I offer her another berry, but she tightens her lips and gives me a small shake of her head. Having her mouth in my lap, so close to my cock—well, that’s something I could get used to. And I have to admit, I haven’t gotten so much pleasure from a date in a very long time. Maybe ever. Tonight, after all the sexual frustrations were put behind us, we melded together like a key in a lock.

“I’ve had the best time tonight, Vaughn,” she says as she opens her eyes and gives me a smile. “Really. All of it was perfect. But I’m still not sure what you want from me.”

“This, Grace. Tonight. That’s what I want from you. Why is that so difficult?”

“It’s not what we’re doing that’s difficult. It’s how I feel about what we’re doing that’s difficult.”

“I understand. You might feel used, or degraded, or out of control. But you’re looking at it the wrong way. You just need to trust me to take care of you. Give in, let me lead, and I swear, I’ll make you happy. I’ll take you places beyond your wildest expectations. Both figuratively and literally. We can travel, if you want. We can stay here. You can come see me in LA. We can meet on Saint Thomas again. Whatever. All that is up for negotiation.”

She sighs and closes her eyes again, staying silent as she thinks things through. I play with her long golden hair, picking up the strands and letting them slip through my fingertips. I stroke her head a little, petting her like one might a small kitten. Her breathing deepens and for a moment I almost fear she’s fallen asleep.

“I’ll sign,” she finally says, easing my fears about slumber.

It’s almost unfair to ask her now. She’s too tired. But her capitulation elates me. I lean down and kiss her on the head and then send off a text as Grace resumes her silence in my lap. A few moments later the rooftop doors open and the notary steps into our magical world. Grace stiffens and begins to rise out from between my legs, but my hand, firm on her head, tells her to stay put. She’s either too tired to argue or is playing out her role as my sub. Either way, I’m happy when her cheek remains on my thigh as I talk.

“Grace, this contract”—I reach out and take it from the woman standing a few paces off—“states that everything we do together, from phone calls to text messages to Twitter conversations, every single interaction we have, is private and you agree not to discuss any of it with anyone unless given explicit permission to do so. Do you understand and agree?”

“Yes, Mr. Asher, I agree.”

“Good girl. Here you go, sweets. Sign your name and then Mrs. Lancaster will fill out her book and sign after you. May I send in a server to get your identification from your apartment, Grace? An ID must be presented to make the contract legal.”

She sighs again, but she agrees.

And fifteen minutes later, we have our documents. Two originals, both signed, both binding. I dismiss the notary and pet Grace’s hair again. “Are you ready for bed?”

“Yes,” she says sleepily. “I’m ready for bed.”

I scoop her up in my arms and carry her down the stairs. She’s fully asleep by the time I get her inside and strip off her bra and skirt. The new luxury sheets on her bed, along with the fluffy down comforter, envelop her in a puff of white cotton. I had a team of workers come in and transform her bedroom while we were on the roof, f**king and dining.

I kiss her on the head one more time and then pen her a quick note and leave it on her bedstand on top of her copy of the NDA.

I look at her one more time before I flick the lights off and make my way downstairs to the waiting limo that will take me down to the Centennial airport where my private jet awaits.

I’m not sure when I can come back, that note said. But I’ve taken liberties to ensure she’s well cared for in my absence.

I smile all the way to the airport. Grace Kinsella is mine.

All. Mine.