Free Twice Upon a Blue Moon by Helena Maeve Page A

for a moment, Hazel could inhale his cologne and revel in his body heat. Her vision blurred.
    This could never work.
    She’d blinked away the tears by the time Dylan led them into the loft. It was, as Ward had boasted, a large, sprawling apartment. The scant, sleek furniture made it seem even grander. Everything, from the bare brick walls to the curtain-less windows, was utilitarian, cold. A metal staircase right of the front door led up to a second story. Ward’s domain, Hazel guessed.
    Her heels made soft clicking noises on the bare hardwood floors. She’d spotted the austere, grunge-chic lines when she’d come to pick Sadie up all those weeks before. Being inside was a different story, though. There was a game console under the TV, for one thing. And a pizza carton rested conspicuously on the kitchen island.
    “Do you want something to drink?” Dylan asked, sliding the front door shut and securing the latch. “I have coffee—”
    “I want to see your playroom.”
    He froze, a deer in the headlights look snagging on his features. “Okay…” He flicked a hand toward a corridor left of the door. As best Hazel could tell, the loft wrapped around the main stairwell, more L-shaped than strictly square. Bookshelves lined the walls, overflowing with brick-size paperbacks. Hazel kept an eye out for de Sade, but all she could make out were mystery writers.
    Someone—either Dylan or Ward—had an obvious fondness for Agatha Christie.
    The bedroom Dylan led her into was in no way extraordinary. Between the four white-painted walls and the gray rug, Hazel wondered if she’d been duped. The walnut-framed bed didn’t even have a headboard. She noticed Sleeping Murder on the nightstand, though, which elucidated the enigma of the bookshelves outside.
    Yet Dylan didn’t stop in the bedroom. He marched to one of four doors leading out of the room and turned the handle. Hazel glimpsed bare brick and a St. Andrew’s cross.
    Jackpot .
    Insides churning uncomfortably, she trailed Dylan to the doorframe. That niggling voice at the back of her mind dared her to step over the threshold. It goaded. Hazel slid a foot forward, then the other, and let out a noisy breath.
    “In case it’s not obvious,” Dylan said, “you should know I had no intention of concluding our evening in here.”
    “Why not?” Hazel shot over her shoulder. Some men mounted stag heads or foot-long trout on their walls. Dylan had hung up whips and paddles and floggers of every size. Judging by the chains that crisscrossed the ceiling, he wasn’t averse to a little suspension play to go with the hardcore impact fun.
    “It would be a little presumptuous, for one thing… And we haven’t talked about this.”
    “What’s there to talk about?”
    Dylan shifted his weight, the impeccable lines of his worsted wool suit rustling as he stuck his hands into his trouser pockets. “Are you interested in kink?”
    “Yes.” The answer was a sigh. Yes, she was interested. Yes, she was terrified . Hazel picked up a pair of padded leather handcuffs. “Looks like I’m not the only one.”
    The tension in the room ratcheted up a notch as Dylan bridged the gap between them with a few short steps. He closed his hand around Hazel’s, trapping the cuffs in the palm of her hand. The spicy, earthy tones of his cologne seeped into her lungs as though her skin was permeable. His scent snared her. She tipped forward.
    Dylan stopped her with a hand at her waist. “Are you sure about this?”
    “Positive.” There might not be another chance, if Ward got his way.
    His gaze darted probingly over her face. Hazel fought not to look away. She was sure he could feel her pulse racing in her wrist.
    “What’s your safe word?”
    His voice rippled down her spine like a pin digging into a particularly sensitive nerve.
    “Um… Nothing comes to mind.”
    It wasn’t a lie. Her hindbrain had taken over the minute she’d stepped over the threshold. Everything here was a turn-on and