Page 34 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

I laugh. “You’re awfully demanding.”

“And apparently you like it,” she says, brushing past me to her dresser.

I run a hand down my face. My life is built on discipline and control. This woman is going to dismantle every bit of it before she’s done with me.

Chapter 12

Katie

I’m once again sitting in Michael’s sleek black sports car, only this time we drive right through Auburn Heights. He tells me we need to go back to his place to get a change of clothes. I don’t argue. Mostly because I’m extremely curious to see where Michael Amato lives.

He’s a billionaire CEO. I know it’s going to be fucking ridiculous.

His hand is resting firmly on my bare thigh because he told me to wear a dress. Apparently, I just obey him now. He walked into my closet, looked around for maybe three seconds, grabbed a dress, and tossed it onto the bed.

“This one.”

It’s light blue with tiny little white flowers all over it. The top fits snug, and the skirt falls into this floaty shape that moves when I walk.

It’s sweet, it’s pretty, and apparently, it’s the dress Michael Amato decided I should wear today.

“You are going to love the crepes at The Orchid Room,” he says as he gets off the freeway.

“The Orchid Room, huh?”

The Orchid Room at Amato Plaza—his hotel. The one with his fucking name on it.

He glances over and narrows his eyes. “Heard of it?”

“Are you a narcissist?” I ask sweetly.

His head falls back, and he laughs—loud enough that it fills the car. My stomach does a little flip, and before I can stop it, a smile slips across my face. I place my hand over his where it rests on my thigh and squeeze.

“You like me?” he asks.

He’s not being smug or teasing me. He’s just curious.

“Very much,” I say.

He bites his lip and grins.

Fuck me.

Michael turns off the road, and the car rolls onto a long stretch of smooth pavement that disappears into a wall of trees. We drive for maybe thirty seconds before I see them—gates. Tall wrought-iron bars framed by massive stone pillars tower above the car. They’re the kind you only see in movies about billionaires and dictators.

The car slows, and the gates glide open. I stare at them as we roll forward.

“Michael.”

“Yes, Doll.”

“Why does your house have gates?”

“Security.”

“Security for what?”

“Did you forget that I’m a billionaire?” he smirks.