He doesn't move for a long time. He just holds me there, still buried inside me, his breath warm on my skin.
When he finally lets go of my wrists, he pulls me against his chest, tucking me under his chin like I'm something precious.
I lie there, stunned, every nerve ending on fire.
After a minute, I find my voice. "You're really freaking me out tonight."
He huffs a laugh, stroking my hair. "You're the one who said you never had a chance."
I snort, too tired to argue. "You're still a monster."
"Always," he says. But his hands never stop moving, always touching, always keeping me close.
We lie like that until I drift off, his body a perfect cage around me.
For the first time in years, I don't dream of the accident. I don't even dream of Asher. I just dream of floating, weightless, in the space between night and morning, held safe by arms that have only ever known how to hurt.
I wake to sunlight slicing through the glass, a square of white-hot light branding me across the belly. For a second, I don't know where I am. Then I remember the flight to LA and Asher's bed. The night before is a blur of sex and the kind of tenderness that feels like a trick.
Asher's not next to me, but I smell coffee. A second later, the sound of someone typing drifts through the open door.
I find him at the kitchen table in a pair of sweats and nothing else. His body is hard and dangerous, covered in old scars and newer bruises.
He looks up when I enter, tracking me with eyes as dangerous as they are beautiful. Hints of last night's softness still linger in their depths, but his usual mask is firmly back in place this morning. I don't mind. I think I understand him more now than I ever have. He needs to hide behind that mask. It's the only place he truly feels safe, like he's in control. And no one makes him feel as out of control as I do.
"Eat," he orders, nodding at the marble countertop where someone has left a spread of fruit, eggs, and bread.
"Did you hire a chef?" I ask, snagging a strawberry and popping it in my mouth.
"I don't trust LA food," he grunts. "I cook for myself when I'm here."
Of course he does. The flex would annoy me if I weren't so damn hungry.
He types for another minute, then shuts the laptop with a snap. "You planning to wear that?" he asks, eyeing my T-shirt like he's thinking about burning it.
I shrug. "I haven't had time to get dressed."
He stands, stretching, then walks out of the room. He returns a moment later with a hanger draped in a garment bag.
"Wear this. No panties," he says, dropping it on the table. "You know the drill."
I unzip the bag to find a navy slip dress…the kind that will show every inch of skin. I want to argue about wearing it, but he's already striding toward the bedroom.
The ride takes well over an hour. Asher makes me sit right next to him in the back seat, our thighs pressed together, his hand on my knee the entire time.
Every bump in the road sends the hem of my dress sliding higher up my thigh. He doesn't say a word, but every so often, his hand creeps just a little farther north, as if to remind me that he can touch me whenever he wants.
The showcase is at one of those massive hotels that's all glass and chrome. The lobby is a crush of bodies and nervous energy. Everyone here is desperate, except Asher, who stalks through the crowd like a panther.
He pulls me through a corridor of mirrors and gold trim, then into the main ballroom. I almost laugh at the decadence of it—long tables groaning with catered food, a full bar open at nine a.m., a stage set up at one end where hopefuls are already lining up for their chance to be discovered.
It's chaos, but Asher carves a path through the center without even saying a word. Every head turns as we pass. Some people nod, some flinch, but all of them get out of the way.
He keeps his palm on my lower back, steering me with the gentlest pressure. I'm honest enough with myself to admit that I like it. I feel safe when he touches me, in a way that's foreign. There is no such thing as safety in this world, not really, but his hand on me is the closest I've ever come.
A woman with a short bob and a tablet approaches. "Mr. Blackstock, your table is ready," she says, glancing at me, then back at him. She doesn't even try to hide her curiosity.
"Thank you, Mel," Asher says. "We'll be at the table in ten."
