I'm shattered by his proposal. And his voice. And basically everything about him. I can't stop trembling.

And while he's still looking at me with a mixture of predatory fascination and arrogance, he has the decency to ask for the tab and put tonight out of its misery.

"Let's get you home. We'll take my car."

The waiter brings the check. Tristan opens his wallet and extracts three hundred-dollar bills and sets them in the check holder. Obviously I haven't been out for a while, or prices have gone up, because I didn't think six drinks would cost that much. Yikes.

"No, it's fine, I'll grab an Uber."

"You will do no such thing." He snaps the black check holder closed. The waiter materializes and takes the folio from Tristan.

"Come."

Feeling a little too tipsy to argue, I follow him out of the hotel. My heart's pounding erratically as I try to keep up with him. Outside on the sidewalk, it's blustery and cold, and my hair escapes from its messy bun. I corral my hair in my hands and wrangle it back into its clip.

"Here's the car," Tristan says roughly, placing his hand on the small of my back.

His touch is like an electric shock to my system. I freeze.

"Sienna, please. It's cold and you're not wearing a jacket." He guides me to the car, a large, black Mercedes. There's a driver. Of course there's a driver. He's at the open rear door, standing expectantly.

I slide in and mash my body against the door. Tristan seems so much larger now that we're in an enclosed space together. And he smells delicious, like a almost melted salted caramel. What I wouldn't give to nibble on his skin.

If I agreed to his proposal, I could nibble on his skin. I stare out the window at the front of the Algonquin, thinking about which body part I'd snack on first.

"Sienna," he murmurs, and my head swivels in his direction. "Your address, please."

"Oh! Right." I tell him, and he leans forward and repeats it to the driver.

I'm quiet on the long, traffic-clogged drive from Midtown to Brooklyn. So is Tristan. As I stare out the window at the frenetic city nightlife, I wonder what others would do if they were in my position. That girl there, with the beautiful cream-colored dress and nude heels, looking lost on the corner of Broadway and 36th?

The man with the shaved head and the skinny jeans?

The middle-aged woman with the long sweater, and camouflage leggings?

If an obviously wealthy man asked them to write about their sexual games, would they?

I know the answer: if the price was right, and their debt was high enough, they would say yes. Everyone has a price.

And there are some who would do it for the thrill. For the risk. For the pleasure.

I've only done one thing in my life like that, and it was writing my book. It turned out well, until it didn't. I'd gotten a cool hundred grand for the book, and in New York, that flowed out of my bank account like water down the Hudson.

Now I have another chance. At money, fame, redemption. If Tristan was right — that the novel would almost certainly go viral — I could get back into the publishing game.

I'd claw my way out of this long, dark spiral.

All it takes is a yes.

But it also means having sex with a man who makes me feel like fire's raging in my core.

How awful would it be? I glance at Black's sharp, handsome profile. If he knows I'm staring, he doesn't let on. He looks straight ahead, blinking every so often.

"Well?"

His voice is so low, so unexpected, that I jump.

"Well, what?" I know I sound like a brat, but I don't care.

Will I be able to write another book? Will I be able to do justice to whatever happens between us? Am I good enough to capture in words how he makes me feel?

"What's your answer to my proposal?"

I turn to stare out the window, at all the beautiful clothes I can't afford, the restaurants I've never eaten at. I see couples kissing passionately, something else I've never experienced.

I want to be kissed like that. Will Tristan kiss me slow and deep? Will his kiss leave me breathless and make me forget about all the misery in my life?

God, I hope so. The possibility of that is too alluring. I can't say no.

"I'll do it," I say in a clear, even voice. My left hand is flat on the seat between us, fingers digging into the buttery black leather.

He grins and moves his right hand to cover my own. For the rest of the ride, I breathe from the top of my chest, heart thumping. The warmth from his skin spreads through my body.

The car pulls up to my block, and I yank my hand from his.

"I'll be in touch regarding the details," he says.

When will we start? What do I need to bring to his house? How many words does he want me to write? A cold chill rushes through me. I'm sure he'll tell me exactly what he wants, and more, given how exacting and bossy he is.

"Thank you." I fly out of the car, slamming the door and running upstairs to my apartment.

I will lose my virginity to Tristan Black.

And I can't wait.