She refused to hurt Mark Griggs, at least physically.

She’d settled on the handcuffs, gambling now that the combination of the bourbon and his lust would weaken his defenses to a level where he couldn’t resist the temptations the cuffs implied. “Makes me a naughty girl,” she said, reaching for one of his wrists. “And something tells me you like naughty girls.”

“You’re sure of that, are you?”

“Sure enough, soldier, to ask you to just relax and let me do the work. I guarantee you’re going to love this part. You’ll be wild and begging before I release you for the real action.”

That promise must have been too irresistible for him to question her exact intentions. She locked one end of the first handcuffs around his wrist and the other end around a sturdy vertical rail on the headboard.

When she’d succeeded in cuffing his other wrist with the second pair of handcuffs to another brass rod, she gazed down at him with a pleased smile. “There, you’re my slave now.”