“Deal points?”
“Certainly. You’ve changed the original terms with a counteroffer. It’s my privilege to do the same.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t thought he’d change the original deal, but I realize now I should have.
“And let me be just as clear as you were, Ms. Fairchild. This is no longer a negotiation. These are my final terms. You agree, or you don’t.”
“Um, okay.” I lick my lips and squirm some more. I’m suddenly very interested in what he has to say. “So what are the terms?”
“From now until the painting is completed, you’re mine.”
“Yours?” The word tastes like chocolate in my mouth.
“What exactly does that mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I try again. “That I belong to you.” My voice is a whisper. Hell, it’s a prayer, and I’m surprised by how turned on I am by his words. I mean, I’d moved to LA to take control of my life, but here I am getting hot at the idea of putting myself in Damien’s hands.
“What else?” he asks.
“That I do as you say.” I slip my hand down between my legs and into my shorts. I’m wet, slick, and hot.
“Yes,” Damien says. His voice is hard, tense. He’s on edge, too, and that knowledge makes me even more turned on.
“And if I don’t?”
“You studied science, Ms. Fairchild. Surely you’re aware that every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”
“Oh.” I slide my finger over my sensitive clit, then gasp, not expecting the fast, hard tremor that shoots through me in release.
“You like that, Ms. Fairchild?” he asks.
My cheeks flame. I’m not sure if he means his terms or my orgasm. I draw myself up. “What if I don’t agree?”
“Then I don’t get my painting, and you don’t get your million.”
“Why make me agree? I’ve already said I’ll pose.”
“Because I can. Because I want you. Because I don’t want to court my way up to our first fuck. And because I don’t want to play games.”
“Isn’t a game exactly what you’re playing?”
“A fair point, Ms. Fairchild. But I want this on my terms.”
“You say you want me, but you don’t. You say you want my portrait, but you won’t.”
For a moment, I hear nothing. Damien Stark is trying to figure out my angle. “You’re wrong,” he finally says.
“I don’t think so. And that’s why my terms are important. You call it off—the painting, this game—and I still get my money.”
“Is that an agreement?”
“It’s a condition.”
“Very well. I accept your condition.”
“And we don’t start now. We start at the first session with the artist.”
“You’re a tough negotiator, Ms. Fairchild. But I accept your proposed commencement date.”
I roll my eyes. He’s getting weary of my tweaks to his deal. Well, too bad. “And it’s not open-ended,” I add. “For all I know, you’re paying the artist by the hour, and he’ll take a year to complete it. One week, Mr. Stark.”
“One week?” He doesn’t sound happy.
“That’s my best offer. And, of course, you’ll have to work around my day job. But my evenings and the weekend are yours.”
“Very well. One week. Now, do we have a deal?”
I want to say yes. Instead, I say, “What—what exactly do you want to do with me?”
“So many things, but mostly I want to fuck you. Hard and fast and very thoroughly.”
Oh my.
“I—will it be kinky?”
He chuckles. “Would you like it to be?”