Page 61 of Wicked Heat

But he doesn’t ask. All he says is, “You’ll have your money. But I’m cutting the strings.”

The words flow through me like warm whiskey, welcome and a little intoxicating. But still a crutch.

I tug my hands from his as I shake my head. “I need that money,” I say, my eyes on the floor. “But I’m not taking charity.”

Gently, he uses a fingertip to tilt up my chin. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

I shake my head. Then I stand up. I roll my shoulders back and take a deep breath. I can do this. I was surprised, that’s all. But I can do this.

I have to.

“Say it again,” I demand.

His brow furrows, then he slowly shakes his head.

“That word. Say it again.”

He’s silent.

“Dammit, Ash. You had conditions. That’s the deal I agreed to.” I feel tears sting my eyes, and I will not cry. I will not let the way that my kidnappers tormented me fuck me up. I will do my part, and Ash is going to play his part, too, or else I’m going to kick his extremely fine ass. “Say it.”

He looks at me, and I can’t read a thing on his face. The he lifts his chin, and his eyes lock on mine when he says it: “Strip.”

I wait for it—the second rush of fear, of disgust, of loathing for what they did to me, and terror from all the rest I still don’t know. I haven’t even had the courage to look at those Greatest Hits yet, after all. But the rush doesn’t come. I’m not in that room. I’m in the Stark guest house. It may not be my home anymore, but it’s a warm, familiar place.

And I’m with Ash. A man with a wicked reputation and a past laced with more than a little danger. A man who plays with his little brother and sisters on the floor of their playroom. Who laughed with me over drinks in a socked-in airport.

A man who put sexual conditions on the three million dollars I desperately need. Who agreed not to ask me why I need the money.

A man who didn’t hesitate to withdraw those conditions when he got his first look at my pain.

In other words, I’m safe.

Slowly, I peel off my shirt. I look at him, expecting to see victory in his eyes, but I don’t. Like his father, Ash is an expert at hiding his emotions when he wants to. Right now, all he does is indicate that I should continue. I do, toeing off my shoes and then stripping off my pants. I don’t bother trying to look graceful. These are terms. Not a seduction. And I’m left standing there in my lacy bra and hipster panties. Just one more commodity in the trade.

The dress is on the floor where I dropped it. It’s pale blue and strapless, with a bodice made of stretchy material.

When I start to put it on, he shakes his head. “Take off the bra.”

I almost argue, just for form. A bra doesn’t work with that dress, after all. I was just keeping it on until the very last minute.

But that’s not the real reason I stay silent. As much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I like this game. Before, I felt like a victim, desperately scrambling for money. Now—even though I’m undressing at the whim of a man who’s paying me to submit so that I can pay off a sick fuck who’s blackmailing me—I feel powerful.

That probably makes me delusional. At the very least, it makes me screwed up.

But I figure that’s better than terrified.

The bottom line is that I trust Ash. And considering the very big hoop he’s making me jump through, that’s pretty remarkable.

Once the dress is on, I move to where he’s sitting on the bed and turn around, as if I’m in a fashion show. “Done,” I say as I start to step into my sandals, but he grabs a chunk of the skirt and holds me in place.

“Not quite,” he says, then starts to hitch up my skirt.

“What are you⁠—”

“Shhh,” he says, and I go quiet. It hardly matters. I know what he’s doing. He’s going to touch me.

And damned if I don’t want him to.