Cool ocean air tickles my flushed face. The sky above is clear and dark, with only the barest hint of the coming dawn. A few pale stars wink on the horizon and in the distance, placid waves murmur happily as they reach the shore.

Sebastian is asleep in the bedroom behind me—sprawled like a contented jungle cat, one arm flung over his head. When I could no longer stomach watching him sleep, I pulled on a robe and came out to the deck.

After we came down from our post-coital high, I’d not-so-subtly encouraged him to leave. He’d merely laughed, spread my legs, and gone down on me until my feeble protests turned to eager pleas. Even sweeter than I remember. My Candy.

With my brain reset by a third mind-blowing orgasm, I’d returned the favor—and been immediately reminded of how incredibly hot I get having him in my mouth. Finally, with a hoarse shout, he’d grabbed me, rolled me beneath him, and rode me to his own release.

The breeze off the ocean picks up. Goose bumps lift on my bare legs, cooling the heat in my blood.

I shiver and hug my arms to my chest, feeling an odd mix of lassitude and anxiety. I never want to see him again. I never want him to leave. The latter impulse has the flavor of old desire and need. I remind myself that we’re not the same people anymore.

I am not the same girl who almost fell in love with her brother’s best friend. Who came to crave his touch like an addict. Because that’s exactly what Sebastian is—my addiction. And despite careful maintenance, it’s never totally faded. I’ve relapsed before, in fact. Only once in the eight years since our week together, but it was a doozy.

Summoned, the memory comes, as clear and cutting as if it happened yesterday.

I was in Los Angeles when my mother died. Although we all knew her cancer was at a critical state, my father convinced me to finish out my final semester. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have listened. I’ll always regret not being there at the end.

I flew home to Boston immediately after hearing the news. Sebastian was waiting for me at the airport, visibly uncomfortable and barely able to meet my eyes. I wasn’t surprised, or maybe I was too numb to care. No one knew about our brief affair two years prior, so he wouldn’t have been able to refuse picking me up on those grounds. Or any grounds, really.

We didn’t speak on the half-hour drive to the house. I remember it being late at night, but retain few other details of the trip. What I do remember is how being near him had slowly burned through the heavy cloud of grief. His scent; his body so close, sharing air with mine.

He carried my bag to my old bedroom for me, setting it on the bed. But when he turned to leave, I impulsively closed and locked the door. What kindled in his eyes brought me a potent wash of relief—he wasn’t immune. I was still alive, and Sebastian still wanted me.

“What are you doing, Candace?”

“You know exactly what I’m doing. Make me feel something besides pain, Bast.”

He’d been on me in seconds.

And gone before morning.

“What are you doing out here?”

His voice halts my walk down the lane of fucked-up memory. I shiver as his arms come around me from behind, his chin resting comfortably on my head. It’s too much, too casually intimate—I feel strangled. I pull away and walk back inside.

Dragging hands through my hair, I stare at the rumpled bed. I’m assaulted with vivid memory. Helpless to resist the visual stimuli, my body awakens, flowering and readying itself for him.

I dig my fingernails into my palms. “Sebastian, you need to leave.”

“Don’t do this,” he says softly.

I turn, bracing myself for the impact of his eyes. “Please. Just go. I can’t…” I trail off at the sudden fierceness of his expression.

“Is this punishment?” he asks roughly. “For what happened?”

I don’t bother feigning ignorance. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He lifts his hands, palms up. Perfectly, mouthwateringly naked and comfortable with it. Not that he has a damned thing to be insecure about.

“Candace, I’m standing here because I want a chance. I want to repair the mistake I made as a dumb kid. I want to make you happy. Will you let me try?”

I laugh—it’s a horrible and cruel response, but totally irrepressible. He flinches, hands falling. “You can’t make me happy, Sebastian,” I say in my hardest voice. Cut glass. “The only thing you do is make me crazy and give me orgasms.”

The mask of indifference slides over his face. Even knowing I’m responsible for it, it hurts. Without another word, he walks to his clothes. He pulls on his jeans and sweater, shrugs into his jacket, then sits on the bed to tie his boots. His movements are economical, swift but without urgency.

He pauses on the threshold of the bedroom. “Follow me out and lock the door behind me.”

I follow him. He doesn’t look back once, doesn’t say goodbye. I close and lock the front door and lean my forehead to the wood. The Harley roars to life. I listen to the purr of its engine as it fades, then walk numbly to the second bedroom. I crawl between sheets that don’t smell like sex and Sebastian.

I don’t cry, and as dawn takes the sky, I sleep.