I can't stop talking about the musical in the car.

"The storytelling was amazing!"

Tristan smiles triumphantly. "I'm happy you enjoyed."

"I'm sure you've seen it a million times."

"Actually, no. That was my first time."

"Really?" I blink in astonishment, and he smirks. "Surely you've had the chance."

He nods. "I have, but I work a lot. When I'm not working, I like to be home. I'm a homebody."

That's when I realize: we're headed to his house. Going to the play was a way to make us — me? — more comfortable before the main event.

Maybe he's not such a bossy bastard after all.

The car stops, and I glance out the window. I immediately recognize the landmark. "You do not live here."

"I do."

Oh. My. God. Tristan lives at The Dakota, which is probably New York City's most famous apartment building. It's where John Lennon was shot in the eighties. The views of Central Park are legendary — not like I'd know, since I've only ever walked past it on my way to the park.

I'd once read in The Times that prospective owners must submit years of tax records to even be considered as tenants. Cher and Madonna were reportedly rejected from The Dakota's co-op board.

And now I'm strolling into the lobby, clutching Tristan's arm. A concierge greets him by name and presses the button for the elevator.

When we're alone on our ride to his floor, I turn my gaze to him, my eyes huge as dinner plates. He's still displaying that annoyingly sexy, shit-eating grin.

"That concierge?"

"Yes? His name is James."

"Was he wearing white gloves?"

"Indeed he was." Tristan pulls me a little closer.

I am obviously on a different planet here. My heart slams against my ribcage as the elevator stops. He tugs me out and into Apartment 46.

Holy crap. My gaze sweeps around the room, decorated in a formal and eclectic modern baroque. It's masculine and sexy all at once, and I picture myself lying on the golden-hued lounger while Tristan's body moves against mine.

Between the high ceilings, the ornate fireplace and the heavy panting...

Wait. What?

A loud snort echoes through the perfectly decorated sitting room, and I wetness coats my hand. I glance down and cry out.

"Oh, you have a dog!"

Next to me is a muscular, beautiful canine creature that looks a little like a red lion.

"That's Ozzy. Ozzy Pawsborne. He's a chow."

I kneel and Ozzy's black tongue licks my arm. The dog's fuzzy face and his goofy name makes me squeal with laughter. I adore dogs, but Mom and I never had the money or the time to care for one. "So that's why you asked on the paperwork if I was allergic to animals."

"It is." He pauses. "Ozzy, go to your cubby."

I look up and realize I'm on my knees at Tristan's feet. He's grinning. Oh. Right. We're supposed to have sex soon. As much as I want to, I'm so nervous my hands are trembling.

Slowly I stand, and Ozzy lopes off.

"Come, I'll show you to your room. Since it's late, we'll do the official tour tomorrow."

I follow him down a hallway — between the musical and this apartment, I'm in sensory overload now — and he opens a door.

What I see inside makes me gasp. Tall, filled bookshelves cover one full wall. A large wooden desk sits against another wall, and I notice stacks of beautiful, leather-bound notebooks and my own laptop sitting on the top.

There's also a massive bed. It has an ornate iron headboard and a scarlet duvet. The entire room is done up in red and gold hues, and it's heartbreakingly stunning.

"If you'd rather not work in the room where you sleep, I can rearrange another space." He pauses at the desk. "And if you require any other writing tools, notebooks, anything, please let me know."

He walks to a door and touches the knob. "Here's your bathroom. And if you're hungry, you can let me know. I'll take care of you."

I peek around, stunned. Somehow I'd expected a butler or some kind of help. "You'll... what? Don't you have help for that?"

He shakes his head. "I prefer to be alone in my home. Although a housekeeper comes a few times a week. I do enjoy cooking even if it's just for myself. Although cooking's always more pleasurable when it's done for someone."

"I'm not hungry." We'd been treated to a backstage buffet at the theater after the show with some of the cast; I'd been so nervous that I'd eaten only a mini quiche and three pieces of celery. My stomach still feels plenty full.

Tristan loosens his bow tie. I'm captivated by his movements.

My face flashes hot, and for the life of me, I cannot move my feet from the plush rug. Out the corner of my eye, I spot a small, tattered, black duffel bag sitting on a luggage rack. I'd packed it back in my apartment hours ago.

I gulp in a few breaths. "Okay, so what do we do from here? I mean, where do you want me? I should take off my clothes."

It seems like it takes ten minutes to walk across the big room to the bed. Just as I'm about to sit, Tristan stands in front of me. I look up, into his blue eyes, and perch on the edge of the mattress. How does he make me so wet with just a glance? Now I'm legit afraid at the power he has over me.

"Sienna, stand up."

I obey.

He cups my face in his hands, and my heart feels like it will pound out of my chest and flop around on the crisply made bed.

"I will not fuck you tonight," he murmurs. "You'll go to bed and try to get a good night's sleep. Alone."

"Ohhh," I say weakly. My clit is already pulsing and I wonder if I should masturbate tonight after he leaves the room.

Dammit, he's going to leave me alone. And he smells so fantastic. I drag in a inhale, reveling in his spicy caramel scent.

And that's when he leans down and puts his lips to mine. His kiss is unhurried. Commanding. Tantalizingly erotic. Yes, I'm definitely masturbating tonight.

I stop breathing, and when he breaks away, he looks at me with half-lidded eyes while still holding my face in his hands.

"Don't mistake my words. I very much want to fuck you. I'm so hard right now that my cock could cut a diamond."

"Then... why... don't... you?" Way to beg, Sienna. Somehow with one scorching kiss he's turned me into a wanton slut, pleading to be taken and used.

"Because I desire to tease you. I want to go into the other room, alone, and lie in bed in the dark and think about how hot you are for me. I want to hold my hard cock in my hand and fantasize about how your sweet, virgin pussy is soaking wet. How you're not sure if you should touch yourself. You're thinking about it, aren't you?" He says all this while stroking my cheeks with his thumbs.

I nod. I'm so shocked that he knows what I'm thinking I can't move a muscle except for my eyes, which drift to the floor. A mixture of shame, desire and pure want course through me.

"Of course you do. You're vibrating with need right now. It's coming off you in waves."

"Pretty much," I whisper.

"Sienna, I'll be stroking myself, imagining you in here, trying not to make noise as you slide your fingers into your swollen pussy. You'll make yourself come anticipating our first time together. That tension might spur you to write a few words tonight, even. So that, my dear, is why I will not fuck you tonight. I might even make you wait two nights, or three. It's all part of how I'll inspire you to write again."

I lift my gaze and stare into his blue eyes, feeling a fresh rush of wetness pool at my core. Did he just say all of those things? I blink and sway a little.

The silence and electricity in the room is so heavy that when the heater clicks on, I jump.

"Good night, Sienna." He kisses my forehead softly and walks out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

I sink onto the bed, my head spinning, my entire body throbbing with blind need. My index finger traces my lips, as if I can't believe his mouth was just on mine.