The second the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a mistake. I can tell from the way his eyes narrow, from the way his head cocks to the side and his full lips thin out to almost nothing.
“What did you just say?” He sounds as incredulous as he looks.
I fight the urge to take an instinctive step back, fight even harder the odd and terrifying compulsion I suddenly have to drop to my knees in front of him. I don’t know what’s going on here, don’t know what power he has over my body—over me—but it ends here. Now.
“I said ‘get out.’?” I draw on every ounce of acting ability I have to keep my voice steady as I force the words out a second time. “You got what you came here for.”
“Oh yeah?” He lifts a brow but doesn’t make a move to close the gap between us, doesn’t try to touch me in any way. I don’t know if I should be relieved…or wary. “And what is it you think I came for?”
“You wanted to humiliate me, to get some of your own back after I refused to meet with you again.”
“Is that what that was? Me humiliating you?” His voice is even lower now? even more controlled.
“Wasn’t it?”
“Here I thought it was me getting you off.”
“Call it whatever you want. That was you trying to control me and we both know it.”
His eyes narrow even further. “Make no mistake, Veronica. That was me controlling you. And we both know it, whether you want to admit it or not.”
He prowls toward me then, a sleek jungle cat hyper-focused on his prey. But I’m no man’s prey—and I haven’t been for a long, long time. That’s not going to change now, no matter how my traitorous body responds to Ian Sharpe.
“Maybe it was. But it ends now.” I don’t know where the words are coming from at this point, barely know what I’m saying. All I do know is that I can’t let him see how powerfully he affects me. Can’t let him see how, even now, it’s taking every ounce of willpower I have not to beg him to fuck me right here in my trailer. “I’m done with this conversation and I’m done with you.”
“That’s not a decision you get to make.”
His answer infuriates me. “My body, my decision.”
“I’ve never said otherwise.” His voice is ice-cold and for the first time, he looks angry. Really, really angry. “The sex we have is completely separate from our professional obligations and you know it. But you also know that you owe me an interview and I expect you to deliver it.”
“My schedule is packed. I have no time for another—”
“Make time.”
“And if I don’t?” I sneer. “What exactly do you think you’re going to do about it?”
“I think that’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?” His hand comes up to rest on my collarbone and my pulse goes crazy at the possessive hold, especially as his fingers stroke along my throat. “If you don’t make time for the interview, time to see me, then I’ll never make you come again.”
“Like you’re the only man who can make me come?” It’s a taunt and we both know it. I can only hope he doesn’t also know just how true my words are.
Both brows go up this time, even as his thumb ghosts back and forth across my jugular. “I’m the only one who can make you come like that. And I’m more than happy to do it again.” He leans forward, presses a hot, openmouthed kiss against the left side of my throat. “And again.” He drops another kiss behind my ear. “And again.” And yet another kiss on the top of my breast. This time, though, he sucks at the delicate skin hard enough to leave a small, deliberate bruise behind. “I’m staying at the Redbury. Room 306. I’ll expect you at eight o’clock tonight.”
And then he’s gone, slipping out of my trailer and down the stairs without another word. I stare after him—heart pounding, mind spinning, body aching—and wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do now.
—
I’m still wondering hours later, when I pull into the garage of my very private, very secret Manhattan Beach house. I used a shell corporation to buy it a few years ago and have worked hard to make sure very few people can even associate me with the area, let alone the house. And tonight, with Ian’s words echoing in my head, I’m more grateful than usual for the fact that no one knows I live here. That there are no paparazzi to get through, no buses loaded with tourists who paid for a tour of the stars’ houses. No fans straining to get a look through my windows. When I’m at my parents’ house in Beverly Hills—the house that publicly belongs to me now—I have to deal with all of that and more.