“What do you do for fun?” she asks. It’s all I can do not to spit out my water in surprise. Fun? There’s been nothing fun about my life. Not until she breezed into it. But even amid the fun element of our relationship, which is basically me bending her to my will in the bedroom, there’s stress and mood swings and a whole pile of other unexpected feelings. But there’s also a heartbeat inside of me. There’s a purpose. I would question if it’s too soon to share that with her.

If I hadn’t heard her drunkenly confess her love.

Has she thought more about it? Has she concluded she does love me, and more importantly, while she’s sober?

I consider the glass of wine in her hold. What do I do for fun? I peek up, finding her waiting patiently for a reply. It seems, Miss O’Shea, that for fun, I stalk my interior designer and bend her to my will. “Fuck you.”

She can’t contain her shock. “You like power in the bedroom.”

Not at all. I like power over you. It’ll keep the insanity you spike in check. “I do.”

“Are you a dominant?” She rushes over her words, and I cough with a mouthful of water, having to grab the napkin and wipe my chin. A dominant? What does she know of dominants? Where the fuck did that come from? I’ve no clue, but surely it’s a lead into something that needs addressing.

Like the fact I have a mammoth building full of dominants. I’m not one of them. Truthfully, I’m always too under the influence to play like that. It requires control and trust, and it would be too much to expect a woman to trust me when I’m ten sheets to the wind. Fuck, how do I approach this?

“Ava, I don’t need that sort of arrangement to get a woman to do what I want her to do in the bedroom.” I’m full of shit. Because, ironically, I need that kind of arrangement with Ava to get her to do anything. One touch, and she’s mine to bend, whether it’s her body or her mind.

“You’re very controlling,” she says coolly, but her eyes betray her, and she glances away.

“Look at me,” I order, and she does. Immediately. I need to be crystal clear with her. I want her to know this kind of behavior from me is unheard of. She’s special. Unique. The only thing in this world who seems to be able to control me, and she is blissfully unaware of that. “Only with you.”

Is that a pleased glint in her eye? “Why?”