At His Command

AT HIS COMMAND - Chapter Seven

I can't stop talking about the musical in the car.

"The storytelling was amazing!"

Tristan smiles triumphantly. "I'm happy you enjoyed."

"I'm sure you've seen it a million times."

"Actually, no. That was my first time."

"Really?" I blink in astonishment, and he smirks. "Surely you've had the chance."

He nods. "I have, but I work a lot. When I'm not working, I like to be home. I'm a homebody."

That's when I realize: we're headed to his house. Going to the play was a way to make us — me? — more comfortable before the main event.

Maybe he's not such a bossy bastard after all.

The car stops, and I glance out the window. I immediately recognize the landmark. "You do not live here."

"I do."

Oh. My. God. Tristan lives at The Dakota, which is probably New York City's most famous apartment building. It's where John Lennon was shot in the eighties. The views of Central Park are legendary — not like I'd know, since I've only ever walked past it on my way to the park.

I'd once read in The Times that prospective owners must submit years of tax records to even be considered as tenants. Cher and Madonna were reportedly rejected from The Dakota's co-op board.

And now I'm strolling into the lobby, clutching Tristan's arm. A concierge greets him by name and presses the button for the elevator.

When we're alone on our ride to his floor, I turn my gaze to him, my eyes huge as dinner plates. He's still displaying that annoyingly sexy, shit-eating grin.

"That concierge?"

"Yes? His name is James."

"Was he wearing white gloves?"

"Indeed he was." Tristan pulls me a little closer.

I am obviously on a different planet here. My heart slams against my ribcage as the elevator stops. He tugs me out and into Apartment 46.

Holy crap. My gaze sweeps around the room, decorated in a formal and eclectic modern baroque. It's masculine and sexy all at once, and I picture myself lying on the golden-hued lounger while Tristan's body moves against mine.

Between the high ceilings, the ornate fireplace and the heavy panting...

Wait. What?

A loud snort echoes through the perfectly decorated sitting room, and I wetness coats my hand. I glance down and cry out.

"Oh, you have a dog!"

Next to me is a muscular, beautiful canine creature that looks a little like a red lion.

"That's Ozzy. Ozzy Pawsborne. He's a chow."

I kneel and Ozzy's black tongue licks my arm. The dog's fuzzy face and his goofy name makes me squeal with laughter. I adore dogs, but Mom and I never had the money or the time to care for one. "So that's why you asked on the paperwork if I was allergic to animals."

"It is." He pauses. "Ozzy, go to your cubby."

I look up and realize I'm on my knees at Tristan's feet. He's grinning. Oh. Right. We're supposed to have sex soon. As much as I want to, I'm so nervous my hands are trembling.

Slowly I stand, and Ozzy lopes off.

"Come, I'll show you to your room. Since it's late, we'll do the official tour tomorrow."