Chapter 20

Twenty

As advertised, the car is one hell of a sweet ride, especially once we're out of the city and the highway opens up. "Too fast for you?" Ashton asks an hour or so later as he kicks the speed up over a hundred and ten.

I laugh and shake my head. "For me, no. For the highway patrol? Maybe."

"A woman who likes a fast car. I approve."

I give him that look. "Lots of women like fast cars. But if you really approve, you should let me drive. I bet I could give you a run for your money."

He takes his eyes off the road long enough to glance my way, and though our eyes meet only for a second, what I see there has my pulse racing as fast as that speedometer.

"I think you definitely could," he says. But I'm no longer sure he's talking about driving.

I take a sip of the coffee I've been nursing as a noisy silence hangs between us. A silence in which I hear his voice in my memory: I will own you. I will kiss you, tease you, touch you. When I want. How I want.

"Recline your seat," he orders, his tone as low as that voice in my head.

"It reclines? Isn't this a race car?"

"I mentioned modifications. That's one." He looks at me just long enough to offer a cool smile. "I want my passengers to be comfortable." He pauses, his eyes still on me as we fly down the freeway. "Recline your seat."

There's both heat and command in his tone, and I consider arguing again, but it would be only for show. I made a deal, after all, and this is the price for my three million dollars.

More, I want to.

I want the feel of his fingers on my skin. I want to be awake and aware and aroused.

I want to know that I can handle it.

Most of all, I want to like it.

With Ash, I know that I will.

"Eager," Ash says, once the seat is all the way back, and it's only then that I realize that I've uncrossed my legs. And parted my knees.

I fight the urge to slam them back together, reminding myself that this is safe. This is a deal that I made. That if I say stop, he will. That I have just as much power as he does.

So instead of closing my knees like a vise, I spread them even further. I turn my head as I do and catch him looking at me. I say nothing, but we both know that the way I hold his gaze is the silent equivalent of yes.

Because I am eager, and I'd be a fool to think I could hide that from him.

He puts his hand on my knee, then slowly teases the silky material of Nikki's dress up my thigh. The brush of material against skin is wildly sensual, but it's not what I want. He's touching me through the material, and while that leaves a modicum of safety, it's not safety I crave. Not now. Not while we're flying down the highway with his fingers creeping up my thigh.

"Close your eyes," he says.

"But then I'll miss the view."

He chuckles. Interstate 15 is not known for its view. "Close your eyes. Keep them closed."

This time, I obey without objection. There's no point in protesting. Ashton Stone isn't a fool, and there's no way I can hide my desire. My nipples are hard against the stretchy bodice. And if he ever finishes what he's started, I know he'll find me wet.

I want that. Hell, I crave it. The knowledge that I made this happen. That I'm not being forced. I agreed to these terms, and this journey is as much about what I want as about him. It's exciting. It's freeing.

And, so far, at least, the way his fingertips gently caress my skin isn't even remotely terrifying.

"Tell me what you're thinking." His voice is a whisper, but the command in it is palpable.

"I'm not thinking anything," I lie.

"You're thinking that you like this. Your legs spread. My hand on your skin. Your eyes closed. The motion of the car. It's visceral. Sensual. And you want to beg me to slide my hand up your thigh. To find your core. To tease and touch. To make you hot. To make you beg. And then, finally, to take you over."

I fight a whimper, then manage a soft whisper instead. "No." But it's a lie, and we both know it. I want exactly that, and my body is on fire simply from his words.

But I don't want it yet. Or rather, I want it all. Exactly how he described it. Slow. Sensual. Safe.

I want the sensation to build. I want to feel. I want to want .

I want to go over from the touch of a hand not my own. And when I do, I don't want to be afraid.

As the vibration of the car caresses me, his fingers do the same, easing higher and higher with such infinitesimal slowness that it feels as though we've traveled miles and miles before he's even close to my core. My whole body feels alive. Hungry. Desperate.

And safe.

Now, though, he pulls his hand away, and I can't help my low groan of protest. For the last several miles, I've been forcing myself not to beg him to slide those fingers higher. To tease my clit. To slip inside me. I'm so wet. So needy. And all I crave in the world right now is for his touch to take me over.

So why is he doing the exact opposite of what I want?

I open my eyes, knowing I'm breaking the rules, but not caring.

"Problem?" He takes his eyes off the road, his brows raised in question as amusement dances in those deep blue eyes.

"Nope," I say.

"Good. I need you to do something for me." His voice is casual, but before I can answer, he changes his tone, his words turning low and sensual when he says, "Put your seat back up. Then tug down your bodice."

"What?"

"You heard me."

An odd sensation courses through me. Arousal, yes. But fear, too. All mixed together in a cocktail of trust and longing and pure sensual need.

"Ash, no. Anyone passing on my side of the car will see."

I hadn't raised the protest before. The car's seat—and anything that might be going on down there—would be visible only to a trucker who rode right alongside us. And at the speed Ash is driving, the odds of a truck keeping up are slim. But this is different. My breasts will be right there in the window.

He takes his eyes off the road long enough to rake a heated gaze over me. "So let them see," he says as his fingertip finds my clit, making me arch up in both arousal and surprise. "You're beautiful."

The pure need that races through me is so intense that I squirm against his hand, silently begging him to slip his fingers inside me.

"You're so wet, baby," he says with a tenderness that makes this moment seem truly intimate rather than porny and prurient. "Tell me you like this," he murmurs as he gently strokes my clit.

"Yes." The word is barely breath.

"Good." He slips two fingers inside me. "I like it, too," he says as I rock my hips, silently begging for him to take me over even as his touch steals my thoughts and my reason, leaving me a shell of lust and need.

"Now do what I asked," he murmurs. "The bodice. Down. I want to watch you tease your nipples."

"Ash, no." The protest is genuine, but even so, my pussy tightens around his fingers, my desire trying to win out over my fear. "That wasn't part of our deal."

"Wasn't it?"

"You touching me," I say. "That was the deal. There was nothing about me touching myself."

I can't tell if the small noise he makes is a laugh or frustration. But when he pulls his hand away, it's me who's frustrated.

"Fair enough." He returns his hand to the steering wheel.

I want to cry. Mostly, I want to laugh. I haven't been this turned on—or had this much fun with a man—since… well, since ever.

There were boyfriends before Rory, sure. But mostly there'd been school and work and just… dates. No sparks. No real heat. I'd liked sex, but it had never been like this.

"Fine," I say, hoping I sound perturbed rather than turned on. I bite my lower lip, and then, slowly, I tug the bodice down to free my breasts. My nipples are hard and sensitive, and I close my eyes as I tease them, letting the sensations wash over me, waiting for his fingers to slip inside me again and send me tumbling into that sweet oblivion.

"Baby, you are making me so hard."

The words are like a caress, and I feel my core tighten, my body begging for more.

"Go ahead," he says. "You know what you want."

A whisper of fear washes over me, but I ignore it. Instead, I slide one hand down over the silky material of the dress. It's still ruched up high on my thighs, and I tease it up a bit more, then slide my hand over my shaved pussy until my fingertip finds my clit and my body trembles from the rush of pure, sensual electricity.

I bite my lower lip, then glance over at Ash. His body is tense, his eyes on the road, but he's adjusted the mirror so that it reflects me rather than the highway behind us. And the hand that had earlier been touching me is now slowly stroking his cock.

A wild needs cuts through me, so intense that I feel my core clench and my nipples tighten. I fight the urge to squirm. To find the release I'm craving.

"Don't fight it," he says. "Take yourself over."

"Ash." I'm sure he can hear the need in my voice. I'm lost in a sea of lust. I barely even know myself in this moment, and I'm not sure if he's tormenting me or saving me.

I want to do it. I crave the release.

And yet I see the truck approaching on the right, another one following close behind.

"Trust me," he says, the heat in his voice pushing back the tendrils of fear. "The way you look now is only for me."

"And how do I look?"

He turns his attention away from the road only long enough to skim a glance over me. "Powerful."

The word envelops me, somehow more sensual than any other word he could have chosen. And yet I still feel unsure. Inadequate somehow. "Powerful?" I whisper. "Not sexy or beautiful?"

I want to cringe from the neediness in my voice, but if he hears it, he makes no indication. Instead, he simply says, "Power is sexy. Power is beauty. You're both, Brianna. Don't you know that?"

I blink, forcing myself not to cry. I tell myself I'm just overwhelmed. There's a ransom on my privacy, after all. And I'm selling myself to pay for it. Of course, I'm stressed. Of course, tears will flow.

But the tears aren't stress, and I know it, even if I don't want to think it. The tears are joy. Because Ash sees me. All of me.

I gasp out a choked little sound as I realize that I now understand what Rory and his cohorts took away from me. That this is what I'd never had. And without Ash—without someone stepping in and taking control — I never would have understood that I want to surrender. Not because I'm forced to. But because I need to.

But only to the right man.

Right now, that man is Ash.

With a start, I realize that this may be the first time I've truly owned what I want. I'd had sex before I was taken, of course. But I'd always let the guy lead. Though perhaps let isn't the right word. There'd never seemed to be a choice.

With Ash, it's different. Because even though our deal is that he has me however he wants me, right now, I'm the one with the power.

And what an odd feeling that is.

For a moment, I simply look at him. He takes his eyes off the road long enough to glance my direction, one eyebrow raised in that sexy way he has. "I believe you have your orders."

I do. And as the trucks come closer and closer, I shut my eyes and slip two fingers inside myself.

I tease my clit and imagine it's Ash touching me. Ash kissing me. Ash fucking me.

"Bree."

My name is barely a whisper, but it sends sparks dancing over my body, his whisper of my name even more intense than my touch.

He cups his hand over mine, his fingers curling over to stroke my clit, and I groan. I'm so close. So very close, and I want to explode like this. His hand on mine as we careen down this highway, the power of this car humming all around us.

Instead, he gently pulls my hand away, then tugs down my skirt. "Top up," he says.

"Ash, I?—"

He just points, and I maneuver the seat so that I'm sitting upright again. That's when I realize that the sun has already slipped behind the horizon, and we're pulling in front of the valet stand at the Stark Century Hotel & Casino.

"Ash! What the hell?" I'm beyond mortified, certain that every valet who works there and every person standing nearby had just gotten and up-close-and-personal view of me with my top down and my skirt up.

"My property," he says, and all my warm fuzzy feelings turn to ice.

"That didn't mean—" But I cut off my words as a valet opens the door and offers me a hand to help me out. I take it, then search the valet's face for a smirk or a leer. Nothing . Which means he wasn't paying attention or he's very well-trained.

Since it's a Stark hotel, I assume the latter.

But none of the guests mingling nearby are smirking either.

I'm not mollified, though.

Over the car, I see Ash say something to the valet before he circles the car to slide up beside me. As he hooks an arm around my shoulder, I elbow him in the side and step out of his embrace.

He just laughs.

"It isn't funny," I say, whipping around to face him, only to find him indicating the car, where I see the valet slide into the passenger side and close the door.

I frown. When do valets enter on the passenger side?

I scowl, trying to peer through the glass to see what he could possibly be doing, but I can't see a thing through the window tint. I turn to Ash, intending to ask what the valet is doing and what we're waiting for when the reality hits me with the force of a slap.

We're waiting for me to get a clue.

Ash wasn't exposing me to the world. The world couldn't see me.

The fear that maybe they had, though....

Some deep and buried part of me has to admit to feeling a little bit of a thrill from being on display.

I don't, however, have to admit it to Ash.