“Have lunch with me," Donovan said, interrupting my daydreams.

I looked up to see him standing in the doorway of my office. I’d just been thinking about him, remembering the night before. When I’d stared into his eyes, dark and vague in color in the lightless room. "What are you thinking?" I’d asked.

"I'm thinking you probably want to be fed before I fuck you again. But I don't know if I care."

He’d left my house late in the night, but I'd seen him around the office already this morning. We'd brushed past each other at the Monday morning executive meeting, my body immediately going on high alert, and though our conversation had been benign, the tone and subtext of our meaning was heavy. I belong to you. You belong to me.

Even though we never actually said those words. We had barely said any words the night before, spending most of our time preoccupied with reacquainting ourselves with each other's physical landscape.

Which meant there was still part of our relationship in limbo. But wasn't every relationship in some form of limbo, until someone put a ring on it?

Shaking off the dizziness that the sight of him brought on, I rushed to see if anyone noticed him sneak into my office. Thankfully I saw no one but Ellen, my secretary.

"I can't go to lunch with you," I said, pulling him in and shutting the door behind him. God, just the touch of his hand on mine made my entire body spark.

"You can. Your schedule is free. I already checked with your secretary." His fingers were playing with mine, but my eyes were on his smirk.

"That isn't why I can't have lunch with you," I whispered, as if I'd be heard even behind the closed door. "People will talk."

He dropped my hand and crossed the room, turning to lean on my desk. "You have lunch with Weston, don't you?" He didn't look at me, instead poking nosily at the papers I had laid out on the workspace behind him.

"That's different. He's my boss." I walked over to my desk and straightened my papers as I spoke.

"I'm your boss." This time he gave me the full piercing weight of his hazel eyes, and I hated that I was going to have to defend Weston, but I was.

"You're not the boss I report to."

He let that sit for several seconds. It was impossible to refute. Weston was in charge of marketing. Donovan was in charge of operations. There wasn't a reason for me to have lunch with the chief of operations.

Unless I was banging him.

"So people will talk,” he said, deciding where he stood on the matter.

I was flabbergasted. This was not the man I’d been with the last few months. That man had winced at the slightest hint of scandal between us. Yeah, things were different now, and he wasn’t worried I’d find out his deep dark secret—that he’d been secretly in love with me for years. But just because things were different, I wasn't sure I wanted people thinking I was slutting it up with one of the presidents of the company.

"I—"

Donovan cut me off, apparently bored with the conversation. "Sabrina," he said, standing. "I don't give a fuck about other people. Come to lunch with me."

Twenty minutes later we were seated downstairs in the New York Minute Grill with our meals on the table in front of us. The restaurant had been Donovan's choice, proving how much he really didn't give a fuck about other people, seeing as how the New York Minute Grill was located in the very same building as Reach.

Quietly, I'd been on the lookout for anyone from the office for the first quarter of an hour, but despite the location of the restaurant, I hadn’t seen anyone I knew and was forced to relax and admit it hadn’t been a bad decision after all.

So a few bites into my pear pecan salad, I set down my fork, took a swallow of my ice water, and smiled at the man across from me. "Thank you for dragging me out of my cave."

It was actually really nice to be out in the open with Donovan. It was like a real date, and we hadn’t really had one of those. Sure, we'd gone to the Japanese restaurant and Gaston's, but one had been a weird feeling-each-other-out scenario and the other had just been a precursor to sex. Today's meal was something else entirely. It was two people wanting to spend time together because they liked to spend time together.

"I had ulterior motives," Donovan said over his steak salad.

So much for two people wanting to spend time with each other.

"Of course you did." Why did I ever think anything different? "And they are?”

"Primarily, spending time with you."

Well, then. I felt my cheeks pink, delighted my initial feeling about our date was the correct one. Except, he did say motives in the plural.

"And?"

His grin made me feel he was impressed with my intuition. "And we left things unfinished last night."

I could feel the flush in my face deepen. I’d been thinking about last night all morning, but his mention of our carnal interlude made me as hot and weak as if he were undressing me.

"It sure didn't feel like we left anything unfinished." I shoveled a forkful of salad into my mouth, hiding my brazenness behind the act of chewing.

My body felt the aftermath of him. My thighs were sore; my stomach ached. The flesh between my legs was tender and raw from how he’d used me. How I’d let him use me.

"Oh, Sabrina.” The rumble in his voice made my belly do back flips. "There are still a thousand ways I intend to make you come, and another hundred thousand I haven't thought of yet."

"Ah," I shivered, “I, uh, well. Sure." I drank half my glass of water just to cool down.

He laughed low in his throat. "That's not what I'm talking about, though. I think you know that."

"Actually, there is more to say." I'd meant to say more on the sidewalk before he’d come running after me and cut me off with that incredible kiss. "I said I didn't care. And I don't. But you should also know I felt a lot of other things too. Hearing about those things you did for me—for my family—it really stirred things inside me. Part of me is still pissed—"

"Understandably," he interrupted.

I ignored him, raising my voice ever so slightly. "I never asked you to do those things. I never expected it. You didn't have the right, but then, didn't you? Doesn't…caring about somebody give you a right?" He'd yet to say “love” himself since I’d brought it up that night in the back of his car, so I steered clear of that word in particular. "I don't know. I spent so many years as a girl with nothing in my pocket, daydreaming about a knight in shining armor. As so many young girls do. And don't we all wish the rich would give more to the poor?"

I laughed at myself then shook my head. "But this isn't about the money. Or this isn't just about the money. The time you invested… It means a lot. I know you're not looking for a thank you. I'm not going to give you one. I don't know if I'm exactly grateful. But I'm not exactly mad. And I am…moved. And turned on. In some way that I think is probably sick and unhealthy."

Donovan tsked. "You worry too much about what arouses you. If you're turned on, just go with it." His gaze drifted briefly down to the neckline of my blouse before returning to my eyes. "And I am not a knight in shining armor."

"No,” I laughed. "You're not." I sobered. "And yet you are."

We held each other's gaze for several seconds. Something deep inside me tugged. Or tore. Or tightened. I dropped my eyes.

But I couldn’t let him be a hero in this. That wasn’t right either. "You're also the villain, don't forget that."

"Lucky for me you’re the kind of girl who likes to fuck the villain."

I pressed my lips together hard, unwilling to acknowledge how true the statement was, even though we both knew it.

My stubbornness seemed to amuse him.

Then he grew serious.

"Fucking around is usually all the villain ever gets," he said, studying me to see if I understood what he meant.

I didn't. "I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"I'm asking what you see as happening next."

I sat up straighter in my chair, tension rolling down my spine. I'd been in this position before with Donovan. I'd laid it all out on the line, told him what I wanted. I'd gotten hurt.

"I don't know what to say," I said slowly, cautiously. "I don't know where to go next. What to—"

He helped me out. "Maybe start with telling me what you want."

I was silent. It wasn't—of course it wasn't—but it felt like a trap.

He shifted in his seat. "How about I start by telling you what I want?"

This. This sounded interesting. "Okay."

He wiped his mouth with his napkin then returned it to his lap before drilling his eyes into me. "I want more. I want a relationship. I want to be open about it. I want people to know we are together. No hiding or worrying about having lunch together. I want to be able to assume a blowjob comes with the meal." I bit back a giggle at that, which he noticed and acknowledged with a grin. Then, quickly, he was somber again. "What are the terms in order to get that?"

I blinked.

Just three weeks before, I'd proposed almost the same scenario, minus being open about our relationship and I’d said nothing about blowjobs—though I wasn't against them.

The whole idea made me giddy and lightheaded.

Terms, though. "What, we negotiate like a business deal?" I hoped he wouldn’t notice how bothered I was by his choice of words.

Or maybe I hoped he did notice. I couldn't decide how passive-aggressive I wanted to be.

"If that's how you want to look at it."

Okay. Aggressive-aggressive then. Because that was not how I wanted to look at it at all.

"I don't. I mean, where's the romance?" I could hear myself, and it annoyed me. "God, I sound like my sister."

But annoyed as I was that I sounded like Audrey, I still wanted that. Still expected that. Still expected some sort of hearts and flowers from a man who supposedly loved me.

"Where's the romance?" His face wrinkled with disbelief. "I'm not asking you to prom, Sabrina."

I dropped my fork and threw my napkin on the table, no longer interested in my meal. The warm fuzzy feeling I’d had a few minutes ago had disappeared, leaving irritability in its wake. I was seconds away from going off, but before I said anything I would regret, I wanted to get full clarification. "What exactly are you asking?"

He pushed his dish aside and leaned over the table. "I'm asking who you need me to be in order to get you."

He was asking about the files. And the surveillance. And the ways he manipulated.

He was asking who he had to be to be with me.

My insides felt gooey like liquid chocolate. Goosebumps rose up my arms. I ran my teeth along my bottom lip, afraid I might get teary if I didn't keep myself together. After I'd caught my breath, I said, "I told you. I don't care."

I fiddled with the hem of the napkin and Donovan reached out to put his hand over mine. "You told me you didn't care about what happened in the past. You seem to care a lot about what's happening right now."

My brows pinched together. "I don't understand. If we are together, why would you need to do any of—"

My gaze landed on a Christmas tree in the lobby, the blue and gold ornaments as obvious as the realization that entered my mind. Even if we were together, even if we were a couple, Donovan had no intention of giving up his stalking, his interfering, his private viewing from the cameras in my apartment. He’d done all those things while he’d been with Amanda. It was how she’d ended up dead.

I moved my gaze back to his. "It's because that's who you are." He’d said it himself. Said it as plainly as he could.

He nodded, but doubled down by answering as well. "Yes, Sabrina."

"But you're asking who I need you to be…” I let out the air in my lungs, slowly. “So am I to assume that you're willing to give up some of who you are in order to be with me?"

He nodded again. "Or all of who I am. It's up to you to decide how much."

My stomach twisted and braided with both the intoxication of such crazy power and a little bit of disgust. Or a lot of disgust. And also something else—something sentimental and tender, some sort of emotion that would probably fit a lot better inside Audrey than in me.

But here it was inside of me all the same, and I had to figure out what to do with it and how to make decisions with it. I had to figure out how to answer the question that Donovan was waiting for me to answer now:

"So, tell me, Sabrina—who do you want me to be?"