trellis of some kind for the exotics he wanted to grow up and over, to wind around. Cain wanted to incorporate a piece of equipment called St. Andrew’s Cross. It was far too big and bulky. She couldn’t find a place for it in her space, although she told him in the newer section she would try. Then he came up with a different one. This was a sleeker design, more of an hourglass shape and one she thought she could work with if anchored properly. It was called a BDSM Triangle Cross. She didn’t care what it was called as long as it didn’t move. Cain’s men had installed it a couple of weeks earlier, in the hopes that the plants would arrive.
Flambé hadn’t yet decided how best to use the cross. It was situated in a corner where the very expensive plants wouldn’t be trampled on by accident. She worked around the space, occasionally stopping to study it. One flowering tree was close to it, but if it became a problem, she would prune it or teach Cain how to.
Usually she could envision exactly how she wanted the flowers and vines to drape over the existing wood to show them off at the height of their beauty, but for some reason, every time she looked at the cross, she thought of Sevastyan and her body reacted. He had been very upset with her when he dropped her off. He’d left two bodyguards, one at the front door and one at the back, basically threatening them within an inch of their lives if anything happened to her.
They had gone back to the house and both had showered and eaten and she’d informed him that the plants had to go into the ground immediately or they would be lost. They were that sensitive. She was fine going to the club alone or with bodyguards. He had said little, but then, he didn’t have to. Those focused eyes of his had sent a chill down her spine. She was playing with fire. With the devil.
She just needed time to think. She wasn’t someone who usually made snap decisions. He probably thought she was because she’d accepted his claim on her leopard. She couldn’t blame him for his assessment of her. She cursed the fact that she needed sex so much. She didn’t want to explain why, and being around Sevastyan had turned that terrible raw need into a craving that was so strong it bordered on obsession of him. She couldn’t think straight when he was around.
The worst part was, she’d thought sex would satisfy her and she could walk away, as he did so easily from all those other women—as clearly he could from her. She found, with him, she wasn’t built that way. Something about him got to her and not just in a sexual way. He got to her deeper. That was where she was going to get into trouble. She had to figure out very fast what she was going to do. What the truth about Sevastyan Amurov really was.
Normally, she was good at reading people. That was a major part of her gifts. She could size up a person the moment she saw them, spoke to them or just watched or listened to them for a few moments. She could read their character, but even after spending time with Sevastyan and being in his head, he was still an enigma to her. That was frightening in the face of all the rumors about his family and his admissions about them. More, after the things she’d overheard at his cousin’s home . . .
There wasn’t a single sound. Not one, but Flambé knew he was there. Her body reacted first, goose bumps rising all over her skin. Her nipples hardened. Her sex clenched. She just knew.
She glanced up as Sevastyan entered the long, wide, glassed-in garden of paradise. Her breath caught in her throat. He was wearing only his soft drawstring pants, his chest bare, and there were several bundles of ropes in his hands. He looked remote. Merciless. So completely the man she’d first seen in the club who had robbed her of her ability to think or sleep for weeks on end. She sat back on her heels, blinking up at him as he dimmed the lights in the garden even lower than she already had them.
“Go. Prepare yourself for a very long session. Hurry. I don’t want to be waiting long. When you return,