I wake in a pool of drool, my face pressed into a strange, flat pillow. My mouth is dry as toilet paper and tastes like ... well ... toilet paper.

My befuddled brain tries to piece together recent memories, hoping to find out where I am without having to do something bothersome, like open my eyes or move my head. Pain rips through my skull at the slightest shift in position. Brain, work, okay? I need you. Where is my internal goddess now that I could use her?

Oh, there she is, off in the corner of my mind, her head over a bucket, her skin-tinged green, grimacing like a drenched cat.

Some help you are, you useless goddess!

She sticks her tongue out at me. There are no cartwheels, flips, or even a mild twerk. If you're ever tempted to get an internal goddess of your own, I don't recommend it. They interrupt the enjoyable moments and abandon you in the bad. Instead of a goddess, maybe go for an internal social media influencer or fashion designer or jet-setting European royalty. Someone who shares your goals.

But none of that woolgathering solves the mystery of where I am.

Possible options:

In the hospital, waking from a coma, suffering from irreversible amnesia.

In jail for something truly heinous, like crimes against fashion or cutting off the "do not remove under penalty of law" tag from a mattress.

Accidentally placed in a coffin, after a shoot-out with police over removal of mattress tag.

Shards of memories bubble to the surface.

Last night.

Last Chance.

Graduation celebration.

Margaritas.

Jacob!

Jacob hitting on me!

My stomach lurches. Oh, no, no, no. Not Jacob. Please, no. He's like a brother. An uber-hot, abdominally ripped brother who thinks Axe Spray is still a thing.

Is it too late to choose the coffin or jail?

Am I in his apartment?

No, the pillow doesn't smell like "Dark Temptation" or "Essence of Body Sweat" or whatever Axe fragrances they're selling these days.

Holy crap!

It smells like dog.

This makes me think of Crispin.

Fear creeps along my neck, tightening like a dog collar.

I roll over slowly, my head protesting the entire way. Once I'm on my back, I gird myself for the effort it will take to open my eyes. They're so gummy, it's like someone super-glued my lids during the night. Fortunately, I manage. Some of us are just heroes, right?

The dark room is a relief. My eyes are not ready for actual use. Baby steps!

More memories descend. They involve Crispin, my current employer (hopefully I haven't lost my job), and future billionaire husband (hopefully I haven't blown my chances before I've had a chance to blow him!)

But I am not ready for mortifying Crispin memories!

Hey, you. Memories! Stop descending while I mentally prepare. I take a deep breath, straighten the sheets beneath my chin, and remind myself that even though I'm clumsy, and not very beautiful, I am a Vogue model, dammit!

Okay, now descend ...

There I am, in a humid bathroom with poor lighting, on the toilet, calling Crispin!

Next, I'm in a grove of palm trees, hunched over, throwing up on men's shoes. Expensive shoes. Holy crap! Crispin's shoes!

Crispin is there looking all hot and billionairish. I'm wearing his bespoke jacket over my sexy dress, looking bedraggled and not one bit hot.

A helicopter is in the distance. Making a lot of noise and threatening to consume me like prey. Can this get any worse?

Did Crispin really pick me up and toss me over his shoulder like I was a mere sack of potatoes? Apparently, it can get worse.

What happened next?

Nothing crosses my mind. The transmission ends. "Ugh!" I must've blacked out.

Yeah, my goddess is over there laughing her ass off at me. Fuck her. Am I right?

Shame washes through me, bitter as over-steeped earl grey.

Does this mean I'm in Crispin's bed?!?!

Holy triple crap with a cherry on top.

I moan and rack my brain, trying to remember what happened between the time I blacked out and woke up here a few minutes ago, but there's nothing. Zilch. Nada.

Calm down, Ani, I urge myself. Gather facts. Do not overreact.

I should check to see what I'm wearing, to get a clue as to the sort of evening I had. For example, if I'm still in my sexy dress, it would mean Crispin brought me back here in a gentlemanly manner, gently placed me in bed, possibly applied a cool compress to my forehead, and allowed me to sleep off my intoxication. However, if I'm in a leather corset with fishnet stockings or a wetsuit with flippers, it would mean something quite different transpired.

Hmmm. Several times I have awoken in a wetsuit and flippers, but I'm way over my sexy marine biologist phase.

However, if I am naked, it could mean Crispin and I had sex.

This would be a tremendous disappointment because if I'm going to have real, non-dream sex with Crispin, I'd rather remember the event, since I'm sure it would be epic, filled with massive orgasms and broken furniture.

I slide my arms down to my breasts. I'm wearing a bralette. Lace. Excellent quality. Probably Cosabella. Now lower. I'm in panties. Also, Cosabella. They feel like the matching set I wore last night beneath my sexy dress.

Having key sex regions covered is a good sign. I mean, better than being naked.

This is when I sense a warm presence beside me, panting. I twist my neck, turning to the left, and something warm and wet laps at my cheek.

Oh, my god! I am not alone! "Who's here?" I demand.

I slap the wall beside the headboard, searching for a light switch. When you wake up with a panter/licker, it's best to go for a visual. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes it's better to head straight for the door.

I find a switch and jab it with my index finger.

Huge mistake!

Massive blinds rise, exposing 20-foot windows overlooking the San Francisco skyline. The room floods with light, exposing an opulent Louis XVI bedroom—all gold and marble, with a shouty "new money" vibe—that drowns me in fear.

To be clear, the fear comes from the alarming height, not the gaudy furniture, although all that shiny gold doesn't help.

I gasp. Heart rushing, gasping for breath, I pull the duvet over my face, barely suppressing a scream. Here I am, floating miles above the city surface with nothing between me and certain death other than a mere inch or so of glass.

Something warm and heavy bounds on top of my chest, pressing me into the bed. I unearth myself from the covers. "Bella! Hey, girl." I admit that I'm relieved/disappointed it's not Crispin. I entertain the idea of closing the blinds and staying put, but I need to salvage the three micrograms of dignity I have remaining. He put me here. He knows I was drunk and blacked out. And my mouth still tastes like a gothic tomb.

Time to escape, go home, write a novel-length apology for my behavior, and hope I haven't lost my job.

Steeling myself, I flip back the covers and stretch, focusing on the high thread count of the sheets against my back instead of the horrible view. Slowly, I sit, dangling my legs over the side of the bed. The golden headboard is carved into the shape of a full moon.

On the bedside table is a glass of orange juice and two pills. I wouldn't trust either of these. I'd rather have a headache.

I force myself to stand and, staying as far as I can from the windows, I search the room for my clothes, but they're nowhere.

Maybe my sexy dress had throw up on it, and Crispin had to send one of his servants out early this morning to the Chanel store, demand they open early, and buy me something European and expensive, as any billionaire worth his salt would do.

There it is! The Chanel bag. Poised atop a velvet-covered chair. But it's right next to the window.

"Fetch," I urge Bella, pointing at the bag.

Bella leaps off the bed, heads for the bag, takes the handles into her mouth and carries it to me. "Good girl!" I ruffle her silky head.

I peer into the bag. Inside is a ready-to-wear cotton jacquard striped dress. Apparently, there wasn't enough time for custom-made. Still, I am grateful and make a mental note to thank Crispin's servant.

My full bladder insists on being addressed. Which means leaving the safety of the bed. But my bladder is adamant. "Where's the bathroom, girl?"

Bella jumps off the bed again. I follow her to a massive bathroom roughly the size of the Taj Mahal. Holy crap! Look at that tub/swimming pool. My goddess does a swan dive.

"Thanks, Bella. You are the smartest dog ever. Bella preens and makes her way out of the bathroom as if she knows to give me privacy.

First thing, I locate Crispin's golden throne and pee. The billionaire fancy toilet shoots off a powerful stream of water for two full minutes, leaving me so satisfied, that I wonder if I should leave it money on the dresser before leaving.

The taste of death in my mouth reminds me I ought to brush my teeth. I spy Crispin's extra-large electric toothbrush on the marble counter, but where's the backup electric toothbrush for me? I open the cabinets and find it. Thank goodness. Because sharing a toothbrush with someone is disgusting, and only an idiot who would wake up half-naked in a man's bedroom, drink from an unopened container, and take unidentified pills would do something that life-threatening.

I check out my visage in the voluminous bathroom mirrors, and my god, I actually look amazing considering how horrible I feel.

Bladder emptied, orgasm achieved, teeth brushed, and visage approved, I prepare to escape.

But just as I'm pulling the dress over my head, I sense a hulking presence. My stomach leaps into my mouth. There he is, behind me. I see him in the mirror.

Crispin!

He's all sweaty and shirtless and despicably glorious. His gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, revealing an arrow of hair pointing down toward a prominent bulge in his crotch. I bite my lip. He has a length of rope dangling from his hands. Nylon. 24 ply. Yellow. The good stuff. I'm already imagining myself showing him my favorite taut line knot.

"Good morning, Anesthesia. How are you feeling this morning?" His voice is low and rumbly, and oh so sexy. He takes the end of the rope into his other hand and snaps it.

A twinge of pleasure tightens at my core. "Very well, thank you. And you?" I say crisply, blushing furiously, but only on the inside where he cannot see. I don't know what to say to this godlike person who undressed me last night. "Did we have sex?" What? It was the only logical thing to say.

Crispin laughs, all low and growly. "No, Anesthesia, we did not. Even though I may seem like the type of guy who's into necromantic encounters, I prefer my sex partners alive and responsive." Something flushes through me, but I'm not sure if it's relief or disappointment. Let's call it curiosity. "Now, shall we begin?"

"Um, sure, but I'm going to need that rope."

"This is my rope. You'll have to get your own."

"You know very well that I don't have any rope on me since you abducted me and brought me to your penis tower, undressed me, bought me new clothes, and let me sleep in as late as I wanted after a rough night."

"We are not here for sex, Anesthesia."

"Then what are we here for?"

"The interrogation. Sadly, I could not question you last night, as it's impossible to get a word out of the unconscious."

Though this is a huge turn-on, I should learn why he means to interrogate me. "Sure, that makes sense, but why? Interrogate me about what?"

He looms over me. "Anesthesia, how do you know about the top-secret Nob Hill billionaire men's club? Who are you working for?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He snaps the rope again. "Tell me!"

"I. Don't. Know."

He narrows his golden eyes. A cell phone goes off in his pocket. It sounds like the text tone I have set for Vogue. He pulls the phone out of his pocket. It's my phone! "Hey, give that back."

He glances at the screen, then smiles like a pirate captain with his quarry backed up to the end of the ship's plank. "No idea about the men's club, you claim?"

"As I said." I hold out my hands. He places the phone in my palms, and I glance at the message. "Photoshoot at secret men's club on Nob Hill tonight at six. Encrypted address to follow." Uh, oh. That doesn't look good. There are a million more text messages, but I can't read them since at that moment my phone decides to die.

Crispin snaps the rope one more time. It flies toward me and wraps around my wrists as if by magic. "Now, where were we?"

Oh, brother. I've been escaping from rope knots since the age of six. I raise my wrists, twist, and pull down hard. The rope unravels and drops to the marble floor. Crispin's jaw drops. "I was just leaving?" I said, hopefully, realizing that if I was some kind of spy, I'd be good at escaping from his totally basic knot. By releasing myself, I've not helped my claim of innocence.

Crispin gathers his cool and calm quickly and glances down at me, lip quirked. Does his lip know other positions or is it just the quirk? Hopefully he has a larger repertoire of sex poses. I mean doggy-style is great, but it can get old fast. I bite my lip to demonstrate another way to use the lip zone, plus I know it turns him on. He licks his lips. Victory is mine! Fast learner!

I reward him with my own lick. His lips, not mine. What? He has very enticing lips! He tastes like danger and hot sweaty sex on a moonlight beach, with overtones of steak and fries and a soupçon of ketchup. Or is that blood?

"Rather early for steak," I say, seductively, my lips a whisper away from his.

"Or is it Miss Jones?" he drawls.

In my head I'm thinking Kiss me, Crispin. Kiss me, Crispin.

"Could you keep it down?" I drop onto all fours, which isn't easy in the Chanel dress. "Sit." I sit. I'm panting. So is my goddess.

Get your own hot billionaire, I tell my goddess. This one is mine!

Crispin gazes down at me. This time his eyebrow is quirked. He's looking at me as if I'm a loon. "What?" I say.

"I was asking you to keep your thoughts down, not to drop to the floor. Then I was suggesting you sit ... on the loveseat. Not on the floor."

"Oh," I say, flushing, blushing, hiding my face in my arms. And again with the thought reading thing? That can't be true. Mind-reading doesn't exist.

Crispin takes my face in both his hands, and I stand. "Fuck the paperwork," he growls.

Just as I'm about to ask what paperwork, he pushes me against the velvet flocked wallpaper and  pins me there with his hips. Holy crapola! He tugs at my hair to bring my face up and captures my lips in his. Our tongues mingle like strangers at a party. Discovering each other for the first time. I moan. He moans. My goddess moans. We're all there ... moaning.

He's grinding into my core, his manly assets as long and hard as a skyscraper. I'm so wet and ready, when suddenly, he breaks off the kiss and releases me. Huh? What? Get back here!

"I have a meeting I need to get to, but mark my words. I'm coming tonight," Crispin says, all bossy-like.

"Let's hope we both do," I say, trying to hide my disappointment.

"Pick you up at five," he says. "Be ready."

"I always am!"

Hey, loves! First of all, I'm so sorry it took me this long to post the next chapter. I have so much going on. Mostly good stuff, though! This chapter is a bit of a recap to remind readers what's going on. I promise more Crispin/Ani action in the next chapter!

Thanks for reading, voting, commenting, following, and all that good stuff! xoxoxoxo