“The question at the heart of this case—” Professor Howard, a spritely man with white hair that is always meticulously combed, slaps a metal pointer against the chalkboard. “—is this question: did these men commit murder?”

There’s a second-long lull, and then hands all around me shoot up.

It’s a different view, sitting in the back of the classroom.

I was on time for class, but since Monday, I’ve been taking seats toward the back, where I can blend in with the crowd. I don’t want my professors to realize that my attention wavers.

Because wow does it waver.

I don’t know why this thing with that woman, Serenity, keeps clawing at my mind, curdling in my gut. It shouldn’t matter. Even though my feelings for Weston—

I shake my head, trying to concentrate on the facts of the case. My feelings for Weston are more out of control than I thought.

It shouldn’t bother me, the things Serenity said, because half of them were true and half of them were irrelevant. It’s true that I have limited time with Weston. That’s how it should be. I can’t spend my life with a man like him. I can’t. My father would be beside himself with rage if I gave up all my ambitions to be with a man wealthy enough to buy anything we could ever want. 

It’s not true that I’m some slut, some whore out for his money.

My stomach turns over. Maybe I am. Maybe that’s what bothers me so much—that I went against everything I believe in, everything my parents taught me, to spend two weeks with Weston. I’m still determined to pay him back, but I can’t deny that there’s a little seed of hope in the back of my mind. I could be free of all the Overbrook stress, if I wanted.

If I could ever let myself accept that kind of gift.

Which I can’t.

And even while I sit in the middle of Criminal Law with the clock ticking slowly by, every second expanding and seeming to last five, I can’t convince myself that this is the only truth. Or even the realest truth. Or even the truth that has the most evidence behind it.

Serenity Kowall bothers me because, deep down, there’s a kernel of fear that I’m another one of her—another notch on Weston Grant’s belt.

I knew that the moment I agreed to spend two weeks as his.

Even the thought of it makes my heart race, sends a blush to my cheeks. That’s the bitch of it all. I know this is temporary. I know I can never have Weston Grant in that way. I even know that I can’t accept his money—I’ve known that all along.

But now that I’m actually in it—now that I have even the shadow of a relationship with him—it’s more than I could have hoped.

It’s going to break my heart to give it up.

Of course, that spirals me back to Serenity Kowall and all the other women I’ve seen pictured with Weston Grant on the gossip sites. It’s not far-fetched to think that they felt this way, too. That he did things for them, too. That he led them to believe—

“That’s all for the afternoon.” The professor’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “We’ll resume on Monday. Have case notes prepared.”

I stand up and flip my laptop closed, shoving it and my notepad into my bag.

My notes are useless anyway. Over and over again, like some lovesick teenage girl, all I wrote down was Weston Grant, followed by half-finished thoughts about what the hell I’m going to do at the end of all this.

I don’t have time to wallow.

I want to go back to the penthouse, but after the study group I scheduled after class, I have to stop at my place, get some things together, and prepare for my shift at the Rose. I normally have Wednesdays off, but one of the other waitresses needed to switch—something involving a funeral or a baby shower, I’m not sure—and even though I told Darla I’d visit my dad in a couple of Wednesdays, I took the shift.

It sends a stab of guilt through my gut as I’m standing at the mirror in my bathroom, putting on my Rose face, but I need some more time to pass before I see him again.

I finish putting on mascara, grab my bag, and head for the subway.

“Juliet.”

I’m halfway down the block from the Rose with ten minutes to go before my shift starts and lost in thought, but the voice sends a wave of pure pleasure down my spine. 

Weston is leaning against his Town Car, a grin on his face.

“I’m on my way to work.”

He looks up like he’s trying to work something out in his thoughts. “What day is it again?”

“Wednesday.”

He stands up straight and steps toward me, closing the distance between us and wrapping one arm around my waist. Then his breath is hot on my ear, his voice curling right into my core. “Then I have six more days.”

“To do what?” I suck in a breath, every nerve already on fire, and we’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk, barely touching.

“This.”

He sweeps me toward the car, pulling open the back door in one smooth motion. I fold at the waist, ducking into the car, and he climbs in after me, slamming the door shut behind him. My heart is in my throat and my panties—skimpy, so that they don’t show underneath my dress—are soaked through already.

“Hands and knees,” Weston growls, and every muscle in my body jumps to obey him. I turn over on the seat, and then he’s pushing his hands up under my skirt. He tugs my panties down to my knees, then off over my heels, and I can’t help it. The scent of him in the evening summer air has me so ready that I can’t stand it. “Don’t make a sound.”

So I don’t—not when he shoves my dress up to my waist, not when he sinks his fingers into my hips and pulls me back to straddle his harder-than-steel cock, not when he fills me with every inch of him, fucking me with the kind of abandon borne out of possession, pure and simple. He wastes not a single movement, not a single moment, and then suddenly he thrusts in deep, holding me pinned against his hard hipbones.

Then he snakes one of his hands around to the front, his dexterous fingers finding my clit, and circles it with his fingertips while he holds me back, pinning me in place. I’m taken. I’m claimed. I’m totally under his control.

“Come for me, angel.”

The pleasure is blinding, and he expands inside of me as I come, another cascade of my juices washing over him as I writhe and shake in his grasp. He keeps me impaled on his thickness until only the aftershocks of the orgasm are still coming, and then he pulls out, slamming back in, harder, harder, until he rockets over the edge of his own release.

I’m still trembling when he presses something soft between my legs, then tugs my dress back into place.

Outside, in the sultry breeze, he kisses my temple. “Have a good shift at work.”

I close my eyes and breathe him in. “I think you have something of mine.”

“Oh, you’ll get it back.” His grin is wicked. “Later tonight.”