Surrender to Temptation by Lauren Jameson

might use to dust, except that it was made of leather and was far too pretty for such a menial chore. Yes, this leather was beautiful, long ribbons of bittersweet chocolate cascading from a palm-sized handle. The strips of leather crisscrossed over and around that same handle, and my fingers itched to touch.
    I traced one of those curious fingers over the handle, still not sure what I was looking at, though I was quite certain that it was of vital importance to the man behind me. I heard his sharp intake of breath as my touch caressed the object, and then his hand was over mine, molding my palm to the handle, my skin pale white, his tawny from the sun.
    He let me hold the object for a long moment, then pried it from my hands. Rounding the desk, he placed the object on the flat surface, then sat in the large chair, his palms flat on the grainy surface.
    â€œTake off your sweater.” My mouth fell open and he grinned at me, but it wasn’t necessarily a nice smile. His lips curved with desire, with need, and even with a hint of cruelty, but I was too stunned to be afraid.
    â€œI beg your pardon?” We were in his office, for goodness’ sake. I tried to make my words haughty, to draw some dignity around me like a cloak, but I knew that it was useless, and from the grin that he shot my way, he knew it, too. “That is so inappropriate.”
    He leaned forward, catching me in that gaze of his.
    â€œI want you to take your blouse off, Miss Reid, because I want to look at you. I think that you want me to look at you.” I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even swallow. I was mad at him for the weeklong silence, but that did nothing to tamp down my desire.
    â€œI—” What was I supposed to say to that?
    â€œTell me the truth.” Could he read my mind? “If you don’t want to let me look at you, then you have my sincere apologies. But if you forget about what you think is appropriate—what you think you want—I suspect that your desires are very much in line with my own. You want to submit to me.”
    He watched intently as my mouth opened, then closed again soundlessly. His eyes tracked the movement of my tongue as it traced my lips.
    I couldn’t deny the wetness, the heat that had surged between my legs.
    I was at war with myself, and he knew it. He murmured, low in his throat, soothing the tangle of my nerves.
    â€œWhat do you want, Devon? What do you truly want?” The sound of his voice saying my first name was intimate, and was ultimately my undoing.
    Slowly, so very slowly, I reached up for the top button on my sweater. My fingers felt thick, clumsy, but I managed to work the button through its hole.
    Zach made a small sound of approval, his eyes gleaming with wicked intent.
    One fastening fell free, and then another. Then my sweater was open and, before I could lose my nerve, off. I was standing in my shell pink cotton bra, my skirt and hose and heels, my arms crossed over my midriff self-consciously.
    Before I could blink, Zach had the strange object in his hand and had flicked it toward me. I saw the strips of leather fly, and then felt a sharp sting on the plumpness of one breast, then the other.
    Holy hell. That pretty leather thing was a whip.
    He flicked twice more, and this time the sting landed on each of my nipples. I cried out and jerked back, hugging my arms around me protectively.
    â€œStop it!” I stared at him agog, my eyes wide and shocked. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    He held the object out toward me, his expression serious and honest.
    â€œTake it away if you want to, Devon.” I eyed the thing warily, but didn’t move from where I stood a few steps back from the desk. “This is a martinet. It is used for pleasure. Pleasure that I would like to give to you.”
    â€œDon’t you mean ‘pain’?” My words were nasty, as I meant them to be. He had thrown me off my game, thrust