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My back hits the wall, and my hands are pinned above my head. The assault of his tongue and lips at my neck, under my ear, and down to my collar bone drive me mad. I squirm until he places a knee between my thighs. I spread for him, using his leg to rub against like some teenager.

“Ayla.” The desire in my name on his tongue is my undoing.

When his lips meet mine, I’m gone. The man kisses like he owns the world, like he owns me... and my body.

He devours me. And the moan that rips from me is fuel on his fire.

His lips trail to my ear as fingers on one hand press under the swell of my breasts, down my sides, leaving fire and desire in their wake.

“Let me make you feel good.”

The thrumming between my legs is demanding my attention, but I can’t acquiesce.

“Christian.” My voice sounds desperate, but it’s not for his touch. It’s panic. “Stop.” I shove against his shoulders, but he doesn’t retreat.

Nor does he push harder. His face drops to my neck, and he speaks quietly there, his voice full of anguish. “Princess.”

My breaths are coming in pants and I’m fighting the rising anxiety of being pinned to the wall.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please step back.” My voice breaks on the words, and I fight to keep my self-control.

He takes a large step back, his hand trailing down my arm as he goes as if fighting not to lose the connection.

On his second step back, I slide down the wall, ass to ankles, and press my face between my knees.

I need all the space I can get to breathe and quell the terror that spiked at the out-of-control kiss.

After several long moments, my body is lifted off the ground and carried to the wall of windows. He sits, me in his lap, wrapped loosely in his arms. So loose in fact, it’s not an embrace, but a safety measure for me not to roll off and hurt myself. Or at least that’s how it feels.

“I’m sorry.” I am. I’m so sorry at the state of my fucked-up life, at my heart that knows fear and at my mind that can’t piece together my thoughts and feelings. “Are you okay?”

He shakes his head. “No, Princess. But I will be, because we will be.” He takes my right hand and kisses my wedding ring there and interlaces our fingers. “Are you okay? ”

“I will be.”

“You will be. You’re the strongest woman I know. So, what do you think of the room?”

I take it in. The white walls, save the one dark one with the print front and center, surrounded by a gilded frame, somehow highlighting the moose’s staring eyes. The lone bright blue velvet sofa that we’re sitting on is near the windows. A minimalist white desk is placed to one side.

“I love it.” It comes out as a whisper.

“I’ll show you some cool details about it later, but we came up here for some equipment, remember?”

Our lips are a hair’s breadth away from each other.

“I remember.” But instead of pulling away, I lift my chin and kiss him slow and tentative, leading for once. We’ve been touchy twice in less than twenty-four hours. I wasn’t prepared for it either time and don’t need to court danger by touching him. I pull back before things go too far.

Yes, he’s hot. Yes, his tongue is wicked. Yes, technically and legally, I’m his wife, but for me, this is a twenty-four-hour live-in relationship with a man whose middle name I don’t even know.

I drop my forehead to his chest. It is the least threatening option as I’m still in his lap.

“So, if I were equipment, where would I be?” I wonder aloud, feeling his grip loosen and turning to get out of his lap. He sets me on my feet and points. To my left, around the corner, just out of sight of the room’s entry is a bookcase with glass doors. Inside are several of my cameras.

Not my favorites, but they’ll do for tomorrow.

I grab one SLR, four lenses, and a bag to place them in.

“What time did you want to leave in the morning?” His rich voice is soft from the sofa.

“I don’t need shots at dawn. What do you think of beating morning rush and leaving here around six?”

“That works. I’ll leave you to it up here. I’m going to finish up some work. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

“Christian?” I call to his retreating back as he heads for the hall .

His face is open when he turns back to me. “Yeah, Princess?”

“I’m leaving coffee to you in the morning. I’ll watch but…”

His lips tip in a half-smile. “Will do.”

He turns to leave the room, and I watch in fascination and half-present lust. His ass is a work of art. It’s firm and fills out those trousers like they were cut to fit.

His powerful legs tug against the fabric as he walks. From the back, his shirt tucked into his pants accentuates his lean, powerful waist.

His gait is steady and sure. He could own the world for the confidence he takes in those strides.

No doubt, he could own me too.

The day unfolds as I assume many have. A delicious dinner prepared by Corinne and an extra hour or two of work for Christian.

I take a long luxurious bath and, instead of scrolling socials—which could answer so many burning questions I have—I dig through the studio’s web site. It feels vain or self-congratulatory, but I’m happy with what I see and proud of myself for accomplishing it.

I’ve never been one to be flashy with my talent. I might as well be bragging about eyesight. I don’t sculpt it or paint it, much less create it. I just see it . The scene unfolds for every eye to see. I just so happen to freeze a frame in time for those who weren’t there.

But these shots weren’t created by an amateur, and they make the viewer feel the environment at the moment of capture.

I’ve made it. And not in terms of money or power or prestige, because, frankly, I have no clue about any of that aside from one write-up in Mile High and that could’ve been purchased, but because I like what I see in the work I’m producing.

I should know, though, about the business side. I need to ask Christian or Lauren or both. My fear is that I run the show and that I’ll have to do some forensic accounting shit to figure out the books. God help me if that’s the case. I hate accounting.

Mom always supported a career in the arts. She’s more right-brained and married my dad young. She is a kept woman, but that was before people thought badly of it, back when a woman scored if a man could provide for her. She does social things, does charity work, and manages their home.

I never expected that for my life. Not the charity work part, but the married to someone who makes the money and not have to work part. Not want to work part.

Which works out since Dad wouldn’t have tolerated me being an artist full time.

I have the BS in business administration from CU-Denver to prove it.

He’d said, “No daughter of mine’s going to be taken advantage of.

” Secretly, though, I suspect he wanted me in the family business and the degree of his choice at a school he required and paid for was his way of greasing the tracks into day-in, day-out misery for me.

Stifled creativity, desk job, inside four walls, consistent meetings and persistent chatter—the recipe for sending me out of my mind and straight into a low-grade depression.

But my dad’s a force to be reckoned with, and he insisted. So this University of Colorado graduate can do the accounting audit, even if I don’t want to.

I scroll the shots until the eye strain or the constant blue light is painful and I have to set my phone aside.

I have so many questions. And while I haven’t been awake for two weeks yet, I feel so untethered without answers.

Tomorrow morning on our way into the mountains, the hot air balloons will be lifting off just south of town. We’ll see them just off the horizon as we drive.

Untethered is okay when the journey is quick and safe. Like the books at the gallery… I’m okay with not having those answers today.

But my situation here? Not knowing if I’m financially independent, not knowing if we talked about kids, or if I’m being controlled or gas lighted? That untethered is more like free fall.

And right-brained or no, free fall is terrifying.

“Morning, baby. Do you want to snooze or get out of town early?” The kind voice is accompanied by a kiss to the crown of my head.

I moan at the idea of getting up when I’m warm and safe and cocooned in bed.

I’m lying here atop a warm hard body and freeze when my bare leg runs up and down a solid masculine one.

“I— I didn’t mean to sprawl all over you.” I adjust the arm over his torso and move to pull away, but his around me goes tight to keep me in place.

One swift ab crunch and he presses his lips to mine in a quick peck, before lying back on the pillow. “I’m not complaining.”

I make the mistake of looking down, and my eyes slam shut.

“Princess, you’re not five. Closing your eyes so you can’t see me doesn’t mean I can’t see you. And I like what I see.” He casually strokes a hand up and down my spine. “You touching me, climbing me, your fiery hair untamed and natural. But mostly, the look in your eyes.”

My eyes fly to his, and I bite my bottom lip.

“Baby, if you want me to fuck you, keep that up.”

His phones dances on the nightstand in vibration.

“Ignore it.” It’s his phone. Why is he telling me to ignore it?

When it begins again, he sighs and reaches for his device, flipping it to speaker phone.

“Fitz.”

“Mr. Barone?”

“Yes?”

“Sir. Mr. Murphy is in your driveway.”

“Please tell him Mrs. Barone is unavailable.”

“I did, sir. He said he’s here until she sees him.”

“Show him into my office. Wait with him until I get there.”

He turns to me. “Let me see what your dad wants. I’ll make the coffees. We can still leave in—” He looks back at his phone. “Thirty minutes work for you?”

“I’ll be ready faster than that.”

“How long can I stay in here before your dad gets the hint?”

“You know better than that. The man’s stubborn as a mule and will take it as a personal challenge to outwait us.”

"Us.” His word is quiet but firm as he leaves the bed, and I realize my mistake.

I want to hide, but more so, I want to head up into the foothills and be surrounded by the beauty that waits for me.

And I want it enough to deal with both of the stubborn men who are somewhere in this house not getting their ways.

I want it enough to get past the embarrassment of sprawling all over the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I want it enough that I can shrug off the “us” comment that made me sound like one half of a couple instead of just Ayla.

Just Ayla who is trying to face demons that are wisps of smoke and real men who are anything but.