As I walk out of the bathroom, I hear Grayson still taking his shower.

So...this is awkward. He asked me to stay in his bed tonight, and I don’t know how I feel about that. On one hand, I’m so wildly attracted to him that I’m nearly beside myself with elation. On the other far shakier hand, I can already feel myself getting in deeper than I ever intended.

This was never supposed to be about feelings, only money. And the feelings that are swarming me frighten the hell out of me. I’ve never been as brazen as I was in that elevator or in the shower.

With the thick, luxurious towel still around me, I use my fingers to comb out my hair. I wander around his bedroom — a place that’s just as decadent yet streamlined as Grayson is. It has a huge round bed on a platform, a steel fireplace, modern art, a marble tile floor, and gray shag rugs that all but invite me to bury myself in their extravagance. I repeat to myself that nothing will ever come of this arrangement. After all, Grayson would probably freak if he discovered that I have a jail-bound mom and a poorer-than-dirt bloodline. I’m not meant to be a billionaire’s girlfriend — I’m the daughter of a woman who had to kill her husband, and I know Dr. Vangelis plans to keep all that under wraps, but would Grayson end up judging me for it if he found out?

I hear his shower turning off, and I adjust the towel around my body. I wander over to the French doors with their nighttime view of the river sparkling under the moonlight. My heart beats aimlessly as I wait for him.

I see his reflection in the glass as he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s silent as he walks around the room, doing whatever Grayson Royal does after a shower.

Finally, he speaks. “You can’t go around wearing that towel all night.”

His deep voice runs through me like a torrent of shivers. In the window’s reflection, I see him saunter toward the bed and deposit something on it. I turn to see what it is — a white button-down shirt and a pair of black boxers.

“Go ahead and put these on, and then get into bed, Harlow.”

Thank God — clothes!

At least I think that’s a good thing.

Without looking at him, I obey. But as I put on the button-down, I turn my back to him, slipping the huge shirt on over the towel and fastening it. Then I wriggle out of the towel and slide the boxers up my body. Both articles of clothing swallow me up. I even have to hold the boxers in place.

I catch a faint whiff of his scent on the material — the same woodsy, subtle, and all-man smell of his soap and skin. Trembling, I silently get into his bed, sighing at the feel of the lustrous, smooth sheets against me. I slide Grayson a glance as he stands next to the mattress. His hair is damp, and he still doesn’t have a shirt on, revealing every mouthwatering inch of brawn and muscle. Somewhere along the line, he put on a pair of dark sweatpants that ride low on his hips, and I have to pull my gaze away from his sexy, corrugated abs.

Before I do something dumb like crawl over the mattress to feel him up, I fold my hands over my stomach and stare at the intricately crown-molded ceiling. My insane heartbeat taps out every passing second until he also gets into bed.

There’s a space between us as wide as an ocean as the moonlit darkness encompasses us.

So. Is this what we’re going to do all night? Stare at the ceiling and keep our thoughts to ourselves? Then again, that’s how Grayson rolls. But he said we could talk about things that weren’t super emotional, so shouldn’t we be doing that in order to catch up with each other as Dr. Vangelis wanted us to? I think when he told us he wanted us to be ready for “prime time” with Jake Foreman, he didn’t just mean we should be doing it by brushing up on blow jobs.

Before I can venture to say anything, Grayson murmurs, “Until Jake Foreman summons us into his grand presence, we’ll need to be seen in public together. And I’m not talking about taking you with me to my usual places...”

Nightclubs, yachts, and wild parties? Heck, as long as we don’t end up making a sex tape, I’m game. We need to be wholesome.

“I understand,” I say. “We need to establish that we really are a couple to the public.”

“And these so-called ‘dates’ will allow us to catch up with each other, just as Rick wants us to.”

“Great.”

Meanwhile here in Awkward Land, I’m wondering if Grayson is ever going to touch me again. Is he ever going to make me orgasm and cry out and bring out a side of me that’s obviously been buried?

Not the time to think about that, Harlow. Focus.

Grayson is still on his side of the bed. “Yes, this should be a very efficient way of polishing our act. I’ll leave it to Jayne to plan an itinerary for us.”

“Jayne does know best.”

The moments tick by. Should I just go to sleep? But how can I go to sleep with him lying next to me all big and sexy and shirtless?

“Have you ever been to Boston before?” he asks.

Okay. So we’re making small talk again. At least, this time, I’m not naked in the shower with him.

Then again, I kinda wish I were naked in the shower with him.

A merciless fluttering tears through my body, but I calm myself down. “No. I haven’t really done a lot of traveling.” I can’t afford it — moneywise or time-wise.

“I see.”

More time ticks by.

“All right then.” Grayson sighs heavily in the near darkness. “If you were going to tell Jayne what you would like to see in Boston, what would you say?”

He almost sounds like he’s interested. Right. “I would love to see a baseball game. I’ve always been a fan of the sport. My younger brother and I would watch...” Oops. TMI. “Never mind.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Grayson run his hand through his hair. He pauses and then says, “I wouldn’t have guessed you were a baseball fan. Would you be able to bring yourself to root for the Red Sox?”

“I think I could manage.”

Tick-tock, tick-tock goes my inner neurotic clock.

“Any other requests?” he asks.

Grayson really is giving this a good-faith effort, so I’m going to do the same. “I would love to go on a historical tour or two.”

“Noted.”

This time there’s such a long, drawn-out pause that I think he’s already fallen asleep. But his breathing doesn’t sound smooth and even. It sounds just as shallow and aware as mine.

With every breath he takes, the more the butterflies swirl around in my tummy because, here I am, lying in bed with Grayson Royal, the breaker of a thousand hearts, the playboy of a million parties, the man of countless women’s dreams. But I’m the one who has him here in the flesh.

And, my God, I touched that flesh.

Me.

Miss Everyday Average Nobody.

As a tingle runs through my limbs, Grayson murmurs another question. “Rick asked earlier about your name, and I should probably know about that for Jake Foreman. Do you enjoy old movies just as your mom does? You did mention at dinner that you were named after Jean Harlow.”

Wow. So he was actually listening to me at the dinner table. “Yes. Mom and I used to watch —”

“That will be enough,” he mutters.

Okay, it was great while it lasted. It was just a matter of time until I crossed that invisible line Grayson has drawn between us. I don’t know where it begins and where it ends. I don’t know where anything begins and ends with us, and that’s why he has me so on edge.

I keep listening to his breathing, and when it finally seems that the conversation is over, I turn away from him. I cuddle into his huge, button-down shirt, thinking about how ill fitting it is. The same could be said for this pseudo-relationship.

But then I hear Grayson stir. He turns over on the mattress. And when he drapes his strong arm over me and pulls me close to him, I suck in a stunned breath. My heart pitter-patters as he brings me against his body, spooning me. I feel every hard inch of him — his firm thighs, his muscled torso, the secure and powerful arm that imprisons me.

I smile and drift off to sleep, my breathing matching his.

The next thing I’m aware of, I’m opening my eyes. The first thing I see is Grayson, lit by a hint of sunrise. Sometime during the night, we obviously changed position, but he’s still holding me.

Has he been holding me all night? I can’t figure out why he’d be doing that unless he’s immersing himself in this role of The Changed Man.

That’s right — it’s nothing but an act, so I shouldn’t get excited.

I hold my breath as he makes a soft, sleepy sound, and then rolls onto his back, taking me with him until my cheek is against his bare stomach. Heaven. But if he woke up right now, would he let go of me? Would he realize that he’s crossed one of those lines he’s always enforcing?

God, I want this moment to last forever. I never want to leave this bed to face reality. I’m so swept up in the moment that something comes over me — the same brazen courage that I felt in the elevator as I was pleasuring Grayson while satisfying my own craven desires at the same time. He’s just so damned handsome. In sleep, his chiseled face is more relaxed. It’s as if an artist created him with the purpose of having everyone who looked at his high cheekbones, full lips, and sexy jaw fall head-over-heels in love with him. Dark stubble shadows his face, but I’m sure those whiskers won’t be around for long. Grayson seems impeccable as far as his appearance goes.

But I like this rough version of him.

I like it a lot.

Carefully, I lift my hand and touch his cheek. He doesn’t move, and a sense of sinful curiosity overwhelms me. I draw my hand down his square jaw to his neck, feeling the friction of whiskers beneath my fingertips. My heartbeat blasts inside my chest, because if he were to wake up and see what I’m doing, he would probably throw me out of his bed.

But I keep going.

I trail my fingertips down the warm, smooth skin of his chest, over his hard muscles, down his stomach, over the bumps of his abs. I’m getting very, very close to the promised land, and I continue to follow the happy trail of fine hair on his belly. When I get to the waistband of his sweatpants, I pause.

And that’s when I realize his breathing has changed.

With a zing of fright, I look up at his face, finding him staring at me intensely.

Neither of us moves. Neither of us says a word.

Before I can draw in another breath, he pulls me up to him until he’s kissing me. I lose myself in a silky, sensual, rough world where sighs drift through the air like ragged rose petals. I languish in the thrilling sensations that rip through me, leaving sharp fingers of heat that scratch me on the way down. The fingers turn into flames in my belly, and just like that, I get moist and achy.

When he pulls me all the way onto his body, I gasp, straddling him. My pussy is pressing against his cook, his tip nudging my clit. I make an agitated, greedy sound, and he braces his hands on my hips, moving me toward him, and then back. Every time I nudge his head, I groan, getting that much wetter against the boxers I’m wearing.

As I churn against him, we don’t need to say anything to each other — our harsh breathing says it all, along with the wet sound of my pussy against his cock. As he gets harder and harder, I ride him faster and faster, leaning forward to plant my hand on his chest and then scratch my nails down his skin. He smiles cruelly, as if he’s not the only beast in the house. Suddenly, I’m one too.

His little emerging beast.

He bares his teeth, obviously just on the edge of coming, but then he stops my grinding and guides my hand into the gape of my boxers. He doesn’t have to tell me what to do as I lock gazes with him. It’s as if we already have our own language — the only language we seem to understand with each other.

I slip my palm between my legs and slather it with my juices. Something in his gaze expands, and he lifts me off of his body, putting me back down on the bed. At the same time he uses one hand to undo the drawstring of his sweatpants. Then he tugs them down until his cock emerges. He’s already as hard as a steel rod, and my clit pounds on its way to exploding as he leads my hand to his shaft.

He covers my hand with his own, and, together, we stroke him. So hard, so long, so stiff, so...

Mine.

As our rhythm speeds up, I’m fascinated by the heat in his eyes. I can’t look away. He never looks away from me, either, and as the veins stand out in his neck because he’s restraining himself so strenuously, I feel what he’s feeling — a whirlpool swirling faster and faster, all liquid, thickening as it goes, rising, growing, about to blow up—

He comes all over our hands, bathing them just as thoroughly as he bathed me earlier in the elevator. Sticky, wet...wonderful.

Once again, neither of us speaks, and just as I start to leave the bed to clean up, he pulls me back to him. He must know that I was getting hot too. He must’ve seen it in my eyes, and when he starts to use his magic fingers to work my clit, then slip them into me to bang me hard and fast just like he did last night, I can’t stay quiet anymore. I fill the room with the first sounds it’s heard for hours — my moans, my pleas, my cries as I finally come for him and come for him...

After I spend myself, there’s sweat on my skin and a million breaths that I can’t seem to take. But as Grayson embraces me again, our sweaty bodies stick together, and the intimacy frees me up.

Now I can breathe.

The world seems to slow down and, soon, out of sheer depravity, I slide my slippery hand over his belly. I languidly rub his juices into his skin just like I rubbed them into mine last night.

He groans, still holding me, and I smile against him, satisfied.

His little beast.