“Time for dessert,” Peter says suggestively, raking his gaze over my white top and pale-yellow capris like he can see right through them.

I lock up from nerves as possible scenarios of how this starts and where it happens run in my mind. Peter didn’t want us to “have to deal with people” on our date, so I talked Michael into staying over at John’s tonight, and Peter brought over take-out from a nice Italian place. We decided on a more casual set-up on the living room floor with everything spread out on the coffee table. For my part, I’d lit some candles and put on the easy listening station, bringing back memories of one of the best nights of my life.

Grabbing my wine glass, I take a big sip to take the edge off. “Okay, but we should go into my room because I don’t want to…for lack of a better word, taint any of Michael’s furniture.”

The biggest smile breaks across his face as he reaches into the paper bag next to him and pulls out a clear container with a huge piece of tiramisu. “I think as long as we’re careful putting it in our mouths, we should be fine eating it right here.”

“Oh my God. I— You know what? Never mind. I’m just going to stop talking now.”

His deep chuckle at my expense shouldn’t endear him to me even more, but it seems there’s little Peter Pan can do that doesn’t cause my heart to sink deeper into emotional quicksand. Fighting it only makes it worse, so I might as well embrace it.

For the next month, anyway. Then I’ll go back to Charlotte, where I’ve made a home and started to build a name for myself, and my life will return to normal. Normal. Suddenly that word feels like a synonym for boring, complacent, and ordinary. None of which can be used to describe life with Peter. Again, I’m reminded of how much fun we had together, how freeing it was just being around him. Things I’m rediscovering every time I’ve been with him in the past three weeks.

“I think Donatello’s has the best tiramisu in the area, but you tell me what you think.”

He holds the fork out to me, and I accept the bite. No sooner does it hit my tongue than I’m moaning my appreciation. Creamy decadence melts in my mouth. The bitterness of the cocoa powder and espresso-soaked ladyfingers melts together with the sweet custard and mascarpone into one perfect creation.

“Told you,” he says, taking a bite. I grab my own fork to scoop up a healthy chunk, and as soon as my mouth is full, he says something that almost makes me choke. “Tell me about your love life.”

I hedge with an attempt at distraction before I realize my mistake. “Tell me about yours.” What am I saying? The last thing I want to hear about are his myriad of conquests in the bedroom. Oh, shoot. Maybe that’s not even the case. Maybe he fell in love with a girl, and they were serious, but something happened that prevented them from being together, and he’s never gotten over her. That scenario would be way worse.

“Nothing to tell.”

I’ve never been so happy to see his nonchalant shrug. I quietly exhale the breath I’ve been holding as the knot in my belly begins to loosen.

“I mean,” he continues, “I’ve had my share of fun over the years—more than some guys and less than others—but I’ve never wanted any kind of relationship.”

“Why not?”

“Did that once,” he says, holding my gaze. “Didn’t work out.”

I swallow hard, unsure of what to say. That “way worse” scenario is what happened, except I was the girl. Am the girl. And that makes me feel strangely giddy and sad all at the same time.

“Your turn. I figured you would’ve been married with half a dozen kids by now.”

It wasn’t for lack of trying. After I graduated college, I tried finding someone to share my life with. It was the next box to check off in my multi-step plan—date exclusively for two years, get engaged for one, stay newlyweds for another year, then start our family and live happily ever after.

But it never worked out that way. The men I dated were nice—they cared about me, had great jobs, came from good homes, and kept diverse financial portfolios. They were also predictable, creatures of habit and structure, and staunch rule-followers. All traits that I shared, which made us perfectly compatible in almost every way.

Which is why I inevitably broke it off every time.

“I never found what I was looking for.”

“Which was what?”

Peter abandons his fork in favor of turning toward me, so I do the same. We’re only inches apart; yet, it might as well be a mile. We’ve been building up to this moment since last weekend, since I stepped into his office three weeks ago—maybe even since the first night we met—and every second I’m not in his arms is torture. I know he feels the same way, I can see it in his eyes. But he wants his answer, and he won’t budge until he gets it.

“Passion,” I say. “Spontaneity, maybe some rule-bending. I wanted that sense of magnetism, of being helplessly drawn to someone. To know that no matter how far apart life pulled us, we would always come crashing back together. I wanted adventure and magic and…” I take a deep breath and finally admit what I’ve known for years. “You, Peter. I wanted you.”

Reaching up, he cups the sides of my face, his fingers slipping into my hair as his blue eyes stare into mine. “I’m yours, Wen. Always have been. Take what you want, and I swear, I’ll give you all that I am.”

My heart squeezes as I realize what he needs. The first night we made love, he’d held back because he wanted to make sure I was ready to take that final step with him. He’d known it wasn’t a question of what I wanted, merely when I wanted it. But after everything we’ve been through—the hard choices, the heartache, the time apart—he needs me to choose him.

So I do.

Fisting my hands in his shirt, I pull him to me and make my choice clear with a searing kiss to end any doubt. His lips are warm and firm, and every time we kiss feels like coming home in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Ten years is a long time, and who we were then is a far cry from who we are now, and yet, our teenage selves are still here, reconnecting beneath the adults discovering each other for the first time.

Satisfied that I made the first move, Peter takes control. He parts my lips with his and thrusts his tongue inside, demanding I give back all that I take. A whimper escapes my throat as I climb into his lap, needing to be closer, to finally eradicate the space that’s separated us for far too long. Straddling him, I settle onto his hard cock, straining against its denim prison, eliciting a painful sounding groan from his chest.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you? I’m a little rusty—”

“The only way you’ll hurt me is if I can’t ravage your sweet body like I’ve been craving for the last three weeks.”

Oh…well then. “As long as it happens in my room, feel free to ravage me as much as you like.”

Setting his jaw, he gets to his feet with ease, despite me clinging to him like a stripper on her pole, then strides across the apartment. In seconds, he’s found my guest room and laid me on the queen size bed.

I’m about to complain about him not joining me, but the words die on my lips when he strips off his shirt, exposing all those cut muscles and bad-boy tattoos—separate pieces of art that form one cohesive masterpiece, stretching from his pecs, over his shoulders, and down his arms. I want to take my time, to study each one and ask about their meanings, the reasons he chose to permanently etch them into his skin.

But not now.

Now I have other things I want to focus on, namely the massive one contained by the fly of his jeans. Lifting up on my elbows, my hungry eyes dip down to where my thoughts have strayed and watch as his erection flexes against the denim.

He unbuttons and opens the zipper with slow, deliberate movements. When he palms himself through his underwear, I have to fist my hands, so I’m not tempted to sit up and yank everything down to finally bare him to my hot gaze.

“Keep looking at my cock like that, Wen, and all my plans for taking things slow will go right out the fucking window.”

The heat of his threat feels more like a promise I hope he’ll keep. It melts over my spine and pools warmth into my empty, aching sex. Trying to hide my intense visceral reaction, I quip, “My, what language, Mr. Pan. And here I thought you were a gentleman.”

His feral grin proves that any attempt at teasing him was lost with the breathless way I uttered the words. Operation Aloof is a fail, and I can’t even muster up enough self-respect to care that he knows how far gone I am.

Leaving his jeans hanging open—dang it, why aren’t those off yet? —he lowers himself to the bed and half lays over me, enough to assert his dominance without obscuring his view of my body.

“You and I both know that’s just another thing we pretend. I might be respectful of you as a lady, but there’s not a damn thing gentlemanly about me, especially not when it comes to getting you under me. So you’re gonna have to give me a pass on the foul language in times like this.”

The thought of Peter—this version of Peter, with his muscles and tattoos and all-around hugeness—being unrestrained in the bedroom sends shivers of desire through me. I want that. I want him. So, so badly.

“Good,” I tell him, skimming my nails over his scalp as I push my hands through his hair. “Because in times like this, the last thing I want you to be, is a gentleman.”

“Same goes for you, Wen. When we’re together, I don’t want the reserved and proper lady. I want your raw, uncensored emotions. Nothing exists outside you, me, and the stars you fly with when I make you come. Deal?”

“Deal,” I answer without hesitation.

Satisfied, Peter divests me of my top and pants, leaving me in my white lace bra and panty set. Suddenly, I feel way too exposed and self-conscious. I’ve never put much effort into working out, and my curves are soft as opposed to the toned physique of girls like Tinker Bell. Remembering how much emphasis Peter always put on being strong, I’m worried he’ll find me lacking. I try crossing my arms over my belly, but he shackles my wrists above my head in one hand and shakes his head disapprovingly.

“I can see the thoughts in your eyes, and I want them gone. Not just now, but forever. You’re perfect, Wen, and you always will be.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Even if I gain a bunch of weight?”

The muscle in his jaw tics, and his eyes narrow at me. “I don’t like you challenging my opinion of you, Wendy Darling. I will always find you beautiful.” His free hand covers my stomach, his fingertips toying with the waist of my panties. “Not because of how you look, but because of how you look when I do things like this.”

In one fluid motion, his fingers slip beneath the silk and pass over my mound to part my slick lips and tease my swollen clit.

“Ohhhh,” I moan, my eyes closing as my pelvis lifts, chasing his touch.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos to me, nuzzling into my neck and nibbling my ear. “Just like that.”

His fingers continue their magic, circling around my bundle of nerves, then grazing across the top and causing my hips to jerk from the jolt of pleasure that shoots through me. His mouth finds my breasts, licking and sucking on my nipples through the silk of my bra. Big wet spots make the thin material see-through, and the friction of it rasping against my sensitive flesh creates a live wire of electricity straight to my sex.

The tension in my belly builds and builds, but every time I’m balanced on the edge of climax, he backs off, only to start all over and drag me back to the precipice. When I think it can’t get any worse, he slips two fingers into my soaked channel and begins to work them in and out of my body like he’s playing an instrument that exists for him alone.

I gasp and whimper, mewl and moan. My body is no longer under my control. It writhes under him, alternately begging for more of his torture and trying to escape it. I passed flushed forever ago, and now I’m catching fire, burning for him without any hope of dousing the flames.

“Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful like this. Tell me it’s all for me, Wen. That no one else makes you feel this way.”

“No one,” I groan. “Only you, Peter. Only…you ohmigod.”

He changes his movements inside me, curling his fingers forward to hit my G-spot—something that none of my other lovers ever cared to find. He finally releases my hands to leverage himself up on one arm, and I take advantage of the sudden freedom to grip his shoulders, using him to anchor myself to this world, this moment. I feel caught in this place of uncertainty, unable to stay where I am but afraid of where I might end up if I move on.

Peter kisses the breath out of me then presses our foreheads together as he stares deeply into my eyes. “Let go, Wen,” he rasps. “Fly for me, angel. Fly high.”

He presses his thumb to my clit as he adds a third finger, thrusting deep and giving me wings. I scream his name as my first orgasm detonates, ripping through me with a vibrating force that bows my back and blurs the world around me. My limbs quiver with aftershocks as I soar among the stars for an eternity contained in the span of seconds. In the distance, I can hear gruff words of praise as I float back to earth, guiding me back to where I’m lying on my side, gathered against Peter’s firm chest with his hand stroking my hair.

“There she is,” he says with a rare soft smile that makes my heart as weak as my legs right now. “Welcome back.”

“Peter, that was…I…” Have no words, apparently. Thankfully, he isn’t expecting any.

“Shhhh, you don’t need to say anything. All I want you to do is feel, remember?”

I nod as he pulls my top leg onto his hip, which is when my head clears enough to realize that while I’d been blissed out from orgasm, he’d shucked the rest of our clothes and sheathed himself in a condom. I’m briefly disappointed that I missed that show until the head of his cock notches at my opening, and I no longer care about anything other than him finally filling me to capacity.

“Yes,” I mewl. “Please, Peter, I want you.”

“I’m yours, Wen,” he rasps against my neck. “Take me. Take all of me.”

Pushing his hips forward, he uses his body to invade mine, driving all the way to the hilt with one steady thrust then holding still, letting me adjust around him. Both of us are breathing heavy, not from exertion, but with anticipation.

We can pretend that we’re merely two people rekindling an old flame for the sake of mutual fun, but we know it’s more than that. This moment means something. It holds weight. Like the magnets inside our chests are turning toward each other, and if we go through with this, that undeniable pull will fuse us together even stronger than before.

If I was thinking clearly, I’d realize that it’s not the best idea to start something that can’t be anything other than a soul-deep connection when I have no plans on staying. Or had no plans on staying. The way I feel right now makes me think uprooting my entire life and essentially rebooting my company in a new location isn’t that big of a deal. Because as Peter finally begins to move, I’m overwhelmed with the emotions and physical sensations battling for dominance, and all I want is to stay like this with him forever.

We find our rhythm, the one written only for us, as we hold each other’s gaze. Sweat slicks our heated skin and dampens the hair on our faces. He’s warrior-beautiful, his chiseled jaw set, cheeks ruddy, and eyes bright with lust.

Over and over, he fills me, stretches me, pushing me higher and higher. And every time I’m sure that I can’t take any more, that the next time he plunges inside will be the one to drag me over the edge, he pushes me higher still.

“Fuck, you’re so goddamn tight. Hot. Perfect,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. “Only you, Wen. Only you.”

He hooks my leg over the crook of his arm, opening me wider for his punishing thrusts, hitting me deeper than I ever thought possible.

“Oh my God,” I gasp.

“Come with me, baby. Come right fucking now.”

He changes the angle of his hips and alters my universe as I know it. My breath catches in my chest as the orgasm rolls through me like pulsing waves, pushing a tingling warmth into my extremities as I ride the swells. My sex clenches around his cock, again and again, demanding his release, and with an animalistic roar, he gives it to me, emptying himself in powerful streams that I can feel even through the latex.

As I struggle to come back to myself, I’m vaguely aware of Peter disposing of the condom in the small waste basket by the bed, then freeing the covers to pull them around us. Too weak to move, I let him roll me onto my other side and press my back against his chest. He tucks one arm under my head and snakes the other up the center between my breasts to splay his hand possessively over my heart.

“And so, my adventure returns,” he says gruffly in my ear. “You know what this means, Wen?”

“What, Peter?” I whisper through my climax-induced haze.

“You left me once. That was your chance to be free of me. This time, I’m not letting you go. Not without a fight.”

I close my eyes to stem the tears as the last of my walls crumble to the ground, leaving my heart vulnerable and his for the taking. Again. Seconds later, his breaths are deep and even, as though stating his intentions for me worked like a mental Ambien.

Placing my hand over his, I release the breath I’d been holding since his declaration, and I vow to stop fighting fate. There’s no use. Peter and I were destined for each other from the time we were twelve. Maybe we were meant to take separate paths for a time, to grow as individuals, before coming together as a couple, and now that we’ve done that, we don’t have to be apart anymore.

With a smile on my face, I follow Peter into oblivion and dream of our happily ever after. It’s perfect and amazing, and everything I ever hoped for…except for that tinkling bell that won’t stop echoing in the distance.