“If you keep talking like that,” Monica said, “I’m going to get jealous of a car.”

Cal bent down, leaning his hands on the open window. “You should hear how I talk about you. Your chassis is stellar.”

“Are you referring to my ass again?” She shot a quick look to the corner of the room, where the tall, balding owner stood watching them. “What’s his deal? Does he think you’re going to steal something?”

“They only built twenty of these. I don’t blame him for acting proprietarily. Just finding the parts for this beauty took a massive amount of time and work.”

“What did it look like before this transformation?” she asked.

“A woman in Hamburg inherited it from her father-in-law, and it just sat there, collecting dust and corroding in an old barn. Wasn’t even covered up properly. Can you imagine?”

“Ah, poor orphaned Ferrari.” But it was stunning. The overhead lights reflected off the glossy, candy-apple paint. It was sex on wheels. “I wish I could drive it.”

“So do I.” Cal stroked it one more time. “Anyway”—he straightened and helped her out of the car—“I thought I’d show you what I can really do. I haven’t made much headway on my Mustang, not as much as I’d like, at any rate. Without the equipment in my shop, it’s been a challenge.”

“Well, this is impressive. You’re kind of amazing, Calum Hughes.”

For once, he didn’t come back with an arrogant quip. He just smiled, a little shyly. “Thank you, but it was a team effort.”

Before they left, Monica talked the couple into buying tickets to the gala. While the wife wrote out a check, the husband pointed at Cal. “I’ve been searching over ten years for a ’57 Aston Martin. Would love to add one to my collection.”

“I’ll be on the lookout,” Cal said. “I’d love to work on one, as well, but they’re damned hard to find. As soon as I get back to London, I’ll put out the word.”

Monica smiled and accepted the check, but she’d overheard Cal’s conversation, and it put things into perspective. Monica tried not to actively think about Cal leaving, but he would, and soon. Just because they were having a good time didn’t mean he’d stick around. On the drive back to Vegas, Monica reminded herself this was supposed to be fun. No strings, that was their agreement.

“Penny for them?”

“What?” She glanced over at him. Sitting behind the wheel, he always looked self-assured.

He picked up her hand and kissed it. “You’re thinking terribly deep thoughts over there. You grow very quiet when you’re thinking. Want to talk about it? Are you worried about the gala? The board meeting? That’s coming up in a couple of weeks, isn’t it?”

“I was just mentally running through my to-do list for tomorrow.” She rattled off a few mundane tasks, guaranteed to bore him in three seconds.

Monica might like sleeping in Cal’s arms every night, hearing all about his adventures. She even liked listening to him talk about European sports cars. But Cal wouldn’t stick around, not for her, and probably not even for Jules. Leopards didn’t lose their spots. Look at her. Monica had had her shit together until she’d run into Cal, and now she was almost back to square one—falling for the wrong guy.

No, not falling. You’re in control this time, remember? Monica could separate her feelings from sex, right? Men did it all the time. Thank God she’d had this wake-up call before she’d done something stupid, like stumble into love with Calum Hughes.

* * *

Cal was frustrated. Not sexually, of course. He and Monica shagged more often than rabbits. It should be embarrassing, the vast amounts of sex they had, but he was too contented to care. They’d christened every room in the bloody villa more than once. The linen closet had been a little cramped, but worth it.

No, his frustration lay solely with Monica herself. Since their visit to see the Ferrari a week ago, something had been troubling her. He wasn’t sure what had occurred that night, but she’d changed. Not outwardly. Sexually, she was as willing and responsive as ever.

Just five minutes ago, she’d sucked him dry and seemed to take great pleasure in watching his response. Monica had lightly skirted her tongue along the bell end of his cock, then flitted little licks up and down his shaft. When she finally took him deep in her throat, Cal toppled over the edge of sanity, thrusting his hands into her hair in an effort to guide her, force her to go faster.

But Monica had released him and shook off his grasp. “This is my show, Hot Rod. Hands to yourself.” She’d started doing that too—calling him Hot Rod. It was kind of charming.

“Why are you talking? Your mouth should be full.”

Puckering her lips, Monica lightly blew across the tip. His prick jerked at the feel of her warm breath, and Cal clenched his teeth. “You’re slaying me, love. It’s brutal.”

“Death by slow fellatio? I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a thing,” he defended. “Look it up.”

“I don’t need a backseat driver. Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Fine, no hands,” he’d ground out. “But turnabout is a bitch—you remember that, Miss Prim.”

She smiled up at him. “You’re going to pay for that.” She took him in her mouth again, and every time he got close, she’d back off. Monica played this game well, goddamn her.

As he neared orgasm once more, Cal had been panting hard, clutching the sheets. Sweat covered his brow. He wasn’t going to beg her for release—he had too much pride. But he had to clamp his jaw shut in order to keep from shouting, “Hurry the fuck up and let me come!” Perhaps she’d read his expression, because ultimately Monica increased her speed, bobbing her head, taking him deeper while her hands pumped the base of his cock.

When he finally came, he shot into her mouth. Long streams of it. She took it all and kept going, milking him dry, giving him possibly the most intense orgasm he’d ever had.

And now he lay here, completely spent, yet still frustrated. No, the sex hadn’t changed—it was this part afterward that had altered.

She lay spooned against him, her head propped on his outstretched arm. Cal brushed his thumb over her stomach, waiting. Waiting for her to talk, to ask him questions, to say something…anything. But Monica remained silent. If he asked what was troubling her, she’d chide him, tell him she was thinking about tomorrow’s tasks.

Bullshit.

Cal knew when she was lying. Always. So he quit asking, because he hated it when she fobbed him off. Resented the bloody hell out of it, actually.

Intimacy. That was the missing ingredient. They’d had intimacy before, and now it was gone. Monica used to talk to him after sex. She’d opened up about her mum a little bit. He’d told her about his fight with Pix, his concerns for Jules.

Monica may be doubling down on the sex, but her heart remained guarded. She held an important part of herself back from him, and Cal didn’t know why.

“Want to hear about the elephants in Sri Lanka?” he whispered, then kissed her neck.

“Next time,” she said.

Cal’s ego felt a bit bruised from that one. Why did a lack of intimacy worry him anyway? That was for twats and people in real relationships. He and Monica were all about sex. They’d made a deal from the beginning.

As Monica fell asleep, Cal stayed awake long into the night, thinking about where he’d land next. His garage manager, Otto, was pressuring him to come back to London and get his ass to work. But Cal didn’t know if he wanted to head to England in the middle of winter.

He could go to Hawaii and surf. Or he could fly up to Alberta, watch the northern lights. But none of it appealed. Trouble was, Cal couldn’t picture himself anywhere but here. Lying next to Monica, smelling her sweet scent as he cradled her in his arms each night.

What if he and Monica came to a new arrangement? Still have fun, of course, but perhaps they could be… What? What would you be, muppet, exclusive? Yes, exactly. Exclusive. So what if he flew back to London for a few weeks or even months? He could come and see Monica in between. Visit Jules to make sure she stayed on course. Long-distance relationships—people did them all the time.