I'm pretty sure I must have fallen into some alternate universe or something. I have already showered this morning, so I know it isn't a dream. We didn't drink more than a glass of wine each last night, so he wasn't drunk.

I can't help but feel as if I'm floating. Is that what all newly dubbed fiances feel like? Do they float? I think I may actually be giddy. It is a very weird feeling. I can't stop smiling. I hadn't realized I actually loved the man until after he said those sweet, okay, not actually sweet, but those two words were pretty spectacular.

I want to tell someone, but I feel like a text message to Jessica is really not the best way to drop that bombshell. Maybe tomorrow. We are doing the gala thing tonight and tomorrow should be clear. Unless Dylan decides he wants to take me to yet another hiding place he owns somewhere in the country.

“You ready?” he calls from my open bedroom door.

“Yep,” I say, glancing around the room. My eyes fall on the bed. Last night, we didn't have sex—we made love. Repeatedly. Truth be told, my body feels depleted today. He wrung me dry, which reminds me I should hydrate.

I walk to him, he takes my small overnight bag and kisses me before taking my hand in his free hand. I feel warm and fuzzy. It is a feeling I never thought I would experience but now that I have, I never want to let it go.

“I still need to get a dress. I mean, I have a couple in my closet, but they aren't going to be suitable for a black tie event. I can ask Jessica. She may have something.”

“I got it covered,” he says.

I groan, “Dylan, I told you, I would prefer to pick my own gown. I mean, I'm sure you and Mrs. Daniels have impeccable taste, but this is a really big deal,” I stress.

He smiles, loads me into the truck, “I said I have it covered. Relax, Alexa.”

I know I am supposed to trust him. Right? He is my fiance after all. I giggle as I toss the word around in my head. I don't have a ring, but the proposal was kind of a spur of the moment thing. If he would have had a ring at the ready, I would have been a little worried and definitely on guard. The spontaneity of the moment was far more romantic.

We board the plane and head back to—wait, I don't know where we are going.

“Dylan?” I ask.

“Yes?”

“Where are we going or more importantly, where am I going?” I ask.

A strange look crosses his face, “Uh, I guess I just assumed back to my apartment. Is that okay?”

I roll my eyes. I'm glad I don't have a cat or plants. They would all be dead by now.

“That's fine, I guess, but I do need to go shopping. We are cutting it really close here,” I remind him.

“Okay, I know, it's fine,” he says, completely distracted by his phone.

I pull out my own phone to check email and see if anything exciting has happened in Facebook land. I only have a handful of “friends” but it is more about being on the stupid site than actually posting to it.

As we jet back to LA, I can tell something is on Dylan's mind. Maybe he is having second thoughts about the proposal. He seems distracted. Worried about something.

I offer him a way out, “Dylan, if you want to change your mind about the proposal, I would completely understand. You are not obligated to me in any way.”

My own insecurities are bubbling to the surface. I know it, but I can't stop it. I don't want to be someone's charity case. If he has changed his mind, life will go on.

He looks at me before putting his phone in the other chair, standing and closing the distance between us. He drops to his knees in front of me, uses both hands to cradle my face before whispering, “I have not changed my mind. I am dying to marry you. It will be the best day of my life.”

I smile—well as much as I can with his hand on either side of my mouth, “Are you sure, Dylan? It happened fast and it was in the heat of the moment as they say.”

He kisses me, “It happened when it was supposed to. It was at that very moment my heart knew. It was like having a veil removed and I could see clearly in that very second what I wanted. It's you. I want you, Alexa. Never doubt that.”

I kiss him, pouring my love and affection into the kiss. I am not good at the mushy stuff, but I need him to know how happy I am.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper. “I don't want to be one of those women that always needs attention or whatever. I'm not. I promise. I only want to be sure you want to do this. Maybe we should take a few days and think about it.”

“No,” he says with finality. “I don't want to think about it. I know when I want something. When I want something, I go after it. I don't need to wait. I knew the moment I saw you in that coffee shop. You were different.”

My heart does another crazy flip flop, spin, boogie thing. Those are probably the most romantic words I have ever heard. I want to cherish every moment and relive this over and over.

“Okay, I'm good. My little meltdown is over. Go back to doing whatever it was you were. I won't bother you,” I tell him, trying to make light of the very serious moment.

Another quick kiss and he takes his seat, picks up his phone and goes back to staring and scowling and then rapid texting. I don't care. I am not worried at all. My mind drifts to my future and what it will be like to be married to one of the richest men in the world. I thought the gossip had been bad this week. I can only imagine what will happen once our engagement is announced. Lord have mercy.

As soon as we land, we are shuffled into an SUV with blacked out windows. I notice the license plate says HAWKE1. In the past, we have traveled anonymously. He clearly isn't worried about hiding now. It isn't long before we are in the city. Our driver expertly navigates the traffic and before I know it, we pull to a stop in front of a building.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Ya,” I say, not fully understanding why he was asking such a silly question.

“Keep going. Don't stop. I'll be right behind you,” he says.

I look at him, still not getting why he is acting so strange. The car door swings open and I get it. There are flashing lights and people shouting my name. Asking me if I'm okay and I swear I heard someone say something about a dungeon.

I do as Dylan ordered and make a beeline for the front doors where a man is kindly holding the door open. Dylan's hand is on the small of my back, gently pushing me forward. My vision blurs with the flashing lights. One photographer reaches his hand directly in front of my face and sets off a bright flash of light.

“Get back!” Dylan shouts at the pushy photographer while propelling me forward.

We finally get inside and the doors shut behind us. My head is spinning. Dylan grabs my hand and keeps pushing me on. Another kind man is holding the elevator doors open for us and when they silently slide shut, I slump against the back wall.

“Oh my, God,” I murmur.

“Are you okay?” Dylan asks.

I slowly nod, “What the hell was that?”

He chuckles, “That is the very friendly media. Thankfully, there weren't as many this time.”

“What?” I ask in shock. “That is insane, Dylan. Is it like that all the time?”

He shakes his head, “No, no. It's just that story winding down. Soon enough they will get tired of us. We will be an old, boring married couple,” he says with a wink. “Now you know why I hid you away all week. It was much worse Monday.”

I am not so sure about that. How could it be worse? It felt as if I were being attacked by a group of greedy vultures. I watch as the numbers on the elevator count up. At 26, the door pings and opens up into a grand foyer.

“Wow,” I mutter, unable to say anything else. “This is your apartment?” I ask in awe.

He nods, “Well, the foyer. Come on, let's get you inside.”

We walk down a hall and he opens a set of double doors to reveal a large living area. There is a staircase leading up to the next floor. I scan the room, trying to soak in all the furnishings. It is like a palace. There are floor to ceiling windows on one side of the room, making the massive space feel even bigger.

“This is the living room. The formal dining room is through there,” he points to a massive arch. “The kitchen is off to the left. Our rooms are on the second floor.”

He starts to walk towards the stairs. I follow, still in disbelief at the size of the apartment. We climb the stairs and find ourselves in another small sitting area with two couches facing each other. There are two hallways leading in opposite directions.

“My room is over there, I have had the suite on the other side prepared for you. The gym is through that door,” he points to a small door off of the sitting area.

“This is all so much. I mean, your apartment is two entire floors of a building?”

He shrugs, “Actually, there is a third floor, but that is where I entertain. I don't actually go up there unless I'm hosting a party.”

I nervously laugh, “Wow.”

“I don't really like people in my home, so the third floor gives them the feeling of being allowed into my inner sanctuary, but it still keeps them at a safe distance. The only access from that space to here is with a touch pad,” he explains.

I nod, agreeing, but truly not fully able to wrap my head around it all. His apartment is actually a mansion sitting on top of a tall building. His phone chirps and he steps away, giving me a few moments to explore the area.

He comes to stand next to me as I stare at a massive painting. I am sure the thing cost more than what I would make in three years, but I don't see the beauty in it. He wraps his arms around me from behind and softly nuzzles my neck.

“I have a surprise for you,” he whispers in my ear, sending goosebumps popping up down my arms.

I lean back, relishing in the feel of his hard body cradling mind, “You do?”

He kisses my neck, “Yes, but we'll need to go downstairs.”

“Okay,” I mumble, willing to do whatever he says when he kisses me like that.

He steps away, takes my hand and we descend the stairs. A woman, wearing a black dress suit is essentially directing traffic. It looks like a dress shop exploded. There are mannequins being carried in, each wearing different dresses. I can see a clothing rack loaded with more dresses off to the side. A man pushes in a cart loaded with shoe boxes.

“What is this?” I ask, trying to take in the scene.

“This is you shopping for a dress. I know it probably isn't the same, but you saw the photographers out there. They would ruin your experience. I had the store come to you. If you don't find something you like, we'll get more dresses brought over,” he says as if it the most normal thing in the world.

The woman steps forward, introduces herself as Mary and tells me to look around. I look back at Dylan who is talking to a man in a suit. I scan the mannequins outfitted in various dress styles. I have never been to a black tie event. Why did I think I could possibly choose my own dress?

I turn back to Mary and quietly say, “I have no idea what to wear. Can you give me any suggestions?”

The woman, who I would guess is in her mid-forties smiles, “Of course. That's why I'm here.”

She stands back, looks me up and down and taps her finger to her chin.

“You have a gorgeous figure. We want to show it off without going over the top and overwhelm your petite size. Black is very basic. I would personally avoid red for this occasion,” she says turning and scanning the rack. She pulls off a dress, holds it up and puts it back. She reaches in grabs another and then another, “We'll start with these.”

She hands me a light blue gown and points to a door. I realize she has been here before. Is this something Dylan always does for his ladies.

Mary smiles, “I am Mr. Hawke's personal shopper. I dress the man. He doesn't look like that on his own,” she winks.

I laugh, feeling like a fool for automatically assuming something different. I take the dress into the room, which I discover is a large dressing room. There is a small bathroom off to the side. I quickly strip out of my clothes, realize the dress is strapless and remove my bra.

The soft material glides over my body. I can't do the zipper in back, but hold the back of the dress closed with one hand and look in the mirror. I don't like it. It feels very old-fashioned with the A-line waist. It is very low-cut, revealing a little more cleavage than appropriate.

Like a dutiful model, I step outside, still clasping the back of the dress.

Mary takes one look at me and shakes her head, “No. I'll grab the other one.”

I look up and see Dylan sitting on the couch. He stares at the dress and then meets my eyes. It's the look I have quickly learned means he wants me. His eyes are heavy lidded and I can see his chest moving up and down. Mary may not approve of the dress, but Dylan doesn't seem to mind. I do a slow turn, giving him a better view.

Mary appears and pushes me back into the room with the next dress. It is a silk dress in a peach color. I hate it. It does not complement my pale skin tone and blonde hair. I pop my head out, not bothering to put the gown on, “This is a definite no. Got something else?”

She chuckles, “I do. Let's try something more classic.”

Mary brings me a royal blue sleeveless gown that I instantly fall in love with. I snatch it, shut the door and quickly put the dress on. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The shoulders are covered in diamond sequins that follow the deep V in front. There is just enough cleavage showing to be attractive without being too much. The waist is accented with a high upside down V outlined in more diamonds before flowing into a straight floor-length skirt. The chiffon skirt is light and allows for plenty of movement.

This is the one. This is the one I will wear, but I want Dylan to be surprised. I take off the dress and quickly put on my old clothes.

When I step out, I can see the disappointment on Dylan's face before he gives me a knowing grin. He knows exactly what I am up to. A girl has to keep a man on her toes I think to myself.

“This is the one, Mary. I think a pair of white or sequin shoes would be perfect with it.”

Mary steps forward, already carrying a pair of beautiful blue heels with sequins across the strap, “I think these would work.”

I laugh. The woman already knew that would be the dress.

“Thank you. I truly appreciate your help,” I tell her, feeling a little guilty I didn't spend more time trying on other gowns, but I don't see the point. The blue gown is perfect.

She snaps her fingers and within moments, the dresses and carts are being pushed out of the room. Another man approaches me, walks around me, nodding his head. I look at him, debate kicking him but hesitate.

“Hi,” he says enthusiastically shaking my hand. “I'm Ricky and I'll be doing your hair and makeup for the night. I'm thinking up-do. I saw the dress and I think a pretty, slightly messy bun will showcase those beautiful shoulders and that slender neck.

He looks to Dylan, “What do you think?”

“Yes,” he says, staring at my neck. I can practically feel his lips on me, making me quiver. I wonder if we have time for a quickie?

My new fiance can read my mind and gives me a look of frustration and longing before saying, “You need to get ready. We are due to leave in two hours.” He says the words with a great deal of disappointment.

“It won't take me that long to get ready,” I blurt out, hoping for at least five minutes alone with him.

Ricky gives a forced laugh, “Oh honey, two hours is a marathon. We have hair and makeup and then we have to get you all tucked into that dress.”

I look at Dylan, begging him to give me a little something before I'm stuffed in that gown. I can't go to some fancy gala in my current state. Dylan is my addiction and I just need a small hit.

He stands, “Ricky, give us a few minutes.” He grabs my hand and drags me up the stairs. Each step increases my desire. I stare at his ass and can barely keep my hands off. I don't know how I have managed to get so lucky, but I want to take full advantage of that luck and enjoy every inch of my future husband's body.

Dylan doesn't stop moving once we reach the top of the stairs and drags me into what I assume is his bedroom. He stops the second he gets through the door and starts yanking at my clothing, his mouth on my neck, practically eating me alive.

I want to participate, but I can't seem to catch up. His hands are everywhere and his mouth is sucking, licking and biting at such a rapid pace I am forced to lean back and let it happen. Resistance is futile. My jeans drop to the floor. I hear a tearing sound and realize he has ripped the thin fabric of my panties.

“I'm sorry. I have to have you now,” he grunts before hoisting me up against the wall and driving into me with such a force I shout out.

He pushes me up and then drops me down again, pushing higher into me. I can't breathe. My heart is racing as his mouth moves to my breasts, biting and sucking.

“Dylan,” I manage to get out. “Dylan, oh my, God. Harder, please,” I find myself saying, when I intended to tell him to slow down. My body was in complete chaos with the sensations flooding over every nerve ending.

I start to fall into a darkness, like a sea of complete and total ecstasy as my body tingles and clenches with orgasm. I hear him growl, but can only ride the tidal wave. I want to respond and encourage him, but I can't. My body spasms over and over as the climax stretches on and on. Maybe it was two or three orgasms—I don't know. All I know is my body responds to him of its own volition.

I feel something soft against my back and my eyes pop open. Dylan is over me.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

I realize I am laying on the bed. I don't even remember getting here. He put me into a sex coma. That was one hell of a quickie. Dylan has turned quickies into the most erotic and satisfying activities on this planet.

I smile and slowly nod, “Better than okay.”

He slowly withdraws, “Good. We have to get moving. I'll tell Ricky you are going to shower. Make it fast, though. The guy tends to get a little panicked.”

I nod, standing on shaky legs, “Who is he?”

Dylan laughs, “He is my hairstylist. He has designated himself the head of my so-called glam squad, but I will share him with you. I think he will be thrilled to be on your team. I tell him all the time I can brush my own hair, but he is horrified by the thought.”

I nod, another one of Dylan's employees that he pays for a service he doesn't need. This is why I am marrying the man. Behind that cold, business-like demeanor, the guy is a big marshmallow.