I wrote up the contract myself.
Legally binding. Crystal clear. No strings. No feelings.
Just sex—and two million dollars in exchange for my time and expertise.

Carter Fabri may be Tampa Bay’s newest rising star, but off the ice, he’s all Bambi eyes and inexperience. He's a virgin in desperate need of lessons in dominance, seduction, and everything in between.

And I happen to be just the woman to teach him.

I don’t need his money.
But I do need what it can give me.

I’m 32, cut off from my family, and one bill away from drowning in student debt. The fantasy I’ve built around my lifestyle is getting harder to maintain. This pay day would secure the lifestyle I’ve worked too hard to let slip through my fingers and finally give me the chance to save for something I’ve always wanted—something I’ve never told anyone about.

So, I take Carter on as my student. I lay out every rule, every boundary, every carefully controlled term of our arrangement.

What I don’t plan for is how quickly he'd catch on—or how much I’d enjoy letting him take the reins.

This was supposed to be a lesson in power.
But somewhere along the way, I stopped being the one in charge.

I thought I could keep my heart out of it.
I thought I’d accounted for every risk.
But some consequences you can’t predict—no matter how carefully you draft the terms.