We never did eat lunch. By the time my ill-advised moment of weakness had passed, I told myself that I needed to head back to the theater. If I didn’t pull myself away now, I might never leave.

“I can’t slack off,” I told Tristan, sipping a glass of ice water in a desperate attempt to rehydrate myself. My heavy breathing had dried my throat out. Yet, like a masochistic addict, I wanted more. “Even if you do own the place now.”

“Correction: You own it,” he said. “Either way, go finish your work and then come out with me tonight.” He was still dressed head to toe, still so sophisticated. But the hunger was still there, in those eyes, those lips. I hadn’t satisfied him. Still, somehow I didn’t feel bad about it. It simply gave me the upper hand. It meant that I would see him again if I so chose.

I had the power now.

So why did I still feel so powerless?

“I can’t see you tonight,” I lied. “I’ve got plans.”

He slipped towards me and put his hands on my waist. It was an intimate gesture that felt good—comforting, like he was my boyfriend, and not some incredible, unobtainable man who intimidated the hell out of me. “There’s something I want to show you, and I don’t want to take no for an answer, not for this. Are you working over the weekend?”

I could have said yes. There was no such thing as weekends, not in theater-land. But the truth was that I didn’t have to.

I shook my head. “I’m not necessarily working until our opening on Tuesday. This plan of yours—is it something that will take long?” It was true. The cast was in dress rehearsals, starting tonight. The only reason I could possibly have needed to be around was to make sure that the set didn’t fall on someone and crush them to death—which was really more the crew’s responsibility than mine.

“It’s something that will take forty-eight hours, give or take,” he said. “I want to spend them with you. Say yes.”

I tightened. The stubborn ass in me wanted to say no, if only just to retain the small modicum of power I’d managed to gain.

“What if I turn you down?” I asked.

“I’ll ask you again,” Tristan said, his fingers tightening, eyes narrowing. “I’m not going to let you go, Ariana. Whether you know it or not, you’re mine, you see.”

I felt myself trembling, as though a chill had set itself deep in my bones. Good and bad at once, like the warmth of a fire heating me just short of a burn. I was so close to bliss. But if I got any closer, if I tumbled over the edge, it might kill me.

“I’m not so sure I’m yours,” I said, though my tone lacked conviction. I knew the words to be yet another lie. If I hadn’t been his two hours ago, then I was now. Now that he’d claimed me with his mouth. Now that he’d shown me pure pleasure.

I was seriously hooked on Tristan Wolfe.

“Oh, I think you’re sure,” he said, a sly smile curling up the corners of his all-too-sexy mouth.

“Are you mine, then?” I asked, jutting out a hip, teasing him with my curves.

“Body and soul,” he replied. “At least I will be soon.”

“Yeah, about that—I haven’t had your body yet,” I scolded softly. “Haven’t seen what’s under those clothes of yours.”

“If I tell you that you will see all of me this weekend, will that change things?” he asked.

“Possibly,” I said, reaching forward with my right hand. I played with his collar, pulling it away from his skin just enough to see a hint of chest hair. “Probably,” I breathed. “I don’t feel satisfied yet. I want more.”

“You want me inside you,” he said. “You want me to fuck you.”

I nodded. More than you know, I wanted to reply. But I remained silent. Always keeping my cards close to my chest.

“You’ll have everything you desire and more,” he told me. “But first, I need to show you who I am, and that will take some time and some doing. It’s a complicated matter, you see.”

He pulled away and slipped over to the other side of his desk. The detachment was a shock, as though he’d unplugged my source of energy. It all but hurt, and the potential of pain frightened me. It was the same feeling I’d had at Carlotta’s a couple of nights earlier, when my body had responded viscerally to our separation. Once again I felt the power that he had over me. Once again, I felt frightened by my own weakness.

“Normally,” he continued, “if you were just any woman I was dating, I might suggest that we go out somewhere in this city. But you aren’t just any woman, which is why I want you to come with me to my retreat.”

I tried to ignore the jealousy that was eating away at my soul, now that he’d reminded me of the other women he’d been with. I didn’t want to think about the models I’d seen in photos with him. Didn’t want to think about the smiles that must have been plastered on their faces as he drove his cock inside them.

I didn’t want to think he’d ever been with anyone else.

“Retreat?” I asked, masking my envy with a look of curiosity. “Now, that sounds mysterious.”

“Good. I like mystery. I’ll pick you up at your place tomorrow morning. Let’s say ten.”

I was about to ask him if he needed my address when I remembered that of course he didn’t; he’d come to my building that first night and stood outside like a horny stalker.

“Okay then,” I said. I wanted to ask him so many questions. To find out who he was, really. I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow. I wanted it all. Now. “Tristan…”

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” I replied, offering him a withering smile. In the end, I lacked the courage I’d always tried so hard to project. It terrified me how attracted I was to him. How much I still wanted to be near him. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I’m looking forward to it more than you know.” He reached over and grabbed the paperwork off the desk, holding it out towards me. “Take this with you,” he said. “I want you to at least think about it.”

“Fine,” I replied, rolling the deed up and cramming it into my purse. “I’ll think about it.”

When I’d made my way out of the office and down the hall towards the elevator, Kara was still sitting behind her desk. She smiled at me, but it wasn’t a regular, friendly receptionists’ grin. Something in her expression was knowing, like she’d figured out exactly what had gone on behind closed doors. It wasn’t an accusation, exactly.

More like a look of complicity, even of approval.

Whatever made Tristan Wolfe tick, she seemed to have been woven from the same cloth.

Maybe this weekend I’d learn what that cloth was.