“You don’t leave this building unless I know where you’re going.”

Say what now?

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I didn’t realize I was a prisoner here.”

“You’re not a prisoner; you’re my wife.”

“Apparently that’s the same thing,” I mumble, dropping my gaze to the floor. Because I’m pretty sure if I look at him right now, I might incinerate him with the fire shooting from my eyes.

He lifts his hand, and I flinch before he cups my jaw and lifts my chin. I’m forced to meet his gaze, and open my mouth to spit that same fire, when he says, “Scared the hell out of me to come home to find you gone. I came up with a million different scenarios while I was sitting here, calling your phone over and over. Thought maybe you’d run.”

I blink, the intensity of his gaze unnerving me. “Run?”

“From me.”

I bite my lip. A hint of vulnerability creeps over his features before they harden once more.

“Not that it’d do you any good. I’d track you down. There’s nowhere you could hide from me.”

My eyes widen at his words, and heat rushes through me at the sheer possession in them. I should hate it, but I don’t. Being wanted is a feeling I’m not used to, and it’s seductive.

“I’m not done with you,” he finishes.

And the heat cools, because I can hear the unsaid “yet” floating in the air.

I clutch my notebook to my chest, trying to hide the pang that just jabbed at my heart. I shutter my expression, not wanting him to know that I feel the word he didn’t say. Not wanting him to know that I care. Because I don’t.

This is temporary, I tell myself. We both know it. Embrace it. And then move on.

“I guess it’s handy that I’m not done with you yet, either,” I say. It’s the honest truth. I want more of him before he finally gives me my walking papers.

Creighton loses none of his intensity as he lifts his other hand and frames my face. I think he’s going to lower his mouth and kiss me, but he doesn’t.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asks again, this time much more quietly.

Disappointment fills me. I was actually looking forward to that kiss.

“Holly.”

I snap my attention back to him. “I told you, I needed a guitar. So I went and found one.”

He drops his hands from my face, and I miss his touch as soon as it’s gone. I should dwell on that, but I don’t.

“Shit. I didn’t even think about that.”

“It’s no big deal. I found this little music store. The guy there was awesome. He let me play for as long as I needed.”

Creighton frowned. “You didn’t buy one?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need a new guitar. I have two perfectly good ones waiting for me in Nashville, and I’ll be back there the day after tomorrow. The guy at Rudy’s told me I could come back tomorrow and play if I want.”

Creighton shakes his head. “You’ll have a new one here tomorrow. Just pick it out, and I’ll get someone to deliver it first thing. Your credit cards will be here too.”

Both of these statements floor me. “I don’t need a new guitar. And I don’t need your money either.”

His jaw sets, and his eyes drill into mine. “And yet you’ll have both. This is not a debate. If you don’t pick out a guitar, someone will pick one out for you.”

“Are you ever anything less than completely stubborn and arrogant?”

Creighton’s jaw relaxes as he smiles. “Never.”

“I think you’re way too used to getting everything you want.” I say it without heat, because we both know it’s the truth.

“Of course I am, and right now, I want you naked. I’m going to get that too.”

And there go my panties. “Is that so?” I eye his three-piece suit. “Because you’re certainly not naked.”

He reaches for the knot of his tie and tugs it loose. “That’s about to change.”

Did I think my panties were a lost cause before? Because when he slides the tie from around his neck and wraps it around his fist, knuckles flexing, my nipples tighten.

“Lose the jeans, Holly. I want you bent over the back of the couch so I can fuck you.”

My eyes go wide. I should be used to his bold statements by now, but I’m not. I’m not used to any of this. Not used to him.

He’s . . . too much.

But that doesn’t stop my hands from dropping to the fly of my jeans and unbuttoning them and dragging the zipper down. I shove them off my hips, and almost as if my body isn’t under my own control, I kick them aside. My socks follow, and I walk toward the couch.

“The rest of it too.”

My shirt and white cami are over my head and tossed to the floor in seconds, and I reach behind me for the clasp of my bra and it follows. I tuck my thumbs into the top of my underwear, about to shove them down, when he says, “Stop.”

I freeze.

Creighton’s presence is given away by the heat of his body as he steps within inches of me. I can feel him move, but I’m not sure what he’s doing . . . until I feel his teeth against my ass, separated from my skin only by the fabric of my panties.

“I want a piece of this gorgeous ass. So fucking lush. So fucking tempting.”

I remember what he said in the shower, and I tense. He reads my hesitation—I’m not sure how, but he does.

“Not like that, sweet girl. Soon. But not yet.”

He tugs my underwear down my hips and presses his lips against the spot where he nipped me. His big hand skims up my ass to my lower back, and he pushes me forward. My breasts connect with the cool leather of the sofa, and I gasp at the contact. Which contact, I’m not entirely sure—but I can guess.

A groan from behind me has me lifting my head, but the pressure against my back keeps me otherwise in place.

“Jesus, Holly. That ass . . . I may have to fuck you like this every day.”

Shivers course through me, and I can feel my arousal slicking down my thighs. Creighton’s tongue zeroes in on it and he wastes no time lapping it up, his mouth working between my legs.

I shift uncomfortably. I’ve never done . . . this . . . from this angle, and he’s getting dangerously close to the part of me that has never been touched by a tongue. But Creighton clearly doesn’t share my discomfort.