“No, but I would like breakfast. Something very French. A croissant, maybe, or a baguette.”

He grinned. “I’m sure they—”

“Pardon me! Wait, please,” a male voice called out, and I froze. Every cell in my body screamed for me to run, but in a crowded airport there was nowhere to go.

The Air Marshal strode up to us. I managed to stop myself from taking a step backward. That would only make me look guilty. But I was guilty. So guilty that being forced was the only way I knew how to have sex. So full of shame every time I enjoyed it anyway.

He knows what we did. I tried to project the thought to Hunter, but he looked completely unfazed.

“Is this your first time in Paris?” the marshal inquired with the faintest accent.

“For her. Not for me, though it has been a while,” Hunter answered casually, as if the question had been asked in passing conversation with another tourist instead of an interrogation by a security official.

What if we were detained? Arrested? Hunter didn’t look concerned, but then he never did.

The air marshal glanced at my hand. My left hand, with its gold band. “Are you just married then?”

This time the question was clearly directed at me. I opened my mouth but only a mortified squeak came out. My life had plenty of embarrassing moments to choose from. But getting busted for sex on a plane would put the rest of them to shame.

Hunter raised his eyebrows at me. “A month ago.”

“Congratulations,” the marshal said. “I imagine you’ll be visiting the usual places. The Eiffel Tower. Notre Dame.”

“Of course. Do you have any recommendations?”

“I do, actually. La Dame de Canton. A restaurant on an old gypsy boat. Mediocre food, relatively speaking, but the ambiance is something to appreciate.”

“We’ll have to visit then.”

“Be sure to request the boudoir. It’s a small alcove in the back. Very private. I think you would appreciate it.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow. A warning? “On your recommendation, then.”

The air marshal nodded with surprising deference. “I always enjoy the company of newlyweds. It reminds me of happier times, when I was younger and less divorced.”

Hunter barked a laugh before bidding him au revoir.

The marshal saluted us and disappeared into the crowd.

“The bastard,” Hunter said, but there was no heat behind it.

My chest still felt tight, bands of nerves making it hard to breathe. “He… he knows.”

“Of course, he knows. That’s a voyeur if I ever met one. Hard to blame him, though, considering.”

That was awfully level-headed. I narrowed my eyes at him. “I thought you’d be upset.”

“That a jaded security guard let us fool around in the storage closet? Nah, not upset. I’d have slipped him something in thanks if it wouldn’t have offended him.”

Okay then.

*     *     *

After breakfast, it took us another hour to get into Paris and to our hotel. I was used to a lot of travel by now, but after the expansive, cushy seats of Hunter’s truck, the stiff-back chair of the train and the ripped cushions of the cab left something to be desired. The man at the front desk was courteous and faintly judging, so on point I wondered if he was planted to entertain American tourists.

Or then again, maybe he really did feel that way.

Either way, the room itself was beautiful, larger than I’d been given to expect from the travel guidebooks. A small wall divided the sitting area from the bedroom, which left a spacious area across where the sunlight streamed through filmy curtains. I took a hot shower, admiring the marble floor and overlarge tub in the bathroom.

Now I knew why Hunter had picked this room.

I had a new set of lacy bra and panties to go on under my fresh clothes. For that bit of planning, I deserved a round of applause. A lot of my lingerie would get torn to shreds during our two-week stay here.

At least, I sure hoped so.

When I emerged from the bedroom, Hunter was reclined on the bed. He tossed his phone aside. “Come closer.”

I planned to jump him, just jump directly on top of him and tussle for control. I loved it when he won, so I gave him every opportunity. But before I could make it to the bed, he said, “Now stop. That’s perfect.”

“Perfect for what?”

“For you to show me those lacy panties you had on.” When I blushed he added, “You’re lucky I didn’t rip them off you right there on the plane. Shove them in your mouth and make you taste our own come.”

God. I clenched my thighs together, trying to ease the ache that started every time he talked like that. His grin was pure devilry, smug and tempting.

Two could play at this game.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, feigning innocence. “I’ve already changed.”

“Then show me what you’re wearing now,” he growled.

I pulled my jeans and top off as slowly as I could without being silly. There was only so seductive rumpled travel clothes could get. But my silk bra with its little pink flowers—oh, those would do nicely. He sucked in a breath when he saw it. And my panties. Not only did they match, but the panel was still damp from his come. It leaked out of me for hours after he came inside me, a musky reminder of what we’d done. He came a lot, copiously.

And often too.

“Do you mean these panties?” I asked.

I’d found that dirty talk didn’t need to be particularly clever to turn Hunter on. In fact, simple worked best. Please. Do it like that. And my coup de grace had been a quiet No, no, I can’t take any more during a particularly rough scene that had made him come for what felt like hours.

Hunter grunted something like assent. “Get over here.”

His hand absently rubbed himself through his jeans, a sign of dwindling patience. Soon enough he’d grab me, fling me to the floor, and have his dirty way with me. An excellent recipe for orgasms if I ever heard one. But this time around, I had a different idea.

My panties slipped over my hips and down to the floor. I unclasped my bra and held it against my chest for a moment before letting it fall. But instead of leaving the lacy fabric on the Aubusson rug, I hooked it with my forefinger.

When he reached for me, I stayed his hand. His eyebrows shot up. I could see the questions behind his brown eyes. Was it a game? Did I want him to overpower me?

I shook my head slightly. Not this time.

With a quick movement, I ripped the panties down their seam, lace tearing with a quiet snip. He and I both stared at the scrap of fabric in shock. Well, I’d imagined him tearing through my panties, not me, but this would be better. Just this once.

“Shall I?” I asked softly.

His eyes blazed. He looked…furious. But his breath quickened and his cock bulged as thick as ever through the jeans. Oh, he would like this. Just this once, and maybe a few more times, just to be sure.

I straddled his thighs and tied the panties over his mouth. Reaching around, I fastened the bra into a kind of makeshift handcuffs. The same way he’d tied me up last night. The whole time, I was acutely aware of the raw power between my legs and within my embrace. I only tied him up because he let me.

But then again, that was why he tied me up too.

“Good?” I asked.

His eyes were flames of frustration, of desire. He wanted to attack me but the pink-flower bonds and my wish to do this held him bound. “Poor man,” I whispered, trailing a finger down his temple. It must be hard for him to give in, even for a little while.

I would have to give him a reward.

The ridge in his jeans tempted me. I wanted to suck on the spongy head, to flutter my tongue at the tip, to drive him crazy when he couldn’t take control, couldn’t thrust.

Although maybe he still would. His hips were already moving, without any stimulation to his cock. He was fucking the air, overexcited from just seeing me naked and getting tied up.