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

by Alta Hensley

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.

Before I can stop myself, I type: “How to tell if a billionaire is a serial killer?” The search results are not reassuring.

Right. Dignity. I have that somewhere.

“How to Maintain Stoic Professionalism While Escorting Disaster-Prone Americans” must be a required course.

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

“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.”

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.”

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

“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.”

“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.”

If he touches what’s mine, I’ll remind him exactly who he taught me to be.

Talk to him. Simple advice. Impossible execution. How exactly does one start a conversation about potential murder connections over morning coffee?

“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.”

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

“Not so perfect at everything, are you?” she calls, executing a wobbly but passable turn. I watch her hair catch the light as she moves, the way her cheeks have flushed with cold and joy. “I don’t need to be perfect,” I tell her honestly. “I just need you.”

Two hours later, I’ve learned several important life lessons: Cooking videos make everything look deceptively easy. Setting off the smoke alarm once means Knox will appear in full tactical gear. Setting it off twice means the entire security team will be hovering nervously in the hallway. Setting it off three times means Knox will gently suggest ordering takeout while confiscating your oven privileges.

“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.”