His shoulder rose and fell. “Don’t have much choice, do I? She cried again when I said she’s lucky she didn’t get fired today. Nicole better keep her nose clean this time. She gets caught using again and that’s it.”

His eyes locked on mine. “I’m almost hoping she messes up. I told Jonathan you’d be a good replacement.”

Surprise and some annoyance jolted into my chest. “I’m not an actress, Ryan. You shouldn’t have done that.”

He propped his head up. “Why? What are you afraid of?”

Oh, not much. The media making a huge production out of my transition? False accusations of me using you to get ahead? Incorrect theories that this is some sort of publicity stunt? Having your career negatively impacted because of it?

“It’s a bad idea.”

He frowned at me. “You’re a natural, you know.”

The thought made me shiver, knowing his view was biased. “If I’m going to ever go that route I want to earn it, not have it handed to me.”

Ryan’s lips twisted. “You’re the only person who would see it that way.”

Somehow I highly doubted that. “The gossip magazines would have a field day, Ryan. You know it as well as I do. You don’t need that looming around your public persona. It will be bad enough when things are said about my small cameo.”

“Could be your debut.”

I rolled my eyes.

“What?” he sniggered, dropping his arm onto my paper pile. He picked up a few of the pages I was reading and glanced at them. I saw his eyes turn skeptically quizzical. “What’s all this?” He scrutinized the papers.

“Anna gave me some documents to look at; financials and stuff.”

He flipped through several of the sheets, becoming more and more intrigued as he panned through.

“This is for Slipknot. Why the hell do you have . . .? Are you . . . are you supposed to have this stuff? This is the agreement with their production company, Light Reel Pictures.”

He toggled from gaping at the pages in hand to gaping at me, as if I’d committed a horrendous crime.

“Production agreements, Light Reel’s contract . . . Holy shit, Taryn.”

I took some of the pages from his hand, trying to lessen the breach, knowing that even he wasn’t privy to some of the agreements made to get Slipknot filmed. “She gave them to me in confidence. We’ve been talking a lot and I had questions. I think she’s made a pet project out of me.”

“Don’t let anyone know you have these,” he advised, admonishing my risky behavior.

I snatched the last few pages from his hand, incensed that he’d think I was that careless. I made a nice, neat pile, forgoing the last page I studied for the betterment of recouping the evidence. “I know. Don’t you tell anyone I have them, either.”

His head tilted. “Why do you have all of that?”

I looked over at him. “Someone’s got to run our production company.”

Hoping to sidetrack his reproach, I pulled from the bottom of my pile the log home architectural design book he had asked me to get. “Here. I got this for you. Build me a house, oh Captain, my Captain.”

Shiny object diversion. “Oh cool.” He flopped over onto his belly, thumbing through it. “Did you see any designs you like?”

I shook my head. “I like them all.”

A faint noise caught my attention. “Is Mike downstairs?”

“No.”

His voice was tinged with a hint of sadness, as if he missed his friend.

“Ryan, I really don’t mind if he hangs out here with us. He’s not just your head of security anymore.

Why don’t you call him and tell him to come over. I’ll make some of those quesadillas you guys love so much.”

Ryan stalled, appearing apprehensive. “He’s ah . . . got other plans tonight.”

“What’s he up to?”

Ryan ignored me to go take a shower. I had almost fallen asleep when I felt Ryan shift off the bed and then something pointy tickle my butt cheek. “What are you doing?”

“Never mind,” he instructed, palming my thigh in his hand. “Just go back to doing what you were doing and don’t worry about it.”

I looked over my shoulder. “That’s a freaking permanent marker, Ryan!”

“It will wash off . . . eventually. Hold still.”

“Honey, please don’t draw on my ass.”

“Shush.” He pushed the edge of my underwear out of his way. “This is my ass. Mine. Property of,” he said matter-of-factly.

I groaned as he palmed my rear, his rogue finger brushing oh so cleverly between the juncture of my thighs, twitching, tickling. He knew exactly what he was doing to me.

“So,” I breathed out, very aware of my bottom, “does that mean I own your ass, too?”

“Damn straight,” he murmured. “Own. Rule. My body is yours. Feeling in the mood to play with it? I’ll let you.”

I felt the excitement that his words stirred in me. “Let me? I didn’t know I needed permission to play with my toys. I thought that was the benefit of being an only child. Never having to share.”

Ryan frowned, returning to his drawing. “Nick used to enjoy breaking my toys. Whenever he was pissed at me he’d snap my shit into pieces.”

The thought of Nick being nasty to Ryan saddened me. I frowned, wishing I could take away those bad memories.

He was so engrossed, I peered over my shoulder. “Are you having fun? Did I get an official Ryan Christensen autograph?”

Ryan chuckled. “What are your feelings about getting matching tattoos?”

Several thoughts flashed at once, starting with “pain” and “needles” and then quickly followed by the question of whether he was seriously considering permanently inking my right ass cheek with his name.

The next thoughts flooded in like a film in fast-forward—all swirling around the several tattoos that adorned Thomas’s luscious body; the tribal art that wrapped around Thomas’s chiseled left hip like a beacon to Wonderland.

I had to clear my throat. “I’ve considered a tattoo once. Never went through with it, though. Why? Are you thinking of other ways to mark your property?”

He shrugged, downplaying it, but I could tell that he was seriously considering it. “Just thought it might be cool. I’ve been thinking about getting one for a long time. Thought maybe we’d have the same symbol or something.”

I tried to see what he was drawing, but it only looked like a box with scribbling next to it.

“What is that?”

“I’m making an airport. This is the terminal and this here is the landing strip. Stop moving! My jumbo jet needs to land.”

I quickly rolled over onto my side.

“Hey! Oh, what—you don’t care if hundreds of passengers plummet to their death in the ocean?

You’re so mean.” His once-determined face now looked completely dejected. He was such a good actor.

I smiled at him, snatched the black marker from his hand, and climbed onto him. “Why? Is your jet packed with navy seamen? Let me draw on your ass. I want to carve my initials on my property.”

Even though he had been up since five thirty this morning, he moved with lightning-quick speed to undo his towel and roll onto his belly, so willing to let me draw on his body.

“Property . . . of . . . Taryn . . . Mitchell.” I wrote in script letters on his tight, bare bottom. I drew a little heart at the end to finish it off.

Ryan glanced over his shoulder. “You done?”

“Yep.”

He grabbed the marker out of my hand and tossed it in the general direction of the nightstand.

“Come here,” he said, slipping a hand behind my head to pull me down to his mouth. He tasted deliciously minty. The fragrances of his body wash and shampoo wove me into a familiar cocoon of favorite scents. Gently, he rolled me over onto my back. His fingers wove and tensed into my hair, holding my head in his hand, silently telling me he’d never let me go.

For me, kissing Ryan Christensen was like drinking instant passion. Arousal tore through my body, awakening the hunger for his touch that always lies just below my surface.

He kissed my cheek, that tender spot under my jaw, down to the nape of my neck. His hand slipped over my stomach, brushing fingertips over my ribs, working my camisole top up higher to expose my skin.