The nuts catch in my throat and I let out a cough. Holy crap. I sputter and hack, and the waiter materializes with a glass of water while Tristan stares at me with those glittering eyes.

I gulp the liquid, washing the nuts down my throat. "I'm fine, thank you," I croak to the waiter, and he glides off.

"You want me to live in your home. Have sex with you. Allow you to do anything you desire with me."

He nods, as if this is the most normal conversation in the world. "And write about your journey. Our journey."

"Oh, let's post photos and videos on social media, while we're at it. Multi-media porn."

The expression on his face is nothing short of offended. "This is not pornography. It's literature."

I open my eyes wide and squirm in my seat at the thought of him videoing me while I... Jesus. "Sure. Whatever you say."

He holds his cocktail in mid-air. "I'm interested in publishing a unique erotic bestseller. Literary erotica."

"You're asking me to write a book in exchange for sex... and money," I hiss, trying to keep my voice down in this genteel hotel lobby bar. "That's like prostitution."

He laughs. Damn him for having that rich, deep laugh. "Sienna, isn't all of the media like prostitution in some form?"

I ignore his question and hold up my hand. Ugh, my understated nude nail polish is already chipped. I'd be much more convincing with a professional manicure. "Let's back up for a second. Why me? Why weren't you able to find someone else to..." I wave my fingers in the air in a circle.

"As I explained previously." He says this in a cold, clipped tone, as if I'd asked him to recite a spreadsheet. "When I saw your photo, I was inexplicably drawn to you."

My stomach fizzes with excitement. I find it difficult to believe, but that's not the main issue here. I blink, searching for the snappiest comeback. Nothing comes to mind, so I tug at my earlobe.

"And when I read your novel, I realized you'd likely be open-minded about my proposal. You're not squeamish about sex, or writing about it."

Right, because my book contained every sexual position known to mankind in four hundred fifty pages.

I can't think of a single word to say. Where to begin? That everything I wrote was a fantasy, conjured in my virginal, dirty mind? That I've only been kissed once, and that was in high school by a boy with braces, glasses and pimples?

That I would melt if Mr. Black touched me with one of his long, thick and extremely sexy fingers?

I reach for my drink.

"Cheers," he says, holding up his cocktail. "To a fruitful and exciting partnership. And an erotic one." He touches his glass to mine.

I watch him take a slow, unhurried sip. Everything he does is precise and hot. I'm like a chaos muppet, choking on corn nuts and sweating through my pretty dress.

Writing an erotic novel based on our encounters is beyond ludicrous for so many reasons. I curl my lip. "I haven't said yes."

I take a sip of my drink and nearly gag. Lord, it tastes like window cleaner smells. I look up to see him gazing at me with that maddening, bossy smirk on his face.

"Not yet. But you will."

"Let's get to know each other better, then decide."

I shrug.

Over the next hour and a half, Tristan talks about everything but his salacious proposal while I down two more gin and tonics. Which have become quite tasty, actually.

We verbally dance around his proposition, and oh, it's incredible. It's a sensual tango of words, a salsa through his vocabulary. I find myself laughing and listening in rapt attention, and for once, I'm not worried about Mom, my financial situation or my dismal career. I'm in the moment, enjoying myself. In a public place.

With a deliciously handsome man.

He tells me about this history of his company. About the books he's read recently. Asks me what I've read and enjoyed. We have a normal conversation, like ordinary people, about a nonfiction book on Alexander Hamilton that topped the Times' bestseller list.

Black is knowledgeable about a variety of topics, and uses phrases like "anecdotes and arcana," and words like "pointillist." The way he says them, in his crisp British accent, makes my pussy flood with wetness. Everything he does, from his laughter to how he asks questions about my writing process, makes me edgy with desire.

He's also thirty-nine years old, making him a full fifteen years older than I am. I spot a few grey hairs sprinkled in his dark hair.

"Is your seat uncomfortable?" he asks.

I shake my head. No, I'm squirming around because I'm throbbing between my legs and because my inner thighs are damp. Because you're sexy AF.

Oh boy, I'm a little tipsy.

And that's when I fall silent, because I remember we're not here to discuss Times bestsellers or the history of his company. We're here to talk about me moving in with him, screwing him (or allowing him to screw me) and writing about the whole messy affair.

"I can't do this," I say, focusing my gaze on two older businessmen deep in conversation. They're pointing at a sheaf of papers stacked on a table between them.

"Do what, my dear?"

Ugh. The "my dear" should be stuffy and stiff but the words and his tone make my stomach clench with desire.

"I can't write this book for you. I'm sorry." I try to stand up but my legs are uncharacteristically wobbly, so I ease myself back down. "I'll call an Uber."

He sets his drink down and his brows tighten. "Please. Tell me what you're thinking. I want to know. Sincerely."

I squint in his direction. "You're now interested in my thoughts? Earlier you didn't ask what kind of cocktail I wanted."

"I can be a bit...exacting."

"Bossy," I mutter.

"Please," he presses his palms together, "I'd like to discuss this. You're wonderful. Exactly what I was looking for."

Raking in a shaky breath, I lean forward. "I have severe writer's block. I can't form sentences. They just won't come. After my debut novel, I tried to write a second. But I couldn't."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Dunno. Fear of more success, my therapist said. But then my mom was diagnosed with ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease," I glance over and notice he's wincing, "and I had to put her into a nursing home because it was impossible to care for her by myself."

Tristan stills. I'd worried he'd get snotty and mention my "sob story," like he had in his office, but apparently he's seeing me now as an actual human being. Even bastards have compassion every so often.

"And then I ran into money trouble. Mom's nursing home was expensive, so I spent most of my advance from the book on that. And although it was a bestseller, I didn't received a penny beyond the advance because the publisher went bankrupt. I've filed a petition in court to claim my share, but it's tied up. And I don't have the cash to pay the attorney to keep on top of the proceedings. So. That's my sob story. It's why I can't write."

He nods slowly while staring at me with those panty-melting blue eyes.

"You'd better find someone else. Sorry to waste your time." I shift my purse to my lap.

His fingertips brush my knee. I think my bones have gone the way of my panties: melted.

"My personal lawyer will call you in the coming days."

"Why?"

"Because I want him to take over your case and claim your royalties from that scoundrel of a publisher. And because I want you to study the contract between us."

I shake my head. "No. Don't you understand? I'm not the person for the job."

"I am not one to coerce. But I feel you should strongly consider this opportunity. Once your money woes vanish, I believe you'll be able to relax. With me. And write."

"It takes your magic wand, um," I stutter, realizing what I'd just said, "Ah, your magic wallet, to make my writer's block go away, hmm?"

He also leans forward, grinning wickedly. "The writer's block angle makes this story all the better. I'll inspire you to want to write. With my magic wand."

I snort and roll my eyes. "You're that confident of your talents, are you?"

He shrugs and gives an adorable little smile.

We sit in silence for a full minute, the low hum of others' conversations and the tension between us filling the air. He's peering at me. I'm focused on his shoes, which are a deep mahogany color, and surely cost more than my rent.

"I'm a virgin." My voice is a near-whisper.

He scoots forward on his chair even more. "Excuse me?"

"I'm a virgin. My debut book was made up of my fantasies." I bite my bottom lip, then release it, all while looking into his impossibly blue eyes. "I've never done any of those things, or anything at all, with a man."

Now it's his turn to be astonished. The look on his face — for once — isn't bossy or self-assured.

He's grinning from ear-to-ear, as if I gifted him a Rolls Royce on Christmas morning.

"Oh my dear Sienna," he murmurs, almost breathless. "You are so perfect."

____