We ate.

I found the condoms.

We took a shower together and fucked.

And now, finally, we’re in the soft, roomy bed I’d boasted to Isabelle about, cuddling before we go to sleep.

Trouble is, she’s wearing one of my T-shirts as a nightie. The bigger trouble is it’s ridden up, and now I can feel her soft curls against my hip.

I push the blanket to the side, turn on the night-light, and stare at her.

“Keep looking at me like that,” Isabelle says, “and I’ll think you haven’t had sex since your recovery.”

“I have,” I say, “but the women weren’t you. And, I guess, the man wasn’t quite myself, either.”

She smiles, a hint of sadness in her eyes.

Then she spreads her legs. “Stare away.”

“Did you ever think about me?” I ask, stroking her thighs. “About the night we had?”

“Yes.”

“Once? Once a year? Once a month?”

“Once a day.” Her gaze drills into mine. “At least.”

And, just like that, I’m hard again.

I snort in disbelief. The dozen or so times I had sex over the last few years were fun and far from a failure. But nothing like this.

“What did you do when you thought about me?” I ask.

Even in the dim light, I see her cheeks redden. She turns her head to the wall.

“Show me,” I say.

She turns back, glances at my cock, and then into my eyes.

I’m not sure what she finds there, but both her hands slide down her flat tummy and dip between her legs.

I shift to get a better view.

Isabelle’s head falls back against the pillow, and her fingers move faster and faster. When she starts to pant and make those same noises I’ve been hearing in my dreams, my self-control shatters.

“Need to be in you,” I say, my voice so coarse it’s barely recognizable.

I roll on a condom and bury myself deep inside Isabelle’s sweet heat. My thrusts come rushed and forceful as I pump into her. My cock is stiff as steel. Isabelle writhes beneath me, opening more, letting me plunge deeper still. The universe narrows rapidly, and soon it’s centered on where we are joined. My body pulses with need. Pleasure tears through me with every stroke, blowing my mind.

She whispers my name with an expression of utter abandon on her face.

I withdraw and slam into her again and again and again, half-crazed with lust.

She moans. Her inner muscles squeeze around me, and I lose control, pumping into her like a madman. My cock strains and throbs with blood and cum. Harder! Faster!

She arches her back, and begins to shudder as her core milks my cock.

Another thrust, and I go with her, grunting with the force of my release as I slump on top of her.

Isabelle keeps shuddering even after I’ve stilled. Her muscles contract around me as her hips twitch and her lips breathe my name. Even as her spasms fade, I don’t withdraw immediately. Perhaps it’s the way her hands roam my back, rubbing and stroking everywhere from my neck to my butt, that prompts me to stay put. Or maybe it’s the raw emotion in her eyes, or the tender way she brushes her lips against mine.

Afterward, as we lie in each other’s arms, too exhausted to make love again, but too excited to sleep, I bring my hand to her face and touch every bone, curve, and hollow.

“My nose could’ve been more elegant,” she comments, as I stroke it with the pad of my index finger.

I smile and trace her eyebrows and upper lids.

“I wish my eyes were more almond-shaped,” she says. “And my face, less round. And my lips—”

“Izz,” I say. “Shut up. You’re perfect.”

She smirks and rolls her eyes.

Why would a beautiful woman like her be so self-conscious? I’m not so arrogant as to presume the one night we shared six years ago has something to do with it, and yet…

“You remembered so much already,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll keep recalling things. It’ll all come back.”

I rake my hand through her hair. “Unlikely, based on what I’ve been told. But it’s very possible I’ll be able to retrieve more memories. A lot more.”

“I’ll be there to help you every step of the way, anything you need.”

I kiss her lips. “I know.”

“Are you excited about the semifinals next week?” she asks.

I nod.

France is one of the four countries that made it to the semifinals. That means a seventy-five percent chance my boys will stand on the podium with medals against their chests. And a twenty-five percent chance those medals will be gold.

“It’s hard to believe,” I say, “but the team is actually close to making good on my promise to our fans and to the Swimming Federation who’ve entrusted me with this task.”

“You guys are more than close,” she says. “You demolished Italy and decimated Hungary. You have one foot on that podium!”

I chuckle, stroking her cheek.

She kisses the inside of my palm. “You know what else makes me proud?”

“What?”

“How well you’re handling the Clément situation.”

Am I?

“Back at the office, there was so much hatred in your eyes. I was sure you would run out, find him, and beat the shit out of him. And now—”

“Who says I don’t want that?” I murmur, raising an eyebrow.

“What?” She peers at me. “But… the past few hours… and the semifinals in two days…?”

“It’s a matter of priorities,” I say. “My biggest wish was to make love to the woman I’ve been craving and denying myself for much too long. My heart’s second desire is to beat the shit out of the asshole who left me for dead. Water polo is my third priority at this point.”

The crease between her eyebrows deepens. She opens her mouth as if to say something and shuts it, looking terribly concerned.

Clearly, my words aren’t what she was hoping to hear, but they are the truth.