“Mmmhmm, and naturally I want someone I already know. You.”
Me—the same wardrobe girl who was banned from ever working on the set of a Your Toxic Sequel anything ever again. The same girl who’d shot him down after he tried to convince her to be bound to his bed.
The same girl he still wants to bind.
“You want me to work for you because you just want to have sex with me,” I snarl. Blowing out a noisy breath, I continue, “You can call me a personal assistant all you want, but this is because of sex. So why not just ask me to screw you?”
He smiles that unsettling smile that makes me question my sanity for still being near him. The same smile that also makes me wonder why I'm not throwing my body into his arms right this instant. Because of what he’ll do to you, that little voice in the back of my head warns me. He’ll take everything and won't give a damn thing in return.
“I told you already,” he says. “This is work of the non-sexual variety.”
“And where does my grandma's house come into play?”
“Isn’t it obvious? It’ll be your paycheck. You play my game for ten days, I give you the house.”
The sip of water I’m swallowing goes down the wrong way, and I choke on it, clutching at my chest. He moves closer, his face wrinkled with concern. Gasping, I manage to assure him that I’m fine. Then I squeeze the bridge of my burning nose as I try to give his words a chance to fully register.
He wants me to work for him. In exchange for Gram’s house.
Ho-ly f**k.
“Are you smoking crack?” I demand, in a rough voice I’ve never even heard myself use before. His eyebrows arch, and the corners of his lips quirk up. “That’s not even—is that even plausible? That would have to be the most idiotic business decision ever.”
Chuckling, he places his elbows on the table and links his fingers together so that he can lean his chin against his hands. The sleeves of his gray and black Henley roll up just slightly and I find my eyes drawn to the tattoo on his left wrist, an ornate skeleton key surrounded by barbs.
“It’s just a house,” he says. I hope he doesn’t see the way I flinch just slightly. But inside, I feel like he’s reeled back and slapped me across my face with every ounce of force he’s capable of. What’s merely a house for him is something else entirely to my grandmother, to me and Seth. “It’s just money,” he adds, with a nonchalant shrug of his broad shoulders. His unruly hair brushes his neck.
“A lot of it,” I hiss. “It’s a lot of money.”
“And I have a lot more of it. I’ve blown what I spent on your grandmother’s house on parties and strippers and booze in a month.”
For some reason, I’m not at all surprised if not more than a little disgusted. Shaking the thought of him raining enough money to buy a home on a spray-tanned pole dancer named Candi, I say in an even tone, “But what do you have to gain by this? If you don’t want me to have sex with you, why make this kind of offer?”
“Do you know what I realized about you?” he asks, seemingly changing the subject. When I don’t answer, he keeps talking, “You are infuriatingly submissive to everyone around you . . . except me.”
And it hits me. Why he kicked me out of his house two years ago. Why he wants me right now. I am a challenge. “You want me to submit to you,” I whisper, and I’m not sure if I’m disgusted or turned on.
“I want you to do it willingly, yes,” he says.
“And if I say no?”
“Then you finish your dinner, and leave, no strings attached.”
“Except I won’t get the house.”
He ignores my statement, offering the servers who bring our next course—shrimp and steak—a crowd-winning smile. From the way they’re looking at him, they’ve got to know who he is and that he’s using this restaurant as a setting for shady business deals. By the way they keep their eyes down and say very little, I don’t think they’re about to put up a complaint about what he’s doing. He’s probably paid them well for minimal interruption and autographed napkins for them.
I push my food around the plate with my fork. I’ve lost my appetite and all I want to do is finish this so I can go home and take a shower. Yet, I hear myself ask, “You won’t make me have sex with you?”
God, why am I even questioning him? I should be running away, not continuing the conversation. Everything about this conversation just screams escort.
Lucas’s lips curl in a sneer. “I don’t have to pay girls to sleep with me, Sienna, and I’m not going to start with you. I just want you with me, for ten days, answering to my every need. My band’s coming so we can record the last couple songs for the new album. I’m doing a documentary with a film crew. Going to a birthday party where I’ll perform in Atlanta for a very close friend. I need someone to keep me organized.”
“And that person is me because you want to make me your little—”
He leans forward, pressing one finger over my mouth. Instinct kicks in and I try to lick my lips, grazing his flesh instead. “Assistant,” he says. “And yes, it is you. It’s always been you. You do this for me, I hand you the deed to the house and your grandmother doesn’t get evicted. I’ll go back to California and everyone will be happy.”
“And no making me do sexual favors?” I ask one final time.
His lips curl up into a hungry smile and I know there’s a caveat. “Oh, we’ll f**k Sienna. Believe me, it’s been bound to happen since I first laid eyes on you. But this time it’s going to be because you beg me. Not the other way around. And when you do beg me, it’s because you’re consensual and ready to completely give yourself to me.”