She opened her eyes and looked around the darkened room. Her arms and legs were wrapped in silk scarves, tied securely to the four-poster-style bed. The blinds on the windows were open, but it was still nighttime. The only thing she could make out was the heavy winter snowstorm, lighted by a street lamp. But they might as well have blindfolded her, because one street lamp wasn’t going to be help in letting her know where she was, especially tied down.

She lifted her head, shifting her gaze to what she was wearing. Her ankle-length, white, satin nightgown had ridden to her thighs, and to her horror she suddenly remembered she had worn no underwear to bed. She was splayed wide open to anyone who chose to enter the bedroom.

“Hermosa, you’re awake.”

A gasp escaped her lips as her gaze flew to the area from which the words had come. It was too dim to see anything, but she recognized the voice. She was sure she knew who had spoken those words. She only knew one person that had ever called her hermosa. With a mixture of dread and wariness, she laid her head back and waited.

“How are you feeling, hermosa?”

It was him. The man who haunted her dreams. “You ask me how I’m feeling? Did you think about how I would feel when you drugged me and placed me here?”

She couldn’t help the way her words sounded. Though she knew it was Santana, she was still pissed off he would go as far as kidnapping.

“Chloroform is not an addictive drug. It was necessary to put you to sleep until I got you out of there.”

She turned her head toward the sound of his voice. “Why?”

“Because you wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

“You could have stilled tried an invite,” she bit out.

He laughed. “But then I wouldn’t have you this way, open to anything I desire.”

She tensed on reflex as he stepped out of the shadows. She could see nothing but the outline of his body, moving so closely to her. He bent down and turned on a lamp, and she was forced to blink rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the blinding light flooding the room.

She eyed him warily. What was he planning? And why did the thought of being open to him send a shiver throughout her body. He looked dangerous, sporting black, close-fitted jeans and a tight, black tee. His dark skin emphasized his black hair and eyes. And his goatee made her want to know what it would be like to have those bristles touch her skin. He was such a different version of the Santana she’d once known. All masculine and powerful. She clenched her stomach as her clit throbbed in arousal. She wanted to feel his strength against her. It had been way too long since she tasted him, inhaled the scent of him in.

She dropped her gaze to the thick bulge pressed against his jeans. He was definitely aroused. And she had the sudden urge to unzip his pants, pull out his cock, and touch his heated flesh. What would it feel like inside of her mouth?

Damn! She should be outraged. Terrified at the situation. But she couldn’t pretend those emotions. Not when she wanted him so badly.

It had been an odd six months, working side by side at times with him and fighting against the attraction. Santana had shown no signs of wanting her except for the occasional glance he threw her way. But she hadn’t perceived that to mean something more. And she wouldn’t put her heart on the line again. To do so would mean giving him the power to hurt her.

“Hermosa, yo lo hice por ti.”

But she had to concede that he still held some power over her. The wetness between her legs was proof. Even back then, when she was nothing more than a girl entering womanhood, just the sound of his voice could make her wet.

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