I carry Mia down the short hallway to her bedroom, letting her give me directions as we go.

I inhale her scent with every step, marveling at how some words can change things so much. It’s the same woman, the same silky skin, the same soft hair tickling my nose . . . but it feels so different. Because now she is mine. And we both know it.

Her bedroom’s just like Mia, a quirky mix of nerdy and sexy, and I take a moment to notice everything as I set her down on the mattress and stand up, stripping off my tuxedo shirt. I want to memorize everything she is, never forget anything, because she’s just so . . . her.

Her bed’s just big enough for the two of us, with colorful sheets and a little pink blanket sitting at the foot. She’s also got one of those furry Russian hats on top of her dresser, along with a snow globe, of all things.

But all the baubles and trinkets in the world can’t distract me for long with this beautiful vision in front of me. As my pants fall to the floor, Mia finishes pushing her shorts off, leaving her in sexy lingerie that matches the dress she wore tonight. That she left it on when she changed tells me she’s wearing it just for me.

The pale gold lace is a few shades darker than her creamy skin, drawing my attention even more to her lush curves. Her nipples, pink jewels on top of snowy peaks, peek through the golden veil, and between my legs, my cock rises to full, almost painful hardness.

“Hmm, and I’ve barely touched you,” Mia jokes, brushing a pink-tipped toe up my thigh to trace my cock through my underwear. “Should I wear this more often?”

“If you let me, I’ll buy you a whole wardrobe of stuff like this,” I promise her, capturing her foot in my hand. I resist the urge to attack her this instant, my desire for our emotional bond overwhelming my primal need to fuck her senseless. “But it’s not the wrapping. It’s the package itself. It’s you who does this to me, Mia. Just you.”

I climb onto the bed on my knees and kiss the arch of her foot, making my way up her leg. She moans louder when I lick the back of her knee, and inside my mind, I’m memorizing every reaction, learning how to bring her the most pleasure with a single touch.

As I reach her core, I see how wet she is through the soaked lace and groan, not sure if I can take this slow any longer. She has a way to bring the beast inside me out.

I lean forward and lick her from bottom to top with a wide, flat tongue, savoring the bouquet of her taste and scent while Mia moans.

“Oh, God . . . how are you so good at that?”

It’s simple, really.

I love her taste.

I want to consume her, to have her ground into every pore of my skin, to carry her with me everywhere I go, every moment of the day. So I suck and lick, feasting on her from behind the lace until neither of us can hold back.

She lifts her hips, rolling her panties down until I pull my mouth away just long enough for us the get them out of the way before I’m on her once again, pushing her knees up and back, making her watch as my tongue dips deep inside her.

Mia bites her lip, gasping as I tease her inner folds, tracing and snaking my tongue along her pussy. “Hold your legs open for me, Mia.”

She does as I instruct, hooking her legs with her hands but spreading them wide, knees near her shoulders.

Freed, my hands come up to cup her breasts, my thumbs rubbing over her lace-covered nipples while I flick her clit slowly with my tongue, making her squirm while pinned underneath me.

“Feel good?” I tease as I pull back, lowering her body back to the mattress as she trembles, keeping her on the edge.

“More,” she pleads.

I kiss up her body, taking my time tasting wherever I fancy until I reach her lips. I hold myself above her, our skin just brushing as our mouths and tongues wrap around each other, sliding and lighting our bodies on fire.

It’s a game for me, a challenge to hold myself back while bringing Mia to the quivering edge again and again. Through denying us both, prolonging the torturous agony, I’ll bring us both to new heights, making the wait worth the reward.

I use my fingers, my lips, even the press of my body against her as I explore her, dipping my fingers into her tightness before swirling them over her clit, stroking until she’s breathless, her head thrashing back and forth before I finally give her the final stroke she needs to shatter into a million pieces. It’s a gorgeous display of release, my Mia at my hand.

“Enough?” I ask, and she nods, tears of ecstasy rolling down her flushed cheeks.

“Yes! Goddammit, Tommy, please fuck me!” she begs, reaching over and pulling me on top of her. My body’s more than ready, and I sheathe myself in her pussy in one savage thrust, her legs locking around my hips as she cries out. She instantly comes on my cock, the convulsions almost continuously washing through her since she’s barely recovered from her first orgasm.

Her arms lock around my neck while I watch her rapturous face and feel her velvet walls spasming around me, tempting me to let go with every pulsing squeeze.

I don’t let her come all the way down before I pull back and thrust again, my inner animal fighting at my mental leash. I’ve been restraining myself all this time, torturing myself even as I’ve given her ultimate pleasure, and now my control’s nearly frayed.

No woman has ever gotten this far past my defenses, made me reveal so much about myself. I was weak in front of her, and my ugly self-hatred wants to turn that back on Mia, punishing her for making me think about things best left buried. But rationally, I know it’s only punishing myself to delay the inevitable.

So I don’t hold back.

Punishing her, punishing me. Pleasuring her, pleasuring me.

With every stroke, I pump harder, deeper, relentlessly grinding against her even as her pussy swells around my cock. I kiss her hard, pulling the very air from her lungs as I fuck her brutally.

Inside me is the nice guy who wants to keep giving her the sweet dream she likely wants. The nice guy wants to keep things gentle, not test the limits of what her body can take and not dole out the depth of what I can dish out.

I want to worship her, to show her that I think she’s an angel and that I’m enraptured with her, that I want to give myself fully to her just as she shared her pain with me. She’s so strong, and I want to prove to her that I can be that strong as well.

But that side of me is not in control.

Instead, the beast inside me is, and it’s going to punish this blonde goddess for daring to see through my façade. My hips slap against hers, her tits bouncing out of her bra from the hard thrusts.

She shouldn’t be able to take all this. And she’ll likely see me for the monster I am after this is over. But I’m being driven by lust and . . . fear, sweat dripping down our bodies from the effort and stinging my eyes.

But I don’t let up, my cock growing with each plunge, my soul enraged as she cries out not in pain but in pleasure, grabbing my forearms and holding on as she comes again, her voice an angelic scream of release that obliterates my blackness. And I cry out, coming deep inside her. Not with fury and pain, for she’s somehow cleansed that away for a freeing moment, but with utter happiness.

My back arches, and I purge myself, giving her everything as she accepts me, miraculously. I gather her in my arms as I collapse, holding her tenderly as tears mix with my sweat . . . but somehow, Mia doesn’t mind. Instead, she holds me until the darkness swells over me and I let myself fall into sleep.

You don’t belong here.

Go away.

Twenty years I’ve been hearing this voice, the familiar deep disdain and hatred. Every day, every task, every night, it’s there.

Can’t it at least give me some peace at a time like this?

How can you even think of ruining this girl with your pathetic weakness? You think you’re going to do better this time?

I wasn’t responsible for that. She was thirty-one. I was six!

And? You failed her . . . your own mother. You let her die.

I didn’t! I didn’t feed her those pills!

You failed . . . and you’ll fail Mia too.

I sit up, my chest heaving and night terror sweat rolling down my face. The sun’s just creeping up over the horizon, and next to me, Mia sleeps, a soft smile on her lips as she murmurs in whatever dream is in her head.

I don’t want to wake her up from that.

Shakily, I get up and find her bathroom, where I take a morning piss before washing my hands and face, looking at the haunted eyes staring back at me from the mirror.

What am I doing here?

I’m being greedy, that’s what I’m doing.

Mia’s beautiful, inside and out. Instead of letting her personal tragedy strike her down, she’s come out stronger, smarter, and simply more than a man like me ever deserves.

I shake my head and know that I need to get out of here.

Going back into the bedroom, I find my clothes, pulling my pants on before sitting down next to her, brushing a lock of hair out of her face. Mia hums, her lips twitching.

“Tommy . . .”

“Shh, Beautiful,” I murmur, kissing her forehead. “Go back to sleep. I’ll . . . I’ll call you later.”

Fucking coward. Too weak to even walk away like you should. Can you do anything right? You know you’re just going to disappoint her. Like you do everyone else.

“Tommy?” Mia whispers, her eyes fluttering open. “What do you mean? Stay.”

I shake my head and kiss her lips softly. “I want nothing more than to stay. But I need to go.” It’s the truth. I wish I could curl up in bed with her and use her body and cries of ecstasy to drown out the twisted voice in my head. But that would be wrong. I don’t want to abuse her that way. “There are some things I need to take care of, and I don’t want to ruin your morning by obsessing over them instead of you.”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not the full truth, and it tastes bitter on my tongue.

“Then don’t,” she says. “It’s Saturday. Can’t you take the day off? You’re the boss, you know?” Her smile is sleepy as she sits up on her elbow.

I smile back, shaking my head, so damn tempted to lie back down with her, to watch the sunlight brighten on the walls of her room, and to share coffee or something, maybe even go out to breakfast in last night’s tuxedo while she wears . . . well, whatever she wants. I imagine her in a cartoon, no, an anime shirt. That’s what she called the shows she watches last night.

But the hated voice inside me won’t be denied much longer, and I know if I stay, I’m going to destroy what my good side wants so desperately. It’s a sharp-edged balance, one I don’t truly have experience walking. But I won’t risk her, risk this, by pushing too far. The ugly whispers are already getting louder.

“I’m sorry, Beautiful, but this one won’t wait. I’ll call you this afternoon. Maybe we can get together this evening?” It’s a weak promise but one I hope that I can keep.

“Maybe,” Mia says, humming as she drifts back off. Her voice strengthens with wakefulness, “Oh, wait . . . I promised my friend Izzy that I’d stop by The Gravy Train. She’s working a double and can really use the tips.”

“Sounds like a date to me,” I reply, smiling hopefully. “Seven?”

Mia smiles and lies back, her breasts so enticing as the sheet falls from them. “You don’t have to. It’s just a diner.”

“I want to,” I return, standing up. “I’ll call you this afternoon, okay?”

I grab a cab back to my penthouse, where the elevator can’t take me upstairs fast enough. Running to my bedroom, I change clothes and go to my gym, where the spin bike awaits me. With four switches, everything is prepared, and as screaming guitars, angry bass, and lyrics fill my ears, I get on the bike.

Two minutes on, thirty seconds off. It’s rough, a brutal level of high-intensity intervals, but it’s what I need. I’m not interested in the training effect. I’m interested in . . . absolution.

In pain.

In brutalizing my body to the point of exhaustion so that the voice shuts up and gives me a few hours of peace.

So as the lactic acid builds up in my quads and my lungs burn, I scream along with the music, the veins in my forearms bulging as I race away from my inner demons. Electric fire pulses through my nerves, making my muscles cramp before my veins carry the pain back to my heart and lungs, only to be recycled into my brain.

But still the past lashes at me, each memory a whip that drives me another round, and another round, and another. I shouldn’t be able to do this. The flywheel on the bike is so warmed through that I can feel it like a baking hellish coal between my legs while my demons cackle in the background.

Finally, the machine can take no more. In a loud twang, the overloaded tension belt snaps and the machine rolls totally free just as my vision clouds over and I collapse against the handlebars, my stomach heaving as sweat pours off my body to puddle on the floor.

Weakly, as the stereo continues to scream at me, I stagger off the bike, pausing with my hand on the mirror before flipping the switches, cutting off the music just as the bass riff starts to wind down and the anger ramps up.

Leaning against the wall, I wait for my vision to clear before going to the bathroom. I shower with scalding hot water, scrubbing the salty sweat off my body and wishing it were as easy to wash away my painful past. Even though it’s Saturday, I still shave before putting on a T-shirt and jeans. My stomach’s so queasy still that I skip breakfast before opening my laptop.

I didn’t quite lie to Mia. I do have work I should catch up on. Emails, correspondence, and reports piled up yesterday as I played with the kids at the orphanage and then got ready for last night’s event.

While Kerry handled as much as she could, I still have a pretty significant string of unopened messages, decisions to make, and things to reply to.

The chance to immerse myself in work instead of my inner doubts and hatred allows me to escape even more than my workout did, and I’m so immersed in the numbing regularity of work that I don’t even hear the beep from the elevator or the sound of shoes on the tile in the entryway.

It isn’t until I hear a familiar, hated double-knock on the kitchen island granite that I stop and turn around in my home office chair to see my father standing in there, for some reason still in a suit even though it’s a Saturday.

“Dennis.”

It’s been years since I’ve called him ‘Dad,’ and we’re maybe beyond the point of even caring any longer. Then again, I did give him a card access to the executive suite and the penthouse, so maybe . . . I don’t know.

“Tom,” he says, the same way he has for over twenty years. Bastard, motherfucker, cocksucker, cunt . . . none of those can hold a candle to the way my father can make my name sound, and none of them can cut me as deeply. “You didn’t answer your phone yesterday.”

“I was busy,” I reply, standing up and purposefully walking past him to the kitchen. I give him my back, something I wouldn’t have done in my younger years, but things are different now. But still, I’ve found it’s safer to have something physical between us, although the reason’s changed over the years. He hasn’t laid a hand on me since I turned fifteen and he realized his ‘boy’ was no longer going to take his shit.

But he doesn’t need the physical threat anymore. He has other weapons that he can use.

“I assumed that,” my father says, standing on the other side of the island while I grab some eggs from the fridge along with butter and leftover vermicelli. “I see you still like Rita’s recipes.”

“Yeah. For a housekeeper, she was a good cook.”

She was also the only person in the house who cared for me back then.

“Too bad you chased her away, but then again, you do that with most people in your life,” he says, turning the same screw he always does. I squeeze the egg in my hand so hard the shell shatters, but luckily, I’m over the skillet, and most of the shell fragments stick together. He chuckles. “I see you’re still a clutz in the kitchen.”

He’s trying to get a rise out of me, but I’m not going to let him. “What brings you here on a Saturday?”

“Where were you last night?” he asks, hands in his pockets. “I came by your office to discuss the quarterly dividend, and your secretary said you’d left early. She wouldn’t tell me where.”

“I was preparing for the governor’s fundraiser,” I reply, staring at my skillet while I add the already cooked vermicelli and start scrambling it all together like fried rice.

“So you were slacking off,” he retorts, sighing. “How you’re able to turn a profit with this clusterfuck of a company you run is beyond me. Guess it proves PT Barnum right. There’s a sucker born every minute.”

“This company is beyond reproach and has been profitable every year of operation,” I remind him for what has to be the thousandth time. Sighing, I set aside the bowl of food and turn to my father, not ready to eat yet. “Everything you need to know about the dividend was in the quarterly report.” It’s a tactic I learned long ago. Don’t ask him questions and don’t give him a lead-in, because by giving an inch, he’ll take a mile.

“I want to know why you declared a quarterly dividend of only fifty cents a share when the finances clearly show you could have declared fifty-five!” he yells. “Your ineptitude cost me thousands of dollars!”

“As the report showed, and you’re well aware, I did it to reinvest it in the company,” I reply, trying to keep control of my emotions. “That five cents a share means a lot of capital for the company to expand and acquire—”

“Who gives a shit? It isn’t like you don’t have enough leverage to get more! For fuck’s sake, you don’t just call the bank, you own the goddamn bank! Take the capital out yourself, not out of my money.”

The argument goes back and forth, although like most of our discussions, it’s a one-sided affair. No matter what I do, no matter how I explain it to my father, there’s always a flaw in my thoughts, in my planning, in my reasoning. It’s always been this way, and I wish I could go back in time to warn my younger self not to take his paltry investment in my upstart. At the time, it’d seemed like a turning point for us and I’d wanted to believe that he finally saw something worthwhile in me. The small percentage of shares in a company I hadn’t even begun hadn’t seemed like a risk. Now, I can see it was just another way to keep me tied down, to control me even as I finally made something of myself in spite of his influence.

“You know what, Tom? Monday, you will declare another dividend and make this right!” my father explodes after fifteen solid minutes of ranting. It’s an order, a command. “If you can’t run your company right the first time, you can at least make up for it.” He rolls his eyes and murmurs, making sure I can hear him, “Such a stupid boy, useless waste—”

I slam my hands on the counter, my patience lost. “Shut up, Dennis! I’ve made you a lot of money. I’ve repaid you a thousand times over for the small investment you made. If you think you can do better, cash out your shares and invest in yourself. Or approach the board and see what your voting rights get you.”

My father snorts derisively. “You can be outvoted, you know. I could take your own company right out from underneath you. You own fifty percent, but every move you make needs a majority. I could take you out at the knees.”

I lift an eyebrow at the threat. Once upon a time, he did literally take my legs from underneath me with a hard push. I’d been young enough that I’d repeated his description of a ‘fall’ to the ER doctor when he’d asked how I banged my head on the ground hard enough to get a concussion. But this threat about my business, it’s something he’s never dared to voice.

“I trusted my own hard work and backed myself. Then and now. You could try getting every other shareholder on your side. But you’d fail.”

My father’s lips lift in a snarl, and he’s pissed. Good. “You little . . . you should have been the one taking those pills, not—”

“Get the fuck out!” I yell, finally pushed too far. As I get closer, I warn him, “Get out of my house, and don’t ever come back!”

He shrinks for a split second, like he knows if I take this physical, the way he used to, he’s already lost. But though I’m a monster, I’m not him.

When he sees I’m not going to strike him, he looks like he’s about to argue, but then he takes the smallest step back and smiles wanly, adjusting his tie. “I will be filing a formal grievance, as per Goldstone corporate rules.”

He leaves, and I clench my fists, holding back the explosion until he’s gone before picking up my bowl and hurling it in the direction he just went, the whole thing exploding in a giant mess on the wall. The fact that I now have to clean it up as well as not have any breakfast yet infuriates me more.

Never. I can’t . . . I can’t see him again.

A crazy thought drifts through my head, and it helps me calm enough to get the broom and start cleaning up.

The Gravy Train.

She said the food there is good.