Nicole

The sky outside is turning grey, and I feel like I haven't slept a wink yet. But I must have, the hours since Mark's secretary dropped me off last night had to have passed. Yet I remember none of them. It's like I'm still there, on that freezing dark sidewalk, Mark not running out after me.

Damn him and his games. I let myself fall for him. Hard. And we weren't on the same page about that. He just wanted a good time. Someone to play out his dark fantasies with. I should've known when I first saw him in his father's cottage. To run was my first instinct then, and it was the right one. Just like it always is. I should've ran and not looked back.

The alarm on my phone goes off and the unexpected screeching noise sends my heart racing. It's like the alarm interrupted my train of thought, because it was false. A lie. Because I want Mark, and I don't want to run from him. I want to run to him. But he's pushing me away.

"Madness is what all of this is," I mutter to myself, like saying it will help me believe it. I throw my covers off and silence the alarm. Walk to the kitchen and start the coffee machine. Try and think of nothing and no one. Especially no one.

My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton balls, even though I only had the sip of wine last night. My ankle is so sore I can't even stand properly, let alone walk without limping.

My interview with Milton's in two hours. I just want to go back to sleep. I'm in no mood to talk, much less play nice. What has Mark done to me?

A month ago a story like the one I'm prepping to write now would be my whole life. I'd forget to eat, that's how consumed I'd be with it. Now I can't eat because…because I'm in love.

No, no, and no.

I chug my coffee and limp to the bathroom, take a cold shower. I'm shivering when I'm done, but it has cleared my mind. I dress in a pair of slacks and a blazer. My normal clothes, in other words. The lilac t-shirt I'm wearing is my only concession to femininity. Screw looking feminine for anyone. It's not me. I'm one of the guys. Always was, despite my very womanly curves. And if Milton doesn’t like it, who cares? Not me. And I certainly don't care, if Mark doesn't like it.

* * *

This time around, I make sure I'm not early for the interview, so Milton is already waiting for me when I walk in. I keep my eyes fixed on the waiter's back as he leads me to the table. Mark's not here, I'm sure, but if he is, I don't want to know. I want to get this interview over with quickly, so I can immerse myself in actually writing the article.

Milton's a lot more talkative today, yet he's still not really answering my questions. But even after I start to lose my cool and start asking more pointed questions, he keeps his. His answers are so vague, so diplomatic I'm starting to get a headache. But after an hour I realize that this is all I'm getting from him. He won't say the wrong thing. He's too experienced for that, been in the business for too long. And I'm still green. It's like all the arrows I'm shooting at him are deflecting off some invisible shield, so I'll have to concede and use what I already have for the story.

Without even realizing it, I've started looking around to see if Mark is here. The feeling of him watching me rose out of nowhere and now I'm so hot I want to take my blazer off. But I don't see him anywhere.

And what if he were here?

I wouldn't talk to him, much less let him do anything else to me. Not after last night. Not unless he came over and spoke to me first and apologized.

What does he even see in me?

My hair's too long, the ends frizzy because I need a haircut. The jacket I’m wearing is wrinkled from the subway ride over here, since I bought it on my journalist salary and that doesn't stretch very far. I could lose a few pounds too. And sure, my boobs are large enough for this outfit to be marginally sexy, but really I just look fat, slouched over the table as I take my notes. I don't even cross my legs when I sit. I keep them open like a guy would.

"Do you have any more questions?" Milton asks, and I realize I've just been staring at the window, letting the silence drag as I examined my reflection.

"No, I think we're done," I say and force a smile, cross my legs as I lean back in my chair.

"Very well," he says, extending his hand. "Don't be too hard on me in your article."

I shake his hand, knocking my notebook to the ground in the process. I'm clumsy too. "I promise to be fair."

That's what my editor Sam taught me. Tell the story, the real story, but always be fair.

Milton nods and walks off.

A feeling of intense heat passes through me as I bend down to pick up my notebook. I'm certain I'll see Mark standing over me when I look up. But he's not there.

Of course he isn't. Why would he be? I said no to his lifestyle, and he took that at face value. He's not going to come and fuck me in the bathroom again. He's not going to fuck me anywhere.

I do need to pee, but there's no way I'm going back into that bathroom. The memory’s too fresh. And the pain is too.

I just want to get back to the office and start writing the story. Forget everything else until it's done and filed. Then I'll find another one. Lucy can have Mark's. I'll tell Sam so today.

Maybe she'll become Mark’s plaything then.

The thought makes my stomach knot up in jealousy, so I ignore it. That's what I'll do from now on. Ignore it until it goes away.

* * *

It's nearly eight PM, and I'm done with the article. I've already sent it to Sam. My shoulders protest as I stretch my arms above my head, wincing as a sharp cramp burns up the side of my neck. I've been sitting in my chair at work since noon, typing, fact checking, not thinking about anything, but Milton and his transgressions. Not thinking about Mark.

Yeah, that's a lie. But I did my best. And it's only going to get better from now on. Because, if nothing else, he's dangerous. I don't even have to know anything about his past to feel that. It's in the way he carries himself, the sense of power he gives off in everything he does, the way he takes me, when he wants, how he wants. The way he makes me submit.

But it's more than that too. He makes me feel alive, wanted, missed, desired. He gave me something back, something I didn't even know I'd been missing, as I studied hard and then worked harder. He gave me a glimpse of a life outside of all that. Then he just took it away again. So that's why I've spent the whole day at the office. Because the alternative is going back to my small drafty apartment alone.

"You still working, Sweetie?" The voice startles me, sending blood rushing to my head. It's the cleaning lady, Elvira.

I shrug and give her a little smile. "Lots to finish."

"You'll work your youth away," she muses as she maneuvers the cart with her cleaning supplies amid the cubicles, making a lot of noise. "Live now, work later. That’s what I always say."

Elvira looks like she's worked most of her life. Her hair is mostly grey, and her face is lined, the skin sagging. She must be close to retirement, but with he economy what it is, she might never get that luxury. It's people like her that drove me to pursue this job as a financial journalist. Because it's the one percent I expose as crooks and scammers who are denying Elvira and others like her, stuck in meaningless, hard, underpaid jobs, the equal opportunities they deserve.

"I love my job," I tell her and smile wider. "But maybe you're right."

I close my laptop and stand up, my lower back protesting as I straighten.

Where the Hell is Sam? He was supposed to be back from his meeting with the other bigwig editors by now.

"Go out, enjoy yourself," Elvira prompts me again.

And maybe I should. I wanted to wait for Sam, hoping he'd read my article tonight, so I could spend the rest of the evening making corrections. But it is getting late, so he probably won't do that anyway.

The memory of fear at being followed through the dark street the other night flashes to the surface of my mind, as vivid as it was then. It started rising as soon as it got dark outside, but I pushed through it, kept working and ignoring it. But now it's back, because I have to take the subway home alone.

When did I become such a neurotic mess?

I've lived in this city alone for almost ten years. I know how to take care of myself.

I pack up my stuff, and put on my coat.

"You have a nice night too," I tell Elvira.

She shoos me away, then proceeds to dump my wastebasket into the large, black trash bag hanging off her cart.

The hall lights are already dimmed, and it's so quiet I can hear the elevator hiss as it approaches my floor.

Why am I psyching myself out? I've made this journey hundreds of times, sometimes in the middle of the night.

At least the street outside is full of people, and an unexpected whoosh of happiness fills my chest at not being alone anymore.

So stupid. I'm not alone. I'm independent, exactly where I want to be in life. And I'm sorry that Mark won't be a part of that life, but it's better I found out sooner rather than later.

"You should watch where you're going," a gruff voice warns me.

A bearded homeless man in a large, floor length overcoat is blocking my path. He wasn't there a second ago, I didn't cut into his way. His face is mere inches from mine, and his black eyes are cold, reflective like two pebbles in a stream. The fear I’m feeling is making me nauseas.

"Sorry, excuse me," I mutter and avert my eyes, trying to sidestep him. It seems like all the people I was so happy to see before are gone, and it's just me and this guy in the street.

He takes a step sideways too, blocks my escape. "You will not walk away. You will pay."

My heart's racing so hard I can't take a normal breath. My mind is screaming run, but I'm frozen in place like a doe stuck in the headlights.

An ambulance with sirens blaring drives by, the shrill noise finally breaking my trance. I hold my bag tighter and run back the way I came, ignoring the burning pain in my ankle, checking over my shoulder to see, if the bum’s following me.

But I don't get far. I collide with something that feels like a wall, but is actually a tall man's back. Mark?

The man turns, catching me by my arm as I stumble.

It's not Mark. It's his stupid secretary.

"Are you alright, Ms. West?" he asks.

No, I'm not alright. I just got harassed by a bum, my first and last thought is always Mark, and I don't even know what I want from my life anymore.

"Are you following me?" I ask point blank.

His expression doesn't change from the lazy half smile. "No, I was in the area running an errand."

"On Mr. Cross’ orders?" I hiss. "Was the errand keeping tabs on me?"

"No," he says, but my gut is telling me he's lying, that he was following me.

Why can't Mark just come himself? Why can't he just tell me how he feels about me?

"Well, you tell him to stay away from me," I say. "And that goes for you too."

I walk to the curb and hail a cab. When I look back the secretary is stalking towards the bum. As soon as the man sees him, he starts running and then they both disappear behind a corner.

"You getting in or what?" the cab driver yells through the open window.

I nod and climb in.

* * *

Mark

She's gone home. Got pretty spooked by the bum. Seemed on edge before then, Pierre's text reads, cutting right through the managers' weekly report I'm listening to.

All those fucking words and not a shred of tangible information. Pierre needs another talking to. I call him, but he doesn't pick up.

Is Nicole alright? Should I go check?

No.

She ran out on me last night, so she has to be the one to come back.

I thought I'd introduce her to my needs slowly by taking her to that club. But even that seems to be too much for her. I should start to put her out of my mind. I didn't stay at the club after she left, just finished my drink and gave her time to change her mind and come back. Left too after she didn't.

Truth is, none of the women at that club can give me what I truly need. Haven't been able to for a long time. Maybe Nicole can't either.

Nicole. She's the last of the light left in my life. The last of the brightness. Once she's gone there will only be darkness. Too large a part of me wants it to be so. Most days, I think that's the only reason I sought her out after all these years. So I can finally put out the last light. But she burns so bright.

Why isn't she calling?

I get up from my chair, and the man giving the presentation shuts up mid-sentence.

"We'll resume this tomorrow," I say into the silence.

"But…but I have everything prepared now," the man says, an edge of defiance in his voice. Thankfully for him, he shuts up at a glare from me. He wouldn't be talking back to me, if he knew how close I am to breaking his neck, just because I can't touch Nicole.

* * *

Nicole

I'm all jittery, can't stop pacing the apartment. I've already drank half a bottle of wine, and it's not helping.

I don't need Mark to have a life. I love my life.

I don't need to stay cooped up at home all the time either. And a smelly bum is not gonna make me fear going out by myself.

But I don't need to go out by myself. I have friends.

I start scrolling through the contacts in my phone before I even have a clear idea who to call. Maybe Anna from Grad school, she was always up for a party. I'm already dialing her number when I remember she got married last year and moved to Jersey.

So I hang up, call Raul, my one and only gay friend.

"Nicole, is it really you?" he chirps into the phone.

"I know, I know, it's been too long," I say. "Want to do something?"

"You mean right now? It's a Monday night."

"So? We're journalists, we don't sleep."

"Well some of us have early morning jobs," he chides. "But we should make plans for the weekend. It'd be nice to catch up."

"Sure, OK, let's do that," I say, my disappointment coming through in my voice, making me sound childish and pouty.

I have pretty much the same conversation with the next two people I call.

Party poopers, all of them. I'm out of wine too. And there's no way I'm staying in tonight.

There's always Lucy. I know for a fact she never sleeps.

"Ready to talk about Cross?" she ask by way of hello.

"Hell, no. But I could use a drink. Want to go out?"

"Sounds like you've had a few drinks already," she muses.

"Sure, but I want a few more."

There's a pause like she's mulling it over.

"Alright, meet me at Sergio's in half an hour," she finally says. "You know where it is?"

"Sure do," I say and hang up.

Sergio's is an upscale wine bar a few blocks from my apartment, and I have just the thing to wear.

Fifteen minutes later I'm walking to Sergio's wearing the gorgeous gem-lined dress Mark got me. Now other guys will be able to drool all over it, because I'm not good enough for him.

My ankle's protesting in the stilettos I'm wearing, but the wine I already drank is doing a good job of keeping the pain at bay. I need to drink some more, and then I'll be perfectly fine.

Lucy's already waiting for me when I arrive, sitting at one of the tall tables by the window.

She eyes me up and down as I take off my long coat, and do a pretty good job of not flashing anyone when I climb up on the bar stool. Not that the guys staring at me right now would mind, I'm sure.

"So, your fairytale with Mark Cross is over, I take it?" she asks, smirking at me.

I wave the waiter over. "What fairytale?"

“Beauty and the Beast maybe?” she asks, staring at me like she’s serious.

Damn, that one is my favorite.

I ignore her remark, casting my gaze around the room. The place isn't full, but there's a decent number of people here for a Monday night. Mostly businessmen with their ties loosened, ready to have a good time. I could take one of them home tonight. Hell, in this dress I could have my pick. Get Mark out of my system that way. My face heats up at the thought. I only had a single one-night stand in college, and I'm not proud of the memory.

Once my wine arrives, I drink half of it in one go.

"Seriously, though, Nicole," Lucy says, laying her hand on my arm. "You’re better off not getting involved with Cross. I know we've had out differences in the past, but I do care for you."

"If you want to call stealing my ideas differences, then, yeah, we had those," I say. Suddenly I don't even know why I called her. I was drunk, that's why. Normally we hardly say hello.

"We're not all as brilliant and universally lovable as you are, Nicole," she says, grinning at me apologetically. "Some of us have to work for our ideas, while they just seem to fall in your lap. But for what it's worth, I'm sorry I did that to you. I was jealous, I guess, and I'm not getting any younger."

She's six years older than me and still trying to make a name for herself. In my darker moments, I'd say that was because she isn't any good. But she sounds sincere right now, like she's really apologizing. Though maybe it's just the wine clouding my brain.

"I'm willing to put it behind us, so long as it never happens again," I offer, not really sure if I mean it or not.

"And you taking Cross' from me story does make us even, right?" she says. "Though I am still writing that one. Someone will pick it up."

"It's all yours," I mutter. "I'm telling Sam first thing tomorrow morning, and then you can run with it."

Her whole face lights up. I finish my wine, not meeting her eyes. Bile is rising in my throat and the room is starting to wobble a little, but I wave to the waiter for another glass anyway.

"You're serious about letting me have the story?" Lucy asks like she doesn't believe me. "Will you tell me what you've found out? Can you get me an interview with him?"

She's all excited, breathing hard. I shrug. "I'll try."

"Thing is, I haven't been able to find out much about him before he became this big shot investment banker out in LA. He just appeared out of nowhere seven years ago with a shit load of cash and lots of contacts. No one can tell me where he got the money. Is he from a rich family?"

My head's starting to spin because she's talking so fast.

"No, him and his dad were pretty poor," I say, latching onto the only thing I can answer.

"It's like he has no past, I didn't even know he was from Portland," she says.

"Yup, small town Portland, just like me," I say. "His last name's not Cross though. It's Karolcyzk. Don't ask me to spell it."

"Can you, though? Write it down I mean?" She's digging through her purse, looking for a pen and paper most likely.

The room's spinning for real now and maybe I shouldn't have given her that information. Not when all she wants to do is destroy Mark's reputation, so she can make a name for herself. A story like the one she's planning could break his career. And she won't wait for actual proof.

I shake my head as she offers me the pen. "Seriously, I can't spell it. I have to go to the bathroom."

The damage is done. I told her his name, she'll find out everything about him now. All that stuff about being in reform school, and whatever else he did that he wanted to hide by taking a new name. Shit.

It's slow going to the bathroom, and one of the guys I bump into accidentally actually grabs my ass. He's looking the other way when I turn to yell at him though, so I ignore it.

What have I done? Did I just destroy Mark's career? Lucy's been known to sell stories to papers that don't much care about fairness like Sam does. Not to mention that any Internet news site will gobble it up. Anything to go viral.

Why do I even care?

But I do. My whole body is screaming it at me. So it's only logical that I find out if Mark feels the same.

I lean against the bathroom door to steady myself and dig my phone from my purse. It rings and rings. Figures. He's not picking up.

"Nicole," he finally says, sounding like he'd been running.

"Wow, you picked up. That's a first," I say, my brain still stuck in the anger I felt at being about to get his voicemail yet again. Sometimes, back when he wasn't taking my calls after Christmas, I'd dial his number just to hear his voice, I suddenly realize, admitting it to myself for the first time.

"I'm glad you called," he says in the powerful, intense way he speaks that never fails to send shivers all over my skin.

"Yes, well, I wanted to ask you a question?" I mumble.

"Ask then," he says, and there's a cold edge in his voice now like I'm annoying him and he will punish me. My nipples tingle at the thought.

"OK, here goes," I say, stalling for time, trying to get my body's reaction under control. "Back home, at Christmas, when you said you loved me, was that just so you could fuck me?"

I never thought I'd ask a guy that, least of all Mark. I sound like a teenager. But it seemed such a logical question when I came up with it in my head.

The line is completely silent like he's hung up. Like he wasn't there in the first place.

"Are you drunk, Nicole?" he asks.

"Yes, but I still want you to answer my question." Might as well go all in now.

A guy squeezes past me to get to the men's room, muttering, "Excuse me," as he quite unnecessarily rubs against me.

"Who are you with?" Mark barks.

The dark jealousy and stark possessiveness in his voice wake butterflies in my stomach.

"My question first, Mark," I whisper, not quite able to control my voice.

"I meant what I said, Nicole. I loved you since the first time I saw you." He says, sounding like it's the most logical thing. A thing that needs no saying.

"And do you love me still?" I ask, since I’m good at reading between the lines and there’s something he's not saying.

"I can't love anymore."

His tone is as intense, cold and cutting as before, but the words fill me with incredible sadness. For him. Not for myself. How can he say he can't love? And he's serious too. Every cell in my body knows it.

Yet it's like another part of him, a well-hidden one, has been crying out to me this whole time, and I'm only just hearing it. Maybe it's the wine, but I don't think so. Because the pieces are finally falling into place. The way he wants to tie me up, won't let me touch him, that club he took me to. He wants to open up, but he can't. Yet I can help. He wants me to help.

"I love you still," I mutter, putting all my feelings behind it. "Won't you let me love you?"

"I would, but I can't return it the way you want me too," he says much more quietly. And it's not exactly a no, but that's all I'm hearing.

Tears are running down my face and I'm sobbing. I shouldn't have drunk wine tonight. I can't take wine.

"Stay where you are," he says. "I'll come get you."

"Don't bother," I say and hang up. This is too hard. Too confusing. He builds me up then cuts me down. Stokes my feelings up and then douses them until all that's left is smoke and tears. I can't take it.

"What took you so long?" Lucy asks when I get back to the table. "Have you been crying?"

"I have to go now," I say, gathering my coat and pulling out my wallet.

"What's the rush? It's early yet," the guy who felt me up before slurs into my ear. He's also the same one who brushed up against me in the bathroom.

"I love this song," he says. "Wanna dance?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, just pulls me onto the dance floor, holding me tight. I can't get out of his grasp, not without causing a scene.

"Let me go," I hiss, wriggling in his arms.

"Ooh, I like that." He starts rubbing himself against me. "You're just playing hard to get."

He's totally drunk and can't actually focus his eyes on me, but he has a death grip on my arms. He's pushing his erection into my stomach as he gyrates his hips to the music. The whole thing's revolting, and I don't know how to get out of it. His lips miss mine by an inch as he goes to kiss me, the smell of alcohol on his breath turning my stomach.

"Stop it!" I shriek, trying to take a step back. He stumbles into me, almost knocking me to the ground.

"Let her go," Mark growls behind me. How did he get here so fast? I only just hung up on him.

"And what if I don't?" the man slurs, clearly unable to tell what's good for him. Because even I can feel the aggression, the sheer rage enveloping Mark right now, and it's not directed at me. Mark's wearing a pair of sweats and a running jacket, but he might as well be dressed in a three piece suit, giving orders in some boardroom. That dark power of his comes from within.

Mark doesn’t say anything more, just grabs the guy by the collar and yanks him back. The man's grip on my arms loosens and I yank them away, taking a few steps back. There's terror in his eyes now as he glances at me.

Mark punches him in the jaw, so hard the man would go down if Mark weren't holding him up by the collar. His eyes are rolling into the back of his head. Mark punches him again. He won't stop unless I stop him. I know it as clearly as if someone told me.

The slow song still playing is the only sound in the room. Everyone else is frozen, their eyes fixed on Mark, me, and the unfortunate loser whose face is turning purple fast.

"Mark, I'm fine," I whisper and he turns to me in a flash. "Let's go."

He releases the guy who flops to the floor with a thud. His thumb glides across my lips, then he cups my cheek.

"Are you alright?" All the dark aggression is gone from his eyes as he studies my face for reassurance.

I lay my palm over his. "Take me home, Mark."

My whole body is screaming for him, primal urges of being claimed and defended by this alpha male blinding me with desire. But it's more than just that, there's also the tenderness of being cared for, protected, and it's a maddening mixture. If he says no to me right now, I'll draw blood.

He doesn't say anything as I take his hand and lead him to my table. Lucy's staring at me with her mouth open, questions loud in her eyes. But I just mumble that I'll see her tomorrow, and let Mark escort me outside.

* * *

Once we're out on the street, he pulls me to him, locks his arms together on my lower back.

"Did you like that man touching you?"

I shake my head, and smile up at him. "No, Mark. He just grabbed me. I want you."

A sharp intake of breath is all I get in response. His eyes are suddenly swimming with all sorts of unspoken things, and I can read one of them very clearly.

I lean against him and crane my neck up.

"You can love," I whisper. "I'm sure of it. Because you do love me."

I feel so light now that I've said it. He must believe me. And if he doesn't, I'll convince him.

He shakes his head and releases me, pulls me to his car by my hand.

"How did you even get here so fast?" I ask not quite able to keep the annoyance at being dismissed so summarily from my voice.

He holds open the passenger door for me, not answering my question.

"Get in," he orders after I just stand there, waiting for a reply.

I do as he says. He slams the door shut and walks to the other side, getting in too.

"I took a room at a hotel on 14th Street to be closer to you," he says as he revs up the engine.

It's such a simple statement, but the hope it gives me is immeasurable. He does care. He wasn't just testing me last night. And I knew that all along, if I'm being honest. Maybe I just needed his display tonight to really accept it.

"Where are we going?" I ask as he takes a left at the intersection. "My apartment is to the right of here."

He looks at me, his eyes gleaming. "To my hotel. Your apartment is dingy and cold."

"No argument there," I mutter, though his words did cut. "But it's my home."

"You deserve better." His gaze is passing over me so intensely I feel like he's undressing me. Heat rises in my entire body at the thought, coloring my cheeks.

He leans over and kisses me just as the light turns green, and the heat becomes unbearable. How could I ever think he didn't care about me when his feelings for me have been clear and plain in every kiss, this kiss, all the others before?

The light's red again by the time we break apart.

"I have needs, Nicole," he whispers.

"Then let me try and fulfill them," I say. It's the only logical thing to say, what I should've said last night.

"You better be certain about that," he says firmly. There's doubt in his eyes, but it's a mere spark amid the burning flames of pure passion. "Because I won't let you walk away a third time."

My heart's pounding again, but it has nothing to do with fear. "I'm certain."

I will show him he can love and be loved.

* * *

Once we reach the hotel, he hands the car keys to the valet then escorts me inside by wrapping his arm around my shoulders possessively. I lean against his side, let him support me. Not because I'm still drunk, that has faded to a pleasant warmth and fuzziness, but because I like having someone to lean on after all these years of being alone.

He's staying in the penthouse, and this time I'm sure he didn't just rent this room for sex with me. His clothes are strewn all over the room, his laptop open on the desk by the window. I'm glad he's messy, it feels like home. I take my coat off and toss it over one of the armchairs.

He unzips his jacket. "I need a shower. You called while I was in the gym."

He's wearing a sleeveless shirt underneath, and his muscles are bulging, gleaming in the dim light. I take a step closer and run my fingers over them, feeling the girth.

"I need a shower too," I whisper, watch something break in his eyes as he looks down at my hand caressing his arm.

He'll tell me not to touch him, punish me for doing it. I'm growing wetter in anticipation by the second.

But he doesn't. He pulls me to him roughly, grabs a fistful of hair at the back of my head and kisses me, hard and demanding, his tongue looking for mine. I let go of his bicep and wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer.

He maneuvers me to the bathroom, his lips not leaving mine, and his passion is intoxicating, making me drunk all over again. Once there, he releases me, pulling his shirt over his head. I kick off my shoes and slide the dress off my shoulders, while he removes his sweats and boxers in one motion. It's a frenzied dance, like we can't wait to be skin on skin. At least I can't.

He turns on the tap and pulls me closer by my arms, then yanks my bra down to reveal my breasts. He cups them with a groan then leans down, kissing and biting the soft flesh. I'm lost in the moment, the room spinning around me, my whole body so hot I'm expecting real flames to start dancing on my skin at any moment. He unclasps my bra, yanks down my panties, then pulls me into the shower.

The water is just perfect, cascading down on us from multiple small showerheads, all lit up in white and blue. With the door closed it's like we're underwater on some tropical island, nothing but turquoise sea surrounding us.

His rough passion abates, is concentrated just in his eyes as he reaches for the shower cream and squeezes some over my chest. The smell of roses and lavender on a soft summer breeze fills the air as he works it into a lather, washing me whole.

I want nothing more than to touch him as I stand there, letting the water wash the suds away once he's done. The perfect, taut V of his stomach muscles is leading my gaze straight to his hard cock, and my lips tingle from the need to kiss it, lick it, take it into my mouth. His eyes shine even brighter as I bite my lip, trying to decide whether I should.

He takes the decision away from me as he lifts me, pushing my back against the wall. I'm surprised not to hear sizzling as my hot skin touches the cold tiles.

"Are you ready?" he breathes, a hungry expression in his eyes.

I nod my head. I've been ready since he pulled that guy off me back at the bar. No. I've been ready for a lot longer than that.

He moves me so the head of his cock is resting just under my pussy. I scream out as he impales me in one swift thrust. But the pain of his rough penetration is quickly eclipsed by the warm pleasure brought by his cock buried deep inside me, making us one.

I'm clasping his neck so hard my biceps burn as I get ready for the assault I know is coming. He pulls out his cock slowly, pushes it back in even slower. It’s a sensuous movement, and I feel every inch of his cock as it slides in, retreats out. He's being gentle with me for the first time, and the love bubbling in my chest at this melts into the pleasure rising in my pussy, the combination greater, sweeter than the sum of its parts. I relax my arms, run my fingers into his hair and kiss him softly.

He kisses me back, and I lose myself in the slow waves of pleasure washing over me, open myself up more, let him in. He picks up speed eventually, right before he slides his cock in all the way and keeps it there. We come at the same time, his hot seed filling me as my orgasm washes over my entire being.

He buries his face in my neck as I'm catching my breath, kissing and biting it softly and letting me hold onto the last vestiges of pleasure for a little bit longer.

"You taste so good," he mutters, and I just smile, not quite able to speak yet.

He carries me out of the stall and puts me down on the mat, then grabs a towel and leaves. I'm still seeing stars, still trying to catch my breath. I want to pull him back, make him stay, but I feel he needs this distance, so I don't. I wrap a towel around myself, use another to dry my hair.

When I come out, he's laying in bed wearing a pair of silk pajama bottoms. The top is laid out on my side of the bed.

"Should I wear that to sleep in?" I ask, letting my towel fall to the floor. The blazing fire in his eyes as he looks at me is enough to warm me. I don't need clothes.

"I like the idea of you sleeping naked beside me," he says hoarsely. "But you have a choice."

And I'm stuck on it. If I wear the pajamas then it'll be as though we're two parts of a whole, and I like that idea. But he wants me naked, and he wants me to obey. So I brush the pajamas off to the side and lie down, nestling close to him.

"Good girl," he whispers, kissing the top of my head. He pulls the covers up over us, and turns off the light, holding me in his arms. I made the right choice. And it's the first of many.

* * *

The alarm on my phone wakes me, and my hand collides with something sharp as I reach for it. What the Hell? Why is my nightstand not where it's supposed to be?

Then memory resurfaces in a whoosh. I'm in Mark's hotel room. Only he's not sleeping next to me.

I open my eyes and sit up in bed, rubbing my hand where I hurt it.

"Here," Mark says, holding my purse out to me. The alarm is still going off inside it.

"Thanks," I mutter, and snatch the bag from him, digging inside it for my phone.

My head feels like it weighs about a thousand pounds, and the shrill beeping isn't helping.

"That's better," I whisper once I finally silence it, and smile up at Mark. I was going to ask him to come back to bed, but he's already dressed in a black pin striped three-piece suit, wearing a tie the color of flame.

"You're leaving already?" I ask, my voice shrill and disappointed.

"I have an early meeting," he says, adjusting his tie.

I reach for his hand, fully intent on pulling him down on top of me. He can change again later.

But he anticipates my move, steps away out of reach. He points to a set of shopping bags laying against the closet door.

"I took the liberty of having some clothes brought to you," he says. "Shower, change, get some breakfast. Then my driver will take you anywhere you wish to go."

There's no fiery passion, no sweet tenderness in him this morning, just the cold flame of purpose. Almost like last night didn't happen at all.

"I can take the subway to work," I say, eyeing the shopping bags. They're expensive looking, and I'm sure whatever's inside is not something I would ever be able to afford.

"I'd prefer it if you let my driver take you," he says, and no matter how he's phrasing it, that's a command.

"Fine," I agree, since it’s easier to go along for now. "How do I reach him?"

"He's waiting in the lobby," he says, walks over to the desk and starts packing up. "Just go down when you're ready."

Wow, a personal driver waiting on my every whim. I have to admit a part of me likes the idea. But a larger, louder part is making me feel guilty that some poor guy is sitting there just waiting for me, so I can tell him what to do.

"Don't I at least get a kiss goodbye?" I ask, smiling at him again as he's putting on his coat.

He glares at me, a surge of very cold energy nearly knocking me back.

"There will be time for that later," he says. "The second bag contains a dress for tonight. Meet me at the club I took you to on Sunday. Be there at nine."

"And will your driver be taking me there as well?" I ask, letting too much sarcasm and annoyance into my voice. But I can't help it. This is so surreal. Yet I can't deny the fluttery feeling in my stomach in anticipation of tonight. I want to give whatever happens at that club a try.

"He'll be at your disposal all day," Mark says and walks to the door. He turns right before exiting. "And Nicole, don't be late."

My head's pounding and nothing makes sense. Last night he was so hot, and this morning it's like he's ice.

But I will wake that fire in him again. Make it burn until it melts all the ice for good.

* * *

The driver drops me off at my office just before eight. He's tall and muscular, with a day's growth of black stubble, and looks more like a bodyguard than a chauffeur.

"When would you like me to come pick you up, Madam?" he asks as I climb out of the car.

I feel awkward in the clothes Mark got me. It's just a normal business suit, yet the pants are tighter than anything I'd have bought for myself. They hug my hips and thighs, then flare out slightly at the knee. The blazer is tailored to perfection, with a tapered waist and an open collar that really shows off my rack. I loved how the suit looked on me when I checked my reflection at the hotel, but now guys passing me by are staring, and I don't like that kind of attention. Never did.

"Madam?" The driver asks again, bringing me back to reality. Or not, depending on how you look at it. I’ve never been called Madam before.

"Right, yes," I mumble trying to remember what I have to do today, but I'm drawing a blank. "Can I just call you?"

He hands me a card. "I can be here within ten minutes. Call me whenever you need to leave this building. Mr. Cross' orders."

I don't know what to say, so I just nod and walk into the building. What's happening to me? Why am I giving up my freedom so easily? But I'll figure it out. For now, I'll go along, because it's what Mark wants, and I want to make Mark happy.

I am leaving work early though, so I can think about this. I haven't even checked the bag of stuff he left for me to wear tonight. I'm certain it's something sexy and gorgeous, and that if I actually saw it I'd just spend the whole day fantasizing about what might happen at the club.

Predictably, the office is deserted. It always is this early in the morning, and even the overhead lights aren't on yet. But the light in Sam's office is.

"Nicole, is that you?" he yells as I'm putting down my stuff.

"Who else?" I yell back, though all the noise isn't helping my headache. I was going to sleep in today, come to work a little later, but I couldn't make that driver wait for hours.

Sam appears in the doorway to his office clutching a stack of printouts. "This article on Milton is amazing, Kiddo. Great job."

My cheeks hurt, I'm smiling so wide. Sam walks over to my desk and places the papers next to my computer. "I made a few corrections and suggestions, but nothing major."

The margins are covered in his barely legible writing. I still wish he'd do his corrections electronically, but I'm used to it by now. He's old school through and through, and maybe the old ways dying out completely isn't something to look forward to.

"I'll get right on them," I say, and walk over to the door to hang up my coat. When I look back, Sam's checking me out and I feel heat rising in my face. If Mark will continue to insist on dressing me, I should have a say in the outfits he chooses. Overly sexy never worked for me.

Sam clears his throat and avoids my gaze. "Yes, do that, and then run them by me again. Maybe we can make the Friday edition with it."

I get lost in the work after that, hardly noticing as the others start arriving.

"Now that's an outfit," Lucy says when she walks in. I'm standing by the water fountain filling up my bottle.

I know I'm blushing. "What, this old thing?"

"Yeah, whatever," she says, smiling at me. "Did he get you that?"

I shake my head. "Nope, had this since college. I lost some weight, so it fits again."

She gives me a yeah, right kind of look, but doesn't press it. "So, did you already tell Sam that you're handing the Cross story over to me?"

I cringe, since I completely forgot I made that promise to her last night. Under the present circumstances, I should probably retract it. "About that, Lucy," I start, as apologetically as I can.

"Should've known you'd change your mind after he nearly killed that guy for you last night," she snaps. "I did tell you he's dangerous, right?"

A warmth passes through my chest at the reminder of how Mark fought off that guy. No man has ever done anything even remotely similar for me. Yet it felt like the absolutely right thing to do. Still does.

"He didn't almost kill him," I shoot back.

"An ambulance took him away, and the cops came."

"Did you tell them it was Mark?" I ask, my heart fluttering. She would do something like that, just to add meat to the story she's working on. Hell, I might do it myself, if I were her.

"No, I thought you wouldn't appreciate it now that we're friends again," she says, but her voice is oozing with sarcasm. She could be lying.

"Maybe we can work on the story together," I offer. It'd be a good way to know what she's planning and placate her at the same time.

She squints at me like she's wondering if she heard me right. "You're kidding?"

"No," I say, my voice firmer. "You've done a lot of research, and I can get an interview from him. We'd make a good team."

"You'd share the by line?" she asks.

"Sure, why not?"

Sam raps on the window of his office. "Is everyone ready for the meeting now?"

"We'll talk afterwards," Lucy says. "I did some more research last night, and I finally heard back from one of my contacts in LA. You won't like it though."

The last is a sincere warning, I think, not something she's saying just to rile me up. And now my head and my heart are both pounding. She walks off before I can question her any further though.

* * *

"Why couldn't we talk about this at the office?" I ask as Lucy and me sit down at a coffee shop an hour later.

She wraps her palms around her cup. "This story is about to break, and you know how walls have ears in that place."

I should. Some of those ears have been her stealing my leads.

"What's about to break?" I ask, stirring sugar into my espresso and trying to pretend none of this is affecting me at all.

"Let's just say Mark Cross didn't come by his wealth in the most legit way," she says. "Now that he's setting up his own company here in NYC, all that's going to come out. And it will hound him. But that's not even all of it."

"You mean the escort?" I say, taking a sip of my coffee too soon and scalding my tongue.

"Yes," she says. "A friend at USA Today is already researching the story, and I'm sure the others aren't far behind. But they don't know all I know."

She pauses.

"What do you know?" I ask, since she seems to be waiting for me to do so.

"I didn't have much luck running his real last name, mostly since I can't spell it, I'm sure. But I'll figure it out," she muses, backtracking again. "Though my contact did supply me with some interesting information about Cross' former secretary."

"What about her?" my voice is all shrill since my throat is actually constricting. "Is she dead?"

I wasn't going to ask that last. It just came out.

"No," Lucy says and a huge weight lifts off my chest. "It's actually worse, kind of."

"How?"

"She was choked, but whoever did it, didn't finish the job, just cut off her air supply for a little too long. She's in a coma, been that way for about a year."

She pauses again, waiting for me to drag all this out of her. It's frustrating to say the least.

"But what's that got to do with Mark?" I ask.

"My contact says the accident happened during a role playing scene, you know BDSM stuff. And we both know Mark Cross goes for that sort of thing. He's admitted as much when questioned about that escort."

All the weight is back on my chest. I can't even get a proper breath in.

"Did they connect him to this…to what happened to the secretary?"

"No, he has an alibi, apparently, but my contact thinks it's bullshit. Either way, it doesn't matter that much. With two accidents this closely linked to Cross and his lifestyle, the public won't be too concerned with alibis."

"Why are you so set on destroying his career and his good name?" I snap. "What about fairness in journalism?"

She throws her head back and barks a laugh. "Fairness is for old has-beens like Sam. This is the new world of journalism, and the more twisted a story is, the better. And I have a special hatred for rich guys like Cross getting away with everything. What this world needs is transparency, and that's what I'm giving them. Let the public decide if he's guilty or not, I'm just laying down the information."

All she's saying rings true to me, echoes what I might have said. But I'd draw the line at smearing someone who might be innocent. Wouldn't I? Or am I just saying this because it's Mark, and I want to protect him from all this?

My head's spinning again, because I have no idea what the answers to those questions are.

"I have to go," I say and get up, ignore her snarky comment about running off to tell my new boyfriend all about this.

I'm not sure I will. I'm not sure about anything anymore.

* * *

I only stopped by the office long enough to inform Sam I'll be working on the article from home for the rest of the day, and to call the driver.

It's nearly eight PM now, and I haven't touched work since I got home. Haven't done much of anything, not even thinking.

I'm dressed in the flowing, white silk dress Mark got me for tonight. It has an open back and a seriously low neckline, though the hem actually hits at mid-calf. It's like something a movie star from the 1950s would wear only sexier, sleeker and more daring. And it fits like it was made for me.

The driver's supposed to pick me up at eight thirty.

But I don't know if I should go.

What if I'm the next of Mark's accidents? What if Lucy's right about Mark? What if he really isn't capable of love like he claims?

It's that last what if that finally brings me to my senses.

I know he's capable of love, I saw it plain last night, as he saved me from that guy, took me back to his hotel room like he'll never let me go again. Made love to me with a tender passion I'd only read about in books, or seen in movies. And he told me he didn't kill that escort. I want to believe him. I do believe him.

But the doubts won't flee, keep rising higher, burning right through the feelings of love and belonging thinking of Mark conjures up.

It's eight thirty. I'm frozen in place, unable to make up my mind.

Through the window, I see the car arrive, watch the driver climb out and walk to the front door of my building.

The buzzer sounds.

And it finally wakes me.

Fairness. Sam's right and Lucy's wrong. Everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt, to be innocent until proven guilty. Mark deserves that. And I will give it to him.