The cab ride through the heart of Manhattan was brief. Pulling up outside of Park Avenue, I wasn't surprised to see that Tristan had set himself up in the best that New York had to offer. I was, however, surprised to discover that he'd landed an apartment so quickly.

The world, it seemed, presented no resistance or obstacles to the likes of a successful multimillionaire on the rise.

"Miss," the porter tipped his hat as I scooted out of the cab, handing over a twenty to the driver on the way out. "Are you here for Mr. Shade?"

"Yes," I smiled although inside I wanted to laugh. "He's expecting me."

"This way." I followed the porter into the lobby of the luxurious building and tried not to sigh in repressed envy. Not in my wildest dreams could I hope to afford an apartment here, and I certainly couldn't expect to sway the stodgy board with my meagre salary of five hundred thousand a year.

No, no. This was for the crème de la crème. The veritable Kings and Queens of New York. An elite inner circle I could only hope to penetrate through social connections, if I was that sort of woman to play such a hand.

"This elevator will take you straight up to the penthouses." The porter smiled, a kind and toothy grin in a warm face. His voice carried a hint of native Caribbean, which Island I couldn't be sure. And before I had the presence of mind to ask, the elevator doors whisked open and he nudge me inside.

"PH12." He gestured to the gleaming panel. I punched the button just as the doors shut and hummed a few bars of something I'd caught on the radio on the way over. The inside of the elevator car was lined with mirrors, and I deliberately fixed my eyes to the numbers inside of worrying over my reflection.

I'd come casual—slim tailored jeans and blouse, my waves of auburn hair loose and tousled in a just rolled out of bed sort of manner. I wanted to project and effortless and easy sort of confidence to say I wasn't the least bit anxious about being alone with Tristan in his home.

And I wasn't. The fact that my stomach was presently flip-flopping had nothing to do with it. When the doors pinged open, Tristan stood there, bracing the wall. Barefoot, dark wash jeans and a navy long sleeve sweater rolled up on his arms.

"Ms. Pierce." He swept out a hand as I stepped out from the elevator. "Welcome to my home."

"Thank you for having me." I thrust out a hand when he moved to embrace me, and he accepted it in both of his. His touch warm and lingering.

"I hope you've come with an appetite."

I angled my wrist, took note of the time. "It's almost eleven."

"Too late for you?"

"No." I answered, following as he led me into the heart of his home. It was comfortably decorated. Not as rigid and modern as I would have expected. A large sectional dominated the main living space, all opened up to the dining area and impressive kitchen. I set down my purse on the couch as Tristan head towards something that smelled like heaven wafting from the gas range.

"I hope you aren't afraid of pasta," he called out. "I've made bolognaise."

"Sounds perfect." There on the glass coffee table, were two glasses and a decanter of wine, already poured. Sitting down, I brushed my hands over my thighs and took in the view. The length of the apartment boasted a wall of large windows giving a clean, unobstructed view outside. Mr. Shade, I was quickly learning, had a thing for killer views. A luxury hard to come by in New York.

He returned with two plates with perfectly nested coils of spaghetti dredged in rich, meaty sauce and powdered shavings of Parmesan.

"You look lovely," Tristan commented as he joined me on the couch, plate perched on his lap. "I'm glad you agreed to join me this evening. We had a very...tense first day, and I would like to clear the air."

"Tense is an understatement." I twirled my fork and scooped up my first bite. "I should apologize for my behaviour. I'm not ordinarily so...emotional."

"You say that like it's a weakness."

"Being ruled by emotions is a weakness."

"There's nothing wrong with feeling. A merger is a big deal, and a difficult blow for a woman of your ambition. I can't fault you for being affected by the transition. You wouldn't be human if it didn't touch you on some level." Reaching for his glass, Tristan took a sip of a deep, brooding red. "I just want to clarify where we stand...in respect to more personal matters."

"In truth," I reached for my wine as well, enjoyed the full-bodied merlot, "I was beginning to have second thoughts."       

He paused mid-chew, swallowed carefully. "But not anymore?"

"No."

"May I ask why?"

"I've thought about what you said...last night."

Tristan traced a finger across his lower lip, masking a smile, his chin propped on the edge of his thumb. "Laying in bed and thinking about me, were you?"

I smiled at that. "Truth is, I like you."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"And I'd be kidding myself if I thought I could just set my interest in you aside. But this merger does present complications. I work for you now, and getting tangled up together could make a working relationship messy."

"Only if we were a couple of ingénues. You're not my assistant, and colleagues date all the time. We're professionals. There's no reason why we can't have a perfectly respectable working and intimate association."

"I agree. But there must be boundaries."

"Of course."

"I need to know that your personal opinion of me isn't going to colour your professional."

"Not in the slightest, I promise."

I narrowed my eyes, waiting for a 'but' or an 'if' to follow, but he remained quiet, attentive.

"Work hours must be kept profession, at all times. I'm talking about clear, hard and impassable lines between what we do in the office and what happens behind closed doors. I cannot have my integrity questioned. Not here. One smear against my name and I'm tainted for life. I won't have everything I've worked for besmirched. Not for any one."

"Wouldn't have it any other way." Rising from the couch, Tristan brought over a file he'd had waiting on the stretch of kitchen island and handed it over. Simple, unlabelled.

"What's this?" I asked, weighing it in my hands.

"Protection. For both of us." Sitting on the corner of the coffee table, Tristan linked his hands. "People in our positions, unfortunately, make such things...necessary."

I opened the file and knew before my eyes fell on the printed document what I was holding. "A Confidentiality Agreement."

His lips quirked again, with the barest hint of a smile. "For starters."

I skimmed through but the content was basic and straightforward enough. But as I flipped through, I saw...more.

"An addendum," I whispered, frowning at the list of...suggestions? "What is this?"

Tristan took a deep breath, reached for my hand and linked it with his. "I'm a man with a particular set of...interests," he began. "And looking for a woman willing to meet key...requirements."

My eyes dropped from his, returned to the page and the dots began to connect. "So...not all of the whispers were untrue."

Though his jaw tensed a fraction, Tristan nodded. "Not all of them. Are you familiar with the lifestyle?"

"No." I admitted. "I've never known anyone who...no."

"Take a look at the contract," he offered. "And when you're ready, we'll discuss it."

The rest of the meal passed in silence as I immersed myself in the black and white. He'd kept the language for this particular portion as unpretentious and straightforward as possible, leaving no misunderstanding or room for misinterpretation. There were twelve terms and conditions that covered various aspects of this...relationship. Beginning with the more innocent and less invasive, such as:

The dominant shall only be referred to the following, as when instructed: Mr. Shade or Sir. At no point is the dominant's given name to be used unless special allowance and consideration is extended by the dominant to the submissive.

And travelling further down the page:

The dominant and submissive shall not share the same bed outside of sexual fulfillment. Sleeping will take place in separate beds in separate rooms.

And so it went, from expectations in diet and fitness, to wardrobe and appearance, and, finally, the last highlighted the various ways in which the dominant intended to use the submissive—me.  

"This is pretty...specific."

"I'm a specific sort of man. Care for whiskey?" he called out, his back to me from behind the bar.

"Sure." I replied, compiling all the pages I'd spread out on the table together again. "You realize a contract of this nature is not enforceable. If I decided, for instance, not to address you as Sir, what are you going to do? Drag me out in a court of law and plead your case before a judge?"

Tristan paused mid-pour, and laughed. Actually laughed. A full, deep and rolling sound that surprised me. He had an incredible laugh, the sort that stayed with you long after it was gone, and made you endeavour to do whatever necessary to hear it again.

He carried the drinks over, handed one to me. "I can't tell you how refreshing it is to have a conversation with a woman with a sharp mind."

As he sat down, I held my drink and skimmed my nails across the bevelled vessel.

"See anything you object to?"

"No, not really. Only..." I flipped back to the last page, traced the 'off limits' column with my finger. "I think there's a small mistake. You have here that there's to be no kissing?"

"No." Tristan shook his head. "Not a mistake."

I jerked back a bit, surprised by the revelation. "You don't kiss?"

"No."

"Never?"

"Never. No exceptions."

Curiosity teased and tormented my every nerve. "Can I ask why?

The silence stretched for a moment and just when I thought he didn't mean to answer, he finally said, "I have my reasons. And if there is anything you'd like to add to that portion of the agreement, please let me know and I'll be more than happy to draft an amendment."

I knew when a subject was being closed, or in this case, shut down cold. Drumming a finger against the sheaf of papers, I wondered if this was a button I should keep pushing or one to set aside for another time. Deciding for the latter, I moved for a change of subject. "How many submissive have you had? Before propositioning me?"

Tristan nestled in the deep corner of the sectional, and crossed an ankle of his knee. He swirled his glass lightly, so that ice tinkered against crystal. "Aside from one other who opted not to sign, two."

"Only two?" My face tightened into a frown.

"I've had plenty of lovers," he assured, "but I'm careful about who I...expose myself to."

I snorted, tucking my legs up on the couch. "I find that hard to believe." His features darkened and I could see I'd tread on another sore spot.

"Do you sleep with every man you meet?"

"No."

"And would you marry every man you've ever slept with?"

"Absolutely not," I scoffed.

"This is no different. And no less...particular."

My throat clenched and I looked down at the document with a new sense of understanding. "So, this isn't a proposition but a...proposal?"

Tristan angled his head, weighing his answer. "Of sorts. So before you sign I want you to be sure, Laura, very sure of what it is you're getting into."

"And how am I supposed to know the answer to that?"

"Instinct." Reaching between us, Tristan set a hand against my leg and with just that simple touch alone my very bones leapt. "It's gotten you this far, don't start to question and doubt it now."

I swallowed hard, took a deep breath to calm my voice. "And the duration of this contract?"

"You can walk away anytime you wish. But please bear in mind once that door closes, I never reopen it. Ever."

"Don't you believe in second chances?"

"Not in this, no." And a sort of finality crept into his voice that told me he wasn't exaggerating in the least. "Entering into this arrangement is one that requires a lot of forethought and introspection. So does leaving. I don't deal with the loose or the arbitrary."

I contemplated that, taking a steadying sip of the aged whiskey. The taste spiked across my tongue, sharp and strong, not all together unpleasant but I'd never been much of a whiskey enthusiast. Still, this wasn't the sort of conversation I wanted to have without at least a bit of something to ease the nerves.

"Isn't there someone more...attuned to these particular needs?" I asked, resting my hand overtop the contract on my lap. "Someone experienced within the world of domination and submission?"

"There's always someone." Tristan swirled his glass again, his arm draped over the back of the couch. "I've done the weak, I've tamed the demure. Now I want a challenge. I want an equal. I want you."

"And if I don't want to sign...this?"

Tristan lifted a casual shoulder, shrugged. "Then don't. You're not obligated to do anything you don't want. And I certainly won't twist your arm. I respect you enough to let you decide for yourself how far you want to go with me."

"And if I did sign? What would—?" I lost my words, struggled to pick through what I was trying to say. "What exactly do you want to do with me? To me?" Although outlined in the terms, things like spanking and the use of instruments and implements covered a whole host of things too many to enumerate.

"What are you afraid of?" Tristan wondered, leaning toward me. "This isn't a forfeiture of your soul, Laura. This doesn't mean I would own you like a possession. An agreement of this nature, yes, is not legally binding. It's...an honour system. A mark of trust. More intimate than marriage but no less sacrosanct. Except instead of giving you a ring, a Dom would usually provide a collar."

I couldn't be sure the look that came over my face, but whatever my expression, Tristan obviously found it thoroughly amusing and chuckled.

"Not all Doms." He patted my arm. "I assure you, that's an area I haven't developed a taste for. Yet."

"Well, that's a relief." I smiled, pausing to sip again. "Can't imagine I'd enjoy being required me to wear a collar.""Don't knock it, sweetheart." He smiled at me over the rim of his glass. "You might have liked it."

I wrinkled my nose and smirked. "Doubtful."

"You wouldn't be the first to turn up her nose at the lifestyle, they all sing a different tune, now."

My stomach fluttered at the brazen look on his face and my competitive nature leapt at the implied challenge. "Is that a dare?"