At His Command

AT HIS COMMAND - Chapter Four

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.