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I’d expected—more bitter than sweet. Not really to my taste. And yet…each receptor in my mouth shivers. My body’s responding as if I’ve drunk too much champagne.
    I barely notice when Iain pockets the phone and smiles. It’s the sort of smile that promises five minutes of his time. Then he kisses me hungrily, a preliminary kiss. Our kisses are often like that—his taking, mine giving, reminding him who he’s with. But he doesn’t want reminding, and his mouth goes hard and sharp. The chocolate’s barely melted when he takes it from my tongue.
    I jerk my head back. The presumption’s wearing thin. Ignoring my reaction, he takes the box from me and holds a truffle to my lips.
    “Here, greedy girl. Have another,” he says. “They’re aphrodisiacs. Not that you need one. Do you, little whore?”
    I shake my head and turn away, but he forces it past my lips. I stiffen, offended by the way his fingertips bite into the back of my neck; then the chocolate melts and my shock gives way to bittersweet warmth. I smile despite Iain. It tastes like firelight and sex. Then he kisses me and ruins it with his hard, unhappy mouth. There is nothing sweet in his kiss.
    Iain presses me back, unzipping my dress as he does. He pushes it down past my breasts, which are bare beneath my plum silk sheath. My thighs are slick and my nipples peak. My body is hungry for something…not quite this, but something very close.
    Deep inside me, a lazy thing uncurls, something sweet and bitter like the chocolate on my teeth, something slow and warm and mean.
    Let him try, it whispers. Let him push and take. Let him try, and then let me….
    My heel snags in the carpet and I stumble, but he keeps pushing me back, nudging me with his hips until my back meets the glass. The curtains are open. We’re six floors above the street—just low enough to be seen by anyone who looks up.
    A chill seeps through the window, cooling my skin. Iain smirks when I shudder, as if my reaction to the cold were a reaction to him. Then, with insinuating hands, he shoves my dress down the rest of the way, so that I’m standing in front of the window wearing nothing but panties and my ridiculous fuck-me heels. Sliding his knee between my legs, Iain grabs my lace-covered crotch.
    “Always ready, aren’t you, Em?”
    Oh, I’m ready. I’m more than ready—but not for what he has in mind. I give him a bratty shrug and lick the chocolate from my teeth.
    Iain’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t like the shrug.
    Making a show of his disappointment, he catches my wrists in one hand and holds up another truffle. I want it. I like what it’s doing—the chocolates are waking me up. Cocking his head thoughtfully, Iain waves it under my nose and then pops it in his mouth.
    “Sorry, Em. I don’t think so. No more until you beg.”
    Then, belying his textbook alpha nature, his eyes widen cartoonishly as he gets the truffle’s full effect.
    His pupils dilate, turning his brown eyes black. We look at each other, assessing. We’re both breathing hard and fast. He recovers first and grabs me by the shoulders before turning me around and shoving me into the glass. I’m so dizzy I can’t think.
    Wait. Just wait.
    “Slutty little Em,” Iain croons into my ear.
    Hours before I’d have lapped it up. I’d have glut myself on his voice. Now, I lick my lips and wait my turn.
    “Just think what they’d say if they saw you,” he goes on. “Your ex, your family, the strangers on the street. You’re a filthy little whore. Suck my cock so everyone can see.”
    Filthy whore. Blah, blah, blah. All that silliness is part of the old game. I laugh, reveling in my impulse to take a swipe.
    “Oh, honey,” I say, laughing. “You’re assuming I care what anyone thinks.”
    I reach up and remove his hand from the back of my neck. He’s so surprised he lets me go. Despite the nature of our play, he’s never been much of a Dom. A tourist really. Just like me. I’m just a tourist sub.