...When the elevator doors closed, I slumped against the wall, while Nick stood ramrod straight. Tension rolled off him in palpable waves.

“Relax. I’m not going to blow open your closet door.”

He didn’t look at me. “You have no idea the hell I’ve been in the last three months.”

“Directing is that much harder than acting?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

The elevator doors whisked open and I had to move fast to keep up with him. He had his keys out of his pocket, unlocking the pickup with the remote. I bypassed the running board and jumped up into the seat. He engaged the locks as soon as the doors closed. Nick turned to me. “Asher, I’m sorry. I acted like a total asshole.”

“Yeah, you did. Now move on.”

His hand gripped my knee. “Just like that?”

I shrugged. “You want some queen scene, go piss on someone else. Does this thing have air conditioning?”

Nick stuck his keys in the slot and turned the switch, bringing the smooth-running engine to life. Hot air blasted out the vents, quickly moderating. Desperate to cool down, I undid a few buttons and held my shirt open to catch the artificial breeze. He wasn’t ready to let it go yet.

“You have every right to be angry at me.”

“Who says I’m not? I am, and no apology in the world is enough. So just fucking move on, Nick.”

He glared at me. “I don’t know what to do with that, man. I don’t know what to do about you, either.”

My heart started beating in a strange, uneven rhythm. He leaned toward me, shoulders and palms open. He looked worried, but earnest. Years of sizing up other men based on their body language told me he was being honest with me.

I remembered his heat as I went into him, his strong thighs gripping my sides. That memory trapped me, held me there throughout my days and nights, but I’d sooner have my jailor than his.

His closet door didn’t just protect his Hollywood career…it held him hostage. All his money couldn’t free him.

What did he want with me? And I knew—I knew—he wanted me. I wouldn’t fit in his rich man’s world so where did that leave him? Or me?

Hell, I wasn’t even sure what I wanted with him. I moved in different circles. Poorer circles. People in my world worked nine-to-five jobs with paychecks barely stretching one Friday to the next, and didn’t give a fuck what the world thought about them.

It was better to forget we’d ever put our hands on each other. We should chalk it up to a moment of foolishness or gross stupidity.

Only, I couldn’t rid myself of the memory of him beneath me. At night, in my solitary bed, I could still feel his body so tightly around mine. When I slept, his eyes were there, always waiting for me, his gaze full of desire, hope and wariness.

What did I want, and how far could I push him to get it?

The pickup protected our lower bodies from anyone with a camera. I reached out, laid my hand on his thigh, and slid it up to cup his balls. He stared at me with the witchy look he always gave me in my dreams.

“Just so you know, Nick, there’s no halfway with me. It’s all in, balls out, or nothing.”