Eli shows me around the rest of the house: the expansive dream-porn kitchen with a marble island and every technological tool imaginable; the sunken fire pit in one of the living rooms; the dining room, movie theater, state-of-the-art gym where Eli works out with a personal trainer, and infinity swimming pool outside with its cabana and cottage.

When he suggests a late dinner—one of the many daily meals his assistant fetches for him and leaves in the fridge—I shake my head. My stomach is in knots, and I have no appetite. Instead, I tell him I’m going to turn in, completing day one of our contract.

He doesn’t seem to care much about my absence as his phone rings and he takes the call, so I head up to my room. But I don’t go right to bed. I’m still too wound up, and I find myself wandering around with a burn in my throat. This big, beautiful room belongs to me for ninety days, and best of all, I’ll have the first payment from Eli in my bank account soon, followed by another during the halfway point of our agreement. My family will believe that the money is coming from the goodness of my fiancé’s heart, even though that’s a lie. Meanwhile, I’ll smile for the cameras. I’ll be a perfect, good future wife, holding up my end of this deal.

I’ve already unpacked my pitiful few things from my bag, including a lightweight, long-sleeved button down and boxers that I usually sleep in, so I slip into them, then turn on the sound system to a digital station that plays soft world beat music. I glance at my luxurious bed—the kind that Lulu Preston probably sleeps in—and I suddenly feel like more of a pauper than ever in my ratty nightwear.

The walk-in closet lures me, and I go to the pretty pink sixties nightie, holding my breath. Like everything else, it’s so beautiful, fit for a princess. Would I look completely out of place wearing it? More importantly, did Eli’s assistant buy this lovely thing because she thought I’d like it, or did Eli request it, thinking he’ll get me into it and out of it soon?

Just the possibility makes me heat up. I can imagine how he would look at me, how his gaze would undress me and caress me, how his expression would turn from believing he can control himself to having absolutely no control at all because he wants me so badly.

I want to do more than imagine that.

Falling into temptation, I peel off my clothes as if they’re an old skin then, with the clothing on the floor at my bare feet, I slide the nightie off its padded hanger. I hold the gown in front of me. A huff of air conditioning lifts its frilly hem, almost as if it’s a pink cloud.

I almost feel like I’ve snuck into someone else’s closet in one of the big houses I clean—or that I used to clean—but as I slip on the sheer panties, then the nightie itself, I sigh. The baby-doll chiffon whisks down to the middle of my thighs, and part of me is afraid to look in a mirror to see how I fit into something so pink and delicate.

I remember the floor-length mirror near my bed, and I can’t resist going to it. My pulse pads through me, getting louder as I approach the mirror, and when I finally stand in front of it…

Is this really me? Because I don’t see someone who’s curvy, thick and muscled from hard menial labor, someone who scrubs her days away with her head down, invisible. No, this woman has beautiful legs that are only accentuated by the shortness of the nightie. And underneath the filmy material, the curves of her hips and waist lead up to breasts that are nicely rounded, the tips stimulated.

This girl I’m looking at is sexy as hell. Sexy and maybe even confident in her own sexuality.

My God, I’ve been invisible to myself all along.

In giddy disbelief, I unclip my hair, allowing my curls to fall down my back. I toss the barrette aside then look in the mirror again, laughing quietly. What would Eli think if I strolled down to the kitchen like this? I’m damp just thinking about it, and, impulsively, I ease my hands beneath the nightie to cup my breasts. I can just see Eli’s face—how he looked in the dim Hula Shack hallway earlier in the day when he had me against the wall, when he eased down my blouse to touch me, circling his thumb over my nipple to arouse it. I know he would’ve done anything to have more.

As I relive our hallway encounter, I slide two fingers over one of my nipples, catching the distended tip, stroking myself. At the same time, I push my other hand down and into my panties, skimming my middle finger between the folds of my sex.

Wet. So wet as I think about the tall, muscle-bound demigod whose grin always undoes me…

I watch myself in the mirror, an act that I’ve never allowed before. There’ve been nights when I’ve touched myself like this, but it always seems like so much work, more than it’s worth, and I’ve never been this caught up in someone before, even if I’m only fantasizing about the big, bad man of my dreams. What would sex be like with Eli? Would he take what he wants, rough and ready, then be completely done with me after he gets his kicks? Or would he have a slow hand, thinking just as much about my pleasure as his?

I stroke my clit, biting the inside of my lip, aching for him. My pulse knocks at me, thundering, as if trying to let something in. My whole body is shaking, and it’s only when I catch something moving in back of me in the mirror that I realize I’ve lost all track of space and time.

There’s been knocking at the door, but I was too lost to notice it, and now the door is moving—swinging open.

As I see the door opening, I take my hands out of my panties and out from under my nightie. I turn around to find Eli’s gaze fixed to me, burning, devouring.

Did he see what I was doing?

My first instinct is to cover myself, blocking him from seeing me in this wisp of a nightie. But I like what I see too much: I revel in the power of how much he appreciates me, how his gaze goes from my breasts to my sex, as if he’s stripping everything off of me and leaving me bare to him.

Then he looks at my hair, and oddly, that’s what makes my clit throb the hardest. He’s seeing something about me that he hasn’t seen before. Everything about me is exposed.

For a pulse-suspending moment, I think that he’s about to stalk across the room, grab me and fuck me until I pass out. And, God, there’s nothing I want more. But then he clenches his jaw and averts his gaze to a spot above my shoulder, where he can probably see himself in the mirror. I don’t know exactly what he sees in his reflection, but it’s something that clearly changes his mind.

What? Isn’t he the scourge of the league? Doesn’t he fuck anything that tickles his fancy?

What’s stopping him?

“I knocked,” he says tightly.

“I…” Maybe I should put on a robe. But I want him to look at me again. I’m dying for it. “I had the music on so I didn’t hear.”

The music is still playing, and it’s not very loud.

“I think,” he says, “you’d better keep the door locked from now on, just to avoid any awkwardness.”

Or maybe I should keep it open. But I’ve told him that this is only a business deal, and once I can clear my head, I’ll be sticking to that plan. One sexy nightgown isn’t going to change my determination to keep everything hands-off.

He turns to leave but then stops himself. He doesn’t even look at me as he says over his shoulder, “I came here to tell you what’s going on tomorrow. I should’ve told you earlier that there’s a sports rally for a local boys’ football league. Every guy on the team who has a wife or girlfriend is going to be bringing their significant other, so you’ll want to pick out a suitable outfit. Something casual but something that’ll look good on camera because the press is covering the event.”

And so it starts, I think. In public, I’ll be crazy in love with him, but here, away from prying eyes? All business.

I cross my arms over my chest. “When should I be ready?”

“Ten thirty. That’ll give me enough time for a light morning workout. After that, you can go shopping with Natalie and… Aw, shit. I came up here to give you this, too.”

He digs into his jeans pocket and comes out with something sparkly. A diamond ring? He holds it up as if he isn’t sure whether he should backtrack to me and put it on my finger or leave well enough alone.

Another surge of feminine power overwhelms me. Big, bad Eli Brennan just might be afraid that he’s going to lose control of himself to a girl in a nightie. Hah! I wonder if I should have mercy on him or tease him as he’s always teasing me. But if I’m serious about keeping him at bay, then I shouldn’t push it.

I go to him and take the ring, making no ceremony over the fact that I’m slipping the jewelry on my finger. The shine of the diamonds enthralls me as I admire the cut.

“Is this courtesy of Natalie, too?” I ask.

“Yeah. She wanted to see if you liked it before we committed to it.”

“I do.”

His shoulders stiffen at my choice of words. Oops.

“I mean,” I say, “that I do like it. Very much.”

“Good,” he says. “The jeweler will come over tomorrow to size this before we go to the rally.”

I’m about to ask him for more details about what’s expected of me tomorrow, but he’s already out the door, clapping it shut behind him like more thunder that traces my veins in a brutal aftershock.

This is real. This is happening.

And I think I’m enjoying it way more than I should.