“And?” She smiled into one of our dirty, hot kisses.

“And I’d prefer not to come in your hand like a twelve-year-old,” I said. Barely.

“Ask me nicely, or I’ll continue.”

Was she fucking threatening me?

“You’re going to regret—” I started, but she started pumping faster, and I caved. Like a pussy, I gave her what she wanted. “Fine, fuck. Please.”

“Please what?” she teased, and holy hell, she was filthier than I’d imagined. Not at all the innocent little damsel in distress.

“Please…” I cleared my throat. “Don’t let me come all over your hand.”

That was the moment when Emilia LeBlanc jumped from the table with a naughty grin I’d never seen on her face before and got on her knees for me, her beautiful lavender hair in my fist, pumping my dick as she clasped the head of my cock between her lips.

“Come,” she mouthed on my cock.

And I did. Before she even finished the word.

It was stunning, the best thing I’d ever done with a woman in my entire life.

Three hours later, we walked out of the tattoo shop. She had a cherry blossom tree on her skin. It wasn’t that small. The nape of her neck was where the brown trunk stood tall, strong, with thick roots adorning her shoulder blades. Pink and purple blossoms caressed her thin, delicate neck.

And I was fucked.

So. Fucking. Fucked.

It was weird to have her in his penthouse.

Over the years, I’d brought girls to Dean’s apartment plenty of times. I took them in his kitchen, Jacuzzi, bathtub, the balcony overlooking Manhattan, and even got one flexible Juilliard dancer to do it on his very narrow, very packed wet bar. I didn’t think much of it. He did the same in my condo in LA. It was just the way we were. But when we finally got home, at close to midnight, I knew exactly where I had to take Emilia LeBlanc.

On her ex-boyfriend’s bed.

It wasn’t malicious. Not at all. She was right. This was too important to be done in a hotel or some random Starbucks. This was going to happen in a bed. She wasn’t a nameless one-night stand. She was a fantasy, and like all fantasies, she was meant to be savored, cherished, and treated with caution and respect.

Besides, Emilia didn’t know it was Dean’s bed, and I didn’t see how withholding the information from her could hurt her. It made no difference. At least to me.

She looked a little tired in the elevator, so I decided to wake her up by sucking on her neck, mere inches from the bandage covering the pink flowers. I crushed her body to the wall of the elevator and lifted her by the back of her knees, tying her legs around my waist.

“Does it still hurt?” I asked, brushing my fingers lightly over the wrapped up tattoo. She whimpered into my mouth and dragged her tongue over my lower lip but didn’t answer me. I wanted her words. I shouldn’t have cared, but I did.

I dry-fucked her, slow and lazy, through our clothes until the doors glided open, then I carried her the rest of the journey to Dean’s door while she was still wrapped around me. It was with great sadness that I had to let her go so I could unlock the door, and when I pushed it open, something occurred to me.

I’m a fucking idiot.

“Close your eyes,” I ordered. Shit. It sounded like I had a surprise planned for her, but the only thing surprising was that I was a complete and utter amateur. Goddammit.

“Why?” she questioned, sobering up a little from her alcohol-induced exhaustion.

“Because I said so,” I snapped.

“Try again. The non-jerk version this time,” she said sleepily.

Fuck, it was like behavioral boot camp with this woman. I took a deep breath. “I want it to be perfect,” I explained, almost softly.

Her eyes fluttered shut and I took her hands in mine—I fucking held her hands, another first—and led her to the master bedroom as we passed by pictures of Dean with his extended fucking family, smiling at us from every corner of the room.

Dean had a perfect family life. Amazing parents, two over-achieving sisters. The whole deal. But as great as his family was, it wasn’t interesting enough for me to keep the mementos of them in what was supposed to be my apartment. I couldn’t explain these pictures to Emilia, and I didn’t want to tell her it was Dean’s place because I didn’t want her to think I was fucking her to avenge what happened when we were teenagers.

Because I wasn’t.

I was fucking her because I’d wanted her pussy ever since I first saw her standing outside the library door and knew those peacock eyes were going to haunt me.

I lowered Emilia to the bed and ordered her to keep her eyes closed as I rushed to the living room. I grabbed the framed pictures of Dean and his family and shoved them all into his pantry. There were plenty of them, too. All over the living room, hallway, and kitchen area.

Fuck! Why couldn’t he have had a shitty family like mine? He could bring a whole FBI unit, fifty CIA agents, and fucking Nancy Drew to my condo and none of them would know I lived there. The guy’s place was more family-orientated than a Chuck-E-Cheese restaurant.

It took me ten minutes to get rid of Dean’s crap, and when I walked back to the bedroom, breathless, I saw Emilia lying flat on the mattress, her arms stretched out like a snow angel, snoring softly.

Snoring.

As in, not awake.

Snoring.

As in, she fell asleep.

Goddammit.

“Thanks a bunch, Cole,” I muttered, biting my own fist to suppress a frustrated scream.

This day was for nothing. We weren’t going to fuck. Well, not tonight, anyway. It wasn’t that today was torture—far from it, I’d mostly had a good time—but the only reason I agreed to it was because I knew what was waiting for me in the end.