Crispin gazes down at me, his lips quirked into a 'cat that ate the canary' grin. Prickles of cold fear run down my neck, or maybe that's just regular prickles of cold from the fact that I'm fucking freezing.

At that moment, I only want three things: a three-quarter-length 900 fill Canadian goose down parka (preferably in the silver with adjustable shockcord hem), the black and white version of my finals dress, and for the universe to do me a solid by forcing the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

Not necessarily in that order.

I stomp the ground, digging my stiletto heels into the dirt to loosen it up, trying to assist the universe in fulfilling my totally reasonable request. But to no avail. I'm still here, atop the earth's crust, standing awfully close to a hot billionaire who may or may not: 1. turn into a bloodlust-driven supernatural creature at the full moon, 2. have the ability to read my thoughts, and 3. know the sordid details of my sex dream.

Let's start by assuming 'not knowing.' "Dreams aren't real, Crispin," I say, crossing my fingers that this is true. That he'll laugh at such an obvious truth.

"Some dreams aren't real," he says with all the clarity of a San Francisco fog.

So not helpful. "Dreams. Are. Manifestations. Of. The. Subconscious." I deliver this line with a clipped pause at the end of each word so Crispin can follow what I'm saying. One-word sentences, though grammatical abominations, are great for emphasis.

He smirks, golden eyes gleaming with mischief. "I know what you like. I know you scream my name when you come."

"Lots of people scream their lovers' names when they come. That proves nothing other than the fact that you must read romance novels."

His eyes bore into me as if he can see all the way through to my soul. Why does this make me want to strip out of my sexy dress and fuck my new boss hard against the palm tree? I know this is a dumb idea since I'm already shivering, my teeth chattering like a Halloween toy. Not to mention I've just thrown up, which means kissing is out. And then there's the part about him being my new boss.

I wisely reject the sex against the palm tree idea. See, I have impulse control!

Crispin purses his kissable lips, then frowns before removing his thin wool, obviously bespoke jacket and enfolding me in it. It smells like him. Musky with freshly washed dog overtones and long walks under the full moon undertones.

It's hardly the warm jacket I'd hoped for. I'm about to mention his lack of foresight in not having a down-filled parka at the ready, but I bite my lip to hold in the words. Right now, it's probably best to just accept his jacket. Chewing on my lip, I nod my head in thanks, even though he should've anticipated my predicament. What kind of billionaire stalker is this unprepared?

"Don't do that," he commands.

"Do what?"

He brushes along the seam of my mouth with one long, slender finger. Not just any long, slender finger. The long slender finger. You know the one. I gulp. I shiver. My nether regions tighten deliciously. "Your lip," he says, leaning toward me. "You're biting it again." His breath is hot against my cheek. "It makes me want to bite it."

"Oh, right." I force myself to step back, out of chomping range. You cannot be too careful around biters. "I keep forgetting your biting issues. Have you tried inhibition training?"

"I don't have biting issues, Miss Jones."

Poor guy is in denial. "The first step to breaking a habit is acknowledging that it exists," I say encouragingly.

He clenches his fists. His body stiffens, and his lip curls into a snarl. Obvious signs of aggression. "I. Do. Not. Have. A Biting. Problem," he replies in one-word sentences. As if I'm the one here who's dimwitted.

Enough of this. I need my beauty sleep. Now more than ever. "Ok, Crispin, thanks for everything, but I better go home and sleep off the worst hangover I'll ever have. And I promise I'm going to have normal dreams tonight, like where I'm naked in public or forgot to study for a test. You won't be there."

"We'll see," he says, all enigmatically.

"Sorry, I don't believe you have dream invasion powers."

"Believe what you want," he says.

"I always do. Unless you have proof to the contrary. If so, tell me now. I am half-frozen."

"I can't do that, Anesthesia."

"Why not? Will you turn into a pumpkin? Be sent up the river without a paddle? Lose your membership at a top-secret Nob Hill billionaire men's club?"

He draws back, eyes round as, well, you know, moons, saucers, flying saucers, flying moons. Whatever. It's obvious I've hit on something. One of his big secrets. Now I'm the one with the 'cat who ate the canary' grin.

Crispin clasps my cheeks, forcing me to look at him as his touch burns my icy skin. "Who are you? Who sent you? What is your scheme?" He growls.

I roll my eyes. "You know who I am—Anesthesia Jones. And you know who sent me—my roommate Clarissa Mason. As for my scheme, right now it's getting out of this fucking frozone. Tomorrow I'll report to work in the 54th story penthouse at the tip of your penis-shaped building."

"You're coming with me," he says through gritted teeth. "I'm not letting you out of my sight until I've interrogated you thoroughly."

I cross my arms over my chest. "I don't think so."

"You will accompany me to the helicopter," he proclaims, like a man who's used to getting his way. Well, he's met no one like me before!

"Not happening," I bark. The very thought of being inside a helicopter hundreds of feet up in the sky makes my blood run cold.

"You will walk to the helicopter, or I can carry you. It's all the same to me."

"I dare you to try," I say, scowling.

We glare at one another, at an impasse. I spin on my heel to leave but end up losing my balance due to my clumsiness and because my heels are dug into the earth. But before I fall, he scoops me up and tosses me over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, my stomach pressing against his firm back muscles. "Put me down!" I don't squirm too much because he's so tall that if he loses his grip and I fall, it could cause severe injury to me and maybe even to my sexy dress. "Let. Me. Go."

"No," he says. "You. Are. Mine."

"Grrrr!" Fuck. It turns out working for a possessive, possibly supernatural billionaire isn't all yachts, masked balls, and kinky fuckery. It also includes helicopters, high-rises, and an increased risk of emergency room visits.

Oh, my! My stomach clenches and my head spins. Before I can warn Crispin, I throw up spectacularly all over his crisp white shirt.

Which means ...

... I guess the universe was listening after all!

***

So many new things are revealed here! Mwahaha. What is the deal with the dreams? And why did Crispin get so upset about the secret men's club? Find out soon!

Here's another bribe to encourage you to vote, comment, follow, and all that good stuff:

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