Page 52 of Wicked Heat

I shake my head. “No.”

“And if I insist?”

I swallow, refusing to cry. Technically, I can tell him. But I don’t want any of this to get back to Damien. If Ash were to contact the police or do anything to break the rules…

“Can’t you just help me?” My voice is thick with tears. “I’ll pay you back somehow. Right now, I just need the money.” I hear the panic in my voice and hate myself for it.

“Are you in danger?”

“No. Not like you mean, anyway.” Technically it’s true. I’m not in physical danger. Just in danger of hell breaking loose all around me.

Slowly, he takes a seat on the edge of the bed, and I can practically feel the burn as he looks me up and down. The woman he wanted. The woman who pushed him away. “All right,” he says softly. “I’ll get you the money.”

My entire body goes limp with relief, only to freeze when I hear his next words: “But I want something in exchange.”

I swallow, trying to ignore the ominous chill that makes my skin prickle. “Sure,” I finally say. “Anything.”

Not the best negotiating tactic, but it’s not like I have a choice. The clock is ticking.

“Then we have a deal,” he says, rising from the bed to step in front of me. “In exchange for three million dollars, I get you.”

Sixteen

“What the hell?” I skirt around him, only to stumble over my own feet and tumble onto the bed. What happened to the tender man who’d comforted me only minutes ago? The man who’d been starting to earn my trust, but has now shattered it, leaving hundreds of dangerous shards between us. “You can’t possibly mean⁠—”

“Let me be perfectly clear,” he says. “You can have your three million, but it comes at a price. You.”

I scramble over the bed until my back is against the headboard. Then I grab one of the pillows and clutch it to my chest. I want to flay him with a hard look. I want to cut his legs out from under him with the power of my disgust.

I want to hurt him.

Or rather, I want to want that.

But I don’t.

Because what I really want is what he’s offering.

And that scares me to death.

“You’re a fucking bastard,” I say with as much vitriol as I can conjure.

“I like to think of myself as an astute businessman negotiating the terms of a deal, which, frankly, I’m going to find very, very satisfying.”

His mouth curves into a cocky grin. I really want to punch it. Not so much because he’s tossing out these unbelievable terms, but because I opened the door to it.

“Fine,” I say. “Negotiate.”

He nods. “In exchange for three million dollars⁠—”

“Transferred exactly when I say and to exactly the account I identify.”

He nods, then continues without missing a beat. “—I will own you, body and soul. I will kiss you, tease you, touch you. When I want. How I want. Body and soul,” he repeats, “with only two exceptions. First, I’ll stop when you tell me to, but you’re only allowed to tell me to stop if you’re not enjoying my touch.”

He moves to the bed, then bends over and places his hands on the mattress, his full attention focused on my face. “You could lie. I’m giving you that power. I’m gambling you won’t use it.”

My mouth has gone dry, but I still manage to ask, “What’s the second?”

His eyes lock onto mine. “I won’t fuck you. Not until you beg me to. Not until you mean it. And when you do, my ownership ends. Do you understand?”