Damion West was the boy who stole my young heart and then broke it. That was a long time ago though and I’m not a girl susceptible to hot boys with big egos who just happen to kiss well anymore. Nor have I kept up with Damion West. Okay, I have. Everyone has. He's the heir to West Enterprises, and notoriously loud on social media.
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Everyone knows Damion West.
Just not like I do.
But that's another story better left untold.

It’s hard sometimes to remember that I’m no slouch myself. Confidence isn't exactly my forte but I fake it well. I’ve worked with my parents’ real estate firm catering to the rich and famous for years and I'm now one of the top agents in the country. Blue Enterprises is the name of our firm, which is also my name. Blue. Alana Blue. And now I'm on TV, the star of Selling in New York.

But every family has secrets. Damion's does and mine does as well.
That's why I have the TV show I didn't really want.
Nothing is real.

Except him. Damion. He's real. So is my past with him. But it's the past.
Then one day I get called to a meeting by the studio head, it's all very secretive.
Because it's not the studio at all, or actually, it is. Because his family owns everything.

That's right.
The meeting is with him. It's with Damion West.
And Lord help me, he's now sexier, and more arrogant than ever.

Also it turns out that what Damion wants from me isn't as simple as a real estate contract.
But it's a contract all right.

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If you pre-ordered before this giveaway went live, you can STILL enter to win :)

Amazon: http://mybook.to/TylerBella2/opt/1
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​“You’re going to have to share your room with me, sweetheart,” he says, and he doesn’t allow me time to object or even savor that endearment, not that objection is on my mind. I’m thinking of nothing but his mouth and hands on my body and this time, mine on his.
 
He opens the door and enters the room, maneuvering me along with him. The door slams shut behind us, and he’s already kissing me again. This time when his fingers find my hair, he gives the long strands an erotic tug and drags my gaze to his. “Control in all things, Bella. It’s who I am. It’s what I need, not a want.”
 
“And as you remember,” I say, my fingers curling on his chest, “I don’t like what I can’t control, which I guess actually means I like control, too.”
 
“And you have it with me,” he promises. “Always. All you have to say is no, and we find what feels like a yes to you. You asked if I trust you. I’m asking you now, if you trust me.”
 
I consider the complexity of the question. Do I trust him to listen when I say no? Yes. Do I trust him not to break my heart? I’m pretty sure that’s signed, sealed, and delivered, so, no. Do I trust him to make tonight all about pleasure? The kind of pleasure I’ll remember long after he is married off to his future fiancée. Yes. That’s a brutal yes because of where this is headed, which is nowhere but right here, right now, but one I can’t walk away from, either. “Yes,” I say. “I trust you.”
 
“I don’t think you do, Bella,” he murmurs, and the way he uses my name—it’s as if he wants me to know I’m not just sex to him. Or maybe I just want to believe that—even need to believe that—to be here with him, to be this intimate with him. Because I’m still me. I’m still not the “sex is sex” kind of girl, even if he aspires to change that in me. “But I want you to trust me so damn badly it’s insane,” he adds roughly, an edge of frustration in him, as if this statement somehow contradicts the control he so values.
 
It shakes me just how much I’m pleased that I’ve tormented him in some way, as if it’s selfish of me. I know this, but Lord also knows I’m tormented over this marriage agreement he’s obviously accepted. And if I think too hard about it, I will run. I will leave.
 
I don’t want to leave.
 
I press to my toes, desperate for his mouth and body, for that oblivion he’s shown me once that I crave once again.
 
His grip tightens gently round my hair, the act both arousing and brutal, as he denies me his mouth. “I’m going to make you trust me, Bella,” he declares, and then, thank you Lord, his mouth slants over my mouth, his tongue caressing my tongue. And it’s a toe-curling, deep, drugging kiss that leaves me breathless when his lips part mine. “Undress, baby,” he orders. “I want to watch.”