For the next couple of hours, something remarkable unfolds.

We talk. Like friends. He makes me feel totally at ease, as if it's perfectly normal that we're lounging in bed.

After my mind-blowing orgasm, I'd tried to reciprocate. While groping at the waistband of his sweatpants, he said no, we'd get to that later, and stretched out next to me.

We lay there for a while, listening to the rain beat against the windows, and then I asked more about Ozzy and his previous owner. Tristan was so kind and funny in his explanation that I unloaded with all the questions in my mind, about how he lucked out with this apartment in such an exclusive building and why he moved to New York. He tells me about how he got into publishing, in London, and how he'd inherited a windfall from his grandfather. First he made money in tech, then started Blackmoir.

He answers every question with patience, something I hadn't anticipated, given how impatiently bossy he was in his office that first day.

We discuss books (his favorite writer is Gabriel Garcia Marquez), and I discover that he got a dial degree in business and Latin American Literature. I would swoon at that detail but I'm still lying down.

I remain naked — well, covered by the sumptuous gazillion-count thread sheet — and he's still in his sweatpants and T-shirt. Every so often he kisses me, or pulls the covers down so he can cup one of my breasts.

Then a horrific thought dawns on me: I never asked if he was single. Good Lord, I'm an idiot. I've probably been messing around with a married man. Or he has a rich girlfriend somewhere.

All those people last night at the musical saw me with him. Many seemed to know him casually. What if they know I'm his... what do they call it? Side piece?

My stomach turns in on itself.

"Are you married?" I blurt, just as he's asking me about my education.

He rears back, a look of hurt and shock shadowing his eyes. "No."

I sit up, and the sheet falls down. "Do you have a girlfriend? You must."

He straddles me and forcibly eases me back onto the bed. "I am not attached in any way. I'd never in a million years ask you, or anyone, to do this if I were. And while we're doing this," he kisses my throat, "I won't sleep with anyone else. You have my word."

"But it seems like you should be married."

He lifts himself on his hands and blinks. "I was. She passed away."

That revelation makes me gasp. "God, I'm such a jerk for prying."

"She was in a car crash in London. Five years ago."

Already I can feel my brow wrinkling, like it does when I'm about to cry. "I can't imagine losing someone like that."

He moves off my body and lies on his side. I mirror his pose.

"We'd been friends since college. I can't say there was a deep passion between us, but we made each other happy."

I nod, my heart breaking for him. It also inspired a twinge of jealousy — what would it be like to be this man's life partner?

He sweeps my hair back. "That's why you're so important, my dear. Why this book is so important. You'll be putting all of this in your book, I trust. This story is cathartic for me as well."

I shake my head, not understanding.

"I haven't been with anyone since my wife died."

My eyes widen. Practically pop out of my head. "You... what? What we just did was the first time in five years that you've..."

"Touched a woman? Given a woman an orgasm? Yes." He leans in and kisses me. I can't kiss back because I'm too shocked. "And here's another detail. I never made my wife come. Lord knows I tried. She wasn't able to unless she touched herself."

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. This was all too intimate. How could he expect me to include these private details in a book?

"You want all of this out in public, in a book?"

He shrugs. "We'll take it as it comes."

Odd, since he doesn't seem like a take-it-as-it-comes kind of guy. He dips his head to kiss me, and my tongue slips against his. He palms my breast and growls. "You were such a good choice for this project. I knew I had to have you the moment I saw your photo."

"Did you have many candidates?" I hate the pea-green jealous feeling that's invaded my chest.

He shakes his head. "I have a confession."

"What?" I reach out and trace his bow-shaped mouth.

"I only conceived of the project when my HR manager sent me your resume, and after I saw your photo."

A mixture of pride and fear settles in my gut. "You mean..."

"All of this was done to attract you? Yes."

"Wouldn't a simple phone call and a dinner date have sufficed?"

Laughing, he plucks at my nipple, which is peaked and hard.

"I wanted a more interesting courtship."

Whoa. Even after his strange confession, I crave his touch. More than ever, in fact. Celibate for five years? Wanting only me? That fact makes my pussy even wetter. I sigh pleasurably and open my legs.

"You've become a greedy little thing," he murmurs, sliding a hand down my stomach. He stops between my legs, his finger skimming through my wetness. "Yes, very greedy. And so wet."

"Please," I beg. Yeah, he's turned me into a wanton, craving whore. And I don't care. It's why I'm here, right?

I try to squirm so that my pussy makes more contact with his fingers, but he grins and shakes his head, then sits up. And he licks his index finger. Oh my God.

All while staring at me. I whimper, and he eases away from my body. What the hell? What is going on here?

"I'm going to make you coffee, my dear. You have work to do."

I wriggle my way to sitting, so I'm now facing him. "Excuse me?"

"You're here for a purpose, my love. And that's to write a book about our sexual adventures. You just had your first adventure, and I want you to write while it's fresh in your mind. So put on your robe and get to work. I might be completely enamored with you, but I also want you to write a book."

I stare at him, incredulous. "You're kidding, right?"

He shakes his head. "How do you like your coffee?"

Writing is the last thing I want right now. Coffee is the second-to-last. "What about lounging and relaxing during a sensual rainstorm?"

"Also, do you like to snack while writing? I purchased some Belgian chocolate that you may enjoy." He turns to walk out.

"Why are you ignoring me? I don't want to write." I realize I sound a little petulant, like an overgrown child, but his sudden arrogance is pissing me off.

"What do you want to do, my dear?" he pushes his bottom lip out in a mock pout and that annoys me even more. Then the smirk is back, and he's on his feet walking towards the door. Leaving me here naked and flashing hot.

"I don't want to work, I want to... relax."

He stops in the middle of the room, pivots and returns to the bed.

"Relax?" he growls.

Maybe it was the mind-blowing orgasm I'd just had. Or perhaps it's my new, bold personality. Even though he'd intimidated me before, I look him straight in the eye and flirt. Shamelessly. "I want to lounge around naked and have another orgasm."

Leaning toward me, he kisses my neck, which sends a shiver through my body. "You write a thousand or more words today, Sienna, and I'll give you another orgasm."

A spike of emotion hits me. I inhale, furious. "You're blackmailing me into writing with... orgasms?" I sputter.

He walks out of the room laughing, and I hurl a pillow toward the door once he's gone.