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I stopped for a drink after work, just me and a tall Long Island Iced Tea. I sipped the icy cool drink, letting the week fall away, but I didn't want to go home. Thoughts still plagued me, at work, too many people... too many demands... and my house is too empty... too quiet.

I closed my eyes to the big-screen televisions, the football games, the waitresses and bartenders, the boisterous customers placing bets, letting the liquid settle into my bones, and retreated within, seeking the quickest path to numbness.

I didn't see him enter the bar, didn't notice him until he took a seat next to me.

He was massive, muscular, jet-black hair, and dark, dark brown eyes, almost black. I watched him order a drink and drag his hand through his hair. I was mesmerized but, more than that, I knew he was kindred... wild.

"Long day," I asked with a sideways glance.

"Yeah, you know it." He turned to face me and then got up from his seat, staring straight at me. "Where did you come from?"

I pointed to the door, and quipped, "Somewhere out there."

"You're coming with me," he growled, and scooped me off the barstool.

I wasn't afraid. I wanted to dive into him, to swim naked in those smoldering eyes, and he walked me into a back room, closed to the public, and set me on my feet. With one hand on my throat, he pinned me to the wall and leaned in for a deep kiss.

My thighs went up in flames and I wrestled with emotions. Dear God, I want - need him, here and now!

"What is your name," he demanded, cupping my cheek.

"Bridget. What's yours?"

"Master."

My breath caught, and I opened my mouth to challenge him, but I couldn't form words. I was captive to his stare, and he kissed me deeply, stealing my breath and rationality.

"I've been looking for you forever. You're coming home with me. Wait in the foyer. I'll pay for our drinks."

I stood stock still, thinking, this is insane. He's not real. I drank too much and I dreamed him.

He tugged me into motion. "Do what I've asked, Bridget."

I did, with thoughts rankling in mind. This is how murder movies begin, but Jesus Christ makes my eyeballs sweat.

He rejoined me, took my hand, and led me out the door.

An hour later, we entered a block house. It was comfortable, spacious but not enormous, and I took in my surroundings. Bookcases lined several walls with all manner of journals, novels, genres and classics too.

He led me to a room down the hall, and instructed, "Take a seat and get comfortable, Bridget."

He'd afforded me no light, so I pulled my heels off and found the edge of a bed, and then crawled onto the downy mattress.

He stood by the bed, lifted me against his frame, and kissed me slowly, sucking in my bottom lip, and entwined his tongue with mine. I melted, clinging to him, inhaling his scent, and letting him intoxicate me. And he held my buttocks to him, ensuring that I would feel every inch of his iron need.

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