘Sasha Brazil’.” He pulled the dress he was holding away from her body so she could see it.

  “Exactly. I’ve already done this look. I want something else, something new.”

  Sasha looked at Emory, raised her eyebrows a fraction.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Brazil,” he said, trying to read her face to see if this is what she’d wanted. “I need a few moments of your time to go over legal matters.”

  “Everyone, leave. Jayne, show Sebastian the vintage dress I bought the other day. I want to try that on.”

  “I’ll help you into something first,” Sebastian said. He pulled a cotton red-and-white-striped maxi-dress off the rack and bunched it over his arm, then guided it over Sasha’s head.