Pleasure's Edge by Eve Berlin Page A

person that makes you.”
    “Probably. What do you think that makes me?” He leaned in, looking at her. Through her. She shifted in her chair. She wanted to hear his answer a little too badly.
    “I think it makes you a woman who is more open-minded when it comes to sex than the average woman might be. More open-minded in general, perhaps. Although I don’t think you apply that to yourself.”
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “It means that I believe you judge yourself more harshly than you do others.”
    “I’m sure I do. Doesn’t everyone?”
    “Yes. You’re right about that.”
    “Even you?”
    He grinned at her, his teeth a dazzling white, his goatee wicked-looking even as he smiled. And she was, as always, charmed by him.

    Damn it.
    “Even me,” he said. “Ah, here’s the tea.”
    To her surprise—once more—he picked up the pot and poured, handing her the smal red and white ceramic cup. She took it, warming her fingers around it.
    “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    She could not figure this man out. And he was right: She did have preconceived notions about what a sexual dominant was about. Notions she was apparently going to have to toss out and start al over again.
    If only he didn’t have to be so absolutely in control al the time. Or maybe if she didn’t . . .
    She laughed softly.
    “What is it?” he asked.
    “Oh, just coming to terms with a few things,” she admitted.
    “Readjusting my thinking. Not that I like it.” He leaned back in his chair, sipped his tea. “Ah, exactly what I hoped to achieve.”
    She sighed. “And there you go again,” she muttered.
    He was silent a moment, studying her, and she felt her cheeks begin to heat under his scrutiny.
    He lifted his steaming teacup, blew on it for a moment, sipped, then set it down. Every tiny motion seemed measured. Or perhaps it was simply that she was waiting for him to say something, his study of her making her anxious.
    “You intend to be a great chal enge for me, don’t you, Dylan?”
    “I don’t ‘intend’ anything.”
    “Don’t you?”
    “I just am who I am.”
    “And who is that, Dylan?”
    “Are you being condescending?”
    “Absolutely not. I want to get to know you. It’s part of my job, as it were. But I also just want to know you. Is that al right?” He leaned in once more, covered her hand with his. His was large, warm, the heat seeping into her skin in much the same way the heat from the teacup had. Her body went loose al over.
    “Yes. Of course. I don’t know why I’m being so combative. Or maybe I do. But it’s rude of me. I’m sorry.”
    “It’s fine. Let’s start again. Just relax, talk. Why don’t you tel me something about yourself?”

    “What would you like to know?”
    “Start at the beginning.”
    “Wel ...”
    She realized his hand stil covered hers, making it hard to think.
    She glanced down at their hands, up at his face, and he smiled briefly and withdrew his hand as though he understood.
    “Start with your writing, Dylan. I’d love to know about your work.” She settled her hands in her lap, her fingers clenching, feeling the heat he’d left there. “I’ve been writing ful -time for the last four years.”
    “And have you always written erotica?”
    “Yes, always. I started to write in my early twenties, but I didn’t think about getting published until four years ago. Things happened pretty quickly, then. I got an agent, sold my first book, then three more, and several novel as. I’ve been very lucky. Before that I was in banking. I did quite wel .”
    “Banking? I can’t see you in banking. I imagine your real talents were wasted there, in some stiff corporate environment. You’re too
    . . . exotic.”
    She shifted in her seat, her fingers twining tightly. She’d never thought of herself that way.
    This man could unbalance her like no one else ever had.
    She sighed to herself and went on. “I hated it. But the money I made there gave me the opportunity