“I don’t have to share my reasons with you. I’m the wallet in this deal, remember?”

Yeah. That wasn’t the response I was looking for. Definitely not. Heat crawled up my neck to infuse my cheeks.

“I’m not a call girl. I’m not your mistress. So stop trying to treat me like one.”

“See, you’re doing it again. You’re twisting it into something it isn’t.”

I clenched my teeth. “I’m not moving into your fucking apartment.”

His expression did not change and he didn’t even move. “Tell me why not.”

“I don’t have to share my reasons with you,” I mimicked his words back to him.

“Because you think it means I’m treating you like a mistress?”

I tensed, thinking of my mother’s story. One with a sad ending for someone I loved most in the world. She was young, fresh and naïve. She thought she’d found the man of her dreams. Turned out he’d only used her and then discarded her, leaving her to fend for herself and a baby besides. My hands squeezed my upper arms and I blinked.

“The Biological Sperm Donor did the exact same thing. And that’s exactly what it meant when he did. To make sure my mother was always under his thumb until he was done with her.”

His expression changed, just slightly, as if understanding dawned. Then he shook his head. “I’m not him.”

“I know.”

“No, I really don’t think you do.” Then he lifted his hand to my face, touching my cheek, then back to my ear, until he trailed a finger down my neck to my collarbone. His touch was ice and flame. Thrilling. I trembled under his hand.

He felt it, his eyes darkening. He bent his head until our faces were inches from each other. “I’m never going to give up, you know.”

I tilted my head toward his, our lips less than an inch apart. I peered into his eyes. “Neither am I.” Then I grabbed his tie and pulled his mouth to mine.

When our lips met, it was explosive, a clash of wills, of unrealized anticipation. His hands moved to my shoulders and he pushed me toward the nearest wall, pinning me between it and his hard body, never removing his mouth from mine.

His lips, his tongue devoured me. His body, every delicious, solid contour of it, imprisoned me. His hands slipped from my shoulders, moved down my arms to encircle my wrists. With this hold he pinned my hands against the wall to either side of my head.

I pressed against the resistance—not struggling to break free, but to test the strength of his hold. His hands pushed against mine, then he laced his fingers through mine, fusing our palms flat against each other and holding my hands, like he held my body, against the wall. His tongue explored my mouth, his head moving against mine.

When our lips finally parted, our breath came in short, needy gulps. He pulled back just far enough to pin me down with his stare. “I’m in control, Emilia. Don’t forget it,” he said in a voice like steel.

I was about to reply when he cut me off, sealing his mouth on mine again. I halfheartedly tried to free my hands and he held them fast, his fingers tightening around mine. Like a wildfire catching on dry grass after a hot California summer, scorching heat raced through me.

He pulled away again. “I say when this is through. And I don’t have to tell you my reasons.”

“You asked for one more night. I’ll give it to you. But after that—” He cut me off again, kissing me forcefully. Arousal glowed red-hot deep inside me and his stirred to life against my abdomen.

With an abrupt jerk, he retreated, loosening his hold on my hands. I could free them easily if I wanted to, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to think. I wanted to surrender to the feelings inside me—the ones screaming for control. But like he’d insisted—he was in control, if only for this moment, by pulling himself away. By depriving me of more of his succulent mouth.

He swallowed. “Next week I’m going to the Caribbean on business. I want you to come with me.”

I finally remembered to breathe again. “For some chaste sightseeing, amusing dinner conversation and coitus interruptus?”

The dark eyes glittered, but whether with annoyance or suppressed amusement, I couldn’t tell. “You’ve promised me one more night.”

I knew he had something up his sleeve. He was maneuvering something. My heartbeat buffeted every pulse point in my body.

“That’s more than one night,” I whispered.

His eyes darted a challenge into mine. “Yes.”

“And what happens afterward?” I barely managed to get out.