Featuring Author Aimee O’Brian With Her Debut Book *Steal My Heart* @XpressoTours

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 Catman’s emerald eyes sparkled with triumph. He had me trapped. This wasn’t like last time when I was in control. Tonight I was at his mercy. I drew a shuddering breath. I was pressed into the bed, his weight covering me, keeping me, holding me in his power. Forget desire. Safety was paramount for a single woman living in Los Angeles. My heart raced, and I began to sweat. I didn’t know this guy. This was not safe sex. It was a dangerous game. I jerked my arms, the cuffs rasping against the carved bedpost, holding me fast. Flight or fight. Well, I was going nowhere. So I focused. I wouldn’t lose myself to fear; I wasn’t out of self-defense tricks yet. My muscles tensed, ready to buck him off, until his eyes made me pause. They danced with humor, and I read a question in them. I blinked, stilled, my body taut. Was he asking a silent permission? Of course Catman wouldn’t speak. No way would he willingly give me a clue to his identity. He was disguised, covered head to foot, as he’d been the other night. The smell of expensive leather assailed my senses. A scent I would now forever associate with hot sex. But I knew what he was asking. He wouldn’t force me. Not his style. I had to want this. My gentleman burglar waited, holding still for an answer to his unspoken question. He slid his leather-clad legs along my bare ones, pressed the erection I could feel through his pants against my thigh. My body arched up to meet his. “Yes,” I breathed before I realized what I was doing. “Please.” He smiled his slow, dazzling smile, all bright white and self-satisfied. He could be the poster child for dental hygiene if it weren’t for the mask covering the rest of his face. I squirmed underneath him, impatient for his touch. I wanted his hands all over me, his bare hands. But it wasn’t happening. Instead he stroked me with his gloved hand, the kidskin skimming over my flesh raising goose bumps, causing little tingles to dance all over my skin. He slid his hand up my leg, and I squirmed. Everywhere he touched, I burned, wanting more. I mewled and stretched, rubbing hard against him. He reached down with his bare hand and stroked me. Built on my pleasure until I spasmed in ecstasy and increased need. I had a moment of clarity. Would he make a mistake, leave me with DNA evidence? Would I let him? How much was I willing to risk to win this dangerous game?