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When Blake tells her he is a stuntman her heart sinks. Having been a nurse in a trauma center for several years, the sight of broken bones and bloody injuries is becoming too much, but in spite of her misgivings, the spark between them fiercely crackles, and she quickly finds herself over Blake's knee. He is everything she has dreamed of, and she falls hard for the handsome daredevil.
One night she takes care of famous screenwriter who has been in a major car accident. When his private secretary, a stern, officious man, asks her to be the patient's private nurse she is tempted to accept, but Blake, having heard scary rumors about the writer and his palatial mansion in the hills above Malibu, is firmly against it.
Belinda is torn.
Will Belinda defy Blake, the Dominant she's crazy about who doesn't hesitate to spank her when he thinks she needs it, who fills her nights with blindfolds and salacious play, taking her to spine- tingling heights of passion? Will she risk all she has with her hunky, amorous stuntman for a stranger? And what about Blake? Will he put his foot down, or will he use his strength, his cunning and his special skills to help her?
Belinda took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
������ It's just a cup of coffee. No big deal. He doesn't know my real name, he knows nothing about me, well, not really, except that we share a crazy kink. God, I wish I could stop shaking.
������ Using the fake name, Felicity, she was meeting him, for the first time. The guy with whom she'd exchanged too many emails to count, the guy whose photograph and literary wit had tickled her fancy, the guy who had assured he wouldn't hesitate to spank her if they clicked.
������ I know it's why I joined the 'Friendly Spanker' site, but I didn't think I would actually end up agreeing to meet someone. Shit. Am I really going to stay here and do this? Shit.
������ The truth was she didn't want a friendly anything. She wanted to meet someone special, someone who made her stomach do that thing, that thing she hadn't felt in a very long time, but it was even more than that. Belinda wanted to meet a Dominant. Belinda wanted to be with a Dominant. Belinda wanted the whole nine Dominant yards. A real Dominant, not just someone who would tie her up occasionally. She’d been there, done that, and it wasn’t enough.
������ She wanted a man who would devour her body and consume her heart. A man with whom she felt safe and protected, a man who could shoot a gun and ride a horse, a cowboy, a businessman, a lawyer, she didn’t care, she just wanted a down-to-earth, old-fashioned, John Wayne. A man from yesteryear. A man who could handle her, Miss Independent.
������ Summoning her courage, heart thumping she ordered coffee, her eyes constantly darting across to the door every time she heard the jangle of the bell. She was early, but that was on purpose. She wanted to be settled with her latte when he walked in. No awkward silence standing in line; she couldn't abide standing in line. Even with friends it made her uncomfortable.
������ The coffee shop wasn't a Starbucks, or a Peets, or a part of a chain. It was a popular neighborhood cafe, a family owned French patisserie that offered outstanding pastries and the best coffee in town. She'd counted on the popular part, hoping that the people milling about would help her comfort level, but the stars had not aligned; the place was virtually empty.
������ Picking up her drink she chose a place by the paned windows, and setting her thick mug on the table she sat down and sucked in a long deep breath.
������ Get a grip. It's just a cup of coffee, it's just a cup of coffee, it's just a cup of coffee.
������ Wrapping her fingers around the sugar jar she tipped it up, and absently watched the white crystals create a hole in the center of the heavy foam. Slowly stirring she glanced out at the parking lot and saw a gleaming silver motorbike roll to a stop, and a tall, leather-clad man climb off. He expertly balanced the heavy machine on its kickstand and pulled off his helmet.
������ Good grief, look at him. He's a walking cover for a romance novel. Holy crap. What’s a guy like that doing on a dating site? What am I thinking? It’s probably someone else. A guy like that wouldn’t be on a dating site...would he?
������ His hair wasn't long or short, but she could see it was thick and slightly curly. It hit his collar at the back of his neck and barely covered his ears, and as he ran his fingers through it, the soft curls fell perfectly into place.
������ Why do so many guys have hair like that? All they have to do is jump in the shower, towel it dry, and hey, presto, perfect. It’s so not fair.
������ He unzipped the top half of his jacket, which she noticed wasn't covered in garish studs or chrome, but was wrinkled and worn and sexy as hell. As he began walking quickly towards the cafe she squinted; he looked familiar.
������ Wait, that could be him. The guy in the photo had really short hair, unless, maybe, that picture was taken a while ago. He’s way too cute. My gosh, he looks like that guy from White Collar, what’s his name? Neil Caffrey? No, that’s the character name. Matt Bomer, that’s it. My gosh, he looks like him, except rugged and muscular. If that’s him, his photo did not do him justice, not one bit.
������ Her heart began its thumping again, and holding her breath her eyes followed him as he turned the corner and walked through the door, tinkling the bell above his head.
������ Please let it be him, please let it be him, please, please...
������ She watched as his gaze scanned the room, and when his eyes touched hers he broke into a smile and began ambling towards her.
������ Shit, dimples, he's even got dimples.
������ "Felicity?" he asked
������ If I wasn't, I'd lie!
������ When Blake had left to meet the appealing girl who had so shyly, then confidently, responded to his emails, his expectations were in the 'whatever' realm. This wasn't his first foray into the meet and greet, dating site scenario, though it had been over a year, and in the past they had almost always ended in disappointment.
������ The women rarely lived up to their photographs, or they had less than sparkling personalities, but Blake lived life as an optimist, so he’d jumped on his motorcycle and headed off, deciding on the long route over the winding canyon roads.
������ Zipping around the corners there was no thought, just the feel of the powerful bike and the enjoyment of the ride, but as he slowed for the traffic light at the bottom of the hill, the Pacific Ocean sparkling in front of him, his mind flashed back to the photograph she'd sent him; it was different.
������ Rather than a glamorous headshot, or a series of photos taken at various times in various places, some calling into question whether it was the same woman reflected in each, it was a snapshot of a pretty girl with shoulder-length brown hair and a bright smile, seated on a blanket on a beach. Wearing a white T-shirt and red shirts, her windswept hair appeared to have been kissed by the sun; the blonde streaks were haphazard, not artfully applied. She looked spontaneous, fun, completely natural, and she had great legs.
������ It had been many months since Blake had enjoyed the delectable sight of a bare-bottomed woman over his lap. Sometimes the craving became so intense he felt like a spanking vampire, lusting after the sight, the feel, and the surge of energy it gave him.
������ A spanking was how he’d introduce a woman to his sexual being. It was the first step, and if they responded he’d add a blindfold, then move into light bondage. Blake was a Dominant, and though he had shared his life with submissive women, he had yet to find the one. A womanwho would ignite his heart and touch his soul.
������ Finally succumbing to his need, it was with reluctance he'd perused the Friendly Spankers website, paid the $25 for three months, and created his profile. The process was tedious, but the vampire was thirsty, and so he’d suffered through it.
������ Felicity was the only woman he'd contacted, and initially it had been the brevity of her profile that had captured his interest; it was almost as barren as his. Under, Occupation, she'd written, I have one. He had laughed out loud; he'd written exactly the same thing. Experience had taught him not to spill the beans about his work too soon. People thought he was crazy, or wanted to hang out with him because of it. The very last question of the profile asked, what are you looking for? She had written, more than friends, which he'd thought was refreshingly honest. It put his sarcastic, what do you think, to shame, so much so that he'd immediately changed it to, I'm open.
������ He hadn’t been familiar with the cafe she'd suggested, but when he saw the quaint bakery sign and the paned windows he was glad he'd come. He was tired of the sameness of the famous coffee houses, and just the thought of sitting in a place that was personal and comfortable he found immensely appealing.
������ If nothing else maybe I've found a new hangout. I'll bet they have great coffee, and even better pastries.
������ Rolling his bike into the parking lot he’d found it happily empty and was able to park directly in front. It was when he was pulling off his helmet that he thought he’d glimpsed her at the window, and running his hands through his mass of loose curls he’d grimaced.
������ Damn I must look a sight. Why have I been cursed with this wretched mop of hair?
������ Unzipping the top of the jacket that had seen more rejections and seductions than he could remember, he’d ambled across the small lot and turned the corner to the door, but as he’d wrapped his fingers around the handle he’d suddenly realized he'd fallen out of 'whatever' mode.
������ Okay, weird, but okay. Stop a minute; when you go in don't just charge over to the girl in the window, it might not even be her. Stop and look around, make sure. You don't need to make a total fool of yourself right off the bat!
Taking a quick breath he’d pushed through the door and purposely looked around before turning to face her. The moment their eyes touched he’d felt a slight something, and as he’d started towards her, his pulse ticked up.
������ She looked like her picture, exactly like her picture, and when she broke into a toothpaste commercial smile he found himself wanting to kiss her.
������ She paused a moment, then nodded her head.
������ "I am, so then, you're Blake."
������ "Yes," he nodded. “I’m Blake,” and if I wasn't I'd lie.