Sunlight flickers in my eyes, dancing through barren branches outside a large picture window. It’s the first thing I notice, the glare being what woke me. The second thing I notice is luxuriously soft sheets on my bare arms and legs.

Bare arms and legs.

Springing upright, I clutch sheet and blankets to my body—still clothed, thank God, in the costume’s corset top and skirt. The stays in back drape loosely but aren’t completely undone. Mind racing, I peek under the covers to confirm the horrible truth.

Beneath wrinkled tulle, beautifully embroidered with beads and flowers, my tights are gone. I quickly drop the covers, then spy two strips of emerald silk at the foot of the bed. My gloves, that Claire had specially commissioned for my costume. Extra-long to hide the scars on my forearms and biceps.

My chest squeezes with panic. My eyes bounce erratically around, cataloging details of the bedroom. Dove grey walls, white molding, dark floorboards, rustic furniture. There’s a cozy armchair by the window draped with a soft, butterscotch blanket. No pictures or knickknacks on the dresser. The closet door is open, but no clothes hang inside.

“Guest bedroom,” I tell myself, voice shaking. “Relax. It was probably dark. He didn’t see. Underwear intact. Nothing happened.”

I drag cold fingers through my hair; they snag on the silk flowers stuck into several braids. The rest of what I feel is an unholy mess. With a sinking feeling, I remember the elaborate makeup and carefully touch my face. Surprisingly, my fingers come away with only minimal glitter.

I glance back at the pillow I slept on.

“Shit.”

It’s covered in gold.

A footstep creaks on a floorboard outside the room. I freeze and hold my breath, praying he didn’t hear me talking to myself. What the hell happened last night? I don’t remember anything past being in a warm car.

“Iris?” asks Beckett softly through the door. “Are you awake?”

“No!” I blurt.

He chuckles, and I hear a distinctly canine whine. “I’m going to leave some clothes outside the door. Bathroom is across the hall. And in case you’re a little muddled, we texted Claire last night. She knows you’re safe.”

I sigh in relief. “Okay, thanks.”

A floorboard creaks again. “I have aspirin for you when you come downstairs. And breakfast.” He hesitates. “Do you need anything else right now?”

“Nope,” I croak.

“Okay.” A moment later, I hear his fading footsteps.

Flopping back onto the bed, I push the heels of my hands into my eyes. Disjointed memories emerge from the fog in my pounding head, each one more embarrassing than the last. A living room with a cozy fire. Me, stumbling around like a drunken idiot trying to pull off my tights. Babbling about letters and secrets and green punch.

Throwing my gloves at him. Throwing myself at him.

The rest is still fuzzy.

Eventually, humiliation fades enough for logic to make a reappearance. Go downstairs. Pretend like nothing happened. Ask him to drive you home. Hide in your bed for at least twenty-four hours.

Taking a breath for courage, I throw back the covers and walk across the room to open the door. Folded neatly on the ground are a long-sleeved thermal shirt and sweatpants, both of which I know I’ll swim in. I pick them up, holding them to my face to breathe in faint detergent and an undercurrent of his scent. The temptation to wear them is too great; without further thought, I dart into the open bathroom and close the door.

On the counter beside the sink there’s a new bar of soap and a washcloth. I set to work cleaning the circus-show of my smeared makeup and removing the flowers and braids from my hair. I’m able to work out the worst of the knots and finger comb the rest into some semblance of order.

The costume crumples to the floor, a mess of satin and tulle that hopefully a dry cleaner can salvage. Grateful for the last-minute decision to wear a bandeau under the corset, I pull on Beckett’s shirt and shimmy into the sweatpants. I knot the waistband tightly and roll the sleeves to my wrists.

Saving me—barely—from looking like a teenager are the remnants of eyeliner and mascara and the cling of his shirt on my chest.

“Not too late to climb out a window,” I offer my reflection.

Without shoes. Money. Or a phone.

“Right,” I answer myself. “Breakfast it is.”

Turning my back on vanity, I open the bathroom door. The mouthwatering scents of coffee and bacon tease my nose, luring me down the hallway to the stairs.

Descending slowly, I look around the large, modern space, decorated in a way that is quintessentially James Beckett. Masculine, elegant, minimalist.

The sight of the coffee table triggers a blurred memory of me standing on it. Shaking my head to banish the vision, I make my way to the threshold of the kitchen. And stop. And stare.

Beckett is feeding bacon to a small horse.

I must make a sound because both man and dog look at me. The next seconds happen in slow motion, at least in my world, which has abruptly narrowed to the avaricious gleam in the dog’s eyes. Paws scramble on the ground, nails scratching over floor tiles. Beckett tries to grab the beast’s collar. Misses.

“Rufus, no!”

The command perks dark ears, but it’s too little too late. With a powerful bunching of hind legs, the German Shepherd launches himself at me. I cover my face with my hands and brace for impact, hoping there’s nothing sharp or hard behind my head.

Forelegs descend heavily on my shoulders, but just… rest there. I peek hesitantly through my fingers, and a huge pink tongue swipes the revealed portion of my face. Then he’s gone, dragged back by Beckett.

“Sit.” Rufus obeys, tail wagging and tongue lolling as he grins up at me. “Iris, are you all right?” His tone is concerned, but his eyes sparkle with amusement.

“I’m good.” With a small laugh, I take a step toward Rufus. “Can I, uh, pet him?”

Beckett grins. “Since he considers you his new best friend, I’m sure he’d love it.”

I trail a hand over the soft space between high, pointed ears, scratching lightly. Rufus’ tail tries to pound through the floor.

“Do you want coffee, water, or orange juice with your aspirin?”

I glance at Beckett, feeling a damnable flush in my cheeks. “Um. Water, then coffee, but I can—”

“Stop,” he says lightly, already turning away. “Sit at the table. Try to relax. And I’ll try to ignore how you look in my clothes.”

I suck in a breath, blood surging low in my body. “I’m sorry about last night,” I say quickly. “I don’t remember everything, but I do remember making an ass out of myself.”

He glances up from pouring coffee, his smile wicked. “I’m not sorry. You were adorable.”

Blushing harder, I make it to the kitchen table and sink into a chair. Rufus follows, his warm head dropping onto my lap. I pet him absentmindedly as Beckett brings me coffee, a glass of water, and two white pills.

I take the aspirin, praying for speedy headache relief, then cradle the mug of coffee. By the time the contents are half-finished, there’s a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of me. Beckett joins me with his own serving, tucking in to his meal like this is a perfectly normal situation. Sunday breakfast with me.

“Foods getting cold,” he says lightly.

I set down my coffee and take a bite of bacon. The second it hits my palette, I’m starving. An embarrassingly short time later, I sit back with a sigh.

“So good, thank you.”

He winks and clears our plates, then refills our coffees and settles back into his chair. We stare at each other over our mugs. I’m sitting at his kitchen table. In his clothes. Like we’re a couple. The thoughts ping harmoniously and contentment surges in my chest.

“Do you have plans today?” he asks at length.

“No,” I wheeze.

He smiles. “Is there anything you’d like to do?”

Besides you?

“Um, nothing in particular.”

“Great,” he says decisively. “Then I’m teaching you how to play chess.”

My brows shoot up. “Chess?”

He chuckles. “You really don’t remember much, do you? You were enamored of my custom chess set last night. You told me you’ve always wanted to play but never learned because you knew initially you’d lose.”

I blanch. “What else did I tell you?” I ask, thinking about the letters. His gaze lowers, a small, private smile on his lips. “James! Put me out of my misery. What did I say?”

“You might have mentioned that my accent turns you on.” Smile falling, his eyes lift to mine; the look in them makes me shiver. “And that you write me letters every night. And miss me teasing you. Touching you. Do you, Iris? Miss me?”

I swallow thickly. “Yes,” I breathe, then shake my head. “But nothing’s changed—”

“I know,” he says mutedly. “You’re still my student, and I’m still married. Julia finally signed the papers, though, so the last bit will be remedied shortly.”

The air gusts from my lungs. “Oh. Well, that’s good. Congratulations?”

“Thanks.” He huffs in soundless laughter, dragging a hand through his hair. It’s been cut recently, but the strands are still long enough to grab.

I squirm in my seat, the friction inadvertently spiking my arousal even higher.

His eyes narrow, a smile curving his lips. “You’re blushing. What are you thinking about?”

My pulse pounds harder. Need for him rises, unraveling my control faster than I can rebuild it.

This is a mistake. Don’t—

“I need a shower,” says my traitorous mouth. “Do you want to join me?” His fingers spasm on his coffee mug, almost dropping it.

“Yes,” he says tightly, “but not if you’re going to panic after and shut me out. It was devastating the first time.”

I carefully set my mug on the table. “Okay, but I have a condition, too.”

His eyes flare hungrily. “Yes?”

“No talking about the future. No thinking about tomorrow. Just be with me today. Can we do that? Be together today?”

He studies me a long moment. “What if I want more than today?”

My heart squeezes, but I ignore it. “Tomorrow isn’t on the table right now. But I want you. Your hands and mouth on me. Now. Is that enough?”

He uncoils to standing, veering around the table. I take his extended hand and he draws me to my feet. Fingertips whisper around my throat, sinking into the hair at my nape. He lifts my face toward his, tugging me forward until we’re chest to chest.

Dark with desire, his eyes fly across my face. “My answer is yes. I am your willing servant, begging for scraps from your table.”

My eyes flutter closed. “More,” I whisper.

Lips graze my forehead. “I dream every day about being inside you again. Feeling your sweet body milk me dry, hearing your little whimpers in my ear. I imagine in lurid detail all the things I want to do to you. With you. I want your legs around my neck as you ride my face. And forgive me, but I really fucking want my cock in your mouth.”

A small, helpless sound escapes me and my knees weaken. He catches me, hoisting me into his arms. I wrap myself around him, tucking my face into his warm neck as he heads for the stairs.

“It’s the accent, isn’t it?” he asks cheekily.

I laugh breathlessly and nip at his throat. “Probably. But there’s a chance your talents are being wasted on crime fiction.”

He hums in humor, hands skating under my shirt to find skin. For the briefest moment, I worry about the scars. Then he says, “The only erotica I’ll write will be for you. Tomes and tomes of it, my little muse.”

I forget the scars.

I forget everything but him.