A week later, Ella stepped out the doors of the hospital and sure enough, waiting at the curb was Rafe’s limo, just as he’d promised.

She’d told him not to worry, that after she’d visited Aurora, she’d find a cab home, but he’d refused to even consider it. The limo would be there for her whatever time she wanted to come home—and if he found out she’d gotten a cab, “there would be hell to pay.”

That kind of threat usually made her want to see exactly what kind of hell she’d actually pay, but after a half hour of sitting beside Aurora’s bed, watching her normally shrewd and snarky grandmother lie there sleeping, looking shrunken and even older than her years, she wasn’t in the mood for defiance.

It had been a couple of weeks since Aurora’s stroke and, although her condition had improved, Ella had hoped she’d make a full recovery—or at least enough of one to mean that her grandmother could come back home. But the doctors had been clear. Aurora was going to need permanent hospital care.

Tears filled Ella’s eyes, but she blinked them away as she walked over the icy sidewalk to the limo. Aurora wouldn’t have wanted her to cry—so she wouldn’t—but that didn’t ease the bitter disappointment at the news.

Clive was already out of the car and opening the door for her as she approached, and she gave him a watery smile as she got in. Then the smile changed as she realized Rafe was sitting inside.

The tight, painful grief in her heart eased. “Didn’t you have a meeting?”

“Yes.” His gaze narrowed as he stared at her. “But I thought this was more important.” He held out his arms toward her. “Come here.”

She didn’t think twice, moving into them and letting him pull her into his lap as Clive shut the door behind her, closing out the wind and the falling snow.

Then there was silence and the heat of Rafe’s body against hers, the steady beat of his heart in her ear as she laid her head against his chest. The grief relaxed even more, and she had to close her eyes, those stupid tears pricking behind her lids again.

“It’s not good news,” she said, before he could ask. “I hoped it would be, but it’s not.”

His arms were strong and reassuring around her, holding her tightly. “Tell me.”

“She can’t go home. She’s going to need permanent care.”

“I wondered as much.” He turned his head, and she felt his mouth brush her hair. “You don’t need to worry. I know a very good private hospital nearby and their care is the best there is. There’s even a garden. I’ll show you the website when we get home.”

“Home.” Ella closed her eyes. He didn’t mean her parents’ home. He meant his place. And why wouldn’t he? That had been “home” for her for the past couple of weeks, and it was starting to feel like one too.

Every morning she woke in his arms and every night she fell asleep the same way. She’d never felt stronger, more alive, and less afraid than she felt in those arms. In fact, at times when she was with him, she almost felt the way she did on stage. Free and powerful and brave. Able to do anything she wanted to do.

Until reality hit in the way reality always did, reminding her that real life was there waiting for her. Real life being Aurora and what to do with her. And what to do with herself. Because really, how long could she stay with Rafe? Being with him felt like an extended holiday, but the thing with holidays was that they eventually ended. They weren’t permanent. Not that she wanted permanent, not when she had dreams of her own to achieve.

Such as Paris. Such as getting her audition video and application sorted out now that she had the money for fees. And then there was getting Aurora settled into the private hospital Rafe had found, which although Ella could see the necessity of, she didn’t much like the idea of. She told herself it was because she hated the thought of having her grandmother looked after by strangers, but a deeper part of her knew the truth. She didn’t want Aurora to go because she was afraid of being alone. Afraid of being unneeded and unwanted. Afraid of disappearing entirely.

“What are you thinking about?” Rafe’s voice after the heaviness of the silence came as a shock.

“Just . . . Aurora.” She didn’t want to tell him the truth. They’d been sleeping together only a couple of weeks and, for all his possessiveness, she couldn’t quite bring herself to start asking questions about the future. Not yet at least.

“Hmmm.” The sound was deeply skeptical. “Why do I not believe you?”

Ella stared at the open collar of his shirt. He’d gotten rid of his tie, the top couple of buttons undone, and she could see his pulse beating at the base of his throat, strong and steady. Unable to help herself, she reached up and undid another couple of buttons, parting the crisp cotton so she could touch his skin. It was warm and smooth as satin. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Why don’t you?”

“Ah, so it’s going to be like that, is it?” His voice was a low rumble. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me now? Save yourself a whole lot of trouble? You know how I like a fight, Red.”

She shifted in his lap, undoing another couple of buttons so she could touch more bare skin, finding that a whole lot more interesting that the direction her thoughts were taking. “Or you could just leave it.”

He laughed. “Have you met me, darling? That’s not happening.”

Ella glanced up at him. “Have you ever had a blow job in a limo?”

He didn’t even blink. “Of course. Many times. But if you think that’s going to distract me, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Stupid thing to ask. A man like him would probably have had thousands of limo blow jobs. “Well, okay then. How about if I sat on your lap and—”

His hand reached out and cupped her jaw in a tender gesture that had her heart squeezing tight in her chest, the rest of her sentence dying in her mouth unsaid. “You’re worried about something, I can tell.”

She swallowed, her throat feeling tight now too. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” He rubbed his thumb gently along her jawline. “But if you don’t want to tell me about it now, that’s fine. I have a little surprise organized for us anyway. You can tell me later.” His mouth curved in a smile that was just on the edge of wicked. “After I’ve gotten you drunk.”

She leaned into his hand, loving the feel of it against her skin. “What surprise?”

He looked smug. “You’ll see.”

She did, ten minutes later, as the limo pulled up outside the familiar entrance to the building she’d gone into a little over two weeks earlier. And come out of trembling and turned on and confused and afraid.

“I told you I wanted another dinner,” Rafe murmured as she stared up at the skyscraper towering above them. “Time for dinner part two.”

He’d organized it the way he had before, the restaurant empty except for them. This time, though, he got her to choose the table.

It was a challenge for her and she knew it—half of her wanted to pick the table against the wall to mess with him. But her pride wouldn’t let her, so naturally she chose the table right in front of the massive plate-glass windows with their dizzying view of Manhattan.

His eyes lit at her choice and she decided she was glad she hadn’t messed with him. She liked the delighted way he smiled at her, clearly proud of her, and it made her feel way more pleased with herself than it should have. But she let herself have it, since his smiles were starting to become something of an addiction.

Naturally, he insisted on pulling out her chair for her, and this time she smiled back at him, giving him a flirtatious look from underneath her lashes as she sat down, enjoying the feeling of his tall strength behind her. He laughed and brushed his fingers up her arms in a light, fleeting touch before skirting the table and sitting himself down.

Then he raised a hand, giving some signal, and the waiter appeared with menus and wine.

“Champagne?” Ella gave her glass a pointed look. “Again?”

“You refused a toast last time. And besides, we have something to celebrate.”

“Do we?”

“Yes. You’re here and your hands aren’t shaking.”

No. They weren’t. And all she’d thought when she looked out of the window were how pretty the lights were coming on outside. If that was progress, then she’d take it.

He picked up his glass and held it out. “Here’s to you, Little Red.”

She smiled and picked up her own glass, knocking it lightly against his. “And to being twenty floors up with no shaking hands.”

His eyes gleamed. “Speaking of, I’m planning on another reenactment of my fantasy. Just so you know.”

Ah. Heat swept through her and she had to cover the fact that he’d flustered her by sipping on the cool liquid in her glass. “Here? Now?”

“Yes, here. And no, not now.” He sounded amused. “I’m hungry and I want my damn dinner.”

She grinned. “I guess I’d better choose what I want to have in that case.”

The menu was extensive, and Rafe took her through it, pointing out his favorites and musing over the ones he hadn’t tried. She resisted the snails—even though he told her she had to at least try them since she was going to France—settling on a delicious-sounding vegetable soup instead. He attempted to convince her of the sublimeness of the rabbit stew, but she resisted that too, firmly going for the steak and fries.

“Soup, steak, and fries,” Rafe said scornfully. “This fabulous five-star restaurant and that’s what you want? I could cook that for you at home.”

Surprise threaded through her. “You can cook? How come I didn’t know that?” Because he hadn’t given any sign of it. They’d spent most of the time at his place either eating out or ordering in.

He grinned, giving her a very blue glance from beneath his thick, black lashes. “You never asked.”

“Well, I will now.” She lifted her glass and took another sip of the champagne, the bubbles fizzing on her tongue. “As long as we have it with this wine to go with it.”

He shook his head and summoned the waiter, who took their order, filled up their water glasses, and vanished again.

A silence fell, somehow magnified by the emptiness of the restaurant, making Ella feel self-conscious all of a sudden.

Rafe had shrugged off his jacket and was in the process of rolling up the sleeves of his white business shirt, and she found herself watching him, the movements of his strong, capable hands vaguely sexy.

“So,” he said, settling back into his chair and reaching for his glass again. “Are you going to tell me what the problem was back in the car?”

Dammit. He couldn’t even give her a few moments before pouncing on the one thing she didn’t want to talk about.

Ella kept her gaze on his hand holding his champagne glass. His elbow was resting on the arm of the chair, the glass held lightly between long fingers. His sleeve had fallen back, exposing strong wrists and the long ropes of muscled forearms. There were scars there, marring the tanned skin.

He was scarred elsewhere too, and she knew from experience that he didn’t like her touching them. Didn’t like her asking about them either—the couple of times she had, he’d changed the subject, and she hadn’t pushed. She wasn’t quite brave enough to do so yet.

Do you want to be brave enough?

That was a good question.

She lifted her attention from his arm and met his gaze. Silver blue and direct, yet . . . guarded. She hadn’t noticed that before. In fact, now that she thought about it, he was a very guarded man. He was very attentive, very possessive, and seemed to have a never-ending supply of curiosity about her—which she found very flattering—but when she asked about him, he always changed the subject. Except when it was about innocuous things, like movies.

In fact, that first morning she’d woken in his arms had been the only time he’d talked about himself. It was strange. Didn’t men always want to talk about themselves?

“Do we have to do that now?” she asked hesitantly. “We always talk about me. Why can’t we talk about you for a change?”

If he found the question disturbing, he didn’t show it. “Because I’m not interested in me. I’m interested in you.”

“But what if I am? Interested in you, I mean.”

He lifted a shoulder. “What’s there to say? I’m the middle son of a weapons billionaire, and now I run his company. That’s pretty much my life.”

“No. That’s not all your life. There’s a lot I don’t know about you, for example. Like . . . what do you like to do when you’re not working?”

He grinned. “Well, as you know, I’m partial to a Star Wars marathon. I’m also a huge ballet fan.”

“Yes, but the ballet has to do with me, not you.” She couldn’t quite keep the frustration from her voice. “Would you go to the ballet if I wasn’t dancing?”

Something glinted in his eyes. “Tell me what was bothering you in the limo and then I’ll tell you what my favorite color is, my star sign, all that shit.”

Ella put her glass down and stared at him. No, he wouldn’t, she knew instinctively. Oh, he’d give her something, but it wouldn’t be anything that mattered. He’d keep himself hidden, keep himself guarded.

“I don’t want to know what your favorite color is,” she said slowly. “And I could care less about your star sign. If I tell you what was wrong in the limo, you tell me where your scars came from.”

* * *

Every muscle in Rafe’s body tensed as he fought to keep the reaction from showing on his face. Why the fuck did she want to know that? And why the fuck did she think she had the right to know? Not that it mattered. He knew what those scars meant, what they represented. He didn’t hide them, he wasn’t ashamed of them. But they were his, not anyone else’s.

She’d asked about them before, but he’d calmly let her know that was an off-limits subject and up to now she’d respected that. What had made her change her mind?

“What have my scars got to do with anything?” he asked, pleased that his voice sounded so calm.

Ella’s gaze was very direct, which he didn’t like. At all. “I just realized that you know a lot about me, but I don’t know anything about you, and that includes your scars.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because . . . well, we’re sleeping together. Living together, or at least we are at the moment. It would be nice to know a little bit about the man I’m sharing a bed with. Anyway, it can’t all be about me all the time.”

“Why not?”

“Because it can’t. At least, I don’t want it to be.” She stared at him. “It’s a two-way street, Rafe. That’s what a relationship is all about.”

“And what would you know about relationships?” It was a low blow, but he was feeling cornered and he didn’t like it. “Tell me, since your experience is apparently more wide and varied than mine.”

But Ella didn’t blink. “At least I have some relationships with people. I had them with my parents, with Aurora. Do you?”

He used to. With his grandfather. Except his grandfather had died five years ago, so he didn’t so much now. And he didn’t count the fake one he’d had with his own father, or the difficult ones he had with his brothers. “Is this what was bothering you in the limo?” he asked, because it was time to turn the discussion back to her. “This relationship nonsense?”

“You have a lot of scars, Rafe. Where do they come from?”

Shit. Stubborn Little Red.

To give himself time to think, he raised his glass and took a sip of champagne, watching her face. Her chin was at a determined angle, silver glinting her eyes. He knew that expression. She wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

“Why ruin a perfectly good meal with that subject?” He kept his voice light, neutral. “There are so many other things to talk about.”

But she wasn’t having any of that, apparently. “We always talk about what you want. What about what I want?”

Anger stirred inside him. “Everything I’ve done so far has been for you, Ella. I took you to the Met, to the Bolshoi. Every night I—”

But she didn’t wait for him to finish. “I didn’t ask you to do any of those things,” she snapped, that silver warning in her eyes glinting furiously. “Those were all things you decided for me. And now this is something I want.” With a sharp movement, she sat back and folded her arms. “But I guess if you don’t want to give me that, then I don’t have to sit here. I could get up and go home instead.”

His anger tightened. Christ, she was going to interrupt this dinner a second time? And all because she wanted to know about his fucking scars?

You’re the one making a big deal out of it. Just tell her and then it’ll be over.

A thread of cold wound through his anger, though it couldn’t possibly be fear since fear was an emotion he’d long since left behind.

He ignored it. Okay, so he was left with two choices—either he let her walk away from him again, or he gave her what she wanted. Easier by far to let her walk away and yet . . . he couldn’t fucking do it.

He wanted to sit here and have dinner with her, talk to her. He wanted to be with her, learn more about her, and then when all the plates had been cleared away and the staff had been dismissed, he wanted to pull her close and kiss her. Lift the hem of the blue dress she wore and maybe have her against the window like he’d promised himself he would. Yes, he wanted all of those things and he couldn’t give them up.

Which left him with only one option: he was going to have to give her what she wanted.

Fuck. Okay, if she wanted to play hardball, then he’d play. But if his Little Red thought she could best him, she could think again. He was the master at this game, not her. What she was asking for came at a price, and it was fucking expensive.

“Fine.” He made sure his tone was deceptively mild. “Since you’re so into bargains, let’s make one right now. I’ll tell you where my scars come from, if you give me two things.” He held up a finger. “First, you tell me what the fuck was going on with you in the limo. Then”—he raised a second one—you can get on your knees under the table and suck me off.”

Ella’s jaw hardened, but her fierce gaze didn’t waver. “And then you’ll tell me about your scars?”

Jesus. She was like a dog with a bone. “Yeah, sure. Why not? Orgasm first though, darling.”

Her eyes narrowed and she didn’t say anything.

She was going to balk and that would be good, because he sure as hell didn’t want to talk about his scars to her. Then again, if she did balk, he was going to have to let her get up and walk away.

Or you could just tell her without all of this bargain bullshit.

He could, sure. But he wasn’t going to. This was a control issue. If he simply gave her what she was asking for, he’d be giving up his control of the situation, and there was no way in hell he was going to do that. She had to know who was in charge here, and that was him.

Abruptly, Ella pushed her chair back and got to her feet, glancing toward the doorway the waiter had disappeared through. “If I do this now, we might be interrupted.”

A jolt of electricity shot straight down his spine, making a feral smile turn his mouth. “Then you’d better hurry, hadn’t you?”

Giving one more glance toward the doorway, Ella came around the table to where he sat, and looked down at him. Her eyes were alight with temper, her jaw at that defiant angle, a flush coloring her cheeks. “Wait are you waiting for then?” she demanded. “I can’t kneel down if you don’t make room.”

Rafe let out a silent breath, the jolt of electricity beginning to send shocks through his entire nervous system. The whole time they’d been sleeping together, he hadn’t gotten her to do this to him, simply because he’d been too busy gorging himself on her. But now? Fuck, why had he waited so long?

“Impatient, Little Red?” he murmured, pushing his chair out a bit more, giving her some space between it and the table.

“No.” She stepped in front of him then sank to her knees with all her fluid dancer’s grace. “I just want to get this over and done with.”

He laughed, because he knew that wasn’t the case at all. Her cheeks were flushed and her attention was on his lap, where he was starting to get harder and harder with each passing second. “Sure you do. Sadly for you, I’m going to make you take your time. After all, it’s not every day a man gets to eat at his favorite restaurant and get a blow job at the same time from his favorite girl.”

She snorted, which he liked, her hands reaching for his zipper—but before she could, he took hold of her wrists. “You’re not in charge of this,” he chided softly. “I am. Remember that, Ella. Which means you don’t get to take whatever you want, whenever you want it. I told you: you want my cock, you have to earn it.”

Her expression was mutinous. “I thought you said—”

“Keep quiet,” he ordered. “Keep quiet and do as you’re told, and you’ll get what you want. It’s that simple.”

That pretty rosebud mouth of hers hardened, but she didn’t say anything.

Good. She understood then.

Rafe sat back in his chair, reached for the button on his suit pants and unfastened it. Then he pulled down his zipper, keeping his movements slow, savoring the moment. Her gaze dropped to his lap instinctively, which was hot. And when he reached into his underwear to get his cock out, her eyes went wide, which was hotter still.

“Come here.” His voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. Jesus, he hadn’t realized quite how much he wanted this until right this second.

She leaned forward obediently, putting her hands on his thighs to balance herself. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in a golden curtain, and he couldn’t resist gathering all that softness up in one hand and winding it around his wrist. She made a little sound as he tugged her head back, which was as hot as fuck, making him want to do it again. But his patience was running thin, his cock too hard to even consider playing with her. “Open up, Red,” he ordered in a guttural voice.

And she did. Beautifully.

He took hold of his dick with his free hand then, urging her head closer, he slowly eased himself between those pretty pink lips.

Even then, as her mouth closed around him, he didn’t realize his mistake. All he felt was intense heat and a wicked pleasure that tore a groan from his throat and made him almost dizzy. Jesus, she felt so fucking good.

Using her hair, he tugged her head back before flexing his hips and thrusting forward, showing her what he wanted. And pretty soon he found he didn’t even have to move, because she was doing it herself without guidance. Apparently she was a fast learner.

Hot, wet mouth, that suction, that rhythm . . . Christ.

“Holy fuck, Red,” he whispered hoarsely, staring down at her, watching the erotic sight of his cock sliding in and out between those perfect rosebud lips.

Then somehow her fingers were wrapping themselves around his dick, squeezing in time with his thrusts into her mouth, and she wasn’t sucking him anymore, but licking him, her tongue circling the head of his cock, driving him absolutely fucking insane and making him shake in his chair.

“Red.” Her name was harsh, ragged, but he’d gotten beyond niceties. “Fucking suck me.”

Her gaze flicked to his, the light gray gone silver, and it was then that it hit him, the understanding of his mistake. The realization that he wasn’t in charge of this at all, that she was. And that she was undoing him, slowly and with each lick, with each squeeze, each suck, she was taking him apart.

He wanted suddenly to push her away, get up and leave the room, and now, before she destroyed him. But the pleasure held him still. Held him captive. Pinning him in the chair as she took him in deep, watching his face as she did so.

She knew what she was doing to him. She knew exactly. And it was too late to run. Too late to even pull away. She was moving faster, sucking him harder, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. Ecstasy had him in a stranglehold, his hips flexing, thrusting into her mouth even as he tried to get up the will to pull her head off him.

But it was a losing battle.

She made a sound, the vibration of her voice against his aching cock too much, and he was thrusting hard and fast into her mouth, his hips coming up off the chair, gripping her hair so tightly it had to have hurt.

He was powerless to stop. Powerless against the orgasm that raced up his spine and exploded in his head, making him roar her name as he poured himself down her throat.

Then he collapsed back in the chair, his heartbeat thundering in his ears in a way it had never done before. Never ever. Not in the gym and not with any other woman. Jesus Christ. What had just happened?

She shifted between his thighs, her tongue moving on him, giving him a couple of delicate licks that had him shuddering with aftershocks, then it was she who was tucking him away and doing up his zipper, tidying him up with neat little movements of her hands.

He stared at the ceiling, the effects of the orgasm ringing in his head. Conscious of the gravity of his mistake. He should never have let this happen. He’d meant it to be a way to prove his control and she’d ended up being the one who’d held him in the palm of her hand and he’d . . . he’d . . . Oh God, he’d simply let her.

His hands came down onto the arms of the chair and he made to push himself out of it.

“No,” Ella said and leaned right into his lap, her hands on his hips. “You’re not going anywhere.”

His heart was racing out of control and he didn’t know why he was feeling this way. Why it felt like everything was slipping out of his grasp no matter how tightly he held onto it.

You’re panicking because she blew your cock then blew your mind? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Control. That’s what he needed. He had to get the control back somehow.

He lifted his hands and leaned forward, thrusting his fingers into her hair, curling them tight around the silky strands. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, darling.” His voice cracked weirdly on the words.

She simply stared back, her gaze so sharp it felt like it was cutting him into pieces. “I’m scared,” she said simply, devastatingly. “Aurora can’t go home and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how long you’ll want me to stay. And I don’t want to go home because it’s so lonely there. So that’s why I was quiet in the limo. I don’t know what’s happening between us. I don’t know what you want and it’s scaring me.”

So that’s what it was? That’s all? Jesus, why hadn’t she just told him?

“Didn’t you hear me when I told you I’m never letting you go?” He tightened his grip on her hair, emphasizing his point. “I meant it, Ella. You’re mine. You always have been. And now I have you, I’m not giving you up.”

Something rippled over her face, an expression he couldn’t read, but then her gaze steadied. “Your turn.”

For a moment he didn’t understand what she was talking about, and it must have been obvious because she reached up and wound her fingers around his wrist, tugging his hand from her hair. Then, holding it, she pushed the sleeve of his shirt all the way up his arm, baring his skin.

“Tell me,” she said. And her fingers brushed lightly over one of the scars on the underside of his wrist, ragged and white. “Tell me what these mean.”