His need to dominate could destroy everything.
There’s a darkness within Eric, fueled by control and the need to dominate. It poisoned his last relationship. Refusing to let it out is tough when his new flame, Catherine, desires a man with power over her.

She’s strong, a self-assured business owner, and craves a different experience in the bedroom.

When her parents come to town, trying to set her up with another man, he agrees to pretend to be her boyfriend, but the deception can only last for so long.

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“Cat,” Eric murmured, and then he was leaning down and she was reaching up and his lips were on hers. And Christ, but Eric Castlereagh could kiss. His lips parted over hers and she pressed the advantage, sweeping her tongue into his mouth, and he gave as good as he got. Every inch of her body was pressed up against his, and was that the wall at her back? Had he walked her over without her even noticing? He crowded her back against it, trapping her with his bulk, and she didn’t have enough functioning brain cells to wonder why she loved it so much when he used his size against her. She was busy revelling in the way his hands were wrapping in her hair and tilting her head so he could claim her mouth more fully.

And that’s what the kiss felt like, a claim. A demand that she give in to him, let him take control of her the way he did the joining of their mouths. She was stretched up against him, trapped by the sheer mass of him, her arms wrapped around his neck and clinging to the muscled breadth of his shoulders to steady herself against his onslaught. She stroked her fingers over the short hair at the nape of his neck and felt him shudder before his hands came up to grasp her wrists and bring them firmly down to her sides. “Keep them where I put them,” he ordered. “You don’t touch me yet.” And then his mouth was on hers again, and god, it was torture not to be able to touch him when his big hands cupped her face like she was precious and his mouth claimed hers like he had rights to it. One hand pushed down to wrap around her waist and hold her body close to his, fitting her curves tight against his muscle. His erection was a steel rod against her stomach, and she had to fight the almost insurmountable urge to reach down and stroke him. Keep them where he put them, she reminded herself. Do as you’re told. And there was a perverse kind of pleasure in it, in her body being the playground for his hands as he stroked over her curves while her own touch was constrained by nothing but his words.

When he wrapped both hands in her hair once more, Cat broke. Her palms came away from the wall and she slid them around his waist, holding his lower body close to her so she could press herself tight against his hardness and roll her hips. She’d hardly had the chance before he broke away, gasping for air, his big body shuddering, and there was a perverse pleasure in that too, in knowing how much she’d affected him.

“Sorry,” Cat said after a long moment where they both just breathed, hard, into the space between their bodies. “I shouldn’t have touched you without permission.”

Permission. What a delightfully wicked word. The idea that she needed his permission, that he might restrict her actions with nothing but his will and his words, sent a shiver through her body. How else would this big, brawny man instruct her, given the chance? Her words had come from nowhere, but it felt impossibly, perfectly right to acknowledge his control over the way she acted in their embrace. She should have waited for his permission. He should have the right to instruct her when and where to touch him.