He’d made out like that with Allie when they were teenagers. Kissed her until he almost had enough of her. But it was never enough. Not even that one night they’d spent together three years after the breakup, when he’d finally done with her a few of the things he’d always wanted to. Needed to. That had been nothing more than the most excruciating taste of something he’d never have again.

His mind wandered back, as it had so many times over the years, to the night when he’d had to tell her—had to—that they couldn’t be together. Fucking excruciating to see her cry.

“I don’t understand, Mick.”

She rubbed at her damp cheeks. His hands ached with the need to wipe her tears. To take her in his arms and tell her it was a mistake, that he was taking it all back. But he knew what he had to do before he ruined her.

“I’m leaving for college in Baton Rouge—”

“It’s not that far away!”

“I’ll be busy with classes . . . and you need to enjoy your senior year, time with your family before you go off to college yourself.”

“Mick, that’s just . . . stupid. We love each other.” When he didn’t answer she blinked at him, her eyes welling with new tears. “Don’t we?” she whispered.

His gut was churning with the lie he didn’t dare say aloud. “You’ll understand someday that this is the right move, Allie.”

She shook her head, her dark eyes flashing. “You’re wrong, Mick. I’ll never understand. Never.”

Why was he thinking about this now? Allie was the past. But the truth was, he’d never stopped thinking of her. Never stopped remembering what they’d had.

He ran a hand over his jaw. He had to shift gears.

Allie in his bed. At twenty she’d been more beautiful than ever. Her body had filled out in the best way possible, still lean but with the curves of a woman. And Christ, her lush breasts had filled his hands, the nipples going hard the moment he’d touched her bare flesh.

Jesus, her bare flesh . . . the taste of her skin, the feel of her body under his . . .

The sex had been amazing. The kink had been lightweight stuff, but he’d never forget it. He’d never forgive himself.

That had really been the end. And that monkey had ridden his back ever since. Nearly ten years and he still felt like shit for having led her down that dark path. And just as much for having turned his back on her without nearly enough of an apology.

You are a Goddamn coward.

It was true. Allesandra LeClair was the one thing in life he was afraid of.

Not her, exactly. She was the sweetest girl ever born. It was the way he felt about her. Even now, after all these years.

Crazy that he’d never gotten over her. He’d traveled all over for work, almost as often to visit the BDSM clubs all over the country, giving rope bondage demonstrations, lecturing. He’d been with some of the most gorgeous women in the world. But it was always Allie in his head.

Allie and her long, silky hair, her big, brown eyes. Eyes like a doe—wasn’t that what they called it? There had always been something about the length of her neck, the way she moved . . . pure graceful innocence and pure sex all rolled up into one beautiful package.

And totally off-limits.

Which meant he’d have to find some way to stay away, even with her right there. New Orleans could be a small world sometimes.

He stepped back from the windows and went to the console table where he kept his favorite bottle of rum, poured his two-finger limit into a glass and tossed it back, set the glass down. It was good rum, but he still felt the burn going down. Enjoyed it. Needed it.

Because his damn head was spinning a million miles an hour with thoughts of Allie. Her face. Her sleek golden skin. Her scent like a summer evening—that wicked combination of purity with an edge of sinful promise.

He pulled in a breath, held it, tried to get his shoulders to loosen as he let it out. But it was no good. He was knotted as tight as piano wire, and that knot wasn’t just in his shoulders. His groin was pulled tight with desire. For her.

Her face. Her skin. Her scent . . .

He grew hard. The room grew warm.

He yanked his shirt off over his head, ran a hand over his jaw. Muttered, “Fuck it,” and moved his hand lower, over the bulge pressing against his jeans.

He was hard as stone just picturing her. How much harder would he be if he got his hands on her again?

It would be different than last time. He’d do all the things he’d been wanting to do. Tie her up, using his ropes to subdue her. To subdue his own raging need. Control them both. Then he’d use his hands on her—no toys, just his bare hands on her bare flesh. Just touch her. Pinch her. Scrape his nails over her naked skin.

Plunge his fingers into her.

He groaned, gripping the hard ridge of his erection through the denim.

“Fuck it,” he said again before he unzipped and pulled his cock out.

He leaned his back into the wall, not wanting to take the time to get in the shower or on the bed or even sit down. He was too desperate to get this driving need out of his system.

He closed his eyes and began to stroke.

He remembered when he’d taught her to give him head. She’d wanted to—had practically begged for it, which was hot as hell. He remembered her wet mouth, those plush lips swallowing him, her tongue . . .

“Christ.”

His hips arched into his fisted hand, pleasure stabbing into him. He stroked faster. And remembered the lush curve of her breast in his hand, the tight, succulent flesh of her nipple as he drew it into his mouth.

He groaned, gripped his hard shaft tighter as he pumped.

Allie.

“Fuck!”

Pleasure slammed into him like a wall, hard and fast. He came into his fist, hips surging, breath panting, her name echoing in his dazed brain.

It was several moments before he opened his eyes and turned to stare out the window. The moon was a small crescent in the inky sky. The stars hid behind a drifting veil of clouds. And somewhere out there in New Orleans was Allie.

My girl.

He’d never been able to think of her any other way. His girl that he would never—could never—have.

*   *   *

ALLIE’S STOMACH WAS fluttering as if a thousand butterflies were trapped inside as she went to sit down with Jamie at the outdoor table at Pâtissier, the small neighborhood café where they’d set up their meeting with Mick.

Jamie stood and hugged her briefly before pulling out her chair.

“You okay?” he asked.

She sat down and sipped at the sharp-tasting chicory coffee he’d ordered for her. “Sure. Yes. I’m just . . . well, as much as I want to do this, I don’t know how it’ll turn out.”

“He’s going to be mad as hell.”

She tried to smile. “That much I knew.”

Jamie shrugged. “Don’t worry. Mostly he’ll be mad at me. I can handle him.”

“I’m sure you can. I’m just not sure I can,” she muttered.

“Too late now, sweetheart.”

She looked up. And saw him.

He was as imposing as ever: tall, dark, his goatee making him look every bit the wicked Dom she was sure he was. And his gray eyes went absolutely stormy when he spotted her.

“Allie? What are you—what the hell, Jamie!”

“Come on now, Mick. Sit down. You two were going to run into each other sooner or later. Don’t be rude to the lady.”

Mick nodded, just a brief tilt of his strong chin. She saw that he had a scar down the side of his nose that hadn’t been there before. Which looked . . . rakish. Charming.

God, had the word rakish just gone through her head?

There was a tattoo on the inside of his left forearm she hadn’t seen before—something in Latin, the bold script highlighting the corded muscles.

Yes . . . charming and rakish.