Free Wet Ride (Toys-4-Us) by Samantha Cayto Page B

placement. All she could think was she wanted to be that tile. She wanted his strong hands on her body, posing her, holding her in place, commanding her.
    She must have made some kind of noise because he turned abruptly and stared back at her. For long seconds, neither of them said anything, their gazes locked as if in a contest of wills. He was the first to crack.
    “Oh, hey, you must be Ms. Driscoll.” He stood up and wiped his hands against the front of his thighs. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
    “I saw your truck so I called out,” she said not really paying attention to her own words. Her eyes followed the movement of his hands. Now that he was standing, she could see he was tall and lean. She swallowed hard and forced her eyes up to his face. “Where’s your son?” she asked rather inanely.
    The man’s eyebrows shot up. “My son?”
    “Brandt and Son. It says it on your truck.”
    His face lit up with a smile. It transformed him from merely handsome to downright gorgeous. “Oh, right. I’m the son. My father retired a few years ago and it seemed pointless to change the name of the company. Besides, I may have a son one day who joins me in the business.”
    “Or a daughter,” she replied in a knee-jerk reaction. She had fought her whole career against the notion she was in the wrong place as a woman.
    He grinned again. “Or a daughter.” Running his hand through his hair, he added, “Of course, then I would have to change the name. I’m Kevin Brandt, by the way.” He held up his dirty hands. “Best not to shake.”
    “I’m Emily Driscoll.” And she was damn glad to have an excuse not to shake. Just looking at this man had her hot and bothered. Touching him would probably cause her to burst into flames.
     
    Kevin’s body tightened as he stared back at his new client. When the decorator had described Emily Driscoll as a hard-as-nails business woman from up north, he’d pictured buttoned down, prim and plain. Two-thirds of his speculation was spot on. The woman was encased in a pant suit and a plain white blouse with a high collar. It was the kind of clothes that said “ don’t touch ” but man, was he itching to do just that. This northern gal was anything but plain. Her clothing did nothing to hide the luscious curves underneath. And her face was arresting. Pale and oval-shaped with surprising brown eyes considering her blond hair, it was the kind of face one could picture on a water nymph.
     
    Christ, he was getting fanciful. It wasn’t like him. He was a straight-forward, take-charge, kind of guy. He liked his women to be open and honest. He also wanted them submissive and trusting in bed. His right hand opened and closed on an imaginary flogger because this woman inspired the Dom in him. He had been in the lifestyle since his early twenties and had gained a lot of experience as a top. He enjoyed it as did the lovely women who submitted to him. But lately things had gone stale for him. He wanted more, although he hadn’t realized what that more was until now. The woman standing in front of him was clearly strong and competent. Hell, no one got to be a big time executive without being determined and commanding. And that was the appeal. What would it be like to control such power, to have a strong woman submit to his will?
     
    He was dying to find out. His cock had already swelled at the idea and he was glad his tool belt hid his obvious condition. It was too soon to tell if his interest would be reciprocated but he didn’t want to make Emily feel uncomfortable around him. He was well aware of how vulnerable she would be if he turned out to be a creep. No sense in giving her that impression when the very last thing he wanted was to impose himself on any woman. The Dom/sub relationship was all about consent. He’d be damn lucky if she turned out to be the type of powerful woman that wanted to be dominated in bed.
     
    He realized he’d been staring too long. “Ah, nice to