He Knows When You’re Awake: A Naughty or Nice Novel

by Alta Hensley

“You know normal people just ask women out for coffee, right?” Knox follows me through my office, past walls of awards and acquisitions that suddenly seem meaningless compared to the portfolio Sloane carries everywhere. “They don’t orchestrate elaborate meet-cutes involving property damage.” “Since when have I ever been normal?”

What she doesn’t realize is every closed door has been leading her exactly where I want her. To me.

He’s gorgeous. Tall, with dark hair and eyes that seem to look right through me. But it’s not just his looks. There’s an aura of power around him, like he’s used to commanding every room he enters. And right now, those penetrating brown eyes are fixed solely on me.

“Earth to Sloane,” Chloe says, waving a hand in front of my face. “You’re thinking about Mr. Expensive Scotch, aren’t you?” I feel my face heat. “No, I was just . . . okay, maybe a little.”

My phone buzzes—Chloe, keeping her promise to text until takeoff: Don’t forget the pepper spray! And if he turns out to be serial killer, at least get his Wi-Fi password first so you can live-stream your last moments.

My phone finally catches signal, immediately buzzing with Chloe’s backlog of panic: SLOANE WHITMORE IF YOU DIE IN SWITZERLAND, I WILL KILL YOU.

“If I were a serial killer, I’d have much better pickup lines than ‘Come live in my tower and make pretty things.’”

“And which designer are you hoping to hire?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. “The one who knows what sells, or the one who makes beauty that bites?” His smile is slow, predatory. He leans back, but his eyes never leave mine. “I want both.” There’s a delicious emphasis on want that makes my throat go dry. “The question is: Are you ready to let me see all of you?”

I’m still adjusting the straps, trying to convince myself this is all very professional and artistic, when movement catches my attention. He’s at my doorway without warning, his large frame filling the space completely. His eyes, dark and hungry, lock onto mine. The necklace dangles from his fingers like a silent threat. “Invite me in, Sloane,” he says, his voice low and commanding. It’s not a request. It’s a demand barely contained by the rules we’ve established. He doesn’t cross the threshold, but everything in his posture suggests he’s barely restraining himself.

“This necklace makes me want to do dirty things. Raw, unhinged things,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “It makes me want to see what you’d look like surrendering. I think this necklace could unleash the inner beast in anyone.”

At the doorway he pauses, looking back at me with an intensity that steals my breath. “And Sloane? If we do revisit this conversation—I can’t promise I’ll have the restraint to walk away. Remember that.”

He’s been watching me, studying me . . . and I hate that I love it. That I crave his attention like it’s oxygen. That some part of me wants to belong to him, even when I know I shouldn’t.

“You do realize it’s slightly unsettling that you know my exact measurements?” “I know everything.” He pauses. “That sounded less ominous in my head.”

Cole Asher is a businessman. Everything comes down to profit margins and deadlines. This line needs to be ready for New Year’s, and here I am doodling like a schoolgirl with a crush. He probably has a dozen other designers lined up if I fail. That’s what smart businessmen do. They hedge their bets.

“But the cameras—” “The cameras that you were literally performing for this morning?” She raises an eyebrow. “The ones you admitted make you hot?” “I’m actually looking forward to them now,” I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “What is wrong with me?” “You’ve gone full Stockholm syndrome, and I am HERE for it.”

“What’s really bothering you?” “I’ve worked so hard to get here.” I sink onto the edge of my bed. “Ten years of apprenticeships, studying metallurgy, learning from masters. I don’t want anyone looking at this collection and thinking I got it because I’m sleeping with the investor.”

I want to watch the diamonds rest against your throat while you remember who put them there.

“Is that what you want? For me to stop you?” His laugh rumbles low against my throat. “What I want . . .” His teeth graze my collarbone. “Is to take you right here, surrounded by your sketches and scattered gems. To watch you come apart on this table where you create.”

Cole stands over me. “Spread your legs, baby. I want to see that pussy on display.”

He finishes removing his shirt, revealing a toned chest and abs that . . . fuck me . . . I knew the man would be good-looking. But Jesus Christ this is taking it to a completely new level.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he growls, his voice low and rough. “I can’t wait to feel my cock buried inside of you.”

“Let’s spread this tight pussy of yours,” he rasps against my neck while I tremble beneath him. I don’t know why I’m slightly stunned by the dirty talk coming from Cole, but it only makes me clench around him harder. His groan vibrates against my collarbone as he withdraws almost completely before slamming back in with brutal precision. “That’s it—squeeze me just like that while I ruin you.”

“Look at me.” His command slices through the haze when I obey; his gaze holds me more trapped than any chain. There’s no softness there, only feral possession. “You take this cock like you were made for it.”

Pleasure coils like live wire beneath my skin, every nerve alight—until suddenly his thumb stills, denying release as he slows his thrusts to a torturous grind. “Cole—” “Beg.” A wicked smile as he watches tears of frustration prick my eyes. “Or don’t you want it bad enough?”

“You’re mine,” he says again, his words threading through the haze of overstimulation. “Mine to claim. Mine to punish. And if you ever try to run out on me again, it won’t be just my finger in your ass.”

Control is everything until it isn’t. I watch Sloane sleeping in my bed, her breath steady and deep in the early morning quiet. She’s curled into my sheets like she belongs there. No one has ever slept in my bed before—I’ve made sure of that, keeping this space as controlled and solitary as every other aspect of my life. But last night, when she tried to go to her room, I pulled her to mine. I wasn’t ready to let her go. Last night changed everything—the barrier between professional and personal collapsing with the first press of her body against mine. I’d planned for every aspect of her moving into the penthouse, designing the jewelry line, even the security protocols. But I hadn’t planned for this. The way she slipped past my defenses and made me want something I’d denied myself. Connection. Intimacy beyond the physical. A woman who challenges me in ways no one else dares. Now, watching her here, I realize I want her to stay.

“I can feed myself, you know.” But she’s smiling. “And yet you don’t.” My fingers trail down her neck. “That’s my job now.”

“You shouldn’t have gotten involved!” Julian’s face turns red as sweat beads on his temples, a tell that I’m getting to him. I lean back in my chair, letting him see how little his words affect me. “Are you done? You’re starting to sound like a B-rate movie villain.”

“I built this business with you. The real business. The one that got us here. While you were playing with spreadsheets, I was getting my hands dirty. Making the hard choices.” “You mean killing people who got in your way.”

Sloane’s collection replacing Julian’s forged Claire pieces, hitting him where it hurts. But watching her work, I realize with sudden clarity: If it comes down to revenge or her safety, there’s no choice at all. If he touches what’s mine, I’ll remind him exactly who he taught me to be.

Sloane nods, her fingers tracing the edge of her blanket. “And which are you doing now?” The question hangs between us, loaded with unspoken implications. I consider my words carefully before responding. “I’m . . . assessing the situation.” She laughs softly, the sound melting into the night air. “Always the businessman.” “Not always,” I murmur, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger, tracing the curve of her jaw. “Sometimes I’m just a man who knows what he wants.”

The man’s probably just a regular billionaire with regular billionaire secrets. Like tax evasion. Or a private island. Or a collection of rare sports cars he never drives.

“Look at me as I fuck you,” he commands, and I force my eyes open to meet his intense gaze. “Who owns you?” “You do,” I gasp as he drives deeper. “Only you.”

I brush my thumb across her cheek, and she leans into my touch. When I kiss her, she tastes like chocolate and wine, and I feel her smile against my lips. For once in my life, I stop analyzing, stop planning, stop thinking about what comes next. There’s just this—Sloane in my arms, snow falling outside, and Christmas jazz playing softly in a room full of lights.

His expression turns serious as he cups my face. “But this isn’t about rules, safe words, or contracts, Sloane. It’s about trust. About you surrendering control to me, and me taking care of you. Just for tonight . . .” His eyes search mine. “At first.” My breath catches at the promise in those last two words. His fingers brush my cheek, igniting sparks beneath my skin. “You’re mine,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends tremors down my spine. He leans forward and traces his tongue along my neck where the collar will rest. “And I protect what’s mine.”

“Mine,” he growls against my pulse point, teeth grazing delicate flesh. “As long as you wear this collar, you are mine. In every way.”

“The moment you step into that ballroom with her, Julian will know she’s the chink in your armor.” I look up from the papers, meeting his gaze. “No. He’ll know she’s my strength. And if he so much as looks in her direction, I’ll burn his empire to the ground with him in it.”

“You’re exactly who you’re meant to be. The girl from Montauk who’s about to have half of Manhattan fighting over her jewelry.”

“About time,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “The little monster’s been driving me crazy.” As if on cue, a ball of golden fur comes tumbling around the corner, all paws and floppy ears. The golden retriever puppy skids across the hardwood floor before colliding with my shoes, immediately attacking my shoelaces with fierce determination. “Jesus, Knox. What have you been feeding him?” I crouch down, and the puppy abandons my shoes to lick my face enthusiastically. “The usual. Kibble, water, the occasional shoe.” He crosses his arms. “So you’re really doing this? The whole Christmas miracle thing?” I scoop up the puppy, who settles against my chest with surprising contentment. “I don’t have a choice. I screwed up.” “Yeah, you did.” Knox disappears into his kitchen and returns with a bag of puppy supplies. “I’m not going to say I told you so.” Knox hands me the puppy’s leash. “He’s already house-trained. Mostly.” “Mostly?” “Nah, I’m kidding. You’re screwed. Good luck.”

“Pretty sure showing up looking like this violates every dress code they have.” “We just survived our own Die Hard Christmas. I think we can get away with being a little disheveled.” That gets a real smile. “Does that make me Bruce Willis in this scenario?” “Yippee ki-yay,” I murmur into her hair, and feel her laugh against my chest.

“Really? More cameras?” “What can I say? I like seeing you when you’re sleeping . . .” His arms slide around my waist. “Next to me. And I want to know when you’re awake . . . when you aren’t next to me.” “That’s either the most romantic or the most stalkerish thing you’ve ever said.” Cole’s embrace tightens as he chuckles. “I prefer to think of it as romantic, but I suppose there’s a fine line.”