It’s been one hell of a day.

This morning, I took Eden to the airport for her flight to Milan. Then I went to work and acted like an airhead. Focusing on my job was all but impossible.

Even when we met with Wallace Rutherford – one of my biggest clients – I couldn’t keep my mind on the numbers. Shane had to pick up the slack. He did a fine job, but I’ve never needed help before.

It’s unsettling. Tori has completely taken over my thoughts.

And now I’m on the way home, where I’ll be alone with her. I should have taken her up on her offer to move out temporarily, but even apart from the fact that I’m pretty sure that’s not an option – where would she go? – it made me furious to think of her being anywhere but under my roof.

I have no right to be possessive of her. No rights at all where she’s concerned. But my instincts don’t care.

At my most primitive level, somewhere deep inside, she’s already mine.

My brother’s words keep circling through my mind. Maybe it’s time for you now. If she’s the one, and you let her walk away, you’ll never stop regretting it.

What did I expect him to say? He wasn’t going to tell me how wrong my desires are, that I should turn tail and run the other way. So maybe I called him because I wanted affirmation.

Permission.

His blessing, from one randy, iron-dicked man to another. Take what you want. You deserve it.

Fuck. That’s not fair to Hunter. He’s devoted to Lily; he adores her. He moved heaven and earth to make things right between them, and now they’re married. She’s not his fuck toy; she’s his cherished companion in life.

And there’s the rub, because I can’t offer Tori that. All I can give her is secrecy. Stolen moments, fueled by lust, followed by guilt.

Much as I’d like to, I can’t draw any lessons for myself from Hunter’s relationship with his wife. Except for the age difference, my circumstances are completely different.

Tori’s off limits. My relationship with my daughter is more important than whatever I think I feel for her friend. I will myself to believe it as Hugh pulls up in front of my building.

“Going out anywhere tonight, Mr. Drake?” he asks.

My gut twists. I should go out. Find a bar somewhere, huddle in a corner, and nurse a Scotch all night long, until it’s safe to go back home and crawl into bed.

“Not tonight, Hugh. I’ll see you in the morning. Thanks.”

A woman rides up in the elevator with me. She’s around my age, and she sends me smiling sidelong glances, her interest unmistakable. I should take her up on it, ask if she wants to go to dinner.

I don’t.

As I stand before my door, unlocking it, I know I have only myself to blame. Every time fate offers me an escape hatch, I turn it down. I’m determined to walk straight into the fire, even if it burns me to cinders.

I go in, and there she is, in the kitchen, finishing the dinner preparations. Longing slams into me like a hurricane-force gale.

It’s not just the sex, though heaven knows I want her with a hunger that seems insatiable. The picture she presents right now – the fantasy she seems to embody – I want that too.

For her to be the one waiting for me at the end of a long day. My own cherished companion. It’s a physical pain, I want it so badly.

She sends me a tentative smile. “Carole made beef stroganoff.”

“Sounds good.” I hang up my coat and stow my briefcase, then join her at the table. There are thick, crusty rolls to go with the meal. Tori brings the butter dish over, but drops it just as she reaches me.

“Oh.” She kneels down in front of me, gathering up the spilled food. “I’m so sorry.”

Before I can stop myself, my hand reaches out to stroke her hair. “It’s all right.”

Tori looks up at me, and the raw desire on her face almost undoes me. Kneeling at my feet, ready and willing … she’d do anything I wanted. I could be fucking her mouth in five seconds.

Ignoring my throbbing cock, I trace a path with my thumb from the corner of her mouth to the bridge of her cheekbone. “It’s all right,” I repeat.

The storm in her eyes tells me what we both know: that nothing is all right. She cleans up the mess and gets out another stick of butter. It’s not softened, like the one she dropped; it’s difficult to spread across the rolls.

It seems like a metaphor for the entire meal, which is full of awkward silences. There are too many things we can’t say, and neither of us can bridge the gap and find a safe, neutral topic of conversation.

After dinner, I stare unseeing at the television while Tori retreats to her room. My cock wants me to follow her, to tear down the walls between us and make her mine in all the ways that matter.

I don’t ... but I know what I’ll be doing at bedtime. It’ll be me and my hand again, dreaming of Tori, finding a release that’s less satisfying each time it happens.

I don’t know how much longer I can stand this.