He enters the condo wearing the clothes I bought him, and I’m a melting nest of contradiction.

I come home every day swearing I won’t speak to him, look at him, or touch him, not knowing or caring whether I’m actually avoiding him or if I’m rejecting the things he’s told me. Part of me fears there’s more, more I don’t know. More he hasn’t told me.

A greater part of me fears what he’s doing to me physically. How seeing him come home dressed for the first time in something other than shorts and a T-shirt causes me to go hot in all the places I shouldn’t.

I blame the seductive look in his eyes, the sight of his lips, the sound of his voice, and the trim of his hips in those pants that draws my eyes straight to the bulge behind his fly.

“They fit?” I walk closer and examine the cut of his pants, or pretend to. It’s just an excuse to stare at him, to circle him and get a look at his ass, and how I wish I could dig my fingers into it.

“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice has more snap than usual.

“Like what?”

He gets closer, his nose bending to my ear. “Like you want to eat me.”

Having him near me, after days of dodging him, his heat is like quicksand. I want to sink in and never climb out. “Why not?”

“Not unless you’re ready to be eaten.” He doesn’t touch me, just runs his nose over my hair, his chest inches from mine. I have to steel my spine to keep from leaning into him, from pressing my breasts against his chest, from grabbing his arms.

He pulls back and looks me in the eye. “Are you?”

“Am I what?” My gaze fixes on his neck, his pulse leaping beneath his bronze skin.

He grasps my chin in his palm and lifts my gaze to his. His eyes glitter with determination . . . and lust. “Saying yes?”

“No.” It’s a reflex, but it’s true. I don’t want this. Or I don’t want to want this. My skin aches for his hands, my body longs for him inside me, pounding me like he does. It’s so bad I see it in my dreams and behind my eyes whenever I close them.

But the answer is still “No.”

“Why?” His brow thickens and frustration scratches his tone.

“Because it’s too much.” And also not enough. As hungry as I am for him, it keeps away having to think about the other things. The things my father did. If I gave into this need for him, if I didn’t have this craving consuming me anymore, then I might think about the other things. I don’t want to think. I want to be full of how much I need sex. With him.

“What’s too much?”

“You. You’re too much.”

He takes a shuddered breath and lets me go. I want him to protest again, to not let me go until my “no” turns to “yes.” But he doesn’t say a word, only goes to the kitchen and starts pulling out pots and pans.

I sag against a counter, blood pulsing through me, heating everything on its way, and I have the urge to either go jump in the cold surf or get on my knees and beg him to fuck me.

I close my eyes and breathe through both urges.

The room is too quiet. I need to talk about something. “You like to cook a lot.”

He fills a pot with water. “I like to eat. So I cook.” He puts the pot on to boil.

I rest my chin on my palms and watch him grab vegetables from a bag—onions, tomatoes, peppers, garlic. “What are you making?”

“Pasta.” He starts rinsing the tomatoes in the sink.

I don’t see a jar of sauce, only tomatoes. “You’re making the sauce from scratch?”

“Yes.” He starts peeling the garlic.

“You’re a really good cook.” I like his cooking. He’s made dinner every night this week. I can’t say he made it for us because he never eats with me, but he always makes enough for me to have some.

He watches his hands work and says softly, “She loved to cook.”

My jaw flops open. He means Louisa. I have the urge to ask more—what was it like to have a sister—to have a woman in your family who loved you? But he turns his back to put olive oil in a pan. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

Neither do I, really. I can’t bring myself to ask about the sister he lost. It would hurt too much—for him to say, for me to hear.

I search for something else to say. “There’s a fundraiser this weekend.”

“So?” He starts chopping onion.

“You’ll have to come.”

He glares at me. “Why?”

“Because I’m supposed to bring a date and I don’t think it’d be okay with you if I brought some other guy.”

His eyes broadcast a clear “no,” then he tosses the onions into the sizzling pan with the garlic.

“If I’m really married, I can’t bring my brother.”

“You go nowhere with him.”

“Um, excuse me?” There’s no way that’s happening.

He grabs a tomato and chops through it with a clop. “Have you forgotten last weekend?”

“He was only like that because he hates you so much. As he should.”

“It’s no excuse for scaring you like he did.”

“You’re right.” I sigh. “It’s not.”

“So you’re not seeing him.”

“He’s my brother. I can’t not see him.”

“Yes, you can.” He drops the knife with a thud and leans on the counter. “Do I need to remind you who his father is?”

“Blake’s nothing like my father.”

“Is he? From what I’ve seen they’ve plenty in common.”

“I can’t believe you’d say that!”

“Think about it. You know I’m right.”

“But Blake would never hurt a woman. Really.” He’s my brother, it’s not possible. But the new lenses I look on the world with, the gray ones—my breath moves faster—please let him not be right.

“How do you know for sure?”

Blake has my father’s repressed anger, and his protective streak over me is actually more annoying than my father’s was, and then there was . . . “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“He warned me the other day.”

“How?”

Shock forces air in and out of my lungs. “He said, if he hurt me, I should call the police. I didn’t know what he meant but . . .”

“He said that?”

I pull out a chair. I have to sit down. My breath comes in gasps, and I have to lower my head to my knees to keep the spots from my vision. My father’s gone. I never have to pretend what a great dad he was ever again. I’ll never get another one of his late night calls to come be his showcase. I’ll never have to worry about being around him or provoking his temper. I never have to worry about him hurting another woman.

But he’s not gone.

Because my brother’s still here.

Logan’s hands brush my shoulders. He kneels in front of me. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Do you think he’d do what my father did? Do you think he’s violent and . . .” My hands shake. It’s one thing to find out my dead father is guilty. It’s a whole other thing to suspect my brother, the one who I’ve trusted more than my father since I was a child. “I didn’t realize . . . I never thought . . .”

He cups my cheeks. “I don’t know for sure. I have no proof. It’s suspicion. That’s all.” His eyes hold this softness that’s nothing like his usual expressions. It’s like when he came to get me at the bar, like maybe he cares about how I feel. “I could be wrong.”

A laugh bubbles from me. “You? Wrong?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s happened once or twice.” His gaze roams my face, his fingers sifting into my hair. “I’m going to kiss you.”

Yes. Please. “Okay.”

His lips meet mine, clinging and hot. They mold to my mouth and suck me in and overwhelm me, just his lips. I let his tongue in, and he takes all the space I give him. Except it’s not a violent taking, not a bitter anger. There’s a desire to give me something. Almost like comfort.

He wants to help me, and this is the way he knows how.

A sizzling from the stove interrupts us.

He curses and runs back to the kitchen.

Though my knees are weak, I get up and walk to my room. If he comforts me, I’ll have to feel it. I’ll have to acknowledge how much I need to be comforted. And I’ll have to admit how much it hurts.

Besides, comfort and Logan do not mix. He forced me to marry him for money. I am a tool to him. That is all. To depend on him for anything, especially support, is lying to myself.

So I go to my room and close my door—wondering how long I’ll be able to stay away from him—wondering if I’ll last the night.

Or the hour.

* * *

After I finish cooking, I hesitate three times before I knock on her door, the one that I fixed the other day.

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t be nice to her. But the look on her face when I suggested her brother was like her father—it was like I told her he’d drowned.

“There’s food.” I rap on her door softly with my knuckles.

She doesn’t respond, so I go back to the kitchen.

My need to see her, to touch her, is only a sexual thing. That’s all. Though I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to tell myself that.

Sick of watching so much damn TV, I take my food out on the deck and watch the sunset while I eat. As much as it irks me that she can afford this multimillion dollar view, it’s nice. When I forget to think about how much it costs, I like it.

The reds, oranges, and purples of the clouds drip across the water. The sun descends and everything gets quieter, as if the disappearing light brings a hush.

It bothers me. I frown and crack my neck. The peace, the quiet, it’s hard to enjoy. My life has been consumed by obsession. I don’t know if I’ve ever sat like this just to sit.

I stay, ignoring the urge to get up and do something. There’s nothing for me to do. Penny knows. She believes me. I made demands on her brother. I’ve done all I can do today.

But a restless feeling festers in my gut. Something stronger than the need for vengeance that’s been chasing me. I don’t know what it is.

It’s something to do with her and how she won’t let me touch her. Something to do with her and how I’m afraid her brother will hurt her. My brain and heart and body are colliding and warring inside me and I can’t disentangle my thoughts from my feelings or desires anymore. It’s a blur, a garbled mess of intense things I don’t have names for, but there’s one thing I know: I won’t stand for her closed door.

She will open it before the night is over, or I’ll pound on it until I break it down again.

Her distance is messing with me, and it’s hurting her. The tangled web of confusion and doubt she’s wrapped herself in will unravel as soon as she lets me take it from her again.

But like from the beginning, I have to restrain myself. She has to come to me.

The sun is gone, the only light left the lingering pink among the clouds. She’s a welcome sight, stepping onto the porch, wearing nothing but these skimpy little shorts and this tiny tank top. Definitely no bra. Her nipples poke through her shirt like they’re begging to be let out.

I have the strongest urge, though, to punish her for making us both wait. To make her wait even longer.

But I’m not waiting longer.

“Hi.” Her voice isn’t high, like it is when she lies or tries to fake things. It’s quiet and raspy. Her hair is tousled like she’s been rolling in bed. Or maybe that’s from my hands earlier when I kissed her.

I sit forward. She moves closer. Her feet drag but the rest of her moves like she can’t wait to get nearer. She doesn’t fidget or cross her arms. Her shoulders are back, her legs apart. If she added words, I’d say she was begging to be touched.

I can’t help growing hard. I’ve been desperate to fuck her for days. I thought it was all about making her feel denied, about taking from her. I forgot that I would be satisfying myself, and now there’s no stopping my craving for more.

She shifts her feet, like she’s uncomfortable, like the ache between her legs throbs as badly as the blood flooding my dick. “You will let me come first this time.”

I rub my hands to keep from reaching for her. “I will?”

She swallows. “Yes.”

I widen my legs and hold out my hands. She accepts my invitation and steps forward. My fingers slip under the hem of her shirt. I stroke her skin, reveling in the softness. Her navel, her hips, her waist, I own them with my hands, gripping and pressing. She sags toward me.

I open her shorts. “You want me to let you come?”

“Mm.”

“Then get me the money.” I’m the manipulator here. Not her. And evidently, she needs reminding.

Her eyes round like she’s forgotten. “Oh.”

“You have five days, remember? Or I make your whole family’s sad little story public.” I’m bitter at myself for chickening out with her brother this afternoon. I was more worried about how she would feel than about my revenge. Unacceptable.

She gulps. “Okay.”

“You’re going to talk to your brother.”

“I will soon.” She bites her lip.

“You’re going to tell him the truth. And get him to give you the money.”

She nods and keeps her eyes on mine for another moment, before they stray to my mouth.

I slip my hand down her belly, into her shorts. “Now, what was it you wanted? Oh, that’s right.” My fingertips reach a patch of hair, then I go lower. “But you didn’t say how you wanted it.” I’ll play how she wants, for now, but she needs to know that I’m the one in charge.

“Any way.”

“Do you want my hand, my mouth, or my cock?” I rub into her with my fingers.

Her eyes fall closed. “Both.”

“There were three choices. Not two.”

“Oh.” She bites her lip.

I want to go deeper, but her thighs are too close together. “Open your legs.”

She inches her feet out.

“Wider.” I stick my knee between her thighs and press them farther apart. I creep my hand deeper and pry her open. She wets my palm, and I fail to suppress my groan.

She grinds her hips into my pressure, but she’s not in control. I am.

I grip her hip, stilling her. “You didn’t answer.”

“Whuh?” Her eyes glaze, cloudy blue.

“Which way do you want it?” I move my hand in her, stroking my fingers in little come here motions. Her mouth falls slack on no words. “Answer me. Or you won’t get to come.”

She dips her knees, urging me deeper. “Your—hand.”

My palm pressing her clit, I massage her in time with my fingers. “Are you sure?”

Her breasts rise and fall faster with her breath. “Yes.”

“You can have it any way and this is what you choose?”

“I can—come—again.”

“That wasn’t the deal. You bargained to come first. That’s it.”

She moans a disappointed groan but sinks deeper on my hand. “I can’t—stop.”

“But I can. Tell me you want my cock, and I’ll stop.” She starts to tighten, her body prepping for climax. “If you say cock, you can come with me fucking you instead.”

She keens in her throat. Her hands fall to my shoulders, but I don’t stop my hand. I won’t until she says.

“I know you’d rather come with me long and thick inside you.” I add a finger, widening her, pressing harder.

“Pleeease.”

“You have to say cock first.” She starts to shudder, her breath gasping. “Say it.” Her jaw works, she tries, but only a cry echoes in her throat. “You have to say it: I want your cock.”

“I w—want—”

I move my fingers faster, bringing her closer. “More.”

“C-cock.”

“Say, I want your cock.”

Her neck weakens, her forehead meeting mine. “I want your cock.”

“Say, fuck me with your cock.”

“F—fuck me.” Her breath stutters. “With your—” She tenses, so stiff, I wonder she hasn’t come yet. “Cock.”

She loses.

With a groan for warning, she climaxes around my hand, squeezing me in brutal spasms. Her arms fail her, and she collapses against my chest, her breath like a lash against my skin.

My dick pulses hard, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from succumbing to the friction and coming in my pants. I want to be where my hand was. I’m not wasting it elsewhere. I wipe my hand on my shirt and stand.

She leans into me, her face against my chest. “We’re not done. Are we?”

“I think we gave your neighbors enough of a show.” I push her away from me toward the door. “Get naked. On my bed.”

She nods and stumbles inside.

I meant what I said. We play by my rules. And now it’s my turn. She likes it when I take from her, and I like it when she gives me more than she ever thought she could.