That night we danced, I marked you as mine and I made it stick. There wasn’t a boy or a man on that lake that didn’t know who you belonged to, and the minute there was even a whiff one of them was stepping over the line, they walked funny for a week.

What am I going to do with you? I have suggestions, but this might not be the place for them.

It was that surrender he needed. That complete feminine submission to every stroke, every caress, ever naughty act. Only in that submission would the subconscious trust, the bond he needed between them, come. He wanted her to trust, to know, to instinctively understand that he was more than just her lover; he was her other half. The one she told her secrets to. The one, she made secrets with.

He was tall, one of the tallest men she had ever seen. Dressed in jeans, boots and a cotton shirt. Thick black hair grew rakishly long, falling over the collar of his shirt. Intense brown eyes, almost the color of amber, surveyed the diner slowly before coming back to her. Electricity sizzled in the air then, as though invisible currents connected them, forcing her to recognize him on a primitive level. Not that she wouldn’t take notice anyway. He was power, strength, and so incredibly male that her breath caught at the sight of him.

Men sucked. They were the root of every problem any woman could ever have. They were the reason for bras, the need for makeup, hair stylists, shaving legs, and high heels that made the arch feel like it had a steel rod slammed up it. They were picky, arrogant, argumentative, and so damned certain of themselves <...>.

Do you know, every time I've seen you you've been like the Grim Reaper of goodwill and cheer. You should find another profession.

I need you more than I need freedom.