I shower, dress in my comfy yoga pants and a sweatshirt I'd brought from home, and sink into the chair at the desk. There's a pot of French press coffee and a cup, along with sugar and cream in containers. And a small bar of Belgian chocolate.

Tristan had set this here for me while I was in the shower. I smile. For all of his arrogant, strange ways, he really does seem like he wants me to succeed.

And he said he was enamored with me.

I inhale sharply. You can do this. I repeat it, over and over.

Instead of opening my laptop, which is sitting atop the desk, I return to the notebook I'd written in before.

He refused to fuck me on our first night together.

The thought of us together, of his tongue and his fingers in my most private place, makes me fan my scorching face with one of the thin notebooks.

Focus, Sienna. Focus.

Uncapping the pen, I begin to write words. Phrases. Lists of things I'd noticed in Tristan's home and sensations I'd felt over the past twenty-four hours. It isn't writing, not exactly. It's more like a list of emotions and observations. But that turns into a mini-outline of sorts of everything that's happened between Tristan and I since the moment I walked into his office.

And then, almost without thinking, I open my laptop and begin to type.

* * *

I'm so absorbed with my stream-of-consciousness writing that I almost ignore the knock at the door. It's as if I'm in a sensory deprivation chamber, I'm so focused on what I'm doing.

"Oh!" I cry out, startled, my fingers fluttering in the air. "Come in."

I twist in my seat to see Tristan enter. He's wearing jeans and a blue sweater that matches his eyes.

"Well?" he asks, stopping at my desk, his fingers brushing the open notebook pages.

I point to the computer. "I managed to get some words on the page. Not sure how good they are."

First, he leans down and studies the words on the screen. It's a passage is about his kisses and he strokes his bottom lip with his thumb.

Then, his hand goes to my head and undoes the elastic. His fingers work through my hair. "Good girl. I knew you could do it. And I'm sure you'll get much more done today."

I look up, shrugging. Trying not to pay attention to how gorgeous he is. How much I want him.

"Stand up for a moment."

I do, and he slides into my seat and pulls me onto his lap. His strong arms wrap around me, and I shudder pleasurably. He's so much bigger than I am. It's like I'm being swallowed by his body.

"You've done everything I asked," he murmurs in my ear, while his hands cup my breasts. "Now I get to reward you."

I let out a tiny gasp.

"I have to run to the office for a little while, so you'll have more time to write in peace. But I promised you something."

I turn my head and kiss him on the neck. Then I bite, lightly, because that's what he'd done to me earlier.

"I'm going to take off these tight little yoga pants." I wriggle my butt and he slides them off.

"No underwear?"

"No. Don't like it." I'm now wearing only my sweatshirt, and he angles me so I'm sitting with my back to his front. He gently pulls my thighs apart and I'm leaning against him, spread.

"You're going to get your writing reward now." His hands slide down my body to my pussy, and the fingers of his right hand skate against my clit.

I sigh, satisfied that he's touching me once again. Within seconds, his hands are coated with my juices.

"This is what you wanted, wasn't it? For me to play with your pretty little pussy? To make you come?"

"Yes. Yes!"

"Look at my fingers inside your cunt."

I look. His hands are big, and brutal, and the image of them playing with my most intimate area is almost too much to bear. It's like my debut book has come to life, all the dirty sexy parts, at least.

And I'm the main character.

"The more you write, the more I'll reward you, my love. And you'll come to discover that I adore giving rewards, especially to someone as beautiful as you." He's using both hands on me now, fingers sliding into me and others circling my clit. It's too much too fast, and I explode in his arms.

He's away for hours. I continue to outline and write until my eyeballs feel dry and scratchy. Exhausted, I take a cool shower to rouse my achy body, which has been rooted in the chair. When I emerge from the bathroom, dressed in a white tank top and little pink shorts, there's a text from him.

The text makes my heart pound insistently. What does he have planned? I go to the kitchen and fix myself a sandwich. I locate Ozzy's treats and spend several long moments petting his fluffy mane.

Then I pad through the enormous apartment — Ozzy trails me the entire time — gaping at the art and beautiful furniture. This is the most gorgeous place I've ever been in. I lean against the window, staring at the rain and Central Park, and sigh.

The rain begins to come down harder, and I wonder if Tristan drove himself to the office — he mentioned that he often does, in a Porsche — or if he took the chauffeured Mercedes. Irrationally, I begin to worry about him on the rain-slicked roads.

By now, the gray sky has turned to night, and I head back into bed, followed by Ozzy. Tristan said nothing about Ozzy being on the bed, so I don't object when the big, furry creature jumps up. We snuggle together and fall asleep. Given all the uncertainty and strangeness in my life, it's as if the dog is my only comfort.