“You should probably go to bed,” he says. He stares at the floor, combing his fingers through his hair.

“What if I’m not tired?”

He laughs—not from humor but from frustration—and looks up. “You have to work tomorrow, remember?”

I nod, disappointment stinging the back of my throat. I’m not ready to call it a night, but I can’t stay here like this. This isn’t how I wanted the night to end. I hurry to my bedroom, careful to close the door behind me. I turn on the shower and strip out of my clothes while I wait for it to heat up.

With a lot on my mind, I stay under the water a little longer than I should. The three corners of my world collided tonight, parts successfully, others not so much. If it weren’t for a few drunken comments toward the end, things would have been perfect.

By the time I step out, my fingers are pruned. My skin bright red. Not wanting to dig around for pajamas, I pull on my robe and haphazardly run a comb through my hair. It’s almost midnight, and I should be tired, but I can’t shut off my brain. It drifts to Blake—why he is who he is, why he’s not easier to read . . . why he doesn’t want me. We all have a story. The more we let people know, the better they understand us.

Most of the things I know about Blake are drawn from what I know about Mallory. Their parents are professionals, still married and all in all good people. I know they pushed Mallory a little bit, but not in a sense that made her struggle under pressure. She drew from it. It helped her keep her focus. Maybe it was different for Blake, or there could be a whole other part of him that I don’t know.

I want to know every part of him.

When I finally emerge from my room, Blake is standing in the kitchen with a beer bottle to his lips. His eyes land on me almost immediately, exploring every inch of my bare, exposed legs. If I’m going to get his whole story, I need to do it his way. I need to speak his language and pray that he eventually speaks mine. This isn’t ideal—it’s a flower that won’t bloom, a tree without leaves. There could be so much more. It could be so much better. But if this is what I get, I’m going to keep it alive.

I walk toward him slowly, noticing the way his fingers tighten around the bottle . . . craving those hands on me. My robe slips off my shoulder, and I make no attempt to fix it. I take slow, calculated steps toward him. He strides around the counter toward me. A force stronger than either of us pulls our bodies together. Clasp. Glue. Desire.

My heart pumps faster when he’s standing right in front of me. Neither of us has muttered a single word. We just stay . . . like this, eyes of lust speaking silently to one another.

The way his lips part, the way his eyes gloss over, is confirmation enough. He craves this just as much as I do. I run my fingers along my belt, slowly untying it as his hands clench at his sides. The cotton robe falls open just enough to give him a glimpse of what he’s trying to deny himself.

I take another step, running my fingertips over my lower lip, pretending it’s him. His tongue sweeps across his lips, and I swear if he doesn’t touch me soon, I’ll scream.

Seduction is new, but I’m finding it’s like riding a bike—I just need to stop over-thinking it and move my legs. To him. To us.

One step closer, and our chests would be touching. I flush just thinking about his skin against mine. The robe slips further down my arm, and, this time, the pull is enough to take it to the ground. So I stand in front of him, naked and exposed, waiting for either the worst form of rejection or the elevator to sexual bliss.

A slow smile pulls at his lips as he cradles my face in his hands. His mouth crashes down on mine. It’s not enough. I want him—no, I need him deeper. I need all that I know he can give me.

I run my fingers over his strained erection, wanting so badly to free him and push him into me. Sex has never been a necessity to me, but with him, I breathe it, dream it. I live for it.

“Not going to sleep?” he asks between kisses.

“I’m not tired.” Definitely not going to sleep after a taste of him.

He pulls away, still holding my face. “I don’t want you to think I’m just using you. What Reece said—”

“She was drunk.”

He runs his thumbs over my cheekbones. “Do you remember what I said . . . about not getting your heart caught up in this? I meant it, but I don’t know if you’re that girl. I don’t know if you can leave your heart at the door.”

My finger covers his kissable pink lips. “Blake, you promised me counter sex. It’s all I’ve thought about all damn day. Now, are you going to give it to me or not?”

“Promise me,” he says, “Promise me that this is all there is. That you won’t let yourself fall into something deeper, because Lila, I don’t want to hurt you.” His chest pulses. My heart clenches. “I can’t hurt you.”

If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that Blake’s loved before. To understand pain and hurt, you have to have loved first. Who hurt him so badly that he won’t let himself go through it again?

“Touch me. Please.” I inch my fingers up, brushing against his stomach, his sculpted chest. His body is a touchable masterpiece.

“Fuck,” he mutters, claiming my lips with another kiss. My arms wrap tightly around his neck, pressing my body to his. It feels so right.

Standing on my tiptoes, I whisper against his ear. “I’ve been thinking about the feel of you inside of me all day.”

His cock twitches against my stomach. “Is that what you want?”

I nod, too nervous to say any more. He’s created a sinner. I’m addicted to the fire with which he burns my skin—a slow singe that spreads until my whole body is aflame.

The alcohol is starting to wear off. Just enough remains to give me the confidence for this—to initiate what Blake wouldn’t when we walked through the door. He showed a little bit of nobility—a miniscule version of Prince Charming—with his concern for my heart. It just made me want him even more.

He lifts me off my feet and carries me to the kitchen, his mouth connected to mine. He holds me to him with one arm while using the other to clear a stack of newspapers from the counter. Before I even realize what’s happening, I’m sitting on the edge with Blake between my legs. I’m done messing around . . . I need him inside of me.

Reaching between us, I work the button on his pants. There’s not an ounce of patience left in me.

“Hey,” he groans, gripping my wrist. “There’s no rush, Lemon Drop.”

I look up, using my free hand to run the back of my finger against his jaw. “Are you ever going to tell me why you call me that?”

He grins, pressing his index finger to my lips. “We’re done talking.” His hot lips replace his finger, but I pull back, earning myself a curious look. This back and forth thing . . . we do it a lot.

“Tell me, or maybe I’m not playing tonight.” He better freaking tell me, because there’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep with this hungry sensation between my legs.

He leans in, and I think he might kiss me. Try to silence me. But he doesn’t. He pauses a few inches from my face. “I don’t have to tell you a damn thing to get between those legs, and you know it.”

“Not true,” I mutter, shaking my head.

He grips my knees then skims his fingers along the inside of my thighs. I spread them wider, thinking it will interrupt his rhythm, but it works against me. His thumbs stroke the top my thighs and a thick groan escapes his lips. “I knew the second you walked out in that sexy little robe that I was going to fuck you.”

When he slips one finger inside of me, I gasp. “You’re so fucking wet and ready for me. I dare you to make me to stop. This pretty little pussy would hate you for it.”

He pushes a second finger into me. Pressure builds quickly. He’s winning, but when he’s winning like this, I’m anything but losing.