CHAPTER 1

“Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to place yourself completely in a man’s hands—one whose only goal is to make you feel good?”

Morgan stared at the words glowing on her laptop.

For several seconds, she forgot to breathe.

She had been talking to this man for less than three minutes. They had met in an online chatroom because she was supposed to interview him for her cable television show. That was all. She had told him her name and explained why she was contacting him. Nothing more.

So how the hell had he managed to hit so close to home?

He had to be guessing.

That was the only explanation.

Yet before she could formulate a reply, another message appeared.

Would you want a man who could see beyond what you show everyone else? A man who could discover the fantasies you keep buried, even the ones you'd never confess to your closest friends—and then make them real?

Heat spread through Morgan’s stomach.

Her fingers became damp against the keyboard.

She swallowed.

Outside the windows, evening had settled over the living room, painting the walls in shifting shades of dusk. Morgan shifted restlessly on the black leather sofa and tried to shove the thoughts racing through her head somewhere they couldn't bother her.

This was work.

He was a potential interview subject.

Nothing more.

Having the hots for the man she was supposed to interview was a terrible idea. Turn Me On might be a late-night cable program, but it wasn't some silly hobby. It was her creation, her gamble, her little act of rebellion.

More importantly, it was her life.

And being attracted to a man whose real name she didn't know, whose face she hadn't seen, and whose lifestyle she probably shouldn't even be imagining was ridiculous.

Morgan forced herself to type.

So, Master J, is that what being dominant is about? Handing out fantasies?

His answer took longer than she expected.

That's part of it. But reducing the relationship to that would miss the point. The most important thing for a dominant is earning his partner's trust.

Morgan read on.

Trust matters in every relationship, but it's especially important in a Dominance/submission relationship. Without trust, how can a woman willingly place herself in a man's care? How can she know he'll always put her safety and well-being first? How can she know he'll understand her well enough to give her the fantasies she's afraid to admit she has?

Morgan's eyebrows rose.

So it wasn't simply about ropes, restraints, and sex?

Trust.

Care.

Understanding.

She hadn't exactly experienced much of any of those things with Andrew.

Her former fiancé had never understood her. Not really.

Trust allows a woman to connect with the primitive part of herself that wants complete surrender, Master J continued. She can place herself at her master's mercy without knowing beforehand whether what he has planned will bring pleasure, pain, or some combination of both.

Morgan stared at the screen.

She was even more intrigued than she had been when Reggie first sent her Master J's biography.

She switched windows and opened the email again.

She scanned the information.

A member of the BDSM and D/s community for nearly ten years, Master J is experienced in numerous aspects of the lifestyle and continues to expand his knowledge. He owns a private security company and has worked as a bodyguard for senators, international diplomats, and professional athletes. A graduate of West Point, he served in military Special Forces as a team leader before receiving an honorable discharge.

Morgan closed the email.

It told her plenty.

And almost nothing.

Self-discipline. Military training. Strength. Honor.

But who was the man behind the mysterious screen name?

Could he really be as confident as his messages suggested?

Could he truly make a woman surrender simply by knowing exactly what she wanted?

Her attention snapped back to the chatroom.

Morgan? You still there?

She quickly typed.

Sorry. I was thinking. Obviously, I have a lot to learn if I'm going to do the show properly. I guess I assumed it was mostly velvet ropes and handcuffs.

Those things are part of it.

She laughed softly.

The ache she'd been trying to ignore tightened in her stomach—and lower.

Curiosity didn't make her depraved.

It didn't.

She was simply learning about a world she'd never experienced.

But it's also an exchange of power and trust, he wrote. A woman chooses to give her master authority over her body and mind. She surrenders control because she trusts him to handle that power responsibly.

Morgan's breathing changed.

What kind of surrender?

The question hadn't come from her fingers.

It had come from somewhere deeper.

Images she'd never willingly shared with anyone pushed into her thoughts. Kneeling before a powerful stranger. Being ordered to expose herself. Being restrained while someone else decided what happened next.

Her cheeks burned.

She shook her head sharply.

Enough.

She wasn't going to let her imagination run away with her.

People had fantasies about bondage. She'd read enough to know that. Having fantasies didn't make her abnormal.

Besides, Andrew had made her feel ashamed of far less.

She shifted again, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through her body.

Another message appeared.

But a D/s relationship is about much more than that.

Morgan waited.

How do you restrain someone, blindfold her, take away her control, and still make her feel completely safe? How do you build something emotionally satisfying when one person has surrendered so much power to the other?

Morgan frowned.

Then another message appeared.

It's not as simple as people think.

She stared at the screen.

For a moment, nothing else came.

She waited.

And waited.

Was that it?

Had he decided not to answer?

It seemed oddly appropriate. He possessed the power to give her what she wanted—or simply withhold it.

Finally, another message appeared.

Sorry. I've had an urgent call. I have to go. If you think I have enough experience to help with your show, let's meet. Somewhere public, so you won't have to worry about me being a serial killer luring you somewhere private. It'll be easier to answer your questions in person. I've mastered quite a bit, but typing isn't one of my strengths. I'm still a hunt-and-peck guy.

Morgan smiled despite herself.

She couldn't help it.

I understand. Can we meet tomorrow at three? I found a place in Lafayette called La Roux. It seems popular. Do you know it?

His answer came quickly.

Cher, I'm a native. I know every crack in the sidewalk around here.

Morgan grinned.

Cher? I'm not nearly old enough to have been singing since the sixties.

LOL. It means dear in French. I'm Cajun. I grew up speaking the language.

She read that twice.

Then ignored the little flutter in her stomach.

The flirtatious tone was probably just part of the culture he'd grown up with. It meant nothing.

Nothing at all.

I've lived in Los Angeles too long, I guess. I'll see you tomorrow?

You will. How will I recognize you? There are plenty of beautiful women in Louisiana. I want to make sure I reveal my innermost secrets to the right one.

Morgan shook her head.

He was a charmer.

He had to be.

A man involved in this lifestyle probably needed to know how to get inside a woman's head.

Most ordinary women would probably run in the opposite direction at the thought of surrendering control.

I'll wear a straw hat, sunglasses, and a huge boxy coat.

Sounds more like a disguise.

He had no idea how accurate that was.

Morgan wasn't about to advertise the real reason she needed to hide herself. She had no intention of telling him about the stalker who had made her life a nightmare.

She only hoped someone would catch the bastard soon.

Preferably before he found her.

See you tomorrow, she typed.

Au revoir.

A moment later, a notification appeared.

Master J had left the private chatroom.

Morgan moved to close the window.

Her hand trembled.

She looked at it.

Then realized her entire body was trembling.

Despite the heat that still crawled beneath her skin.

She was tired.

That was all.

Tired doesn't make you ache in private places, a wicked little voice in her head whispered.

Tired doesn't make you wet.

“Apparently, tired also makes me hear annoying voices,” Morgan muttered.

She forced herself to think about tomorrow's interview instead.

That was what mattered.

The outline for the new season had to be submitted soon, and she wanted the second season of Turn Me On to launch with a bang. The show already had a surprisingly loyal following. If she found the right stories and the right guests, it could become something much bigger.

So she needed to concentrate.

Work first.

Everything else later.

Ten minutes passed.

Morgan stared at the blank screen.

She hadn't written a single word.

Master J remained firmly lodged in her thoughts.

What was it about him?

Besides the fact that he apparently lives out every fantasy you've ever been afraid to admit you have?

Morgan groaned.

She refused to listen to that voice.

She was curious.

That's all.

Curious.

Not deviant.

Certainly not whatever Andrew had accused her of being.

And her mother would probably have a heart attack if she ever knew what Morgan was thinking.

Morgan sighed and reached for her phone.

She dialed Reggie's number in Los Angeles.

He answered after several rings.

“Reggie,” Morgan said. “Hey. I talked to that Master J guy you connected me with. I read his bio, too. I'm meeting him tomorrow. What did you find out about him?”

The older man's voice came through the phone, roughened by years of smoking.

“Quite a bit. I made some calls around Louisiana. Talked to people at a few bondage clubs to see if anyone knew him. Wanted to make sure he was legitimate.”

“And?”

“He checks out.”

Relief loosened something in Morgan's chest.

Reggie had become almost like a surrogate father to her, and she trusted his judgment.

Unfortunately, his investigation had made dismissing Master J as some random sex-crazed weirdo impossible.

Morgan bit her lip.

“What did people say about him?”

“A lot.”

She waited.

“He's pretty casual about the lifestyle. Doesn't live and breathe it, but he visits a few clubs regularly. Apparently, he's got a reputation with women.”

Morgan's stomach tightened.

Reggie continued.

“More than one person told me he could make Mother Teresa beg to be tied up and fucked.”

Morgan nearly choked.

“He definitely prefers submissive women,” Reggie added. “Hey, you're not interested in him, are you?”

“What?”

Her heart seemed to trip over itself.

“Me? No!”

She laughed a little too loudly.

“Why would I want some bully who gets his kicks from making women feel inferior?”

“You sure?”

Reggie's skeptical tone made her uncomfortable.

“Do I look like the kind of woman who'd be interested in something like that?”

Silence.

Morgan's smile disappeared.

“Reggie?”

He still didn't answer.

Before she could say anything else, the front-door lock rattled.

Morgan's head snapped toward the entrance.

Relief washed through her when Brandon stepped inside, forcing the door closed behind him.

“Gotta go,” she told Reggie. “I'll call you after I meet him tomorrow.”

“Hey, little sister,” Brandon called.

Morgan ended the call and stood.

She went up on tiptoe to hug him.

“Hi. How was your day?”

Brandon's aristocratic features tightened.

“Not exactly great.”

She pulled back.

“What happened?”

“I've been ordered to Iraq for the next three weeks.”

The news hit Morgan's stomach like a punch.

“Iraq?”

She tried to hide her alarm.

“I thought you mostly worked behind a desk.”

“Mostly.”

“But there are exceptions.”

“Obviously.”

He gave her a weary smile.

“Why Iraq?”

“Classified.”

His bitter laugh told her how much he hated saying the word.

“You know how it works. I can't tell you where I'll be or what I'll be doing. I won't have regular access to a phone or computer.”

He looked directly at her.

“Morgan, I don't want to leave you alone. It's dangerous, and I know you're scared.”

She swallowed.

Brandon had already done more for her than most people ever would. He had taken her in despite their father's anger and had protected her from the man who wouldn't stop stalking her.

She was afraid.

Of course she was.

But she couldn't make Brandon feel guilty for doing his job.

“I'll be fine.”

She forced a smile.

“I have plenty of work to keep me busy. It'll be okay.”

“If something happens, I think you should call Dad.”

Morgan stared at him.

Then she fought down the sarcastic response threatening to escape.

“He may be your father,” she said carefully. “He's my biological father. There's a difference. He's spent twenty-five years pretending I don't exist.”

Brandon sighed.

“Morgan, you know what would happen if the truth came out. Especially with politics in the South. If people found out he'd had an affair with a barely legal campaign volunteer while his wife and three sons were at home—”

“I know.”

She folded her arms.

“It could ruin the senator from the great state of Texas.”

“Exactly.”

Brandon's expression softened.

“They're talking about a presidential run in 2012.”

“Which is precisely why I can't call him.”

She gave a humorless laugh.

“Not that he'd answer if I did.”

“He would if you were in real danger. Dad could protect you.”

Morgan wasn't convinced.

She didn't argue.

“Too bad we can't just keep telling people I'm your fiancée,” she said. “It's worked so far.”

Brandon gave her a look.

“If anyone ever discovers the truth, we'd have to explain either incest or a very elaborate lie.”

“Neither sounds particularly appealing.”

“Let's hope it never comes to that.”

Morgan's expression darkened.

“I don't think my stalker knows I left Los Angeles. He has no idea where I am.”

Brandon nodded and turned toward the pile of mail.

He began sorting through it.

Then he stopped.

His hand closed around a large manila envelope.

His expression changed.

“Morgan.”

She looked up.

“Does anyone know you're here in Houston?”

She thought about it.

“Other than Reggie, a few close friends back home…”

She hesitated.

“And Master J. But I only met him online fifteen minutes ago.”

Brandon's face tightened.

“Morgan.”

“What?”

He held up the envelope.

“There was no name on it.”

Her stomach dropped.

“No postage, either.”

He turned it over in his hand.

“It was hand-delivered.”

Morgan stared at the envelope.

Someone knew she was here.