My cheeks flush, but I can't blame the alcohol.

I'm hot everywhere.

Take off your underwear. I want to hear you come.

I… Uh…

I can't strip in the back of a limo.

Even if I'm more or less alone.

"Kat?" His voice is a command. It's now.

I let out a heavy exhale. "I can't."

"You want to come?"

"Yes."

"Put the phone on speaker."

I do. I set it on the bench next to me. The limo is already moving. It's not far to my place. We're right by the Brooklyn Bridge.

Is ten minutes enough time for this?

It's not like I take my time when I masturbate.

But this is different.

It's for him.

"Kat." His voice drops an octave.

"It's on speaker." I squeeze my knees together. It does nothing to temper the heat racing through me. I'm achy.

I can't believe it, but I want to strip right here.

I want to touch myself for his listening pleasure.

His voice flows from the speakers. "Don't make me ask again."

My fingers curl around my panties. I lift my hips and slide them to my ankles.

"Done," I breathe.

"Good girl."

It should annoy me, but it doesn't. It makes me hotter. It makes me even more desperate for release.

"Spread your legs."

I slide my knees apart. It shifts my pelvis up. Cold air hits my tender flesh. It wakes up my nerves. It winds me tighter.

"Take off your bra," he demands.

I roll my dress to my chest, unhook my bra, and slide it off my shoulders.

My nipples tighten.

I'm stripping for a voice on the phone. No, for Blake. For a man with all the money and power in the world.

I like that he has the power to snap his fingers and destroy me.

I like that I'm out of my fucking mind.

I want to forget the rest of the world. I want to forget everything but his demands.

"Good." His voice gets heavier. "Play with your nipples."

I squeeze my eyes closed and imagine him here, touching me the way he touched me in the office.

Slowly, my thumbs brush my nipples. I draw circles. Soft ones. Then hard ones.

A groan falls off my lips. Then another. It's almost like he's touching me. But, fuck, I really wish it was him touching me.

His breath gets heavier.

Needier.

He's the one in control, but I'm doing something to him too. I'm driving him out of his mind too.

"Bring your hand to your thigh," he says. "But don't touch your cunt. Not yet."

I stroke the inside of my thigh. Closer and closer and closer. But not quite there.

My breath speeds. Desire courses through me. I need release. I'm desperate.

"Kat."

"Yes."

"I said not yet."

I move my hand back to my knee, tracing circles around it. I can't wait any longer. I need to come. I've never needed to come this badly.

"Back to your thighs," he says.

No. Now. I need release now.

It's torture dragging my hand to my thigh. Stroking my skin as softly as I can stand it.

But it's a beautiful torture.

"Now," Blake says. "Slowly."

My fingertips brush my clit.

It's intense. I'm wound up. Sensitive.

I do it a little harder.

A little longer.

Fuck.

That feels so good.

A groan falls off my lips.

I lean back on the bench seat.

And I touch myself with that same speed. That same pressure.

Then faster.

Harder.

Mmmm.

I need to come. I need my groans in his ear. I need everything.

His voice gets hard. "Slowly."

No. Faster. Harder. Now.

I force myself to slow. I force my touch to lighten. My fingers brush my clit with soft circles. It's agony. Delicious, beautiful agony.

Pleasure wells up inside me. My sex tightens. I'm close. So fucking close.

I keep up those slow circles. I wind myself up. Tighter and tighter and tighter.

His breath gets heavier. Needier.

He's sitting there in his office, listening to me touch myself.

And I…

I really fucking like that.

It deepens the ache inside me.

My hand takes over. I move faster. Harder.

Pleasure pools in my core.

The tension is too much too take. I'm so close.

"Come for me, Kat."

Yes.

My next stroke is faster. Harder. It only takes a few flicks of my finger, and I'm there. Agony fades into bliss. Pure, deep, blinding bliss.

The tension inside me unfurls as I come. My groans echo around the limo. Pleasure spills to my fingers and toes. I feel so fucking good.

I collapse on the bench seat. Spent. Satisfied.

"Fucking beautiful," he growls.

I try to find words, but they refuse to climb my throat.

"I'll let you go." Satisfaction drips into his voice. "Sweet dreams."

"You too."

The phone clicks.

I catch my breath, then I push myself up. Get back into my dress. Stuff my cell into my purse.

I'm not in control of this.

Not at all.

It's terrifying.

But it's thrilling too.

* * *

At ten the next morning, there's a loud knock on the door. I nearly drop the graphic novel in my hands. The slick plastic cover—the same on every other library book I've ever borrowed—is slippery.

Lizzy is at school.

Nobody comes by this early.

That must be Blake's assistant. With our paperwork.

I rise to my feet and move to the door. "Hello."

"Hello, Ms. Wilder. I have something for you."

I pull open the door.

A friendly man in a suit smiles at me. He hands over a sleek black briefcase. And a cup of coffee. "Mr. Sterling said you'd appreciate this."

Blake is sending me coffee.

From his assistant, but still.

I take a long sip. It's more bitter than I like it, but it's still good. Rich. Strong. Bold. Like him.

"Thank you." I nod goodbye and move back inside the house.

I fix my coffee with a little cream and sugar and take another sip. There. That's perfect.

I guess Blake did say he'd take care of me.

It's a strange thought. For the last three years, I haven't let anyone help me. I've been taking care of myself. And of Lizzy.

Half of me wants to let go of every ounce of that control.

The other half wants to hold onto it as tightly as I can.

I take another sip of my coffee. I let it warm me from inside out. I let it push my thoughts away.

This is coffee.

It doesn't have to mean more than coffee.

But what's in this briefcase—

The paperwork makes everything official.

A non-disclosure agreement forbids me from sharing details of our arrangement with anyone.

There's a credit card in my name. The bill goes right to Blake.

The contract stipulates our terms.

Starting today, I am Blake's doting girlfriend. I'll clear my schedule for him whenever he needs me. He gets approval of all my public appearances and social media.

Within the next three months, we'll marry. I'll sign a prenup. He decides when we'll divorce, but it will be by the end of next year. I'll get a million dollars for my trouble.

He'll pay off the mortgage as an advance.

My incidentals go on the credit card. They're to be "reasonable."

But I'm pretty sure Blake's idea of a reasonable allowance ends in a lot of zeros.

No more shitty generic coffee.

No more library books.

No more crappy running shoes.

No more serving rich assholes.

I'll be smiling at them instead. But at least they'll be the ones sucking up to me.

I pick up my cheap Bic pen and I sign on the dotted line.

I'm signing away my freedom.

But I'm getting a hell of a lot in return.

* * *

I put in my two weeks' notice.

I tell Lizzy I'm dating a new guy. A rich guy.

She presses for details, but I keep my lips zipped. I don't know what to tell her. I don't want to lie to my sister. But I need to say something. She needs to know I'm quitting my job because we're set.

I think it over all week.

I fail to come up with a cover story.

Saturday morning, Blake's limo pulls up at nine on the dot.

Thankfully, Lizzy is still asleep. I leave a note on the kitchen table and make my way outside.

It's a beautiful day. Yellow sun. Bright blue sky. Crisp, clear air. The skyline is beautiful. Awake. Alive. Inviting.

Jordan is standing on the stoop. He nods hello. "Nice to see you, Ms. Wilder." He opens the door and motions after you.

I slide inside.

Blake is on the opposite bench. He's wearing slacks and a blue, collared shirt. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows.

He almost looks casual. But in an untouchable Blake kind of way.

"Good morning." He nods.

"Good morning." I try to pry my eyes from his forearms, but I fail. God, he really has nice forearms. And I can't bring myself to look him in the eyes. Not after what we did… what I did last time I was in this car.

He hands over a cup of coffee. "How do you take it?"

"Cream and sugar."

He holds up a nondescript paper bag. "I have a few different options."

I grab it. It's warm. And it smells like—

I tear it open.

Bagels.

Plain. Sesame. Onion. Cinnamon raisin.

I grab the latter and pull it apart. "My favorite." I dig out cream and sugar. But how am I going to fix my coffee while we're moving?

"Here." Blake offers his hand.

I nod.

He takes my coffee and my packets. He sets the cup on the bench seat and peels the plastic lid open. Somehow, he fixes it without spilling a drop.

His fingers brush mine as he returns my java.

It's the same as last time. My body lights up. It wants those hands.

But then…

Maybe today.

Maybe I'll get them today.

"Thank you." I take a long sip of my coffee. It's perfect. This is the perfect breakfast.

He takes the plain bagel and tears off half. "It's going to be a long day."

I nod and take a bite. Mmm. Chewy, sweet, spicy perfection.

"Let me know if it's too much."

"What?"

His eyes pass over me slowly. "Everything."

* * *

Blake's assistant, Ashleigh, a pretty black woman in a designer outfit, guides us through an exclusive department store. She fills her arms with expensive things and leads me into a fitting room.

It starts with underwear. She measures me for a bra and brings a dozen in my size. Some are sexy, lacy things. Some are comfortable. Practical.

Then it's cocktail dresses. The first is backless and black. It's smooth. Sleek. Expensive.

Ashleigh takes a long look at me. She cocks her head to one side, assessing me.

It's weird. I feel like a doll.

But I also feel like I'm on America's Next Top Model, waiting for the judges to assign a look for my makeover.

You'd look fierce with highlights. We need to bring out those eyes of yours. Sometimes they look green. And sometimes they look blue. But they always look gorgeous. And I want them to pop.

"What do you think?" she asks.

I take in my reflection. The dress is beautiful. It hangs off my slim body, creating the illusion of soft curves.

I usually curse my slender frame. Between running and stress non-eating, I stay pretty thin.

It's a popular look in Manhattan, but it leaves me lacking in the T&A department.

"I love it," I say.

She beams. "Perfect. Let's stick with this for the party. Black is always classy. Blake gave me specific instructions. He wants to make sure you're comfortable with your wardrobe. I have another dozen dresses for you. And a bunch more casual wear. Or you can start looking yourself."

I don't know anything about clothes. I should accept her help. I should learn how to accept help. "Let's see them."

She smiles. "Excellent." She calls out to the main room, where Blake is waiting. "Mr. Sterling, we're going to be a while. You may want to get a coffee."

"I'll wait," he calls back.

She shakes her head. Lowers her voice. "He always needs everything just so." She steps backwards. "Strip for me, sweetheart. I'll be right back."

I nod. It's strange, stripping for a stranger, but I'm getting used to it.

I strip and hang the dress.

A few moments later, Ashleigh returns. She helps me into another dress. A long, purple one, with a deep v-neckline.

It's racy. Sexy. Daring.

It's the kind of person I want to be. "I love it."

She smiles. "Perfect. But I do need a few more, ahem, conservative things. Mr. Sterling's sister is very…"

"Judgmental?"

She nods. "Keep that between us. Even if he knows better than anyone."

She helps me into the next dress—powder pink chiffon, knee length, fitted, scoop neckline. She points to a pair of strappy silver sandals.

I step into them and take in my reflection.

God, it's like something out of a dream. Like I'm Cinderella getting ready for the ball.

Ashleigh tilts her head, taking me in again. She motions to my hair. "What about this?"

"What about it?" I've never done anything with my hair. It just hangs there. Limp, flat, refusing to hold a curl. It's not a particularly pretty shade of medium brown, but it's not bad either. It suits my complexion.

"We can style all sorts of fun updos. Ponytails are always chic. Or a bun. Or we could try something bolder. These dresses, they're loud. You want your hair and makeup as loud. Do you know how to do makeup?"

Uh… "A little."

"I'll make an appointment for you. For lessons."

"No. I'll schedule it." That actually sounds fun. I can take Lizzy. She's way more into girly stuff.

"Perfect." Ashleigh motions to my dress. "Strip for me again, sweetie. I have more for you."

I do.

She leaves and returns with another outfit. A regular outfit. Or rich people regular. Designer jeans. A cashmere sweater. A camisole that costs more than all my shoes combined.

I try it on. Then another similar outfit. Then another.

We go like that forever. An hour at least. Or maybe two.

By the time I'm done, I'm tired and hungry. My dreams of judges complimenting my smize (a smile with your eyes) are gone. I am a doll. I exist for someone else's benefit.

She pulls my dress too tight.

"I got it," I snap.

She bites her lip and forces a smile. Difficult customer. "Maybe you'd like to talk to Mr. Sterling."

"Okay." Maybe I'll ask why I need a new wardrobe. Even though I know the answer.

She leaves and returns with him.

The space is too small for the three of us.

But then I want him closer.

I want every inch of him pressed against every inch of me.

Blake's eyes find mine. "Take half an hour, Ashleigh."

"Mr. Sterling, your lunch meeting—"

"I have time."

She clears her throat. "You have thirty minutes. Exactly."

"Go." He shoots her a demanding look.

She obeys.

So I guess I'm not the only woman in his life who follows orders.

He pulls the curtain closed behind her.

The entire dressing room is reserved for us.

It's just me and Blake here.

Even so, I feel exposed.

Blake's fingers graze my hips.

He turns me around so I'm facing the dressing room's mirror.

I watch the reflection as he unzips my dress. It slides off my shoulders and falls to the floor.

Here I am, nearly naked, and he's fully dressed.

He has all the power here.

It doesn't annoy me.

It makes my sex clench.

"What are we…" I sigh as his fingers graze my lower back. "What are we doing?"

"We have thirty minutes."

"To…"

"You're not that naive, Kat. You know exactly what I'm doing."

"Oh."

"I'm not going to fuck you."

My teeth sink into my lip. I can't believe how badly I want him fucking me in this tiny dressing room. It's driving me wild.

"But I am going to make you come." He unhooks my bra and slides it off my shoulders. "Now plant your hands on the mirror and do exactly what I say."