I wake to the sound of rain hammering against the window.

I stretch and grin, feeling unusually refreshed. Probably because of the rhythm of the downpour, and the fact that the apartment's nearly soundproof from street noise. Back home, I'm woken by either a jackhammer or a horn every morning, and usually both in ear-splitting tandem.

Plus, this bed is the most comfortable, sensual thing I've ever slept on. I flip the featherlight duvet off my body and go to the window. I can barely make out Central Park because of the driving rain. My stomach growls audibly.

After using the bathroom — Tristan has stocked it with expensive soaps and lotions — I pause at the desk. No, I still don't have the urge to fire up my computer, but I trace the cover of one of the many black leather notebooks.

More curious than anything, I sit in the chair and open the notebook, feeling the buttery pages. There's a pen nearby, and I pick it up. I'll bet the feel of the ink on this paper is so smooth...

I put the tip to the page and the words come out. Haltingly. One by one, then all at once.

He

refused

to

fuck me on our first night together.

Whoa. I've written a sentence. I blink, as if it couldn't have come from my hand. My stomach growls insistently. Almost scared by what I've scrawled, I set the pen down and slam the notebook shut.

I glance at my phone, which I'd left on the desk. It's only six in the morning, and yet I feel refreshed. Eating's my only desire right now. Surely Tristan won't be awake, and I'd never demand that he get up and make me breakfast.

Opening the door, I figure I'll look for the kitchen and grab something quick. Take it back to my room. A yogurt, if he has one, or fruit. I don't need to put on a robe since he'll never see me. I'm wearing a nightdress, one that was hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

It's an ivory nightshirt. The tag says it's from La Perla, and with its sumptuous silk and delicate tulle sleeves, makes me feel like a princess. It's also nearly sheer, but that won't matter.

Barefoot, I tiptoe down the hall, trying to figure out where the kitchen would be. In all, I count nine rooms, or at least nine doors. Everything's so silent here, it's as if each step of my bare toes echoes and bounces off the art hanging in the hallway. How uncomfortable.

At the end, I locate the kitchen.

And scream.

There's Tristan standing next to the expensive looking stove, cracking eggs into a pan.

Ozzy, who is lolling on the floor, barks once.

"Oh, God, you two scared me!" I cry. "What are you doing up?"

"Making breakfast for you and the pupper." He grins. Dammit, why does he have to look so handsome in his dark blue sweatpants and a grey t-shirt? And why did he have to say the word pupper in his hot, adorable accent?

His gaze settles on my chest. A warm, prickly feeling spreads through my body.

Obviously, the sleep shirt is more see through than I thought, because my nipples are practically poking through.

"Please, sit." He gestures to a small, round, marble-topped sitting area in the corner. There's a bowl of cut berries in the middle, and my stomach growls again. "You're starving."

I slink over to the table, and my hunger wins over because within a minute, I spear a strawberry. Then another. He serves me scrambled eggs and I gratefully accept. They're delicious and buttery. I don't even spill on my nightie, that's how magical and perfect everything is.

It almost makes me cry, how nice he's being this morning, offering me the newspaper and refilling my coffee.

No one's ever taken care of me like this.

When we're finished, he clears the table and sinks into the chair next to me. I'm petting Ozzy's giant, red furry head.

"Good boy," I murmur. "At least you had some bacon."

"Ozzy, go to your cubby." Tristan points to the other room, and the dog obediently gets up and lopes out.

"He's so well trained."

"He came like that." He frowns, and I sense a backstory.

"And how did he come to live with you?"

"The company's marketing manager owned him. She had cancer, and unfortunately, lost the battle."

"I'm so sorry," I whisper.

"Her husband couldn't bear to keep the dog, who wasn't more than a puppy at the time. He was too much of a reminder of her. So I offered to take him. The big furry beast."

"Was that his original name, Ozzy Pawsbourne? Or did you rename him?"

Tristan looks puzzled. "Why would I rename him? That's the name he came with. I wouldn't think of changing it."

The fact that he took the dog and didn't change his name to something stuffy makes my heart practically melt all over the breakfast table.

After several long moments of silence, he glances at me, his eyes smoldering.

"I'd planned on taking you to a museum today, but it's raining so hard. There's something about rain that's particularly sensual, isn't there? I recall you said that during your interview."

Black studies me for so long that my body grows hot and I begin to squirm. What is he thinking? Damn my nipples for reacting to him like this.

"Sienna, I want you to go brush your teeth and wash up. Wait for me in your bed. You may keep your nightgown and panties on."

My stomach tightens into a fist and I scamper out.

While I wash, I try to control my trembling hands. I dab on perfume. Drag a brush through my hair.

I perch on the bed, back ramrod straight. No, that looks stupid and too eager, so I stuff some pillows behind me and lean back. Ugh. It's all so awkward, mostly because the iron headboard is difficult to lean against.

I'm plumping a pillow when there's a knock at the door.

"Come in!" I trill. Jesus, I sound stupid.

He's smirking as he enters. The look on his face is altogether triumphant, as if he's already conquered me. I mean, I suppose he has.

I scoot over to one side of the bed, and he climbs on, next to me.

"When was the last time you spent a morning, and an afternoon, in bed?" He turns to me and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear.

I shake my head. "I usually have too much to do. So, never."

"Me neither. I never take the time to savor a rainy, lazy, day." The backs of his fingers graze my cheek. "I thought we could spend this time getting to know one another."

"You don't want to tease me anymore, like you mentioned last night?"

He chuckles and traces my lips with his finger. "No, I don't. I can't control myself any more around you. I want to begin. Now."

"Do you want me to take this off?" I pluck at the nightshirt, my mouth suddenly dry.

He shakes his head. "No. I will."

I blink.

"If I want it off, Sienna, I'll remove it myself."

I think I just caught on fire. I nod weakly. "What are you going to do with me?"

He leans in and kisses me, then pauses against my lips. "I'm going to make you come a lot."

"Oh."

Oh.

I scoot down so I'm lying on my back, my nipples so hard against the silk they almost hurt. My heart beats erratically and I wonder if cardiac arrest is a possibility.

"Tell me, Sienna." He lies on his side, propped on his elbow, and trails a finger down my throat to the first button of the nightshirt. He undoes it, then another, pushing the shirt open to the edges of my nipples. "Are you attracted to me at all?"

"I am. Yes. Very much." My voice sounds light as air.

"I thought you were, but I wanted to check. Did you touch yourself last night while thinking of me?" He undoes a few more buttons. With a gossamer touch, he slides the fabric away, exposing my breasts.

"Yes."

"Good girl." He traces my right nipple with his index finger, and I arch into him. "You're so beautiful. Fuck, Sienna."

His mouth goes to my other nipple and I shudder in a gasp as he sucks. When he stops, I whimper in protest. He undoes the final two buttons, which means my shirt is open and my white silk panties exposed.

He spends what seems like a half hour on my nipples. First one, then the other. With his hands, pinching lightly. He licks and nibbles until I'm squirmy and flashing hot. Frustrated, I sit up and fling off my nightshirt violently, too impatient to stand anything but his lips on my skin.

"Your body. It's incredible." He sits up and studies me.

I reach for him and he leans over, caging me with his arms. His kiss is so disarming and deep that I flail a little, brushing his cock with the back of my hand.

Good lord, it's huge. He's going to put that in me? I rest my palm there, feeling his shape and girth through the thick fabric of his sweat pants.

I stare at his face, wide-eyed, as I stroke slowly. His expression registers no emotion, save for a brief bite of his bottom lip.

"Stop," he whispers. "You'll play with my cock another time. This morning's all about you. So I can learn how to drive you crazy."

He kisses my neck and moves my hand from his erection, gripping my wrist hard.

"Spread your legs. Wide."

I do, and he sits up, staring.

"You're so wet already that you've made a mess of your pretty panties."

I mewl.

"You've left a stain. See?" He rests his thumb between my legs, right over my clit. I inch into him, seeking release.

"Not yet." He strokes my silk-covered slit. "But you want this, don't you?"

I nod and whimper. I'm doing a lot of whimpering.

"Stretch your hands overhead and hold the iron headboard," he commands. "Then close your legs."

I do as I'm told. In one swift movement, he strips off my panties. "Let me see you. Open for me."

My heart thrashing in my chest, I do. At the spa I'd been fully waxed, and the sensation of being bare against the silk teased and taunted. Now, with the cooler air on my smooth skin, I feel a new flood of wetness in my pussy.

"Look at you," he growls. "Open wider."

I spread my legs as wide as they'll go. I'm panting now.

"You're already so wet and I haven't laid a finger on you. Jesus, you're going to have so much to write about." He settles onto his stomach, his arm wrapped under and around one of my legs, so his hand is at the top of my pussy. Slowly, way too slow, he spreads my swollen, wet lips open with his fingers.

I don't care about the writing at this point. All I want is to come. Never in my life have I wanted anything this bad. It's like all the energy in my body's rushed to my clit and I'm aching to release it into the world.

He looks up, his face tinged with a red flush. "I'm going to lick your pretty pussy now. It's so fucking soft and pink. You have the perfect cunt, Sienna."

I gasp in shock at his language. But it doesn't deter me from wanting more of everything.

"Please touch me. Or be inside me. Please?" I bite my lip and frown.

"Touch you where?"

I shrug.

"I want to hear you say it."

"My... pussy," I whisper. I'd written all sorts of filthy scenes in my first book, but never said the words aloud. "Lick my pussy. My clit. Please?"

"It's so hard not to fuck you the way I want. But I need you nice and relaxed for me, and the only way that will happen is a few orgasms first. Are you ready to come against my tongue?"

Oh, God, he's killing me with the dirty talk. "Please, yes."

While holding one of my thighs in place with his other hand, his tongue makes contact with my clit. The first lick is like an electric shock, one that's pleasurable and surprising. He licks over and over, and after a few seconds, I'm already grinding into his face because I want a release.

I mash my fists into my eyes and he stops. "Hands on the rails, baby girl. Like that."

I grip the headboard rails and watch as he spreads me apart again and gives my entire slit a long lick with a flat tongue. Then he gently slides a finger in me and I cry out. The sensation makes me writhe in pleasure but he holds me firm around the thighs.

"Be as loud as you want. Scream my name, cry, sob. Whatever. I want you coming, again and again."

He's sucking on my clit now while slowly finger fucking me.

"Tristan," I whimper.

"Pussy's so tight," he murmurs, almost to himself. "I need to be extra gentle. Fuck, I want to slam my cock in right now but I think it might hurt you."

"Anything," I whisper, grinding myself into his face, seeking more contact. "Make me come. I don't care what you do."

His finger inside of me stills, and he replaces his tongue with the thumb of his other hand. Then he circles my clit while pumping his finger in and out of me. He slides a second finger in and circles with more pressure. Faster. Faster and harder. He keeps fingering me but uses his tongue on my clit. I lose track of all his fingers. It's an assault of the senses, of my body, of my very soul — and I'm powerless.

It pushes everything inside me to the edge. Until I can no longer hold on.

Until I fall.

"Tristan," I cry out. The violent orgasm forces me to go of the iron headboard rails. My hands work my way into his hair, tugging and yanking.

He lifts his head, his mouth wet with my juices. His kiss on my mouth is fierce.

"Do you taste yourself on my lips?"

I whisper yes against his skin.

"Good. Get used to it."

____